We only found a few of the “My Little House books” to check out of the library for this year’s Laura Ingalls Wilder Reading Challenge – but Louis is loving this one:
County Fair, adapted from Farmer Boy
Everyday Life
Heart outside my body
Elizabeth Stone (whoever she is) once said that “making the decision to have a child… is to decide forever to have your heart go walking outside your body.”
Most of the time, when I read this quote on a pretty background while scrolling through Pinterest, I roll my eyes. That is everything that is wrong with parenting these days, I think. Parents are just too absorbed in their children.
And then my baby gets her first cold.
I remember it with Tirzah Mae, a few weeks after she came home from the hospital. She was snuffling and gasping and we’d been trained into terror of RSV by the NICU staff.
We took her to our doctor, who smiled indulgently at these first time parents freaking out about a simple cold. He described the warning signs of something worse than just a cold and sent us home (thankfully, he didn’t /doesn’t subscribe to the “give a baby antibiotics just to ease troubled parents’ minds” line of thought.)
Even knowing that Tirzah Mae’s cold was just a cold, I still felt with every labored breath that my heart was rattling outside my chest – and that said heart was just about to break.
Somehow, it doesn’t get easier. Beth-Ellen was a term baby. Her objective risk of serious complications of a cold is lower than the other children’s risk was. I’m a more experienced mom and have weathered dozens of colds.
But when Beth-Ellen got a cold this weekend, at just shy of six weeks old, my heart was out there coughing. And when she lost her voice and could only squeak instead of screaming? My heart, oh my heart, squeezed until it’s crushed. And when she started wheezing with every breath in and out? I was sure she was dying – and that I was dying with her.
And just as I’m about to wake my husband and tell him we need to head to the ER (but am worried because, for some reason, it seems like every time we go to the ER, the problem resolves while we’re there and I look like a fool) – anyway, just as I’m about to wake Daniel and head off to the ER, I remember where my heart actually belongs.
My heart doesn’t belong in my children’s chests. It doesn’t even belong in mine. My heart belongs to God.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not lean on your own understanding.” (Proverbs 3:5 ESV)
Sure, I’d prayed for Beth-Ellen at our evening devotions, and earlier when she’d come up in my prayer app. But during all this worrying? I hadn’t been entrusting her to the Lord.
I stopped. I confessed my lack of trust. I prayed for healing and for wisdom to know when to have Beth-Ellen seen. I entrusted my daughter to God’s care, entrusted my heart to him.
And the labored wheezing settled, the noisy breathing calmed, the restless sleep eased. My daughter slept in peace.
And I did too, my heart still walking outside my body, but this time walking with the one who holds it – and my daughter – so tenderly.
My heart and my daughter can find rest in God alone.
To paraphrase the Psalmist: Why so troubled, O my heart? Put your trust in God!
Tax Time, Now and Then
Now that it’s the beginning of February and everyone has gotten us our tax documents, it’s time for the Garcia household to do taxes.
So Louis and Papa sat down this morning to plug the numbers into Turbo Tax.
It got me reminiscing about tax time in my family growing up.
Growing up, Dad did the taxes with a paper form (when did electronic filing and tax software start? He probably started using TurboTax sometime in my teen years).
April 15 meant papers spread across the kitchen table as dad crunched numbers and filled out the form.
Why April 15? Well, no need to give the government your money any sooner than necessary. Let it sit in your own bank account earning you money. (Of course, this logic only applies if you’ll be paying taxes versus getting a refund for taxes already withheld.)
Around 11, it’d be time to slide the completed form into its envelope and carefully affix the stamp, flag flying upside down as a sign of distress.
Then to the car, to drive to the downtown post office, where uniformed employees stood beside the big blue mailboxes collecting tax forms from all of us to-the-wire filers. (Is that memory correct? Were there really people there collecting tax documents? Or were we so late that they were there counting down the time until midnight when they’d empty the mailbox and ding everyone after us as a late filer? Or am I just imagining the person in uniform standing beside the mailbox during those late night visits?)
Let’s just say that our children will have a very different experience of doing taxes than I did.
Unintentionally snarky
The man in front of us at church introduced himself, asked about Beth-Ellen and Tirzah Mae.
Yes, Beth-Ellen is a month old, Tirzah Mae is three. We’ve got another – eighteen-month-old Louis is in the nursery.
“Oh you’ve been busy.”
It was an innocuous sort of comment, it didn’t feel snarky at all. I was thinking of the busy life that is being the mother of three three and under when I responded.
“But what a fun thing to be busy with.”
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I realized how snarky they must have sounded (and how totally not polite-conversation-at-church.)
But the deed was done and the musicians started singing and all I could do was contemplate what a bummer it was that the one time I managed a great comeback to a snarky comment was when a) the comment wasn’t meant snarkily and b) neither was my response.
One month
Beth-Ellen is one month old today.
I’m no Instagram or Facebook savvy mom with a fancy blackboard listing my one month old’s accomplishments. I wasn’t that on top of it for baby number one or baby number two. And I’m not for baby number three, either.
But I’ve got a blog, and it is fun to keep a record of these oh-so-fleeting moments.
So…
At one month old, Beth-Ellen is…
…sleeping
She sleeps four to five hours at a time, breastfeeds, and then goes back to sleep! In her bassinet! And stays asleep when I fall asleep! It’s an absolute miracle.
…eating
She loves her mama’s milk and has only ever had it “straight from the tap” with no adulterations.
…smiling
Her mother is something of a skeptic when it comes to when a baby first gives a truly social smile, but even this skeptical mama is claiming these smiles (after all, they’re clearly in response to mama’s own smiles.)
…watching
The days of calmly sleeping through absolutely everything are already gone. Beth-Ellen wants to see. If she’s awake in the MOBY, she’ll turn her head until you wonder if it’s screwed on backward so she can look at everything that’s going on around her. And if turning her head from side to side doesn’t work, she’ll lean herself back to look at the ceiling. She just wants to take everything in.
…loved
Is it possible for a baby to be more loved? I’m not sure. Beth-Ellen’s big sister and brother are enamored with her. The moment she’s anywhere except being worn by me, both of her siblings are at her side. They’re patting her, stroking her, giving her hugs and kisses. They’re turning on the vibration for her bouncy seat or providing a little mechanical bouncing action. They’re soothing her or singing to her or telling her that “I love you, baby.” She is very, very loved.
Oh, the weather outside’s…
DELIGHTFUL!
After a month of mostly bitterly cold weather, our January thaw has arrived. The temperature has gotten into the 50s for the past couple of days – and since we happened to be at home today, we took advantage of the weather.
The kids put on their jackets and played with their bike, lawnmower, and wheelbarrow in the front lawn. I grabbed a blanket for Beth-Ellen and sat on the porch swing (a Christmas present to the family from Daniel), swinging and nursing her and working on this week’s menu.
Nursing done, we got the mail and took the compost back to the pile.
We went inside just long enough to put the compost pails on the counter and to heat up some leftovers for lunch. Then we were back outside to eat our lunch on the porch table.
After our rest time (and a bit of this and that for mama), we returned to the porch table for afternoon tea. Papa came home as we were finishing up and he and I had our “couch time” on the porch swing.
Yes, the weather today was delightful.
Thank you, Lord, for these tastes of spring, these glimmers of warmth amidst the cold.
The Very Best Part (Beth-Ellen’s birth story, part 9)
A rush of water and blood, spilling onto the floor, soaking my socks. Did he really break my waters while I was leaning over the side of the bed? That’s how I remember it. The blood, the water, and absolutely overwhelming intensity.
There would be no laboring down, no rest for me.
Are you feeling lost? Maybe you’d like to read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, and part 8 of Beth-Ellen’s birth story
Two, maybe three contractions and I was pushing.
The room buzzed full of people, not that I was paying any attention.
Someone was frantic. “She’s pushing. Somebody get Dr. Jensen in here.”
Another person remarked that my OB slept in his office (or something like that) when he had a woman in labor – so he should be able to get here soon. Even so, they were convinced that delivery was imminent.
And it was.
I don’t know how long I pushed, but it wasn’t terribly long.
I pooped. I know because I did not at all like the dry washcloth they used to wipe it away.
Baby was crowning and someone encouraged me to feel the head. I reached down and found that it was not at all what I expected – it felt like the rough edge of an almond. In the rare moments between contractions, I contemplated that what I had felt must have been the edge of her head’s plates.
A giant push. Her head was out.
And then she was out.
A girl. Beth-Ellen Irene, I announced.
Someone helped me into bed so I could place Beth-Ellen on my chest. They covered us with a blanket – necessary since I’d shed all my clothing somewhere along the line. All my clothing except those now-bloody socks. Someone took them off now, asked if I wanted to keep them or just toss them. My brain wasn’t working just then, so I delayed the decision. Keep them. (Once we were home from the hospital, I threw them away, still sealed in the biohazard bag they’d been placed in.)
Beth-Ellen lay between my breasts. I was just so delighted to have her. To have her vaginally. To have her naturally. To have defied the odds.
I was also exhausted and unprepared for the “clean up.”
People talk of how the hormones flood a woman’s system, making her barely notice the third stage. And maybe they’re right. I have no memory of expelling the placenta. I barely took note when Doctor Jensen said the cord was no longer needed (In retrospect, why? Was it because it had stopped pulsating? Was it because the placenta had been delivered by then?) Someone asked Daniel if he wanted to cut the cord. He’d always been ambivalent when we’d discussed it, so I was a little surprised when he assented and did it.
But even if hormones blunted my experience of the third stage, they did little to save me from what was to come.
Beth-Ellen on my chest meant I needed to stay on the bed, couldn’t jump out of it at the extreme discomfort that was a manual inspection of my uterine scars. It was necessary to check that I hadn’t ruptured. It’s better to find out about that sort of thing sooner rather than later. But boy, that was not fun.
And then came the stitches. I had lidocaine for them, but that doesn’t mean it was pleasant. I only had superficial tears, but there were several, so the stitching took a long time.
I handed Beth-Ellen over to be bathed and weighed. I put on a clean hospital gown. The nurse returned Beth-Ellen to me and we went to our postpartum room together.
And here’s the very best part – we’ve been together ever since.
Keeping Things Moving (Beth-Ellen’s birth story, part 8)
How long did we labor like that? I don’t know. I lived from contraction to contraction. Mary offered sips of water in between, reminded me to switch positions every half hour or so.
Whatever position we tried, I ended up the same. On all fours on the bed, facing the foot of the bed. On my knees on the bed with my upper body draped over the elevated head of the bed. Standing or kneeling on the floor with my upper body over the side of the bed. Always with my legs and back at right angles to one another. Always with Daniel providing counterpressure. Liv tried the double hip squeeze at some point in there and found it effective, so Daniel switched to that.
Are you feeling lost? Maybe you’d like to read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, and part 7 of Beth-Ellen’s birth story
On and on. Contraction after contraction. I started to feel desperate, but all I could articulate beyond my moos was “Oh, God, help me.” Mary picked up where I left off, praying a prayer I don’t remember now but that was exactly the trust-filled prayer I wanted to say if I could have spoken.
It must have been about then that someone wondered if I wouldn’t like to be checked. I acquiesced. I’d been wondering, but was afraid to ask lest I discover I wasn’t progressing and end up deeply discouraged. But now that someone else had suggested it, I gave myself permission to want to know.
9 centimeters. 90% effaced. With a bulging bag of waters.
Relief. I had been making progress. I would be able to deliver this baby. I started dreaming of “laboring down”, of the plateau some women experience when they’re fully dilated and before they feel like pushing. Some describe it as restful after the work of transition.
But even as my mind was dreaming of a break, my labor companions were urging action.
Could I squat during some contractions? Even push if I had any desire whatsoever to do so? Once the waters broke, surely the process would go quickly.
I squatted through one excruciating contraction and wouldn’t do it again.
They started talking artificial rupture of membranes. “I know you didn’t want this,” Mary said, “but I think you should consider it. I’m worried that you might wear out with these contractions. AROM could speed things along.”
Our team left the room so Daniel and I could talk about it. We did so in the bathroom, where I tried to pee. But I thought maybe I was starting to feel pushy and it terrified me. I pulled the call light and the staff rushed back in.
I resisted the mild urge to push (likely to the chagrin of my birth team!) Liv and the resident asked if I had come to a conclusion about AROM. We hadn’t, but I was worried about starting a timer, about ending up with another operative delivery. The resident felt that I was far enough along and the “timer” long enough that my risk wouldn’t be increased. He described the risks and benefits of delivering en caul, with the amniotic sac still intact.
We consented to AROM.
Careful to follow my birth plan, which had detailed that I did NOT give blanket consent for any procedure and that I expected to give individual assent for any and all procedures, Liv asked me to affirm that I was indeed consenting to AROM. The resident did the same, asking for consent and then, right before performing the rupture confirming: “So I’m going to rupture your membranes right now. Is that what you want?”
I agreed.
I’m not waiting until New Year’s! (Beth-Ellen’s birth story, part 7)
The receptionist in the Emergency Department took one look at me, recognizing me from the previous night and called for OB admittance before she took my information.
Back behind the doors, an emergency room nurse exclaimed that she thought I was going to have this baby on the way upstairs. Another nurse told her that’s what she’d thought LAST NIGHT. I interjected: “This time it’s for real. Babies in my family are born on significant days – and I’m not waiting until the new year!”
Are you feeling lost? Maybe you’d like to read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, and part 6 of Beth-Ellen’s birth story
Like the night before, I elected to walk to labor and delivery. Unlike the night before, this time we had to stop for contractions. I leaned over the rail in the elevator, Daniel providing counterpressure with his fists while I mooed my way through a contraction. The nurse held the door for the contraction to end. This time was definitely different.
The triage nurse was quick and efficient. Get the important information. Pause while I contract, this time on hands and knees on the exam table. Somehow, between contractions, she got me checked (5 cm dilated, 70% effaced), got a hep lock in, and monitored baby.
The resident arrived, read my birth plan, said he was on board with it. He clarified that I didn’t want routine pitocin after birth. Would I be okay if they hung a bag in my room in case there was an emergency, only using it if I did start to hemorrhage? I affirmed that, yes, that would be okay.
My nurse introduced herself, reminded me that she’d taken care of me when I was hospitalized with Louis. Of course, I remembered Liv – and I was thrilled that she would be my nurse. She, too, clarified about the pitocin.
The anesthesiologist came in to do his education. He informed me that since I’d already had two c-sections, I was going to end up with another one. He’d do a spinal, just like with the other sections. I was so glad when the next contraction hit and I could moo right over the sound of his voice, so confidently informing me that everything I’d worked for would be for naught.
He told me that, from here on out, I was not to eat or drink anything. My contraction over, I informed that I was going to drink what I wanted to. I muttered out the phrase I’d been practicing: “Feel free to document noncompliance.” The anesthesiologist grimaced as he admitted that, yes, my doctor let his laboring women have Gatorade. It was obvious that the anesthesiologist did not agree with this course of action.
The anesthesiologist left and Mary, Liv, and the resident all rushed to reassure me. “Pay no attention to him,” they said. “He does this to everyone. You’re going to rock this labor and have this baby normally.”
And then we labored, much like we’d been laboring at home – except with Mary holding my hands and reminding me to keep my vocalizations low and Liv unobtrusively monitoring baby with a Doppler.
We tried using the rebozo around my hips. I waved it away and gestured that I needed the counterpressure again. We tried Mary’s massage tool. Nope, that wouldn’t do. Mary tried to give Daniel a break, but she was a hundred pounds too light to provide the pressure I needed. Daniel would only get a break when I did.
Deja vu all over again? (Beth-Ellen’s birth story, part 6)
For the third night in a row, contractions woke me up with a bang at 11 sharp.
Like the night before, they were long and hard and difficult to cope with.
This time, they were 4-7 minutes apart and almost two minutes long.
Are you feeling lost? Maybe you’d like to read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, and part 5 of Beth-Ellen’s birth story
It took about three contractions before Daniel asked what he should be doing. Should he be trying to sleep (as I’d been urging him all along – he needed to conserve his strength until I needed him) or was there something he should be doing for me?
This time, my answer was unequivocal. I needed his help. Desperately.
I was on all fours on the bed, rocking my hips side to side and back and forth. My back and buttocks hurt, oh so badly. I groaned, but it wasn’t groaning so much as bellowing – a deep moo that lasted so long I wondered how I could keep going with the relatively short gasps of air between each bellow.
I directed Daniel to find the tennis balls in a sock that I’d prepared for a pain relief measure. Press those into my back. No lower, lower. In those dimples, just above my bottom. More, more. Until his entire upper body weight was pressing the tennis balls into those dimples. When he was pressing there, I could at last feel a little relief.
He didn’t like the sock I’d put the tennis balls in, so he found some other socks from the closet and switched them out in between contractions – and into the next contraction while I begged him to be done and use them NOW.
I texted my doula, who asked if I wanted to go in and get checked. I replied that I was nervous about repeating the night before.
Mary suggested that I get in the bath, which is what I did.
I labored on all fours in the bathtub, with Daniel leaning over me to provide counterpressure during contractions. At first, Daniel timed the contractions on my phone, but as things continued with great intensity, I needed help between contractions too. Daniel had suggested a podcast to occupy the time between contractions (he was worried about getting bored, but quickly lost that worry!) I vetoed a podcast and suggested instead that Daniel read through the Scripture passages I’d put in my laboring notebook. Daniel read Psalm 139:1-18, various verses from Psalm 37, Psalm 34:1-10, Philippians 4:4-9, Isaiah 40:28-31, Psalm 57:7-11, Psalm 71:5-6 and 17-11. When I started mooing, he set aside the book to apply counterpressure again. He flipped back to the beginning of the book and started reading through again. Every so often, when the pressure between contractions became too intense, I opened the tub’s drain and turned on the water as hot as I could handle, backing up to direct the spout of water as close to my lower back as I could get it.
An hour passed. Contractions were 3 minutes apart, 30-60 seconds long and requiring total concentration.
I dictated a message for Daniel to send to Mary. She thought I should go in.
I dried off, sat on the toilet and checked my dilation. I’m no birth professional, but I could tell I’d made progress. This was no repeat of the night before.
We loaded up the car again and headed back to the hospital.