2 Month Update

Arlo is 2-months-old now. He weighs 14 pounds and is 23 inches long. He’s a little smaller than Henry was at this age, though they both have head circumferences in the 100th percentile. I suppose, after all, there are reasons my vagina can be thankful.

I’ve been in denial about how bad the sleep situation is. I keep thinking to myself, “Henry is our bad sleeper. He had reflux! He was up all hours!” Unfortunately I looked at my notes today and the bad sleep didn’t start until Henry was 6-months-old. After his 2 month checkup I wrote, “Henry usually goes down at 8pm and sleeps until 3am.” Holy hell. Arlo is up every 2 hours, sometimes every hour. We’ve had exactly three nights of longer stretches. Yikes. I’m beginning to think Henry was our good sleeper. I’m just asking for some consistent 4 hour stretches here.

You’d think I’d be losing tons of weight with all this nursing, but it just makes me ravenous.

I’m a shitty sleeper, too. I wish I was one of those moms who could roll over and nurse and fall right back to sleep along with baby, but I’m not. I just stare at him nursing in the dark, trying to make out his features in the night shadows. I take a few deep breaths, then my mind wanders, starts to worry about this or that, usually whether or not I’m going to accidentally roll onto him during the night. Then Arlo pops off and falls back asleep and it takes me about 30 minutes to join him. 5 minutes later he’s awake again. I may need to get a crib in our bedroom. The mattress in the cosleeper sucks—it’s basically our changing table in case of nighttime poops. The swing produces inconsistent results. And at 14 pounds he won’t fit in it much longer.

Arlo got his first shot today: DTaP. I’m so terrified of the shots, but I guess I’m even more terrified of my baby getting pertussis. Why the need to combine it with tetanus before he’s even crawling is beyond me. He screamed during the shot but once we got back out to the car he was cooing and smiling again. My crazy mama fears of him suddenly ceasing communication were thankfully unfounded. He’s been in good spirits all day.

Arlo saves his biggest smiles for Henry, who is a doting older brother in the throes of the three-and-a-halves. Meaning unless we’re out and about, afternoons usually look something like this:

Henry: I hate you, Mom! You’re not my friend anymore! I’m going to lock you in a cage and break you with my breaker and then I’m going to dig a hole on you with my shovel and then I’m not going to talk to you ever again. <Slams door.> <20 seconds later, opens door.>

Henry: I’m gonna give the baby a kiss. Oh, Baby, I love you *so much.* Mom, can I hold Arlo on the couch?

Arlo: <gurgle gurgle>  <huge smile>

Repeat until Dad gets home.

I try to make sure our afternoons are scheduled.

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Thanksgiving 2010

I am thankful for Arlo—and the midwives and doctors who saved his life.

I am thankful that the age of 3.5 lasts only 6 months (Maybe less? Can 3.75 be different?) But I am also thankful my boy is so engaged with life.

I am thankful my husband is such an involved, loving father. And husband.

I am thankful  for everyone who brought us meals, held my baby so I could shower, ran my 3-year-old until he could no longer stand, and called or emailed just to see how I was feeling.

I am thankful for the Stangland family who saved our asses a million times  during my pregnancy and postpartum period—and who are hosting us for Thanksgiving dinner today. Bottoms up!

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Bills, bills, bills

The first year we lived in Austin we spent $5000 to fix a deck fail and $5000 to fix a bathroom fail.

The second year we lived in Austin we spent $2000 to fix a gas leak and all that went with it. Then we spent $5000 when the bathroom fail we thought we fixed failed again.

The third year I went crazy.

The fourth year I think we were spared. There would be hell to pay.

This fifth year Matt had an abscess behind his eardrum that involved emergency surgery under general anesthesia. Now the bills are starting to roll in from Arlo’s emergency birth and it’s not pretty. So far we’re up to over $40,000. Thankfully we pay $500/month for health insurance that covers what feels like a tiny fraction of this. It looks like we’re going to pay somewhere in the neighborhood of $10,000. Maybe more. We haven’t received all of the bills yet.

I wonder if we were never meant to leave New York?

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6 Week Slump

… Technically 5 weeks, but Arlo was a week late and hit his 3 week growth spurt a week early. I hope it’s like a few weeks ago, when we had a couple of exceedingly difficult days, highlights of which included taking Arlo for a chiropractic adjustment only to have him scream at the top of his lungs the entire time we were in the office and me trying to breastfeed him but succeeding only to completely overwhelm him with my let-down and consequently spray milk all over Dr. Lisa’s desk and chair. Phew. But afterwards, peace. I was full of optimism and energy. Another hurdle passed.

Most of the time, it is easier. Arlo doesn’t have reflux like Henry. He can nurse and fall right back to sleep—even if it is every two hours. He doesn’t require 30 minutes of elevation after each feed. He goes along with Henry’s schedule. But these growth spurt days he wakes *at least* every hour to nurse or be held. He screams and arches his back. He spits up in his sleep. He burps constantly. I have a laundry list of things to soothe him and by the time I get to the end I’m exhausted and can’t sleep myself. I feel my mood lowering and then like clockwork I have a plugged duct and can barely get out of bed.

I thought so far we were fine. The minute they wheeled me from the recovery room to my real room in the hospital I had 2 midwives and 2 doulas on my couch. Nobody left my side. Friends brought—are still bringing—meals each day and it made all the difference. The support I’ve had this time has been amazing, and I really thought it would keep me from losing my mind. But today I can’t sleep even though I’m exhausted. My entire back is in knots. My eyes are bloodshot and swollen. I plug the iPod into the speaker while I shower and the African drum music that I selected for the pushing phase comes on and I burst into tears. These reminders here and there, all over our house, of the homebirth, on these days, are too much. The poster that says “Open.” The prayer flags in a pile in the office. The candles everywhere. I’m trying to just sit with it. To feel happy my son is alive and at the same time mourn that I didn’t get what I wanted, be sad that my birthing days are over. There will be no third chances. Acknowledge it all and move on.

I was recovering so quickly and did too much too fast. I tried to walk and hike, to keep up with Henry. This week my incision started bleeding and pussing. I had to put my belly binder back on and try to stay in bed as much as possible. I’m trying to figure out how to be present for Henry and Arlo like this. I’m mad that this recovery takes so much longer than the birth I had planned and daydreamed of for months. I’m a competitive runner and an Ashtanga maniac; sitting still like this is torture.

And yet, this is what GB told me to do at the beginning of the pregnancy: Ask myself why I was always running? What would happen if I sat still, floated in a pool for an hour? What if I learned to walk really, really slow? Today as I lay in bed, tears streaming down my face in agony at nursing with a plugged duct, angry that I got about 3 hours of broken sleep total last night, I thought about what this was like last time around, how by this time I was already on medication and deep, deep into postpartum anxiety. And then I heard Henry talking in the kitchen about bulldozers and Biscuit Brothers, about butts and toilets and smoking and all the wonderful things he picks up from the boys at school. I heard Matt, his voice weary and defeated from taking care of the three of us all day. I was reminded that I have a choice. I can escape my head or I can breathe. I’m pulling from Arlo’s birth tonight. I will not get around this; I will only get through it.

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Arlo Beckett Bucher’s Birth Story

My dear Arlo,

I want to get your birth story written while it’s still fresh and raw. I’m sure, as with your brother’s, that it will go through several revisions as I process everything that went down, but here’s what I have for now.

My due date was September 18. Though I went 2 weeks late with Henry and told myself this whole pregnancy I’d be completely fine with going over this time, I wasn’t. I was ready to birth you! I had my last prenatal with our midwife, GB, on Thursday, September 23. She did some Mayan abdominal massage and craniosacral therapy on me, and she said you’d finally dropped lower into my pelvis. I was hopeful. Afterward I felt a sudden urgency to make dates. On Friday I took Henry on a date to the Zilker Zephyr, his favorite thing in the world. I got a sitter for Saturday night so I could go on a date with your father. I could feel your arrival was imminent.

Saturday mornings are my mornings with Henry. We woke up and did a 4-mile loop around Town Lake. Just like he did every other day this summer, Woode Wood, whom Henry calls “Guitar Guy,” asked me when I was going to have my baby, and just like every other day I replied, “soon.”  After our walk we went to Wheatsville and stocked up on a bunch of food. That afternoon I felt really sleepy and took a deep one-hour nap while your dad and Henry played with the dogs out front. Then Caitlin came to take care of Henry and your dad and I left for South Congress.

All I wanted to do was walk. I should’ve known something was up! When I went after my due date with Henry, people told me to eat Reale’s pizza to induce labor. It didn’t work. But for some reason, pizza was on my mind again, and all I wanted was Home Slice. I didn’t want to wait for a table. I just wanted to eat quick at the counter, people watch, and then walk some more. Your father and I had a really sweet time—it reminded us of our days in NYC when we’d do the same. After pizza we went to the candy store and messed around in a bunch of other shops. We were home by 9. I quickly checked my email and then I took my computer to bed so I could watch the new episode of Project Runway on Hulu.

That was when I started noticing my contractions. I tried not to get too excited—I’d had 4 other trial runs of regular contractions for a couple of hours only to have them stop. We timed them and they were mostly 10 minutes apart, sometimes 8, sometimes 12. They wrapped around from back to front unlike the other times, but still, I wasn’t sure this was actually it. They were still coming when the show was over. I told your dad we’d have to try to get some rest if this was the real thing. We could call our friend Erin in the morning to get Henry and then we’d go for a long walk to really get things moving.

So your dad went off to Henry’s bed and I continued to lie there in the dark. I dozed off a bit but when I woke I was still having contractions, and now they were 3-5 minutes apart. I decided I’d wake your dad to call GB and Amy, our doula, once they were that close for an hour. I got up to go to the bathroom, probably around 1 or so, and my water broke. It was brown. I ran into Henry’s room and woke your father, telling him to call GB right away, my water broke and there was meconium.

While your dad ran to grab the phone I felt another urge to go to the bathroom. Then, the oddest sensation. I looked down at about 10-12 inches of grayish, whitish matter hanging from between my legs. I panicked for a second, fearing a cord prolapse. But in the next quick moment I realized the birth was completely out of our hands and if I let myself leave my body like I did with Henry, I would be completely traumatized. I made a pact with myself right then and there to stay calm, stay with my breath, and accept whatever was happening. If, no matter what, I could stay present in my body, I would be OK. I visualized the lotus drawing I made in Lanell’s class about what to do when birth takes an unexpected turn.

GB was on her way, but we knew that would be another hour because of how far away she lives. Brielle, our other midwife, would be there in 20 minutes. GB told your father to call EMS to come listen to your heartbeat and then to email her a picture of what was hanging between my legs. She asked him if it was pulsing and he said no. I’ve never seen your father’s hand shake like it did when he emailed that picture. GB called right back and said it wasn’t the cord, it was the bag of waters. She told me to get in bed and put my butt in the air. I labored like that for about 10 minutes and EMS arrived. They listened to your heartbeat and it was great, about 130 beats per minute. Everything was fine, we refused medical treatment and told them to leave once Brielle arrived.

At some point during this time Erin came to get Henry but my bedroom door was closed so I was completely oblivious. When your dad called our doula Amy, she said she was at another birth but her backup was on her way. Meanwhile, Brielle came in the room very quietly and confirmed that it was indeed the bag of waters hanging from my body. Still, it was very strange, no one had ever seen anything like it before. Now I see it was almost like a divine foreshadowing. It certainly had prolapse on everyone’s mind. Brielle checked me and I told her not to tell me how far I was dilated. I flipped back over with my butt in the air—it felt really good to labor that way. She listened to your heartbeat and, again, about 130 bpm.

Later GB arrived and I felt I could really get down to business. GB and Brielle have the most calming, reassuring presence. GB was concerned about the meconium but we were keeping a close eye on it and since I was a VBAC I’d be monitored every 10-15 minutes anyway. Your father went to go fill up the birth tub in the dining room. I decided it was time to unleash my squatting power. As I rose from the bed, a huge gush of meconium spilled out of me and it was suddenly much darker. GB put the monitor to my belly and that’s when we heard it: your heartbeat slowed dramatically, down to 40 bpm. GB threw me on the bed, to my left side, my right side, my butt back up in the air. Your heartbeat picked up well after the contraction had passed and only when I had my butt in the air. GB called your dad into the room and told him to call EMS. There was a problem with the cord and it was most likely a prolapse. I’d have to have an emergency cesarean. There was no time to lose.

GB told me to tell you to stay inside, to tell my body to stop contracting. I tried but the contractions were only coming stronger. Still I stayed calm, breathed in, breathed out. GB had her fingers inside me, holding my cervix together and then stimulating your head during contractions to keep your heart rate up. EMS arrived. There was a commotion. They wouldn’t let GB hold her fingers inside me. She was going to have to sit in a seat belt. They wanted to strap me to a stretcher flat on my back. GB explained that her fingers and my butt in the air were the only things keeping you alive. I screamed at them and fought the straps. I had to be on my back but I pushed my butt in the air with my legs. Once we got into the ambulance, GB found a blanket and propped it under my butt. The bitchy EMS woman kept telling GB that I was her patient now and she demanded what kind of training she had. I screamed again that GB had been delivering babies for 30 years and she’d better follow her instructions. This fracas seemed to last forever. The whole time we were just parked in the driveway, not going anywhere. Your dad and Brielle were waiting to follow us in another car.

Finally the ambulance started moving. The woman put her fingers in me and her touch was so much rougher than GB’s. She couldn’t tell when I was contracting. She kept asking me but by this point I could no longer speak. I could hear GB telling her when to stimulate your head and when to push my cervix together. Though the hospital is only 5 minutes away, the drive seemed to last an eternity. When we got there we realized the EMS clowns had not called ahead. The OR was not prepped and they started wheeling me into labor & delivery. Despite all of this, I stayed calm, stayed with my breath. I could hear GB telling them this was a life and death situation, I needed a c-section immediately. There was a lot of screaming. Nurses and doctors were running everywhere. One nurse screamed at GB and Brielle for letting me VBAC at home. Someone checked me and said I was dilated to a 6. Later I found out that I had gone from a 2 to a 6 in five minutes. If this had not been an emergency situation, GB said I would’ve pushed you right out like a butter bean.

We got word the OR was prepped. GB, Brielle, and your father had to stay outside. Your father gave me 2 squirts of Rescue Remedy and waved a cloth dabbed in lavender essential oil under my nose. It was such a touching, centering gesture. I knew in that moment we’d all be OK. I was very calm as they prepped me. I remember them shaving me, I remember the gush of cold iodine on my belly. The OR was bright, cold. I told everyone to take good care of you when you were born, and a nurse squeezed my hand and promised they would. The contractions were coming stronger and I held my butt in the air as long as I could. Then the anesthesiologist put the mask over my face and told me when I woke up I’d be able to see my baby.

I woke up a couple of hours later in recovery. I was shaking but still calm, still with my breath. I wanted to see you so bad, but you were in NICU. They told me you were going to be OK. I always thought I’d die if I couldn’t see my baby right after birth, but in this case, it was a blessing. Here’s what I didn’t have to see: you emerging from my womb limp and gray. You had an Apgar score of 3. I didn’t have to see the head NICU doctor call to another hospital about a transfer because they had the only life support machine that would be appropriate for your condition. Some kind of spirit took hold of you and within 5 minutes they decided to keep you at the NAMC NICU. I am forever grateful for that.

The nurses at NAMC were excellent at managing my pain, so different from my experience at Seton with your brother. They allowed GB into the recovery room and she did craniosacral therapy right away. Her loving touch on my feet, my head, my sacrum, my abdomen was so centering. I also knew that I would not be able to see you until I was able to lift myself out of bed and into a wheelchair. With Henry this simple movement took me 2 days. With you, I was out of bed in 6 hours. Our first meeting was in the NICU. You were hooked up to a million machines. There were cords and wires everywhere. There was talk of possible brain damage, lung damage, many more tests to be performed. I was not allowed to hold you or bring you to my breast. You would not be able to ingest anything other than IV fluids for days, someone said maybe even longer.

But, like I said, you have some kind of spirit, Arlo. You turned around faster than any of the doctors or nurses predicted. Everyone called you a miracle baby. I pumped like crazy and you were able to have a bottle I think the next day. I brought you to my breast the day after that and from the first latch you were perfect. Tests started to come back and the results were not as bad as feared. Your lungs took the longest to recover. I was discharged from the hospital on Thursday and allowed to room in until Friday when your lungs looked good enough to discharge you from NICU.

Now we’re all home and having the babymoon we always wanted. I hold you 24/7. You hate your cosleeper and prefer to be snuggled in bed with me. You nurse all throughout the night and fall right back to sleep. We’re making up for lost time. There are times I fall into the what-ifs: What if we hadn’t planned a homebirth and our midwives were not right there with us? GB saved your life. If I’d planned a hospital birth, we’d have stayed at home and not called anyone until the last possible moment. That would’ve been too late. But I can’t go there for long. Right now I’m just so grateful you’re alive. I don’t feel traumatized from this birth. I got to go into labor on my own, I labored through strong contractions and felt amazing. I feel incredibly empowered by the fact that when shit hit the fan, I stayed calm. If I can focus on my breath through this, I can endure anything. And I know if you can fight back like you did, you most certainly can endure anything, too.

I’m sure there will come a time when I grieve the loss of the homebirth, the fact that I will never birth a child vaginally. But for now I focus on gratitude and a wonder at the universe. We were all so lucky on September 26, 2010, brought together by some force way bigger than us. Right now, the windows are open and a cool breeze blows across you and me. You’re asleep in my lap as I type, and I’m in awe of the mystery and power of your birth.



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My Mama Tribe

This is my Mama tribe. Each of these women inspires me. Three years ago I told one of them that I would just schedule a cesarean for my next birth because it was too heartbreaking to have to endure labor and “fail.” But along the way, I started to weave this amazing web of female support. Without it, I never would have had the courage to forgive myself and to realize that what happened last time was certainly not a failure. My body is not a lemon.

And so it is buoyed by these women that I take my next step in the amazing journey of Blueberry’s birth. (And what a journey it has already been!) No matter what happens, I know that these women have my back. This time I will birth in awareness. I can’t wait to see what it looks like.

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24 Weeks and 3 Years

This was The Week In Which I Could No Longer See My Crotch. I remember this when I was pregnant with Henry. As I recall, it happened much later in the pregnancy. I hadn’t really looked down there in awhile but then one day I realized I couldn’t and was horrified. I stretched my neck and then tried to peer over my belly a few more times to no avail. I’m pretty sure I called Matt at work to tell him the news. So this time around I’ve been checking daily to see when would that day come? Week 24, Baby.

I’ve had a lot of energy these past few weeks, but I have to be careful to conserve it in this heat or I end the day crying about the fact that I prefer Colgate over Tom’s of Maine or that the peaches I bought at the Farmers’ Market are gross or that my favorite sweatpants are dirty (and they’re dirty even when they are clean). Last night I was so exhausted that I couldn’t even push myself into an upright position and then that made me cry even more because I couldn’t stop hearing that old lady’s voice in my head from those, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” commercials from the 80s. And then I started thinking about that last month or so of Henry’s pregnancy when I couldn’t lie down completely horizontally either and I really lost it.

Despite the inhumanity of it all, I feel this sense of peace and courage that gets stronger every day. I knew I was finally in a good place when we decided to go for #2, but I didn’t realize I could go even deeper. I really have no fears left. I lived my biggest fear with Henry’s birth. I’d never be here if not for there. It feels so good to have a voice in this pregnancy. Always, in the back of my mind: What if I have the most empowering, peaceful birth? I ask myself every day.

And, meanwhile, as this boy grows inside of me, my first boy turns three and finishes his first year of preschool. Whether he’s bellowing out to the yogurt shop that his mother is a pregnant woman in need of ice cream or taking over the stage at an old man’s banjo concert, he is fearless. I’m so proud of my little leader who sometimes marches to the beat of a different drummer and who always lets his thoughts and feelings be known. Over these past few months I’ve come to realize that he is the embodiment of all my wishes for this birth. He is the courage, the strength, the pride, the voice, and most of all, the spirit.

On the last day of school, his teachers tied a balloon to his wrist that he couldn’t wait to release into the sky. As someone who, as a girl, tied helium balloons to her desk chair only to watch them deflate over a week, I’ve always found this desire of his peculiar. But now I see that he already knows how to do what has taken me years to learn how to do: tie one on and let it go. Catch and release. Breathe. Be here and now.

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