My husband's crush

   It's so natural. I have watched my parents discuss it. I heard my grandparents joke about it. These crushes we get, because when you get married, (as much as I wish we both could and would), you don't go blind to all other attractive people. I think there is some danger in religion that tells you that you must never have any sort of romantic or sexual feelings outside of your marriage. So when it does happen, because let's face it: it happens all the time, good people cheat because they think it means something more than it does. "If I'm not supposed to feel this way and I do, it must be because God's telling me I'm supposed to be with that person, right?"
   At least, that's my theory.
  But growing up with parents and grandparents who so obviously loved each other, who would openly talk about other people they found attractive, softened me towards the idea that no one gets married and stops looking at the sexy barista the same way you always did.
   I copied my nanny and pointed out sexy women to my husband, the way she used to with her husband. I copy my mom and admit there is a level of attraction with my husband's friend. And by talking about it out loud with the man that I love, it never lingers long in my brain, floating away like the silliness that it is.
   It doesn't come as easy to my husband, as most things that have to do with romance and sexuality. But over the years, more and more, he has opened up and embraced his sexual side and talked about his attractions with me.
   One story imparticular amused me to no end. He told me he went to get lunch at a local smoothie place. They are notoriously long with making the food, and he had forgotten to bring his phone in and had nothing to do. So he sat there watching the young pretty girls work in their tight pants and midriff bearing shirts, looking at cute butts. I thought it was adorable, natural, and all too familiar.
   I feel that I have set this precedence. With my open-mindedness, my communicative tendencies, and my desire to propagate healthy relationships with one's sexuality.
   Enter The Flower.
   It started out as half-hearted mentions of her name, always with a "Miss" at the beginning. Expressions of miner annoyances. Then turned into complaints. Oh how obnoxious. She thinks she's so funny. Everyone loves her so much. She wears clothing that's too tight for her job. She's always flirting with the new airman. She's married but spends way too much one on one time with the new guy. Along with the occasional comments on her looks. She was hot.
   A friend saw some people from my husband's office working a booth at a street fair and asked them if they knew him. They gushed about how nice he was, how charming... She didn't catch their names, but said one was older and the other was absolutely gorgeous. I mentioned this to my husband and he said, "That's The Flower."
   These complaints began to really take the form of a crush to me when I went out of town for a month and half. He had mentioned spending some time with her. Casually. In the background of other conversations so it didn't seem sketchy. Because it wasn't sketchy. They're both happily married, plus she's got a fling on the side with a coworker already, so really, she's too busy to pay him any attention, and why do I keep bringing her up anyway?
   A few phone calls over an afternoon, him complain about his loneliness, missing me, missing our daughter. He texted a photo of grilling me with a caption of, "This is what I'm doing this evening!" And nothing else. I finally call as I'm putting our daughter to bed to see if he'd like to say goodnight and as soon as he picks up he says, "Oh, I have the flower and coworker over for dinner." All day he could have told me. The picture of him grilling their dinner, he could have mentioned it. But he chose the moment where I might overhear them on the phone to give me a casual mention of the whole story.
   I tried to dismiss it. I was patient and kind and got off the phone. And obsessed on it for the rest of the evening. 10 came. I called again, thinking the guests would be gone and I could chat with my hubby for a little while. They were still there.
   The obsessing doubled. I opened up about why I was being so quiet to my sister. She was equally perturbed. I texted and asked him to call when they left.
   11 rolled around, no call. 12. Nothing. 1:30 in the morning and I finally called him. THEY WERE STILL THERE. He said on the phone, "It started storming and we're just snuggled up on the couch with the dogs waiting for it to blow over." I hung up on him.
   I was livid. I asked him to text me a picture, proving the coworker was actually there and he wasn't just hanging out with the flower alone. He did. But I could see her knees in ripped jeans were sitting awfully close to MY HUSBAND. I hate those knees. Her jeans are stupid. I hate her stupid feet resting on MY FLOOR with her boney little butt on MY COUCH playing cards with MY HUSBAND.
   They left shortly after, as my husband told them I was uncomfortable. Thanks, dear. Now I'm a psycho and they KNOW I'm a psycho.
  Because I WANT to be the cool, calm, and collected wife that is confident and chill and knows that her husband isn't up to no good and that realizes there is a perfectly good explaination for everything and that at most it's just a little crush! A crush on a sexy girl from the office that I have nothing to worry about because she's married, and he's married, and I'm fine. Fine. FINE, I TELL YOU.
   But I'm not fine. I'm not cool or collected. I'm an insecure mess because I know I'm not my husband's physical ideal. I'm not really anyone's physical ideal. I used to be chubby-thin but now, I have blossomed into a saggy stretch-marked fat version of a girl who used to be cute in high school. Now I have too many chins to be cute. I'm not unknown anymore. I am the same-old-same, getting older and more stretched out and less ideal every day. There's no excitement because we've been married for 4 years, together for 6, and he's seen a baby explode out of my body in a mess of blood and liquid and I am no longer the pale secretive peach of perfection I once was.
   He apologized. He had a million great reasons and explanations. All of them made perfect logical sense. But my logic wasn't hurt. My emotions were. My pride. My trust. My defenses shot up and I felt as though this was the precursor to a sad ending of my love story. (That would be my flair for the dramatic, I suppose).
   Life went on. We talked every day. One lonely day leading into another until he could drive out and meet me in Cali. He filled his days with anything to distract from being alone in an empty house. He tried Yoga, he told me. I encouraged him and I tried to forget about The Flower.
   He surprised me by showing up a day early and we were thrilled to be around each other again. We visited with my family and then went up to see his. And I tried not to think about her. I tried not to feel like the disgusting creature every insecurity I had was telling me I was. I faked it a lot. But one night I felt it... I felt the pull to investigate.
  So while he was sleeping, I took his phone and I went searching. I searched through everything.
  I do not condone this behavior. If you feel the need to snoop, three things can happen: You find something and it breaks every ounce of trust you have, You don't find anything and feel like an idiot. Or you find something small... and blow it way out of proportion.
   Can you guess which happened to me?
  The small thing was texts from the flower. Asking him if he was going to meet her for Yoga. And going back further, plans for the night she was coming over for dinner with the coworker. And random gossip about someone they worked with. Nothing dating as far back as when I was home. It was clear they had only started texting while I was gone.
  He hadn't mentioned she was the one pushing him to go to Yoga with her. He had also made dinner and game night seem like a last minute impromptu thing.
   I sat there with this information, laying in the dark next to my sleeping husband, trying to figure out what this all meant.
  It was a crush. An innocent, nothing crush. I knew that. The problem comes in... with the sneakiness. And the sneakiness stems from the "It's nothing" mentality in order to ignore the slight guilt that you shouldn't want to spend time with someone who isn't your wife.
   Again. This was all just my theory.
   But there is another spiraling part of me that thinks about the fact that people do cheat. They do. Good people cheat. Bad people cheat. People who get caught up in, "It's not that bad" for so long, they're ignoring it when it turns bad. People in good relationships cheat. People in bad relationships cheat. And I couldn't quite stop myself from wondering, what if I'm in a good relationship... but he's in a bad one?
   I woke him up. And we talked for a long time. He said all the right things. He admitted that I was probably right about a lot of my conclusions. That he had a crush. That his complaints came from a wish that she showed him more attention. That he avoided talking to me about it because there was nothing to tell... Even though there kind of was. But it's just a meaningless crush. He'd never cheat. He'd never leave. He'd never hurt me. He wants me and only me.
   I lost trust that day because I found out instead of being told. Because lying to me was easier than just an uncomfortable conversation. I felt more insecure than ever.
   You know what's really difficult about being married to someone you're completely in love with? You are totally vulnerable. And I think that vulnerability is kind of beautiful. It's kind of sad. It can make you stronger or make you weaker. I am stronger than the day we got married. But I am also so much weaker. There are pieces of my self-esteem that he had annihilated, and pieces he has built up to be stronger than ever. I'm forever being changed and chipped and built back up. And I'm sure I do the same for him. I have hurt him. And I have helped heal him.
   It's been a while since that late night conversation. I have brought her up in vengeful ways. I have needled and picked at him. I have annoyed myself with my inability to keep my mouth shut as I come out with biting comments.
   He rarely has a comeback. And he never answers my scorn with his own. But he doesn't try to sooth me either. I don't know if he knows how. I don't know if I would let him, even if he did.
   But now there's a night out coming up with the people from his office. And he has told me that she wants to meet me. She thinks I don't like her. I've only ever seen her knees through ripped jeans in a photo... so the only reason she could possibly have come to the conclusion that I don't like her is from things he's said. And I hate that. I hate the idea that he has spoken to her about me. It might just have been about things he said that night. The night of the dinner, I mean. But she's hung on to them as much as I have, apparently.
   And for some reason, her nagging him to get me to come to the Speakeasy seems to be winning over my desire to stay home with my baby. And he keeps telling me to find someone to babysit that night.
  I don't want this. I don't want any of it. I don't want to think about it or worry over it or blow it up to be bigger than it is. But I already have. I don't want to look at her or meet her. I don't want her to try to be my friend. My husband thinks she's hot. That's enough reason for me to want nothing to do with her. I just want to leave this base. Leave the crush behind. And not have to share him anymore.
  Not that I'm sharing. He doesn't text her. He doesn't text anyone really. He doesn't mention her. He doesn't act happier certain days or name drop ever. I'm just tense, and broken and vulnerable and insecure and I hate it.

Best Thing Ever

There is no such thing as "clean".
There is only tidy for a little while.
10 minute naps or the luxury of 2 hours, I bustle.
Putting away.
Sweeping.
The occasional mopping.
Dishes thrown into the dishwasher.
But soon she's up again.
Toys recently put away are flung hither and yon.
Not played with exactly, just flung about like abstract art installations.
Much more fascinating to her are the drawers.
Drawers filled with baking tools,
Utensils,
Pots and Pans.
Cabinets with lids and Tupperware.
Opened and spread like peanut butter on toast
These are the things that hold her interest.
And soon, my tidy house is chaos again.
"I think we're disorganized" he says.
"Why are there hair ties all over the floor?"
These questions feel like judgements.
The house
And the child
And the dogs
And the meals
And the cleaning
And the cats are my "one" job.
Why can't I do it "right"?
I know he doesn't mean it.
I know it's my own insecurities.
But a whole day of deep cleaning and after dinner, I feel I have nothing to show for it.
There are toys all of the living room.
The couch and pillows and throw blankets are in disarray.
Laundry all fluffy and warm and clean sits in baskets waiting to be folded and put away.
The bathroom is soaked from a boisterous bath.
Dishes from dinner fill the sink and leftovers need to be put away.
All the work that took me all day seems undone and my soul just feels crushed.
He got home at 5:30, happy to compliment my hard work,
Quick to notice all my chores that got done.
But he leaves again at 7 to go for a run,
So I eat alone with our daughter,
Feed the dogs.
And give her a bath.
But he gets home and volunteers to get her ready for bed.
One weight feels like it's been lifted away.
He suggests I take a bath.
Another floats skyward.
Lounging in my liquid lava, I hear dishes being done
And tension in my neck disappears.
I get out once the water turns Normal Human Warm (too cold for me)
The bed has been made with sheets fresh from the dryer.
Every muscle in my body is loose.
"I folded all the laundry..." He says from behind of his comic book.
I am completely jelly.
I cannot believe it.
It's like a dream has come true.
I go and look and see that there is not a dish to be found.
The food is stored in the fridge.
Piles of our daughter's laundry is stacked on the couch.
The dogs are put to bed.
And he's about to get the night. of. his. LIFE.
Best. Thing. EVER.

We Planned, God Laughed

   I woke up with a feeling of conviction. I was going to get up, and go to the grocery store. I was going to buy eggs, bagels, cream cheese, yogurt, chicken for dinner, and a pregnancy test. My period was due two days before, and there was a slim chance that life was not going according to plan.
   See, the plan was to start trying for another baby when my first was two. Two seemed like a good age. A little less helpless. A little more communicative. Two years and nine months seemed like a good age difference.
  The plan also included my best friend, who after losing her ten week pregnancy this summer, wanted to wait until I was ready to have my second. The plan was to be ready to move home, stationed closer to my family, the best of both worlds (i.e. my own home AND dinners with my mom), and to share in all the wonders and horrors of pregnancy with someone I love.
  The box said to hold it in the pee for 5 seconds and wait for 2 to 10 minutes. I did it carefully, determined not to look until the full 10 minutes had gone by. I ate some food, furtively glancing at the timer ever 2 seconds.
   My heart was racing. "Please don't be pregnant." I thought. "We're not ready for this. This isn't the plan." And then another little part of my brain thought, "Goodness, girl, you just love the drama, don't you?" Which made me smile a little. Because I do. I don't know how not to. I love having something to stress over. I also hate it, obviously, stress is the worst, but there is a teenage girl in me that loves having the attention because of the DRAMA.
  The timer went off and I scooped up my daughter and said, "Well, let's go see if you're having a sibling."
  Two lines. The pregnancy lines.
  "Well shit."
   I didn't want to be alone with this information. I tried to call my husband, no answer. I tried to call my best friend, no answer. Tried my husband again. And again. Nothing. So I called my mom. She picked up on the second ring. Oh no. Now I was going to have to tell her. I was going to have to say the words. It was going to be real for someone else when it wasn't even real for me yet. But I said them anyway. She was only happy. Only thrilled. Only positive and upbeat. She knew this wasn't what I had wanted. But she was happy for me while I couldn't be happy. That gave me the strength to tell my younger sister, and then my older. And my older sister encouraged me to tell my best friend.
  So I called my best friend. She was bummed about our plan. But she listened to me worry and cry and gave me advice and tried to be supportive, and help me plan how to surprise my husband. My husband called and I talked to him, but didn't tell him. Not yet.
  I went out and bought a shirt that said, "Best Sister" for my daughter. I taped the pregnancy test to a dry erase board and wrote, "We planned, God laughed. May 25th, 2019."
  My husband got home and I filmed him reading our daughter's shirt. Reading the board. Being so confused. Being happy. Being worried. Then I shut the camera off.
  He called his mom. His brother. His sister. They were all so excited and happy for us.
  But I couldn't be. I didn't want this. I wasn't ready. I thought words like, "Bad dream." I thought things like, "Why me?"
  I went to the dentist and had to check the pregnancy box. I told my cousin. I told someone who's wedding I'm going to be in a week before my due date.
  5 days of being tired, of having horrible gut problems. Of worrying and feeling sorry for myself and being way too irritable with my poor husband.
  And when I woke up on Sunday to find blood in my underwear... Once again I said, "Well shit." And I sat there for a long time. I wiped and wiped. But still blood. I called my husband to come into the bathroom. He seemed confused, worried, unsure. I called my mom. She was ever so helpful. Sweet mama. Good advice.
   I was aware I was pregnant for 5 days. And then I just... wasn't anymore. According to the app, I was 5 weeks along, because pregnancy is confusing. I hadn't prepared myself for this outcome. I had told so many people. And now I have to untell them.
   And I have to carry this guilt around like a shawl. Because for 5 days I didn't want it. I didn't know how to feel. I prayed that I would get excited about it. But it never happened. There were small moments of happiness. Feeling like there was going to be so much to look forward to. But for the most part I just stressed. And then I lost it.
  I didn't want to miscarry, though. I didn't want to lose it. I wanted to be happy. I wanted a baby. I wanted to get to the point where I was excited. But it didn't happen. It's never going to happen. I had 5 days to adjust and I never did, now I have the rest of my life to wonder if I did it to myself.
  I don't think God laughed at our plan. I don't think God laughs when He knows what's going to happen next. I just don't understand why any of it had to happen. Why did he put it on my heart to buy a pregnancy test that day? Why didn't he tell me to wait a week, because then I would have just thought I was late. Why did I have to know? Why couldn't I have just been happy, so that crying in bed at night over losing this little possibility of life made any sense?
   It's gonna take some time. And I don't think my questions are all gonna be answered. But I will turn to God and pray and hope and with time... I will be able to grow around this horrible week.

Blogging for blogging's sake

I have been trying to blog at least once a week since I started following the Artist's Way, and it's not always easy to come up with ideas. Nothing's really happened this week to inspire any noteworthy feelings. So I am forced to just sort of babble in order to crank out a goal's worth of blog to feel confident about my artistic progress.
 My sister has been so good to me lately. Ever since our colossal fight, we've managed to talk at least a few times a week. If not more. She's been more attentive and interactive and even when she doesn't have time or energy to video chat or talk on the phone, she'll message me via facebook to make sure I know she's not just thoughtlessly blowing me off and that she loves me. I haven't felt so very far away lately, and that's pretty much been wholly her effort and attention. Her love has not gone unnoticed. Maybe we are best friends after all. ^_^
  Today is my best friend's birthday and I feel like I'm so useless, I love her so much, but I can't DO anything for her from this far away. Plus, I spent the day with my only friend here having a really nice time, and I can't help but feel guilty. I should be there, with her, making her day special. One day I hope to be able to make up for all the missed holidays and celebrations!
  Why does "awful" mean "bad"? I mean... "Awesome" means "good". And "awe" means "to be in a state of wonder" (or something, I didn't look it up or anything). So how did "awful" come to mean something negative? I don't know. Just a random thought.
 My little Ducky started waving recently! It's so cute! It's more of a grabbing at people, but I count it at waving. She first did it for my mother-in-law, but now she's done it to our orange cat, my sister over video message, and my mother over video message. It's the best darn thing yet!! Aside from her laughing. And her hugs when she's really excited and happy to see me. And her smile, of course. But waving is definitely up there.

Unrequited friendship

Not quite as reviled, revered, or respected as unrequited love, unrequited friendship is undoubtedly the eviler of the twins. For every whiney, entitled male wingeing on about a girl “friendzoning” him is a girl confused by a guy who always seemed so nice, ditching her when he couldn’t get into her pants. Friendship has value. Friendship is important. Friendship is the building blocks of every great relationship (and the shiny victory at the end of every parent-child relationship).
I think that’s why it hurts so much. Being heartbroken when someone says that you aren’t their best friend. Or worse, that they aren’t even your friend.
Just sisters.
I thought we were all three best friends.
It was months ago that my younger sister, the one who I’ve always let down, made it clear she and I were only sisters. That my oldest sister was her best friend. I kind of took the defeat, knowing I had laid a crummy foundation for trust, love, reciprocation... it wasn’t totally a surprise when she had said it. I have changed a lot since high school, but I cannot change the mistakes I made and J cannot tell her to let it go, so I strive to replace bad memories with good ones, always slipping back when I think I’m making progress. So, while I took that burden of truth, it still hurt. It was still a shard of ice to the warmth of my desire to heal all the transgressions of my past and help her regain the confidence I had taken away from her.
But today I was confronted with the fact that my older sister feels the same way. This was a surprise. I thought it was equal. Equal, but different. The kind of love a mother has for her children, each a favorite in a specific and unique way.
Not so.
Maybe it’s the distance. Maybe it’s sibling rivalry. Maybe it’s a million stupid things I’ve done and said in my life.
But they pick each other to be friends. Best friends.
And as she so elegantly put it, “Stop saying we’re friends, because we’re not. We’re just sisters.”
I thank God for my husband. I thank God for my child.
I thank God for my mother and for my friend.
Because this rejection... makes me think of a thousand ways I’ve hurt the two people who know me best. The two people I am most like. The two people that are my braid of strength, winding in and out of me, so entwined in who they are, I have found myself. My strength, my intelligence, my humor, my soul is just made up of little pieces of them.
But they don’t want me.
And that makes me want to die.
God, help me be stronger than this hurt.

Cracks in the window

A pebble hit my window
I want to ignore the chip.
But soon I see the splintering crack
Begin to grow and rip.
His words were dealt in thoughtlessness
And flung without a care
And left me sobbing, hopeless
Feeling raw and bare.
The crack has spread across my vision
But I still pretend I can’t see
Spiderwebs of fractured glass
A tiny chip left unfixed has cost a hefty fee.
Maybe if he had been softer
Had explained his insecurity
I could have carefully locked my heart.
But that was my immaturity.
Whenever the weather changes,
The glass cracks a little more.
I’m forced to face the pebble’s damage
That wasn’t there before.
I had such high hopes in my marriage
Looked with rose colored glasses on.
But then he threw a pebble.
And my ignorant bliss is gone.

But when I opened my heart
And showed him the shattered picture
He wrapped me in strong safe arms
And his words became my scripture
“I hate that you’re so hurt.
I hate that it’s all my fault.
I hate that I have cringed
When all I want is to exalt.
There’s so much time to fix this.
I’m ready to begin the work.
Give you confidence, love, and courage
For every single hurt.”

So we’re replacing the window
With a mosaic of colored glass
A patchwork rainbow the sun can shine through
In out marriage that will last.

Nightly Joy

   I hear her cry sweep into my dark bedroom, and inwardly I groan. I have stayed up too late, relishing in the blissful independence that night time brings, the cozy comfort of being able to roll about and use my phone with two hands. I have lost hours in a stupid game I cannot play during daylight due to a grumpy baby, needy animals, and too many chores. How did midnight find me so quickly? Where did my "Freedom" hours go? I lie still and quiet next to my gently slumbering husband, half wishing he could take a turn, half wishing she won't wake him up.  I let her fuss through a cycle, hoping against hope that she will find her pacifier, feel comforted, and go back to sleep. But the end of a gentle cycle brings on a louder one, and I know if I leave her crying for too long, she will be so awake, her feeding won't lull her back to sleep. So up I get as my husband begins to stir, hurrying to calm her so he can get a full night's rest. He's got his job in the morning. I've got mine all night.
   Her room is always so much darker than I expect it to be, despite the string of battery operated apple-shaped lights hanging on her walls. She's ramped up louder than I realized and I scoop her up with comforting coos. Her little hand scratches at my shoulder, but she doesn't lean against me, pushing away, squirming, trying to manuever herself down to where she is the most comforted; with a breast in her mouth. So I hold her firmly and carefully, ignoring my sudden need to pee, and carry her back into my room.
   Laying down with her, she makes urgent, noisy demands. I hate this because I know it disturbs her dad and as much as I resent his peaceful REM cycle, I don't want to wake him up. My pjs aren't warm enough to face the cold of the room, but inexplicably the blankets have become so completely twisted, I have no idea how to get under them while lying on my side. I fling one arm out, vainly tugging behind me, as I simultaneously try to maneuver my boob into my daughter's frantic mouth. I focus on the boob to calm her and once she's latched, I'm able to twist in such an acrobatic way that something shifts and suddenly the blankets flop over us as though there was nothing holding them back in the first place.
   My dear husband has rolled away from us, snuggled against his pillow, knees bent in front of him, taking the room of two people, leaving baby and me a tiny sliver of bed. Even with the lack of room, he still manages to make his body totally useless to my need for support. If he lay just an inch closer, or rolled onto his back, I could lean my back against his warm strength and be able to relax. But because he's got the knack of keeping my weight off him during sleep so perfected, I am forced to steel my core against rolling into his gravitational pull and away from the baby. This nightly workout should have me toned by the time she starts sleeping till dawn.
   Something about my pillow and my arm have made it impossible to just lay my head down, so I bend my elbow and prop my head on my forearm. This does nothing for my comfort level. I begin counting her gasping gulps, hoping she nods off soon. But she cried too long and she's awake enough to begin exploring. I can feel her little fingernails scratching at my skin, pinching any raised skin tag she finds. Her arm flings out and she whacks herself in the head several times, a new trick she's picked up. She pops on and off my breast, enjoying the sensations of learning to control her little body. She bucks and kicks me in the stomach, legs, crotch... her whole body never stops moving, even when she's suction-cupped to her milk-supply. Scratch, scratch, pinch, pull, kick, kick, kick. Her hand finds my shirt and yanks at it a couple of times. I count gasping gulps, readjust my arm, pull the blanket she's managed to kick off back over us, hoping my breathing, my heartbeat, our warmth will lull her back to sleep. Kick, kick, kick. Yank, tug, pull.
   She pops of and gasps, finds her pacifier by following the handy cord that keeps it from being lost forever, and pulls it to her mouth. She's just playing with it and making happy cooing sounds. I stroke her head and take this momentary reprieve to adjust my position, jostling the pillow till my neck can rest without feeling like I'm hanging upside-down. She yanks her pacifier out of her mouth and turns back towards me, seeking me out. I help her and she latches again for 30 seconds before popping off and fussing. It's a good sign that she's tapped that side out, so I tuck her against me and we roll over together.
   All comfort is once again lost in the scuffle of trying to fit our bodies together, her mouth finding my breast before I can sort out what happened to the blankets that were covering my legs a moment ago, and why the pillow decided to shoot out from under my head. But rolling over has calmed her and she seems drowsier. She moves a little less, still gulping and gasping, but they stretch apart and in a lull, I manage to settle my head on the pillow and snuggle us together as she slowly drifts off at my breast. Her hand has found mind and curled around it, her feet are tucked against my abdomen, and I can hear her beginning to fall into a deeper sleep.
   My face is so close to her face... I can smell her sweet breath. I pop her relaxed mouth of me and tuck my bits back into my shirt, but now she's snuggled in my arms and she's so warm and soft. How has her hair grown so quickly? I rub my lips back and forth against the softness. She's still bald compared to some babies, but she's got more hair than she ever had before. I can just make out the curve of her face from the glow of a streetlight filtering in through my blinds. Such a sweet round little face.
  It's just me in this moment. My husband is snoring contentedly and my daughter is sailing to dreamland. It's just me and her heartbeat and her sweet smelling breath. The resentment I had for her daddy getting to sleep while I nursed my little wiggler melts away, and I'm left with a prideful feeling of selfishness. He may not have the same responsibility, but neither does he get to reap these little rewards. I am overwhelmed with joy.
   She moves a little and I put her pacifier in her mouth. She immediately relaxes again. She's so little. I can fit her against me so perfectly. But she's also so much bigger than ever. 7 months old. It's felt like no time at all. And it's felt like forever. I can't believe there was a time when I slept through the night and didn't get to hold this warm, soft, sweet-smelling bundle against me for a few moments of joy. My heart swells with love. Do I have to put her back in her crib? Her hair is so soft. And her body is so snuggly. Can't I drift off with her right here, tucked against my tummy?
   But she twists a little and lets out a quiet fussy noise, and I know we both sleep better on our own, So I nestle her against me and, with my whole core, I crunch up in a smooth and fluid motion, holding my breath so I don't grunt. Moving a sleeping baby is a dangerous game, but I have been doing this multiple times a night, every night, since she was 5 months old. It's a skill I have almost perfected.
  When she's relaxed like this, she feels like she weighs nothing and I could hold her all night long, but I carry her into her always-too-dark bedroom and lay her down in her crib. Her arms flop up around her ears and her head turns to the side. She won't move until she begins to wake up for her next feeding. I tuck her blankets around her and kiss my hand and touch her little head with it. I don't think it matters how many times I do this, I'm always so overwhelmed with love when I see her sleeping so peacefully. I did this. I think to myself. I took a fussy baby and put her back to sleep. It's a pretty cool feeling.
   I return to my room and lay down. I'll fall asleep quickly. It's been a long day that was proceeded by a long night and a long day before that. This won't be the last time I have to crawl out of bed to calm my fussy child. But for now, I'll get some well-deserved sleep.

Adulting

This new "millennial" word that means "Doing the things adult people do". Driving. Working. Getting out of bed. Showering. Paying bills. Not spending all your money on fast food and makeup. The type of things we looked at our parents doing and ignored just how much effort went into those every day routines.
  I graduated 8 years ago. That didn't turn me into a grown up. I got my license and my ears pierced at 19. I was still not feeling "grown up". I have been married for almost 4 years. That didn't really turn me into a grown up. The moment I got pregnant... I felt a little older. Not grown up, exactly, but on my way. And then, in the blink of an eye, holding my baby after the most traumatic experience of my life... I was grown. I had become an adult. And unlike all my fears and worries and lazy nature had warned me... I wanted it. I wanted to be an adult person doing the adult things. Driving and working and waking up and taking care of someone else day in and day out. I wanted to know everything about this little person and be the most important. It was the most daunting idea... and the most satisfying reality. There is no way to prepare someone who doesn't understand what that feelings like. You really have to experience it.
   My life before giving birth was easy, leisurely. I enjoyed (for the most part) staying home all day, basking in my stuck-ness, my happy-to-be-lazy idleness wrapping me in a bubble of ignorance. I was so scared to lose it. Now, I wouldn't go back for all the world.
  I get up every day with my daughter, feeding her, changing her, welcoming her to the day. I take care of my dogs, my cat, my new bird. I wash laundry every Monday and Thursday (for such a tiny person, my laundry has doubled). I cook meals and prepare packed lunches for my husband. I have begun taking quiet time during her naps to focus on God and my own creativity. I have set goals, and every week I put together a To-Do list that I have consistently gotten done. Not just easy things like washing the dishes, but big jobs that I have put off for far too long, like organizing the garage, and going through my craft room.
   I owe a lot of my motivation to a book I've been following called "The Artist's Way" which is about recovering your creativity through the work of the Lord. It's been an amazing boost to my productivity. And for the past 4 weeks, I have been crawling into bed at night happy, productive, and sore. I have even begun exercising again.
  I feel like an adult. Maybe not quite like my mom yet, who is a role model of self-motivation, hard work, and keeping busy. But I am like me. As an adult. Happy, efficient, and very content in my little chores.
  I've even left the house by myself. (well, with my little Ducky-girl!) A tremendous feat for me. I was so crippled by anxiety and depression when I lived in Guam with my honey... A great deal of that fell away once we moved back to the states. (I don't know if it was knowing I could drive to see my folks, or the air, or my own bizarre brain, but I was so grateful to be released from anxiety's strangling grip.) But now I feel like I can do anything. I've even joined a MOPS group and made friends!
  Anyway. My point was... I've been adulting a lot lately. And it feels SO. Good.

Rolling Over

   It's been quite a wait for my daughter to roll over. She may have done it earlier, but it was unsupervised, and caused her to fall off the couch. (Twice). Right around the time that it seemed like rolling over was going to happen any day, she got an ear infection and started acting dizzy for about two weeks. After that, her attempts to roll over stopped.
  It's frustrating as a mother to be constantly be bombarded with "Oh had she done (insert any number of "should be doing's" here) yet?" Because there's no way to force your child to develop any faster than she will. Oh, there is plenty you can do to stunt your child. And if your child hasn't reached a milestone in a timely manner, it's so easy to point the finger and say, "You aren't doing this. You have tried that. You're relying on this other too much." You begin to feel as though it really is something you're doing.
   In my case, though... I honestly have been doing all I can. I give her plenty of tummy time. I watch her. I never leave her alone on an elevated surface (anymore). I have been waiting. Every day that went by between 5 and 6 months, I felt helpless and guilty. She didn't roll over.
  My sister really eased my worry, sending me plenty of articles and personal testimonies of mommies saying their babies didn't roll till 9 months... some claiming their babies never rolled over and went straight to sitting up. Articles that should put my worry to rest. But really, as a mother... well, really, as a woman... oh hell, as a HUMAN PERSON... We find it so much easier to focus on all the negatives and no matter how much I told myself (and other's told me) it was ok and that she would roll when she was ready, I still couldn't feel good knowing she hadn't reached that milestone.
   She sits up like a champ. She's almost 7 months old and she can keep her balance, lean forward and backwards, reach for things and happily watch me from a sitting position, very fairly tottering and falling over. In articles I had read, they encouraged me that even if she was late to roll over, it wouldn't stunt any of her other milestones. In fact, being early in something has a much higher indicator that the next milestone will be pushed off a bit.
  So I finally let my mind rest. But it was one of those things hovering in my mind, one of the first things I would bring up if anyone asked about her, and something I would spend hours on end watching for, willing it to happen. "Do it for Nana's birthday... Do it for mama's birthday... Please Lord let it be today so I can stop THINKING about it, and worrying!"
  But stubborn and content, she remained firmly on back or belly, happy to smile at whatever was around her, never trying to wiggle, reach, or move towards an ever so distant toy.
   An early Saturday morning brought a wiggly giggly, wide-awake girl and I was up before 8 to surprise my husband with breakfast in bed. She bounced in a bouncer, lay on the floor, sat in the high chair while I cooked, cleaned, and puttered. I laid her down for a nap and scrubbed the kitchen floor. I wrote. I read. She woke up. I felt hot and sticky and gross from all my labors. It was 2 in the afternoon now and I had been "on duty" since... well, who am I kidding, I'm always on duty. So I decided to take my baby girl down stairs to hang out with daddy while he played video games so I could soak away the tension from a long-put off workout that had practically crippled me the day before.
  Lounging in the bath, breathing in the delightful scent of a lavender bath bomb, I relaxed into the fire-hot water. I always expect a bath to take an hour tops, but soaking away the aches and pains of a productive week usually stretches into a rather embarrassing long doze in feathery bubbles. I hear my husband come bounding up the stairs and he bursts into my little indulgence with a blast of air that now feels cool to my overly-warmed, dampened skin.
   "Uh... You might wanna get out of the bath." He says in an odd voice.
   "What? Why?" I ask, thinking to myself, It's too soon! The water is still warm and I had her ALL morning! 
   "Evie just rolled over." He looks excited, but also concerned, as if this is not completely happy news. "I mean. I think she did. I mean, she was on her tummy when you put her down, right? Yeah. She's on her back now."
   "What??? No way!!" I grin back. "Let me just wash my hair and I'll get out! Go back to her! I don't like her being downstairs by herself."
  He closes the door behind me and I am caught up in a thousand thoughts as I scrub at my hair. Maybe he's wrong! Maybe he's confused. Maybe he flipped her over and forgot. How could she have done it now... when I am completely unavailable? All that waiting... and I'm finally ok! I can relax! She's DONE it!
  As I rinse the conditioner out, I flip stopper so the tub can drain and leap out of the tub, dashing to get dressed. I finish pulling on my clothes and I hear footsteps, the bedroom door opens, and there's my love carrying my itty bitty.
  "She did it again." He grins. "I actually saw her do it this time. She did it so fast. I almost missed it."
  For the rest of the day we kept her happy so she could be on her tummy to show me her roll. But she only did it one more time, and I missed it again too. I saw the tail end of it. But not the actual flip.
  I'm still waiting to see it. She's spent hours on her tummy since that day, but not a single roll. But now it's more hopeful anticipation, and less terrified worry that I screwed her up.
   Even now, she happily cooing on the floor next to me, with no indication that she'll roll. But I'm not worried. I am so proud of her.

Acting on Acting

   Acting, drama, theater... this has long been one of my greatest loves and biggest passions. I believe it started from watching musicals at my nanny and poppa's house as a child. This lead into being directed by my older sister for silly little plays for my parents and their friends. We did ballet and tap dance and assorted small parts in plays for my Home School program. But I stopped trying when I went to "real school", never putting myself out there for judgement, always volunteering for the smaller parts in plays.
   But then came high school. My older sister was in drama, and since she was a senior and I was a freshmen, drama was the only class we could take together, so I took it with her. And I fell in love with acting for real in that class. Maybe it was the teacher. Maybe it was the group. Maybe it was the fact that I seemed to have a knack for it. I took drama through all 4 years of high school, basically taking over the teaching side of the class my junior year, after our teacher left and was replaced by a man who clearly didn't want to do it. My senior year was the first time we took on full plays, though, and for both, I was cast in perfect roles, and flourished center stage as Winnefred in Once Upon a Mattress. Oh I loved it. It was my happiest accomplishment.
   I took a drama class in college too, it was actually the first and only class I took my first year of college. I was riddled with anxiety when I started college and it took me a long time to warm up to going. That drama class was so much fun. But it was the only one offered. And so, that ended my acting career.
   I did volunteer to teach drama at an elementary school, and that satisfied some of my artistic longing. I wrote plays and directed little children. It was wonderful and granted me a certain amount of accolades from parents and friends who appreciated my writing.
   But I moved and no longer had the connections a community allows.
   I have often looked back on the times when I was able to express my inner artist child on stage and I miss it. It's the type of longing that feels silly. There is no place for grown, plus-sized mothers of average talent to satisfy the joy of acting in the real world. I had become convinced of this, ignoring my desire to act, and just pretending it doesn't exist.
   But then my friend took me to a play by a local community theater. And as they acted out Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, I was in awe... rocked to my core... Here, standing in front of me, were my people. I felt it with every bone of my body. I could fit into this little troupe. I could try.
  Maybe I won't get in. Maybe my fears and doubts are correct, I'm not good enough, I'm too fat, I'm not talented... But to hell with all that... The fact is, for the first time in a long time, I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I see a tiny glimmer of hope. Even just for one audition, I can once again stand on stage and act.
  Am I riddled with fear? Hell yes. Would it be easier to just watch the plays? Yes. Will leaving my baby so I can act be hard? You betcha. But I can feel God in this opportunity, telling me to rely on Him. To use my creativity. To try. Try. Do it. Just get out there and give it a shot.
   God gives you the opportunities... the rest is up to you.

A New to me Car

I have never picked out a car for myself before. Never before gotten to find something that felt like my own vehicle. I had an 800 dollar car after high school that my mother and my sister had found and I paid them both back for it. I loved that car. A little Subaru Legacy wagon... 1992. I put stickers all over it and across the back was "Dude Magnet". She was my happy little ride for about 6 years. She would not die, either. Everything was wrong with her. But she just kept chugging along. For the first few years of owning her, I never once put any oil in her... she died on me at the top of the hill on the way to college, but I took her into my mechanic friend and he put her all right and she kept on going. And going. And going. She was my little energizer bunny. When the government funded the buy back program the only stipulations were the car had to drive onto the pick and pull lot and it had to fail smog. Try as I might, she would not fail smog. So we ended up selling her to someone else and the money went to fund my sister's wedding.
  But yesterday I got to shop, test, and buy a car just for me. With all the things I like and exactly the crappy second (or third or fourth) hand car that I wanted. It's another Subaru Legacy, but a 2003. And not a wagon. I have only driven her once, but I absolutely love her. I have named her Stella and I am going to treat her right.
  I have never really had brand loyalty before, but Subaru... they have a costumer for life in me.

Organic Pureed Sweet Potatoes

   6 Months old was just around the corner and I was so excited to celebrate this little milestone by buying some organic pureed sweet potatoes for my baby to try. Solid food. For the first time. I was so elated. It was one of the reasons I was at the grocery store, though, not the only one. I bustled around, collecting my cart of groceries, almost done when I got to the baby food aisle. A whole aisle just for babies. An aisle I have never really needed before. Shelf after shelf of a hundred different brands and flavors of foods for your baby to try.
   I joyfully stopped in front of the organic options, checking labels to make sure they hadn't added anything else as a filler to these little jars of change. Change. It hit me like a sack full of bricks. This tiny thing that I had carried inside my body for 9 months was changing. She was 6 months old. About to start eating food out of a jar. Food from FOOD and not from me.
   She needed me a little less. Obviously she still NEEDED me, I mean, I'm not about to pack her bags and send her off to find her own apartment or anything... but for the first time, she needed me a little less. And standing in an empty aisle, competing brands of organic pureed sweet potatoes in each of my hands, I started to cry. I wanted this. I wanted her to grow and change and experience all the interesting fun things life has to offer! I want her to taste all the different foods and get taller and learn to talk and go out on her own.
   But that didn't change the fact that at this moment, sitting at home with her daddy, was a little 5 month old baby who still needed me for everything. Everything. And I was sad to give up even a little of that for her to grow.
  I am not one of those women who expects her child to always hold me first in their list of priorities. I am not obsessive or a worrywart. I don't feel like I love my child with a new depth and type of love than I have ever loved before, or ever could again. I think love is just love, and one day someone else should be more important to her than I am. I know that God should always come before me in her heart, and one day, I hope she puts her husband and her kids before me too.
   But in this moment, standing in the harsh lighting of my local Safeway, I wanted her to need me and just me a little longer.
  The moment passed, and I chose a bottle of pure sweet potatoes and stashed it in the cart with the rest of my veggies and goods, eyeballed the other options and as I was about to walk away randomly reached out and grabbed some mashed bananas too. Because I was excited for her to try a variety of flavors. And I am thrilled that she's growing so well. She can already sit up. It feels like it's happened over night. It's made my life a touch more easy too, since now I don't have to worry about her getting bored on her back where she can only look at the boring ceiling. I wiped the silly tears from my eyes and went on to buy the last few ingredients I needed for a part dish, paid and left.
   A few days later, I let her try the sweet potato-breastmilk cool soup with a little spoon, and while she was excited to have the spoon in her mouth, she didn't look that excited by the flavor. So it's still mostly breastmilk for now. And I can't say that I'm that disappointed.

Hard Feelings

   "Hope there are no hard feelings."
  What does that mean, "hard feelings"? What are hard feelings? Hard to express feelings? Hard to talk about feelings? Hard to hear feelings? They're usually used in a context of anger. "I guess I have some hard feelings..." Is it a hardening of your heart? I have a hard heart against you? Hard feelings.
  Aren't most feelings hard? Wouldn't it be so much easier if you were just a blank slate 100% of the time. No feelings. You get up. You do the work you need to do. You go to bed. Easy. So many "dystopian future" movies emphasize these sorts of worker-bee methods. Deaden the senses, pacify the public... work in peace. But work without love. Without joy. Without any of the good stuff that comes along with the big complicated feelings.
   Hard feelings. What does the dictionary say about this? "Feelings of resentment". Resentment. "Bitter indignation at being treated unfairly." Unfair. "Unkind. Inconsiderate. Unreasonable."
  If it were up to me, I would say those are easy feelings. It's easy to resent. To become bitter. It would be much more difficult to forgive. To have goodwill towards someone who has done you an unkindness.
  But I didn't make up the english language, and I suppose it's not my job to fix it.

Goals for 2018

1. Seek God. Pray. Read the bible. Attend church. Focus on him.
2. Read more. Like... at least 50 books this year.
3. Cuss less. Clean up my mind and my mouth
4. Budget. Get on top of my finances. Control my money, so it doesn't control me.
5. Blog once a week. Even if it's not very big. Even if it's not very enlightening. Do the work.
6. Pack my husband lunches. (This will help on budgeting too)
7. Walk as much as possible. (when the weather gets nice again)
8. Cook more at home. Expand my recipe book. Get more skills in the kitchen.
9. Travel more. See more states. Get outside more often.
10. Focus on Ducky. She'll only be this small for a little while, so take the time to eyeball her. Everything else can wait.

When You Commit To God

   All my life, growing up in a pretty strict religion, with pretty strict parents, I was taught to commit myself, my life, and my future to God's divine will. But it came along with this caveat that when you commit to God, that's when Satan is going to attack you. In Bible class, in baptism class, in every sermon, the implored us to turn to God, to commit to a life serving Him, and then explained that Satan was gonna get mad and try to tempt you away.
   I never realized how much that bothered me. How much that turned me away from actually TRYING to seek God. It was just a fact. A known fact that you have to fight with the devil in order to have a connection to God.
   But lately, I've been doing the 12 week devotional laid out in The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron (and Mark Bryan). They don't call it a devotional, though they do talk about God a lot. There aren't many Bible verses in it or references to Satan. And they leave enough interpretation there for people who don't believe in God to understand and follow the book, calling Him "the universe" and "creative energy" and things like that, never losing sight of the fact that our desire for Divine Intervention comes from an all powerful Being. Anyway. In this book, there is a lot of uplifting advice. Advice about listening to God and listening to yourself. Trusting that if you follow the dreams and talents The Great Creator has given you, He will bless it.
   In Week 2, under the subheading "Skepticism", the author talks about the "coincidences" that happen after you begin to listen to your inner artist. These "coincidences" look a lot like answered prayer. There is this quote, "One of the things most worth noting in a creative recovery is our reluctance to take seriously the possibility that the universe just might be cooperating with our new and expanding plans." (page 50, 51)
  It was like my mind expanded after I read this. That God would REWARD us for following Him... would truly HELP us once we commit to Him... it wasn't exactly a new concept. It just had never made sense to me before. There's this saying I learn in my Human Development class in college, I was trying to find the actual quote, but it seems that it might have been exaggerated by my teacher. The quote she said was, "For every negative comment, you need 40 positive ones, just to get back to a neutral." But according to Google, the actual quote (from the Harvard Business Review) is, "And the optimal ratio is amazingly similar- 5 positive comments for every negative one." in their study of the Ideal Praise-to-Criticism Ratio. Which I think is much easier to do.
    But anyway... the point I want you to take away is that if all you're hearing about and focusing on is how much Satan's going to attack you... that's all you're going to see. If you focus on the negative, that's all you're going to be. When you TEACH only the negative, that's all people are going to come away with.
   One of my goals this year, (and I will probably write out all of them on here in a later post) is to Seek God. It's been a lot easier than I thought it would be, because God has given me so many reasons to think about him. I noticed whenever I've been irritated with my dearest Petal, or feeling overwhelmed by my little Ducky, I have immediately begun to pray. This isn't incredibly uncommon or anything... but every single time, I have NOTICED.
   And the funny thing is, I feel like He's noticing right back. And, much to my surprise, He's been answering me in wonderful and amazing ways.
  I was feeling very lonely and separated from my family, and I prayed that my oldest sister would call me. Not even an hour later, my phone rings and it's her. I have been longing for a snow day, and last week, God gave us not one, but TWO snow days that buffered the weekend, so Petal and I got 4 glorious days snuggling within a warm house while snow fell without. I prayed that Ducky would sleep from 9 at night till 4 in the morning, making it the longest she had slept in one stretch at night. God one-upped me and allowed her to sleep till 6. (Of course I woke up anyway because my body is attuned and had to check on her to make sure she was alright. But still!) I have been worried about how I'm going to get to MOPS, God provided a ride. We were unsure about a job opportunity, and God blessed us. There have been so many amazing things that make my dreams, my life, my commitment to God feel important, valid, answered... Reciprocated. I have been in love with God for so long and never felt like He loved me back. I mean, I know He loves me. But to quote a song by John Mayer, "Love is a Verb." And I'm finally seeing His actions in my life.
   But Satan is here too. Just as I was feeling this great swelling of hope, faith, and love... My poppa got sick. Really sick. The kind of sick that knocks you off your feet and forces you to face your mortality. My poppa has been so big and important in my life. He's been a force of love, an example to look up to, and a huge bubble of joy. Right in the midst of this amazing discovery, this mind-blowing answer to a million little prayers, my favorite grandfather fell sick. Actually, he's been sick for a long time. They just figured out what was wrong.
   And it would be so easy to fall right back into that disappointment. To run away from the Creator because, maybe if I'm a little more neutral, Satan won't bother me and my family. If I stop praying so much, he won't feel like attacking us.
   But I can't seem to do that. Since seeing the power of God moving in my life, I just feel like there's too much at stake to back away from Him now. And once I made that commitment, after I got out of my funk, I saw God's blessings again.
   My poppa wanted knee surgery. And they discovered his heart problems. If he didn't have awful knees, he wouldn't have known he was vulnerable to strokes. He would never have gotten on the medications he needs to get stronger. He would never have made the commitment to change his diet and exercise a little more. How incredible is that? God is still taking care of him... of me... of my little family.
   "This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us. And if we know that He hears us- whatever we ask- we know that we have asked it of Him." 1 John 5:14, 15 (NIV).
   "Look to the Lord and His strength; seek His face always." 1 Chronicles 16:11 (NIV)
   "I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which He has called you, the riches of His glorious inheritance in His holy people," Ephesians 1:18 (NIV)
   "And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord's people." Ephesians 6:18 (NIV)
   "Then you will call on Me and come and pray to Me, and I will listen." Jeremiah 29:12 (NIV)
 

Worth It

   I did it. I gave birth. I cannot believe it. The experience was intense. It was horrible. It was incredible. I cannot believe I actually did it. I cannot believe it's actually over. There is this huge gap between feeling blissfully pregnant and blissfully holding my baby where I was living from one contraction to the next. It's hard to explain. A 12 hour window where I was completely in every second of every moment, and nowhere at the same time. I stopped existing, and yet I was every part of the world of pain. 

It's been 5 months since I started writing this blog post, and I have thought about it every so often, wanting to get back to it, to finish it. Now that the wounds aren't so fresh. Now that the trauma has begun to heal. And believe me, I know some women have suffered far worse Trauma. But let's be clear... labor. Is. TRAUMATIC. I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to explain it. But no one really wants to hear about it. I mean, after I labored, I was like, "Nope. That's it. I'm having one baby. I'm done now." And my mother... my lovely, wonderful, perfect mother, who very rarely disappoints my need for support and reliability... she was the first to dismiss my trauma. With words like, "You'll forget." Or, "The second one is easier." Or, "It was worth it. Look at your baby. It was worth it."

It was worth it. I can say totally, and completely, I am so glad to have this beautiful baby girl in my life. She's perfection. She's easy and sweet and smiley and totally mine. But it wasn't worth it at the time. And it wasn't ANYONE ELSE'S JOB to dismiss the horrors of MY labor and act like it was worth it. For them, they get to sit at home, happily pain free, and enjoy photos of my newborn. I LIVED it. I get to say whether or not it was worth it. 

3 days of labor. 2 days of intermittent pain. And one day of intense, bone deep discomfort... a level of pain that deserves a new name... Because it wasn't PAIN. It was INTENSE. It was on-going. There was no respite. It was all useful and productive and important and moving the baby down, down, down and out. It was all supposed to be exactly how it was and it was all so awful and wrong and completely right. It's so hard to explain. 

On Monday we had this huge hail storm. We couldn't hear each other talking, it was so loud. Hail the size of golf-balls. we found out later it destroyed our roof. Mom and I did a pregnancy photoshoot in the finished baby's room. 

On Tuesday we randomly decided to rearrange the livingroom to see how we could fit the birthing tub in there, and set about getting the proper parts to attach a hose to the bathtub faucet to fill the tub up. That evening I went out to clean up some of the debris from the hail storm. I threw myself into it, bending low, doing deep squats, really pushing myself. I was hot and sweaty. I chatted with our neighbor and she told me to try walking up the steps at Dinosaur park and then do a deep tissue massage on my feet. I said I thought that was great idea. And then I went into the house and I started some braxton hicks. They were gentle. Just my stomach tightening. But they kept happening. My mom started timing them as we sat at the kitchen table talking. It was 9 and I called the midwife just to check in with her, let her know what was happening. Then we decided to go to bed. Just in case they developed into something more where we needed our energy. I let the dogs out and as I stood outside I felt this weird warmth seep into my underwear. I checked it out, it was a clear liquid. But it wasn't a lot. It was just a steady dripping. So I put in a pad and went to bed. I woke up in the early morning with cramps. Petal got up with me and timed them (Duckie is sitting on my lap as I type one-handed, and she keeps giggling. I think she likes the tapping sound). Eventually I got into the bath. The warm water slowed things down. We went back to bed, Petal called in to let them know I was in labor and he couldn't come in. 

That day, Wednesday, is sort of a blur of napping, eating, watching shows, and a walk to bring on more contractions. The midwife came and tested to see that yes, the goosh of water was indeed my water breaking a little, or on the side of the birth sack and slooooowly leaking out. She was actually at another woman's house just up the road who had been in labor all day. So we just took it easy for the rest of that day.

Then I woke up early on Thursday morning with big contractions. That's when I knew this was it. The real deal. Lots of pain, really close together. I labored in the living room as Petal and my mom filled up the tub. At 6, Petal insisted we call the midwife. I didn't really want to. I knew we weren't close to pushing the baby out. I knew she was tired from helping that other woman labor all night. But she came and was cheerful and upbeat. I got into the tub. We put on dinner party music. And I lip synced "My girl" And joked that it was a sign. It was peaceful. It was fun. I was so content. The contractions ebbed... slowed down... My mom said she was going to go take a nap. The midwife asked if she could check my cervix so I let her, and she said the sentence that changed my attitude completely. She said, "Well, you're only two centimeters dilated, but you're completely effaced!" She was very positive. But 2 centimeters?? TWO??? That meant this nightmare was going to continue for hours. HOURS. Petal (my dear and thoughtful husband) says, "So is it going to be a while longer?" And the midwife shrugged, but her face sort of said, "Yes. Get ready for the long-haul." And so... My dear. And THOUGHTFUL. Husband. (not bitter about it, not at ALL). Goes, "Oh, well I'm tired, so I'm gonna go back to bed for a little while. He took his phone (that was playing my lovely music), and buggered off to bed. I was livid. But I said nothing. HE WAS tired? I was exhausted. And I just got news that I was going to be exhausted for a lot longer. I was so upset, but I was trying to hold it together. I wanted to tell the midwife to go home, get some rest, take it easy. I could do this waiting game by myself. Alone... with my "support team" blissfuly snoozing in their beds. But I couldn't figure out the words. I couldn't tell her to just go rest. And then she said, "You know, it seems like your labor has slowed down. What do you think about getting out of the tub for a little while?" 

This. Was EXACTLY. What I didn't want to happen. Her, encourage me to do the hard stuff... to get the ball rolling because everyone was tired. I was so mad. I was so alone. I was so tired. So I got out of the tub. And labor got harder. And eveything hurt more. And she made me sit on the toilet which was so awful. Sitting on the toilet felt like everything wanted to escape, my pelvis, my ribs, my whole uterus. It was intense. I hated it so much. She made me walk around. She made me put my leg up and rock through a contraction. I was wondering around my house in a giant fluffy blue Tardis robe, feeling like I wanted to send her home, that I was sad. So sad that I wasn't further along. That I had to be doing this without them because they were asleep. So I went to find my glasses, but I couldn't. I couldn't see to find them. I woke my mom up, and she gracefully got out of bed and helped me look until we found them. She then started walking around with me. She seemed tired. I wanted to cry into her arms. I wanted to bawl and tell her to send the midwife home and just make it all stop... or start. I'm not sure which. I got her alone and finally was able to tell her I was only two centimeters dilated. I sobbed. She held me. At some point Petal got up. Contractions were rolling into each other. Petal and I took a shower together. 

I labored in bed. That was the worst. I felt like even between contractions, I couldn't get comfortable. The midwife made me put my leg over a big inflatable ball thing. I hated that. The first contraction in a new position was the most intense and uncomfortable. I labored on my hands and knees a lot, moving, moving moving. So much moving. I couldn't stay still. I had to move. And then the baby got to my hips. And OOOOH how that hurt. My bones ached. It felt like I was being stretched apart. I wanted everyone to squeeeeeeze my hips. To relieve some of the pressure. But no one could push hard enough. I remember saying over and over again, "My hips! My spine! Oh my spine!" And no one knew what to do with this information. The midwife must have been checking my dilation, but I don't remember how many times. I don't remember how often she checked the baby's heartbeat either, I know it was a lot. Everything was good though. The baby's heartbeat was strong, my dilation was slowly ticking on. 

I'm not sure when they told me I could get back in the tub. There is a blur of napping and contracting in bed, there might have been a cervix check and then getting the tub ready for me again, but I remember this time, I was all naked, no modesty anymore. Just grateful to be back in my tub.... 

I am a water creature. I am happiest in the water. I was so at peace back in the tub. It was the only place I wanted to be. Floating between contractions in the lovely, perfectly warm water... I was finally comfortable. Some of my good attitude came back. I no longer hated the midwife. At some point, the pastor's wife showed up, a midwife in training, a sweet lady. And through a painful back contraction, she asked me, "Would you like some counter-pressure?" I said, "YES. YES. Yes please!" And there it was... the perfect squeeze. Hands like iron. Gripping me and pushing me through the pain. She was my salvation in the intensity. 

I don't know how long I was in the tub, I don't know when contractions became pushing, but I do remember the midwife gently breaking into the fog of my mind and saying, "Sarah, it seems like you're pushing. Would it be alright if I checked you again?" A few contractions may have passed between that and when she was able to check me, but she said, "Ok, you're only Nine and a little bit, so you need to either stop pushing or let me hold it back as you push."

Neither of those sounded doable, but we tried her holding my cervix back and it was awful. And I couldn't not push. The urge was stronger than me, and in the back of my head, all I could think was, "Pushing is the only way of making this end." So I reached up inside myself, and as contractions swept over me, I held back my own mostly dilated cervix back until I felt the baby's head slip through . That squishy, fuzzy head. It was so hard to identify as a head, since I wasn't expecting any hair, and it was so soft to the touch. But the midwife assured me that that was what it was. 

I breathed like I have never breathed before, deep intake and loud wooshes. My groaning pushing the hair from my lungs and my gasps pulling it back in. My lungs had never worked so hard in all my life. Sweat dripped from my face in giant drops, and someone kept prompting me between contractions, "Drink, drink, drink." This was so close. When they started seeing her head, suddenly my mother and my husband were saying, "You're so close. It's right there. Just push. Just a little longer. Just a little harder. It's almost here." And I was pushing between contractions, and before and after... I was pushing so hard during contractions, I was so tired, but I pushed with all my might, and just when I thought, "There's no way the baby's moving." I'd reach down and feel a little more of that weird squishy thing that they claimed was a head. 

  And so I pushed some more. Drops of sweat. Sips of water. Wanting to be the she-warrior that got this baby out into the warm water. but things seemed to stop all of a sudden. I felt it. The midwife and the midwife in training both felt it. They let me try for a few more contractions... contractions that rolled into more contractions, one ending as soon as another one began. But it was clear the baby wasn't moving down the way she should have been. So the soft voice of my midwife cut into my fog and gently said, "Sarah, we're thinking the baby is hung up, so we're gonna need you to get out of the tub." I immediately protested... she was crowned, stretching me to the widest I would ever need to be, tightly hung up right at the entrance of my body. Her strong, soft, dark-haired head, making me feel every inch of the ring of fire. "NO. I can do this." I claimed, as sweat dripped from my lip. The next contraction rolled over me, and I pushed as hard as I could while the strong, sure voice of my midwife said, "We're worried about the baby. After this contraction, we need you to stand up, and step over the edge of the tub and sit on this stool." I pushed with every ounce of my being, but the baby didn't move and my contraction ebbed. So by a power that was not my own, I stood. I think I took someone's hands, possible two different people's, I can't remember, and stood with the widest part of my baby's head squarely secured between my legs. 

I sat on the stool, and I don't remember it very well. It was just a wooden birthing stool. I breathed and breathed and breathed and before my next contraction I heard the midwife in training say, "(Petal), would you like to catch the baby?" And his response (which I believe was a yes) was lost as the contraction rolled over me, and in one great push, the whole baby came shooting out of me, all at once. The assistant midwife had pushed my husband to catch the baby just in time and he started sobbing as he pressed the little damp body of my child into my naked chest, some one wrapping a towel around us both as I tried to come to terms with what just happened. I babbled. But I didn't cry. My husband was a mess. And I loved him for it. 

I remember feeling cheated. I remember just wanting to bask in the glow of motherhood. But I hurt. I hurt so much. I couldn't catch my breath and I didn't want to sit on the birthing stool any longer. The midwife voiced concern about how much I was bleeding, so with the placenta still inside me and the umbilical cord connecting us, we waddled into the bedroom on a pathway of towels and newspapers. I laid in bed on a "Puppy Pad" to save my sheets from being stained. I hurt. I hurt so much. I felt like my downstairs was on fire. Where was that blissful peace? Where was that "Forgetting the pain as soon as I laid eyes on my baby"? I thought that once labor was over, I got to go right back to being my happy self. But I was in so much pain. I couldn't concentrate. I wanted to be in awe, but instead I was in agony. I voiced these complaints and everyone sort of chuckled, like, "DUH. You just pushed out a baby. That hurts." But I was so sure that immediately after getting the baby out, I'd be in a baby-bubble of bliss. I couldn't wrap my head around it. 

The midwife inspected me and said that I was torn and it was bad enough that I had to go to the hospital to have it stitched. This wasn't what I wanted to hear. But we had prepared for this possibility. Chris would stay here with the baby, and my mother would take me to the hospital. She gave me lidocaine. And ice. And some ibuprofen. So I could enjoy these few hours with the baby before I went to the hospital. I let my husband hold her while I was soothed and injected and medicated. We let people know what was going on, texting and calling to announce the good news. An hour went by before we looked to see what the gender was. I looked and got to announce it to the room. A girl. A beautiful baby girl. A squishy, dark-haired, purple, cone-headed baby girl who was so delightfully lovely. I was so happy. Petal was so happy. He said, as tears poured down his face, "I wanted it to be a girl!" And we called everyone again to tell them her gender. We didn't have a name though. Which would make announcing it on facebook a little difficult. 

I pushed her out at 2:40 pm. It was now 6:00. We needed to get to the hospital, since we were risking infection with my open wound. My husband called his friend to come be with him, barely getting two words out before he broke into sobs again, to which his friend replied, "I'll be there in 5 minutes." The midwife busied everyone to help me, corralling us all to do what needed to be done. My mother slipped a dress over my nakedness... my now deflated belly. They helped me pull on a huge pair of underwear with an even bigger pad in it. I tried to stand up, but it felt like I had been double punched in the guts. I couldn't breath. I felt light-headed and dizzy. I shook so badly. It was awful. I couldn't believe how awful. It was like my lungs were being pulled in by gravity. Like my whole body was caving in on itself. I had to sit back down. We took a moment, then up I went again, struggling to pull air into my concaved body.

It was hard to walk, someone on either side of me. The midwife prompting me to look up, to breath, breath breath. I felt woozy. I don't know how I got down my front steps, but I think Petal's friend helped me. I sat down gently in the car. So swollen. So sore. The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever. I called my grandmother to let her know about the baby. I don't remember most of the conversation, I was so light-headed. 

The midwife and the midwife in training met us at the hospital door with a wheelchair and we got checked in while my mom parked the car. They weighed me and took my blood pressure. I think I cracked a few jokes. I was in a pretty good mood, even though I felt like I was swimming above my own head, a foggy feeling around the edges of my vision as I tried to breath through the vague wooziness. I know at some point I had to pee. I was terrified. But the midwife and the trainee took me to the bathroom and I tried as hard as I could to no avail. I was so uncomfortable. After we came back from the bathroom we were escorted into another room where I got 4 bracelets, an IV, and the same questions by 7 different people over the course of 3 hours. Sometime in those three hours I remember starting to cry because I was so uncomfortable and I couldn't breath and I had to pee so badly and I couldn't even do that. They suggested a bed pain. Or to just pee since I was basically wearing a diaper. But I already felt so gross, I didn't think I could stand peeing in a diaper in front of three people. So they took me to the bathroom, I tried peeing again and this time with success! That joy took me through those three hours. I even managed to pee several more times after that. That was a turning point and I was once again cheerful. We chatted about what to name my baby. We called other people to talk about labor and how I was doing. I called my husband to make sure he was ok. He told me his friend cleaned our house, did our dishes, helped drain and put away the tub, changed the bloody sheets, showed him how to change the baby, and bought him pizza for dinner. He was my husband's hero

And my midwife was mine. I was so touched, so impressed by my midwife. She had come straight to me from another woman's house, having just helped her give birth. And here she was, hours later, sitting and chatting with me in the hospital. She must have been exhausted, though I couldn't really tell. She was so strong. She had carried me through. Even though I had resented her during the hardest part of my labor, I know she is the only reason I had started progressing again. She probably saved my baby's life by getting me out of the tub while she was crowning. She wheeled me to the bathroom countless times as I tried to pee. She was amazing.

We finally were taken to a birth suite and eventually the midwife and the trainee left. My mother and I talked and sat, texting and relaxing, trying not to watch the clock or complain about the wait. The nurses came and went, lovely women who were so kind. The gynocologist finally showed up and got me ready to be stitched up. That was the worst. Without doubt. There is nothing like a tired, impatient doctor, used to women numb from the waist down from epidurals, yanking the raw folds of ripped skin together abruptly. I can still hear the horrible noise of the needle going through my skin... the choonk choonk choonk as I SCREAMED and sobbed, asking for alternatives, insisting I could feel everything. She didn't even wait for the lidocaine to kick in before she got right down to it. I was miserable. I had a 3rd border line 4th degree tear from clit to butthole. When she got down near my butt hole she announced that this part was tricky to numb, so I'd probably feel this, and as I said, "Then let it just heal naturally!!" With tears running down my face, she nipped in and got that sucker sewed up. It was awful. I can honestly say I hated every second of being around that horrible woman. She kept insisting that I couldn't feel it, it wasn't pain... it was just "pressure". I know PRESSURE woman... that was PAIN. 

Afterwards, my mom soothed me... holding my hands and sympathizing perfectly. She made me feel so much better. They came in and said I should do some antibiotics just in case I had any sort of infection and I agreed, thinking they'd give me a shot and I could be on my way, but it was another hour before the bag arrived and another hour as it drip, drip, dripped into my arm. That hurt too. It was like hot ice running into my arm. I cried then too. And my mom was like, "Enough is enough. You've been through enough today." And she ran and got a nurse who came in an put a hot compress on my arm and gave me food and a drink and made sure that we were both comfortable while we waited for the endless bag to drain into my arm. But finally, finally finally... The unclipped me and packed me a bag and let me go home. It was 11:30 at night. Home. Beautiful, wonderful home. Home with my hubby. Home with my dogs. Home... with my brand new, beautiful baby girl. I was in heaven. My lactation consultant was there to help me latch, which we did well, and then I got to sleep. Lovely, glorious sleep. For two hours at a time, of course. But finally the end of the longest, hardest, worst, BEST day of my life. 

  Yes. It was worth it. Undoubtedly. Unequivicably. But it was MINE. It was awful. And terrible. And beautiful. And hard. And wonderful. It was nothing like I thought and everything that people said it was. I will never look down on someone for needing intervention. I will never doubt someone's need or desire to do this incredible thing within the walls of a hospital. I loved my experience at home. I loved the tub. I loved my midwife. The nurses were the best part of the hospital, the rest of it was awful. It's no place I would want to be. But I can understand the appeal for other people.

   But no one can take away the fact that it was also traumatic. And it's gonna take me a while to ever want to do it again.