irony

Today is Saturday, and my last post was just a few short days ago. It feels like it was forever ago. The trial and pain of being a ripe-for-the-harvest pregnant woman left me reflecting on "pain" and how that mini-trial, and its grouchy self-imposed symptoms, left me suspecting that should I really endure a major trial like cancer, there was a risk I might be in the bitter category (as opposed to the sweet communion category).

So yeah, a real trial that has the risk of life, or perhaps the risk of financial suicide. Maybe both. A trial (and I can see more clearly now: a blessing) that came to the earth just a few short hours after clicking "publish" on the hypotheticals of pain: a beautiful blonde boy, born at 7:55 a.m. on Tuesday April 5th, weighing a staggering 9 pounds 10 ounces.


Since that time I have pondered the ironies of this crazy week.

How The Mister of the House and I chose a birthing center, so we could receive professional treatment outside the annoying protocol of a hospital birth.

How this decision was also based on the fact that a normal safe birth at a birthing center would cost considerably less than a normal safe birth at the hospital.

And how, apart from the terror-inducing screams that bellowed from the innermost parts of my soul as this giant baby passed through the birth canal, I enjoyed a childbirth that was quick, healthy, attentive, and safe.

It's no wonder that we were shocked when just 5 hours after giving birth, during which time I enjoyed a full one-hour cuddle session immediately after his arrival, a time when I nursed him twice, a time when we cooed and sniffed and laughed at the unforseen odds of getting another blondie, well were just a little confused and shocked to be following an ambulance whisking our offspring to the NICU at the hospital just a few miles away.

Ironic that such a big healthy boy is so sick! Infection in the lungs, attending rise in blood pressure in the lungs, putting undue work on his little heart, and a seven day run of IV antibiotic fluids.



Ironic how we relished the thought of not being in the hospital, and how I now live there. Ironic how the hospital staff, and their annoying protocol, saved and is continuing to save my son's life.

Ironic that we planned on returning home the same day for an informal birthday party, and we haven't been home since (well at least me and the babe).

How my sweet and thoughtful blessing way necklace is around my neck everyday, but with another accessory: a NICU PARENT badge.



And more importantly, the irony that this pain is so much more real when compared to the pain I complained of on Monday (although valid: come on! I had a nearly 10 pound kid in my gutt).

And the sweet revelation that God is ever mindful of our family, and especially our little boy, and how we feel lifted up by his spirit through this unexpected detour we are taking. Through the tears, and the heart-to-heart conversations, The Mister and I have felt a sweet communion as we reflect on the possible and shocking changes this may bring to our family.

And ironic how we feel so blessed! Our family has been amazing and supportive. Our little giant is making A-MAZING progress in the NICU. He is growing stronger and is now getting all of his sustenance from me (yay!).

We are hoping to go home on Tuesday. Please keep baby Gideon in your prayers for a quick recovery.

** I have so many pictures I want to post! I will update them as soon as I am able. Thanks for all your prayers and concern for our family.**

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Milk Burst Dash

Last week was a full party blast when all my Apache Avenue blood descended upon Bear Lake for a 3 day reunion in the woods, at the lake, with the sun and each other. Each couple had a bedroom, and cousins were tucked in throughout floors and couches. That meant that Buddha Baby, my adorable 20 month old "baby" had to sleep in my room. So the 2 a.m. sleepy-time stir turned into a groggy, frothing-at-the-mouth, can't-believe-my-mealticket-is-in-my-room screamfest.

The outcome was this: Mrs. Olsen felt like she had a newborn again with her kid at the teet all night so as to not wake up all the cousins.

Also: Mrs. Olsen needs sleep or she gets ornery.

Lastly: Mrs. Olsen cast the last and final vote over whether Buddha Baby is a little boy or a baby. Because breasts are for lovers and babies, but not little boys.

Something extra: a picture taken by Heathernan Photography at the cabin. Consider this a memorial to the last remaining hours of babyhood (i.e. getting momma's milk) for The Buddha Baby.

Is it just a mother talkin' or is this kid gorgeous?

p.s. my chest is killing me.

So in honor of our new freedom, our cutting of the cord, and our need to still be together (but not attached):

Please vision Mrs. Olsen on this bike with a Buddha Baby in the back. Click on it with all the love for mothers, milk, babies, and families you have in your soul....because they're giving one away July 15th, and I wanna be a contender!

You can too.

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Making a Case for Baby

Lactation still becomes me 18 months post-delivery. This is a record for Mrs. Olsen, and she is encountering a roller coaster of emotions: from pride for nursing the beebee and growing a strong connection to come on kid, again?

So I asked for some advice in this department, and the results are in: When asked how long should my Buddha Baby get his mommy's milk...? You said:

Cut him off yesterday 7 (46%)

18 months is a nice round number 2 (13%)

Still a baby until 2 years 4 (26%)

Make La Leche Leaguers Proud with a 3 year old toddler undressing mommy 2 (13%)

Total Votes: 15 Poll closed

Let me cut to the chase. I can't quit. The only way I can do it is to leave for a weekend. Alone. On the Oregon Coast.

And since The Mister of the House works overtime (a blessing in this economy), who knows when that's going to happen. And so, for the sake of my sanity, the question has now become:

and so here I go. Making a case for baby.





















such is a mother's dilemma...

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