Blog a la Cart

July 23, 2018

Rolex Replica Watches: Unveiling the World of Affordable Luxury

In the realm of luxury watches, Rolex stands as a symbol of timeless elegance and prestige. However, not everyone can afford the hefty price tag that accompanies an authentic Rolex timepiece. This is where Rolex replica watches come into play, offering a more accessible alternative without compromising on style or quality.

Quality of Rolex Replica Watches
Crafted with meticulous attention to detail, Rolex replica watches strive to emulate the luxurious look and feel of their authentic counterparts. Utilizing high-quality materials and skilled craftsmanship, these replicas often closely resemble the original designs.

Affordability and Accessibility
One of the primary draws of Rolex replica watches is their affordability in comparison to genuine Rolex timepieces. While an authentic Rolex can cost thousands or even tens of thousands of dollars, replicas are available at a fraction of the price, making luxury more attainable for a broader audience. Additionally, the widespread availability of Rolex replicas online further enhances their accessibility.

Legal and Ethical Considerations
Despite their popularity, Rolex replica watches raise legal and ethical concerns regarding intellectual property rights and consumer awareness. Buyers should exercise caution when purchasing replicas and be mindful of the potential legal implications.

How to Spot a Quality Replica
Distinguishing between a high-quality Rolex replica and a subpar imitation requires careful examination. Attention to detail, such as the precision of the craftsmanship and the accuracy of the branding, can help identify a quality replica.

Reasons People Choose Rolex Replicas
From making a style statement to seeking an investment piece, there are various reasons why individuals opt for Rolex replicas over authentic watches. Whether for personal enjoyment or as a status symbol, replicas offer a compelling alternative for watch enthusiasts.

Cultural Impact
Rolex replica watches have permeated popular culture, influencing fashion trends and shaping perceptions of luxury. Their presence in media and entertainment further solidifies their status as coveted accessories.

The Debate: Authentic vs. Replica
The debate between authentic Rolex watches and replicas continues to spark discussion among watch aficionados. While authentic Rolex watches boast undeniable prestige, replicas offer a more accessible option without sacrificing aesthetic appeal.

Rolex Replicas in Popular Culture
From Hollywood celebrities to social media influencers, Rolex replica watches have garnered attention from prominent figures across various industries. Their inclusion in popular culture further reinforces their allure.

Sustainability and Environmental Impact
In light of growing environmental concerns, the sustainability of manufacturing practices associated with Rolex replicas warrants examination. As consumers become increasingly conscious of their purchasing decisions, the environmental impact of replica watches comes under scrutiny.

Consumer Awareness and Education
Empowering consumers with knowledge about the differences between authentic Rolex watches and replicas is crucial for making informed purchasing decisions. Educational resources and guidelines can help buyers navigate the complexities of the luxury watch market.

Counterfeit Market Challenges
The proliferation of counterfeit Rolex watches poses challenges for both consumers and luxury brands. Efforts to combat counterfeiters and protect intellectual property rights remain ongoing endeavors within the industry.

The birth of your fourth grandchild was not as I’d anticipated it would be. I know, I know, one should never set expectations surrounding anything birth related, but despite knowing this from firsthand experience, I couldn’t help myself. This was my fourth kid! Surely it would be quick and smooth and badass like Courtland’s. Surely it would come on strong and progress consistently. Surely that baby would arrive within hours of the start of labor. SURELY!

Alas, I was wrong. And as with all my labors, I doubted and obsessed and felt frustrated with my body lingering in early labor. The only constant of all my labors has been an early morning start that builds throughout the day. Sunny’s took nearly 36 hours, and then Courtland’s was steady and empowering and was under 18 hours, and Sander’s, while longer than Courtland’s was still less than 20. And then baby #4, I swore it’d be fast – isn’t that what everyone says about subsequent babes? Well, not the case for this mama.

I awoke early Sunday morning (July 22nd) around 2am to a contraction that was clearly strong enough to pull me from sleep. It felt more distinct and powerful than any of the Braxton Hicks business I’d been feeling for weeks leading up to this moment. I didn’t think too much of it, and fell back asleep. Fifteen or so minutes later, I was once again disturbed by that very specific kind of constricting and squeezing that felt so familiar to previous labors. This continued on, every 15 minutes or so, until about 5am when I woke James to alert him that I might… I think… I probably was… in labor? Or the early stages of it at least.

I texted dad and Kimmy, because Sunday on Cape Cod. I worried that trying to get them off the Cape and out to the Berkshires for the arrival of this baby who was surely going to be here before NOON was going to be tough given summer traffic. They began the trip west, and I got up, showered, shaved (because who knew when I’d get a chance to do that if baby really was on the brink of arrival!) and continued to feel the wave of contractions every 10-15 minutes. They weren’t strong enough to be debilitating or require my full attention, but I was acutely aware of them, and acutely annoyed that they didn’t seem to be getting closer together or any stronger.

Sander and Courtland awoke and we did our usual Sunday morning breakfast routine. Sunny was at a friend’s house for a sleepover, and I texted the parents to ask if she could stay there the morning given that I wasn’t sure how things were going to play out.

I then decided to try to lie down and rest since I’d been awake since 2 and things didn’t seem to be ramping up. I think I managed to sleep in between contractions for a bit while the kids watched cartoons downstairs with James. It was a rainy, humid, grey day. Perfect for napping and cartoon watching. Out of no where, however, I started to feel incredibly anxious. I was jittery and overcome with chills and needed to get up and move. I paced around the house and had such an intense nervous energy about me. I couldn’t stand still and walked in circles around our downstairs, obsessively folding towels that weren’t folded just right, and peeling a banana unnecessarily for Sander. I called my midwife and said that this energy-shift was eerily reminiscent of transition with Courtland, except without any of the screaming pain. Could I be that far along and just not be in that much pain? I mean, fourth kid, so totally. Right?

She suggested I come to the hospital because, “You can’t check your own cervix my dear!” and it sounded like I needed some reassurance of what exactly was going on with my body and babe.

I texted a friend to come over and hang with the kids because it was still a few hours before dad and Kimmy would arrive. Upon her arrival, James and I loaded into the car and made the drive north. Contractions were still happening, but again, they weren’t debilitating or all-consuming and they were still so dang far apart. I doubted. I cursed. I bemoaned this weird purgatory that my body seemed to revel in for all of my labors. Was I crazy? Was I perhaps NOT in labor? What the fuck was going on? And why on earth was I so confused when I’d done this shit three times before?

At the hospital, the nurse checked me and after a very uncomfortable pelvic examine, with her hands still fumbling inside me, she declared, “Well, I can’t even find your cervix.” Not words you want to hear when you suspect you’re in labor. She couldn’t even tell me how far along I was (or wasn’t) because she couldn’t reach my dang cervix. At my midwife’s suggestion, we headed home to rest and see if things would pick up in the comfort of our own space. “No need to be trapped in this room for hours if not days. Hydrate. Rest. Relax.”

I felt so so silly. Here I was, pregnant with my fourth child, being sent home from the hospital because I had misunderstood the signals from my body. Friends texted reassuring words. I wasn’t silly and shouldn’t be embarrassed, but man, despite their kind words, I still felt pretty down.

Shortly after our return to the house, Sunny was dropped home and dad and Kimmy and her chocolate hippo puppy Yanmar arrived. The rain cleared, and it proved to be a humid, sticky, sunny day. Sander played nude outside with the hose, delighting in Gladden and Yanmar’s antics. Dad took the girls to the movies. James and I lay down to rest, and during all of this, I’d still feel those contractions, every 10-15 minutes, never so strong I needed support, but so distinctly present.

As the day wore on, doula/friend Libbie and FGM Geraldine texted and checked in. G suggested that we get together to cool off in the local community pool and have dinner at their place to keep me distracted and out of my head. We went for a much-needed swim, and then enjoyed a big family dinner. It was indeed the perfect distraction. I noticed that the contractions were gradually getting more intense, as I was finding I was stopping to sway and bend at the waist when they’d happen. But still, only 10-15 minutes apart. And I was still managing them without support. After dinner, Kimmy, Sunny and I opted to walk home, and that movement definitely urged the contractions along.

We wrangled the kids into bed, and after everyone was settled, I suggested that James and I go for another walk. Despite some rain showers, we ventured out on to the campus where we’d met nearly 15 years prior. It was so cheesily apt that he and I spend some time that evening, on the brink of welcoming our fourth and final child, strolling past the building where we’d met and reflecting on those early years of our relationship and everything it had brought us. We even bore witness to two college kids making out in plan sight through the windows of one of those dorm rooms. As I rocked and swayed through a contraction, James hollered, “Careful, or this may be your fate!” in the general direction of the blissfully unaware pair.

The walking definitely kept the contractions coming, and by the time we arrived home, I was asking James to help press on my hips to ease my back pain during each one. I was rolling and bouncing and laying over a yoga ball, and we settled in to some marathon episodes of ‘Queer Eye.” As the night wore on, things intensified, though again, the timing remained very spaced apart. I thought about waking up Kimmy or calling Libbie or G to come support, but there was something special, intimate, and safe about me and James, in the quiet of our living room, managing this together without distraction. And I still wasn’t convinced that this was “it.” I even tried to lie down and sleep but the contractions were just too intense to conceivably rest. Finally at 3:30am, after a contraction that brought me to tears, I cried Uncle. I called my midwife and sobbed, “I just need to sleep. I’ve been awake for over 24 hours, and I can tell that I’m still no where near ready to deliver this baby, but I need some sleep! And these contractions just won’t pick up, but they won’t quit either!”

She agreed, and said it was time to come back to the hospital.

“See, you ARE in labor. And if you’re under three centimeters, you’re going to take a much needed morphine nap. And if you’re over 3, well, we can talk about what options you want to consider because I know you’re exhausted. But let’s first get a handle on that cervix.”

Assuming of course that they could fucking find it this time!

We left in the dark and pouring rain, arriving at the hospital a little before 4am. I noticed that the contractions had become increasingly closer since the trip to Vermont, and while they weren’t as long as they’d been at home, they were coming more rapidly. The nurse checked me and determined I was at 4 centimeters (the correct number is 10. Always 10!). I knew exactly what I needed and wanted. This labor was reminiscent of Sunny’s, except I am now almost a decade older. I was not up for soldiering through the remaining 6cm without support. I wanted the epidural, STAT!

Unfortunately, epidurals don’t happen STAT. I needed to get a bag of fluids in me and wait for the anesthesiologist. As I waited with the IV pole in hand, labor started to really pick up. At this point, I was worried it might be too late for the epidural, that I’d be in too much pain or having contractions too frequently. The nurse, my midwife and James supported me through that 90 minutes until I was able to final get some relief.

The epidural went in around 6am and the midwife said she’d be back to check me at 8am. In the two hours of hard labor I did between arrival at hospital and waiting for anesthesiologist, I had progressed to 5cm. ONE MEASLY CENTIMETER! Curses. I figured it wouldn’t be until the afternoon that we’d hit the magic 10. The midwife Kim, one of two in the practice I see, even bemoaned that she would once again miss the opportunity to attend a Cart baby delivery. She was off at 9am, and her partner Amy (who attended Courtland and Sanderling’s birth) would tag in.

I had some anxiety settling in to the epidural because of what had happened during Sander’s labor, but I was in a much more stable and strong emotional place now two and a half years after your death. The reality of having this baby started to sink in as I was given a break from the pain, and that also fueled some of the nervous energy I was experiencing. Fortunately, this epidural was much more evenly distributed in my body and while my legs were tingly, I could still move them, albeit clumsily.

I really wanted to sleep, but anytime I turned on my side, the monitors would lose the baby’s heartbeat. Despite valiant efforts from the nursing staff, we just couldn’t get a steady read on babe’s heart anywhere but with me lying on my back. While I wasn’t “fluffy,” a term the nurses kept using, I apparently was fluffy enough that the fetal heart rate monitors were going to be finicky. So I lay on my back uncomfortably while James snoozed in the chair beside me.

During those two hours, I did my best to relax, breath, rest and really take in that large and expansive belly, acutely aware that these were the last moments I’d ever carry and bring life into the world. I sucked on a grape popsicle and intentionally focused on the quiet, peaceful energy of that moment, just me and my baby, working together. While I was no longer in pain, I could feel my body working. I knew when I was contracting, I felt the pressure and energy. I rubbed my belly as baby moved and swirled beneath my hand and whispered to myself, “I can do this. We can do this.”

I thought about you, mom, and allowed myself to feel the great sadness of once again having to welcome one of your grandchildren without you. It is so fucking unfair. I will never stop feeling that hurt. But I also channeled your strength and love. I knew that you had done this for me, and I would have that energy with me as I did it for my own child.

For a brief moment, I wondered if it might be possible that I could be ready to deliver by my next check at 8am. I felt the pressure shifting in my body, and it suggested that we were getting closer to meeting this baby. But I didn’t want to get my hopes up, so I pushed that thought aside. No need to set myself up for disappointment.

Despite this fleeting thought, I was admittedly floored when my midwife walked in at 8:20, checked me and said, “Shall we have a baby?”

Shocked but elated, I laughed and said, “Hell yeah! And see, you DO get to catch a Cart baby.”

James furiously texted my sister, as Sunny had so desperately wanted to be present for the birth, but I knew that there was no way they were going to make it. That fifteen minute drive had nothing on my desire to meet this little one.

Kim zoomed out of the room to change out of her street clothes, and she arrived back at 8:24am. During my first contraction with her back in the room, she gently coached me through my first push and I heard one of the nurses exclaim, “Wow, she’s clearly done this before. That baby is coming right out.”

Three pushes and 90 seconds later, sweet Weatherly was earth side. It was fast yet peaceful, quick and empowering and as Kim handed me my baby, I was immediately reminded of what Courtland looked like at her birth. She was so very like her big sister. James and I didn’t know the sex of the baby, and the umbilical cord was between her legs so it took a moment for me to move it out of the way. I have to admit, I was shocked to behold a vagina. So many people had predicted it would be a boy, I think I’d really internalized the idea of having two girls and two boys. I was truly, genuinely, utterly surprised and thrilled when I looked down and exclaimed, “Oh my god! It’s a girl! We have another daughter!”

While the labor was longer than I’d hoped, I couldn’t have asked for a more empowering conclusion to my own childbearing journey. Her delivery was truly awe-some. I will never forget the power I felt in that minute. I knew I would bring her into the world with confidence, and there she was, on my chest, screaming that epic newborn scream, so fresh and new and perfect and alive and ours.

Every birth was so distinct and taught me so much about myself. I am grateful for each and every one. What a gift to have made and carried and welcomed these lives.

Like a shooting star, baby Cart #4 entered our world and completed our family, reminding me of love’s infinite capacity.

Weatherly Elizabeth, we are so very glad you’re ours.

How you would just adore her, mom.
143 Your Ashley

XXXi

Hi, Mom,

I heard your youngest grandchild’s heartbeat for the first time yesterday. It’s amazing how that simple sound can make such an abstract, mystifying process concrete. That steady whosh turns an idea, a concept, a dream, a hope, into something so clear. So real. So thrilling.

“That’s our baby.”

Our final baby. The last time we’ll get that relief, that proof, that affirmation of the wonder of life in process. Without direction or demand, my body is once again creating. And that reality is awesome. And humbling. And absolute magic.

For the first few weeks of this pregnancy, I wasn’t excited. I was nervous. And ambivalent. And anxious. Was this what we really wanted? Was this what our family needed? I questioned. And hesitated. And hedged.

And I missed you, mom. I fucking missed you. (I mean I always do, but during these past few months, more palpably).

But as the weeks have fallen away, and my belly expands, and my fatigue fades, and the news spreads, I feel a lightness. An anticipation. A joy.

I so look forward to welcoming this child into our family. With all the chaos and love.

Sunny and Courtland were entertaining Sander the other evening, indulging his desire to spin in circles while holding hands, before collapsing on the floor and throwing his body on top of theirs. He giggled with delight as he threw himself on top of Sunny, and she wrapped him up in a big hug while whispering, “I love this little guy.”

There is so much of that ahead of us.

143 Your Ashley

XXX

Hi, Mom,

I distinctly remember where you were seated as I relayed the news of my pregnancy with Sanderling. We were in your home on Cape Cod, dropping the girls off for a weekend of Camp Momar & Doda while James and I attended a wedding in Chicago. It was mid-July. We had only just learned of the pregnancy the weekend or so prior over the 4th of July holiday

We waited to share the news with you in person, to enjoy the full impact of your joy and celebration. We were seated across from one another on the couches in your living room. As the words fell from my mouth, you leapt to your feet shrieking, “I thought it was time for another baby!!!!” before wrapping me in one of your signature overly-ambitious embraces.

Your enthusiasm and joy was palpable. I felt so loved. So safe. So sure. In that moment, with my mother hugging me in her exaltation, everything was going to be okay.

In the early stages of my pregnancy with Sunny, during a weepy, insecure moment over the phone, you sympathized deeply. “Pregnancy is such a vulnerable time, sweetie. Be gentle with yourself. Everything can feel so scary and overwhelming and unsettled. Let your family help you feel safe.”

I reflect back on those words now as I so desperately crave your reassurance. And love. And joy. And promise that it will be okay. That I am safe. That this baby is safe.

I’m expecting your fourth grandchild and it is impossibly unfair that I don’t get to share this news with you. That I don’t get to physically experience your excitement and concern. Your mother’s love.

No one has welcomed the news with the enthusiasm and readiness you would have had available in excess. I’ve even felt judgement, or at best, restrained congratulations, from many. Four must seem excessive. But it’s not their lives, or their business, and yet, it hurts.  It’s hard enough to have to live in a world where you don’t get to share in this experience with me than to also have to face cool detachment from those I love. If you were here, you’d help mediate and soften those hard feelings. You’d help protect me in my most vulnerable state and reassure me that this baby was meant to be. And that it was going to be fucking amazing.

James and I weren’t sure we wanted a fourth child. It was always a possibility after Sander’s pregnancy, as you knew how worried I was about the dynamics of a family of three. Always an odd man out.

But we had settled in to a nice rhythm with the kids, and while pregnancy had been a distinct possibility since the spring, month after month my period arrived. After six months, James and I felt like it was time to call it. I didn’t want this to be an open-ended possibility that could occur at any moment. If it wasn’t meant to be, then it wasn’t meant to be. We were so fortunate to have our three, healthy, growing children. We did not need a fourth. After many a discussion with our therapist, I scheduled my yearly check-up with my midwives and told them I was ready to have a IUD reinserted. At that appointment, I relayed that there was of course the possibility that that month I had gotten pregnant. My period was due on Saturday and it was only Thursday. They did a pregnancy test in the office and it came back “negative.” I felt the weight of that news sink in. I was done with this remarkable period of my life. My IUD appointment was thus scheduled for the following Tuesday morning.

But then Saturday came and went with no period. And Sunday. Finally on Monday, I bought an over the counter test and a very very faint line appeared on the stick Tuesday morning. I called my midwives to have them cancel the appointment. Sudden change of plans.

When James shared the news with his parents, his mother’s first reaction was “Allison knew it! She whispered to me at Courtland’s 4th birthday party that she knew you were going to have four children because of Sanderling’s pregnancy. She was so certain of it.”

It’s comforting to think that you, The Universe, fate, intervened at the last minute and made this baby possible. That this was indeed meant to be. And that James and I, however fucking batshit crazy our lives are going to become, will do this with as much grace and good humor as we can possibly muster.

And even if it’s not some cosmic intervention, I find deep comfort in knowing that you, on some level, knew that this baby was going to be a part of our lives. That while I’ll never experience the full impact of sharing the news with you in person, that you knew. That you know. And that you are jumping up and down in the cosmos shrieking, “I thought it was time for another baby!”

Another baby who will share a piece of her Momar. There’s no greater comfort than that.

143 Your Ashley

March 7, 2016

I. One year ago today, labor began in earnest. After three weeks of false starts and grief induced contractions, an ugly fall on some ice followed by a day spent monitored in L&D, contractions finally began to come regularly and powerfully. It was time to welcome this new life as I grappled with the loss of one of my most dear.

I remember a day at home, worrying and laboring in the quiet of my bedroom, the place that had become my sanctuary during the scariest moments of my grief. I watched “Song of the Sea” with my girls, rocking and breathing on a yoga ball. The mother whispers to her child, “Remember me in your stories and in your songs. Know that I will always love you, always.” Tears streamed down my face in recognition.

The house was full of anticipation and yearning. My father’s watchful eye. The strong, assertive kicks from within. We all craved the arrival of this baby as a distraction, a celebration, a reminder of joy. And yet, his very arrival signaled the fierce reality of time plowing relentlessly ahead. While a part of my heart is forever trapped in February 14, 2016, this baby would not allow me to wholly stay stuck.

James and I departed for the hospital earlier than we would have under normal circumstances. But my world was upside down and nothing felt normal. How could I welcome my child into a world without my mother? So we headed for the security and comfort of my midwives who were an integral piece of my survival team during that hideous three week purgatory. I needed their presence and reassurance. I could do this, even without my mother. I could do this. I would do this.

II. After my mother’s death, I spoke at length with my midwives and James about how we were going to get me through labor and delivery.

The deepest, darkest, hardest moments of my grief were akin to the deepest, darkest, hardest moments of labor. That visceral, uncontrollable pain I’d only ever experienced while giving life and letting life go. It was terrifying and utterly breathtaking in its magnitude. I worried about how I would manage in the face of the two slamming together at the height of labor.

We decided that an epidural upon arrival at the hospital would allow me to not be so focused on the physical pain. I could have as many friends and family and caregivers in the room with me as I needed to help distract from the emotional pain as I dilated to baby’s arrival. While I’d always been anxious about the thought of a needle in my spin, I agreed that given the circumstances, this was the best plan.

And so, shortly upon admission to L&D, the chief of anesthesiology administered the epidural.

III. My right side went numb quickly. I lay on my left to try to help the medicine distribute more evenly throughout both sides of my body. I did not like feeling so disembodied, so disconnected from what was happening inside me.

My doula and James tried to get me to focus on my breathing. I was okay. The numbness and tingling were normal.

We waited for my sister and dear friend to arrive.

It was 7pm. I was dilated to 4. My cervix had some work to do.

IV. I kept waving my arms in the air like a fool to reassure myself that I was indeed still connected and in control of my body. My right arm was feeling numb and that made me feel frantic and worried that something was not right.

Everyone reassured me that I was okay. I was doing great. So I threw my arms in the air and willed myself to believe them.

V. Kimmy arrived. She told me the girls were happily sleeping and my dad was curled up with his phone by his side.

Somehow the Universe would align such that she would be present for the birth of all three of my children.

VI. I told Kimmy that I did not like the epidural. Why was my whole body so numb and tingly? I was feeling scared.

The nurses checked everything. My vitals were normal. Baby’s vitals were normal. I was progressing well. We were doing great.

Breath, Ashley, breath.

VII. Kimmy, James and my doula settled into chairs across from me. We talked quietly as the sound of baby’s heartbeat pulsed in the background.

It had been two hours since I’d received the epidural, and I had dilated to 6. Things were moving along. Everyone was assembled.

I suddenly felt horribly nauseous and lightheaded. I called James over to my side.

VIII. I came to with the strong, urgent words of my midwife echoing in the room. “Ashley, I need you to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.” There was a sea of faces around me. James and Kimmy clutching my hand. An oxygen mask on my face. The stench of vomit in the air. My midwife’s hands inside of me. And nurses scurrying about.

I have absolutely no memory of the two minutes prior to that moment. As James relayed the story later, I had gone unconscious shortly after calling him over, and seized and vomited. My midwife had come flying in the room assuming I had dilated to 10 and baby’s imminent arrival had caused me to faint. I was still at 6cm, and despite passing out, baby’s vitals had stayed steady during the whole episode.
I was in a panic. How could I have no memory of what had just happened? How had my sister handled that moment on the heels of my mother’s sudden death? Why had it happened?

I wanted the baby out. I did not want to die. I hated the epidural. I wanted my mother. Everything felt completely out of control and overwhelming.

As I whispered over and over, “I don’t want to die. I just want my mom. I don’t want to die like her,” the nurses cleaned me up and tried to get me to relax and breath into the oxygen mask.

The anesthesiologist returned and was not happy that this had happened. He either wanted the baby out or the epidural off. He couldn’t explain what had just happened so thought it best to stop it.

And this is where I applaud and champion midwife care because Amy, my midwife who had held me every single day of my grief, coaching me to this very moment, stood by my side and said to the anesthesiologist and me, “Ashley has had a lot going on. She just needed to check out for a moment. I will be by her side every moment for the rest of this labor, and if it happens again, baby comes out and epidural is done. But I think her mind just needed a break. She’s back. And baby is doing awesome.” And with that, the anesthesiologist left. And I got my very numb feet back under me.

IX. Turns out, a panic attack can do quite a number on a person in the throes of labor and grief.

I’m so grateful I had a skilled, experienced ally and advocate by my side caring for me and my baby in that moment. I am forever indebted for the thoughtful, informed, sensitive care that I received from my midwives during that three weeks and the weeks following. I could not overstate their import.

X. Only minutes after that episode, I’m smiling. I can’t believe I was smiling, but this is where my gratitude for my amazing friend and talented photographer Kate comes into play. Her images of that evening and these moments are a concrete reminder of my own strength and the resilience of the human spirit.

XI. And with the arrival of my dear friend Geraldine, the last of my birth team had arrived. And with that scary moment behind me, and my anxiety subsiding, we settled in for the final hours of waiting.

XII. This is love. This is support. This is how you keep going.

XIII. This is where hashtagsquadgoals feels appropriate. These humans, these unbelievable humans, who held me in my grief and laughed with me in my joy, they are who dragged me through that purgatory and out the other side. They are my family.

XIV. Since I didn’t like the continued numbness from the epidural, there was a rotating crew of “feet rockers” whose job it was to simply keep their leg pressed against the bottom of my foot and allow me to rock them back and forth. It was grounding. And comforting. And kept me connected to my body and that moment to avoid further anxiety or panic.

XV. Interestingly, despite not feeling any pain from the contractions, I instinctively lifted the oxygen mask to my face any time I was experiencing one. I wouldn’t know it at the time, but then the monitors would confirm that I was indeed mid-contraction. So while I was less connected to what was happening inside my body than I was for my previous two births, this was a small reminder that I was still very much present with my body and baby.

XVI. For a few hours, I was able to settle in to the scene I’d imagined when I thought about this baby’s birth. Talking. Laughing. Contentedly anticipating the arrival of my child with those I love.

XVII. And then, shortly after 1am, I hit 10cm. With three strong, determined pushes, I brought my son in to the world.

He pooped on arrival, so we were both coated in a sticky, black goo.

He arrived sunny side up, like his eldest sister, and so made a squished face appearance to those present.

James announced he was a boy, and with that he was placed on my chest.

XVIII. Hello, sweet baby. Welcome, Sanderling.

XIX. I cannot adequately capture the range of emotions I experienced in those first moments with this boy. The relief. The gratitude. The love. The sorrow. The joy. The beauty. The exhaustion. The exultation.

He brought a part of me back to myself.

XX. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, “and I know she is too.”

XXI. The “I fucking did it” face

XXII. “He has mom’s nose.”

XXIII. Team Sanderling.

XXIV. And like that, we were parents of three.

XXV. Father and son.

XXVI. Meconium toes. Strawberry blonde hair. 9lbs of squish.

XXVII. Born March 7, 2016 at 1:11am. 9lbs 1oz. 20 inches long.

XXVIII. Healthy. Safe. Here. That is all I had been wanting. It was all I needed in that moment. My anchor in the storm.

XXIX. “He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.” Happy Birth Day, my sweet boy. We are so glad you’re here.

Resilience

When you spend your days tethered to a nursing and/or napping newborn, you wind up taking a heck of a lot of selfies to capture all that delicious squish.
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I’m definitely feeling sadder this week than I’ve felt since my mom’s death 10 weeks ago. The shock has worn off. The baby is safely and healthfully here. I’ve weathered her memorial and our birthdays. And now, I’m settling into a routine. And processing a normalcy without her. And that has peeled back a new layer of grief.So I spend mornings lying in bed nursing and snuggling. I go to yoga class. I see my therapist. I take my medications (that I started shortly before Sander was born preempting the postpartum depression my midwives knew was coming given the devastating circumstances). Learn about the best CBD flower and Freshbros’ full spectrum cbd distillate and how it can help you with your depression and anxiety on this site. I go on long hikes with the dogs. I meet friends for coffee and laughter. I cry. I read extra stories to the girls at night. I write. I hold James close. I watch trashy TV. I stick my face in the sunshine and use again my favorite cbd products from budpop.com to help me keep relaxed. I delight in baby smiles. I document. I remember. I love.

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We don’t talk honestly or openly about loss in our society. The vulnerability and permanence, instability and unknowing make us wary and scared. But I must be candid to survive it. And I must do all these other things in the name of self care and thus being a stronger parent to my children, partner to my husband, and loving friend and family member.

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Birth and death are the most universal elements of humanity, and we can be carried and supported and elevated by the candor and experience of others as we each find our way through these deeply personal, complex life moments. Thank you to all those that have been brave and shared their truth with me. The human spirit is far more resilient than I ever imagined.

Sander’s Hospital Stay

Here’s a peek at our hospital stay with Sander, the same L&D floor where I delivered Courtland. While the circumstances were far more challenging during this postpartum period, the staff rose to the occasion and treated our family with such thoughtful care and tenderness. I am endlessly grateful for the attention and kindness of the nurses during our stay, and my midwives, who carried me this past month in ways that I didn’t know were possible. Their deep commitment to me and this baby were palpable and I wish all women had access to that depth of care and experience. I feel very fortunate to be one of their patients.

^^My father gifted my mother that bead for her Pandora bracelet on Valentine’s Day morning, before our entire world changed forever only moments later. I wore it around my neck in the three weeks following her death, and during Sander’s birth, as it was the most recent thing her hands had touched and it felt comforting to keep her touch close during a time when I needed it the most.^^

Sanderling // One Week

He is officially one week old. And we are truly in the longest, shortest time. He looks so much like his Daddy as a newborn. That forehead and towhead blonde hair!

Here he is donning his Year of the Monkey romper.

Five weeks ago, I posted a photo to Instagram of this romper, and my mom commented on the image from my dad’s account. A first for her. And I am comforted knowing that she saw this piece that I created for her grandson, even though she’ll never get to experience it in person. I feel so deeply connected to this baby, which isn’t always easy with a newborn, and I am certain that my mother has something to do with that.

Happy 1 Week Birth Day, darling Sanderling. We are so glad you’re here.

It’s been four weeks

They are living pieces of their beloved Momar. She’s been gone four weeks today, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop reaching for the phone to talk to her about her grandchildren. But these faces are carrying me. They keep my head turned forward when all I want to do is go screaming back in time.

She would have loved to see this moment.

Sanderling Wilcox Cart

Introducing Sanderling Wilcox Cart. Our sweet baby boy, Sander.

His big sisters are positively smitten and our hearts are finding comfort and healing in his arrival.

Born March 7, 2016 at 1:11am in Bennington, Vermont. Weighing in like Big Sister Sunny at 9lbs 1oz, and arriving Sunny Side up just as she had. His birth was so very different than I had envisioned just three weeks prior, but it was no less surrounded by love. He is here. And healthy. And I am so relieved.

While his arrival has shepherded in a new stage of grief and deeply complicated emotions, he has become my anchor. He grounds me when I feel my most out of control, and I am endlessly grateful for the balance and light he provides during a time that would be otherwise so very dark. To know Should pregnant women be vaccinated against COVID-19, visit us.

His name, Sanderling, was given to him by his Momar in a phone conversation she and I shared the night before her passing. At the time, we were just touching base about her planned visit to Vermont the following day to help with the kids during their February vacation. It was not an extended phone call, but I am so unbelievably grateful that we had the chance to speak to one another (rather than just exchange a quick text) before she died mere hours later.

We exchanged details about their planned arrival, some thoughts on activities with kids for the week, and then she steered the conversation to baby names. She was absolutely bewildered that James and I had yet to decide on a name for this baby. We had a number of ideas we were considering, but nothing had really grabbed us. And eh, third baby, we just hadn’t fixated on the issue and thought it’d be resolved upon meeting him/her. She found this silly, and wanted to talk through the names on our list, while suggesting some other ideas we might consider. I kept brushing her off and reminding her, “Mom, I’m going to see you tomorrow. We can talk about this in person all week.”

The painful irony of those words guts me every time I relive them.

She finally acquiesced.

Fine, fine. But one last thing, I’m just going to remind you of something I always thought would make a wonderful name… Sanderling.

I think I muttered something like, Yeah, yeah, I know. Alright, I love you. Safe travels. See you tomorrow. 

And that was that. My final conversation with my mother. In that moment, she unknowingly gifted our family with a name for her third grandchild, and got her way in the process. This baby was named before his arrival. She would have loved that.

For some context, Sanderling is the name of a beach resort in The Outer Banks of North Carolina where our family vacationed each summer when I was a child. Since my pregnancy with Addison, she’d mentioned that she had always thought that it would make a beautiful name for a person. While James and I thought it was a perfectly lovely name, we weren’t particularly convinced we were up for such an unusual selection. That phone conversation and all that has happened since has changed everything.

While we were convinced it was the right name for this baby fairly quickly in the days following her death, the idea was solidified when we flipped our calendar to the month of March. Each year we receive the Bermuda Watercolour Recipe Calendar from James’ Bermudian grandmother. Each month features a watercolor highlighting an element of Bermudian culture, complete with recipes and facts about Bermuda. When we flipped to March, we were met with a beautiful painting of none other than a Sanderling, complete with a description of this sweet, little shore bird written on the page.

James and I were both thunderstruck.

I remember whispering, Hi, Mom, and feeling a deep, calming sense of her presence.

Truly, what a gift for our family. And for our son. He will carry the love and light of his Momar both in spirit and name, and forever have a story linking him to his grandmother. She already loved him so dearly. While they will never have the chance to meet earth side, he is an ever-constant reminder and piece of my mom.

While my heart breaks a little more every day, this baby is building new uncharted valleys and mountains of love to balance the gapping canyon in my heart.

Welcome, Sander. You are so desperately loved.

Two Weeks

It’s been two weeks since our lives changed forever. And it’s two weeks until they change further still.