Privacy

It's just not what it used to be. 

It's About Counter Surveillance

After all these years, I finally understand why moms have eyes in the backs of their heads: 

Counter surveillance. 

It's about all we have to protect us from our children. And, frankly, I think it leaves us severely out-gunned because children have two major advantages.

First off, they outnumber us.  They keep multiplying. Kind of like rabbits. Or ants.  Because ants like to eat this kind of stuff:

And rabbits like to eat this kind of stuff: 

And I can tell you right now that my kids aren't begging me for option number two come snack time. 

Yeah, definitely like ants. 

Kids multiply like ants and there is nothing in the world you can do to keep them from invading every space of your life and eating all the good food before you can get to it. 

The more kids there are, the more able they are to pull this kind of stuff off. Now that there are three in my house, one can distract me (usually the immobile one, since she knows her sisters can cause more havoc if I'm occupied) while the other two dash in separate directions. Even if I manage to snatch one before she gets away, the other one is free to shut herself in my room and jump on my bed, not only disarraying my neatly made bed (hey, I heard that guffaw--it does get made! The fact that it's usually not until 30 minutes before bed time is irrelevant) but also dumping all the clean, freshly folded clothes onto the hardwood bedroom floor that did need sweeping, but now doesn't because clean clothes do a great job of picking up dirt and lint. 

Even when DB's home there aren't enough hands to go around. You should see the mealtime carnage.

Outmanned,  I tell you. 

As for outgunned, that's the second major advantage the kids have. The eyes in the back of my head get dizzy from trying to keep up with their tactics. 

The children have many super powers themselves, but by far the most potent and dreaded is the anti-sleep radar. This power is particularly pronounced in the larvae-staged children, such as Butterfly. She can't get up and sneak outside on her own, but she is more than capable of making sure I don't log more than 6 heavily interrupted hours of sleep per 24 hours in the day. Even when she seems to be so far under that a train coming through the living room wouldn't wake her, a mommy lying down on the couch sets off her radar and she is AWAKE and NOT HAPPY.  

Ladybug and StrawBee like to get in on this, too. Just to make sure their new sister's radar is functioning properly, I suppose. The 3 a.m. feeding is like a circus, and a carefully timed one at that. 

Butterfly, of course, wakes up first and whimpers gently, rapidly building to an un-ladylike roar, to get my attention. I wait for a moment because hope springs eternal and I want to be double sure that she really means it when she says she hungry. She does, of course, so we get up and get on with the feeding. 

All is quiet for almost half an hour. Ladybug waits until Butterfly is almost asleep and I'm contemplating heading back to bed. Her radar picks up my sleepy thoughts, and she pops out of bed with exclamations of "I need to go POTTY!" 

I hush her and tell her to go. She runs down the hall to the bathroom, turning on all the lights along the way and disrupting Butterfly's rest. She potties while I resettle the larvae, then emerges with a loud announcement that she can't get her pajamas back on. In attempting to help her wrestle them back on I unsettle the baby again. Ladybug gets sent scampering back to bed, and Butterfly demands I pay attention to her. While I'm distracted, Ladybug thumps her ladder around and/or turns on her bedroom light, possibly while yelling requests down the hall that I tuck her in. 

Enter StrawBee, who was sleeping peacefully and who is now screeching and whining because Ladybug woke her up and she can't find her "bibi" and therefore will never sleep again. I hurriedly place the now complacent Butterfly back in bed, then run to the big girls' bedroom, scold Ladybug (who smirks), find the bibi, put them all back in bed, and turn off the lights. 

At this point I get to climb back into bed, snuggling up with my super-soft blanket with a sigh of happiness. 

This, of course, trips the anti-sleep radar. 

You get the picture. 

DB, I have to add, sleeps like a rock through all of this. This is, naturally, the arrangement we've made and it works well for us. His sleep means I get a bit of a lie-in come morning. However, in the small hours of the morning it's difficult to be happy with the decisions made while one was feeling rational and well-rested. 

Fortunately for me, Butterfly isn't as anti-sleep as her sisters were, and often a pacifier will settle her again. Plus, once she gets to sleep, she usually stays that way for 4 or 5 hours. Not bad for someone who's been sleeping on a regular schedule for just 3 and a half weeks!

Still, anti-sleep is a major campaign in this house. How, I ask you, are the eyes at the back of my head supposed to do me any good if they're forever drifting closed in hopes of twenty winks? 

Outmanned. Outgunned. Deep in the jungle and living on a ration of goldfish crackers and juice boxes. 

Welcome to my world.

Stir Fry Brain

I had forgotten how completely defunct my brain is when there's a baby in the house. Butterfly is a champion sleeper for her age, but even 7 hours of sleep does little to straighten out your thinker when that sleep is interrupted every 2 or 3 hours.

Which brings us to today.

I am determined to get back into my regular schedule this week. This means two things: Exercise and writing. I exercised last night; today is supposed to be a blog post. After how well I did with the first, I figured the second would be easy. I managed to forget, however, that playing with the Wii fit takes a lot fewer brain cells than inventing an entire blog post. I've been trying to think about this all day, but all I get out of my brain is a faint sizzling sound and the smell of over-cooked inspiration spontaneously combusting.

Ergo: I have a short slice of story to share with you. I've always loved this little squirt of writing but never shared it with anyone because it doesn't go anywhere--today, that seems appropriate. Enjoy.

A Story: 

Agatha stopped her absent-minded crocheting all at once as a knot of yarn caught in her negligently made loop, breaking off her comments to Druce at the same time.  The owl, taking advantage of her sudden silence, ruffled his feathers and clicked his beak disapprovingly.  “I’ll say it again, Witch, those radishes are disappearing.” 

“And what does it matter if they do?” Agatha gave one end of the butter-yellow yarn knot a tug, making the tangle worse.  

Druce turned his back, ruffling his brown feathers, apparently with no answer.  “They’re dangerous,” he finally hooted, glaring at her over his shoulder. 

“Only to an unborn child,” answered Agatha serenely, her already wrinkled brow contracting into deeper furrows as she wrestled with the growing mess.  

“Or any apprentice witch who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“Or any apprentice witch who doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Agatha concurred with a nod of her head, her gray-streaked black bun bouncing.  She gave an experimental tug to one obscure yellow loop, and the knot fell apart.  “But I’ve been using those rapunzels for years.” 

The owl’s reflective eyes glared down at the loose yellow yarn, then up at the witch.  “I think you cheated.” 

Agatha clicked her tongue in laughing disgust, then stopped at the sound of tiny, scrabbling feet. “Minty…?” she inquired, and, indeed, a tiny gray nose poked up over the edge of Agatha’s side table, followed by Minty’s furry body.

“…trying to get your attention!” squeaked the mouse indignantly, her sides heaving as she puffed and panted.  “But you were jabbering on with that owl.” Druce stirred, flaring his wings threateningly in the firelight, but Minty was too intent on her errand to goad him further.  “Agatha, Raymond’s out in your garden.”

“Who who?” demanded Druce, settling back, appeased at the thought of news.

“Raymond,” repeated Minty shrilly.  “That man that lives next door.  His wife’s pregnant, you know.”

“Yes, dear,” Agatha agreed mildly, intervening before Druce could do more than click his beak.  “Frightened of me, both of them, the poor ones.”

“Not frightened enough to keep that Raymond man from stealing your radishes!” 

Druce and Agatha froze; Minty’s nose twitched as she eyed her audience with pleasure.  “Well,” she conceded with a toss of her little mousy whiskers, “he’s actually frightened to death.  But his wife – she wants them.  He’ll do anything to stop her whining – I heard him say so.” The mouse paused, then started to groom her fur as she continued reflectively, “Well, more grumble so.  But I guess it doesn’t really--,”

“Which radishes?” Agatha demanded, her voice tight.  Minty looked up, her black eyes wide with surprise at the unusually interruption.  “Which ones, Minty? Tell me.”

And Minty, who usually would put up a fight at a direct order – after all, she was a free mouse, not a house pet like that owl – answered meekly, “The ones nearest the willow tree, that I told you wouldn’t grow since the tree would take all the water.” 

“The rapunzels,” snapped Druce, puffing up with indignation. “See here, Witch, didn’t I tell you there’d be trouble?” 

But Agatha wasn’t listening.  She was already out of her comfortable armchair and through the door of the small cottage, swinging her beaded black shawl around her plump shoulders as she disappeared into the misty night.  

Both animals stared into the blackness that the door should have covered, only Agatha left too quickly to close it, and Druce muttered, “I warned her.” 

“Warn a witch!” squealed Minty indignantly.  “You’re only an owl!”

“Even witches make mistakes,” the owl muttered, turning his head away from her, then silently flying after his mistress. “Even witches like Agatha.” 

Minty stood up on her round hind legs for just a moment, her glance flicking from the cold outside to the seat of the armchair – pulled up nicely to the fire and with an inviting mound of yellow yarn – then reluctantly lowered herself to all fours and scrambled out into the darkness.

Ta Da! The Birth!

I would apologize profusely for not posting lately, but frankly I feel I have a good excuse. And I actually did start working on this particular post on Tuesday, but things just have a way of ... I dunno, happening around here the last few weeks.

So instead I'll apologize profusely for how looooong this birth story is. Some people expressed an interest in reading it, though, and I am just too tired to write a more succinct version when I have this written out for Butterfly's journal already. 


I also apologize for the rather bi-polar shifts in tone. This was written in bits and pieces and at different stages of exhaustion. 

Without further ado: The Birth.

It was Thursday, February 10th, and I had been having contractions on and off since the Friday before. Nothing very intense, mind you, but enough to be continually keeping Devin home from work for fear that if he drove the hour away he might not be able to get home to me in a timely manner. I had a regular check-up scheduled with my OB’s partner Dr. Kidder that day since, of course, my own doctor was out of town. I remember with surprising clarity when the first contraction came: It was one o’clock, we were in the process of dropping the older kids off at my folks’ house, and my mother had just asked if I had had any contractions that day. I answered, probably with clear disappointment, “Nope. Not really,” then had to immediately change it to, “Oh, well, there’s one now, anyway.” 

It was the same sort of contraction that had been coming around to visit all week long, though, so I welcomed it warmly and then promptly ignored it and any succeeding contractions. 

My appointment being around 2:30, we got to see the doctor around four. This OB seemed nice enough; younger than my doctor. But he laughed with good humor when I referred to myself as a birthing Jedi, so I was willing to give him a chance. He worked his way further into my good graces when I asked him about the possibility of getting a heplock if he were supervising my labor instead of an open IV and he replied with a shrug, “I don’t see why not. Women have been doing this for thousands of years and as long as nothing’s going wrong I see no reason to interfere.” 

Ah, I though contentedly. A man after my own heart. Thank goodness. After all the time and effort I had put into picking an OB who wouldn’t fight me about being drug free, I would have been rather put out at having to throw down the gauntlet with some random guy who thought he was in charge of my body all the sudden.

Not that it mattered, I reminded myself, since labor still seemed a long way off. Which was why, as Dr. Kidder prepared to do a check, I requested that he go ahead and sweep my membranes. 

“Well,” he replied evenly, “sure, if your body is ready for it. But you’ll have to be dilated a  bit before we can go there.” 

Since I hadn’t been dilated at all the last time I had been checked (Sunday), I prepared myself to hear that I was maybe a fingertip and sweeping the membranes was off the table. What I heard instead was, “Hm. You’re a 4 already.” There was an odd shuffling sensation and then, “I swept your membranes, but I doubt you needed it.” 

Devin and I exchanged looks. I have a history of extremely fast labors upon reaching a four or a five--fast as in, the baby arrives within the hour. Ozark (where we live) and Springfield (where the hospital lives) are only 20 minutes from each other, but that suddenly sounded like a long way to travel. And as it happened, and against all likelihood, we had left the girls’ overnight bag with them and brought the hospital bag with us, mostly because we knew that if we didn’t bring it we would end up wanting it. 

Given the evidence, we decided that hanging out in Springfield for a couple of hours wouldn’t do us any harm. We would go and get some dinner, walk the mall for a little while, and see where that put us. 

First, though, we had to arrange a drop-off with my dad since, despite our planning, we had forgotten to leave the kids’ car seats with my parents. It was while we sat in a parking lot full of hardened chunks of road-blackened snow, waiting for my dad to show, that the contractions... well, I would say returned, except I’m not sure if they ever went away. It’s more like they started bouncing up and down a bit, maybe tentatively waving a hand in the air to try and get some more attention. 

“Huh,” I told Devin. “Maybe this membrane thing really does work.” He asked me what I wanted to do at this point, and I replied that I was starving and the idea of nothing but ice chips and water for the next who-knew-how-long if I DID end up at the hospital was not appealing. Car seats duly handed over, we headed to Panera bread (complex carbs=helpful for labor; besides, who doesn’t love a bread bowl of cheesy broccoli soup?) and by the time Dev brought our food to the table, I was timing contractions with my cell phone. 

We enjoyed our food, however, with minimum interruptions and, after texting with Beth, our doula, a few times, decided to head over to the hospital. We settled into triage around six, found I hadn’t progressed any, then sat back to wait. Beth joined us shortly after, and by the time 8 o’clock rolled around, the nurse announced that the doctor wanted to keep me despite the fact that I was still a four and around 70% effaced. She also added that the doctor would be in in about an hour to break my water. The look on her face when I replied that thanks all the same, I didn’t feel I was ready to have my water broken, I would much rather just walk around for awhile was priceless. Bless her heart. I was, frankly, a bit startled myself--I wasn’t quite sure that when it came down to it, I would be able to stand up for what I wanted. Who knew I could be so self-possessed? 

Within half an hour, we had the doctor’s approval for walking, showering, the heplock, and he had apparently taken my decision about the water breaking with good grace and simply sent the message that if I changed my mind to just let him know. 

By 9 o’clock, after the baby had been monitored for a bit and the heplock installed, we found I was dilated to a 6 but hadn’t effaced any further. We had a darling nurse named Annie now that we were actually on the L&D floor; this was a nurse who actually wants to train as a doula. This was great news, since people who think a doula is a grand sort of thing are generally on board with a drug-free labor. Annie was very helpful, sweet, informative, patient, and very excited to participate in something that apparently isn’t seen very often, according to her. 

The next several hours were quite pleasant. Devin, Beth, and I spent time walking the halls and chatting, or else I sat on the yoga ball while one or the other of them gave me a massage. There was a never-ending flow of ice chips to be had, and Annie and Dr. Kidder pretty much left us to our own devices aside from the mandatory 20 minutes of monitoring per hour. 

Around midnight, I decided to lie down for a few minutes and try to catch some sleep. Within moments of settling in comfortably, a new sensation set in: nausea, followed closely by the shakes. 

“Transition,” said Beth with a knowing smile. 

I smiled back from my new position on the yoga ball (does anyone else find it impossible to drop off when the threat of puke hangs over their head?), figuring that the nap could wait another six months or so; I was ready. 

Despite, however, the renewed intensity of the contractions and the nausea (something brought swiftly under control by Beth with her lavender oils and massage), by one o’clock I still hadn’t effaced anymore and had been at a seven for a couple of hours. I was getting tired--not worn out from labor tired, but I-haven’t-been-up-this-late-in-ages tired--and Dr. Kidder wanted to see me. 

While we were waiting for him, Annie explained that he was probably going to ask about breaking my water again and I ought to think about what I wanted to do. She told me that, in her opinion, the reason I hadn’t effaced anymore was because my bag of waters was still intact and that having my water broken at this point would probably do little but speed the process along by applying more pressure to my cervix. Dr. Kidder appeared, cheerful despite the hour, and made similar comments, then asked what I thought. He, the nurse, and Beth all volunteered to step out into the hallway while Dev and I made a decision. (So nice that everyone was so courteous! Usually my experience has been that the doctor tries to stare you down until you have an answer.) I told Devin that I felt my body was ready for this particular move, and that I was worried that if we didn’t get things moving along, I would be too sleepless to push when the time came. Since Devin’s philosophy is basically “her body=her decision,” we agreed quickly and brought everyone back in to let them know. 

Shortly after Dr. Kidder broke my water, the tenor of my contractions changed again. They moved from politely requesting that I pay attention to jumping up and down, shouting, screaming, waving their arms, and otherwise generally making a nuisance of themselves.

It didn’t take long for this to become entirely unpleasant. 

Devin swears I never raised my voice above a conversational tone--news to me! My body reflects my personality: When it gets excited about something, it throws itself in headfirst. It was so excited about these new, intense contractions that it came up with a new plan without even consulting me. Forget one contraction at a time, it decided. We’re is as tough as woodpecker lips. Carolynn would be insulted if she wasn’t throw multiple contractions at a time. As it is, the 30 second break we’re getting after the three or four contractions is probably pushing it.

Next time, I think I’ll get my body’s plan in writing ahead of time. 

Sometime around two, my body got bored with the contraction thing and decided it was time to push. No no! exclaimed Nurse Annie and Dr. Kidder in chorus. You’re only 9. DON’T push!

I thought that was the silliest thing I had ever heard. Despite Dr. Kidder’s assurances that pushing now would lead to tears in my cervix, I was determined that I was going to push right then and nothing was going to stop me. 

So, without telling anyone, I tried an experimental push. ...I had never known exactly where my cervix was before that moment, but the pain made a great little marker for me. I doubt I will ever forget again. I stopped pushing. I hadn’t done any damage (fortunately), but I also hadn’t finished dilating (which had, after all, been my goal).

Sigh.

My bored body kept insisting on pushing. I kept holding back. Dr. Kidder kept checking for that last little bit of cervix to get outta the way. I threw up a few times. Beth told me I was amazing. Devin risked life and limb to remind me to breathe, helping me stay calm and manage what I was experiencing. 

Life was good.

Finally, just before 2:30 a.m., Dr. Kidder pronounced my cervix officially fully dilated. 

Hallelujah. 

So I pushed. And I pushed with a very clear purpose: Get the kid out. This had become my all-consuming purpose. 

Oddly, what I remember most at that moment was the look on Beth’s face after the first push. I realized later that the giddy, awed look on her face was apparently there because I had gotten the baby almost all the way down with that first push. 

No one told me when to push, or for how long. There was no counting. I just pushed when I felt like it, as long as I felt like it, and breathed like there was no tomorrow. 

After six pushes, out she came. 

She was so, so beautiful.

Covered in white vernix, already sucking on her fingers. They placed her on my chest and I realized I had done it. 

Amazing. 

She is perfect. 

My body is She-Ra.

It was an intense, overwhelming, all-consuming, at times frightening, incredibly powerful experience. 

Which, of course, begs the question: Will I do it again?

Frankly, I don’t know. But this is what I do know--everyone who told me that recovery is a zillion times faster with a drug-free birth was right. I was up and walking around pretty much as soon as everything was cleaned up. Aside from after-birth pains (monstrous menstrual cramps, essentially), my hospital stay and the days following were wonderfully uneventful in the pain department. So that was fantastic.

I also know that, so far, I’m not fighting PPD. I have in the past, and am so grateful that it seems I’m not going there again.

Most importantly, I know that this has forever changed my view of my body. When I got a good look at it for the first time after giving birth, I waited to feel the usual disgust with my post-baby belly hanging all over the place, with my face swollen with water retention.  I waited for the urge to track down every last stretch mark and threaten it to go away. I waited, essentially, for my mind to start telling my body that while the baby thing was all well and good, it was time to start getting it together. 

But you know what? I’ve given up waiting. It’s not coming. All I feel when I see my body is awe. I’ve tried for years to cultivate that attitude within myself, and it turns out that all I needed was 8.5 hours of drug-free labor to teach me to love my body. 

I may have given Mary a gift by bringing her here, but she gave me a gift I can only hope to pass back to her as she grows. 

So, was it worth it? 

Oh. Yes.

A(nother) Pregnant Pause

All good things are worth waiting for - at least I hope you guys feel this way about my wife's blog.  She isn't here today or the few days before.  She has gone and given birth to our new girl!  She was 8 pounds 3 oz; 20 inches tall; and has not had jaundice unlike our other two girls.  Momma is doing well and recovered quickly.  Thanks for reading and I hope you have enjoyed these posts my wife does.  She enjoyes doing them.