The Tale of Baby Eight (so far)

In case I haven’t mentioned it, I’m pregnant. Currently 37 weeks, 4 days pregnant. This is baby number eight and this pregnancy has required an incredible amount of faith.

In September of 2016, I was attempting a second VBAC (babies 1-4 all born vaginally, 5 born by (likely) unnecessary cesarean due to breech positioning, 6 VBAC). Labour was dragging on and I finally went in to see if possibly baby was not in the perfect position to be born. He wasn’t – his head was diagonally down but that meant no pressure on my cervix to help with dilation. I was around 1 cm when the obstetrician moved him externally and broke my water, which was heavily stained with meconium. I then spent a few hours labouring before being put on Pitocin to move things along. I was coping well, chatting with my daughter and husband and amazing the nurses with how calm I was. After some time, the nursing staff noticed decelerations in baby’s heart rate and would need me to move positions to get it to come back up to normal. It returned to normal every time but continued to happen in various positions. This, along with the meconium in the amniotic fluid and very slow dilation – I seemed to stall around 6 cm – made them concerned. Finally, close to midnight, the OB came in and decided that this pattern was not indicative of anything positive and we agreed to another cesarean. I was told later that his heart rate was plummeting because he was totally wrapped up in his umbilical cord. I had a hard first day in the hospital and after two nights, when being discharged, I asked the OB how things looked and what his opinion was of my having more children. This was likely a mistake. He had an almost emotional/angry reaction, mentioned a “paper thin uterus” and placenta accreta – a very serious condition that I was completely unaware I had until then, two days after birth. I was crushed. Mike wasn’t with me when this happened, making it even harder to process.

We talked, prayed, cried, talked some more and after a few months decided that we still didn’t feel right about birth control, sterilization, etc. and that we would just trust that if I ever got pregnant again, I would be able to safely carry a child to term. We agreed that it might mean early delivery by c-section, a hysterectomy, etc. but that we were okay with all of that if it came to it. And then we went on with life.

In May of this year, I had a few sudden and unexpected symptoms that led me to believe that I might be pregnant. Trying to avoid being asked if I was pregnant and forced to either tell sooner than I was ready or lie, I didn’t even take a test until I was nine weeks pregnant. By then, it was a formality. We waited until I was thirteen weeks to tell our kids – only three of my friends knew prior to that. I was blessed by an incredibly easy pregnancy through the first and second trimesters and only started to feel *pregnant* close to the third. All through it, I had doctors who thought my chances at VBA2C (vaginal birth after two cesareans) were great. My ultrasound and other things looked totally normal. They treated me just like any other pregnant woman but about two months ago, I was told that hospital policy was being changed to disallow VBA2C in our hospital. Initially I was told that we may be able to go to a hospital two and a half hours away. A month after that, I was told that wouldn’t work, either. So we found an obstetrician in Edmonton – seven hours away from home – who would see me. Two weeks ago, Mike and I flew there on our own for my appointment and a brief kid-free holiday. The appointment was great, we had an ultrasound to look at scar thickness and even got to see a 3D view of our baby’s face. The OB could see no contraindications for me to VBAC again and was very happy with everything he could see. It was a very nice time for us and we came home refreshed and with instructions to come back at 38 weeks.

As of right now, our plan involves staying here and praying hard that this baby will come too quickly for intervention and will be born locally. We have one week for this to happen. If it does not, we will drive to Edmonton on the 2nd of January (a few days after 38 weeks) and stay in a guest house for eight days. If baby doesn’t come by then, we’ll find somewhere else to stay if needed. The OB there is comfortable giving me until 42 weeks which means we could be there for four weeks. This is not at all what we want so we continue to pray for early delivery. But if it takes all of that, it will be worth it. There are many complications that come from repeat cesareans and we have no intention of changing our lifestyle or convictions to prevent future pregnancies. Every day requires faith and the situation honestly feels like a choose your own adventure that we are a part of but not in control of. I have felt a conviction to leave things alone and not do anything to try to induce labour, mess with baby’s position, etc. which requires even more faith.

Every day we give the baby a pep talk and encourage it to come, we pray for delivery to come soon, and I pray for relief from the symptoms of late pregnancy that have made movement, sleep, etc. difficult for me lately. And we remind ourselves not to lean on our own understanding but to look to God to sustain us and make straight our path. We know He will do this and that the outcome will be His plan for us.

 

 

Advertisements

Tale of an unreliable blogger

Many years ago, I had a few small children who all napped every day. In fact, my oldest child took daily naps until she was five. This meant that for the first five years of my motherhood, I could rely on two to three hours every afternoon when my house was quiet and I could use the time to work on crafts or writing. Or, to be honest, play The Sims.

I am certain that if I looked at the various blogs I have written over the years, I would find a downward trend near the time when my daughter turned six. I was up to four kids, homeschooling and had two children (sometimes three) who wouldn’t nap in the afternoon. Those hours were now spent keeping them quiet enough so that the younger ones could sleep. If I was really on top of things, I used the time to get supper ready so we wouldn’t be stuck eating convenience food, eating out or eating very late at night.

The truth is, I have lots of “free time” every day. I spend most of it on my phone (ugh..yeah, I know) or sometimes watching Netflix. I spend the rest of my day on housework or taking care of the littlest kids and lately, as this pregnancy progresses, I try to have some down time in the afternoon for a rest or just to spend some time by myself.

I suppose I do have time to write but I am either too distracted to accomplish much or I feel uninspired so I don’t bother. I don’t want to write drivel about how many times someone pooped yesterday or the groceries I need to buy later. Those things are part of my daily life but writing about them is far behind me.

So, all that said, I apologize to those of you who actually read this but at the same time, feel that it’s completely okay for me to write when I feel like writing, rather than pushing myself to do it when I feel dry or tired.

I will likely write a separate post soon as a pregnancy update because things are constantly changing and stress is always threatening and I’m now about six weeks away from my due date. But for now, I confess my unreliability and ask for patience as I develop a rhythm (or lack thereof) to my writing.

Why I shaved my head

Five months ago, I shaved my head. Or rather, my husband mostly shaved it and then I decided the resulting look wasn’t quite right so I took the guard off of the razor and finished the job.

I can’t actually remember when the idea first occurred to me but I do know where I was. I was in the bath, shaving my legs and thinking about how frustrated I was with my hair when I was suddenly tempted to shave my head when I was done with my legs. Thankfully I realized that using a Venus to shave my head would be a very bad idea so I never followed through with it.

A few years later, I had hit the wall again with my hair and offhandedly told my husband that I was tempted to shave it. He said that as long as he was the one to do it, he was fine with it. I’ve been buzzing his hair for almost the entire length of our marriage so we always have a razor in the house. He said he just didn’t want to come home to find me with a shaved head and have no warning or play no part in it.

A few more years went by after that response and I decided the time was soon. Something about approaching my mid thirties and just not caring what people thought of me. I dress how I want, sometimes in ridiculously paired patterns and colours and a few months before I got rid of all my hair, I dyed it green. Because hey, it’s just hair.

I didn’t do it for charity or to support a friend who was losing their hair. Those are great reasons to shave your head if you feel led to them, but in this case, I was just putting my foot down and declaring that this was something I wanted to do and therefore I was going to do it.

For the record, my kids hated it. Only my then three year old said it was “a cool haircut.” I got a few weird looks and some shocked responses but I was also applauded by some very surprising people. The day I did it, we went out to my brother-in-law’s parents’ property and his aunt, a pretty traditional and conservative woman in her sixties, said she really liked it and was impressed that I was brave enough to do it.

When it comes down to it, I don’t want to be a woman in her sixties wishing I had done these things when I was young and brave. I may not be going out and getting a tattoo anytime soon (although you never know) but shaving my head has certainly made me see that what you wear, how you do your hair, whether you wear makeup or not doesn’t really matter. Not in the long run.

In all honesty, the grow out process has been frustrating at times. Some people assumed it was my intention to keep it shaved or wear it short from now on, but I do look forward to having long hair again. And this process has shown me what haircuts I can totally get away with even though I shouldn’t be able to according to those ridiculous beauty magazine articles about face and body shape and ideal hairstyles. I never would have imagined I could pull of a pixie cut but it turns out I totally can.

2018-05-19 12.37.03

The good stuff

I was blessed to attend a women’s retreat this past weekend with about one hundred other women. I was so in need of time away and a refocusing both spiritually and mentally. I had some great opportunities and better yet, had some direction from God that I was desperately in need of.

We as women need times like this more than we realize, regardless of whether we are women of faith or not. Life is so busy and complicated yet full of the mundane at the same time and it can be incredibly difficult to focus on changes we need to make or goals we want to set. I know that having that time is easier said than done but I would say that if you have the opportunity for even a few hours of it, take it!

This blog was something I knew I had to do back in August. I told a friend that over the weekend and admitted that I was afraid no one would read it and was questioning if it was worth it even if that was the case. In the end, I know the answer to that is yes. I know that even if I’m writing for myself or one other person, it’s worth it.

I will be thirty-five in a few days and getting to this stage of life has taught me that holding back, mincing words and being fake are NOT worth my time. I was able to be blunt with people over the weekend and see it taken at face value without creating offense. I love that about people who are on the same page as you, even if your lifestyles are completely different. I made a few new friends in various stages of life and was encouraged and able to encourage. And that’s what we all need, I think. To feed and be fed encouragement by others, especially as moms.

 

Stuff good moms do

…And why I don’t do them. At least not now.

When my oldest was a baby, it was scrapbooking. Everyone was doing it and had multiple page spreads of each child in their family. They went to retreats and craft nights and spent every spare moment working on their scrapbooks. They had them for camping trips and holidays and homeschooling.

I tried. I really did. For about a month. My daughter got a photo album because we still used film and then she got a baby book. She’s still the only kid with one of those but the rest of them are boys and I figure they don’t care as much as she does anyway.

Quilting and blanket making was another one. My own sisters-in-law have made blankets for their children and a few friends have knitted one every time. I made a few baby blankets when I was pregnant for the first time but again it required a complete devotion to the craft – can you imagine the moms who were scrapbooking AND quilting?!

I remember someone asking me when my oldest kids were still pretty young if I had finished all my Christmas baking yet. I just sort of stared back at them without comprehending. It turns out that up here at least, moms bake for weeks in preparation for Christmas, making enough to last them through New Years and give adorable tins of them away to friends. This was one thing I jumped into with both feet for a few years. I filled buckets for my freezer weeks in advance and made cute little gifts of cookies or other treats to pass out to family and friends.

None of these things are bad, but when they become expectations we feel we have to live up to, they can become suffocating.

Since I started homeschooling, I found the big thing was having a garden. Most of my homeschooling friends grow something and of course, involve their kids in the production of all of those vegetables. Our growing season here is extremely short and my one attempt at a container of carrots left me with a handful of inch long carrots. Now rhubarb is the only thing I grow because I couldn’t kill it if I wanted to. People ask me if I garden and my answer is, “Not in this season.” I may do it someday but I have released myself from the often suffocating expectation that if I was a good mom, I would have a garden.

I know how some people will read this – “Hey, I have a garden! What’s so bad about having a garden? I love it!” Sure you do. That’s fine. But as someone who has a baby every other year and incredibly busy summers (all of my babies up to this one have been born between the end of April and the end of September so that’s birthday season for us), it’s just not feasible for me to garden every year and keep my sanity. Maybe some new baby-free summer I will pick one thing that I love and just plant that, but right now, it’s not the season I’m in.

Maybe I’ll be the grandma who makes blankets for all her grandkids but my own children are getting the short end of the stick on that one and they honestly don’t seem to care. I think most of these things we do that feel like service to our kids are really some kind of obligation we feel in ourselves. And I said no to that years ago. I’d rather be a stable mom than a hyper productive one and I know that I have a tendency to overdo things and fall back into perfectionism so it’s better to just put certain things by the wayside for now.

This is not particularly funny or entertaining, I realize, but it’s something that needs to be said, and said again, and again. New moms every day are coming under the weight of all the “shoulds” that their peers, their mothers and society unwittingly put them under. Let it go, mama. If it doesn’t work for you and your family or your lifestyle, let it go. Eat convenience food, buy canned vegetables, skip the Christmas baking and the crafting and the journaling and all the other stuff that someone (or yourself) told you to do. Just do what works.

I drive a big white van.

Alternate title: A blog post in which I obsess over my big white van and complain about the week and a half that I was without her.

When my husband and I were not quite on the same page about having more than say, six kids, one of his reasons was because he didn’t want to have to drive a fifteen passenger van. He had easily been won over to the mini-van life, as I was, but the idea of a monstrous beast of a vehicle was a bit much for him. When we decided it was going to happen, but before I was actually expecting number seven (the magic number that one needs to officially outgrow mini-van life), we bought our big white van. It had a crazy amount of kilometres, snowboarding decals on the back window, and zero headrests on any of the back seats. But I fell in love instantly.

This was my dream vehicle, people. It meant I had made it into the elite club of crazy people who have way more kids than everyone else. It was a bit intimidating to drive at first, sitting way up high above all the other cars and remembering that it was massively long and therefore could not always fit into conventional parking spots. But I eased into it well enough and got used to the friendly waves of passing Mennonite families driving fifteen passenger vans who thought I was one of them. So cute.

In January of this year, I was rear-ended. It was not a big deal sort of accident, even though it was jarring and made me shriek like an old lady in the moment. I didn’t have the kids with me and was able to drive it away and get the car seats replaced by the insurance company without much of a fuss. We finally got it in for an estimate on the repairs early in the summer and set a date for early September to get it all fixed up.

We got home from our three week long, 6,000 km road trip, on which we had a breakdown and had to replace our alternator (another story) and had another breakdown just days before it was due at the body shop. This meant that we quit driving it through the holiday weekend, waiting for it to be mechanically fixed so we could drive it to the body shop the following week. It all worked out fine and we took it in on the scheduled day.

As we were not at fault for our accident and have a few extra coverages as well, we were provided with a rental vehicle. I went online and applauded myself for finding a local rental company with fifteen passenger vans. Hooray! I booked one for a week, double checked a few things with the insurance company and the body shop and showed up the day of the drop off to pick up a familiar vehicle.

Except they don’t actually have them, apparently. Which they informed someone…who knows who it was, but it wasn’t me. So they booked us a Yukon instead. A huge white brand new Yukon with one too few seats for our family. The kind with super narrow seats and way too many bells and whistles to ever figure out.

We did our best to find a way out of the mess but had to give it up and live with the beast for a week. I realized very quickly that my eleven year old van is just fine for me. There were so many lights and knobs and buttons in that thing and rather than being massively long in the back, it was huge in the front. I will admit that a back up camera is a nice little perk and I might even get one for the van eventually, but otherwise I was very excited to take it right back to the rental company at the end of the week.

On Monday afternoon, two days before the estimated finish of the body work, I called to find out when they thought it would be done. “Oh, it will definitely be done tomorrow.” Hallelujah! A whole day early sounded sublime to me.

Except apparently you shouldn’t trust a body shop when they say things like that. You should, in fact, take it to mean that it will take approximately two full days longer than they have told you so enthusiastically over the phone. Because that’s exactly what happened.

All things said, I have my van back now. All the kids’ seats are back where they belong and I am certain that loading them into it a few times will clear it of the odd cleaning solution smell that the body shop left behind. But oh, please, if this could never happen again and I could just go on driving this thing until it dies for good and then get another one just like it. Please?!

 

So what sort of mother are you, exactly?

A few nights ago, I was in tears because the weight of my different-ness was so heavy. It is isolating at times and the obvious answer of, “Um, maybe don’t be so different, duh,” is not the answer.

I have often felt that if I could just be “that mom” – the one who happily orders curriculum, sets up her home like a classroom and joyfully takes on the role of teacher, I could be happy and accepted.

But I’m not that mom.

If I could just be that mom – the one who journals creatively, builds furniture, makes Pinterest worthy birthday cakes and sews dresses for her little girls – I could be content and successful.

But I’m not that mom, either.

Maybe the public school mom,then? Taking first day of school pictures, packing lunches, chatting with teachers and going to Starbucks after the kids have all been dropped off?

But I’m not that mom.

So who am I? What kind of mama am I?

I am the only, very only mom like me. I believe that.

Look at me, tooting my own unique little horn.

But instead of making people ooh and aah at my uniqueness, I feel more often people shake their heads, roll their eyes and question my sanity.

Today I make a brand new declaration:

“That’s okay.”

Go ahead, world! Shake your nicely coiffured heads and roll your eyelash extensioned eyes. This is who I am. This is my family, my life. Time to be okay with it. Time to be at peace.

I can acknowledge that this is easier said than done. It will be a challenge every day to remind myself that I’m okay as I am, that my kids are okay. To ignore all the “you should”s that are ever-present in the world of motherhood and do what I know I need to do even if it looks vastly different than what everyone else is doing.