A Hard Bit of Future to Wait For

Many of you lovely readers already know we’re gearing up for the arrival of baby number FOUR here in the Shafer house. Only a couple more months now until sweet baby Girl makes her appearance, and it’s got me thinking about the absolutely inevitable:

Childbirth.

I’ve done it three times before, and lived to tell the tales. You’d think I’d be cool as a cucumber, totally zen. But, ohhhh, baby. I’m not.

‘Cause here’s the thing. Every single one of my childbirth experiences was as different as the children that emerged from my womb.

Offspring number one? I was determined to not feel a thing. Not an ounce of pain would I endure. I mean, come on. This was 21st century, people. Surely medicine had advanced to the point that women no longer needed to feel pain when delivering new humans to the world? Surely Genesis 3:16 (you’ll give birth to your babies in pain) was an antiquated, outdated notion.

Wrong. Either I had the world’s worst anesthesiologist, or epidurals weren’t meant to work on me. Because no matter how many times they re-adjusted the epidural (three times), or administered more meds (a lot), all they managed to accomplish was deadening my legs. Not my abdomen.

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And expletives. Lots and lots of expletives.

Once the whole ordeal was over (nearly 23 hours from the time my water broke), I remember holding my little baby boy in my arms, trembling, shocked at the fact that (a) something so tiny could hurt so much, (b) that I made it through alive, and (c) that in a couple days’ time, I’d be sent home with this needy little human, where it would be my sole responsibility to keep him alive.

Terrifying.

Thankfully, that boy is now ten, very much alive, and has never caused me even a fraction of that kind of pain again, emotional or otherwise.

The second time around, I was a little older, and a little wiser. No way in heck was I going to ask for an epi, and no way in heck was I going into the delivery room unprepared. Boy number one weighed nearly ten pounds when he was born, making the delivery much harder than it ought to have been, so we monitored my nutrition and Bouncing Boy #2′s weight carefully. A week before my due date, I was induced. Everything progressed normally. The pain, when faced head-on with the right tools to deal with it on my own, while not easy, was totally manageable. I remember holding my second son in my arms, trembling in shock that (a) I’d done it pretty much on my own, (b) I wasn’t keeling over in residual pain, and (c) I wasn’t terrified to take him home. Sure, it hurt, but (and yeah, I get it, this sounds weird) it was a good hurt. A productive hurt. A hurt worth its weight in gold.

Liberating.

Then, nearly four years ago, I was preparing to do the same with my third child. A little girl. SweetZ had decided she wanted to be breech, but I was having none of that. Determined to avoid a c-section at all costs, I opted to try external version…which is just a fancy way of saying let a doctor pretend he hates your abdomen for an hour while he tries to get your baby to turn around.

It sucked. So bad. And in the end, SweetZ never fully turned. Instead, she lodged kinda crooked-like, which ended up playing a big part (not the whole part…there were lots of very scary moments toward the end of my pregnancy with her) in the fact that we ended up in an emergency c-section…

Where my epidural failed in surgery.

When it was all over (I still shiver thinking about it) I remember holding my tiny girl (the smallest of all three) in my arms, trembling in shock and (a) wondering when the morphine would begin to kick in, (b) thinking how grateful I was that she was healthy, and (c) wondering when the heck the morphine would begin to kick in.

Oh, so scarring.

So now, I’m sitting here, belly swollen, contemplating the fact that very soon I’ll be delivering another bundle of joy. This sweetie is so active…sometimes she’s breech, sometimes she’s not. She dances and spins, kicks and caresses, and has no idea how much it stresses me out when I can feel her head bobbing around under my ribs…or how much I rejoice when I feel her feet kick those same ribs. I’m not scared of the pain of childbirth – I can deal with it. In fact, I welcome it – especially in light of the pain a person feels when the effects of an epidural wear off and you’re strapped to a table, cut open.

I’m blessed with an OB I love, and a husband who’s more supportive than I could ever ask for. I know we’ll do everything we can to avoid the OR (though there’s no way in heck I’ll mess with version again). But it’s a hard bit of future to wait for, not knowing how it’ll turn out. Not knowing if I need to steel myself for something wholly unpleasant that’s utterly out of my control, or if I’ll end up getting to do it the way I want – with some hard work and pain, but natural.

I want to hear from you – what were your birthing experiences like? Were you scared? At peace? Were you that pregnant woman I love to hate who never felt a thing and was holding your baby in your arms after 15 minutes of pushing? Or can you relate with my topsy-turvy birthing experiences?

And, hey, Dads – I want to hear from you, too! I know my hubster has plenty of opinions about how our deliveries went down!

ROW80 Check-In: Week 4

Hey y’all!

Week four was satisfying. Reading, writing, exercising…all went well. There wasn’t a whole lot of overachieving going on, but I nailed each goal (except one), which is enough for me at the moment. The exception was the ‘do something good for myself’ goal (*scrunches up nose*), but I’ll do better this coming week, promise.

Hey, and you guys, I absolutely loved getting feedback on writing log-lines (and blurbs), and can’t wait to spend some time this week playing with your suggestions. Thanks – like, a ton!

The really, really good news is that I think we’re looking pretty darn good, homeschool-wise. If that aspect of my life is going smoothly, all the other pieces fall into place relatively easily.

Birthday boy!

Today marks my oldest child’s tenth birthday! We’re super pumped – at our house, we celebrate birthdays for a full week. Birthday weeks are everybody’s favorite because it’s a week chock-full of fun, fun, fun. So I might be a little more absent online than normal, partying my booty off to celebrate a decade with one of the coolest, most remarkable young men I’ve ever known. Go ahead and be jealous! Or, better yet, come over and join us in the fun. We know how to have a good time!

Wishing each of you a happy, productive week!

ROW80 Check-In: Week 3

First of all, let me say to all you who stopped by and left the sweetest, most encouraging words last week, THANK YOU.  I’ve gone back and re-read all your encouragement several times throughout the week – it’s meant so much to me.  If I could squeeze each and every one of you, I would.  Thanks, so much, from the bottom of my heart.

Last week’s check-in turned out to be the start of a week-long pit-stop for me.

With some carefully-worded guidance from my sweet, enduring husband (who knows full-well just how ugly my pregnancy listening filter can make any words, no matter how kind), I decided to all but cut myself off from the web, and focus on the most pressing issue at hand: our homeschool curriculum.

Thankfully, after two months of tears, tripping down the wrong paths, pulling out our hair, etc., I think we’ve finally got it figured out.  The week has been spent diving into this new curriculum, and I’m seeing all the signs that we’ve found one that works: the boys are happy and willing to do their work, sweetZ’s tickled to have her mommy-time back, and I’ve got a couple spare hours a day I can devote to writing/blogging/WANA-ing.  This coming week will really be the true test for all that, since I didn’t write a sentence – blogging or otherwise – last week.  Instead, I snuggled with my girl, napped when I was tired, and had fun helping my boys along.  I’ll add back in my writing responsibilities this week, and see how it goes.

Even though last week was less-than-stellar, goal wise (with the exception of the wholesome brekkie thing, and the reading thing), I’m satisfied.  Some problems, if you don’t stop everything to fix them, will grow into something wholly crippling.  This was one of those problems.  Any homeschooling parent lives with a constant nagging shadow following them around – the fear of somehow failing their kids in a way that will cripple their chances at becoming a successful adult.  It’s a powerful fear, one that will bring me to my knees faster than just about anything.  Last week was one of those weeks, but I’m finally feeling that burden beginning to lift.  Phew.

Hoping your week went well, sweet friendlies!  Sorry I’ve not been to any of your blogs over the past week, but I’ll get back into the swing of blog reading in the coming days.  Much love to you all!

Swelling Insanity

Something happens when a woman becomes pregnant.  Duh, right?  At first, the excitement over the miracle of new life can be beautifully overwhelming – the thought of feeling those little kicks inside your belly, the cutest little teeny-tiny booties you’ve ever seen, the anticipation of holding your newborn for the first time.  Oh my goodness…it’s euphoric.

But eventually reality kicks in.  Morning sickness.  All-day sickness.  Bizarre cravings.  Bizarre cravings that must be satisfied now.  Swollen ankles.  Swollen fingers.  Swollen…everything.  If it has a name, and is attached to a pregnant woman’s body, it can (and will) swell.

Maybe that swelling has something to do with the significant amount of crazy that accompanies pregnancy.  Maybe the little part of the brain where crazy is normally kept, heavily guarded and only released very occasionally for good behavior, swells, too.  I don’t know what, or how, or why it happens, but during those nine months, the crazy is unleashed.  Suddenly, what began as a euphoric journey into the magical kingdom of Giddy-Happy-I’m-Building-a-Freaking-Person-Here takes a sharp, un-signalled left turn into the third-world dystopian territory of How-Could-He-Eat-Cereal-In-Front-of-Me-When-He-Knows-I-Can’t-Stand-the-Smell-of-It-He-Must-Hate-Me-and-Our-Baby.

Some days are better than others.  Some days I’m able to keep the crazy contained, and do damage control for previous unsavory actions.  This usually involves apologizing for things that I know I’ve done in a hormonal stupor, but sound utterly foreign to my ears:  ”I’m sorry I insisted I sleep with both your pillow and mine.  And that I wouldn’t let you have any blankets.  And that I made you stare at me, unblinking, until I finally fell asleep.  And that when you tried to gently pull your pillow out of my hands when you thought I was asleep that I clawed you with my fingernails.  And that now we’re in the ER waiting for you to get stitches.”

I’m a normally happy, sweet girl.  But the deeper I get into each pregnancy, the crazier I get.  And since we’re working on offspring number four, the crazy has spawned it’s own sort of crazy.

Examples:

*While at Barnes and Noble this weekend, I spotted a book about cupcakes.  A normal person would look at a book of cupcakes and think, “Huh.  Look.  A book about cupcakes.”  My thought was, “Huh.  Look.  A book about cupcakes.  I want a cupcake.”  I glanced over my shoulder at the good folks around me.  I swear on the slice of pepperoni pizza I’m eating right now that every single person in the store was holding a half-eaten cupcake, with frosting smeared on their upper lip, moaning in gastronomical pleasure over how good the cupcakes were.

“Why does everybody have a cupcake but me?” I asked Thomas, glaring at him, because obviously my cupcake-less status was all his fault.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, taking a huge bite out of a chocolate cupcake with white frosting.  My absolute favorite.

“Can I have a bite of that?” I asked.

“A bite of what?” he asked, licking frosting off his fingers with great relish.  Bastardo.

“Your cupcake!” I said impatiently, reaching for his cupcake and snatching it out of his hands.  He stared at me in shock, mouth gaping open as I crammed the rest of his half-eaten cupcake into my pie-hole.

“Ugh!” I grunted, spitting it out.  It was disgusting.  Terrible.  Tasted like paper.

I looked at the half-masticated mess in my hands.  It wasn’t a cupcake at all.  It was a Nook brochure.  Confused, I looked around.  Nobody was eating cupcakes.  They were looking at books, talking quietly with each other, some sipping on coffee.  But no cupcakes.

Not.  A single.  One.

I still want my freaking cupcake.

*While I was making a salad last night, the hubster sat at the kitchen table to keep me company.  He cracked open a beer and continued chatting with me.  Now, a normal person would think, “That’s nice.  He’s having a beer.  Maybe I should offer to fetch him a coozie.”  My thought was, “I can’t believe he just opened a beer in front of me!!  Doesn’t he know that if I even smell alcohol, our child will be born with severe birth defects?”  I stabbed the head of lettuce with my knife, called him a jerk, burst into tears, and fled to the bathroom where I sequestered myself for 45 minutes.  Thirty of those minutes were spent sobbing over the fact that I’m the only one who cares about the health of our unborn child, five of those minutes were spent missing the cold, refreshing taste of beer, another ten were spent vengefully cleaning the toilet with the hubster’s toothbrush, and the last five were spent unconscious in an impromptu power nap.  Once I regained consciousness, I stumbled back into the hall, no memory of the incident at all, wondering why my husband and three children were staring at me like I was wearing a vest made of C4.

And guess what.  I still want my freaking cupcake.

Someday soon, our little bundle of joy will enter the world.  The crazy sector in my brain will shrink back to it’s normal size, and life will continue on.  And I (hopefully the hubster, too) can look back on that time fondly, knowing it was all in an effort to add a little more innocence, a little more sweetness, a little more hope to the world.  Because kids are, and always will be, one of the biggest reasons to have hope for the future.  They are absolutely one of the most beautiful blessings we can receive in this life.  The forays into Crazy-Town will have all been worth it for the sake of a new little life.

But if somebody doesn’t get me a cupcake, pronto, there will be blood.

Silly Soapbox: The Rectangle of Filth

The Rectangle of Filth.  AKA, public restrooms.

I don’t enjoy them.  Really, who does?  (If you just raised your hand, shame, shame on you.)  Even little children hate them – have you ever seen a little child in a public restroom who isn’t covering their ears with a slightly terrified look in their eyes?  I believe little kids are more sensitive to the darker spiritual forces in this world, which makes me think we should all enter public restrooms trepidation and respectful fear.

Even though I attempt to avoid them as much as humanly possible, the facts are: I have three kids, and I’m pregnant.  Thankfully, my two oldest boys are now fully capable of handling themselves in the bathroom unassisted, but with a three-year old and a bladder that’s fighting for real-estate with an ever-growing fetus, it’s nearly impossible for me to run errands without having to enter what I like to call The Rectangle of Filth.

Entering a public restroom is a risky endeavor that makes my blood pressure sky-rocket, my palms sweat, and my stomach churn.  It’s a race to get in and out of that putrid enviornment as fast as humany possible – which is never fast enough, especially with a pokey pre-preschooler in tow.

My daughter has learned to make a game of it – the sort of game that rides on my nerves the whole time.  She keeps one hand firmly planted on one ear to protect herself from the noise around us, but with the other, she takes days off my life.  Thanks to my insistent repeating of the phrase, “Don’t touch anything.  Don’t touch anything!” she now enjoys putting her little, chubby finger as close as she possibly can to the stall door, the toilet paper dispenser, anything, and say, “Wook, mom.  I not touch anyfeeng!”  She’s also been known to utter a few “Hoopie, hoooooopie!!” at me, which is the ‘scary’ ghost sound she likes to make when something is creepy.  For those of you who think three-year old’s humor can’t possibly be sophisticated enough to mock, you haven’t met my daughter.  She clearly finds my discomfort in public restrooms a source of entertainment.

There are two scenarios you can face upon entering the Rectangle of Filth.  The first, I like to call Russian Roulette.  You’re faced with an otherwise empty restroom, and all the doors are closed.  You must choose one to kick open (because we only open doors in public restrooms with either our feet or our elbows) out of the availiable stalls.  If there are five stalls available, there’s a 99% chance that 4 of those stalls will be unusable due to a plethora of conditions that we all can easily picture in our minds.  And there’s a 75% chance that the one acceptable stall won’t have any toilet paper.

If, by some stroke of luck, you manage to find the acceptable stall first, and it’s equipped with appropriate amounts of toilet paper, you breathe a sigh of relief, open, close, and lock it with your feet/elbows, and get down to business, promising yourself you’ll play the lottery later that night.  Because really, finding the first stall in acceptable use condition just doesn’t happen.  Ever.  It’s literally the luckiest day you’ll have all year.

The second scenario is called the Que from Hell.  There’s a line.  A long line.  Your daughter is almost-but-not-quite touching everything and everybody saying, “Wook, mom.  I not touch!  I not touch!”  You’re seriously considering a straight-jacket made for toddlers just for these moments, while trying not to dwell on the fact that waiting in line means one thing:  You’ll only get a chance at one stall.  A stall that was previously occupied by somebody’s derrière immediately prior to yours.

Here’s the icing on the cake.  Watch the person coming out of the stall that you will soon occupy.  THEY LOOK GUILTY!!!  Why?  What on earth were they doing in there that they should look guilty about?  It can’t be the act itself – we all do it…so what were they doing, and why do they feel so guilty about it?

This is so much worse than the Russian Roulette scenario.  Sure, in RR, you face the danger of having to see a multitude of things that can kill your appetite for weeks to come, but this guilt that strangers carry out of the bathroom stall with them…it keeps me up at night.  What were they doing in there?

I have no solution to the public bathroom.  Handwashing and anti-bacterial gel once free of the Rectangle of Filth are all I can come up with.  But I do have one favor to ask:

If you find yourself in a Que from Hell experience, for goodness sake, when you leave your stall, LEAVE IT WITH CONFIDENCE.  Don’t inflict more stress upon the masses who are waiting patiently to relieve themselves in the Rectangle of Filth.