The reasons I love Maggie Stiefvater's series The Raven Cycle are innumerable. But I am supposed to write only one. So here's my number 1:
When I read The Raven Cycle, I'm overwhelmed in the best possible ways. Overwhelmed by characters that feel achingly real, that I wish I was a part of myself. Overwhelmed by Henrietta, a places that feels realer than almost any of the real places I've been. Overwhelmed by the mystery and intrigue, legends, and adventure, and ooooooh. Overwhelmed by Maggie's unique ability to balance people and plot and prose delicately and purposefully. It is a heady experience, getting lost in a series of this magnitude.
So obviously, a Blue Lily, Lily Blue ARC is something I could really use in my life.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Dreams of Gods and Monsters | Book Review
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
SIX STARS = The Wishbone of Goodness.
Once upon a time, a girl and book fell in love, and their love broke the space-time-continuum of emotions.
A review. That's all that remains. To sit down and write the things this book made me feel. And oh, did I feel. And these--my feelings--were hopes and dreams, wrapped in ribbons and adorned with wings with which they flew above and so far beyond all I could have imagined.
But where to begin? How to express the things one thinks about the thing one loves most of all? How to pull apart all the pieces of the whole and explain how each bit shines where it stands alone and explodes where it fits together? This story, these characters, this writer bends and blends and breaks and remakes and opens and breathes and gives light. Life.
It is magic.
It is song.
It is words and words and words. Words like oceans spilling over mountains. Words like caverns undiscovered and unknown. People and places and plots and prose. Wonderful and wonderful and wonderful forever.
~~~
{Yes, that is my imitation of LT. Shhh.}
~~~
Color Me: I'M IN LOVE I'M IN LOVE AND I DON'T CARE WHO KNOWS IT!!!!! Laini Taylor ends this trilogy in a way fits with the first two books, resolves the most important story lines, and wholly pleases fans (at least this one).
Writing Technique: ★★★★1/2 I'm in love with LT's purple prose. It is very purple though. I love how she can take a moment, explode it, look at it from every angle, and then bring it back to the present. Her omniscient yet limited-revealing narration is incredible. Her voice is so strong it gets into my soul and alters the way I view the world. I love it. I only knock off half a star because toward the end, I wanted to have more plot points explained when she was delicately taking apart and reconstructing moments of time.
Character Development: ★★★★★ Karou. Sigh. Akiva. Siiigh. Zuzana, Mik, Ziri. Sigh. Liraz. SIIIIIIIIIIGH. The character arcs (over the course of the series) for these people are amazing. How they grow and change. Overcome prejudices. Find redemption. Start of revolution/new world. Discover love. Endure suffering. It's just beautiful. At about the 80% mark, Liraz was having a huge developmental moment, I just had to lay down on the floor and cry. So yeah. Five stars.
Plot/Story Development: ★★★★1/2 HOLY. Everything I wanted to happen in this book happened and more. There was love, war, betrayal, alliances, comeuppance, and kissing. I mean, really it was stupendous! I kept clapping my hands and saying "yay!" and then occasionally going "OMG OMG OMG what are you doing?!" And I love when that happens. When we got past the major plot problem though, and there were still 3 hours left on the audiobook, I was like--ummmm there's more? I was glad to see how the side stories came to unfold as well.
Message/Theme: ★★★★★ Love. Epic love. World-breaking and world-remaking love. But also Hate. War, Prejudice, Tyranny, Revolution, Life/Death/Resurrection, Second Chances, Family, Friendship, Allies/Enemies, Fate, Forgiveness, Vengeance, redemption, and as always HOPE HOPE HOPE.... All kinds of wonderful beautiful things.
Audiobook Performance: ★★★★★ Khristine Hvam. This chick is awesome. READ ALL THE THINGS, KH!!!
Rating: PG-13 for violence, language, and sensuality
Overall: ★★★★★ I waited a year and a half for this book. And it was worth it. Best conclusion of a trilogy I have EVER read. And I have read SOOOOOO many. I never would have dreamed a story like this would be something I'd love so much. But somehow, it has become my favorite series.
~~~
BONUS CONVO: So do we think the ending of this book opens the door for other stories to be told in this universe (possibly with some of these same characters)??? Because it sure as heckfire sounds like there will be more.... I WANT MORE STORIES! I want more stories more than Zuzana wants chocolate cake. I want more stories more than Karou wants "cake for later"... well, almost as much. Karou deserves her "cake for later" right now. Sigh.
~~~
We dreamed together of the world remade.
View all my reviews
Friday, February 28, 2014
Vampire Academy | Book Review
Vampire Academy by Richelle Mead
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This book was recommended to me YEARS ago by a good friend, and I just kept putting it off. (Vamps went out of fashion, ya know. And I was trying to keep up with the fads. Are we over dystopias yet?) Anyway, now I'm pissed I put it off so long AND that I missed the movie while it was in theaters! Boo hiss.
Color Me: Bitten and Smitten. I reeeeeeally liked this book. I'm actually completely in likes with this book.
Writing Technique: ★★★1/2 Mead's got good style. I like it. Her pacing is phenomenal. Her prose is clean and engaging, not overdone or over-the-top (which, in the hands of someone else, it totally could have been). A solid B in technique with extra credit points for writing in first person but having a reasonable way of writing about things the narrator shouldn't be able to know. (That Rose-Lissa mind-bond business was actually a great idea.)
Character Development: ★★★★ I can just let out a raging WHOOP at a heroine who isn't a reactionary dyed in the wool introvert?! I'm sooooo bored of introverts. Rose is legit hilarious. Sassy and smart-mouthed and okay...kind of a bitch (character flaw!). She doesn't wait for things to happen. She makes things happen. She's driven... and NOT BY BOYS (for the most part). Her motivation is her super(naturally) close relationship with her best friend. In fact, their friendship is awesome. Not perfect. But very admirable. i loved this chick. I loved watching her grow up and take responsibility and learn... stuff. Also Lissa (the best friend) had some growing and learning to do too. I liked her, but she's mostly a quiet introvert time and blahblahblah. Although to be fair, she did some crazy dark ish in a power craze. So yeah...
Plot/Story Development: ★★★1/2 We got lore, we got legends, we got a weird vocab that has a lot of -oi words. But I bought it. Great world building here. Suspense. Stakes. Foreshadowing. Plot twists. I thought it was fun, if a little predictable. While some storylines were closed, others were left open to be explored, I assume, in the following books. Yay.
Message/Theme: ★★★ Friendship, and the lengths we'll go to for those we love. Also mental illness, depression, self-harm, darker natures. And--YA classic tropes--the power of juicy gossip, the craze of raging hormones, and the inevitable journey of self-discovery.
Overall: ★★★★ Mostly because I really couldn't put it down. It was addicting. The story itself might have been a little lean. But it was tight. And funny. And different than other paranormal stories. Not really a romance. And I was surprised and delighted. Four delicious stars.
NOW I MUST GO SEE THE MOVIE. But I think it looks awesome.
Recommendation: The SHIVER series by Maggie Stiefvater (duh. obviously, but not really because they are super similar.)
View all my reviews
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Tiny Tiny's First Christmas | A Short Story
It's cold. Tiny Tiny's mocha-colored skin had the goosebumps to prove it. He had been displeased by the temperature since his birth six months earlier. Somehow it was never quite right—too hot or too cold always. But now it was especially unpleasant. The Milk Woman—“Mommy,” as she called herself—dressed Tiny Tiny in long sleeves which were difficult to get on. Tiny Tiny was used to his arms being pulled this way and that. But now he was also wearing pants which was not as much fun as not wearing pants. Also when he had to get his diaper changed, it was always so brrrrr across his parts. It made him shiver and yell and squirm even more throughout the process—and occasionally he would sprinkle straight up in the air on The Milk Woman and himself, which was actually kind of funny.
The Milk Woman said, “Ooooh, it's so cool outside, baby,” every single day. Then she’d say, "I can't believe it's winter already. Geez." They didn’t go outside pretty much at all. Which was how it’d been since he was born, and both he and The Milk Woman actually kind of prefered it that way. But if they did go outside, they liked it to be the eyes-closed kind of day—yellow everywhere, too bright to see anything. Sunny, she called it.
Last week, they did go outside. It was a strange place Tiny Tiny had never been to before—and not sunny at all. They went with The Hairy Man—“Daddy” is what The Milk Woman called him (as well as “Husband” and “Lover” and “Hey” and “What’s for dinner?”). Tiny Tiny clung to The Milk Woman’s shoulder and shirt collar as they followed The Hairy Man through a room full of big green things.
“This one?” The Hairy Man asked.
“No. It’s too short,” The Milk Woman replied.
“It’s not short,” he said.
“It’s like seven feet. It’s barely bigger than you,” she said and shifted Tiny Tiny a few inches on her hip.
Tiny Tiny succeeded in grabbing a fistful of The Milk Woman’s hair and pulled it to his mouth. It tasted awful. But he couldn’t stop trying to eat it. The Milk Woman pried his fingers open and offered him her hand to play with instead. He stared at it in fascination and then bit eagerly. It wasn’t so bad. It felt good on his gums. But where was the milk?
“What about this?” The Hairy Man said.
“I guess that’s not bad. What do you think, baby?” She snapped her fingers by his head, and his eyes flicked toward the sound. In front of him was a huge green thing that looked like it wanted to be touched. So he reached out. It was spiky, but didn’t hurt. Pokey, but not prickly. He liked it. He wanted to eat it.
“That’s a Christmas tree, baby. You like it?”
He did like it. He grasped a branch and pulled it toward his mouth, going cross-eyed with the effort. The Milk Woman laughed and pried his fingers away.
“I guess this is the one.”
Tiny Tiny suddenly realized he had a hand right there, his hand, and it was fascinating and he touched one with the other and held them and put them to his mouth where drool was spilling out and pooling on his onesie. They tasted weird. Not like his hands normally tasted at all. He spit his tongue out and tried to lick the flavor away before sticking his hands back in. Agh! That was worse. It tasted…green.
“Did you smell the Christmas tree, Tiny Tiny?”
The Milk Woman leaned his face toward the tree. He reached for it again. And when he breathed, it smelled like the taste on his hands. It smelled green. It was a strange smell. But not bad. But not good either. He crinkled his nose and furrowed his brow and puckered his lips and gurgled. The Milk Woman laughed, and he looked at her confused and touched her face and smiled and laughed and tried to grab her hair and eat it.
“Yay, baby! We have a Christmas tree for your very first Christmas. Isn’t that fun?!” The Milk Woman sang. And Tiny Tiny was warm and happy and smelled green like the tree for ten whole minutes until he fell asleep to the sound of The Hairy Man tying the tree to the roof of the car.
~
This Christmas thing was apparently a big deal, Tiny Tiny quickly learned. The tree came into their house. The Hairy Man carried it all by himself while The Milk Woman carried Tiny Tiny and shouted happily at The Hairy Man all way up the stairs and inside. They played with the tree and dressed it up. And after many hours of tinkering and singing with the radio, The Milk Woman hoisted Tiny Tiny up to see something amazing. The tree now had lights. Glowy twinkly lights. Some were white. Some were other colors. And there were fuzzy white things hanging there. Yep, fuzzy white things. Shiny red things. Sparkly, glittery, dangly things. Thing and things everywhere, all over the tree—all looking very much like they wanted to be grabbed and eaten. Tiny Tiny reached and touched, but The Milk Woman moved before he could get a good hold on anything. So he patted her chest and squealed.
~
Soon more colors arrived. A man came to the door over and over and brought The Milk Woman boxes.The Hairy Man took the boxes—some as big as Tiny Tiny—and wrapped them in pretty blue paper and pretty red paper and pretty green paper, and then he stuck bows on top—silver and white and red. The boxes were stacked under the tree messily where The Milk Woman looked at them frequently and smiled. And Tiny Tiny looked at her frequently and smiled.
~
They went outside again one day. This time it was Tiny Tiny, The Milk Woman, The Hairy Man, and Smiley Friend. Smiley Friend—“Caitlin,” The Milk Woman called her—came over to Tiny Tiny’s house all the time and watched the big screen with The Milk Woman and talked happily and bounced Tiny Tiny on the big orange ball. She smelled nice. On the day they went outside, Smiley Friend held a black thing to her face for several hours while Tiny Tiny, The Milk Woman, and The Hairy Man smiled at her and laughed and played. They let him sit in a cool box that looked like one from under the tree at home. He tried to eat it. They let him play with a bow. He tried to eat that too. They put a hat on his head that was red and white and felt funny. The Milk Woman wore a red hat that bounced on her head. The Hairy Man wore a green and red one with fake ears. They looked funny, but they still smelled right. They kissed his cheeks. They tickled his sides. They tossed him in the air. They passed him back and forth and smiled and laughed and cheered for him. And Smiley Friend kept the black box by her face and said, “Perfect!” and “Beautiful!” and “Look over here, baby!” and “Tiny Tiny! What’s that?! Boo!” and “Say cheeeeeeese!” all the time. When they were finally done, The Milk Woman held Tiny Tiny close and kissed his nose, eyelids, cheeks, lips, ear, and neck and said, “You’re such a good boy, baby. You did so good for the pictures. I’m so proud of you. Way to go, buddy. Mommy loves you so much. Yes, she does. Yes, she does. You’re so freaking beautiful,” like she always does. Tiny Tiny grunted that he was tired and cold and ready to go home, but first he wanted some milk. He’d earned it. So The Milk Woman gave him milk, and he fell asleep in her arms.
~
One day, The Milk Woman woke Tiny Tiny with a big smile and the words, “It’s Christmas Eve, baby!” With that, The Milk Woman chattered away, eliciting smiles and giggles from Tiny Tiny who just loved to hear her voice. The words “Christmas Eve” were repeated over and over throughout the day. He didn’t know what it was, but it felt fun and happy and special. The Milk Woman spent the day singing with the radio and dancing with Tiny Tiny around the living room.
At one point, she dipped his feet in something bright and wet and tried to press them on a glass ball. Tiny Tiny squirmed and groaned and tried to grab his toes. The Milk Woman squealed, “Don’t touch the paint, baby! We have to put footprints on these ornaments for Grammy and Nanny.” She called The Hairy Man over to help, and he held Tiny Tiny’s arm’s still while she worked. It was messy. The wet bright color got all over Tiny Tiny and The Hairy Man and The Milk Woman until she finally gave up, laughing, and put the baby in the bathtub.
~
Tiny Tiny loved bath time. He splashed and kicked and sucked on the washcloth and bit the little yellow duck The Milk Woman offered him. It was warm and nice in the tub. When he finally got out, The Milk Woman cuddled him in his blue monkey towel and dressed him in his favorite pajamas. “Now you smell all clean for Nanny,” she said. Tiny Tiny didn’t know what that meant. But he liked being all clean anyway.
The Hairy Man left by himself at one point and when he returned, there was someone new with him. She was short with red hair and a big smile for Tiny Tiny. The Milk Woman handed him over immediately and said, “Remember Nanny?” Tiny Tiny let the new lady hold him. She was soft and warm and he wanted to grab her hair and eat it. So he did.
“Did you miss Nanny?” Red Hair Lady asked, covering his face with kisses. He tried to grab her lips, but she just kissed his palms and cuddled him for a long time while she talked to The Milk Woman and The Hairy Man until he was cranky and hungry and tired and they all went to bed.
~
The next morning, The Hairy Man got up first. Tiny Tiny could hear voices from his place in the bed next to The Milk Woman who still slept. He grunted and reached for her face. He patted her chest and she smiled. Shifting him up on the pillow by her face, she kissed his nose and said, “Merry Christmas, baby.” He patted her cheek and gurgled happily. They joined the voices in the living room which turned out to be The Hairy Man and Red Hair Lady.
“Good morning,” Red Hair Lady said.
“Merry Christmas,” The Hairy Man said. He gave Tiny Tiny a kiss on the head and The Milk Woman a kiss on the lips.
Everyone was chattering cheerily, and Tiny Tiny joined in, to everyone’s delight. Finally they sat him on the floor near the tasty green tree and gave him a box. He loved the box. It was as big as him and pretty colors. He slapped at it and bit at it and loved it a lot. The Milk Woman tore at the pretty colors. It make an amazing sound that scared Tiny Tiny at first then thrilled him. He grabbed a piece of the paper and tugged, ripping it further. He was so excited to have such a pretty noisy piece of something to eat. Everyone watched him and laughed. The Hairy Man held the black box to his face and made noises. The Milk Woman tore the pretty paper away from the box and opened it and revealed toys inside! Bright noisy toys to play with. They were harder to grab and eat than the paper or the box. But he still loved them. They did this several times—played with paper and opened boxes and discovered toys and books and clothes inside—until he was surrounded by a mountain of gifts and he squealed in approval and exhaustion.
The Milk Woman, The Hairy Man, and Red Hair Lady got things too. They didn’t seem to love the paper as much as Tiny Tiny, but they smiled and laughed at their gifts and made a mess of their boxes too. The Hairy Man turned on the screen and a picture danced before them and he heard the word “Christmas” over and over again. The Milk Woman played with Tiny Tiny and his new toys while The Hairy Man made loud noises and weird smells in the kitchen.
“Daddy’s making a turkey,” The Milk Woman said. “And sweet potatoes. And green beans. What else are we having, hon?” she asked toward the kitchen.
“Biscuits,” The Hairy Man said to her.
“Biscuits!” she said to me.
“And apple pie.”
“Apple pie? We love apple pie, don’t we, baby?”
Tiny Tiny didn’t care about apple pie, but he loved The Milk Woman and The Hairy Man and Red Hair Lady. And with all the lights and smells and boxes and paper and laughs and smiles and music and holiday cheer, Tiny Tiny thought he really loved Christmas too.
The sun set on Christmas day, and when Tiny Tiny closed his eyes and fell asleep next to The Milk Woman, he dreamed of red paper with white snow flakes on it and the crinkle it made and the way he could stuff it in his mouth. He laughed in his sleep.
And Tiny Tiny was perfectly happy on his very first Christmas ever.
-----
Tiny Tiny’s First Christmas
By Dana J. Moore
Written December 2013
Author's note: I decided last year that I would write my son (and whatever future children I may have) a Christmas story every year. This is the first of them all. It is a fictionalization of things that Wash actually did experience throughout his first holiday season. It doesn't have the traditional plot escalation stories usually do (and should have). But that wasn't the point of this tale. As a first time mom, I just wanted to document what I saw my baby experience for the very first time. Every day is amazing for me because I get to watch him discover the world a little more. Even more so at Christmas.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Fangirl | Book Review
Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
It's been so long since I wrote a review, I'm not sure I remember how to do it.
JK! LOL! (ironic) (also not)
Color Me: Fan4Life. Rainbow Rowell has won me over. If I loved Eleanor & Park, I LOVE-LOVE-LOVED Fangirl.
Let's get one thing straight. I have been a superfan of a great many things, but I have never been a fan of fan-fiction. Ever. As a writer, I have far too many of my own stories clawing to get out than I have urges to steal/borrow/manipulate others'. I can also say that boy-on-boy fanfic, particularly about non-gay characters, particularly particularly written by straight teenage girls...is one of the things I just do not get about the universe. (Will and Jem? No. Sherlock and John? Never. Dean and Cas? Stop ruining things!)
That said, Rowell's coming-of-age dramedy/romcom about antisocial college freshman/online fanfic superstar Cath was a tiny taste of heaven that entirely consumed my world for 48 hours straight. I could not put this story down (read: could not stop listening to this audiobook) even though I had my own college assignments to work on (and still do even as I type this).
Writing Technique: ★★★★1/2 Rowell has a way with a words. A very serious way. I love it. I love the expression "skimming the surface of reality." I love that she writes freaking brilliant, hilarious dialogue (see below). I love that all of her characters truly have their own voices. I love that this fiction about a writer of fanfiction of a fake fiction included that fake fiction and fake fanfiction. My only reservation is her preference for the F-word. I'm good at tuning that stuff out. But after some of the reactions toward the profanity (etc.) in E&P, I realize I can't expect everyone (including a lot of my friends) to be so blase about it.
Here are some quotes I adored:
“I feel sorry for you, and I'm going to be your friend."
"I don't want to be your friend," Cath said as sternly as she could. "I like that we're not friends."
"Me, too. I'm sorry you ruined it by being so pathetic.”
“You’re never going to find a guy who’s exactly like you—first of all, because that guy never leaves his dorm room.…”
“What's the plan?' she asked.
He grinned. 'My plan is to do things that make you want to hang out with me again tomorrow. What's your plan?'
'I'm going to try not to make an ass of myself.'
He grinned. 'So we're all set.”
“How do you not like the Internet? That's like saying, 'I don't like things that are convenient. And easy. I don't like having access to all of mankind's recorded discoveries at my fingertips. I don't like light. And knowledge.”
I also the entire laundry conversation which is much too long to post here but made me literally clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud while I listened to it in bed with my sleeping husband and baby.
Plot/Story Development: ★★★★ We have a gifted writer wasting her time (IMO) on fanfic. A twin sister (the cool one) looking for independence. A terrible mother, who left. A wonderful father, who's crazy. A world-wise roommate who is terrifying. A creative writing teacher who doesn't appreciate fan fiction. A boy who never stops smiling. And a crippling fear of anything resembling life. All issues collide into a glorious laughable mess. And while much of it is like tequila in that it's "more about the journey than the destination," I found myself immeasurably pleased by the end. Especially that bit at the very very end.
Sidebar: I love that this is a love story that doesn't make me feel all dirty and stupid. It's not smutty (although not prudish or even necessarily innocent). And it's not that the character doesn't feel stupid, just that I don't. That makes for good romance in my opinion.
Character Development: ★★★★★ Way to go, Cath. You didn't get absolutely all of your sh*t together, but neither have I. You were straight up neurotic. You've got trust issues and mommy issues and daddy issues and sister issues and reality issues and generally a lot of issues. But I really liked you. And I loved watching you grow and mature and learn how to life real freaking life and get over at least some of your issues.
Sidebar II: I feel this book could definitely do with a companion, because Cath's twin Wren was clearly dealing with her own issues too in a much louder, crazed, drunken way. And I want to know her story equally muchly.
Sidebar III: somehow Rowell made me fall in love with a farmboy from Nebraska who doesn't do books or the internet and aspires to work on a ranch. In my wildest dreams, I would not have believed this possible. But Levi stole my heart completely. Yay for boys who aren't dicks, or moody and broken, or too far from reality. Yay for smiling.
Message/Theme: ★★★★★ family, friendship, social disorders, love, abandonment, reality v. fantasy, growing up, maturity, introversion, optimism, finding oneself...you know, college crap.
Rating: R for language, sensuality, and alcohol use
Audiobook Performance: ★★★★ Rebecca Freaking Lowman has the vocal equivalent of sad eyes. She can be saying the happiest thing and it still has the most peculiar tinge of depression. I've listened through Starters and Eleanor & Park with her, and I HATED the first and LOVED the second. But the second was a sad-feeling book, so it was appropriate. This one wasn't sad as much as introverted. I felt like the book was shy and needed to be let loose, which is to say Rowell wrote it amazingly well. Lowman performed well also. She had a great voice for quiet Cath. But I'd like someone a bit less tragic sounding for RR's next book.
Maxwell Caulfield though is freaking magic. I'm not trying to be funny. He has a voice for whimsy. I want him to talk me to sleep every night. Like a long lost British grandfather telling me timeless stories and smelling of sugared coffee. Mmmmmmmm.
Overall: ★★★★★ I adored this. Even more than Eleanor & Park. Now I'm getting Attachments so I can say I'm a full on RR fan. You should read this book, but only if you want to feel light as a feather afterward.
#fanfiction #introverts #noteveryonehastobescaryanddamaged
View all my reviews
Monday, September 9, 2013
Welcome to the World, Washington! | A Birth Story
Washington’s story begins Friday, June 14, 2013. I had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon, but since I wanted to go into labor naturally (including not having my membranes stripped), Dr. Carnes didn’t check my cervix. My due date wasn’t until the 22nd, and as a first-timer, I was prepared to go late and battle my doctors for the right to deny induction. I had no reason to believe I would be going into labor. I hadn’t had any Braxton-Hicks contractions at all. My only “labor symptoms” were a pinky discharge that I didn’t think qualified as the bloody show and a cold, which I was informed did not mean my body was preparing to give birth. (How was I supposed to know? Last time I got a stuffy nose and sore throat, I thought it was nothing but a cold. Turns out I was pregnant!)
Ray had left that morning at about 8:15 am to work a dreaded 24-hour shift. The night before, we joked about how inconvenient it would be if I went into labor while he was on (or recovering from) an overnight. We laughed it off. I was confident I had plenty of time. But just in case, I petitioned God. I wrote in my prayer journal, “Ray works overnight tonight which is a bummer. So I pray I don’t go into labor in the next two days so Ray has enough time to rest up.” Bahahaha. I went to bed at 1 am (because I’m a night owl who never gets to stay up late anymore!), and at 4:45 am, I woke up with what felt like serious menstrual cramps.
Having never experienced Braxton Hicks contractions, I didn’t know if this was a contraction or just me not feeling well. That line right where your underwear sits across your lower abdomen ached. I lay there and focused all of my attention on What The Heck My Body Was Doing. And I realized, Ah...the pangs were coming and going! And it felt like my insides were tightening! So it must be a contraction! Cool. I thought, This is no big deal. I can do cramps. I mean, they hurt, but whatevskis. I got up and drank my glass of water and laid on my left side just like you’re supposed to when you first get contractions. If they were BH, they would go away after about an hour. Well, an hour later, they were still going strong. So I figured, I should let Ray know.
So I picked him up at 5:45 am. We both had a little breakfast snack and went back to bed. I woke for each contraction, even though these early ones were mild, until finally getting up around 10. I let Ray get a couple more hours in (remember he’d been up for nearly 24 hours). We spent the early afternoon getting last minute things done. I was mostly straightening up the apartment. Ray at some point decided to perform surgery on the vacuum cleaner because it wasn’t working right. Obviously. *insert eyeroll here* (Looking at all the evidence, I firmly believe I did not “nest” a single moment of my pregnancy. Ray did all the nesting in our family. I cleaned lightly because it was on a checklist of things to do Before Baby.)
Later that afternoon, Ray convinced me to chill out and watch my early labor distraction movies. So I showered and then labored on my “birthing ball” (AKA the yoga ball) while watching Star Trek: The Motion Picture (circa 1979). This was probably when I looked the most like all the birth videos I had watched. I was in my bathrobe with a heating pad on my lower back, head resting on my arms resting on the ball on the living room floor. I felt very zen. The contractions weren’t fun. But I was managing fine. I tried not to call them painful (a natural birth no-no), but they were. By 2:30 pm, they moved firmly from the mild to the moderate column. My body also prepared for war, evacuating me of every last substance in my body. I continued to eat like normal, because...well, I was hungry.
Around 8 pm, Ray left to get groceries. (Obviously.) While he was out, I made myself a bath, then we went to bed. At 10, contractions were undeniably strong. At midnight, I wrote that they were “starting to wear on me. Trying to stay strong.” (Code for: “This freaking hurts. But I know it’s going to get worse.”)
I could no longer lay down and sleep. I started out in bed, standing for each contraction while Ray slept. (I was trying so hard to be tough. I didn’t want him to help me until I really needed help. And it’s a good thing too…)
At 1:45 am, I took bath/shower. But regular home bathtubs are not equipped to handle a giant pregnant woman with contractions. I wanted to relax. I would lay back during off minutes and, when the next one hit, heave myself over onto my hands and knees, leaving only part of my giant belly in the water and the rest of me exposed to the cold air. It was awkward and ultimately not all that relaxing. So I eventually gave up on the tub altogether.
Then began the circus of sleeping arrangements. I couldn’t lay on the bed anymore. So I slept on the floor in the baby room and labored on my hands and knees. But that didn’t last long. I decided I needed Ray’s help. Poor guy. I slept upright in chair with my head resting on my arms resting on 2-3 pillows resting on our kitchen bar counter while Ray slept on the floor by the piano. I’d jump up and lean on the chair for each contraction with Ray squeezing my hips through them. We did this for HOURS. Not the best rest by any stretch.
Around 7 am, we decided to…help labor along in the most natural way we knew how… Ahem. Gotta say, during labor, it’s not nearly as fun as not during labor. For me, this was for birthing purposes only. (And I’m glad for my husband’s sake we did because the following six weeks were a doozy.) Afterward, I labored straddling toilet, attempting to sleep propping my arms on the tank. I chose Sleeping At Last to be my labor soundtrack. It was a great choice.
Around 10 am, contractions were coming hard enough and close enough that I wanted my doula there with me. Danielle arrived around 11 am and did counter-pressure with me for a little over an hour until we all decided it was finally time to go to the hospital.
Riding the car with contractions wasn’t as bad as I was expecting, but still wasn’t fun. I’m glad our hospital is only 15-20 minutes away. We shuffled through the parking lot. I walked around the lobby, squatting for contractions which hadn’t felt good earlier but was a requirement for these intense ones. Before we went upstairs, I decided to use the bathroom. Danielle asked if I wanted her to come with me. I balked. I’ve always been pretty shy when it comes to my body. I never stripped naked in the locker room even when my fellow volleyball players did. My roommate in college never got a really good look at EVERYTHING I’ve got going on. I’ve peed in front of like 2 people and my husband isn’t one of them. I really really wanted to tell her, “No, I can pee by myself.” But then a contraction hit. Ow. So I decided, okay, this is the moment my modesty goes. I’m in labor. She’s gonna see a lot more of my parts than me sitting on the pot. So I let her join me. It was weird trying to pee and it felt like I didn’t really have to go as bad as I thought. By this time, I really felt like I had to poop (TMI?). I kept trying, but nothing was happening. She helped me through the contractions (I was already getting kinda vocal).
When I left the bathroom, I remembered it was Sunday now. Father’s Day! This might be my last chance to call my dad. He didn’t answer so I left a message that basically went, “Hi dad. I just wanted to call and say Happy Father’s Day. And as a gift I’m giving you a grandson. I’m at the hospital and IhavetogobecauseI’mhavingacontractionsBYE!”
We moved slowly toward L&D, but I couldn’t walk through these contractions. I stopped and squatted for each one. I even labored in the courtyard outside L&D, hoping to make as much progress as possible before surrendering myself to the hospital.
At 1 pm, I checked in. This was the worst part. To be admitted, you must be contracting for 1 minute, 4 minutes apart, and 4 cm dilated. I was SURE I hit all of those qualifications but there’s only one I couldn’t check for myself. (What? I don’t know where my cervix is. I’ve looked. It all looks like...you know what? Let’s not get metaphorical about my lady business.) I got into triage and ditched my pants. They belted me. I had to wear the horrendous contraction monitor for 20 minutes so they could confirm active labor… and I wasn’t allowed to move with it on. I agreed to this when they put it on me. But when those first contractions hit, I thought, there’s no way. I need to move. I’m in crazy intense pain. And I’m just supposed to lie there and take it? It gets worse.
The nurse came in. She seemed professional…and unimpressed with me. She had me scoot down and spread ‘em so she could check me. I had never felt pain like that in my life. I don’t know what it is they do exactly when they reach in to “check” you, but it hurts like a swear swear swear. I screamed and tried to back away from her intrusive prying unkind hands. She retracted and with a smack of her latex gloves announced, “You’re closed.”
“What?!” I said, traumatized and no longer even resembling a person holding it together.
“You’re 80% effaced and closed.”
“What do you mean ‘closed?’ How many centimeters is that?”
“Zero.”
“Zero?” I couldn’t stop the tears them. How was this possible? I mean, I’d heard plenty of stories about people who come to the hospital too early. But I waited 33 hours. I waited until I was sure it was the real thing. And I wasn’t dilated AT ALL? My prayers started sounding pathetic at this point. I was begging God to help me because I couldn’t imagine doing this for 12 or 16 or 24 more hours.
A doctor came in. He was young and also looked unimpressed by me. I’d been making a lot of noise. So yeah. He said he was going to check me now too. Which terrified me because I already knew I didn’t want him to do it. Why go through all that pain just to hear the same thing? What could have changed in 5 minutes? I scooted and spread for him (Joy.), and he reached for the stars. My scream was a visceral thing. I said, “YOU HAVE TO STOP NOW!” And tried to back away again. He unreached and said stiffly, “Yeah, you’re only 2 cm dilated, 50% effaced.”
I was crying a lot now. I felt every kind of violated. I know they were just doing their jobs (and I learned later it hurt so badly because I was still posterior), but I held it against them personally for also making me feel like crap. I hated both of them unequivocally and that hasn’t change. I still don’t know why I went from 80% to 50%. But going 0 to 2 wasn’t really an improvement because they still wouldn’t admit me. It was all terrible.
So I put my pants back on and began the long shuffle back to the car with a spirit I can only describe as utterly hopeless. The contractions had gotten worse from the inactivity. The pain was excruciating. The squats were harder to get down into and especially to get back up out of. We made it to the lobby and I had to pee again. Danielle came with me again and as I peed I noticed it seemed...different. When I thought I had stopped peeing there was still something leaking. We waited and the trickle continued. I was almost certain I wasn’t peeing (but things get crazy during labor. Maybe I was losing sensation down there!). But maybe that bro had broken my water with his nether reach. She left me alone in the bathroom to find me a pad because obviously I didn’t bring any because obviously I’m a moron. I feel bad for the mother and daughter who came in while I was alone and moaning and groaning. The mom explained I was having a baby. But I’m sure the little girl is scarred for life.
Danielle returned with a pad and helped me begin my journey back upstairs. Along the way though, my legs started shaking. I felt exhausted and I wasn’t even admitted yet. How could I keep doing this? I could no longer labor in squats. I got on my hands and knees every time and walking became all but impossible. I finally made it to L&D again, this time just to check if my water broke. We asked not to have my cervix checked. I wouldn’t do it. I just wanted to know if my water has broken. If so, they’d admit me regardless of my dilation. If not, I’d request some Ambien to help me get some rest and go home.
The doctor (who I’m convinced hated me) begrudgingly agreed. The nurse (who I’m ALSO convinced hated me) got out the speculum. She said, “Okay, I know this is uncomfortable. But I need you to lie as still as possible. No flailing and moving around.” As in, not like last time. I agreed and gripped Ray’s hand and forced myself to relax even though contractions were coming and I was laying down with a monitor belt around my waist and them putting things in my hooha when something else wanted to come out felt like death. But it didn’t hurt as bad as being checked. They swabbed me and quickly confirmed my water was leaking and I can be admitted. Yay. Because regardless of how many centimeters I was, I was SURE I was in labor. I thought, My baby is coming soon. He better be, or he’ll be born in serious trouble.
I changed into a gown. And a new nurse, who would be my nurse, came to give me my IV. This was something we fought for a while. I abhor needles and have terrible veins and always wind up getting stuck over and over. Or they search for a vein for so long that the anticipation makes me want to hyperventilate and vomit. But ultimately we agreed, because 1) it’s their policy and we really couldn’t NOT agree, 2) they agreed to just give me a saline lock without fluids, and 3) I wound up positive with GBS and had to have antibiotics anyway. Joy.
Shannon was my nurse’s name. She was blonde, pretty, happy, nice. But she stuck me twice in my left arm and didn’t get a vein. She told me she only tries twice then she gets someone else. And she rarely misses a second time. But I was the lucky winner that day. (#hatinglife) A different nurse came in to stick me and got it the first time. But I’d have a bruise on my left arm for two or three weeks from where Shannon tried.
The doctor came back and said they had to wait until I’m further dilated before they could give me an epidural. I told him with as much confidence as I could muster through my drying tears that I planned to do this naturally. To his credit, he didn’t laugh, roll his eyes, or do anything that confirmed he thought I couldn’t hack it. I was already doubting myself, but he just said, okay then. I asked if my doctor had been informed that I was there. He said she’s off duty/doesn’t work on the weekends so she wouldn’t be delivering me. I almost had a conniption.
“She told me you would call her when I was admitted, and she would come in. She assured me she would deliver me.” He said he’d see what he can do. I have no idea why this conversation even happened. I want to call the doctor a moron. Of course she has regular office hours, but she is my maternity doctor. She’s not an OB, but she is responsible for my obstetric care. So...get her the frick on the phone.
Now my plan was always to walk myself to my room because letting them sit you in a wheelchair projects an image of needing to be saved, so the medical staff tries to intervene/interfere more. Walking projects strength and capability. I made it one step out the door and a contraction hit. I dropped to the floor like I’d been shot, got on my hands and knees and yelled through the pain. I didn’t feel strong. My legs felt like they couldn’t hold me anymore—even on hands and knees. The nurse said, “You can’t do this here. We’ve got to get you to your room.” And she and Ray tried to get me up. But I couldn’t move. I wanted to be able to walk myself there so bad, but when they rolled up a wheelchair and plopped me in it and whisked me down the hall, I didn’t protest and I was secretly very, very grateful.
These contractions felt like Satan and all his demons trying to break out of hell via my body. Which is to say—OW. They wheeled me straight to the bathroom and suddenly my doula had returned to me. I have no idea how that happened. Maybe Ray went to get her as I was flying down the hallway. Either way, I was glad to see her. I still felt like I had to poop (TMI?), but clearly I was not in transition or even near ready to push. In retrospect I believe this sensation was because Wash’s head was already SOOOOO LOW in my pelvis that he was putting pressure on my rear. (Result of hours and hours of counter-pressure?) I was not able to poop for all my trying. In the bathroom I had my first of many hysterical breakdowns. I labored on the toilet for a while, then tried to walk back to the bed. I didn’t make it out the door. The next contraction had me back on the floor. I remember looking up at Ray on one side and Danielle on the other yelling, “I don’t think this is right. I can’t do this anymore. I’m too tired. My legs are dead. I can’t even stand.” I looked at Ray, crying, panicking, and said, “Please, please let me get an epidural. I know it’s not what we wanted. But I’m too tired to keep doing this. I feel like I am breaking in half.” He said I was doing fine. Everything was okay. I could do this. At the time, I felt like he didn’t understand. This couldn’t be normal! He didn’t believe how my strength was really GONE. He thought I could get up and walk to the bed and push out a baby, but I was sure the only thing I could do was lay on the floor and die. #melodrama
I was so scared. I begged him to pray over me. I wanted to feel calm. I wanted to feel reassured that God was with me. That I wasn’t alone, because for all my support from Ray and Danielle, I felt the weight and the burden and the pain in my body on my own. I can’t imagine going through that WITHOUT support people. But they are emotional and moral support. They are there to get me out of my head and believe in myself and my body. But my God is the God of my body. He made me this way. He made women for birth and motherhood without the interventions of medicine and medical professionals. And I wanted to talk to him and remind him that I was down here doing what he made me to do and could he please for the love of Himself help me?! Ray didn’t want to encourage my panicking. He reaffirmed that I could do this. This is normal. I was doing great. And he helped me get back out to the bed.
When my next contraction came, I hit the floor again. My legs were shaking, giving way to muscle failure. Suddenly I felt hot all over. All I had on was the robe, but it instantly became much too much.
I yelled, “Get this thing off me!” And yanked at it. Ray and Danielle helped too, Danielle going so far as to pry one of the more difficult snaps with her teeth. They got me up onto the bed where I continued to labor on my hand and knees while spewing aggressive barbs at Shannon The Nurse because she forced me to wear the baby HR monitor, the band of which wrapped directly over my lower abdomen where my contractions were attempting to rip me in half.
At one point I tried to use the squat bar, but I hated that so I went back to hands and knees. Apparently I was very calm between contractions. Quiet, zen. I honestly don’t remember this much. The doctor kept wanting to check my cervix to see if I had progressed, but I said no. I didn’t need more pain. Give me time to dilate without sticking your germy hands all inside me please and thank you.
With each contraction I thought I would pass out. The pain would be too much and I’d just go unconscious. Thinking of the ocean, reciting poetry or Psalms, all of that was gone. I would cry and say over and over, “I can't do this any more. I don’t think I can do this anymore. Please please please.” I was a basket case. I’m so embarrassed by this.
At some point a couple hours later my doctor, Dr. Carnes, came—hallelujah. I was so relieved to see her. It’s not that I particularly love her. I just know her. She is a family medicine doctor, young, introverted, and sometimes...she seemed like she didn’t have a freaking clue about hospital policies or practices involving birth. But she’s assured me several times that she has delivered lots of babies. I kept her because she agreed to work with me toward a natural birth and was open to laboring AND delivering in any position, which sadly I didn’t get to prove.
I finally let Carnes check my progress even though I was terrified to hear another depressingly low number. She announced I was 7 cm! I had gained 5 cm in 2 or 2.5 hours. Just one away from transition. And I’d been feeling like I was in transition since I was admitted. I couldn’t imagine it getting worse. But I was ready to move on. I was ready to get that freaking baby out of my freaking body. “Seven centimeters,” I said, in awe. “I’m doing this. I can’t believe it. I’m doing this!”
Danielle says this was her favorite part. She and Shannon apparently looked at each other and got a little teary watching me realize that I could do this and was in fact already doing it. I had this incredible moment where I thought, I’m actually going to be able to give birth naturally. I’m getting close to the end. And then my baby will be here. And I’ll have “done” birth. I’ll have succeeded. That was a heady awesome feeling.
Soon I began shaking uncontrollably. My stomach roiled, and I said, “I think I have to throw up.” Shannon immediately placed a bucket under my face. And hurl I did and did a lot. But this was the LEAST scary moment for me. My contractions didn’t change in a way that I noticed (not yet), but feeling the shakes and throwing up, I knew what was happening to me. This was normal. This happens. It meant I got to push soon.
So I was surprised to hear an hour had passed since I was checked but I was still at 7 cm. I swung from confident in what my body was doing to extreme frustration that my body hadn’t progressed. Maybe my attitude affected my perception of these next contractions, maybe I was exhausted and fed up from consistently severe contractions, or maybe this was real transition and the contractions became severe-er—but I started to lose it. I went deeeeeep into the psycho place. I did exactly what Donna Ryan said you shouldn’t do if you want to keep yourself under control. But it was involuntary. I tried to back away from my body. I pushed with my arms as though I could physically distance myself from my waist. Ray tried to help me. Told me I was panicking. Reminded me that I could do this. But I was freaking out. I wanted this to end. And I was willing to do almost anything to get there. Shannon stepped in and asked me then what my baby’s name was. “Washington.” She told me to say it again. So I did. Over and over and over. Washington. Washington. Washington. It became my new mantra. Just his name on my lips was encouragement to me.
Six pm finally rolled around, and with it the news, that I had at last, at last reached 10 cm. (For those keeping track, I went from 2 cm at 2pm to 10 at 6!) Doc said I didn’t have to push yet if I didn’t feel the urge. But I said, “I want to push.” I didn’t have the urge, per se. *rolls eyes* But I had decided that it was time. Mentally, I thought if I’m at 10, then there’s nothing stopping me from speeding this thing up. She said she’d let me push once to see if that brought the baby lower in station. My very first push, I moved the baby from a 0 station to +2. Everyone was impressed, and Dr. Carnes said I could keep pushing if I wanted since I made so much progress. Sadly, I could never push as well as I did that very first time.
Indeed, a lot of metaphors were thrown at me in an attempt to help me push the right way. I did it right probably one in five times. Not breathing for 10 seconds in a row, I discovered, was not possible. It led me to screaming out the last few seconds which was a waste of my voice and strength and got me in trouble with everyone every time. I wanted to yell though. I wanted to scream myself hoarse with frustration and anger. Why the heck was I doing this? Let them cut the kid out of me for all I care. I just wanted it to be over. (#heckamelodrama) Anyway, going for a 7-second push was better. But my contractions no longer seemed long enough to make progress. And pushing without the momentum of a contraction cost me strength I didn’t have and didn’t progress me at all. It was aggravating to make it all the way to the pushing stage and to feel again like I couldn’t do this anymore.
Laying slightly reclined, I had to get creative with the position of my legs. Stirrups were never offered. No, instead I stuck my giant horse legs up in a proud exultant V on the squat bar. I imagine when I’m on my death bed, if I decide to pinpoint the least dignified moment of my existence, this will be it. Naked as the day is long. Screaming my head off, spewing mild to moderate profanities. Legs, like steeples, pointed toward heaven. And all of my private bits very publicly exposed to God and everybody.
They offered me a mirror several times. I thought the only thing worse than exposing everyone to all my private parts is to see for myself exactly what they are seeing. But soon, the next worst thing was about to happen. Leg cramps.
The act of pushing requires you to pull your knees up to your chest and curl forward like a sit up and squeeze your whole body, including your legs. I can’t explain how impossible that seemed at the time. The only issue I really had with pushing was how exhausted my legs were. Each time I felt defeated by them. And when the leg cramps—which I had been staving off for hours—finally set in, I thought I would go mad. My toes curled and my calves twisted wretchedly, leaving me panicked (again) because how could I focus on having a baby when my legs were trying to break themselves?!
Apparently this was quite an ordeal. Danielle insists a good chunk of time was devoted to me trying to work out the cramps in my legs. I would sit up pathetically, impeded by my still sadly gigantic and baby-full belly, and reach for my legs, which were too far away, and squeeze them in imitation of how I wanted to massage my calves. I put Ray on one leg and Danielle on the other, but I couldn’t show them where the cramp was. And they didn’t know how to rub them. All the doctors and nurses didn’t offer to help, and I felt like they thought I was crazy. The consensus was that my priorities were out of order. I was having a baby and needed to ignore my spasming legs to push him out. Ha! Easier said than done. That is like saying I’m going to squirt salt water and lemon juice in your eyes while you shoot a bow and arrow. And the consequences of not hitting the center target is major abdominal surgery.
At 7 o’clock, the nurses change shifts. Shannon told me she’d stay. She’d stuck with me this long and she needed to see this baby. I was grateful. Her replacement was already there, a black lady named Pam with good best-friend-in-a-sitcom qualities, if you know what I mean. She is not the only extra body in the room. Roll call: me, Ray, Danielle, Shannon, Pam, Dr. Carnes, her attending, douchey doctor from earlier, and a male pediatric nurse waiting for Wash. Every time I pushed they would ALL yell to keep going, push harder, almost there almost there ALMOST THERE. But I couldn’t sustain it. I would let go, and they would fizzle like popped balloons. Each time, Dr. Carnes would press inside, I’m assuming this was a perineal massage and she was trying to protect all my bits from tearing. But it hurt like a mother and started to piss me off. So I may have exasperatedly said, “What the heck are you doing down there? I don’t like it.” And she stopped. Shannon found a warm compress and THAT felt heavenly.
Then things got kinda crazy. The monitor around my waist couldn’t track baby’s HR anymore because he was too far down, and since I’d been pushing for so long and his heart rate naturally dipped with each contraction, they thought it was important to keep monitoring him. They wanted to attach one to his head. This was one of the things we didn’t really want to do. Ray and Shannon conferred over me about whether this was something that could be avoided and decided it wasn’t. He agreed to it, and I trusted him to make that decision because I was starting to become delirious.
Suddenly Pam was there helping me push. She gave me the best direction for pushing. And with her on my left by my face and Ray next to her and Danielle on my right, the chorus of encouragement was overwhelming.
After a long while of useless pushing, I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I accepted the mirror and watched myself push. When I saw that my baby’s head went out out out OUT when I was pushing and then aaaaaaaall the way back in when I let go, my head literally tilted to the side. Huh. That’s ridiculous. I thought all this time he was inching his way forward. But it’s more like a suction than a train. On the next push, his head stayed halfway out. Danielle was excited, “He’s not going back in!”
I grunted. “I’m holding him.” She also loves to tell that line. She makes me sound like a feisty pirate saying, “Aye, matey!” Which I guess is pretty cool. In any event, I had decided he was not going back inside. He was only going out. Whether this was a good decision or not, I don’t know. At the time, it was the only thing that made sense. With the mirror, I became much more motivated. I remembered I was the only one who could get that baby out. I had to focus, try not to think about my legs and push. The next several minutes are a blur to me. Literally. I took off my glasses (I wish I’d been wearing my contacts. Maybe I would’ve really seen Wash born. :/). I was in a state of absolute delirium. I pushed. I cried. I was all over the place. Mostly I had no clue what was going on. I was just going through the motions. I remember the ring of fire as my baby boy crowned and I watched that happen. I was freaked out by how much blood I could see and didn’t know if that was because I was tearing or if it was normal.
Then finally his head was out! But suddenly his heart rate dropped. In my memory, the room became a hurricane of motion. They told me I HAD to push. He had to be born RIGHT NOW. I dug deep. I thought if I didn’t get myself together something horrible would happen. Without my glasses and in the craze, I was sure I saw my doctor reach her entire hands inside me and pull my baby out. But she didn’t. I was sure she had to cut me wide open to get him out. But she didn’t. I pushed one final incredible time and he was out. Because the professionals in the room were freaked out by his dropped heart rate, they forced Ray to cut the cord immediately and ran Wash over to the side to check him out. But within seconds, he started crying. And Ray said, “He’s okay. Hear him? He’s fine.” And I could hear him, and I was so so happy. I kept saying, “It’s over. It’s finally over.” Since Wash didn’t immediately start breastfeeding, I let them give me Pitocin to stop the bleeding. Shannon congratulated me and told me he was beautiful and she was glad she stayed.
A few moments later, they placed Wash in my arms, and I was immediately overwhelmed by him. His beautiful face. His tiny hands. His adorable curls. His wrinkly skin. My button nose. He began breastfeeding right then. His skin on my skin. He was all mine. And I was all his. In that moment, I was fundamentally altered. I thought I was a whole person. And in a way, I was. But with my son in my arms, I discovered this whole other side of myself that has been dormant and waiting to be revealed. And that missing piece is fierce and passionate and tender and impenetrable. It’s the mommy piece. I’m not sure I ever knew who I was before. I’ve spent years trying to figure it out. But I know I was made for this. For pregnancy. For birth. For motherhood.
I’m a mom. And I love it.
You can read Ray's thoughts on our birth story in my friend Cori's article "Birth Matters to Dads."
Ray had left that morning at about 8:15 am to work a dreaded 24-hour shift. The night before, we joked about how inconvenient it would be if I went into labor while he was on (or recovering from) an overnight. We laughed it off. I was confident I had plenty of time. But just in case, I petitioned God. I wrote in my prayer journal, “Ray works overnight tonight which is a bummer. So I pray I don’t go into labor in the next two days so Ray has enough time to rest up.” Bahahaha. I went to bed at 1 am (because I’m a night owl who never gets to stay up late anymore!), and at 4:45 am, I woke up with what felt like serious menstrual cramps.
Having never experienced Braxton Hicks contractions, I didn’t know if this was a contraction or just me not feeling well. That line right where your underwear sits across your lower abdomen ached. I lay there and focused all of my attention on What The Heck My Body Was Doing. And I realized, Ah...the pangs were coming and going! And it felt like my insides were tightening! So it must be a contraction! Cool. I thought, This is no big deal. I can do cramps. I mean, they hurt, but whatevskis. I got up and drank my glass of water and laid on my left side just like you’re supposed to when you first get contractions. If they were BH, they would go away after about an hour. Well, an hour later, they were still going strong. So I figured, I should let Ray know.
So I picked him up at 5:45 am. We both had a little breakfast snack and went back to bed. I woke for each contraction, even though these early ones were mild, until finally getting up around 10. I let Ray get a couple more hours in (remember he’d been up for nearly 24 hours). We spent the early afternoon getting last minute things done. I was mostly straightening up the apartment. Ray at some point decided to perform surgery on the vacuum cleaner because it wasn’t working right. Obviously. *insert eyeroll here* (Looking at all the evidence, I firmly believe I did not “nest” a single moment of my pregnancy. Ray did all the nesting in our family. I cleaned lightly because it was on a checklist of things to do Before Baby.)
Later that afternoon, Ray convinced me to chill out and watch my early labor distraction movies. So I showered and then labored on my “birthing ball” (AKA the yoga ball) while watching Star Trek: The Motion Picture (circa 1979). This was probably when I looked the most like all the birth videos I had watched. I was in my bathrobe with a heating pad on my lower back, head resting on my arms resting on the ball on the living room floor. I felt very zen. The contractions weren’t fun. But I was managing fine. I tried not to call them painful (a natural birth no-no), but they were. By 2:30 pm, they moved firmly from the mild to the moderate column. My body also prepared for war, evacuating me of every last substance in my body. I continued to eat like normal, because...well, I was hungry.Around 8 pm, Ray left to get groceries. (Obviously.) While he was out, I made myself a bath, then we went to bed. At 10, contractions were undeniably strong. At midnight, I wrote that they were “starting to wear on me. Trying to stay strong.” (Code for: “This freaking hurts. But I know it’s going to get worse.”)
I could no longer lay down and sleep. I started out in bed, standing for each contraction while Ray slept. (I was trying so hard to be tough. I didn’t want him to help me until I really needed help. And it’s a good thing too…)
At 1:45 am, I took bath/shower. But regular home bathtubs are not equipped to handle a giant pregnant woman with contractions. I wanted to relax. I would lay back during off minutes and, when the next one hit, heave myself over onto my hands and knees, leaving only part of my giant belly in the water and the rest of me exposed to the cold air. It was awkward and ultimately not all that relaxing. So I eventually gave up on the tub altogether.
Then began the circus of sleeping arrangements. I couldn’t lay on the bed anymore. So I slept on the floor in the baby room and labored on my hands and knees. But that didn’t last long. I decided I needed Ray’s help. Poor guy. I slept upright in chair with my head resting on my arms resting on 2-3 pillows resting on our kitchen bar counter while Ray slept on the floor by the piano. I’d jump up and lean on the chair for each contraction with Ray squeezing my hips through them. We did this for HOURS. Not the best rest by any stretch.
Around 7 am, we decided to…help labor along in the most natural way we knew how… Ahem. Gotta say, during labor, it’s not nearly as fun as not during labor. For me, this was for birthing purposes only. (And I’m glad for my husband’s sake we did because the following six weeks were a doozy.) Afterward, I labored straddling toilet, attempting to sleep propping my arms on the tank. I chose Sleeping At Last to be my labor soundtrack. It was a great choice.
Around 10 am, contractions were coming hard enough and close enough that I wanted my doula there with me. Danielle arrived around 11 am and did counter-pressure with me for a little over an hour until we all decided it was finally time to go to the hospital.
Riding the car with contractions wasn’t as bad as I was expecting, but still wasn’t fun. I’m glad our hospital is only 15-20 minutes away. We shuffled through the parking lot. I walked around the lobby, squatting for contractions which hadn’t felt good earlier but was a requirement for these intense ones. Before we went upstairs, I decided to use the bathroom. Danielle asked if I wanted her to come with me. I balked. I’ve always been pretty shy when it comes to my body. I never stripped naked in the locker room even when my fellow volleyball players did. My roommate in college never got a really good look at EVERYTHING I’ve got going on. I’ve peed in front of like 2 people and my husband isn’t one of them. I really really wanted to tell her, “No, I can pee by myself.” But then a contraction hit. Ow. So I decided, okay, this is the moment my modesty goes. I’m in labor. She’s gonna see a lot more of my parts than me sitting on the pot. So I let her join me. It was weird trying to pee and it felt like I didn’t really have to go as bad as I thought. By this time, I really felt like I had to poop (TMI?). I kept trying, but nothing was happening. She helped me through the contractions (I was already getting kinda vocal).
When I left the bathroom, I remembered it was Sunday now. Father’s Day! This might be my last chance to call my dad. He didn’t answer so I left a message that basically went, “Hi dad. I just wanted to call and say Happy Father’s Day. And as a gift I’m giving you a grandson. I’m at the hospital and IhavetogobecauseI’mhavingacontractionsBYE!”
We moved slowly toward L&D, but I couldn’t walk through these contractions. I stopped and squatted for each one. I even labored in the courtyard outside L&D, hoping to make as much progress as possible before surrendering myself to the hospital. At 1 pm, I checked in. This was the worst part. To be admitted, you must be contracting for 1 minute, 4 minutes apart, and 4 cm dilated. I was SURE I hit all of those qualifications but there’s only one I couldn’t check for myself. (What? I don’t know where my cervix is. I’ve looked. It all looks like...you know what? Let’s not get metaphorical about my lady business.) I got into triage and ditched my pants. They belted me. I had to wear the horrendous contraction monitor for 20 minutes so they could confirm active labor… and I wasn’t allowed to move with it on. I agreed to this when they put it on me. But when those first contractions hit, I thought, there’s no way. I need to move. I’m in crazy intense pain. And I’m just supposed to lie there and take it? It gets worse.
The nurse came in. She seemed professional…and unimpressed with me. She had me scoot down and spread ‘em so she could check me. I had never felt pain like that in my life. I don’t know what it is they do exactly when they reach in to “check” you, but it hurts like a swear swear swear. I screamed and tried to back away from her intrusive prying unkind hands. She retracted and with a smack of her latex gloves announced, “You’re closed.”
“What?!” I said, traumatized and no longer even resembling a person holding it together.
“You’re 80% effaced and closed.”
“What do you mean ‘closed?’ How many centimeters is that?”
“Zero.”
“Zero?” I couldn’t stop the tears them. How was this possible? I mean, I’d heard plenty of stories about people who come to the hospital too early. But I waited 33 hours. I waited until I was sure it was the real thing. And I wasn’t dilated AT ALL? My prayers started sounding pathetic at this point. I was begging God to help me because I couldn’t imagine doing this for 12 or 16 or 24 more hours.
A doctor came in. He was young and also looked unimpressed by me. I’d been making a lot of noise. So yeah. He said he was going to check me now too. Which terrified me because I already knew I didn’t want him to do it. Why go through all that pain just to hear the same thing? What could have changed in 5 minutes? I scooted and spread for him (Joy.), and he reached for the stars. My scream was a visceral thing. I said, “YOU HAVE TO STOP NOW!” And tried to back away again. He unreached and said stiffly, “Yeah, you’re only 2 cm dilated, 50% effaced.”
I was crying a lot now. I felt every kind of violated. I know they were just doing their jobs (and I learned later it hurt so badly because I was still posterior), but I held it against them personally for also making me feel like crap. I hated both of them unequivocally and that hasn’t change. I still don’t know why I went from 80% to 50%. But going 0 to 2 wasn’t really an improvement because they still wouldn’t admit me. It was all terrible.
So I put my pants back on and began the long shuffle back to the car with a spirit I can only describe as utterly hopeless. The contractions had gotten worse from the inactivity. The pain was excruciating. The squats were harder to get down into and especially to get back up out of. We made it to the lobby and I had to pee again. Danielle came with me again and as I peed I noticed it seemed...different. When I thought I had stopped peeing there was still something leaking. We waited and the trickle continued. I was almost certain I wasn’t peeing (but things get crazy during labor. Maybe I was losing sensation down there!). But maybe that bro had broken my water with his nether reach. She left me alone in the bathroom to find me a pad because obviously I didn’t bring any because obviously I’m a moron. I feel bad for the mother and daughter who came in while I was alone and moaning and groaning. The mom explained I was having a baby. But I’m sure the little girl is scarred for life.
Danielle returned with a pad and helped me begin my journey back upstairs. Along the way though, my legs started shaking. I felt exhausted and I wasn’t even admitted yet. How could I keep doing this? I could no longer labor in squats. I got on my hands and knees every time and walking became all but impossible. I finally made it to L&D again, this time just to check if my water broke. We asked not to have my cervix checked. I wouldn’t do it. I just wanted to know if my water has broken. If so, they’d admit me regardless of my dilation. If not, I’d request some Ambien to help me get some rest and go home.
The doctor (who I’m convinced hated me) begrudgingly agreed. The nurse (who I’m ALSO convinced hated me) got out the speculum. She said, “Okay, I know this is uncomfortable. But I need you to lie as still as possible. No flailing and moving around.” As in, not like last time. I agreed and gripped Ray’s hand and forced myself to relax even though contractions were coming and I was laying down with a monitor belt around my waist and them putting things in my hooha when something else wanted to come out felt like death. But it didn’t hurt as bad as being checked. They swabbed me and quickly confirmed my water was leaking and I can be admitted. Yay. Because regardless of how many centimeters I was, I was SURE I was in labor. I thought, My baby is coming soon. He better be, or he’ll be born in serious trouble.
I changed into a gown. And a new nurse, who would be my nurse, came to give me my IV. This was something we fought for a while. I abhor needles and have terrible veins and always wind up getting stuck over and over. Or they search for a vein for so long that the anticipation makes me want to hyperventilate and vomit. But ultimately we agreed, because 1) it’s their policy and we really couldn’t NOT agree, 2) they agreed to just give me a saline lock without fluids, and 3) I wound up positive with GBS and had to have antibiotics anyway. Joy.
Shannon was my nurse’s name. She was blonde, pretty, happy, nice. But she stuck me twice in my left arm and didn’t get a vein. She told me she only tries twice then she gets someone else. And she rarely misses a second time. But I was the lucky winner that day. (#hatinglife) A different nurse came in to stick me and got it the first time. But I’d have a bruise on my left arm for two or three weeks from where Shannon tried.
The doctor came back and said they had to wait until I’m further dilated before they could give me an epidural. I told him with as much confidence as I could muster through my drying tears that I planned to do this naturally. To his credit, he didn’t laugh, roll his eyes, or do anything that confirmed he thought I couldn’t hack it. I was already doubting myself, but he just said, okay then. I asked if my doctor had been informed that I was there. He said she’s off duty/doesn’t work on the weekends so she wouldn’t be delivering me. I almost had a conniption.
“She told me you would call her when I was admitted, and she would come in. She assured me she would deliver me.” He said he’d see what he can do. I have no idea why this conversation even happened. I want to call the doctor a moron. Of course she has regular office hours, but she is my maternity doctor. She’s not an OB, but she is responsible for my obstetric care. So...get her the frick on the phone.
Now my plan was always to walk myself to my room because letting them sit you in a wheelchair projects an image of needing to be saved, so the medical staff tries to intervene/interfere more. Walking projects strength and capability. I made it one step out the door and a contraction hit. I dropped to the floor like I’d been shot, got on my hands and knees and yelled through the pain. I didn’t feel strong. My legs felt like they couldn’t hold me anymore—even on hands and knees. The nurse said, “You can’t do this here. We’ve got to get you to your room.” And she and Ray tried to get me up. But I couldn’t move. I wanted to be able to walk myself there so bad, but when they rolled up a wheelchair and plopped me in it and whisked me down the hall, I didn’t protest and I was secretly very, very grateful.
These contractions felt like Satan and all his demons trying to break out of hell via my body. Which is to say—OW. They wheeled me straight to the bathroom and suddenly my doula had returned to me. I have no idea how that happened. Maybe Ray went to get her as I was flying down the hallway. Either way, I was glad to see her. I still felt like I had to poop (TMI?), but clearly I was not in transition or even near ready to push. In retrospect I believe this sensation was because Wash’s head was already SOOOOO LOW in my pelvis that he was putting pressure on my rear. (Result of hours and hours of counter-pressure?) I was not able to poop for all my trying. In the bathroom I had my first of many hysterical breakdowns. I labored on the toilet for a while, then tried to walk back to the bed. I didn’t make it out the door. The next contraction had me back on the floor. I remember looking up at Ray on one side and Danielle on the other yelling, “I don’t think this is right. I can’t do this anymore. I’m too tired. My legs are dead. I can’t even stand.” I looked at Ray, crying, panicking, and said, “Please, please let me get an epidural. I know it’s not what we wanted. But I’m too tired to keep doing this. I feel like I am breaking in half.” He said I was doing fine. Everything was okay. I could do this. At the time, I felt like he didn’t understand. This couldn’t be normal! He didn’t believe how my strength was really GONE. He thought I could get up and walk to the bed and push out a baby, but I was sure the only thing I could do was lay on the floor and die. #melodrama
I was so scared. I begged him to pray over me. I wanted to feel calm. I wanted to feel reassured that God was with me. That I wasn’t alone, because for all my support from Ray and Danielle, I felt the weight and the burden and the pain in my body on my own. I can’t imagine going through that WITHOUT support people. But they are emotional and moral support. They are there to get me out of my head and believe in myself and my body. But my God is the God of my body. He made me this way. He made women for birth and motherhood without the interventions of medicine and medical professionals. And I wanted to talk to him and remind him that I was down here doing what he made me to do and could he please for the love of Himself help me?! Ray didn’t want to encourage my panicking. He reaffirmed that I could do this. This is normal. I was doing great. And he helped me get back out to the bed.
When my next contraction came, I hit the floor again. My legs were shaking, giving way to muscle failure. Suddenly I felt hot all over. All I had on was the robe, but it instantly became much too much.
I yelled, “Get this thing off me!” And yanked at it. Ray and Danielle helped too, Danielle going so far as to pry one of the more difficult snaps with her teeth. They got me up onto the bed where I continued to labor on my hand and knees while spewing aggressive barbs at Shannon The Nurse because she forced me to wear the baby HR monitor, the band of which wrapped directly over my lower abdomen where my contractions were attempting to rip me in half.
At one point I tried to use the squat bar, but I hated that so I went back to hands and knees. Apparently I was very calm between contractions. Quiet, zen. I honestly don’t remember this much. The doctor kept wanting to check my cervix to see if I had progressed, but I said no. I didn’t need more pain. Give me time to dilate without sticking your germy hands all inside me please and thank you.
With each contraction I thought I would pass out. The pain would be too much and I’d just go unconscious. Thinking of the ocean, reciting poetry or Psalms, all of that was gone. I would cry and say over and over, “I can't do this any more. I don’t think I can do this anymore. Please please please.” I was a basket case. I’m so embarrassed by this.
At some point a couple hours later my doctor, Dr. Carnes, came—hallelujah. I was so relieved to see her. It’s not that I particularly love her. I just know her. She is a family medicine doctor, young, introverted, and sometimes...she seemed like she didn’t have a freaking clue about hospital policies or practices involving birth. But she’s assured me several times that she has delivered lots of babies. I kept her because she agreed to work with me toward a natural birth and was open to laboring AND delivering in any position, which sadly I didn’t get to prove.
I finally let Carnes check my progress even though I was terrified to hear another depressingly low number. She announced I was 7 cm! I had gained 5 cm in 2 or 2.5 hours. Just one away from transition. And I’d been feeling like I was in transition since I was admitted. I couldn’t imagine it getting worse. But I was ready to move on. I was ready to get that freaking baby out of my freaking body. “Seven centimeters,” I said, in awe. “I’m doing this. I can’t believe it. I’m doing this!”
Danielle says this was her favorite part. She and Shannon apparently looked at each other and got a little teary watching me realize that I could do this and was in fact already doing it. I had this incredible moment where I thought, I’m actually going to be able to give birth naturally. I’m getting close to the end. And then my baby will be here. And I’ll have “done” birth. I’ll have succeeded. That was a heady awesome feeling.
Soon I began shaking uncontrollably. My stomach roiled, and I said, “I think I have to throw up.” Shannon immediately placed a bucket under my face. And hurl I did and did a lot. But this was the LEAST scary moment for me. My contractions didn’t change in a way that I noticed (not yet), but feeling the shakes and throwing up, I knew what was happening to me. This was normal. This happens. It meant I got to push soon.
So I was surprised to hear an hour had passed since I was checked but I was still at 7 cm. I swung from confident in what my body was doing to extreme frustration that my body hadn’t progressed. Maybe my attitude affected my perception of these next contractions, maybe I was exhausted and fed up from consistently severe contractions, or maybe this was real transition and the contractions became severe-er—but I started to lose it. I went deeeeeep into the psycho place. I did exactly what Donna Ryan said you shouldn’t do if you want to keep yourself under control. But it was involuntary. I tried to back away from my body. I pushed with my arms as though I could physically distance myself from my waist. Ray tried to help me. Told me I was panicking. Reminded me that I could do this. But I was freaking out. I wanted this to end. And I was willing to do almost anything to get there. Shannon stepped in and asked me then what my baby’s name was. “Washington.” She told me to say it again. So I did. Over and over and over. Washington. Washington. Washington. It became my new mantra. Just his name on my lips was encouragement to me.
Six pm finally rolled around, and with it the news, that I had at last, at last reached 10 cm. (For those keeping track, I went from 2 cm at 2pm to 10 at 6!) Doc said I didn’t have to push yet if I didn’t feel the urge. But I said, “I want to push.” I didn’t have the urge, per se. *rolls eyes* But I had decided that it was time. Mentally, I thought if I’m at 10, then there’s nothing stopping me from speeding this thing up. She said she’d let me push once to see if that brought the baby lower in station. My very first push, I moved the baby from a 0 station to +2. Everyone was impressed, and Dr. Carnes said I could keep pushing if I wanted since I made so much progress. Sadly, I could never push as well as I did that very first time.
Indeed, a lot of metaphors were thrown at me in an attempt to help me push the right way. I did it right probably one in five times. Not breathing for 10 seconds in a row, I discovered, was not possible. It led me to screaming out the last few seconds which was a waste of my voice and strength and got me in trouble with everyone every time. I wanted to yell though. I wanted to scream myself hoarse with frustration and anger. Why the heck was I doing this? Let them cut the kid out of me for all I care. I just wanted it to be over. (#heckamelodrama) Anyway, going for a 7-second push was better. But my contractions no longer seemed long enough to make progress. And pushing without the momentum of a contraction cost me strength I didn’t have and didn’t progress me at all. It was aggravating to make it all the way to the pushing stage and to feel again like I couldn’t do this anymore.
Laying slightly reclined, I had to get creative with the position of my legs. Stirrups were never offered. No, instead I stuck my giant horse legs up in a proud exultant V on the squat bar. I imagine when I’m on my death bed, if I decide to pinpoint the least dignified moment of my existence, this will be it. Naked as the day is long. Screaming my head off, spewing mild to moderate profanities. Legs, like steeples, pointed toward heaven. And all of my private bits very publicly exposed to God and everybody.
They offered me a mirror several times. I thought the only thing worse than exposing everyone to all my private parts is to see for myself exactly what they are seeing. But soon, the next worst thing was about to happen. Leg cramps.
The act of pushing requires you to pull your knees up to your chest and curl forward like a sit up and squeeze your whole body, including your legs. I can’t explain how impossible that seemed at the time. The only issue I really had with pushing was how exhausted my legs were. Each time I felt defeated by them. And when the leg cramps—which I had been staving off for hours—finally set in, I thought I would go mad. My toes curled and my calves twisted wretchedly, leaving me panicked (again) because how could I focus on having a baby when my legs were trying to break themselves?!
Apparently this was quite an ordeal. Danielle insists a good chunk of time was devoted to me trying to work out the cramps in my legs. I would sit up pathetically, impeded by my still sadly gigantic and baby-full belly, and reach for my legs, which were too far away, and squeeze them in imitation of how I wanted to massage my calves. I put Ray on one leg and Danielle on the other, but I couldn’t show them where the cramp was. And they didn’t know how to rub them. All the doctors and nurses didn’t offer to help, and I felt like they thought I was crazy. The consensus was that my priorities were out of order. I was having a baby and needed to ignore my spasming legs to push him out. Ha! Easier said than done. That is like saying I’m going to squirt salt water and lemon juice in your eyes while you shoot a bow and arrow. And the consequences of not hitting the center target is major abdominal surgery.
At 7 o’clock, the nurses change shifts. Shannon told me she’d stay. She’d stuck with me this long and she needed to see this baby. I was grateful. Her replacement was already there, a black lady named Pam with good best-friend-in-a-sitcom qualities, if you know what I mean. She is not the only extra body in the room. Roll call: me, Ray, Danielle, Shannon, Pam, Dr. Carnes, her attending, douchey doctor from earlier, and a male pediatric nurse waiting for Wash. Every time I pushed they would ALL yell to keep going, push harder, almost there almost there ALMOST THERE. But I couldn’t sustain it. I would let go, and they would fizzle like popped balloons. Each time, Dr. Carnes would press inside, I’m assuming this was a perineal massage and she was trying to protect all my bits from tearing. But it hurt like a mother and started to piss me off. So I may have exasperatedly said, “What the heck are you doing down there? I don’t like it.” And she stopped. Shannon found a warm compress and THAT felt heavenly.
Then things got kinda crazy. The monitor around my waist couldn’t track baby’s HR anymore because he was too far down, and since I’d been pushing for so long and his heart rate naturally dipped with each contraction, they thought it was important to keep monitoring him. They wanted to attach one to his head. This was one of the things we didn’t really want to do. Ray and Shannon conferred over me about whether this was something that could be avoided and decided it wasn’t. He agreed to it, and I trusted him to make that decision because I was starting to become delirious.
Suddenly Pam was there helping me push. She gave me the best direction for pushing. And with her on my left by my face and Ray next to her and Danielle on my right, the chorus of encouragement was overwhelming.
After a long while of useless pushing, I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I accepted the mirror and watched myself push. When I saw that my baby’s head went out out out OUT when I was pushing and then aaaaaaaall the way back in when I let go, my head literally tilted to the side. Huh. That’s ridiculous. I thought all this time he was inching his way forward. But it’s more like a suction than a train. On the next push, his head stayed halfway out. Danielle was excited, “He’s not going back in!”
I grunted. “I’m holding him.” She also loves to tell that line. She makes me sound like a feisty pirate saying, “Aye, matey!” Which I guess is pretty cool. In any event, I had decided he was not going back inside. He was only going out. Whether this was a good decision or not, I don’t know. At the time, it was the only thing that made sense. With the mirror, I became much more motivated. I remembered I was the only one who could get that baby out. I had to focus, try not to think about my legs and push. The next several minutes are a blur to me. Literally. I took off my glasses (I wish I’d been wearing my contacts. Maybe I would’ve really seen Wash born. :/). I was in a state of absolute delirium. I pushed. I cried. I was all over the place. Mostly I had no clue what was going on. I was just going through the motions. I remember the ring of fire as my baby boy crowned and I watched that happen. I was freaked out by how much blood I could see and didn’t know if that was because I was tearing or if it was normal.
Then finally his head was out! But suddenly his heart rate dropped. In my memory, the room became a hurricane of motion. They told me I HAD to push. He had to be born RIGHT NOW. I dug deep. I thought if I didn’t get myself together something horrible would happen. Without my glasses and in the craze, I was sure I saw my doctor reach her entire hands inside me and pull my baby out. But she didn’t. I was sure she had to cut me wide open to get him out. But she didn’t. I pushed one final incredible time and he was out. Because the professionals in the room were freaked out by his dropped heart rate, they forced Ray to cut the cord immediately and ran Wash over to the side to check him out. But within seconds, he started crying. And Ray said, “He’s okay. Hear him? He’s fine.” And I could hear him, and I was so so happy. I kept saying, “It’s over. It’s finally over.” Since Wash didn’t immediately start breastfeeding, I let them give me Pitocin to stop the bleeding. Shannon congratulated me and told me he was beautiful and she was glad she stayed.
A few moments later, they placed Wash in my arms, and I was immediately overwhelmed by him. His beautiful face. His tiny hands. His adorable curls. His wrinkly skin. My button nose. He began breastfeeding right then. His skin on my skin. He was all mine. And I was all his. In that moment, I was fundamentally altered. I thought I was a whole person. And in a way, I was. But with my son in my arms, I discovered this whole other side of myself that has been dormant and waiting to be revealed. And that missing piece is fierce and passionate and tender and impenetrable. It’s the mommy piece. I’m not sure I ever knew who I was before. I’ve spent years trying to figure it out. But I know I was made for this. For pregnancy. For birth. For motherhood.I’m a mom. And I love it.
Washington Ray Moore was born on Father’s Day, Sunday, June 16, 2013 at
7:39 pm. He was 7 lb 10 oz, 20 inches long. I labored a total of 40
hours (34 hours early labor 4.5 hours active labor, 1.5 hours pushing).
And I did it all naturally. I’m so proud…of both of us.
My Journey Toward A Natural Birth | A Birth Backstory
Before I tell my birth story, I have to give you the backstory.
Once upon a time, I was pudgy teenage girl with frizzy hair and raging orthodontic issues. No boy had ever looked twice at me. I know...sad story. So when I was 15 years old, I was sure no one would ever love me. So I made it a decision, like it was what I wanted: I wasn’t getting married and I was NOT having kids. I had seen Alien and Aliens and Alien Resurrection. And maybe it’s cliche, but pregnancy didn’t look much different to me.
A couple of years later, I was very passionate about music and determined to become a professional singer/songwriter. I was starting to gain confidence in my abilities and also in myself. I imagined maybe—just maybe—there was someone out there for me. But I wanted my capital-C “Career.” So I decided—fine, I’d get married. But he would have to know that I was going to be a musician on tour for most of the time. And he would have to follow me around. And I was still not having kids. But maybe I could adopt.
A little while later, when my music plans (for reasons that are much too complicated for this story) fell through/changed and I had no clue what I was supposed to do with my life, I decided I would get married. Because who wouldn’t want me?! (Ha. Yeah right!). And maybe—just maybe—I would have one kid. Because this world needed a mini-me running around it.
A bit after that, when I had met The Man Of My Dreams and we were definitely going to spend The Rest Of Our Lives together, we discussed our desires for our family. I still wanted just one. He wanted twelve. We did eventually compromise at six. He convinced me because well, I was charmed by the idea of having 6 of him (much of that charm has been tempered by time and knowing), and because of math. He said he wanted to make a tribe of 50 in 3 generations. Our 6 kids x their 6 kids each + their 6 spouses + us 2 parents = 50. Impressive isn’t it. Anyway, I’ve have the kids, but I was definitely getting an epidural the minute the stick turned blue.
Fast-forward several years to when I’m actually starting to think, sure...I could do this. I could be a mom. I meet a chick named Cori. If there is one word that describes Cori, it’s “passionate.” She carries this passion about a LOT of things, but one that stood out was her advocacy for natural birth. Sure, I’d heard of people giving birth sans drugs. And I had briefly considered it. As far as I understood, an unmedicated birth was an ego boost. The only benefits were bragging rights. And as an arrogant and competitive person, I thought it’d be cool to be able brag that I was That Tough. I figured, I’d try to do it without the meds, and if I couldn’t handle it, #NBD.
But I am definitely a person inspired by others’ passions. At first I thought Cori was…fanatical. Radical. Natural birth is cool and all, but why be so extreme about it? Didn’t The Good Lord give us beautiful medicine to do things like birth babies this better than our ancestors could have?! *angst* Well, somewhere along the line, I started reading the articles she posted. The first one was about tears versus episiotomies. I was immediately traumatized by the notion that something so violent could happen to my special parts. But I was intrigued by the notion that natural birth could be different. So I read some more. And I read some more. And finally I was like—yeah, you know what? I can see how natural birth could be better for me. I guess I’ll try my very best to do it that way. I’ll even take a natural birth class, maybe. But if in the heat of the moment, I think I really need drugs, I’ll get them, and know at least I did my best for myself.
Cue first Birth Boot Camp video (we took the online class because we moved), and Donna Ryan begins her lesson with—if you’re going to do a natural birth, you have to commit to it. Don’t go into it thinking you can change your mind, because then you won't try. And I remember thinking—RUDE. You don’t know me! *ghetto style* But I decided then, okay. This chick is like an expert or whatevs. I’ll do it. I’ll commit with the understanding that there is a small percentage of people who actually do need medical intervention. So I’ll be rational about that if the time comes.
Then I learned about the cascade of interventions and its side effects. And what convinced me was not how natural birth was better for me, but how it was better for my baby and our relationship. Then I was all in, ready to do everything in my power to have a real normal natural birth. But I knew myself. I knew I’m a sucker when it comes to pain. My entire life I have fought against pain. The second I feel a headache come on, I pop pills. I take ibuprofen days in advance of period cramps, then double up with acetaminophen when the pain actually hits. I never want to feel the tiniest amount of pain. So I knew if I was going to have a natural birth, I was going to need all the support I could get.
Ray, as always, was way ahead of me on this whole process. The minute we discovered I was pregnant, he set about earning an honorary degree in pregnancy and labor for all the reading he was doing. I knew we had the same goals and he would push me to do what I knew I wanted to do but perhaps wasn’t mentally strong enough to do. He coined the phrase “supportive, not soft” to describe himself and how he imagined he’d be when I was laboring. That’s Ray. He would keep me on track, but he may not be the most comforting. So we set out to find a doula.
We interviewed three and met another one. Doula #1 was great. I loved her personality. But she wasn’t certified. That wasn’t a big deal to me, but there were two problems which determined I wouldn’t hire her: 1) the hospital claims to be very strict about allowing only certified doulas in the delivery room (this turns out to be untrue as no one checked my actual doula’s credentials when we got there!) and 2) she wasn’t forthcoming about her certification status. I think I’d have been glad to help her on her way to getting certified. But she passed herself off as certified, and that just doesn’t fly for me. Doula #2 was the opposite. Certified for like 12 years. So obviously very experienced. But her personality didn’t jive with mine. I knew almost immediately that she would not be a comforting presence for me. Doula #3 was just right. Danielle Freudenberg was the perfect blend of professional and personable. I walked away from our meeting sure I would call her and hire her. And I did. #bestdecisionever
This was my labor prep. You can read about the birth here.
Resources We Consumed in Anticipation (or are still consuming…)
Pregnancy
What To Expect When You’re Expecting by Heidi Murkoff, etc. (Book/App)
Baby Center (App/Website)
Labor and Birth
Birth Boot Camp online class and book
The Birth Book by Dr. William and Martha Sears
The Birth Partner by Penny Simkin
Natural Hospital Birth by Cynthia Gabriel
Childbirth Without Fear by Grantly Dick-Read
Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth by Ina May Gaskin
The Business of Being Born (documentary available on Netflix)
More Business of Being Born (documentary available on Netflix)
Breastfeeding
The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding by La Leche League
Ina May’s Guide to Breastfeeding by Ina May Gaskin
The Nursing Mother’s Companion by Kathleen Huggins
Once upon a time, I was pudgy teenage girl with frizzy hair and raging orthodontic issues. No boy had ever looked twice at me. I know...sad story. So when I was 15 years old, I was sure no one would ever love me. So I made it a decision, like it was what I wanted: I wasn’t getting married and I was NOT having kids. I had seen Alien and Aliens and Alien Resurrection. And maybe it’s cliche, but pregnancy didn’t look much different to me.A couple of years later, I was very passionate about music and determined to become a professional singer/songwriter. I was starting to gain confidence in my abilities and also in myself. I imagined maybe—just maybe—there was someone out there for me. But I wanted my capital-C “Career.” So I decided—fine, I’d get married. But he would have to know that I was going to be a musician on tour for most of the time. And he would have to follow me around. And I was still not having kids. But maybe I could adopt.
A little while later, when my music plans (for reasons that are much too complicated for this story) fell through/changed and I had no clue what I was supposed to do with my life, I decided I would get married. Because who wouldn’t want me?! (Ha. Yeah right!). And maybe—just maybe—I would have one kid. Because this world needed a mini-me running around it.
A bit after that, when I had met The Man Of My Dreams and we were definitely going to spend The Rest Of Our Lives together, we discussed our desires for our family. I still wanted just one. He wanted twelve. We did eventually compromise at six. He convinced me because well, I was charmed by the idea of having 6 of him (much of that charm has been tempered by time and knowing), and because of math. He said he wanted to make a tribe of 50 in 3 generations. Our 6 kids x their 6 kids each + their 6 spouses + us 2 parents = 50. Impressive isn’t it. Anyway, I’ve have the kids, but I was definitely getting an epidural the minute the stick turned blue.
Fast-forward several years to when I’m actually starting to think, sure...I could do this. I could be a mom. I meet a chick named Cori. If there is one word that describes Cori, it’s “passionate.” She carries this passion about a LOT of things, but one that stood out was her advocacy for natural birth. Sure, I’d heard of people giving birth sans drugs. And I had briefly considered it. As far as I understood, an unmedicated birth was an ego boost. The only benefits were bragging rights. And as an arrogant and competitive person, I thought it’d be cool to be able brag that I was That Tough. I figured, I’d try to do it without the meds, and if I couldn’t handle it, #NBD.
But I am definitely a person inspired by others’ passions. At first I thought Cori was…fanatical. Radical. Natural birth is cool and all, but why be so extreme about it? Didn’t The Good Lord give us beautiful medicine to do things like birth babies this better than our ancestors could have?! *angst* Well, somewhere along the line, I started reading the articles she posted. The first one was about tears versus episiotomies. I was immediately traumatized by the notion that something so violent could happen to my special parts. But I was intrigued by the notion that natural birth could be different. So I read some more. And I read some more. And finally I was like—yeah, you know what? I can see how natural birth could be better for me. I guess I’ll try my very best to do it that way. I’ll even take a natural birth class, maybe. But if in the heat of the moment, I think I really need drugs, I’ll get them, and know at least I did my best for myself.
Cue first Birth Boot Camp video (we took the online class because we moved), and Donna Ryan begins her lesson with—if you’re going to do a natural birth, you have to commit to it. Don’t go into it thinking you can change your mind, because then you won't try. And I remember thinking—RUDE. You don’t know me! *ghetto style* But I decided then, okay. This chick is like an expert or whatevs. I’ll do it. I’ll commit with the understanding that there is a small percentage of people who actually do need medical intervention. So I’ll be rational about that if the time comes.
Then I learned about the cascade of interventions and its side effects. And what convinced me was not how natural birth was better for me, but how it was better for my baby and our relationship. Then I was all in, ready to do everything in my power to have a real normal natural birth. But I knew myself. I knew I’m a sucker when it comes to pain. My entire life I have fought against pain. The second I feel a headache come on, I pop pills. I take ibuprofen days in advance of period cramps, then double up with acetaminophen when the pain actually hits. I never want to feel the tiniest amount of pain. So I knew if I was going to have a natural birth, I was going to need all the support I could get. Ray, as always, was way ahead of me on this whole process. The minute we discovered I was pregnant, he set about earning an honorary degree in pregnancy and labor for all the reading he was doing. I knew we had the same goals and he would push me to do what I knew I wanted to do but perhaps wasn’t mentally strong enough to do. He coined the phrase “supportive, not soft” to describe himself and how he imagined he’d be when I was laboring. That’s Ray. He would keep me on track, but he may not be the most comforting. So we set out to find a doula.
We interviewed three and met another one. Doula #1 was great. I loved her personality. But she wasn’t certified. That wasn’t a big deal to me, but there were two problems which determined I wouldn’t hire her: 1) the hospital claims to be very strict about allowing only certified doulas in the delivery room (this turns out to be untrue as no one checked my actual doula’s credentials when we got there!) and 2) she wasn’t forthcoming about her certification status. I think I’d have been glad to help her on her way to getting certified. But she passed herself off as certified, and that just doesn’t fly for me. Doula #2 was the opposite. Certified for like 12 years. So obviously very experienced. But her personality didn’t jive with mine. I knew almost immediately that she would not be a comforting presence for me. Doula #3 was just right. Danielle Freudenberg was the perfect blend of professional and personable. I walked away from our meeting sure I would call her and hire her. And I did. #bestdecisionever
This was my labor prep. You can read about the birth here.
Resources We Consumed in Anticipation (or are still consuming…)
Pregnancy
What To Expect When You’re Expecting by Heidi Murkoff, etc. (Book/App)
Baby Center (App/Website)
Labor and Birth
Birth Boot Camp online class and book
The Birth Book by Dr. William and Martha Sears
The Birth Partner by Penny Simkin
Natural Hospital Birth by Cynthia Gabriel
Childbirth Without Fear by Grantly Dick-Read
Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth by Ina May Gaskin
The Business of Being Born (documentary available on Netflix)
More Business of Being Born (documentary available on Netflix)
Breastfeeding
The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding by La Leche League
Ina May’s Guide to Breastfeeding by Ina May Gaskin
The Nursing Mother’s Companion by Kathleen Huggins
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