Say what?
Mom: Tomorrow we're going to go on an adventure!
Tall: Tall go on adventure? And Small?
Mom: And Baby and Mom and Dad.
Tall: And chairs.
Mom: And chairs? You'd need a lot of packhorses.
Tall: Pack horses? Yay!
Wherein there was spaetzle in the chicken noodle soup.
Dad: Wow, this spaetzle really soaked up the moisture.
Mom: It's like a camel.
Dad: Camels' humps are actually full of spaetzle.
Mom: Camels were invented in Germany?
Colloquially speaking
Mom: The spoon's in the curry. That's sounds like a phrase, doesn't it?
Dad: What?
Mom: You know. [Affects broad Australian accent]. The spoon's in the curry; it's off the table, mate.
[Speaks normally] That sounded like an Australian phrase, right?
Dad: So Australian that I couldn't understand what you were saying.
Mom: No, no. The spoon's in the curry: it's off the table.
Dad: That just sounds like you're describing an event.
Dinner Manners
Dad: [Sternly] It's dinner time. You should be sitting in your chairs eating or you should be dancing!
Poops-a-doozy
Mom: [Upon discovering a nappy rash]. You really need to tell me when you poop so this doesn't happen.
Small: [Toots in Mom's face without nappy on] Poop!
A Miracle?
Dad: [During evening devotions] His legs weren't working and Jesus made his legs better so he could run.
Mom: Where's he going? [Referring to a picture where the man was running]
Tall: To watch TV!
Imaginarium
Small: [Spies a ute canopy on the ground]. Quack, quack, quack! [Like, crazily excited]
Mom: Do you think ducks live in there?
Who needs school?
Tall: Tigers live down in the trees.
Mom: They do? In the trees in the jungle. What do they eat?
Tall: Tigers eat rocks.
Tall: Tall is a farmer. Makes cows out of horses.
Mom: What?
Tall: Makes cows out of sheep.
Mom: How?
Mom: What do crocodiles eat?
Tall: Bugs
Mom: Crocodiles eat fish and...
[Tall's eyes bug out. He runs into the kitchen to look at the fish tank]
Mom: Not your fish!
Say it again, Sam
Dad: And this story is about Jesus. Can you say "Jesus", Small?
Small: [nods]
...
Dad: And they were on the water. Can you say "water", Small?
Small: [nods]
A long time ago when we were working on word clarity.
Mom: Say "water".
Tall: Wagain
Dad: "WaTER"
Tall: Water
...
Tall: Train-car
Mom: Train track.
Tall: Water!
It's been a long time since I'd posted and I have too many things to say and no idea how to start, so I thought you should just get to hear some of what goes on here.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Fare thee well
Today is Adrian’s last day of work here. Tomorrow we leave and start our 3000 km
journey to our new home.
I don’t want to go, but I know we have to. We are called to move. While we deliberated the call, it was
easy to see how God was calling us onward, yet when we said yes, it suddenly
became a much bigger deal.
Though I have moved 9 times in my life (4 of which were
large, either across Canada or to Australia), I find this place harder to
leave. It has become my home. Maybe it’s because we started our
marriage here, or because our three sons were born here. Maybe it’s the stage of life. Maybe it’s the beauty of this place or
the people who live here. Maybe
it’s the memories that crowded the empty house we cleaned yesterday.
All I know is that it is time to say goodbye, or rather
“farewell”.
Fare well, my beautiful town with your lovely, pristine
beaches. Fare well, first house of our marriage – the place where our children
grew, where I painted a tree on the wall, where we played and danced and sang,
cooked and cleaned and worked.
Fare well to the place that was sometimes unbearable for me – the
distance away from nearly everything like when I couldn’t even contemplate
going to my grandmother’s funeral.
Fare well to silly poetic thoughts of the glorious and terrifying
ocean. Fare well to friends met
and made by all of us. Fare well
to two lovely congregations who have cared for us and challenged us. Fare well to some of the best
coffee. Fare well to shops where
the keepers know me (and the children) by sight and ask after them if they are
not with me. Fare well to windy
days and middle of the night towel banks by the front windows in rough
rain.
Fare well to long drives north and west. Roads known so well, filled with
conversations and silly things.
Fare well to walks in the bush and on the beach, around the
neighbourhood and over rocks. Fare
well familiar sights and smells.
Farewell lovely people whom I will miss. Fare well habits and schedules, birds and trees.
Fare well to dreams unfinished, hopes unrealized and plans
undone.
I love you, my little house of dreams; goodbye. May God
bless this place and these wonderful congregations that made this place
home. We pray God will bless you
with a faithful pastor.
Hello to the future, to not knowing what’s around the corner
but going boldly where God has called us. With our home in our hearts (and future
vacation plans) we go forward to new dreams, new hopes, new plans.
Farewell.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Good Friday
Today has been a very difficult day for me. From a mishap before the grocery store this morning and large frustration afterward to little boys acting up in church and being rough so that they were disruptive through service this morning to spew in my hair, it's just been a full on, hard day. As I sat in church with my head in my hands, wondering if all this congregation will remember of me is this moment where I feel like the most useless parent, a new thought strikes me.
No matter how hard this day gets for me, it is Good Friday.
The Good is mine. The Good is done. The Good was because this was Jesus' worst day ever. As I sit with the weight of three little boys wrestling in my lap on and off, he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Have you ever had a sin weigh on you? You know you did something wrong and you can feel that weight pressing you down? Jesus had that sin on him. All of the sins of all eternity, of every person, he took on all the guilt, the shame, the wretchedness, the pain and suffering of all and he broke it.
He died and took to death all of that sin. He was crushed for our iniquities. By his stripes we are healed. It is finished. He has died for the sins of the world. The sins of a world that does not acknowledge him, a world that constantly mocks him - he even bore that sin.
And he did it uncomplainingly. He did it because he is love.
And you know what else? He is risen.
As I tucked my boys into bed at nap, my anger and frustration were gone. Jesus' love and sacrifice has healed my soul, not through any deserving of mine, but because of love.
Let us love one another. Not be tolerant or stupid, but actually love. Care for, build up, encourage each other to go the right way. Not the way of the world, but the way of our Saviour. Trusting in his mercy, holding fast to his promise to never leave us or forsake us, clinging to the cross.
Come Lord Jesus, come into this weary world. Oh, how we long for you to come, Lord, come.
Themes taken from Isaiah 53, 1 John 3 and a song by Robin Mann.
No matter how hard this day gets for me, it is Good Friday.
The Good is mine. The Good is done. The Good was because this was Jesus' worst day ever. As I sit with the weight of three little boys wrestling in my lap on and off, he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Have you ever had a sin weigh on you? You know you did something wrong and you can feel that weight pressing you down? Jesus had that sin on him. All of the sins of all eternity, of every person, he took on all the guilt, the shame, the wretchedness, the pain and suffering of all and he broke it.
He died and took to death all of that sin. He was crushed for our iniquities. By his stripes we are healed. It is finished. He has died for the sins of the world. The sins of a world that does not acknowledge him, a world that constantly mocks him - he even bore that sin.
And he did it uncomplainingly. He did it because he is love.
And you know what else? He is risen.
As I tucked my boys into bed at nap, my anger and frustration were gone. Jesus' love and sacrifice has healed my soul, not through any deserving of mine, but because of love.
Let us love one another. Not be tolerant or stupid, but actually love. Care for, build up, encourage each other to go the right way. Not the way of the world, but the way of our Saviour. Trusting in his mercy, holding fast to his promise to never leave us or forsake us, clinging to the cross.
Come Lord Jesus, come into this weary world. Oh, how we long for you to come, Lord, come.
Themes taken from Isaiah 53, 1 John 3 and a song by Robin Mann.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
A Song
Jesus, I Will Ponder Now
--Sigismund von Birken
Jesus, I will ponder now on your holy Passion; with your Spirit me endow for such meditation. Grant that I in love and faith may the image cherish of your suffering, pain, and death that I may not perish.
Make me see your great distress, anguish, and affliction, bonds and stripes and wretchedness and your crucifixion; make me see how scourge and rod, pear and nails did wound you, how you died for those, O God, who with thorns had crowned you.
Yet, O Lord, not thus alone make me see your Passion; but its cause to me make known and its termination. For I also and my sin brought your deep affliction; this the shameful cause has been of your crucifixion.
If my sins give me alarm and my conscience grieve me, let your cross my fear disarm, peace and pardon give me. Grant that I may trust in you and your holy Passion; if his Son forgives anew, God must have compassion.
Jesus, Lord, my heart renew, let me bear my crosses, learning humbleness from you, peace despite my losses. May I give you love for love! Hear me, O my Savior, that I may in heaven above sing your praise forever.
Tune: Jesu Kreuz, Leiden Und Pein (Melchior Vulpius)
1st Published in: 1646
--Sigismund von Birken
Jesus, I will ponder now on your holy Passion; with your Spirit me endow for such meditation. Grant that I in love and faith may the image cherish of your suffering, pain, and death that I may not perish.
Make me see your great distress, anguish, and affliction, bonds and stripes and wretchedness and your crucifixion; make me see how scourge and rod, pear and nails did wound you, how you died for those, O God, who with thorns had crowned you.
Yet, O Lord, not thus alone make me see your Passion; but its cause to me make known and its termination. For I also and my sin brought your deep affliction; this the shameful cause has been of your crucifixion.
If my sins give me alarm and my conscience grieve me, let your cross my fear disarm, peace and pardon give me. Grant that I may trust in you and your holy Passion; if his Son forgives anew, God must have compassion.
Jesus, Lord, my heart renew, let me bear my crosses, learning humbleness from you, peace despite my losses. May I give you love for love! Hear me, O my Savior, that I may in heaven above sing your praise forever.
Tune: Jesu Kreuz, Leiden Und Pein (Melchior Vulpius)
1st Published in: 1646
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Aware
I've tried to start this post about 10 times and every start just isn't right. Too pithy or silly or whatever.
I was asked to promote this site on my blog. Please check it out. Sure, the official week has passed but we all need to be made aware of things in life. Be careful. And help get rid of dangerous things.
http://www.mesothelioma.com/heather/awareness/
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Hospital Visit
Like Fleming McWilliams and David Bowie before me, I find that I am afraid of many things. Not Americans so much (although I wouldn't want to run into Scarlett O'Hara in a dark alley. She be crazy.
), perhaps, but a lot of little things. Driving on ice. Snakes. Singing in public. Singing in public while driving with a snake on ice.
What really scares me though, is not being able to help my boys. A few weeks ago now, when Baby was just three weeks, the dreaded gastro bug that has been circling the town (nay, the world it seems) hit the boys. We caught vomit, both with our clothes and our hands. Baby somehow got it too. One day he vomited so often that I had to change my clothes more than ten times and Adrian at least four. We took him into the hospital as he had gotten jaundiced too.
I hated being at the hospital. I have great respect for (most) doctors and nurses. I am impressed by that which they have to contend. They checked out my boy. Thoroughly. They watched as he vomited on me again and again (on special occasion, he managed to vomit across the room and into my open handbag). They brought him blankets and towels to be rugged up in to get away from the vomit. They ordered tests and admitted us.
It is a bizarre experience to be admitted into a hospital as a companion. There was nothing wrong with me and yet I was in a hospital. My boy was that sick. And I couldn't fix him. Neither, it seemed, could they.
That's when it got scarier. They took obs. they checked his blood sugar. He screamed whenever he got hit with a needle. He screamed in general really. Definitely if I put him down or someone else held him. When I'd run off to have a shower, I could hear him scream from down the hall and tried to hurry back as quick as I could. I could not stand to see him in distress. Heck, I was in distress. I wanted to be home, especially after a night of less than two hours sleep holding my sad, sick, loud baby. Home would mean he was getting better. Yet, the spew kept coming. I gave up changing until I was entirely covered. They came to take blood and had to stab him four times to get it. I was ready to punch everyone in the face and run off with him, even as I knew that they were doing their best to help him.
We had to stay a second night. I cried. It meant my family was still split apart (and yes, only for a couple nights), but because of terrible sickness and unknown. They would not let him go because he was not stable. Not stable? Were his obs. not fine every time they checked him? How was he not stable?
Babies are fragile. We all know not to shake them and to support their tiny necks, but I've always been impressed with the strength of newborns. Birth is not the most gentle of times. Babies, I thought, were highly resilient. Babies, it seems, can go downhill incredibly quickly when they are sick and he needed to stay.
I cried.
I cried so much in those days. I cried when he cried out of pain in his belly. I cried when they took his blood. I cried when they told me they had to take more blood later that day. I cried when they took it. I cried when my boys visited and asked me to come home with them. I cried when Tall told me he loved me. I cried when he had blood three days later and five days later at his ultrasound when he wailed (at that age, the vomiting could mean a problem with his digestive system and needed to be checked out).
The boys visited a few times in those couple days, but even though they enjoyed the toys in the paeds. department, they were a bit too active for the ward. I missed them. I ached for Baby. I longed for the comfort of being with Adrian. I read the Word for strength. I worried and prayed and fed and fed and fed and prayed it would stay down.
Those days are past now. Baby is fine now, praise God. He still vomits occasionally, in the way that babies do. He is content and healthy according to all tests.
It was a scary time and it was short. My heart goes out to all of those families for whom hospital visits are long and prognoses not good. I know some of you are going through this and that you have pains you are suffering: you are in our prayers. May God our Father grant you comfort and healing and may you ever trust in the gifts He has given through His Son - life everlasting and forgiveness bought through His own suffering and loss.
), perhaps, but a lot of little things. Driving on ice. Snakes. Singing in public. Singing in public while driving with a snake on ice.
What really scares me though, is not being able to help my boys. A few weeks ago now, when Baby was just three weeks, the dreaded gastro bug that has been circling the town (nay, the world it seems) hit the boys. We caught vomit, both with our clothes and our hands. Baby somehow got it too. One day he vomited so often that I had to change my clothes more than ten times and Adrian at least four. We took him into the hospital as he had gotten jaundiced too.
I hated being at the hospital. I have great respect for (most) doctors and nurses. I am impressed by that which they have to contend. They checked out my boy. Thoroughly. They watched as he vomited on me again and again (on special occasion, he managed to vomit across the room and into my open handbag). They brought him blankets and towels to be rugged up in to get away from the vomit. They ordered tests and admitted us.
It is a bizarre experience to be admitted into a hospital as a companion. There was nothing wrong with me and yet I was in a hospital. My boy was that sick. And I couldn't fix him. Neither, it seemed, could they.
That's when it got scarier. They took obs. they checked his blood sugar. He screamed whenever he got hit with a needle. He screamed in general really. Definitely if I put him down or someone else held him. When I'd run off to have a shower, I could hear him scream from down the hall and tried to hurry back as quick as I could. I could not stand to see him in distress. Heck, I was in distress. I wanted to be home, especially after a night of less than two hours sleep holding my sad, sick, loud baby. Home would mean he was getting better. Yet, the spew kept coming. I gave up changing until I was entirely covered. They came to take blood and had to stab him four times to get it. I was ready to punch everyone in the face and run off with him, even as I knew that they were doing their best to help him.
We had to stay a second night. I cried. It meant my family was still split apart (and yes, only for a couple nights), but because of terrible sickness and unknown. They would not let him go because he was not stable. Not stable? Were his obs. not fine every time they checked him? How was he not stable?
Babies are fragile. We all know not to shake them and to support their tiny necks, but I've always been impressed with the strength of newborns. Birth is not the most gentle of times. Babies, I thought, were highly resilient. Babies, it seems, can go downhill incredibly quickly when they are sick and he needed to stay.
I cried.
I cried so much in those days. I cried when he cried out of pain in his belly. I cried when they took his blood. I cried when they told me they had to take more blood later that day. I cried when they took it. I cried when my boys visited and asked me to come home with them. I cried when Tall told me he loved me. I cried when he had blood three days later and five days later at his ultrasound when he wailed (at that age, the vomiting could mean a problem with his digestive system and needed to be checked out).
The boys visited a few times in those couple days, but even though they enjoyed the toys in the paeds. department, they were a bit too active for the ward. I missed them. I ached for Baby. I longed for the comfort of being with Adrian. I read the Word for strength. I worried and prayed and fed and fed and fed and prayed it would stay down.
Those days are past now. Baby is fine now, praise God. He still vomits occasionally, in the way that babies do. He is content and healthy according to all tests.
It was a scary time and it was short. My heart goes out to all of those families for whom hospital visits are long and prognoses not good. I know some of you are going through this and that you have pains you are suffering: you are in our prayers. May God our Father grant you comfort and healing and may you ever trust in the gifts He has given through His Son - life everlasting and forgiveness bought through His own suffering and loss.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Third Time's the Charm
Welcome to the birth story of my third son! Upon careful reflection, I cannot determine how much of this story to share, so it shall be presented in two forms:brief/succinct and too much information. Wait, you say, shouldn't a birth story start with labour and end with birth? To that I say, probably, but I can't help myself..
Enjoy.
The Birth Story
On a Saturday evening, my third son was born after my being at the hospital for 4 and a half hours. He is healthy and only took two pushes?! Also, he was the largest of my three sons at birth.
The End.
But it just doesn't seem like enough, does it? So let us go back in time, back to the beginning of labour.
Thus It Begins
Our story begins on a regular Thursday afternoon. Okay, so it wasn't a regular Thursday. It was the Thursday in my 36th week of pregnancy. I had long been worried that I would go early with birth of my third child. People kept telling me that I had dropped and expressing surprise of when my due date was. Evidently, I looked a cow who needed milking. Really, I was measuring the right number for the right number of weeks, but still all these idle comments sat on my mind, and combined with the fact that my eldest son was born at 37 weeks +4 and my second son was born at 37 weeks +2, I worried. I tried not to worry. I prayed about it and gave it to my heavenly Father and three minutes later tried to take it back again. I cleaned the house and got told off for nesting too early. I was exhausted from all that my mind wanted to get done before I had three to run after. I had this theory that the baby wouldn't come until I'd finished off my to do list (ask many mothers about their birth story and the baby seems to come as a case of relief - "As soon as I finished [insert large task here] I felt done and whoosh, the waters, they broke".), thus I kept adding to my to do list. I got a good deal accomplished.
Thursday (36 + 4)
Whilst sitting at my sewing machine during naptime, I realized that I was having regular tightenings. I had been having those on and off for the past day and passed it off as Braxton-Hicks, but these had a definite constancy to them. They didn't hurt, but it was still before 37 weeks and I was nervous (also, people are always claiming that the more babies you have, the faster they come). I called my husband and after the boys woke up, we went to the hospital. I went so that they would tell me they were Braxton-Hicks, maybe tell me to put my feet up for a few days and la-dee-da all would be fine.
Except. They told me I was in labour. Early labour, sure, but the contractions were registering, consistant and constant. I was advised to go home and wash the floor, which I did with alacrity. I had wanted to scrub that floor for quite sometime, but first I celebrated by thoroughly vacuuming. It was delightful. Sure enough, that evening I was having somewhat painful contractions 3 minutes apart. Went to the hospital. After about an hour, they slowed down. The midwife considered breaking my water, but said the head was "ballotable*, I was only 2-3 cm," therefore it wasn't a safe option. Anyway, it was my third baby. Baby would hurry themself up soon, surely, she thought. I sent myself home to get some sleep before it started up again. They calmed down while I slept. Fine and dandy, I thought, false alarm. Except. The next day I was still in labour. Constant, consistant tightenings. Even at night, when I'd get up to use the washroom, they would be there.
I was somewhat pleased, as I was concerned for my dear husband. Sure, we had lovely ladies from the church to come and help out when we were at the hospital, but I couldn't expect them to be there all the time from birth 'til I came home and Adrian still had to get work done. Getting work done with the boys "helping" is sometimes interesting. Add a computer to the mix and you've lost the day. Fine, I thought, this baby can hold on for awhile. Just need to get to 37 weeks! And then it's not early. And if I can make it until my sister comes, whoo!
It was not a comfortable wait. The contractions stayed with me, never longer than 10-15 minutes apart and softer when I slept, but always there. They got worse when I was active. I had two young boys to play with. It was often uncomfortable. The end of the day was usually worst, though some mornings would start with strong, frequent contractions. Sitting slowed them.
Tuesday (37 + 2)
The contractions would not ease up and were three minutes apart. I waited until the boys were asleep (just as I had the first time) and then my husband and I called lovely ladies from the church to come and sit with the boys. I was crying in pain. Surely, this would be over soon. I was worn out from the constant pain. Everyone and her sister was telling me that a days-long labour like this meant a quick birth. Bring it on. I wanted to meet my baby. Sure, my sister wouldn't be around for a couple more days. Adrian could survive with the boys. Except. He had a wedding on Saturday.
At the hospital, I was told that the head was still ballotable and I was 3-4 cm. After sitting for awhile, the contractions slowed again. I got frustrated. And left. And sobbed in the parking lot. On the walk to the car. In the car. Huge, racking sobs of frustration, of longing to meet my child, of anxiety, of confusion - surely my body should be able to manage birth a third time. The pain was real. The contractions were real, but there was no result, only pain. Only waiting. And I was tired. Weary of patience, of wondering if this was really happening.
We took the long way home from the hospital and stopped at the ocean. We stood in the dark and I sobbed on the wooden railing while Adrian held me and understood my frustration, my ache. He's good at holding me.
We got home and had tea with the lovely lady in our house. I bit back pain and ignored contractions and tried to be a pleasant host - something that I fail at on a good day. As I crawled into bed that night, I felt oddly powerful. Like even though I could not cause birth to happen, I was somehow able to stop it progressing. Surely, then I would be able to hold this baby in until my sister came. I would not go back to the hospital until my water broke, because then I would be sure that it was happening, no more second guesses.
Wednesday (37 + 3)
Loss of mucus plug. Lots of wondering and waiting.
Friday (37 + 5)
My sister arrived.
Saturday (37 + 6)
The day was like any other. The pain was there. Movement made it worse and more often. Naomi started to time me about lunch. Only five minutes apart. So what, I thought, I've been there before. The wedding was scheduled for three. I decided to sit around and not do too much. While I got ready for the wedding, they were 3-4 minutes apart and so strong and long that I started to cling to things to remain upright. Fine and dandy. Weddings aren't long. I can make it and then lie down and calm the contractions again.
It was a lovely day for an outdoor wedding. The sun was shining and filtered through the trees in showers of brightness. The bride was late. The contractions were 2-3 minutes apart and lasting about a minute-minute and a half. Adrian invited people to sit. I adjusted my sunglasses and hoped no one looked at my face as I stood behind the chairs and watched Naomi mind my sons. I could not help. I could not move. As he got to the sermon, I had to sit. Use my power. Slow this madness. I had to wait. I collapsed on the ground. My sons climbed on me, ran past me, went up the hill. I closed my eyes and felt the sun bite my shoulders. I shifted slightly to the shade. The contractions slowed. I was winning.
The wedding was finished and Adrian came to me. The act of standing brought the contractions to full force once more. I clenched my jaw and asked to leave, then said, "No, do they need you for photos?" So off he went for photos. When they realized I was in labour, they decided to do the group photo right away. We smiled for the photos and then got in the car. Dropped Nao and the boys at home, got changed, burst of pained tears coming from me. I wiped them away and hid the pain from the boys, held them close, told them I loved them and got in the car. Got to the hospital at 4:30 pm. I told Adrian if I wasn't at least 6 cm, I was leaving the hospital. I was 6 cm. I writhed in pain waiting for baby to rush out the way everyone had promised me baby would.
Baby would not be rushed.
The pain grew worse and worse, the contractions held long. My water still had not broken. The midwife couldn't get enough to make it break, the head pushed down so firmly. I felt like I needed to pee a lot, but didn't really. I must be sweating off the water I'm drinking, I thought. I took a shower and screamed when the contractions hit. The screaming scared me. In my other births, I only screamed when pushing, when the pain got too hard for me. How was this too hard for me now? My third birth, I should be able to do this. I gave up and asked for gas. So I couldn't go natural, it was just gas, just like I'd had for my first two.
Through it all, Adrian held and supported me. He talked me through the pain and gave me something to think about. The stories that worked best were the ones about the boys, or our marriage. Even against the wall of pain, I could hold an image of my beautiful sons and I could stand through the pain, bear through it. I would hang on Adrian's shoulders and crouch through the pain. It seemed to help, the bouncing up and down, like I could do something to help that baby out. I only bit him once. I pray a lot in labour. Mostly prayers for mercy and help. After the shower, I wore a hospital gown, but as I hung off the top of the raised end of the bed, it was in the way. I apologized to the midwife. I make a lot of jokes during labour, in between pain. It's strange, but when the contractions aren't, the pain really goes away. The midwife was used to me. She had helped birth Small.
I felt the need to push. She agreed, I was definitely at 10 cm. The pain was unbearable though. I needed to push, but I was unable to push. I could not push. I tried so hard, but it wouldn't work. Like my foot was on the floor, but the car was still in park. All the revs in the world wouldn't make it go.
Suddenly at 8:42 pm, my waters broke. I felt relief. Blessed, sweet relief. God is merciful. I was crouched on the bed, holding the raised bed head. I could breathe again. The midwife called the doctor. I needed to push. One push and his head was out. I could feel it. Adrian said it. Even as I was still processing that, my body needed to push again, and out came his body. The midwife only had time to get one glove on to catch him, my perfect, beautiful, amazing son, born at 8:45 pm.
It was so odd, how quickly he came out. With my first two, it took half and hour and then an hour of pushing to get the baby out. It had been odd processes of bearing down when not pushing to hold the child in place and work him out. Not this time. Gravity helped. God helped. A week and half of labour helped. I take it that as much I wanted to meet him, he wanted to meet me. And then I had to turn around and sit down so I could hold him. I cannot explain the moment of holding one's own child for the first time, but it is incredible. Magnificent. It makes you feel whole, and like your heart will explode with joy.
The doctor came in. And then the other news happened. My placenta was stuck. The cord had torn and it was not coming out. After giving birth with only gas, my option was to now get a spinal block and have it removed.
Being wheeled into the surgery was so bizarre. I felt for women who have to have an emergency caesar. The room is cold. Everyone is there and contributing to your lack of modesty. Time passes and you can do nothing. And not being able to feel your legs?
The Land of Too Much Information
As a matter of procedure, they catheterised me to make sure I was empty. I probably will be, I said, talking too much from nerves, from joy at having a new son and from fear. I trusted the doctors and staff, but I did not want to be in the room, away from my son and husband. I wanted to hold them still. Sure, I'd been holding Baby since he was born, but I craved him. Labour is such an intense time and such an oddly wonderful time as my husband helps and supports me so much. It's an intensely private time for the two of us and I cherish those moments together when I get to appreciate my other half - the one who enables me to keep going.
Even though I had peed so many times in labour, I was not empty. Far from it. They got off 1 1/2 litres from my bladder. The number shocked me. Them, as well.
They started explaining to me why birth had been so hard. With a full bladder and full waters, Baby could not get past and manoeuver down. Probably, they theorized, my bladder had not been emptying properly for the week of labour and that's why he couldn't progress. Why was this? My bladder had gotten kinked somehow. It could have been from my body being worn out giving birth to three babies in three years. At any rate, placenta was removed and the process of healing my bladder was it's own adventure that probably doesn't need to be discussed. I will say this, I stayed in hospital until Monday night and it is all fixed thankyouverymuch. (I think the closest you can come to experiencing this would be to cut the ends of an empty pop bottle, put a (large) squid in a bag full of water and affix another bag of water in the tube. Then try to force the squid through the tube. Fun, huh?)
My Adrian and son were waiting for me in the room. I held them and they held me. We had tender, delightful moments and then I sent Adrian home. It was after 11 and he had church and three baptisms to do in the morning.
I didn't sleep much that night. Baby made noises, and because of the GD, they needed to keep a very close eye on his sugars. Everytime I started to fall asleep, I was woken up by a nurse or Baby or just the odd odd feeling of my legs coming back. Like when you go to the dentist except for the freezing feeling was everywhere from my ribs down. I got them back by 5 am.
This birth was my hardest. It was the longest I've held a baby in (still haven't made it to 38 weeks). But this Baby is no less loved, no less cherished. All of my sons' births are precious memories, even if they are hellish to experience. But I wouldn't trade my boys for anything.
*Ballotable - the most frustrating term in the universe, meaning that the mass (in this case, head) can be moved. It is one of my least favourite words and can now cause irrational frustration in me.
Enjoy.
The Birth Story
On a Saturday evening, my third son was born after my being at the hospital for 4 and a half hours. He is healthy and only took two pushes?! Also, he was the largest of my three sons at birth.
The End.
But it just doesn't seem like enough, does it? So let us go back in time, back to the beginning of labour.
Thus It Begins
Our story begins on a regular Thursday afternoon. Okay, so it wasn't a regular Thursday. It was the Thursday in my 36th week of pregnancy. I had long been worried that I would go early with birth of my third child. People kept telling me that I had dropped and expressing surprise of when my due date was. Evidently, I looked a cow who needed milking. Really, I was measuring the right number for the right number of weeks, but still all these idle comments sat on my mind, and combined with the fact that my eldest son was born at 37 weeks +4 and my second son was born at 37 weeks +2, I worried. I tried not to worry. I prayed about it and gave it to my heavenly Father and three minutes later tried to take it back again. I cleaned the house and got told off for nesting too early. I was exhausted from all that my mind wanted to get done before I had three to run after. I had this theory that the baby wouldn't come until I'd finished off my to do list (ask many mothers about their birth story and the baby seems to come as a case of relief - "As soon as I finished [insert large task here] I felt done and whoosh, the waters, they broke".), thus I kept adding to my to do list. I got a good deal accomplished.
Thursday (36 + 4)
Whilst sitting at my sewing machine during naptime, I realized that I was having regular tightenings. I had been having those on and off for the past day and passed it off as Braxton-Hicks, but these had a definite constancy to them. They didn't hurt, but it was still before 37 weeks and I was nervous (also, people are always claiming that the more babies you have, the faster they come). I called my husband and after the boys woke up, we went to the hospital. I went so that they would tell me they were Braxton-Hicks, maybe tell me to put my feet up for a few days and la-dee-da all would be fine.
Except. They told me I was in labour. Early labour, sure, but the contractions were registering, consistant and constant. I was advised to go home and wash the floor, which I did with alacrity. I had wanted to scrub that floor for quite sometime, but first I celebrated by thoroughly vacuuming. It was delightful. Sure enough, that evening I was having somewhat painful contractions 3 minutes apart. Went to the hospital. After about an hour, they slowed down. The midwife considered breaking my water, but said the head was "ballotable*, I was only 2-3 cm," therefore it wasn't a safe option. Anyway, it was my third baby. Baby would hurry themself up soon, surely, she thought. I sent myself home to get some sleep before it started up again. They calmed down while I slept. Fine and dandy, I thought, false alarm. Except. The next day I was still in labour. Constant, consistant tightenings. Even at night, when I'd get up to use the washroom, they would be there.
I was somewhat pleased, as I was concerned for my dear husband. Sure, we had lovely ladies from the church to come and help out when we were at the hospital, but I couldn't expect them to be there all the time from birth 'til I came home and Adrian still had to get work done. Getting work done with the boys "helping" is sometimes interesting. Add a computer to the mix and you've lost the day. Fine, I thought, this baby can hold on for awhile. Just need to get to 37 weeks! And then it's not early. And if I can make it until my sister comes, whoo!
It was not a comfortable wait. The contractions stayed with me, never longer than 10-15 minutes apart and softer when I slept, but always there. They got worse when I was active. I had two young boys to play with. It was often uncomfortable. The end of the day was usually worst, though some mornings would start with strong, frequent contractions. Sitting slowed them.
Tuesday (37 + 2)
The contractions would not ease up and were three minutes apart. I waited until the boys were asleep (just as I had the first time) and then my husband and I called lovely ladies from the church to come and sit with the boys. I was crying in pain. Surely, this would be over soon. I was worn out from the constant pain. Everyone and her sister was telling me that a days-long labour like this meant a quick birth. Bring it on. I wanted to meet my baby. Sure, my sister wouldn't be around for a couple more days. Adrian could survive with the boys. Except. He had a wedding on Saturday.
At the hospital, I was told that the head was still ballotable and I was 3-4 cm. After sitting for awhile, the contractions slowed again. I got frustrated. And left. And sobbed in the parking lot. On the walk to the car. In the car. Huge, racking sobs of frustration, of longing to meet my child, of anxiety, of confusion - surely my body should be able to manage birth a third time. The pain was real. The contractions were real, but there was no result, only pain. Only waiting. And I was tired. Weary of patience, of wondering if this was really happening.
We took the long way home from the hospital and stopped at the ocean. We stood in the dark and I sobbed on the wooden railing while Adrian held me and understood my frustration, my ache. He's good at holding me.
We got home and had tea with the lovely lady in our house. I bit back pain and ignored contractions and tried to be a pleasant host - something that I fail at on a good day. As I crawled into bed that night, I felt oddly powerful. Like even though I could not cause birth to happen, I was somehow able to stop it progressing. Surely, then I would be able to hold this baby in until my sister came. I would not go back to the hospital until my water broke, because then I would be sure that it was happening, no more second guesses.
Wednesday (37 + 3)
Loss of mucus plug. Lots of wondering and waiting.
Friday (37 + 5)
My sister arrived.
Saturday (37 + 6)
The day was like any other. The pain was there. Movement made it worse and more often. Naomi started to time me about lunch. Only five minutes apart. So what, I thought, I've been there before. The wedding was scheduled for three. I decided to sit around and not do too much. While I got ready for the wedding, they were 3-4 minutes apart and so strong and long that I started to cling to things to remain upright. Fine and dandy. Weddings aren't long. I can make it and then lie down and calm the contractions again.
It was a lovely day for an outdoor wedding. The sun was shining and filtered through the trees in showers of brightness. The bride was late. The contractions were 2-3 minutes apart and lasting about a minute-minute and a half. Adrian invited people to sit. I adjusted my sunglasses and hoped no one looked at my face as I stood behind the chairs and watched Naomi mind my sons. I could not help. I could not move. As he got to the sermon, I had to sit. Use my power. Slow this madness. I had to wait. I collapsed on the ground. My sons climbed on me, ran past me, went up the hill. I closed my eyes and felt the sun bite my shoulders. I shifted slightly to the shade. The contractions slowed. I was winning.
The wedding was finished and Adrian came to me. The act of standing brought the contractions to full force once more. I clenched my jaw and asked to leave, then said, "No, do they need you for photos?" So off he went for photos. When they realized I was in labour, they decided to do the group photo right away. We smiled for the photos and then got in the car. Dropped Nao and the boys at home, got changed, burst of pained tears coming from me. I wiped them away and hid the pain from the boys, held them close, told them I loved them and got in the car. Got to the hospital at 4:30 pm. I told Adrian if I wasn't at least 6 cm, I was leaving the hospital. I was 6 cm. I writhed in pain waiting for baby to rush out the way everyone had promised me baby would.
Baby would not be rushed.
The pain grew worse and worse, the contractions held long. My water still had not broken. The midwife couldn't get enough to make it break, the head pushed down so firmly. I felt like I needed to pee a lot, but didn't really. I must be sweating off the water I'm drinking, I thought. I took a shower and screamed when the contractions hit. The screaming scared me. In my other births, I only screamed when pushing, when the pain got too hard for me. How was this too hard for me now? My third birth, I should be able to do this. I gave up and asked for gas. So I couldn't go natural, it was just gas, just like I'd had for my first two.
Through it all, Adrian held and supported me. He talked me through the pain and gave me something to think about. The stories that worked best were the ones about the boys, or our marriage. Even against the wall of pain, I could hold an image of my beautiful sons and I could stand through the pain, bear through it. I would hang on Adrian's shoulders and crouch through the pain. It seemed to help, the bouncing up and down, like I could do something to help that baby out. I only bit him once. I pray a lot in labour. Mostly prayers for mercy and help. After the shower, I wore a hospital gown, but as I hung off the top of the raised end of the bed, it was in the way. I apologized to the midwife. I make a lot of jokes during labour, in between pain. It's strange, but when the contractions aren't, the pain really goes away. The midwife was used to me. She had helped birth Small.
I felt the need to push. She agreed, I was definitely at 10 cm. The pain was unbearable though. I needed to push, but I was unable to push. I could not push. I tried so hard, but it wouldn't work. Like my foot was on the floor, but the car was still in park. All the revs in the world wouldn't make it go.
Suddenly at 8:42 pm, my waters broke. I felt relief. Blessed, sweet relief. God is merciful. I was crouched on the bed, holding the raised bed head. I could breathe again. The midwife called the doctor. I needed to push. One push and his head was out. I could feel it. Adrian said it. Even as I was still processing that, my body needed to push again, and out came his body. The midwife only had time to get one glove on to catch him, my perfect, beautiful, amazing son, born at 8:45 pm.
It was so odd, how quickly he came out. With my first two, it took half and hour and then an hour of pushing to get the baby out. It had been odd processes of bearing down when not pushing to hold the child in place and work him out. Not this time. Gravity helped. God helped. A week and half of labour helped. I take it that as much I wanted to meet him, he wanted to meet me. And then I had to turn around and sit down so I could hold him. I cannot explain the moment of holding one's own child for the first time, but it is incredible. Magnificent. It makes you feel whole, and like your heart will explode with joy.
The doctor came in. And then the other news happened. My placenta was stuck. The cord had torn and it was not coming out. After giving birth with only gas, my option was to now get a spinal block and have it removed.
Being wheeled into the surgery was so bizarre. I felt for women who have to have an emergency caesar. The room is cold. Everyone is there and contributing to your lack of modesty. Time passes and you can do nothing. And not being able to feel your legs?
The Land of Too Much Information
As a matter of procedure, they catheterised me to make sure I was empty. I probably will be, I said, talking too much from nerves, from joy at having a new son and from fear. I trusted the doctors and staff, but I did not want to be in the room, away from my son and husband. I wanted to hold them still. Sure, I'd been holding Baby since he was born, but I craved him. Labour is such an intense time and such an oddly wonderful time as my husband helps and supports me so much. It's an intensely private time for the two of us and I cherish those moments together when I get to appreciate my other half - the one who enables me to keep going.
Even though I had peed so many times in labour, I was not empty. Far from it. They got off 1 1/2 litres from my bladder. The number shocked me. Them, as well.
They started explaining to me why birth had been so hard. With a full bladder and full waters, Baby could not get past and manoeuver down. Probably, they theorized, my bladder had not been emptying properly for the week of labour and that's why he couldn't progress. Why was this? My bladder had gotten kinked somehow. It could have been from my body being worn out giving birth to three babies in three years. At any rate, placenta was removed and the process of healing my bladder was it's own adventure that probably doesn't need to be discussed. I will say this, I stayed in hospital until Monday night and it is all fixed thankyouverymuch. (I think the closest you can come to experiencing this would be to cut the ends of an empty pop bottle, put a (large) squid in a bag full of water and affix another bag of water in the tube. Then try to force the squid through the tube. Fun, huh?)
My Adrian and son were waiting for me in the room. I held them and they held me. We had tender, delightful moments and then I sent Adrian home. It was after 11 and he had church and three baptisms to do in the morning.
I didn't sleep much that night. Baby made noises, and because of the GD, they needed to keep a very close eye on his sugars. Everytime I started to fall asleep, I was woken up by a nurse or Baby or just the odd odd feeling of my legs coming back. Like when you go to the dentist except for the freezing feeling was everywhere from my ribs down. I got them back by 5 am.
This birth was my hardest. It was the longest I've held a baby in (still haven't made it to 38 weeks). But this Baby is no less loved, no less cherished. All of my sons' births are precious memories, even if they are hellish to experience. But I wouldn't trade my boys for anything.
*Ballotable - the most frustrating term in the universe, meaning that the mass (in this case, head) can be moved. It is one of my least favourite words and can now cause irrational frustration in me.
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