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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This past Christmas, my mother-in-law gave me a full-length, embroidered on the edges, flowing nightgown.
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To be honest, I had NEVER worn a nightgown. I'm more of a workout pants and t-shirt kindof girl when it comes to bedtime. But I noticed the tag had a Dillard's sticker, and felt the soft brushed cotton, and took it home to wear to bed.
Enter Mrs. Olsen in nightgown. Rainbow Girl stops and stares. She says, "That's pretty" and the next day asks if I'll buy her a nightgown. The Mister of the House comments how cute it is. I wonder if they are serious.
The thing is, when I was a newlywed, I heard a tale (supposedly true) of a Hawaiian woman that ran on the beach every day for exercise. Once she became pregnant, she continued her daily jog. She jogged every week of her pregnancy, and even ran 3 miles the day she gave birth.
She was woman! Nothing would hold her back! She stayed in charge of her body and worked through the discomforts of pregnancy to provide good health to her new addition!
This was the woman I was determined to be. Tough. Resilient. In shape. Fitting into her skinny jeans 4 weeks postpartum. This is the woman who would have thought nightgowns were for grannies and not tough young mothers who jog the day before and the day after giving birth.
But then when I became pregnant, I felt like I was being overtaken by Alien Body-snatchers. Why does my favorite food make me ill? What's with the leg cramps? Why am I so freaking tired?
There's a beautiful (and necessary) loss of control when you incubate another human life. Because no matter how hard I try (and let's be honest, I have NOT tried as hard as the "Hawaii Lady") I can never seem to not get pregnant in my arms, butt, and sides.
This reality has been disheartening at times, and has later served as ammunition for victim-hood that only chocolate cake could understand.
But now, I am older and wiser. Offspring #4 is coming to earth soon, and while I am determined to skip church the next couple of weeks if I haven't gone into labor, there's a letting go that I am trying to embrace...A letting go without a grudge.
In my crunchy hippy birthing center, I am happy to announce that there exists the pregnant women apparently friends with the Hawaii Women. They usually have blogs and have gorgeous black and white photos of their bare tummies, sans stretch marks, showing thoughtful and/or exuberant images of their blossoming motherhood. I snuck this photo at my last appointment, check it:
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La La La! Three, maybe even one pregnancy ago, this picture would have ticked me off just a bit. Now? It's just slightly annoying. Yay!
I am woman. Hear me roar!
I am 35 and love my nightgown!
My arse is a rectangle starting in my middle back, but I grow 'em gorgeous and strong. So it's okay.
And even though I'm going to skip church the next two weeks if I haven't gone into labor, God loves me and I think He's awesome. I recognize my blossoming as a blessing from Him.
Signed,
Thirty-five is the new 50 and it feels good...
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Back in December, before I became an inflatable raft, The Olsen Gals had a little beebee party for the expecting Olsen Mommies. We ate great food, had a contest to see who could suck the water out of a bottle the fastest, and pretended to be fortune tellers stringing crystals above Mandy's belly to find out if she's having a boy or girl.
It was at this party that my creative sister-in-law talked about a cool birthing tradition from the Navajo Indians. It's called "The Blessing Way".
Boils down to this:
* Circle of women find a bead for the expecting mommy.
* With the bead, they include a "blessing" for the mother and child.
* All of the beads are strung together in a beautiful necklace.
* When it's GO TIME, screaming women in labor somehow texts, facebooks, or sends primitive indian vibes to her ladies that she needs their energy/prayers/love.
* Circle of women respond to labor vibes by lighting a candle, and keeping it lit during labor and delivery.
* Beautiful happy baby arrives and has loving and caring women already invested in his future.
* Mrs. Olsen is kicking herself in the pants because she forgot to send this request to all the women on the other side of the family (i.e. her side), as well as to her close friends.
But here is the finished product, waiting to go in my birthing bag, and asking for continued energy/prayers/blessing/love because that will have to be my epidural and I desperately hope it will work!
Thanks beautiful Olsen Family. Love the necklace!
Signed,
38 weeks + 2 days prego and wishing I had this kid yesterday...
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Last week our two goats had their kids. During the month prior, The Mister of the House purchased a goat care book, watched disturbing YouTube videos, and checked on the expectant mothers several times a day. When some experienced farmer friends indicated that the goats could go any day now, The Mister of the House officially shifted into hyperdrive. He turned to me after they left and stated: I don't even have my birthing kit ready yet!
As for me, I generally snored like a lion while The Mister wrested the sheets worrying about the having to turn a baby goat for delivery. When it comes to his paternal-like worry patterns in comparison with my seeming indifference, I'd like to chalk it up to the fact that I have birthed three kids of my own, that I trust the female species to get the job down, and my inner sense of keeping it cool. Yet, I have to admit that my husband is a Man of Action who gets the job done. So I thanked him by nodding off mid-sentence and sleeping like a baby, all the while smiling sweet lover's dream of worried husbands scrambling to assemble a birthing kit.
As for my own part in the bringing of new life to the farm, I was excited! I have sweat, bled, and cried while bringing my kids into the world, and have never been afforded the birds-eye view of the process. To say I was curious is putting it lightly. And to calm The Mister's fears, and because I have smaller hands, I agreed to turn the baby goat if the delivery went amiss.
So last Wednesday I got birth on my hands. Okay just a second, how cool is that sentence: Last Wednesday I got birth on my hands.
Alright alright...I wasn't up to my elbows in the ooey-gooey. As my female senses detected (that's what it was right?) the baby goats arrived without any complication with no mid-birthing canal transitions. But apparently the curse of Eve and the consequential increase of sorrow while bringing life into the world attends all female counterparts, not just the human ones. So as it happened, the mama goat scrambled and jolted with her pains and practically birthed her kid into the wall. So after the crowning, and an exclamation of joy! I pulled the baby onto a towel so we could gargle the guck from his nose and throat.
It was truly precious to see. Mama licked her baby clean, licked my hands clean, then ate her afterbirth.
These things happen in nature people.
And I am left to ponder: Should I really be getting this attached to farm animals? Why does *most* life begin awash in blood and water?
And again and again, this scripture kept tumbling through my brain:
For by the water ye keep the commandment; by the Spirit ye are justified, and by the blood ye are sanctified;
Blood and water keeps working again and again: to bring life, to renew life, to atone.
Ready for some pictures folks?
I know I know! I honestly look like a new mother. Kindof cheesy, but here I am with one of Matilda's twins.
And here's the REAL farmer bob with the goats. To say that this man is finding his purpose in life here on the farm, is to say that everyone loves ice cream. Tis true. Tis true.
Poor little Rainbow Girl is the #1 help on the farm. After watching her second goat birth, she stated: I don't want to be a girl. But with her female-ness comes the innate love and nurturing that is a gift to all daughters of Eve, be they mothers or not.
Behold the seed of Agamemnon!
My poop boots are cooler than your poop boots.
The end.
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...begin with an almost alien-like body consumption that cooks your brain it hurts so bad.
I have so much to say about
childbirth and how it's a womans
rite of passage, but am not sure where to start. Sometime down the road, or perhaps later in the second stage of labor, I might start that rant series, but for now? Let's just enjoy this picture of my sister-in-law prior to going into labor with her first child.
She is practically erupting down the middle
and the sides. And BTW, where's your stretch marks Holly....not fair!
P.S. to any and all interested parties. nosireebob not prego thankUverymuch!
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