Initiation: A Bloody Tale

While we've had two ER visits over the course of being parents - and a couple of stomach viruses, a freaky vaccine reaction/infection, ear tube surgery and a bout with pneumonia - we've been relatively unscathed (knocking on wood and anything else that will prevent Murphy for unleashing his Law after uttering that) in the illness/injuries department.

(Thank heaven for little girls).

In fact, until Saturday, we had not had a single incident that involved blood. The ONE bodily fluid that doesn't make my toes curl and it doesn't make an appearance in Life as a Parent for almost 4 years.

We've now been initiated.

It wasn't a beautiful day on Saturday, but it was warm, so when Woodstock asked to watch a movie after General Conference was over, I told her she had to get some exercise first. Two minutes later she sailed by me, wearing snow boots with her capris, and right out the back door. She ran laps around the yard for almost 15 minutes. Still not worn out, she begged me to play tag with her. It's not that I don't like tag, it's that every step I take lately involves shooting pain down my left leg - still, it turns out I can almost out-run a pre-schooler. Almost.

Tag lasted long enough for Pebbles to wake up from her nap, at which point she demanded to go "Ow-sigh" (outside) with "Gee Gee" (the name which Woodstock has instructed Pebbles to use). Of course, Pebbles is not the most stable on her feet, particularly on uneven ground when wearing shoes.

Blood. Curdling. Scream.

And then the dreaded silence that lets you know all is not well.

Pebbles had lost her footing and tumbled chin-first onto the patio. I picked her up - her chin was scraped up and blood was coming from somewhere.

Woodstock raced over and calmly asked what was going on. I said, "Pebbles fell. Her mouth is bleeding, so I need to take her in and look at her."

Absolute hysteria ensued. Woodstock - the unharmed older sister, dissolved into hysterics. "Mom!" She yelled (even though I was standing right next to her) "Pebbles is BLEEDING. Call an amb-lee-ance (ambulance). We hafta go to the hospital." At which point she raced by me and into the house.

I scooped up Pebbles and took her into the bathroom - only to discover the light source was too poor to ascertain exactly where on her face the blood was coming from. I grabbed some sterile gauze pads, the hydrogen peroxide and relocated to Pebbles to the dining room table (under our bright-as-noonday new light fixture - hooray for energy-sucking light sources).

That, apparently, was bad news for Woodstock who, no longer crying, yelled in a panicky voice, "Mom! You're not a doctor! She's BLEEDING!" Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious.

**I should note here again that blood is the one bodily fluid that neither grosses me out nor makes me panicky. I may be high-strung but am a very useful person to have around in emergencies or when someone is bleeding.**

After taking a look around (as well as one could while wrestling a 23-pound crying, squirmy child with razor-sharp teeth poised to chomp down immediately on whatever dared venture near the rapidly swelling lip), I phoned Himself to get his opinion on my assessment. (Himself has a knack for missing nearly every dramatic moment that happens - he was at work yesterday). We agreed that watching it and icing it was the best course. If it stopped bleeding, fabulous. If not, well, a visit to the doctor was in order - sans the ambulance Woodstock was still insisting we needed.

Of course, a 19-month-old, a mouth injury and ice do not go well together, so we determined a Popsicle would be the best remedy for both the crying and the swelling. I got off the phone.

"Dad says she needs a Popsicle," I remarked to Woodstock - hoping she'd give Himself more credit than she was giving me. After all, he's not a doctor either.

"A Popsicle?" Her panicky voice vanished. She sounded downright hopeful.

Then, her sister's ailments and her rallying cry for an amb-lee-ance forgotten, Woodstock asked, "Can I have one too?"

Funny how suddenly her sister's still bleeding lip took the backseat to the mention of frozen sugary ice water.

As it turns out, Popsicles cure more than just bleeding lips. They also cure hysterical pre-schoolers.

Lesson learned - keep the freezer stocked. (And don't let Pebbles near concrete).

Yes, I'm one of THOSE people ... maybe

I hate the war that vaccinations have become.

They are good. Really, really good.

But there are times when they aren't as good as they are supposed to be. And that is when I really get the "other side" that opts to take their chances.

Like 3 months ago, when Pebbles had a severe reaction to her DTP booster. It took a full month until her leg looked normal and she was back to normal behavior.

It scared the living daylights out of me.

It was recommended that we report the reaction to the CDC - so when I went to the first of many follow-up visits, I mentioned it to Dr. Grumps (not his real name) - the partner of our regular pediatrician, who is very competent, but has very a patriarchal, authoritarian bedside manner which makes me hate having to schedule an appointment when he's the one open. Dr. Grumps dismissed it. "Sometimes we over-react and assume it is the vaccine and it isn't," he said. And then he pumped Pebbles full of antibiotics - sure. Over reaction.

Day 1. Vaccine. Totally fine kiddo.
Day 2. Morning. Totally fine kiddo. Small red spot.
Day 2. Afternoon. NOT AT ALL FINE kiddo. Enormous (her whole thigh) red/purply/rashy looking thing all over her leg. Her leg is 3 times its normal size. She's cranky. Low fever. Leg is burning hot. She won't let anyone touch it.

Weeks later, after massive antibiotics (the follow-up one causing nausea/diarrhea for several days), her leg still looked abnormal, she was still cranky, she still wasn't sleeping. She still wasn't the same child "before". The doctor still insisted it wasn't CDC-worthy because it was so rare. So rare, because no one ever reports anything?

I began researching - turns out it IS uncommon according to the CDC. It is NOT as uncommon as they think, however, based on the number of parents sharing pictures and reaciton stories about the DPT vaccine. Pictures that looked just like Pebbles' leg.

Yesterday was Pebbles' 18-month well baby checkup. I skipped the vaccines. Call me a horrible mother. Call me un-informed or ill-informed or paranoid or "one of those people".

Or call me terrified and cautious. She'll get the vaccines. Just slowly. One vaccine at a time. And not while she's still battling another ear infection.

I am dealing with my own medical issues at the moment. I just cannot have another "well baby" turn into "month-long-sick-baby". Yes, I know it means she could contract the disease of the vaccine I skipped. But right now, the risk of reaction is far more prominent in my mind than the risk of delaying it slightly.

Call me one of those mothers. I'll understand. Hopefully you do too, because I'm already lumped in the "oddity" bucket a lot lately.

(p.s. I should note, Woodstock got her chicken pox shot for pre-school two weeks ago - so it's not like I've abandoned the vaccine wagon all together. Just delayed it a little more than I normally do).

In Gratitude

In 2005, as I waited in an airport two days before Christmas with thousands of other people, I pondered what it would feel like to not have to spend every major holiday stuck in an airport, a rental car, or a traffic jam somewhere on the Eastern seaboard.

I should have been more specific.

Holidays now don't mean airports, rental cars or I-95 traffic jams, but it seems we've traded those for long road trips, icy mountain passes and no sleep. We might be closer to relatives, but there is a whole lot of nothing - vast open wilderness - between us and them.

Last year, I issued a moratorium on road trips during the month of November. It worked so well, I did it again this year. This year, we decided to play grown-ups and host our own holiday - something we haven't done on any major scale since moving to the Frontier. It was all carefully planned ... and then, Mother Nature decided to make things interesting and brought in a winter storm that turned every road into a sheet of ice and, as a result, no Thanksgiving guests.

When I wished for no traveling during the holidays, I didn't really mean spending them alone. Again, I should have been more specific.

Stuck with a 15-pound turkey (courtesy of work - at least I didn't have to pay for it) and a fridge full of ingredients for a family-sized traditional dinner, I set out to craft side dish upon side dish for Himself, myself, and two little girls who chose today as a day to eat like birds. I will be eating reincarnations of Thanksgiving dinner for weeks - if I was really creative, and had room in my freezer, I could probably make it last until Christmas.

At some point in the morning, I realized I wasn't having any fun. Cooking a holiday dinner for 2.5 appetites isn't terribly exciting. I put the turkey in the oven, left roasting instructions for Himself (who ignored them, being a man), bundled up the girls and took them to the zoo.

It was my favorite part of the day, and it was then I realized: I am deeply grateful to not only have a child, but to have two of them. I watched as Woodstock, looking for all the world like a pink marshmallow with stick legs (thanks to a puffy coat and skinny leggings) pushed Pebbles (who looked like the kid on Christmas story - complete with arms out to her sides - bundled too much to put them at her sides - it was only 27 degrees after all) around the zoo in her stroller. No people + a cumbersome umbrella stroller over which one can barely see = very little risk of out-running Mom, and Woodstock relished her freedom. She chattered away at Pebbles - detailing every exhibit and opining about this or that. They giggled at the turkeys wandering around and Woodstock (ever one to make me want to be vegetarian for animal reasons and not just health reasons) asked if they were like the turkey roasting in the oven at home.

They giggled at a sleepy crocodile. They laughed at the echos in the giraffe enclosure - who knew that a big empty building full of nothing but giraffes and two little girls could provide such amazing acoustics? Pebbles squealed at the leopard and Woodstock excitedly told me that we were going to visit a rain forest (I will admit - the rain forest/reptile house was my favorite - as it is the warmest building at the zoo). I marveled at how - now that Woodstock is potty trained, Pebbles sleeps through the night and both feed themselves - my joy was doubled with two children without necessarily doubling the work.

Our noses red, our fingers frozen, we returned home to put the final touches on the meal and to give thanks. Woodstock gave thanks for animals and family and the funny looking food on her plate (when else do you serve soggy bread?). I gave thanks for a few hours that lifted my spirits and made me realize Thanksgiving can be a holiday even without a house stuffed full of people. Fresh air, sunshine (cold sunshine, but still - sunshine), good food, family and two beautiful little girls.

I'm thankful, once again, for the simple things. The ones that warm my heart the most.

Next year, the Thanksgiving travel moratorium may just have to be re-instated.

Too Noisy

The great bedroom experiment has officially been declared a failure.

Pebbles isn't (much to my chagrin) sleeping through the night as consistently as I'd like. It leads to bad sleeping habits, because I bolt in to "save the day" when she cries at night, to avoid waking Woodstock, who is Little Miss Cranky if she doesn't get 11 hours of sleep a night. (Well, so is her mother, but one of us has to be the grown up). It becomes a self-perpetuating cycle ... Pebbles now DEMANDS to be picked up and whisked away to be rocked before she'll stop hollering. She's smart. She knows I love to snuggle, but this middle of the night stuff is for the birds. She also knows snuggling wins out every single time over having a grumpy sister the next day.

Additionally, Pebbles tummy ceases to be happy 11 hours after she last eats ... so she wakes up about an hour before Woodstock. At that point, no amount of cajoling that it isn't morning until the sun comes up (what are we going to do when it rises at 5:45 a.m. in the summer?!) works and Woodstock is raring to go.

I knew it was near the end when Woodstock complained the other day, "Pebbles is too noisy."

Yes, she is. Because not only does she cry at night, Pebbles cannot wake up quietly. Oh no. She has to wake up with SCREECHING peals of laughter and loud thumping noises as she swings her legs up and lets them fall over and over (and over) again. She doesn't need to be "rescued" come morning, she is perfectly happy entertain herself - the problem is, she hasn't learned the concept of "inside voice."

This morning I asked Woodstock if she wanted Pebbles to still share a room or if she wanted her to sleep elsewhere for now. Her response was telling: "Pebbles can sweep in my room, but she's too noisy."

Let me put it this way: we've never had to use a monitor with Pebbles. We can hear her regardless of how far apart in the house we may be.

Pebbles may be banished to the guest bedroom - for now. She's adorable. I love her, but I cannot continue to endure months of waking up every single night.

The only problem is, it involves furniture rearranging and stairs and more time off than I have at the moment.

Maybe if we all don't get enough sleep no one will notice we're grumpy...?

Slumberless Sleepover

There are three things about being a mother I have dreaded so far, and not just casually dreaded, but dreaded-deep-down-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach dreaded.

1. Weaning Woodstock off her binky
2. Moving Woodstock into a "big" bed
3. Potty training

We accomplished 1 in December. After a month of talking about the binky fairy and a week of counting down the nights until the binky fairy arrived, one Thursday night in December Woodstock awoke to find her binky had been replaced by a note and a Curious George puzzle. (She strategically came on a Thursday night to ensure there were two non-work nights to deal with any fallout).

Surprisingly (or maybe not, since she was clearly ready to give it up), there have only been a couple of the briefest mentions of binkies since.

So I decided to tackle #2 on my "dreaded list of mothering a toddler tasks."

On Tuesday night, after having her "big" bed in her room for 5 months, Woodstock finally agreed it might be fun to sleep somewhere other than her crib.

One should note that Woodstock LOVES her crib. Never has she tried to climb out (though she can climb in - more worrisome at the moment, as the last thing I need is her trying to co-sleep with Pebbles!). Never has she wanted to sleep anywhere else (except when sick - she wants to sleep on the couch - weirdness). So it was a big deal I convinced her that it was high time she move up in the world.

Since Himself was out of town on business, I suggested we have a slumber party. I put both girls down - Woodstock on the trundle bed (low to ground), Pebbles in the crib and, after they had both gone to sleep, I crashed on the day bed. They thought this was very cool (well, I'm assuming Pebbles did, she didn't protest, after all). I thought it was a good way to spy on Woodstock to ensure she didn't try to sleep with her sister (a valid concern, it's happened before when Pebbles was in the bassinet in the other room).

They both slept like rocks all night.

I woke up every single hour. First, it was the darn nightlight that Woodstock insists on having so she can read before she sleeps (I tried turning it off after she went to bed - she inevitably wakes up and yells "my yittle yight is not on, come fix it!".

Second, it turns out that the day bed mattress is the one I put the plastic mattress pad on. I do not sleep still. It meant a night-long ordeal of hearing "crinkle, crinkle, crinkle" every single time I moved.

Third, I do not wear footie pajamas and the blanket on the day bed is not long enough for a full-sized adult (easily rectified, but annoying nonetheless).

Fourth, while Pebbles is a blissfully quiet sleeper, Woodstock is not. And since the trundle was right next to the bed I was in, it was like she was snorting right in my ear.

Fifth, Woodstock woke up at oh-dark-thirty and proclaimed "All done syeeping!". No amount of cajoling could convince her it was a full 2 hours before her normal "wake up time." Pebbles, apparently wary of missing out on the fun, then awoke herself. Realizing it had been 10 hours since she last ate, she refused to reconsider going back to sleep as well.

Somehow, my "sneaky plan disguised as fun" ended up as a joke on me.

You Must See These Kids

You must see these kids.

They're beautiful.

We won't discuss how much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth occured on the part of their mother during the TWO photo shoots (two because one 3-hour session of torture wasn't enough to get good shots).

These photos are evidence that there is a good reason why their mother is not the photographer. While she was off worried that nothing was going "just right," the photographer was capturing memories of her beautiful girls.

Woodstock is the big one. Pebbles is the little one.

Their mother is in absolute heaven.

Beware of the Monsters

Woodstock has discovered monsters ... where I'm not sure, but she doesn't like to go into dark rooms because "I scared of da monsters!"

Apparently, Pebbles is ALSO afraid of the monsters - who knew an almost-5-month-old could even be aware of such things? Apparently 2-year-olds. Anytime that Pebbles yells or cries or anything of the like, Woodstock rushes to her side and yells, "Mama! Come get Pebbles. She's afraid of da monsters!"

She has also made up a song to sing to Pebbles until her very lax, very slow mother can come rescue her.

Don't be scared.
Don't be afraid.
It's okay.
Da monsters won't get you.

Of course, Woodstock thinks that in order for Pebbles to be properly comforted, she must be IN the bed with Pebbles. "Because she's afraid of da monsters. She needs me."

Certainly.

I hope they love each other this much in another 13 years.

Contemplating the Eternities

Tuesday wasn't a very good day.

First, the earthquake of epic proportions hit Haiti. Second, our around-the-corner neighbor lost his 7-week battle with cancer. He was 49, four kids - two still at home.

Gives one a lot of perspective.

I attended the funeral today and I watched his four children and his wife stand and give beautifully composed messages. I laughed and cried right along with them.

Life is too short.

As his kids talked about him and their favorite memories of him, I wondered what mine would say. Would Woodstock comment on the one where we went on her first trip to the dinosaur museum on a day when my "natural self" felt particularly burdened by the adage "work before play?" Will she realize what a massive effort it took for me to leave the house as is, shut the door, load the girls into the car, and drive 30 minutes south to spend my last weekday as a Stay-at-Home-on-Maternity-Leave Mom with my two favorite little girls? Will she ever know how much I wanted to cry as I listened to her squeals of delight about "Oooh, dat's a BIG dinosaur!" or as she played in the sand at the hands-on exhibit?

Would Pebbles realize that I inadvertently messed up our whole sleeping schedule for weeks by failing to implement a bedtime routine when I should have, because I really just wanted to stay up and snuggle her longer? When she's 13 and shouting, "You don't love me, you don't understand! You're mean!" will she realize how much I will miss having her ride in her Snugli next to my chest and how I cry thinking she may be the last baby I have that is mine?

Would Woodstock remark "Silly mommy!" (as she sometimes does) if she knew that I come in, every night, before I go to bed and kiss her good night a second time? Would Pebbles wonder if mom had lost her marbles if she knew I'm probably procrastinating moving Woodstock into her "big bed" because it means there are no more excuses for having Pebbles sleeping in her bassinet next to my bed?

Would the people I love the most know just how much I love them? Does my heart say one thing and my actions another?

Every day, my resolve to lower my expectations hammers home. Life is too short to spend it wishing it away.

End Radio Silence

We're still here.

We're (er, I) am sleep-deprived, a bit overwhelmed and not at all sure if my sanity is in tact, but ... I have two of the cutest little girls on the planet, so that makes most of it tolerable.

Pebbles is starting to make cute baby noises and Woodstock is chattering non-stop about anything and everything and is making herself heard, even when we'd rather not hear her. Like when the phone rings. Apologies to anyone who calls. You'll be met with a shrieking, "MOOOOOOM!" in the background followed by "Who's it?" (who is it). She'll pause for the answer, then regardless of said answer she will respond with, "Talk to her?" (or talk to him) If the answer isn't "yes," (it rarely is), she pulls out all of her 2-year-old weapons of ear drum destruction. Oy.

I was never much for phone conversations, but this takes my telephone hibernation to a whole new level. Play phones are no longer satisfactory now that she's discovered the real ones talk back!

I'm Not Dead ... Yet

Things that make one (or at least me) feel really old:

• Having two kids
• Owning both a guest bed and a chest freezer
• Canning - I did apricots, raspberry jam and applesauce this year, and will likely can green tomato sauce before the first hard freeze (which may be coming sooner than later - yikes)
• Getting excited over leaving the house without having two carseats to buckle
• Most of all ... spending more and more time at home and dreading anything that involves the words "road" and "trip."

This past week, I spent 8 days at The Parents' house. I bravely took Woodstock and Pebbles down to visit Grammpy and Papa - a 4-hour drive if one drives 70-75 mph the entire way. 6 hours if one has to stop and pick up apples (for the father-daughter applesauce canning project), feed a newborn, change two diapers, feed a toddler and do two emergency binky rescues.

Fortunately, I am apparently blessed with two children who don't mind the car so much (Woodstock likes it better than Pebbles, but that is to be expected, I suppose), because every relative we have requires a drive of some length. Unfortunately, the whole thing made me want to swear off road trips forever and ever. Especially the drive home, where Pebbles decided 64 miles from home that she had to eat rightthisverysecond. Sitting in a WalMart parking lot at 9 p.m. with a tired toddler and a ravenous infant is loads of fun. Especially when the toddler pipes up from the back seat and says, "Mommy, my bottom hurts! All done sitting!" You and me both kiddo!

Ever the glutton for punishment, I will again be testing fate in a few days as we load up the girls and everything we own (at least it feels like it) and set out for a 700+ mile trek to the Pacific Northwest for Himself's father's memorial service. At least this time there will be two adults, but the trip is 3 times longer - at least until you figure we'll be stopping every 2-3 hours to feed Pebbles, which means about 70 minutes of driving over every 2-hour span - not very good odds. At that rate, we might arrive in time for Thanksgiving.

And all I can do is sit here and stare at the mountain of laundry and the two-page "list of things not to forget for road trip" and try not to cry.

It's times like this when living in a familial compound don't sound so bad after all.

The Power Within

There were three reasons I went with a midwife for this pregnancy:

1. I had a virtually complication-free pregnancy/labor/delivery with Woodstock.
2. The doctor billed me $2,500 just for delivering Woodstock. It wasn't even my doctor who delivered her, but one of the partners. He was around for only a few minutes total. My midwife charged $2,600 for the ENTIRE pregnancy, delivery and post-partum care.
3. I wanted to write my own labor/delivery show (as it turns out, I should go into writing ridiculously "truth is more exciting than fiction" screenplays, given the drama I managed to conjure up).

When I first got pregnant with Woodstock, I had virtually no opinion on the subject - which was probably for the best, since I also had virtually no knowledge of the subject either. Over the course of 9 months, I read a lot, talked to a lot of people and began to form opinions. Between my pregnancies, I continued to read and learn. My pregnancy with Pebbles' brought on a whole new dimension of learning.

Through it all, I've determined one thing - women should be given (and should take) the opportunity to direct their own childbirthing experience, medical complications notwithstanding.

My midwife and I talked a lot about what I wanted Pebbles' birth to be like. I had a great birth experience with Woodstock, but knew I wanted something more this time - more control, more intimacy and more dialogue with the medical establishment. We talked about my birth plan. We talked about my reasons for refusing a 39-week induction - standard procedure for patients on Heparin (standard only because it ensures the patient can have an epidural). We talked about how, after a pregnancy full of drugs, I wanted Pebbles to not have any more drugs in her system than necessary. We talked - and that was the most important thing. We had a dialogue, I expressed my concerns, desires, opinions and questions and she did the same. If she didn't have answer, we turned to the OB and the perinatologist I was also seeing throughout the course of my pregnancy.

It made me feel empowered - even through a pregnancy filled with all kinds of "surprises" (of mostly the not-so-fabulous kind). It made me feel like I was in control of things, which, for a reforming control freak is rather obligatory.

In the end, that sense of empowerment, that sense of directing my child's entrance into the world, proved to be almost divine. There is nothing like childbirth in the world. If you haven't given birth or been at the side of someone who has, you have missed out on one of the greatest moments life affords - because nothing comes close to replicating it. The births of both of my children were incredibly emotional and powerful. However, Pebbles' birth - nearly perfect were it not for Himself's absence - brought with it a whole new sense of power and awe and emotion.

Woodstock entered the world with me relatively calm - mostly because at the last moment, I'd opted for an epidural and could no longer feel anything but pressure below my belly button. I, however, was the only calm thing in the room. The lights were bright (it was, after all 9 in the morning), there seemed to be a dozen people, and the whole thing felt chaotic when she emerged with the cord around her neck. The resident snapped the cord, spraying us with blood. Woodstock was whisked away to help her breathing, then was weighed, measured, cleaned, wrapped and made "pretty" before I got to hold her.

With Pebbles, it was entirely different. I was in agony. No one seems to remember how bad childbirth is and therefore forgets to tell you (or opts not to). I'd forgone the epidural - not out of some hero complex, but because I really wanted to know what it was like to bear a child without having the lower half of my body deadened. I now know. And, truthfully, I really would do it again. It was hell, but it was the good kind - the kind that fills you with power and amazement and love and awe at the end, all of which cloud one's sanity and make you think it's possible to do it all over - just several years down the road.

Pebbles arrived with me the only one in chaos. I remember thinking I hoped the delivery room was sound proof because I was yelling like a banshee. In truth, it helped provide an outlet for my tense emotions so the lower half of me didn't tighten up and keep Pebbles hostage. But it sounded like I was dying. Everything else, however, was calm - almost serene. The room was dim - only one light. The pediatric team (I didn't even realize they were in the room) had been banished to the corner and was banished completely upon Pebbles' arrival. I witnessed the entire birth and felt the miracle of one's body doing everything just right. I watched as the little girl I had co-created entered the world - red, breathing and perfect.

One thing I had mourned with Woodstock's birth was not being able to hold her immediately - it was one of the most important parts of my birth plan. "If she's fine," I told my midwife in one of my prenatal appointments, "I want to hold her immediately. Everything else - including cutting the cord - can wait."

They cleaned Pebbles off as I cradled her in my arms. Eventually, Heidi cut the cord. Eventually, they weighed her and measured her and wrapped her in a cute blanket. But before all of that, I got to sit in the dim room, with angelic lighting, and marvel at the miracle of creation and birth and life. I didn't cry. If I cried, I wouldn't stop. The adrenaline prevented me from mourning the absense of Himself - only when it wore off would I profoundly mourn the one less-than-perfect part of Pebbles birth.

I felt good. (To be entirely truthful, I also felt a lot of pain - no one told me how many painful things happen AFTER the baby arrives!) I felt like I had made the right choice in birthing, the right choice in medical provider, the right choice in birth coach - and once again, I had drawn the right lucky straw in the nurse who spent the night by my side.

It will forever be one of the greatest memories of my entire life.

The experience made me realize just how much childbirth plays into the physical and emotional well-being of a mother, the bonding between mother and child and how empowering motherhood can really be. Motherhood isn't about being susurvient or losing oneself in dirty diapers, baby puke and sleep depravation. It is about holding hands with God, walking the fine line between heaven and earth for a few short hours. It is about creating and delivering the world's most precious resource. It is about being strong, believing in one's body and marveling at the miracle of biology.

It came from feeling empowered. It came from feeling in control and on top of the world. It came from the pain, the discomfort, the yelling - all centered in an oasis of strong, calm women - my village. It came from realization that there is an inherent bond among women when they experience childbirth together. It came from the sense of peace that flooded me as I held Pebbles in my arms - still warm and wet and sticky from her sojourn next to my soul.

For me, it was as close to the divine as I will likely get during my mortal journey. For that morning, I felt as if the veil drawn between heaven and earth was paper thin, and I was at peace.

Bittersweet: Pebbles Joins The Family

First, if you haven't already, you should read Pebbles' birth story here (for those of you confused, I am "Mary.") It's the most accurate version, as there are whole periods that aren't really seared in detail in my memory. Mountains of gratitude to Heidi for blogging the story (and writing it in Pebbles' journal), but more than that, I owe her a debt of gratitude for being there with me during Pebbles' birth.

Heidi (and my mother) are right when they say I attract (create?) drama. I can't do anything without high drama. Including, as it turns out, birthing my second child.

Last Sunday promised to be a quiet reprieve from the chaos of Saturday. I was to babysit two neighbor boys so their parents could attend the dedication of the Oquirrh Mountain Temple. In exchange, their parents would watch Woodstock so I could attend. I have longed to attend a dedicatory session for years, and never have logistics worked out in my favor. I was so proud of myself when I made the arrangements this time for making it happen.

I spent the morning playing blocks and trucks and watching Bob the Builder with Woodstock and the two little boys. I returned home, feeling crampy and exhausted. I flirted with the idea of calling the neighbors and telling them I wasn't going to attend, but talked myself out of it once I thought about how disappointed I would be if I didn't go. I put a roast on and decided to lie down while Woodstock was napping, after which I would tackle the laundry and bedroom that I'd left undone the previous day before heading to the dedication.

I laid down with a book and five minutes later, just as I was beginning to drift off, my water broke. I sat still for another 5 minutes hoping against hope it wasn't really my water breaking. Unable to come up with another option, however, I resigned myself to semi-panic mode. I showered, dressed and began the first of the 37 phone calls it would take to implement (or try to implement) the "How Sara is getting to the hospital and who is going to watch Woodstock and Grover since Himself is out of town plan." As it turns out, it took me clear until contingency plan F and nearly two hours to put plans into place.

My first call was to Himself, who was in the Pacific Northwest visiting his dying father. We knew when we sent him that me going into labor while he was gone was a possibility, since I was 39 weeks pregnant, but I never actually thought it would happen. I cried. I cried because I knew the chances of Himself missing Pebbles' birth were astronomically high. I cried because the last thing I wanted to do was birth my second child alone. I cried because I didn't want to be a burden to all the people I was trying to chase down to help me. I cried because, deep down, as much as I was physically ready to give birth, I was nowhere near emotionally ready.

Heidi arrived at the hospital before I did, effectively making me late to my own child's birth. Not a shocker, since I was also late to my wedding.

You have all the details from Heidi's post ... I spent the first 6 hours trying not to go out of labor and the next 5 trying to be done with labor. At some point I hit a mental/emotional wall when I realized Himself was really going to miss the birth and my inner strength crumbled. I lost my focus and panicked.

Fortunately, I was surrounded with three strong compassionate women - Heidi, my midwife and my nurse, who didn't believe what I was saying and made an epidural-free delivery happen anyway. I think my first words were, "I'm never having another child!" But after having a so-far not-too-painful-complicated recovery, I might reconsider going through all that again.

At 2:43 a.m., August 24, Pebbles arrived - perfect, healthy and wide awake (and hungry!). She has the most delicate features, brown hair, hazel eyes and was nearly a full pound (and a full inch) longer than Woodstock was. 7 pounds, 1 oz. 20".

So far, she is the most calm, content baby I've ever seen - beating even her older sister, who was also born with a very serene disposition. It is a bit surreal to snuggle with Pebbles and realize that she is also my child. It's an odd feeling to realize that one can love two offspring equally, and yet so differently.

Pebbles is here. After eight months of drama and a last week of complete insanity, our perfect little miracle is in my arms - quite litterally.

Enter the Drama Queen

My mother finds it a very amusing thing to tell her friends that I attract drama like honey attracts flies. I, of course, find it not-quite-as-amusing, though at least she says "attracts" and not "creates," because I do not actually create drama, it just sort of follows me around incessently - like a puppy or a toddler.

Heidi would call it being a "crap magnet" - although not all of my drama is of the bad sort, just, well ... dramatic.

Unfortunately, I have to agree. Especially after this week. This week was going fine until I mentioned I felt a gut feeling that something was "off" and the midwife ordered a non-stress test and ultra sound so I didn't drive myself crazy.

As it turns out, Pebbles, after being compliant and facing head down since 29 weeks, is now BREECH - lying sideways across my belly and trending toward moving vertical - only with her head UP. Woodstock was breech, but she was breech the entire time until 37(ish) weeks when she turned. I'm due in EIGHT DAYS and my child turned breech sometime in the last week when I wasn't paying attention.

Transverse babies cannot be delivered vaginally, for obvious reasons. On the flip side, doctors normally quite happy to "prescribe" a c-section don't want to, because who wants to perform surgery on a patient fully anti-coagulated? Not only that, but if I went into labor I would then need an emergency c-section with general anesthesia (no time to un-anti-coagulate, eliminating all spinal anesthesia possibilities). Two bad things about this: a. I miss the birth entirely. b. Me and general anesthesia are better off staying far, far away from each other. Five surgeries. four had complications. two had life-threatening complications. The odds aren't so fabulous. Never mind the fact that I DO NOT WANT a c-section.

This sent my perfectly planned world into a tailspin. Suddenly I can no longer wish to wake up in the throes of labor pains. Suddenly I have to sit with my rear in the air and tilted right, holding a bag of frozen spinach to Pebbles' head in hopes of persuading her to relocate to another position. Often. Repeatedly. Suddenly, I'm going to the chiropractor's office twice a day to fix my badly misaligned pelvis in hopes that will coax Pebbles to settle down and cooperate. Suddenly, it's twice-a-week non-stress tests and ultrasounds and midwife visits to "keep an eye on" the baby so when she turns we can take action (I'm very empathetic to Kristin at the moment). Suddenly, while I'm still technically "working" I'm spending most of my day driving all over The Frontier.

Then the phone rings at 1:30 a.m. It was Himself's sister letting him know that FIL1 had had a heart attack, was rushed to the hospital and had a second one - it's related to his cancer treatments, they're not sure he'll make it. Himself so eloquently put it at 2 a.m., "He's not dead ... yet."

Up until 3 getting updates and dealing with the adrenaline that comes from being woken up mid-sleep cycle. Himself went back to sleep. There was to be no more sleep for me - once I'm woken up, I'm up. I did the dishes, straightened the kitchen, checked my e-mail, found a chiropractor and played solitaire. I fell asleep watching some baby show at 5:30, only to have to wake up at 6:30.

Today I've spent the day coordinating with the midwife and perinatologist and chiropractor and waiting for updates from Himself and surfing for cheap tickets to the northwest in case he decides to see his dad this weekend. And trying to concentrate on the never-ending "to do list" I have at work.

Maybe mom is right - I may not create drama, but I certainly seem to attract it. I'll gladly share, if anyone is feeling left out and getting too comfortable in the "life is grand, nothing ever changes" stage.

I Would Just Like to Point Out ...

...That I have, apparently, learned something in the last two years.

Two years ago, it took us forever to put together Woodstock's bassinet (recounted, along with the resulting ruined dinner, here). And that was with two people, the box and the instructions (which, in hindsight, might have actually been the problem to begin with!)

Wednesday night, in a fit of desperation more than true nesting (nesting has come and gone - it seems I have neither the fortitude or the energy I had last time), I decided someone had better get around to putting up the bassinet, just in case Pebbles decides to come in the next week or so (highly unlikely, but I am considered "full term" tomorrow). Of course, Himself was working, which left the bassinet assembly up to me.

Of course, I could find the instructions to the bouncy seat (not that it actually needed instructions, the stroller (but not the carseat - ack! - that's the next project, and the mobile, but not the pack-n-play bassinet. I was more than a little paranoid, remembering the adventure last time.

10 minutes later, I was ... done. DONE. DONE!!! I couldn't help but feel like I'd done something horribly wrong and the whole thing was going to collapse in a fit of poorly assembled (or engineered?) plastic, metal and fabric. I kicked it. I put my (half-packed) hospital bag in it. Nothing happened. I drug out the hand sanitizer, the not-at-all-scented baby lotion (anticipating she's as allergic to fragrances as Woodstock and I...), the bottom cream ... nothing happened. It remained standing.

I'm baffled. How is it that it could take us half and evening last time and less than a quarter of an hour this time? It just doesn't seem possible.

Then again, it does feel sort of nice to realize I have learned something since I've become a parent.

50 Days

Okay, really I have 49.5, but who is counting?

This baby will be "fully cooked" in 49(ish) days. 7 weeks.

Nesting has still not kicked in. I haven't done more than surface clean in several weeks (other than the bathrooms, since I've had a slew of house guests who are fortunately quite tolerant of the random non-organizational chaos of the 70s Palace). I haven't cooked a meal all week. And I just realized that the ground beef I took out for dinner tonight got left out all day, which means we won't be eating anything fabulous tonight either.

I did get to check one thing off my very long ridiculous list of things to accomplish yesterday: Buy coming home outfit for baby.

If baby is a boy, we're in big trouble. It's pink and has fuzzy bears.

The list of things to accomplish in the next 49 (ish) days however, looms long, including:

We do not have a name for Baby. Not even a list to narrow down. We just can't seem to motivate ourselves to discuss it. And the semi-proposed middle name isn't the most user-friendly name, further limiting choices. Baby does, however, have a screen name. We're happy to announce that Sara, Himself, Grover and Woodstock will be welcoming Pebbles to the family.

We also don't have a clue where Pebbles will be sleeping when she arrives - other than in her bassinet - because wherever she goes requires re-arranging furniture, and I'm too tired to think about it, let alone actually DO it.

I have not taken any childbirth classes. Ever. Yes, this is my second child. The first one I kind of winged it. I don't have that luxury this time. I do not want to be induced, which means I cannot have an epidural, even if I decide 80% of the way through labor that I want one like last time. I hated the way it made me feel, so I have no regrets about limiting my epidural options, but I am a bit clueless in the pain management techniques of labor. I've read a lot of books. I will be reading more over the next 7 weeks, I believe.

I'm torn as to whether I'm ready or not for this to be done. This may well be it for us. It may well be my last pregnancy (my body is rather hoping so, but the rest of me refuses to commit to any decision regarding further children for a minimum of 2 years post-delivery). Given that, I'm loathe to say I'm ready to be done, but I am ready to no longer feel as if I'm carrying a bowling ball between my legs. Woodstock never dropped until I was in transition. Pebbles has been riding with her head practically engaged for the last four weeks. And, if I'm being totally honest, after 5 1/2 months of injections twice a day, I really could do without the needles. But I want a healthy, happy baby, so I'm not ready to have her quite yet.

Besides, I still have 49 days and at least that many things on my list.