The gift of not knowing

Our youngest child, our sweet daughter, has been a bit of an enigma wrapped in a mystery since she first graced us with her presence.

Even in utero, her short little legs were confounding ultrasound techs and raising eyebrows about the accuracy of my charts (NFP: 1 Radiology: 0, BTW). Then she arrived and all was well, if not petite.

And that's pretty much been her story for the past 13 months. She's darling, and not just in an every baby sort of way, but in a stunner-who-stops-traffic kinda way. I can say that because I'm her mom, and because I have 2 other kids who, while good looking, never got us the kind of attention this girl has.

She's teeny tiny. Doll-like. The proportions of a wee American Girl doll, clad in 9 month clothing still at month 13, but perfectly balanced in terms of length vs. weight. And, every month or so since last Fall, we dutifully truck her down to our local children's hospital for another round of testing, bumping from one department to another. First nutrition, than orthopedics, now endocrinology.

She's had more people poke and prod her in her first year of life than most people do in a lifetime, I'd wager. But to no avail. At least, to no apparent avail.

She's teeny, she's stubbornly "alternatively mobile" (translation: no walking, standing or crawling, but  girlfriend has a mean scoot), and she's utterly charming in her willingness to allow complete strangers to pick her up.

And we don't have any idea of why she is the way she is.

It's been confounding and enlightening, at turns, as a parent to have no idea what is wrong, or even whether something is, in fact, "wrong" with her.

And it's been a humbling exercise in "what ifs" in terms of the much bigger and much scarier situations that other parents really are facing.

There's a delicate balance in motherhood between anxiety and surrender. Sometimes it really is on us to keep worrying when everyone else says to relax.

But other times, maybe more times than not, relaxing and releasing is the right way to go.

I'm naturally high strung and extremely anxious. I have grand delusions about what and whether I can manage, and I have a ludicrously inflated sense of control.

The antidote to all this, for me, has been motherhood.

No other experience thus far has come close to the gut wrenching, soul-shaking reality of recognizing my true impotence and insignificance. And I don't mean that in a self deprecating way, but in a reality-recognizing way.

Motherhood has unveiled reality to me: I'm not in control, I never was in control, and even with ready access to arguably the best medical care on the planet...there's still no guarantee of control.

Now, I can put truckloads of faith into modern medicine and research journals (and I do) while simultaneously barking up alternative trees for innovative ideas (woof, woof), but I still can't summon a diagnosis for my daughter by the force of my will.

And that has been incredibly freeing for me. To be able to truly exercise the old adage to work as if everything depended on me, and to pray as if everything depends on God. It's at once taking responsibility for what one can control while simultaneously releasing my inflated and, honestly, egomaniacal sense of control.

So efficient, Lord. I see what you did there.

And even if this latest round of blood work turns up with a big fat question mark like all the rest has, we'll be able to sleep at night knowing that we asked the questions and made the appointments, and that, if nothing else, she'll be a champion blood donor some day with nary a needle phobia to be found.

And if God sees fit to send us a label to know Evie a little better? We'll take that into consideration, too. But it won't define her, not in any real sense. Sure, it'll simplify my Google searches. But it won't change the way I have to love her, nurture her, and let God fill in for the ever-growing list of all the things about motherhood that are far above my pay grade.

You're my best friend, internet

Well, maybe not the internet per se in its vast, personless impersonality, but you all, gentle readers, are absolutely top notch.

Thank you thank you thank you to to the moon and back for all the comments you left on yesterday's only a little bit pathetic post. Truly made a mother's day. I think yesterday afternoon through tonight were the very finest hours we've spent nursing, Evie and I, because for the first time since she got here, I wasn't worrying about her size and how much she was consuming. It was nice. So thank you for that.

Thank you especially for the side-by-side comparisons of different sized kids from the same families and for kids who switched between breast and formula and didn't cause a blip on the 'ol growth chart. I really didn't want to stop nursing her, but I was starting to wonder if I was causing her to suffer or endangering her future development or compromising her chances of making a good match later in life or...well you get the picture.

Love letter, over and out.

Oh! But I just remembered, I have another reason to smooch the web, and it's because thanks to your savvy suggestions, I asked for and have indeed received promise of a shiny new FitBit. It will be here tomorrow. Much excitement. Many pounds displaced. So technology.

Finally, now that I can be sure it's going to stick, I'm on day 7 of another Whole 30. Remember how the last one ended up? Yeah, we named her Genevieve. (Note: I'm not insinuating that the Whole 30 program leads to pregnancy, only that I happened to discover we were pregnant on about day 11 of our last attempt, and thus crashed and burned in savory flames of Nutella and Italian sour cream and onion Pringles.)

But anyway, day 7. One week in. And it isn't terrible! I mean how can bacon wrapped dates ever be terrible? Okay, the no booze part is kind of terrible, but on the plus side (hopefully not the plus size) I'm so very clear headed and chipper in the mornings now. Do you know how much damage a single (ahem, healthy) glass of red wine in the evening does to a 31-year-old body upon waking the next morning? Lots, it turns out. But I digress.

My goal for this Whole 30 is simple: I want a healthier relationship with food. I want to lose the rest of my "baby weight," and I don't want to wake up every morning wishing to be knocked unconscious.  Also, I may have been tremendously inspired by Heather's transformative efforts in the health and wellness department. Also, I bought some million dollar vitamins from a friend last month and am hoping to boost their magical powers.

With that I'll bid you all a fond adieu and be off to the basement to my newly-relocated treadmill of delight. With this on my Kindle (it's less than $5 right now!), because Jen said so.

Crowd-sourcing a well baby check

Dearest mother bloggers,

I have this little baby girl. And by little, I mean absolutely petite beyond all imagining.

Don't let the food face fool you, she's teeny. Look at those nowhere-near-squeezed-by-the-Bumbo legs.

See? She's a wee little mite of a girl. And yeah yeah, though she be but little, she is fierce, there's just something off-putting to me, her mother, about how very wee she is.

My other two boys are not big kids by any means. I think they're in the 35-50% range for weight and height, and always have been. But Evie Doll, as she is usually called around these parts, is very much the likeness and scale of a living baby doll. Which is of course adorable, but when you're breastfeeding, is a little anxiety-producing as well.

Evie Doll, meet baby doll

Dave thinks I may be barking needlessly up the worry tree when we are, in fact, in a verdant alpine meadow above treeline, but I want a second opinion nevertheless. Of the internet variety. (Please note: her doctor who delivered her and has cared for her since birth has absolutely zero concerns and reassures me at every check up that she is growing perfectly on her own little curve.) And so I turn to you, gentle readership: have any of you had tiny babies? Were they exclusively breastfed? Did you try supplementing with formula to put weight on? Did they simply grow into healthy, petite toddlers and kids?

Here are Evie's stats:

• Born at 38 weeks 4 days (I'm a lucky girl - 6 lbs, 6 oz and 19 inches long - my smallest by more than 2 lbs and my shortest by 3 inches!
• Dropped to 5 13 after birth, regained birth weight by one week old
• 8 lbs, 11 oz at 2 month well baby
• 11 lbs even at 4 month well baby
• 13 lbs even at 6 month well baby
• 13 lbs 6 oz today, on the eve of her 7 month birthday
• 3% for weight and 5% for height on WHO chart, from birth until today; no change in percentile
• repeat ultrasounds during pregnancy because she was measuring small (that makes one of us) and for "short femurs" (I didn't even know that was a thing to worry about but, you betcha I got my google on hardcore that night after the tech let that little gem slip from her lips)

Is this normal? Am I crazy? Should I take her to reverse weight watchers and see if they can inject her with some of the fat she left behind in my torso region?

Some other factors which may contribute to her slimness are the presence of a 5 foot tall aunt, her godmother actually, on her paternal side, and the fact that Her Ladyship sleeps 11 hours a night (don't hate me, I earned this one) without a feed. She nurses 6-8 times per day with occasional table food offered as she shows interest. I know breast milk is denser calorically so I'm hesitant to load her up on too much crappy rice cereal, though I have been known to mix some with avocado oil and an avocado, much to her disgust and horror.

An anxious, first time  veteran mother thanks you kindly.

And so does this girl.

Genevieve Therese: a birth story (2 of 2)

(Part 1 here)

**As a disclaimer, I should really be sleeping right now. All three kids are napping simultaneously, and the house is awash in white noise via the washer, dryer, dishwasher, and sonic spa 'ocean waves' setting pumping out tropical vibes to the dormitory wing. Basically we're living high on the energy-consuming hog as we ring in day 2 of Christmas…God bless America.

I don't desperately need a nap, however, because my angel of a third born slept for seven! straight! hours! last night (Knocking frantically on wood as I type this) and I feel good. Reaaaaal good. Listen up readers, if any of you out there in blogland are on the fence about baby number three, go for it! I honestly and truly feel like God has patted my dear head and handed me a human/angel hybrid to raise, perhaps as a reward for the two sleepless wonders who proceeded this latest edition? Perhaps I've just hit the genetic lottery? Perhaps I'm too stupid to realize it's only day 11 of this honeymoon, and hard times are a 'comin?

Whatever the case may be, this baby is amazing, and I am completely and utterly obsessed with her. I would go so far as to say she has given me a greater capacity to love her two older brothers as well, but they have each woken up at least once per night since she arrived, so I won't give them any such shout out. (But it might just be true.) So third baby…do it! Just do it and don't look back, it's joyful chaos, I tell you. And I can already feel and see myself relaxing/lowering my standards/calming the eff down … this baby is all around good for my soul, good for my marriage, and good for our family. End PSA.

So the birth story, where were we? Oh yes, the anesthesiologist. She finally showed up, and wouldn't you know it, so did my 1 minute apart, 90-second long contractions. Do you know what my least favorite thing about labor is? Aside from the hideous expression 'second degree tear,' that is? It's that 3 minutes of hell on wheels where you are supposed to 'arch your back like a cat, that's a good girl, push your back toward my hand, now hoooooold still.' 

Oh, I'm sorry,

seismic tidal waves
are slamming through my body
tearing me apart (labor: a haiku)

And I should hold still for you? Maybe if you had arrived 2 hours ago when I had requested your presence, milady. So we did the epidural dance, she and I. A jab here, a shuddering jerk there, and a whole lot of writhing and sweating. At one point once she'd placed the initial line I felt a hideous electric shock travel down my left leg, which started involuntarily twitching, Riverdance style, and it was at this point I found the only true moment of terror in this labor experience.

Oh God, what's happening, this is that rare 'reaction' they warn you about on Babycenter.com, the epidural isn't going to work, I am going to feel everything, I just sustained major nerve damage on my left side, they can't cover up my pain, aaaaaaiaiiiiiiiiiii…..

Or something along those lines. Undeterred, the good drug doctor proclaimed my reaction 'weird,' before asking if I had any inflamed or injured discs in my back (I didn't until you just skewered one with your needle, lady) and then telling me she was going to 'back up' and 'try another point of entry.' One more cat curl, one more stick, this one not directly into some sensitive nerve junction in my spinal cord, aaaaaaaand sweet, cold relief. So sweet and so cold, in fact, that I shook for a good 15 minutes after she left, and I ended up feeling a bit on the numbish side from about the sternum down, soooooo, effective, but not my best anesthetic experience to date. (I was, however, able to hop out of bed 40 minutes after delivering and walk to the bathroom like nothing had happened, so it wore off quickly.)

So I'm drugged. I'm feeling the burn as the second round of my strep B + antibiotics course through my IV, I'm strapped into multiple monitors and I have a rolled up towel under one side to distribute the happy juice evenly…and I'm so, so calm. It certainly isn't the empowering warrior-princess birth I've read of countless times on crunchier websites and in Ina May volumes, but it is wonderful in its own right. I was just so, so grateful and aware of the blessings of every detail of this delivery, from being in America with a vehicle to take me to a hospital with real, certified doctors (and an effective, if somewhat inexpertly applied, epidural) and a private birthing room and room service and my good, holy doctor and I could have gone on and on (and I probably did, poor Dave) but let's just say that it was one hundred million times better than the Italian medical immersion experience we'd been planning on. To infinity and free cable and beyond.

Back to business. I was approaching 'complete' and the nurses started a little confusing argument about whether or not my water had broken. It has always been a fairly obvious event for me, so I was confused over there confusion, and they were confused over not being able to determine whether Evie was still living in her bubble world or not. When my doctor finally arrived (toting a gorgeous icon of Our Lady of Guadalupe, whom he positioned at the foot of my bed) he assessed the situation, looked quizzically at the nurses, told them he was going to break my water as it was very much still intact, and went ahead with that plastic knitting needle I've heard so much about. Both times before my water had broken on its own, so this was kind of a weird new sensation. Not unpleasant or painful, just odd. Afterwards everyone kind of set things up in the room and then turned to me expectantly.

Dr.: So, should we start pushing?

Jenny: Um, if you want me to?

Dr.: Do you feel like pushing?

Jenny: I mean I don't have a lot of feeling, but I could try to push if you want me to

Dr.: Would you like to have the baby now?

Jenny:…

It was as weird as it sounds. I laughed and decided that yes, now would be a fine time to have a baby, and, warning the entire room that I was a 'bad pusher,' we commenced.

I think, all in all, it was around 30 minutes, maybe less, but it was the strangest sensation. My babies tend to hang out super high until the very last minute, so it's only right as they're about to crown that I feel anything close to a real 'urge to push.' This time, however, I felt it much more acutely than with the boys' deliveries. I had instructed Dave to put Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" on a few minutes earlier, and now Dave Matthews was playing into the otherwise quiet delivery room. Really touching details, these, but they're ones that stick with me. All of a sudden my 'bad' pushing became quite effective, and in one contraction out came half a little dark head of hair. All the nurses oohed and aaahed over her luscious locks, and I determined that it would not be pleasant to wait 60 seconds for another contraction and went ahead and delivered the rest of her by sheer force of will, I think. My doctor laughed and said something like, 'Oh, she's going for it!' and then, oh that wondrous moment, she was here.

I couldn't believe it, even after 3 kids it's still the most shocking thing in the world when they put that squirmy, squishy baby on your chest (well, stomach, her cord was so short she couldn't even reach past my belly button!) and you realize that there was another human being inside of your body. And all you really did was cooperation with God's timing and His design plans. And okay, maybe upped your caloric intake and popped a few prenatals. And then boom. Baby. Perfect little slippery naked baby, not even crying, just looking around and grimacing and blinking her dark, dark eyes under the harsh fluorescent lighting and wondering what she'd gotten herself into.

She did eventually cry, and she also looked straight at her daddy as he whispered to her while they checked her stats.

Apgar of 8/9, weight at 6 lbs 6 oz (my smallest by more than 2 lbs!) and a petite 18.5 inches long. They brought her back to me and she nursed like a champ for more than an hour, hooting and squeaking in between sips like she'd been doing it for years, as if she hadn't just miraculously transitioned from living under water, breathing liquid, and receiving nutrition through a feeding tube in her belly button for goodness sakes…what a miraculous, intricate and immensely effective design. Who could have written this program?

Only Him. There's no other sufficient explanation for the miracle of new life, whether it transpire in a hemp-oil scented hot tub in London, a yurt in Siberia, or a LDR suite in North America. Miraculous, tiny Genevieve, we're so glad you're here. And mommy is so happy you came 10 days early and 2 lbs light. What a sweet, considerate little girl. I love you to the moon and back, and I'm so glad I get to be your mama. Remind me of all this in 12 or 13 years.

Xoxo.

Genevieve Therese: A birth story

My little daughter, my first ever newborn with a 'sleep' setting, is nestled into her rock n' play (infinitely superior to a pack n' play, thanks Holly) peacefully dreaming at my bedside, and I figured why not bang this birthing tome out before Advent comes to a close. I'm still kind of reeling from the pleasant surprise of having another early bebe (Joey came at 37w5d), and at one week post partum exactly, I feel surprisingly good. It might just be that Christmas time is the best time to have a baby, because the whole world is gearing up for a glorious party, and nobody has to be in swimsuit shape any time soon.

Not in swimsuit shape. Not a problem.

So last Friday night. 38 weeks, 3 days, and feeling every minute of it. I had spent the past week helping my sister move into and arrange her new house, and while I avoided heavy lifting etc like an obedient little lady, I still did way too much and worked way too hard for far too many hours, so I was feeling like a train wreck. Dave was away for the night at a Nugget's game, (with my blessing, I had a hunch it might be his last night of 'freedom' for a while), and my sister had agreed to repay my manual labor with a few hours' of free babysitting, so off I trotted to my favorite Asian masseuse for a little induction massage. I can't even call it anything else at this point, since I've now had 100% success of induction via foot massage.

I heaved my weary body into the chair and Ying looked me up and down appraisingly,

"You ready?"

"Yep."

"You go to hospital now?"

I cocked one eyebrow in mild alarm,

"Well, yeah, if labor starts."

"Okay then, you tell me if it too hard."

And we were off.

Now this isn't some kind of tortuous, violent pummeling we're talking about here. It's actually a fairly relaxing and somewhat gentle head/neck/shoulders/foot/leg/back massage. But the money is in the 15-20 minutes spent on the foot/ankle region. That seems to be what kicks my body into baby town, every time.

I was having mild feelings of conflicting guilt while she worked my feet, realizing that 7 pm on a Friday night with my husband all the way across town at a major sporting event was probably an inopportune time to start labor. But, I was so tired. And so sore. And I just didn't have the heart to stop her once she started on my swollen ankles. Once the massage was over and I was waddling out to my car I realized that I was already having mild contractions, but that overall my body felt good for the first time in weeks. I decided to go home, hit the warm bath, and see if anything came of it.

Dave rolled in around 11 pm, and the contractions were still coming at fairly regular intervals, but they were mild. I told him to try to sleep and I wandered the house, ping-ponging between the living room and the family room, trying to decide if the lumpy microfiber couch was more comfortable than the sweaty pleather number. Around 5 am I was convinced that we needed to head to the hospital, as my contractions had been 5 minutes apart for about 6 hours at this point. Never mind the fact that they still weren't terribly painful and that I insisted we hit up the Starbucks drive thru en route. (Note: if you are interested in coffee and/or sausage breakfast sandwiches, you're probably not in active labor.)

A couple snooty nurses, one very friendly and compassionate one, and 3 odd hours of monitoring and walking the halls later, our sweet nurse Katie sent us home with instructions to walk or rest up, and that she'd see us back later that night. Heads hung in shame, we shuffled out of the ER entrance at a paltry 3 cm and drove home to catch a quick nap before my baby shower. By the time my mom and sisters arrived to decorate and lay the spread for a very late-in-the-game celebration, I was having much more painful and regular contractions but I was determined to 1. eat that cake and 2. stay the hell away from the hospital until I had something to show for myself.

I mean, come on, who has a false start with baby #3?

Anywho, cake was consumed, presents were unwrapped, and friends were mildly amused/lightly traumatized when I paused to breath through particularly painful contractions during the party. The rest of the day is pretty hazy, but I did manage a nap at some point, and like 3 more baths. Damn I love baths. Around midnight that night, after a couple hours staring at a plastic image of Our Lady of Guadalupe and realizing I will never, ever attempt an unmedicated birth and that I most definitely would have died in childbirth had I belonged to any other century, I knew it was go time. For real, this time.

Back in the car, back to the hospital, back to the nurse's station with my head hung in shame…or was it in a painful contraction posture? It must have been the second, for they put me into a real LDR room and skipped right over triage, glory! And then, the moment of truth, the cervical exam. I mentally held my breath as my nurse winked and pronounced me a "conservative 6.5 cm" while assuring me that she had chubby fingers and I was probably further even than that. Weird. And awesome. Dave and I started high-fiveing each other because holy crap, 3.5 cm at home with relative 'ease' on my part, and I wasn't even screaming for my drugs yet.

Our sweet nurse inquired about my plans for pain relief and I told her they involved regulated substances and later, beer and ice cream. She told me now would be a wonderful time to get an epidural and I laughed with delight, because it didn't even hurt that much yet, and yes please, send that wonderfully overpaid doctor up right away. She mentioned something about sending my blood to the lab to check my platelet count and quoted us 30 minutes till party time. And then she left. 30 minutes later, no doctor or nurse in sight, I wondered if maybe I had misheard her. An hour later, with pain started to become kind of a teensy bit on the unmanageable side, I wondered if we maybe should call somebody. Nearly 2 hours later, I had Dave by the collar during a contraction and told him to go out into the hallway and yell her name, where in the hell are my drugs?

Apparently my wonderful doctor had fallen back asleep? Forgotten? To order my labs, and so while the contractions intensified and labor mounted, nary a platelet was counted. And to think I'd been worrying about whether I'd have the chance to offer anything up during this birth. As it turned out, yes. But I'll have to leave you hanging here because somebody is demanding a latte. To be continued…

(Part 2 here.)

Joy to the World

Best Gaudete Sunday ever.

I love Advent. And I love that Christmas came a little early for us this year - 10 days early, to be exact. And an impressively petite 6 lbs, 6 oz, and 18.5 inches. Quite a downgrade from the 8 lb masculine models I'm accustomed to. And quite an easier recovery, thus far.

We decided to take the one night option and stay at hotel hospital tonight, because the L & D floor is empty, people keep bringing me chocolate and taking away my dirty laundry, and I haven't been woken up once by a pesky vitals check. They have the uncanny ability of popping in just when I'm cuing up some e HGTV…

A few photos to tide you over until I can bust out the birth story. A cliffs notes version: Labor started around 11 pm on Friday night, we popped in on Saturday morning around 5 am to do the walk of shame up and down the halls at only 3 cm, I checked back out and attended my baby shower amidst semi-painful contractions and a healthy dose of perspiration, naps were had, baths were drawn, babes were fed, and at about midnight Sunday morning we headed back out into the dark to try our luck at checking in. Again. Of course my contractions slowed down on the ride over and I was so ashamed to be checked upon arrival but…glory, 6.5 centimeters!

They let us stay, they eventually jammed the needle into the right space between vertebrae, and at 7:01 on this beautiful 'pink Sunday' I met my little pink cheeked baby girl with Fleetwood Mac and Dave Matthews playing in the background. She is so very beautiful and so teeny, and we're just so in love. John Paul kissed her head when he arrived to meet and greet later in the day, and Joey basically ignored her and complimented the 'awesome couch' in our room. It's gonna be a great first Christmas as a party of five.

Enough crazy thick black (whaaaat?!) hair for bows and clips already.

Bow hat courtesy of our wonderful night nurse

Our amazing doctor.

Love this little face. 

Our hearts are full. Rejoice, He is coming.