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I think cloth diapering is thebombdotcom.

Okay, before you click away screaming, bear with me a moment.

I’ve been on the cloth diapering bandwagon since Sunny was an infant, and over the course of my time blogging have been asked a number of times to talk more specifically not just about why I do so, but how. And so, I’ve finally gotten my baby shit together to properly tackle a post on this subject, complete with a giveaway to jump start, or enhance, your cloth diapering, or even just diapering, experience.

GO ME!

Let’s start at the very beginning, shall we?

Why? Why did I decide to cloth diaper?

I wish I could say it was because I was so intent on saving Mama Earth, by treading lightly on her dwindling O-zone, rather than stomping on her yard with years worth of baby shit and diapers.*

(*Frightening fact: Traditional disposable diapers take around 300 years to biodegrade. This means that no traditional disposable diaper has actually biodegraded yet… ewwwww. That makes my skin crawl!)

But while that is a lovely side effect of this choice, it was by no means the motivator.  Honestly, it was because cloth diapering is far cheaper than disposable diapering. And when I was 25 years old, pregnant, and a graduate student, I was open to any experience that might make this whole baby-having-thing a more economical experience. And cloth diapering is one of ‘em. Along with making my own baby food and breastfeeding. All lovely choices for many other reasons, but also lovely on the bank account. (I dig this chart for breaking down the cost differential of cloth vs. disposable. Of course those numbers will vary family by family, but it gives you a sense of the potential savings).

Also, after cleaning up the aftermath of a Hanna-shredded disposable diaper, complete with those creepy, bright blue absorbent sticky balls that live inside of the diaper and squarely on a baby’s crotch, I liked the idea of having my child’s tush covered in an all-natural fiber rather than chemical-filled sponge.

Don’t get me wrong, we still use disposable diapers. Particularly for bedtime as, due to all those crazy chemicals, the diaper works so effectively that the baby doesn’t wake when she wets herself in the middle of the night. The potential health risk is outweighed by the health benefit of a solid night’s sleep. Much like I said in this post, I stand by the mantra, “Everything in moderation.” The more hardcore cloth diapering mamas of the world would call me a fraud, but sometimes convenience wins. And I’ll be the first to admit that.

ANYWAY! Back to the whys….

Cloth diapered bums are sickeningly adorable. Period. Fluffy and adorable and badonkadonk.

The cover choices are a delight, and add joy to a demand that is otherwise not.

So, yes, for economy and cuteness and health and the love of Mama Earth, on the cloth diapering train I climbed.

How? How do I approach cloth diapering?

I could give you the long drawn out story about how I arrived at my current cloth diapering habits, but it’s truly unnecessary. After some trial and error and easing into the process with a diaper service in L.A., I’ve now landed on a cloth diapering method that works wonderfully for me and my family. And it goes like this…

First of all, since we no longer use a diaper service, we invested in a solid, energy-efficient washer and dryer. I love them. Note: For more efficient drying, I highly recommend the use of felted wool dryer balls. You can purchase them via the wonders of a Google search or follow my DIY tutorial here.

The rest of our gear is as follows:

1. Heavy Duty Diaper Pail, $50
2. Two XXL (14 gal) Diaper Pail Liners and a Small Wet Sack for the diaper bag, XL $20, S $7
3. 18 Indian Prefolds in Infant Size, 18 Indian Prefolds in Regular size, Infant $1.50 per diaper, Regular $1.75 per diaper
4. 6 Grovia Shell Covers (I prefer the snap closure, as the velcro is a pain in the wash. And snaps stand up to a toddler well), $17 per cover
5. Rockin’ Green Soap, $16
6. 15-20 Reusable Wipes, $1.25 per wipe
7. Mother Herb Baby Wipe Concentrate, $10
8. Carbon Filters, $4
9. Mother Herb Baby Powder, $8.50

That’s about $300 worth of gear to get started. Of course, you can hold off purchasing the regular-sized Indian prefolds until baby has outgrown the infant size. We transitioned Courtland around 2 months, but we have monstrously large children, so I’d imagine that 3-4 months is average. Fortunately, we’ll be able to use the regular-sized prefolds until Courtland is potty trained. Woo!

The great thing about the Grovia shells is that they are a one-size fits all, so you don’t have to continuously invest in diaper covers. And given that diaper covers are one of the pricier items, this makes a huge impact on savings. I am seriously in love with the Grovia covers. You use the snaps across the front of the diaper to expand the shell as your child grows. It is brilliant. If Sunny were still in diapers, this cover would accommodate her nearly 3-year old bum. And we’ve been successfully using these covers on the smallest snap closure since Courtland was a newborn.

A note about the Indian prefolds: You’ll want to purchase these in advance of baby’s arrival and “prep” the prefolds in the washer and dryer. Essentially, you need to hot wash and dry the cloth 5-8 times in order to shrink the cotton and get maximum absorbancy from the diapers. Just a head’s up!

THE PROCESS:

It’s sickeningly easy. Promise. And you’ll wow your friends (which I always find amusing as it is seriously so simple!)

1. Line your diaper pail with one of the large wet sacks, and load the carbon filter into the round hole on the pail’s top to help control odor (although I honestly find that there is minimal smell. The pail really seals it in). You’ll have the second large wet sack on hand for when you dump this load into the washing machine. (Obviously your baby keeps needing her diaper changed even when there’s a load of diapers in the laundry.) I also keep a small wet sack in our diaper bag for when we’re cloth diapering “out in the wild.” You can always just use a plastic bag, although the wet sack is more sustainable and can be tossed in the wash with the rest of the cloth diaper loads.

2. To prep your cloth wipes, mix up a solution of the diaper wipes according to the directions. Put the solution in a sealed plastic container (like an old disposable diaper wipe holder) and fill with a number of cloth wipes. It’s useful to have these already soaked and on hand for when baby is changed.

3. To diaper baby, lie the prefold down against the Grovia shell, with the thick center panel of the cloth of the prefold lying against the center of the cover. See diagram for how to fold.

IMPORTANT: Be sure to tuck all the cloth inside the cover, especially the pieces that tend to stick out the leg holes. If you don’t, baby will get damp because the cloth will soak the clothes. If it’s safely tucked inside the cover, unless baby pee’s a lake, she’ll be dry.

Note: We purchased snappis to hold the prefold in place, but we’ve found that the Grovia shells do a bang up job of holding the prefold in place so there is really no need.

4. When baby is wet or soiled, you’ll know much sooner than with a disposable. Baby will feel it right away and let you know. Or you can always do what James calls the “dip stick test,” and use your finger to see if the diaper is wet. Hey! You’re a parent! Bodily fluids don’t scare you!

5. When you change baby, just drop the wet or dirty prefold directly into the diaper pail. If the cover has not been dirtied, just lie it out to air and use a dry cover. If the cover is soiled, drop it directly in the pail as well. Once baby starts solid food, you’ll need to drop the poop into the toilet before throwing it in the hamper for laundering. Prior to solid food, no need! Seriously! And even once the poop is a little more, um, real, just get the larger pieces into the toilet. No need to scrub the diaper. Just plop, then drop. Not too scary. Promise. I mean, shit is shit. You’re going to be dealing with it regardless.

6. When you have only 5-6 clean prefolds left in your arsenal, it’s time to fire up the washing machine. Remove the wet sack from the pail and dump all of its contents, including the bag, into the washer. Fill the pail with the second large wet sack so you can continue to cloth diaper during the wash.

7. The first cycle should just be a cold wash, NO SOAP. I opt to do a prewash or second rinse to really get all the gunk rinsed out of the diapers.

8. For the second cycle, run a HOT wash, with a scoop of Rockin’ Green Soap. It’s the stuff of magical elves. AMAZING! I also run a second rinse here to be sure that the diapers are fully cleaned.

9. I then toss everything, but the covers, into the dryer. To keep up the elasticity of the covers, I choose to air dry them, but they can certainly be tossed in the dryer if you need a clean cover, STAT.

10. If there are stains on the cover or prefolds, you can purchase a soap like Imse Vimse Diaper Stain Bar to help remove the spots. Stains don’t bother me, as the diapers are going to be repeatedly soiled, so it’s not really worth the scrubbing effort to keep ‘em stain free. Although, I occasionally do use Mother Earth’s bleach, the sun. On a bright day I’ll lie the covers and stained cloth out in the sunshine and I’m always amazed by how quickly those spots disappear.

And that’s it. For realz. Not too crazy or labor intensive or poop covered, eh? And best of all, I rarely, if ever, experience blow outs when my kids are in cloth diapers. When they’re wearing disposables? Forget it! I’m guaranteed to wipe their shoulders clean of feces. So kudos to cloth diapers for actually minimizing my run ins with bodily fluids.

Questions? Leave ‘em in the comments and I’ll try to help out! Remember, there’s a number of ways to approach cloth diapering, this is just what works for the Cart household. As always, do your homework and learn what might work best for you! I recommend Cotton Babies to jump start your research.

So you’d like to win a pack of goodies (valued at $80!) to jump start your cloth diapering habits? Well, today’s your day. You can win:

1. A bag of Rockin’ Green laundry detergent
2. Mother Herb Make Your Own Baby Wipes, Replenishing Salve, and samples of Baby Powder and Infection Rejection Powder.
3. An Owl Grovia Shell
4. Imse Vimse Diaper Stain Bar
5. Thirsties Duo Wrap ‘hoot’ shell (3-5 are thanks to Shima Boutique, a beautiful, local shop that is filled with all-natural, organic baby toys and gear. It is my go to boutique for all things mama and baby, and lucky for all of you, they have an online store!)

Here’s how to enter:

• leave a comment below telling me why you want to win this amazing pack of goodies!

• for an extra chance to win…
follow me and Rockin’ Green on Twitter, then tweet the following phrase (then, come back here and share a link to your Tweet in the comments): Did you catch @tweetalacart’s mega cloth diaper giveaway with @rockingreensoap. I just entered!: http://blogalacart.com/2012/02/clothdiapering/

• another chance to win…
‘like’ me and Shima Boutique on Facebook, then come back here and tell us you like us, you really like us! in the comments.

• yet another chance to win…
snap a pic of the babe that will benefit from all these goodies and post to my FB page or post to Instagram and tag me in the post @igalacart.

• and one final chance to win…
subscribe to my blog, then come back here and let me know that you’re reading along in the comments.

Make sure you enter a valid email address in the email section of the comment box so I can contact you if you win! The winner will be chosen next Thursday, February 16th at 12pm EST. Open worldwide. Total Value: $80

GOOD LUCK!

Coming off a holiday season when I watched The Grinch Stole Christmas at least 100 times, the title of the post feels just perfect. Thank you, Dr. Seuss and obsessive 2 year old.

I’ve entered an exciting stage of my life where a number of my near and dear friends are pregnant, trying to conceive, or newly minted Mamas. It is such a joyous thing to be able to share those common experiences with them, because with Sunny I felt very much alone and isolated during my pregnancy and early motherhood (thus why I originally started writing this blog!). This time around, I’ve got some women right in the bodily-fluid-filled trenches with me. And that’s awesome. Truly awesome.

On the other hand, I have come to realize that in many ways I was fortunate to blaze the maternity trail for my peer group. That while I may have felt a tad lonely and at a loss for whom to consult with about my maternity-related worries and thoughts, I also didn’t have to make sense of all the noise, noise, noise, noise! That’s what I think of it as. “It” being the bazillions of opinions, studies, judgments, choices, etc. that are attached to pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood. I went through both my pregnancies without that noise and confusion of how different people were handling their respective pregnancies, births, etc. Because while in many ways pregnancy, maternity and motherhood are universal experiences, they are also terribly personal experiences. A confusing and complicated mix of realities.

And while The Interwebs is always a ripe place for conflicting opinions and worm holes of maternity related musings regardless of their presence (or lack thereof) IRL, I made a very conscious choice to avoid that noise. To steer clear of pregnancy discussion boards and anonymous, virtual voices.

In some respects, I had the luxury of going through two pregnancies without anyone telling me how they’d done it, how I should do it, what I shouldn’t do, what I could do, so on and so forth. I buckled down. Did my own research. Reached out to a doula with a ridiculous amount of experience, and worked very closely with her to figure out how I felt about all the myriad of choices available to me as a pregnant woman and soon-to-be Mama. I got to make my decisions about all those matters without the noise of fellow peers going through the experience. And while at times I craved that noise and firsthand experience, I also see now that I was in a lovely position to operate without anyone making me doubt or feel insecure about the decisions I was making as related to my baby, my body, my birth plan, my pregnancy, etc.

I have friends now calling, texting, emailing and asking a slew of questions related to all things Mommy and I feel so touched that they are comfortable reaching out to me, but I’m always conflicted in responding, not because I don’t want to share, but because I don’t want the way I did it or my own opinions to make them at all doubt their own instincts, gut-reactions or choices. Just because I was comfortable eating a tuna fish sandwich while pregnant, does not mean that you will share that comfort. Just because I didn’t want to use an epidural, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Just because I used that midwife, or that hospital, or that doula, doesn’t mean that you should want the same things. Everyone has different comfort levels. Different threshholds. Different ways of drawing their own conclusions.

And so, I guess all this rambling is to say that if I WERE to offer overarching advice to a pregnant woman, it would be these three things:

1. Do your research. Don’t just rely on what your doctor or midwife has to say. Do your homework and make your own informed decisions. Take ownership and control of this experience, because it is yours. Don’t let anyone make you feel like it is otherwise. Ultimately, it is your body and your baby. You get the final say. Not the doctors. Not your partner. Not the hospital. Not your family. YOU!

2. Trust your instincts. Trust your gut. After doing all of the research and homework, then go with your gut. What are you feeling most comfortable with? What resonates with you? Go with that. Trust that. My gut said, “Everything in moderation,” so I was comfortable having a cup of coffee or eating a bite of unpasteurized cheese. I know that that is not how everyone feels, so go with what you feel. What you think. Again, it’s your body. Your baby. Your decision. Just make sure it is informed.

3. And finally, work with a doula. Work with a doula. Work with a doula. Period. The end. (More info about how to find and hire a doula here).

Story to back up point 3: One of the first words out of James’ mouth after Addison was born was, no joke, “Tracy (our doula) was the best money I have ever spent. Ever.” This coming from the partner of the woman in labor. Not only did I benefit from her knowledge and experience, James very tangibly felt the significance of her role and place in our birth experience. I cannot stress how integral having a doula as a part of my maternity experience was. She was a life changer. And made me think about birth, pregnancy, my body, my baby, the whole process, in a really pointed, educated and thoughtful capacity that would have been lost had I just relied on my OB.

So enough of the rah rah doula promotion. At the end of the day, the female body knows how to handle pregnancy. Knows how to handle childbirth. Of course there are exceptions. But on the whole, trust your body to do what it was built to do.

Oh, and advice number 4: Do your kegels. For the hatred of postpartum incontinence, DO YOUR KEGELS!

And friends, don’t stop asking questions! I love it. It’s exactly what you should be doing. Just know that I’ll never be offended or surprised if you choose to do something 180 degrees different from what I did. I’m just one sound in all that noise noise noise noise! Find your voice within it.

Fellow Mamas, what would your pearls of wisdom be? I would love hearing your go-to advice for expecting or new moms!

How convenient that yesterday Bitch Media’s blog launched the first of a series of posts related to childbirth and the movies in conjunction with my little rant about Hollywood and L&D. (Thanks to my friends at BARCC for cluing me in!)

I adored this post as it hit on something so crucial when it comes to mainstream perception of childbirth and its perpetuation (creation?) in pop culture. This notion of time. Of urgency and emergency.

I strongly recommend that you take a read (along with the comments). I don’t think that we hear or consider the ramifications of this startling statistic nearly enough: In 2011, the U.S. ranked 50^th worldwide in maternal mortality rates, tying with Saudi Arabia and dropping rank from 44^th in 2010.

That. Is. Horrifying.

Of course the post had me reflecting on my own birth experiences and considering the ways in which I was influenced by this perceived sense of urgency and emergency when it came to both girls’ deliveries. And since I’m not nearly as astute in my cultural analyses as the writer’s over at Bitch, I hope that I can contribute to this dialogue through story-telling. That seems to be my contribution to the crisis I feel that we are facing as a nation when it comes to maternity, specifically childbirth. I am more than comfortable sharing in the hopes that it will encourage women to think carefully and fully about their own maternal care. I fully recognize that my experiences are my own and thus not relevant or universal to all women, but I do hope that they prompt women to take ownership of their own maternal experiences.

So right, time.

As has been the ongoing narrative since Courtland’s arrival, my experience of time in relation to labor was 180 degrees different for both girls. While they were both born in hospital settings, I largely attribute my varied experience to the medical support (OB vs. Midwife) I had for my care. I’m not knocking OBs, but they have a different set of skills and training than a midwife. And I personally found my experiences with the midwives far more personalized and supportive of my voice and wishes than I ever did with my OB. And I truly loved my doctor. I did! But again, she had different pressures, demands and patients than my midwives and thus could offer a different level of care.

When I was interviewing my midwives and asked them for their “pitch.” Essentially, Why should I use a midwife over a doctor?, they replied, “We take care of healthy women. Having healthy babies. We aren’t distracted by other demands such as surgery or gynocology. Our focus is healthy women delivering healthy babies.” I more than realize how fortunate and privileged I was to fall under that category of care. And I am so grateful that we have skilled and brilliant doctors to attend to women who have complicated pregnancies, health situations, etc. But that response, well, it sold me. And proved to be more than true.

Again, so right, time. What does that have to do with time?

Well, with my OB, time seemed to be more of a pressing and urgent matter, (consistent with the mainstream, pop culture narrative). When my blood pressure started to rise, she immediately suggested that we induce, two weeks early. I went home, talked to my doula, did some research, and asked if, instead of induction, I could be put on bed rest (or home rest, really, as I was not solely confined to my bed), to relax, take it easy, keep the blood pressure under control, monitor it, etc. I was lucky that it never spiked out of control, but as we crept closer to my due date, my OB made it very clear that she wanted to induce me if the baby did not arrive on that day. Fortunately, I never had to push back on that preference as I went into labor with Addison the day before she was due. But it is very common practice to induce if a woman goes even a day or two beyond her due date, which is ludacris given how absolutely arbitrary due dates actually are. Inductions can be very dangerous for mom and baby. (Here’s a quick and easy article that breaks it down). Again, this is all assuming healthy mama and healthy baby. But I find it startling how common practice induction is, despite the obvious risks. It falls in step with this sense of urgency that’s been built around childbirth. As though there is a specific timeline that a woman and baby must adhere to, and that we must control if they deviate from. Assuming all is healthy, this should not be the case.

Once I went into labor with Addison, I know now that I went to the hospital FAR too early. I spent the majority of active labor within the walls of that building which ultimately probably slowed the process. The nurses, however, wanted to keep things moving. They continually suggested that I use pitocin. I had my water broken for me. And looking back, given that I delivered a 9lb+ posterior baby, I am grateful that I was able to deliver her so quickly, so that I was not pressured into a vacuum extraction or C-section had pushing proved lengthy.

Liability plays a role in why hospitals and doctors so heavily control and monitor the proceedings of childbirth, but it often flies in the face of how labor actually progresses, slowly and over a long period of time. Unfortunately, given how Hollywood presents childbirth coupled with some of the pressures doctors face and then impose on their patients, women have this perception that it is supposed to be speedy and quick. The labor part of labor gets left out.

I want to mention that I have had a number of doctors express surprise since Addison’s arrival when I’ve told them that she was a 9lb 1oz baby. One doctor blatantly said, “Why did your doctor let THAT happen?,” implying that my OB should have induced me long before Addison ever hit 9lbs because of the “dangers” of delivering a big baby. Look, I’m 6ft tall. I don’t think anyone should be surprised that I had a child that large. Nor should they be surprised that I was able to deliver that baby vaginally, without assistance. My OB, however, was never able to get an accurate measurement of Addison’s head in the late stages of my pregnancy, so she thought I was delivering a much smaller kid. She admitted in the hour after Addison’s arrival that had she known that Sunny was so big before she saw her head crowning, she would have been very nervous. Again, I am so very glad that I didn’t have to cross that bridge, but I do wonder what my experience would have been had she been aware of Sunny’s actual size.

Courtland. Totally different story. A large part of that was having experience on my side, knowing that I wanted to spend as little time in the hospital as humanly possible given what a challenge I had had getting through Addison’s labor under such conditions. It also helped that it was my second child, so labor was faster. And, of course, my midwives had a very different attitude than my OB had had. Induction never came up in conversation. I wasn’t “checked” during that final month so there were no false ideations of my progress. My midwives told me that they would start doing vaginal examines if I went past my due date, and that if I was 2 weeks past my due date, I’d have to be referred to an OB. That was the extent of any timeline that they discussed, and it was because I begged the question. My care in that final month was very laid back. Relaxed. Trusting of my body and baby to do what we were going to do, when we were ready to do it.

And then when I did arrive at the hospital, 45 minutes prior to Courtland’s delivery, the atmosphere was not that of urgency. It all felt eerily calm. The nurse and midwife were calm, the lights dim, and everything and everybody fell in step with the pace that my body was setting.

Ultimately, my message, as always, is that women should trust their bodies to do what is best. They’re built for this. Of course there are exceptions. But, in general, women’s bodies are primed to do this, so they should be what sets the timeline. What sets the pace. Not the medical industry, or, worse yet, Hollywood.

When it comes to birth, let’s just say that Hollywood has got it all wrong. If birth happened as it does in the movies, you’d gush a quick waterfall of amniotic fluid, be raced to the hospital, scream and sweat and swear for a few minutes, and then bring a 3 month old child into the world covered in some Vaseline and fake blood. End scene.

Not exactly how it goes down.

It is STILL shocking to me that an experience that is so universal is so misrepresented and misunderstood. So, let’s clear some things up, shall we. That way you won’t be surprised when you find yourself slammed with the ring of fire and donning mesh undies. Or it’ll serve as really great birth control. Winning all around.

Things Hollywood conveniently leaves out when it comes to birth and all things maternity*:

+While pushing, you will (probably) poop the table (or tub). Good news? You are not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last. No one in that room will be surprised. And I promise, that’ll be the LEAST of your concerns.

+I’ve talked about the ring of fire before, and I’ll do it again. Imagine pushing a watermelon from inside your mouth, out. I’m talking about that on a different set of lips. Remember however, that as soon as baby is in the world that sensation stops altogether. And while that is certainly the most intense and dramatic part of labor, it is the shortest. YOU CAN DO IT! SI SE PUEDE!

+No, that’s not a tumor growing out of your butt. Invest in a donut pillow and some Preparation H. Thank me later.

+Your baby will arrive looking like a wrinkly, slimy baby Gollum who just did a couple rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. Do not be alarmed by the cone head, or the puffy, swollen eyes. Much like you did to bring that little person into the world, s/he’s  gone through some shit to get here. Hell, she’s been in the likes of a meat pounder for hours and then shoved through the equivalent of a sausage maker. You will not have that pristine-looking baby like you see on the movie screen. But you will eventually. Promise. Also, I apologize that I just used the imagery of a “sausage maker” to represent a vaginal birth. It’s just all sorts of wrong, in so many ways, but I was trying to stick with the meat metaphor. #fail

+After the baby is born, you get to give birth, AGAIN! This time, to your placenta baby. HURRAY AFTERBIRTH! It’s not nearly as painful as the human baby and you’ll be distracted by the ooey, gooey loveliness of your newborn child, but don’t be alarmed if you find your doc or midwife giving the umbilical cord a tug and some brain-like matter follows. Hey, if you’re bold, you can save it and plant a life tree in the backyard. Or scramble it up in some eggs. Because, yes, people do such things with placenta. You see, afterbirth is booming with nutrients (it did house and grow human life, after all). Sadly, I did not have the stomach to be so adventuresome with tissue from my own person, but there are studies that show that it can ease postpartum depression, so I did consider it. And yes I am serious. Google it.

+While in the hospital, you will be subjected to round after round of a nurse very very heartily pressing on your stomach to ensure that your uterus is contracting properly and to help shed the blood and afterbirth bits from your person. There’s no way around it. It sucks. And you may cower in fear every time the nurse walks into your room during that 48-hour stay. You’ve been warned.

+While you may have enjoyed life sans Aunt Flow for 9 months, you make up for that time in the weeks following baby’s arrival. Do not turn up your nose at those mesh undies. Take home extras when you are discharged from the hospital. You can load those bad boys up with enough padding and ice packs to cover the state of Texas. And you will be thankful you did.

+Stool softeners, they are your friend. Consider starting a healthy regime in the days leading up to your due date, because while the ring of fire may be the worst, the first postpartum bowel movement comes in a close second. I recommend the aid of a pad soaked in witch hazel (cool and soothing) and a supportive and encouraging partner. If they’ve watched you deliver a baby, this will be like a walk in the park. Don’t be afraid to hold your lady parts with said pad of witch hazel to help soften the blow. Trust me on this.

+Those devilish contractions that brought you your baby will also be responsible for shrinking your uterus and putting all of your internal organs back to rights in the wake of baby’s arrival. Expect some serious cramping in the days postpartum. I was warned that they’d be worse with each subsequent child, and oh boy, *they* weren’t lying. Don’t be afraid to say YES to the drugs. While I was all about natural, unmedicated deliveries, once baby was in the world, I was happy to take whatever they offered to help ease some of the postpartum pains. When you’re vagina is swollen like a melon, you’ve got a tear cutting through that melon, tumors coming out of your bum, breasts engorged and burning with milk and are bleeding like a stuck pig, all the while trying to bond with your new child, you will want whatever help you can get. Take it.

+You may find that you sweat more profusely and pungently than you ever did in life before baby. That pool of fluid that you find yourself swimming in is because your body is shedding all the water that you’ve been retaining for 9 months. BYE BYE CANKLES! Hello loads of laundry! Also, this sweat will be accompanied by a strong musk. Yes, your bodily odor will be that of a 13-year old pubescent male, because our babies needs to smell us, in the name of bonding. Blame evolution.

+In postpartum life, jumping rope will never be the same. Neither will sneezing. Or coughing. When working out, consider Depends, or at least a liner. And you women pre-partum, DO YOUR KEGELS.

So, fellow mamas, what did I miss? What can you add to this list of birth realities that can help better prepare our fellow women for pregnancy, labor, delivery and post-partum life?

And those soon-to-be-mamas or one-day-mamas, remember, everyone is here on Earth because some strong and brave woman went through this. So you will be a champ through all of this madness, too. Promise.

*Of course, these are just my opinions and I realize that every woman is different and may experience all or none of these things. Also, this is related to vaginal delivery. I cannot speak to the experience of a C-section and its recovery.

People have been remarkably generous in response to Courtland’s arrival. From adorable baby outfits to home cooked meals, friends and family have gone above and beyond to help us welcome our second born into the world.

It’s expected with the first child, but I’ve been surprised to experience a similar level of generosity lavished upon us with baby number two. I am particularly awed by how thoughtful people are with Addison. Practically every gift that has arrived has included a little something for the big sister. There’s been handmade baby blankets, silver baby cups and bowls, outfits, toys, books and, of course, Big Sister/Little Sister ensembles.

I wanted to share a handful of items that I found particularly unique, so each of you could be aware of such clever, smart, and well-loved potential gifts. I realize that you savvy folk may already know about each of these items, but they were all novel to me.

1. Mysterio Predicts Baby Shirt, $14.99
This gift had me laughing out loud. It came sewn up in a cloth baggie that claimed that my child’s future profession was embedded on a t-shirt within. Turns out Courtland is a future Dog Show Judge! This is not surprising to me or my mother who look forward to the Westminster Dog Show as though it were Christmas come early. Such dog breed fervor apparently runs in the family. To think we could attend IN PERSON if Courtland attains such a status.

2. Kitten’s First Full Moon, $17.99
I’m sure that this book is well-known by others, but neither James or myself grew up reading it and thus it was not yet a part of our library collection. It was gifted as a special big sister present and became an instant favorite. It’s the first book that she has memorized, she loves it so.

3. Dresses by Pink Chicken, $74
Oh how I wish I had the disposable income to buy up every article of clothing packed within Pink Chicken’s collection. I had not heard of this children’s clothing designer until a box with the dresses pictured above arrived for Courtland and Addison. They are gorgeous. Beautifully made. And absolutely my style. Swoon.

4. Big Sister Mouse in a Matchbox by Maileg, $29.95
This mouse is the cutest little thing to enter our household since Courtland’s arrival. She was a gift to big sister Sunny, and Addison delights in putting the little mouse to bed with her miniature pillow and blanket each evening. It’s made by a Danish toy designer and they have a number of different mouse designs. Adorable.

5. Baby Record Picture Frame by the 925 inc., $178
This gift, while pricey, is so stunningly personal and so thoughtfully designed. It’s a sterling silver picture frame, but each design element on the frame is crafted to include the receiver’s date of birth, time of birth, weight, height and, of course, name. It is truly a special piece.

It’s been one of those mornings.

One of those mornings where I would rather live in a mosquito-invested nudist colony than suffer through one more minute with my four dependents.

That’s a horrible thing to admit.

And I feel guilty just thinking it, let alone writing it down.

Now that they are all napping peacefully, the guilt is really building, bubbling over into a horrendous emotional concoction of personal resentment and failure. This manifests itself in the form of a good ugly cry. And a dramatic phone call to James, demanding that he come home from the office earlier than we’d planned. (We’re easing him back into his part time schedule, and even 20 hours away each week is proving a challenge).

And then some covered in lies blogging.

Thanks for tuning in and bearing with me.

My mother always said that the early years of parenting are exhausting physically, but relatively mindless. As the years pass by, however, the exhaustion flips, and you find yourself mentally worn out, but with less of a physical burden to bear.

Unfortunately, I’m currently living in both stages. Like a parenting pergatory.

Courtland is in the heart of the physically exhausting stage. My body is her only source of nutrition. She cannot yet self-sooth, so my arms serve that purpose. She is not capable of sleeping through the night or entertaining herself. Her only form of communication is through crying, and oh what a cry it is. Equivalent to the sound of a broom on a tennis court: Grating, mind-numbing, not-to-be-ignored, must-be-stopped-before-I-remove-my-ear-drums-out-with-an-icecream-scoop kind of awful. All these things pose overwhelming, albeit mindless, physical demands.

Meanwhile Addison is moving out of the physically demanding stage and into the mentally challenging one. Just the other day, as I held her in my arms and she thrashed and kicked and screamed in the heart of a temper tantrum, I thought, “I have no idea what the fuck I am doing. Shit.”

She challenges me constantly. I say, “Don’t touch that” and her hand immediately reaches out and taps the forbidden item. I tell her not to throw things in the house, and she hurls an object at my head. I put her in time out and she screams bloody murder, shrieking statements like, “YOU’RE NOT VERY NICE!” And I can assume that these insults will only intensify as her vocabulary expands.

Since, arguably, I can reason with her through the English language, I find myself getting angry, wanting to yell and scream right back at her. I know how stupid and inappropriate that response is. But it doesn’t mean that in the heart of one of her fits I don’t loose my cool every now and again. We have entered a new stage of our relationship, and it’s complicated and confusing and heartbreaking and amazing, all at the same time.

Today I put her down for a nap and went to nurse Kaki. A lawn mower started up outside and Sunny came running into the room claiming she was scared, absolutely hysterical. I found myself coldly demanding that she go back to her bed. She was fine. Get over it. I just did not have the energy to deal with her.

Then she came out of her room because she’d pooped her diaper. I changed her and asked if she was done pooping or wanted to try using the potty. She said she was done, so I put her back in bed. Not 30 seconds later she appeared with another poopy diaper.

You can imagine that I was less-than-kind in how I handled this interaction. I know I’m not supposed to get angry about potty training. I know that scolding her won’t work. And yet I found myself telling her that I was mad. And disappointed. And very frustrated with her for being a bad girl. I changed her diaper, again, and put her back in bed, meanwhile Courtland shrieking her face off and the two dogs whining outside to have me come and throw the tennis ball for them. All audible examples of my failings as a mother at that very moment.

As I lay Addison down, she looked up at me with a sad, pouting face and said, “I’m really sorry, Mommy. I’ll be a good girl.”

And then I lost it. I sobbed big heavy ugly sobs right into her chest. The guilt for having been so frustrated with her, the resentment at myself for not knowing how to better handle these situations, the anger for not being able to control my own temper, and the disappointment that I ever let myself feel bitter toward my children, they all boiled over.

I don’t want to be an angry mother.

Everyday I am learning. Learning how to be a mother to a 28 month old and a 7 week old. Learning how to embrace this identity in all of its complicated and ever-changing forms.

Every single day is slightly different. Filled with new joys and challenges. Some days I manage the new tests and hurdles with gold stars and blue ribbons. Others, I wind up flat on my face, knees bloodied with gravel and angry red frowny faces to show for it.

What I’m saying is, I’m a work in progress. We all are, I suppose. And that’s okay, as long as we allow ourselves to learn from it. And to forgive ourselves. Because there is always an opportunity to grow and do better the next time.

Here’s hoping for that gold star. Because just as Sunny now asks to do everything “by her big girl self,” I too am being pushed to do things by my big girl self. And it’s not as easy as it looks.

It’s been six weeks since Courtland’s arrival.

Since that day, my six week postpartum appointment has been starred on James’ calendar. He may have made a countdown clock on his computer for the big day. The day when we get the green light from my midwife that all is healed and we can once again return to the more intimate aspect of our marital relations.

We went into the office on Tuesday, and while all my internal womanly bits have recovered and returned to their respective homes among the organ line up, the external tear from Kaki’s birth is still not fully healed.

Womp womp.

Do not pass go. Do not collect $200 dollars.

James is a sad panda. Although I’m breathing a sigh of relief, as I sensed that I wasn’t yet ready to return to that aspect of my life. And it’s quite convenient to have it backed up by physical evidence.

Thanks, Vagina!

Also, I can’t imagine that either of us would have the energy for such an exercise. When given that kind of time to ourselves, we’d much rather be sleeping, as the household is rather busy and chaotic with two little girls and two unruly canine beasts running around, demanding our attention and care. When we have the luxury of a couple of hours to ourselves, quite frankly, we’d rather be occupying it with slumber. Also, it’s hard to get in the mood when your breasts are that of a leaky faucet and you’re lying in a bed stained with spit up and drool.

Parenting an infant is the ultimate cock block. Take note you teenage boys that would rather not use a condom. TAKE NOTE!

In all other aspects, however, life as parents to two has been quite enjoyable. Dare I say, lovely?

I dare.

Folks have been asking if life with an infant has been harder this time around, since we have a toddler in the mix. And surprisingly, my answer is, “No, not really.”

It’s more complicated, certainly. We’re juggling twice the number of hungry mouths, active digestive systems, and attention needs as we were when Sunny was born. So, yes, in some ways, it’s more complex and challenging as James and I have double the dependents to attend to. But harder isn’t accurate.

This time we have experience on our side. We don’t fret over every little cry and hiccup. We generally know what to expect from our squeaky baby. When she cries, she’s one of three things: A. hungry, B. wet, or C. over stimulated and tired. The first two are easy to amend. The third can be more of a challenge, but typically a forced swaddle and some rocking to classical music does the trick. We’re abiding by the acronym KISS – Keep It Simple Stupid – and given the state of our minds from sleep deprivation, Stupid is an appropriate descriptor indeed.

With Sunny, James went back to his 50 hour work week within three weeks of her birth, and I was left fending for myself, still used to life without a child in the mix. I’d stress about getting laundry done. Or cleaning the house. Or exercising. Or even just taking some time to myself to read or write. I forgot to enjoy my baby in the ways I am getting to now enjoy Courtland. I was overwhelmed. Worrying about every little development. Looking forward rather than focusing on the present. The time felt interminable. And yet, I now struggle to remember those days with Sunny. It feels like it was a lifetime ago.

This time around, I know to just let it go. If I get to the laundry, great! If not, eh, we’re all pretty stinky in this household these days. Lord knows the dogs don’t care if I go one more day smelling of sour milk. Curling up on the couch with my infant in my lap while reading to my toddler is the most important thing I can be doing with my time. In a flash, it will be over, and I’ll have plenty of idle time to attend to all the things I think about doing (going to the movies, reading a book, writing a novel, knitting bombing the shit out of public sculpture – aren’t these the things we all dream about doing?)

Thanks to experience, I know how very fleeting and precious this time is. I don’t know if I’ll ever get a chance to do it again, so I will not let it pass me by consumed by the stressors of everyday life.

It helps that I have James by my side this time. It helps even more that I live close to supportive friends and family in an unbelievably warm and welcoming community. All of these were things I lacked with Addison.

Addison made me a mom. She was my guinea pig, by my side as I bumbled and stumbled, trying to make sense of this new identity. Now Courtland is teaching me how to really enjoy it. Teaching me that it is okay to not know what the hell I am doing. How to embrace this identity with all of its uncertainties and questions.

I definitely don’t have it all figured out. I still cry. I still have my moments when I just want to sit down and have ten minutes to myself and feel my disappointment building when the time doesn’t present itself. I’ve had this post brewing for four weeks. And yet, today was the first time that the stars aligned and both girls were napping simultaneously and I had the opportunity to just sit down and write. But that’s okay. Because during those four weeks I’ve had some of the most remarkable moments of my life. Being a mom. And loving it.

Postpartum life is filled with what I have come to refer to as “The Weepies.”

Yes, the propensity to weep, uncontrollably, for little to no reason at all, is a fairly standard aspect of life in the weeks following childbirth. Combine the raging hormones trying to readjust to life post-maternity with the sleep-deprivation, the helplessness and sweetness of a newborn, the mesh underwear and postpartum bleeding, the sore, engorged, lactating breasts, and the overwhelming reality that you have a human being who was once tucked safely inside your belly, now out in the big bad world, and you are entirely responsible for the survival of said human being, a human being that you love more than anything on Earth and would do absolutely anything to protect (otherwise known as the “Mama Bear Instinct”), and it’s really no surprise that tears and feelings are the end result.

Take for example, five days following Addison’s birth, while James and Kimmy skyped with my parents back on the East Coast to showcase the newest addition in real time, I paced around in the background, donning only mesh undies packed to the gills with ice packs and padding, a belly band, and a nursing bra saturated in milk stains, sobbing. Sobbing a symphony of boo, hoo‘s and woe is me‘s and omg‘s because absolutely everything was so unbearably overwhelming that crying seemed like the only solution. Or rather, reaction, because weeping really doesn’t solve anything, but does add to the lovely puffy-eyed look of functioning on 2-hour increments of sleep.

This time around hasn’t been any less tear-filled. Although one of the primary triggers of my weeping is new.

Rather than being covered in lies, I am covered in milk stains. (see Will Farrell in Anchor Man weeping in a phone booth, chugging a gallon of milk, in a “glass cage of emotion.” It’s kind of like that. Only with even more milk.)

Let me explain.

I remember sitting in my OB’s office during the final days of my pregnancy with Addison, worrying about the impending labor and delivery.

My doctor interrupted, “Ashley, don’t stress so much about the birth. It’s one day. It’s what happens after her delivery that you should be thinking about. That’s when the work really starts.”

Boy was she right.

The thing is, I had not expected breastfeeding to be one of those things that qualified as “work.” I knew it would be really time-consuming and a huge commitment. But the actual act of feeding my child from my breast, I did not anticipate being a challenge. Breastfeeding was natural. Instinctive. What problems could we have?!

Oy vey.

If you’ve been reading the blog from the start, then you know that I breastfed Addison with the help of a nipple shield (or THE SUPER NIPPLE, as we took to calling the jumbo-sized silicone nipple I had to strap to my breast in order to feed her) for the first 3.5 months of her life. When she was born, I assumed she would immediately latch on to my nipple, and all would be right in the world. Alas, she was born, she mouthed around on the breast, but could never quite figure out how put mouth to nipple and procure nourishment.

How strange, I thought.

No amount of poking and prodding from the aggressive and intrusive lactation consultant during our two day stay at the hospital seemed to teach her otherwise. Before our discharge, I was handed a nipple shield, and told that that was my solution. And off I went. No further support, education, or resources provided.

And here is where I take a moment to stress that not only was my care and treatment during labor with Courtland 10,000 times more thoughtful and respectful than with Addison, but that our entire hospital stay in little Bennington, Vermont was 180 degrees different and better than our experience at that fancy pants hospital in Beverly Hills. In Los Angeles, we were one of hundreds of other patients. The nurses would barge into our room regardless of whether or not we were sleeping, would drag James and Sunny out of the room for round after round of tests and lab work, and would shove on my stomach, tweek my nipples, and boss me around about my self-care when I was in a total sleep-deprived stupor and unable to fully process the information that they shared. In Vermont, everything was done with such respect for our well-being. They wouldn’t interrupt our sleep. They asked us if we were ready and okay before any testing and examinations. They did things based on our comfort and with our consent. It was truly remarkable.

And best of all, they provided unmatched training, support and resources for everything from infant car seat use to breastfeeding.

You see, Courtland, much like her older sister, approached my breast with utter confusion at birth. She mouthed around, but without any success. Everyone stresses the importance of breastfeeding in the first few hours following birth, yet neither of my children was able to accomplish such a feat. Mamas with success, do not take it for granted.

I had seen that failed rooting before and foresaw the return of THE SUPER NIPPLE. My prophecy was indeed correct.

Based on Courtland’s behavior, I asked the nurse for a nipple shield, but she resisted, encouraging me to work with the many lactation consultants available during my hospital stay to see if I couldn’t get a natural latch. As I came to learn, nipple shields can often impact milk supply and lead to problems with breastfeeding down the road. Things I had not been told in Los Angeles, but that fortunately had not been a problem for me and Addison. I could tell that all of the nurses in Vermont were very hesitant to provide one unless absolutely necessary.

After two days of session after session with a variety of medical staff, it became clear that Courtland, like Sunny, was not going to latch on her own. The nurse practitioner we worked with right before our discharge said she thought that Courtland was tongue-tied and that we should get her to a pediatric dentist STAT to have that taken care of. She said that this would fix the problem and that Courtland would be nursing like a champ once she had fuller mobility of her tongue. In the meantime, I should use the nipple shield. So, SUPER NIPPLE made a grand entrance back in our lives.

We did a great deal of research about tongue-ties when we returned home, learning that in life pre-formula, pediatricians were trained to perform frenulotomies which corrected tongue-ties because that often lead to success for mothers and babies that were struggling to breastfeed. However, with the surge in formula’s popularity in the 1970s, this training died off. Given that there has been a steady return to breastfeeding (now 60% of mothers in the US breastfeed), more pediatricians and pediatric dentists are making the return to considering tongue-ties as a potential hindrance to breastfeeding, but that we should expect a variety of opinions on the matter.

Case in point, we walked into our pediatrician’s office the day after our hospital discharge and were told by the doctor that she “didn’t believe in tongue-ties.” I think that she meant that she didn’t believe that tongue-ties impacted breastfeeding, but we weren’t surprised to hear this given what our research had said. She suggested that we work with Berkshire Nursing Families, an absolutely dynamite non-profit in our area focused on lactation support. It is an unbelievable resource and truly the premiere example of what lactation support and counsel should look like in this country. Unfortunately, it’s a rare organization, but a fabulous model for anyone looking to build a community-based lactation support, education and counseling non-profit. I am beyond grateful to have this free-resource in my backyard, and just as our pediatrician had said, the woman that started and heads the program is remarkable.

We called Rosalee immediately after the doctor’s appointment, as we had learned that the procedure to correct the tongue-tie would cost $450 if we were to have it done by the dentist whose name regularly appeared in all of our research about tongue-ties. He is who the nurse practitioner had recommended we use, but unfortunately, he was out-of-network, and thus it would be an out-of-pocket expense. James and I agreed to get a second opinion before shelling out the money and, even more importantly, before putting our infant under the physical stress of the procedure. Since our pediatrician had dismissed the idea entirely, we thought we’d see if Rosalee suggested a tongue-tie as the problem when we went to meet with her.

I noticed that the first thing Rosalee did after hearing about our struggles with Courtland’s latch was to look inside her mouth. After she looked, she didn’t say anything, and proceeded to work one-on-one with me and Courtland on position, holding, etc. to establish a latch both comfortable for me and baby. By the third try, Courtland was on the natural nipple, swallowing successfully, without any pain or discomfort for me.

Queue the weeping.

Apparently that little girl IS NOT tongue-tied, as demonstrated by her ability to establish a comfortable latch.

I was over-the-moon, and we worked on the other breast to ensure that we could breastfeed comfortably on both sides. I brought up the tongue-tie, and Rosalee said, “That is what I looked for right away, but while there is slight immobility of her tongue, it’s not enough to warrant a surgical procedure or to hinder breastfeeding.”

We went home, elated, ready to naturally breastfeed like it ain’t no thang. To DOMINATE (as James would say) the world of breastfeeding.

But upon getting home, I found it unbelievably challenging to replicate the conditions we’d established while at Rosalee’s office. We would try and try, and I would feel both myself and Courtland becoming exceedingly stressed and frustrated the more we tried and failed to get a good latch. Tears became a regular part of the routine. Tears of frustration. Tears of pain. Tears of hunger. Tears of failure.

Worst of all, Sunny would look on pitifully and say, “Mommy sad. Mommy crying.”

Talk about twisting the knife.

As I sobbed and sobbed about my body’s failure to feed my child, about my failure as a mother, about how I just couldn’t do it, James picked up the phone and called Rosalee. She immediately had us come back in the next day, and soothed my hysterics by reminding me that Courtland was clearly getting enough milk from me given that she was already back to her birth weight and that I shouldn’t be ashamed to use the nipple shields. What was most important was feeding my baby, and it was okay to use the shields as a tool as we worked on learning how to latch properly and comfortably.

After another successful session with Rosalee, I had renewed confidence, but again, upon returning home, have had my up and down moments with replicating what comes so easily when I’m removed from the distractions of home and have a skilled educator and counselor by my side. There are still tears. Tears when I both fail and succeed. Courtland is a very particular little nursling, and the conditions must be just perfect in order for us both to breastfeed comfortably. I know that this will get better with time, practice, and growth, but it is an overwhelming amount of work and effort. I am so jealous of those mothers who can just put baby to breast and be done with it. I have to prop pillows, and sit just so, and hold my breast just so, while positioning my nipple just so, while holding the baby just so, and it is unbelievably exhausting. Unbelievably overwhelming. All during a time when life is already extremely exhausting and overwhelming. Why must it be exacerbated?

And so weep I do.

But I will not give up. This is too important. And I am grateful everyday to have a partner that is an unbelievable champion and support of all things me. I would not make it through the day to day, let alone the hour by hour, without him by my side. He values breastfeeding as much as I do, and like Rosalee, reminds me to use the shield when I need relief. When I need a moment to breath and pull myself together. Rosalee will make a home visit soon to see if she can’t help us establish a comfortable routine and process at home, like we do in her office. And I know exactly where my next tax-deductible donation will be going.

Now I’m off to weep into that perfect little baby’s warm, fuzzy, delicious-smelling head, because I don’t know if there is anything more amazing in the entire Universe than having newborn life curled up happily on your chest.

Not all the tears are sad. There’s lots of happy that comes with the territory, too.

Thank you to James for ensuring that our second born has documentation of her birth day just like her big sister. He never ceases to amaze me.

Exactly 27 months ago, precisely two days before Addison’s due date, I awoke at 6am to the twinge of my abdomen constricting and a rather noticeable pang in my lower back. After two hours of lying in bed, watching the stereotypical California sun creep through the French doors attached to our bedroom, I shook James’ shoulder and told him that it was starting. That same sensation had been occurring every 10-15 minutes for approximately 30 seconds each time during that two hour period. While the pain was notable, it was by no means debilitating. Its consistency is what clued me in to the shift from Braxton Hicks to the start of labor, however latent. I couldn’t explain the pain in my back, but since I’d never experienced proper contractions before, I assumed that that was part of the deal.

Fast forward to exactly one week ago, precisely two days before Courtland’s due date, I woke this time, only slightly later in the morning, at 6:40am to the very same sensation as I had two years prior. This time, I noted that I still felt pain in my back, but only on the right side. Unfortunately, this time I also knew exactly what that back pain indicated. A baby that was not entirely anterior.

Crap.

I also knew how very long I could be stuck in this limbo period known as latent labor, and I thought it best to get vertical and get moving in the hopes of urging past this stage more swiftly than with my first born. I debated whether or not to immediately drag my sister across the state of Massachusetts, for fear that the contractions might stop and that it could be days before I experienced them again. Ultimately, I made the call and Kimmy began her journey westward.

James cooked a big old breakfast, because if it was going to turn into the real thing, we both knew I’d loose my appetite and I needed as much energy as possible for what was about to happen. We then loaded up all of our busy dependents and headed on a walk.

It was a perfect summer morning in the Berkshires. Clear views of the mountains. Sun shining. I couldn’t help but reflect on the many stages of my life I had traversed on those very grounds as we walked that morning. This was the place where we had met. Where we had fallen in love. Where we were married. Where we are now building a family. And where I was going to bring our newest creation into the world. I had visions of us as two 20-somethings walking hand-and-hand, stupidly love sick and naive, among the very mountains where we now walked with our daughter, two dogs, and the anticipation of meeting our next child.

The dogs swam in the Green River. Sunny ran through the soccer fields. And I paused every 10-15 minutes to breath through the beginning stages of my daughter’s entrance into the world.

Throughout the day, I tried to stay busy. Dancing in the living room with Sunny (oh yes, a 9 month woman in labor can totally get down). Crafting (no one’s surprised). Throwing the ball for our dogs. Creating a labor mix. Kimmy arrived and we went out for milkshakes. We had a chiropractic appointment that afternoon, and my doula urged me to go in the hopes of turning the baby so that I didn’t feel any further back pain. The contractions started coming closer together after the appointment, every seven minutes or so, but the radiating pain in my lower right back remained.

Crap indeed.

My doula stopped by the house in the late afternoon and found the whole family seated on the porch, Sunny racing after the dogs, me and Kimmy photographing a future DIY tutorial for Green Eyed Monster, and James monitoring the activities of the dogs and toddler. We munched popcorn and a hunk of cheese. I filled myself with as much water as humanly possible. This time around, I was not going to let dehydration slow the labor process. Sunny nestled into Linda’s lap, and James and Kimmy rotated applying pressure to my back each time I experienced a contraction. Sunny would occassionally jump in to help, or simple comment, “Mommy’s tired.”

Well, kind of, kid.

To manage these contractions, I would simply stop what I was doing, bend at the waist and support myself against a wall, counter-top or person to allow for counter pressure to be applied to where The Sesame Seed was knocking my spine. These were easy. I could simply breath through each one, and I came out of each unphased. Dare I say, energized. Each of these contractions was a sign of progress. I just wanted them to hurry the heck up so I could finally meet this little girl.

I feared that it might be another full 24 hours before things got serious.

Friends brought dinner by the house, providing important sustenance for my birth team, although I refrained, as I was beginning to loose my appetite. After visiting for an hour or so, they packed up Sunny for the night, as we’d made the decision that it was best to get the toddler out of the house before things got intense (which I realized might not be until the wee hours of the morning). She was thrilled at the prospect of a slumber party and departed with a wave and a smile. My heart was so torn as I hugged her goodbye, knowing that that was very well the last moment I’d embrace her as an only child. My precious first born.

At this point, I should have realized that this was indeed the real thing. I’d been doubting it all day, but upon Addison’s departure, I had a sudden surge of energy, and refused to sit down or stay idle.

I demanded that we clean.

So Kimmy hauled out the vacuum, James the dust rags, and clean we did. We vacuumed the whole house, dusted everywhere, cleaned counter-tops, sinks, toilets, bath tubs, etc. Worry not, I did not have my hands in the bowels of a toilet bowl while in the throes of a contraction. I left the dirty stuff to James and took to sorting and organizing and putting away all the clutter of life with a 2-year old. Sunny’s toddler floor bed proved quite convenient as a contraction haven, as by this point, I was retreating to my hands and knees to rock through each contraction. Granted, while they were more intense, I could still just breath and rock through them and resume whatever I’d been doing prior to their onslaught immediately following.

After each room was sufficiently tidy, I started feeling particularly anxious and nervous. My doula re-appeared after a quick run home for dinner and coffee, and I began to panic that I’d hauled both Kimmy and Linda to my house only to have them stare at me while I muddled through hours and hours of lame latent labor. We watched an episode of “Madmen” and my contractions started spacing farther apart. I went through only 3-4 during the entire episode, and none of them were over a minute long.

Linda suggested that I go lie down and try to nap since I seemed to have some down time between contractions and they were rendering me still fairly energized and functional. I glumly retreated to the bedroom, demanding James come with me. At this point, it was around 10pm.

We curled up in bed together and I let loose my anxiety. I didn’t think this was really it. Why didn’t my body get its shit together? I felt bad that Linda and Kimmy were just stuck hanging out in my living room. Why did my body linger in this stupid limbo period for so damn long?

And then, SLAM!

A contraction started that buckled me into the fetal position and I had a flashback to lying on the hospital bed during Sunny’s labor, curled in that very position, on that very side, experiencing a very similar level of visceral pain. I found myself retreating inside, humming, literally buzzing my body through the waves of the contraction. I came out of it, breathing heavily, exhausted.

James rubbed my back and said, “Sweetie, that was 75 seconds long, and I haven’t seen you need to manage the pain like that since Sunny’s birth.”

But then there was seven minutes of nothing.

Then, SLAM! Another like the former. Only a tad longer. Again, I buzzed. Hummed. Retreated inside. I knew this pain. While it sucked. And was all-consuming. It didn’t scare me. It was productive. It was bringing me that much closer to meeting my baby.

After a half hour of managing these contractions in bed, they gradually began creeping closer together. Kimmy appeared. She simply said, “Linda and I have been listening to you, and she thinks it’s time to call Amy (the midwife) and let her know that we should be going to the hospital soon.” The sounds of my pain management were enough to clue Linda in to how very quickly things were moving along. I still had my doubts.

James called Amy, and as she answered, I was rocked with another contraction. James stopped talking to help me through and when he picked the phone back up, I could hear Amy say, “I just heard that. She’s really working. It’s time to get her to the hospital before that ride is totally impossible.”

And then transition happened.

I don’t remember transition with Sunny as I can only assume it occurred during and immediately following the whole-breaking-the-bag fiasco of her labor. At Sunny’s birth, my water was broken by a new resident that literally missed the first time. Yes, he missed. As though he were blind and the bag of bulging amniotic fluid sitting directly at the floor of my pelvis, the pelvis in which he had ample access, were a needle in a haystack. I DON’T GET IT EITHER. That man is lucky that I didn’t have the energy to shove my foot directly into his groin as I wailed, I don’t feel any water. Isn’t there supposed to be fluid coming out of me now?! LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING WATERFALL?!

His response? Oops, let me try again.

To this day, that unnamed resident is on my list.

Regardless, I know transition manifests itself in different ways for every woman and at the time I wasn’t even aware it was transition. But suddenly, I was freezing. Like I had been thrown into an icy tundra in just my underwear freezing. And I was pissed about it. Fucking pissed.

I was shaking and shivering and began furiously looking for my Uggs and a winter jacket. I NEEDED MY DAMN UGGS AND I NEEDED THEM NOW. At this point the contractions were coming fast and furious, so I rotated between freaking out about the unavailability of my winter apparel in the middle of August, to being doubled over, moaning and humming my way through the pain. I had three contractions getting from the bedroom, down the hall, to the garage. As I felt each one coming on, I would angrily proclaim “FUCK” before diving deep inside to manage the pain. Linda said the sudden frequency in F-bombs is what clued her in to just how far along I was.

This was going to be the worst car ride of my life.

James had located a pair of Uggs and a super heavy, Sherpa-lined hoodie to ease my hysteria about the cold and loaded me into the car. Just as he began pulling out of the driveway, I flung open the door and threw myself across the hood of the car to manage yet another contraction. At this point, Kimmy and Linda were devising a plan for who was going to follow us and be available in case, ya know, this baby decided to make her entrance at the Massachusetts/Vermont border. Kimmy said she had it. She was ready.

God I love that girl.

I sucked it up, loaded into the car, and confronted four contractions during that fifteen minute ride to the hospital. I don’t know how. I writhed and squirmed and hummed and scolded James for driving the speed limit.

Why did it feel like we were only driving 5 MPH?! GET MOVING! Now is not the time to suddenly be a boy scout on the road.

That is a loose interpretation of the sentiment. There may have been more expletives and nasty nicknames at the time.

We arrived at our quiet, little hospital just after 11pm. James unloaded me and my bag from the car, and the realization sank in that James was going to have to go park the car, and I was going to have to stand there, a laboring woman in her Uggs and Sherpa hoodie in the middle of summer, writhing on the floor of the hospital lobby while the lady at the info desk watched on.

It was quite the scene. As I buckled into a contraction, Info Gal sheepishly asked, Would you like a wheelchair, ma’am?

No. No I did not want a wheelchair unless it was a fucking time capsule that could catapulte me through this pain. But, thanks so much for asking.

Kimmy, Linda and James appeared and we began what felt like a trek across the Sahara to L&D. Three contractions later, we’d made it, we were in our room. The nurse was so laid back. So calm. So Vermont. She dimmed the lights, making the atmosphere surprisingly peaceful despite the onslaughts of pain. After helping me through one or two more contractions, my blood was drawn, a wireless fetal heart monitor and contraction monitor were tucked against my belly, and the water was run for the enormous birthing tub that I wanted to be in, and now. The nurse checked me and said I was at 8cm. SO very very close to 10. It could be five minutes or five hours more depending on how my body handled these final stages, but I was close.

Sinking into the bath felt amazing. I was still on top of the pain. I had my coping mechanisms and now the warm water engulfed my body and provided a level of comfort that I didn’t know was possible in such a state. Kimmy and Linda and James pressed on my back, dumped water across my belly and rubbed my shoulders, gently urging me on, congratulating my efforts, reminding me to stay on top of the contractions, to not let them take hold of me. While it was exactly as horrifyingly overwhelming and all-consuming as I’d remembered, this time I had experience on my side. Instead of crying out that I couldn’t do it, I just kept repeating that I wanted her to be here. I wanted to hold her. This pain was not going to kill me. There was an end. And the more I allowed myself to sink inside the pain and relax, the more productive my body and that little baby could be.

I was more aware of Courtland during those final stages than I ever was of Addison. I was so caught up in myself during Sunny’s labor that I don’t remember feeling her move or feeling her presence during the entire experience. Courtland I felt everywhere. She and I were going through this together and she would not let me forget it. After each contraction, as I would breath and prepare myself for the next, I felt her squirm and move, reminding me of why this was all worthwhile. That soon enough I would see that movement on rather than in my belly.

My midwife arrived and immediately checked me. I was already at 9.5cm. Did I feel rectal pressure or an urge to push yet? Um, yes, I felt like I’d been trying to shit a knife for the past four contractions and the last one I’d been fighting the urge to push knowing I was not yet at 10. She asked that I bear down at the peak of the next contraction to see how it felt. If it was more painful, back off. If it provided some relief, push into it.

On came the next contraction, and at its height, I pushed and POP! Yes, pop. I distinctly felt something pop inside me

Uhhhh, what?

Apparently that is what it feels like to have one’s water break naturally. No inexperienced resident blindly poking around inside you.

Up until this point, I had been on hands and knees in the tub. Now that I was ready to push, I wanted to have my legs to help brace me. I wanted to be sitting.

I flipped over, and while I know that they hauled out a mirror as I’d requested, I honestly never once looked at it. Because as I pushed through the next contraction and was slammed with the first taste of the “ring of fire,” I kept my eyes clenched shut, trying to block out the kind of pain that I’ve decided there is not adequate language to describe. It is a pain so very deep, so very visceral, that it should kill you. And yet, the moment your baby enters the world, the moment she leaves your body, it disappears. And you can not only breath and live to see another day, but you’ll be walking and talking and functioning just moments after.

Women are badasses, y’all. Bad. Asses. I dare a male body to survive that kind of pain with the grace and speed that the female body recovers.

It. Is. Amazing.

And here is where I tell my most shameless story of the birth, for after my first round of pushing, I heard Amy say, “Can you get me a net?” to one of the nurses. Apparently Kimmy and James thought she was making a joke. Like, Ha ha, I’m going to use a net to catch this baby in the water. But I knew better. Even in the depths of labor, I remembered the discussion I’d had with the midwives about water birth and the question I had posed, “What happens if I, ya know, poop the tub?” Because pushing is pushing, y’all.

I think we now all understand the need for the net.

So there’s that.

Kimmy has decided that I’m the Three Push Wonder, because that’s all it took to bring Courtland into the world. Six minutes. Three pushes. And there she was, sideways, just as the pain in my back had suggested, not quite Sunny Side Up like her big sister. I think the level of pain and the burning desire to hold my child (pun intended) provided unmatched motivation to make each contraction count. She was coming out. Now. And then there she was. So peaceful, so new. No great screams or wails as you see depicted in the movies. Lying on my chest, a head full of blonde hair. She was here. And I couldn’t stop repeating that sentiment. She was here. It was over. We had done it. In less than one hour from our arrival at the hospital, Courtland Whaley Cart had arrived, just before midnight, giving her an August 10th birthday.

While the pain of labor was as I remembered it, I have such positive and strong thoughts about the entire experience. Kimmy said she felt like the whole thing was so “zen.” That it was clear that I was in control and managing the pain and looking inward rather than screaming outward. While both Sunny and Courtland’s births started out so very similarly, in the early morning, two days before their due dates, the journeys to their arrivals could not have been more different.

The recovery has been far easier. My attitude forever changed.

This birth gave me back my confidence. It gave me back my strength. It gave me back trust in myself and my body.

Courtland, thank you for forever changing your Mommy in the most unexpected of ways. I cannot wait to see what else you’re here to teach us.