He's three.

Lumbering down a never-ending hallway in a body I no longer recognized, I desperately sought relief. Leaning against the wall each time a contraction hit, I could do nothing but ride the wave of the worst physical pain I'd experienced in my life so far. It would end as if it had never happened. Then repeat.

It wasn't until I was finally admitted and we could call my parents that I let myself cry. It was real.

This was it. The day when all of the things I'd been the most scared of in the world, would happen. In one day. Less than.

It's blurry. Feverish. Dreamlike. The sound of the monitors. A heart. An ocean. Over, and over.

Suddenly, you were on your way. Four days late, and now ready to make your entrance, you did things on your own time, and in your own way from the start. The doctor, "should I run?" As the nurses said you were coming, now. I couldn't feel you, but I asked for a mirror, and I got to watch your entrance. It was by far the moment of my life. Words fail. A record 1 minute 36 second birth. Four simple pushes, I was laying back, and you were in the air...descending onto my chest.

You seemed huge, your hair was black, and neither of those things were what I'd envisioned. As you laid on me for the first time, I wondered who in the world this was that had just come earth-side.

Hours went by and I had no clue. It's all so hazy. You were so beautiful. Your dimples the fist big surprise.

When you came home after that first week in the hospital, I remember waking up each morning with butterflies in my stomach. Actual butterflies. Even though I'd seen you all through the night, there was something magic about starting a new day with you in it.

Every single thing about you, and my motherhood experience every day since, has been nothing like I thought, or ever could have seen coming.

I have fought for you, and alongside you, every step from the minute you arrived. One day I hope to rest.

At three, you have talents, and a vocabulary far beyond your years. You have brought things with you that only could have been accumulated from having been here many lifetimes, and you are ancient in your newness.

You have remained foreign to me, yet you're inexplicably mine. We are bound together, meant to be, and I still have a hard time wrapping my head around it.

Blonde, light, pure, sparkling, life-force, who's bones and soul I housed. You taught me that death and birth are two halves of the same whole, and of the devastating permanence to each.

I died the day you came to me, and I will never be the same. I was reborn, a giant heartbeat. Inside out, as if my nervous system now on the outside. I am stronger, and more fragile, and exhausted, yet more energetic, and full of opposites that all exist in me at the same time.

You sifted my priorities, entire. I could almost see them shuffle, and settle into the right spots, like sand. You gave me clarity, new vision, changed time, and taught me a deep appreciation for my body.

You recently asked me where we are before we are born. I replied, "the stars, the clouds." This week we talked about when you were in my tummy. You asked, "were you in the clouds with me? Or were you waiting for me?" Tears filled my eyes, as they do at this moment. "Both. Of this, I am certain, my love."

Happy Birthday to my Charlie, love of my whole life.

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Temporary housing

I’ve been a mama for a little over 19 months. 

Today I was remembering how I felt physically after giving birth. I’d never felt more •in• my body. Internally, I could feel every last inch, down into my toes. I was alive, and buzzing. I’d never felt that way before, or since. It lasted awhile, and then it was gone. The transformation into a new species was complete. One thing that’s never left me is a new level of comfort in the skin I’m in, and love for it. I still can’t believe I lived so long without the person I love most even in my life. This body was the vessel that brought him to me. It carried his weight, and his bones, and his soul. Being a human is weird, and has never really felt all that natural to me most of the time. Cramming our big souls and starstuff into temporary housing, full of mortal coil. But when I reflect on the day it brought me my Little Prince, I kinda don’t mind it at all.

And I know for certain there is magic at work out there, beyond this plane...

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Struck today.

I've been anxiously awaiting the announcement of Lucky Blue & Stormi Bree's baby. When it popped up this morning, I did not expect to have the reaction I've had. Full body sobs. In waves, I am rocked hard. I swear I can feel my heart breaking in my chest. I can FEEL it. Overcome with a grief, a love, and a special kind of nostalgia that only a mother can know. Like death, you can never understand birth until you have experienced it. There is a beautiful and devastating permanence in both. In the midst of my breakup, I grieve. I grieve the potential of what could have been. I grieve the incredible experience of the birth of my son. I look at this photo, at this moment, and I know that moment. I am sad that moment for me was so fleeting. This moment is precipice. A new life lies ahead. I am sad for those who will soon find out how hard it could be, and who will be crushed by it. I am envious of those who will stay together, and be strengthened by it, and those who will get it again. I have so many wishes. I wish he would have had patience. I wish he would have seen me through. I wish he would have comforted me when I needed it, and been a source of emotional strength. I wish I could have explored with him deeply and openly conversations of how I experienced pregnancy, childbirth, post partum anxiety, parenting styles, my mother's instinct, second babies, timelines, hormones. Hormones, who only let me begin my return to myself after a year. I envy you with men who don't claim to understand, but those who give you time. Who give you room. Who let you breathe. Who let you talk about, until it is all out, who make you feel loved, not scolded, or hurried. I see this photo, and I remember the feeling of having it all. I was full, I was complete. It is a stark contrast to how I feel these days. A new sense of freedom, yes. But also a strange loneliness. Our son now 16 months. And I still feel that it is so very much at the beginning. And that this is all such a shame. We only got 6 months in our new house together, 2 of which he spent moved out anyway. How was this an honest attempt for us? What is wrong with admitting fault? Working hard? Therapy? Communication? I am still trying to process and reconcile so much of the last couple of years. I will forever be haunted that the last time my former love and I were under the same roof, I was called names, scared, trapped, and I will never forget the way his face would change as he yelled. "I wish I had never met you" he said. "I am mad at him", he said of the baby. I will be haunted forever that he didn't want to try. To work through his demons, our marriage, and fight for our commitment. I will forever be haunted by baby Rosemary, who was supposed to come next, and never will. My body feels hollow now. I don't understand why this happened, as I am in the throes of it. I don't understand how I started with so much love, and ended with so much fear. I am left wondering if I was just something on a checklist as he rushed his way through, a hurried imitation of a life he thought he was supposed to have. I am open, wounded, and sad. I'd waited so long. To find the one person I ever wanted any of this with. For the point in my life where taking a break from work in order to be with at home with a baby was welcome. Loss. So much loss. It's enough to drive a weaker soul mad. I can't stop looking at this photo. There is a bittersweet universe that opened up in me upon seeing it. Of all I had, have, and will never have. 

To those who have been here, how do you get through?

How??

Mother's Day

It's a Wednesday morning. Middle of the week. I have a minute to myself, and I notice how present I am. Completely dropped in. I think of eighth grade, when I went away to camp for a week for the first (and only) time. I'll never forget how Wednesday felt. I hated the camp, the kids were rude, and I desperately wanted to go home. When Wednesday hit, I had such an overwhelming feeling that I was stuck. Time was at a standstill and I was trapped in the thick of it. This particular day of the week, smack dab in the middle, felt like a non-day. I was no longer at the beginning, but I certainly wasn't at the end. I was present then too, but years later, the difference is that I no longer want out.

I have a one-year old son. One. I have been made mother for over one year. One. With such a big birthday and with Mother's day approaching again I am swirling with feelings trying to make their way out in the form of words. 

I am now a mother, but I am still so many people. They are all very much alive in me. I am that little girl, heartbroken on a Wednesday, on the outside looking in. I am nineteen. I've just moved to New York City where nightlife will explode open, my heart will be crushed, and my teardrops will be left quite literally on the sidewalks. My passions will bloom, my artistry will grow, and I will leave there a real actor. I am a first grader, hurt by getting my one time-out over a complete misunderstanding, and losing my chance at the end-of-year prize from the treasure chest. I am in my early twenties, years into the wrong story. I change my fate. I meet the man who is designed just for me, we have a child. 

Now there is you, my boy.

You were born, and my soul hit the earth with a boom. Mother. Cracked open, everything fell away. Only my purest self remained. I'd had yet to met her.

You have reframed the universe, and restructured time. I have never been so in awe of a person. You, who upon first glance I thought, "who is this?" Looking nothing like I'd thought. Surprising me at every turn. I don't see much of me in you. You are your own little creature. This makes you even more magical. The Little Prince, and I am the curious one, having landed on your planet. 

You. You are everyone who came before and those yet to be. You, who after the most beautiful delivery suddenly got sick. They said to us, "if this happened 100 years ago, he wouldn't be here." But it didn't happen 100 years ago. Time was kind to us, my darling, and let us meet now. We are here, and I still can't grasp it. That you are mine, for keeps. But I've often felt that way about your dad. Six years since we met and I still have to pause and catch my breath. 

There is simply not time for anything that is not urgent. Or important. For time is liquid gold. If it takes me away from you it has to be worth it. There is no other option. 

You remind me that we are all perfect exactly as is from the second we burst into being. More than ever, I laugh at the labels we draw with the earth and with each other. We are all so much more than human and the silly rules we've made. I want such a much bigger, opened-minded earth for you, my boy. 

I saw you years before I knew you. I felt you close by just before you came to us. 

Life exploded into color when you arrived. I will be forever grateful for you, for making me a mother. For leading me my truest self. Little love of my life.

My boy, who shifted all of my selves into perfect harmony. Who taught me to love time, every second of the existence I've chosen (eternel retour) and even to love every Wednesday.


Previous post:  THE BOY 
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Four.

I'm holding my newborn son in my arms, rocking him to sleep. I'm standing over his bassinet when I remember it's almost the 27th. I have to count it out on my fingers to really make sure that this will mark four whole years. Four suddenly seems like a lot. 

I try to imagine as best as I can, you as a baby. My grandmother holding you in her arms, rocking you to sleep exactly as I am doing now. I can't quite see it, but I know it happened. It's so hard to wrap my head around the fact we all start out this way. We've all been held in the arms of a parent, or by someone who loved us. 

I think about how you, Charles, lived in this very condo before my baby Charles did. You have the same residence. You have the same bedroom. You share the same name.

I remember the first time I came back here after you left. Everything exactly as you'd left it, and the air still smelling of you. My mom said I could take something, but I hardly dared to breathe let alone move a thing. I chose only the tiniest object, and the one that seemed most you. An itty-bitty baseball magnet off the fridge. 

I don't let myself linger in this memory too long.

I come back to the present, and think about how the baseball magnet then traveled with me, only to end up back on this fridge. How Charles ended up back in this place, and while he is not you, nor supposed to be, this all feels connected. Inevitable. Strangely whole. This circle of life. 

Into my head pops the Rumi quote, "Don't grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form." 

I get it. 

I leave my heart at that, and put my son to bed. 

The Birth Story (Part II)

Click HERE to read Part I, which is labor through birth, and up to this point.

I ask that those reading tread lightly here. I'm not looking for advice, opinion, or judgement on my experience, I'm simply writing as I always do. With the intention to purge, to document, and with hope that someone who has gone through something similar finds comfort in my story.


The week after Charlie's birth. 

There are things I heard that week in the hospital that will stay with me forever.

If this had happened a hundred years ago, he wouldn't have made it.
He calmed down when his mom came in.
Things look a little different this morning.
It was bad.
He was sick.
The fevers were a big deal.

I don't know how we got through that week. I guess the same way we got through labor.
You just do.
You just get through.

After his beautiful one minute and thirty six second birth, came a nightmare. We were thrown into a completely unexpected and unnatural experience as first time parents.

I still don't feel ready to write about his and I don't think I ever will, but as we approach the one month milestone, I know I need to get it out sooner rather than later. It's not as fresh as it was while I was living it, but that's a good thing for me at this point.

Charlie had just been born. We had two hours of sacred time. I was put in my wheelchair, my newborn baby in my arms, and we were taken up to my recovery room. Room 319. I remember eating the turkey sandwich I had ordered. I'd been waning a turkey sandwich for months. I remember nurses taking the baby to the nursery for routine testing. He was supposed to be right back. I will never forget the look on my husbands face when he came back into the room, my mom following behind. No baby. I knew something was wrong. I feel the lump of sadness swell in my chest just thinking about it. It seemed like an eternity for my husband to get his words out. "Um...he has to stay in there tonight." Something with the word respiratory. Something about him breathing too fast. The next thing I knew I was being put back into the wheelchair so I could get in there. I didn't even get to say goodbye to my parents.

Later my mom would say, "You know what really touched my heart? I could see Matt through the nursery windows, they were talking to him, and his face just fell. Then he leaned over and kissed Charlie." 

My baby was crying. I put my hand on him and started talking to him. He calmed down. "He knows your voice" someone said.

My baby had just had an x-ray. There was fluid in his lungs. Could be amniotic fluid he needed to cry out, he hadn't cried much at birth, so they told us crying was a good thing. It could also be infection. There was talk again of our fevers at birth. There would be antibiotics. IV's. Poking and prodding. For one full week.

I don't remember a lot about the rest of that night. I could ask my husband to remind me of the details, but I'm not ready.

I do remember falling asleep on my back that night. It had been months since I'd been able to do that. I couldn't believe how abruptly pregnancy ends. There is no transition. Once the baby is out, it is done. No more heaviness in my pelvis. No more backache. No more side sleeping. No more craving chocolate milk and apples.

I had no idea this was the beginning of one of the worst weeks we could imagine. All in room #319. I had no idea I would experience the kind of anxiety and PTSD in this week that I had only felt one other time. In 2012. The most awful year of my life.

I think we were left with hopeful words when we went to sleep, but I was deflated. The plan was for our baby to never leave our side. This was supposed to be the happiest time. What was happening with our baby? I couldn't accept a "congratulations" from anyone after that. I didn't know what was in store. That's as much as I care to say about where my dark thoughts were drifting. We were woken by a nurse in the morning telling us that "things look a little different today." Even now, typing this, my heart sinks in my chest all over again as I remember what that felt like to hear. There was another x-ray. There was still something in his lungs. He was sick. Infection. Later pneumonia.

I could and maybe should have kept track of each day, but it would break my heart all over again to re-read and re-live it. I barely left one small hospital room for seven days. The nursery was right across the hall. I went back and forth, and nothing else existed. Eventually they let Charlie come back to our room, and sleep in #319 with us. Nurses would come in through the night. Pediatricians would come in each morning. Night, day, and life were constantly interrupted. They came in to flush his IV, for his vitals, and temperature. I soon found myself holding my breath as I waited for them to tell me the results of each. All day. Every day. He went to the nursery for his meds in the morning and the evening. Putting an IV in a brand new baby is hard. It came out often. NICU had to come up to put it in again. Poked and prodded. Poked and prodded. An IV in his hand with a diaper wrapped around to keep it safe. It still fell out. A dark bruise on his foot from an attempted IV. The IV in his scalp. No new mom should ever have to see her new baby like this.

By the end, it scared me how routine this was becoming. It also scared me how helpless I was feeling as I became dependent on another nurse or pediatrician to tell me things were okay, and tell me what to do. How was I ever supposed to trust my instincts now? How would I ever relax? How would I tell if he was okay?

There was the morning one pediatrician told us how bad it was, and how amazing of Charlie to let us know there was a problem so they could catch it. "Thank god for modern medicine. If this had happened one hundred years ago, he wouldn't be here. He'll be your little angel." I think this was day two. New mom. New baby. Day TWO.

There was the night the nurse took him to flush an IV and it took longer than usual. I went to look for him, and she was on the phone with the on-call pediatrician, asking what to do because he had a temperature. They had him stripped down to his diaper, rocking him, cooling him off. No. No no no. This can't be happening. This time I knew what it was. I trusted my instincts and I was right. He'd had his first bath. I had the heat up a little too high in our room and him bundled a little too much. Once he cooled down his temperature was fine. But this meant repeating the story to the pediatricians in the following days when they'd see he'd had a temperature and look alarmed. Then I'd start to get scared all over again.

There was the day when someone mentioned jaundice (false alarm). Meningitis (no meningitis). Him loosing too much weight waiting for my milk to come in. It was one thing after another. I felt like we could not catch a break, and I felt myself becoming crippled with fear. I can't stress enough how much the nurses came in through the night. Each time I'd be woken up from sleep, I'd wake terrified. I was waiting for bad news each time. My heart would pound. I'd feel sick. I was waiting for the unthinkable. I found myself with PTSD from that first night and the bad news.

And the dreams. I had three of the most vivid, disturbing, anxiety dreams. I was in a car, heading for a crash. I could see it coming and I couldn't avoid it. I was trying my hardest to stay in my lane but I was going into oncoming traffic. I woke up with my foot trying to slam on the break. I dreamt I was trying to run to my dad, trying my hardest to get to him in a straight line but I was so dizzy I started falling and tumbled away from him. The last dream I was swept away at sea.

I felt like I could lose my mind. My baby was constantly being taken away, and his sleep interrupted to be poked and prodded. I couldn't leave room #319. I couldn't fall asleep in my husbands arms. I was stuck with this tiny hospital bed, and he with an uncomfortable futon.

There was the day toward the end where two nurses saw me. Really saw me. Asked me how I was. They brought in little handmade hats and let us choose one. One nurse tossed me an extra on the way out. I was so fragile at that point. The gesture was enormous.

There was the night I was seeing things.

There was the day we walked to another part of the hospital and briefly outside. My heart pounding the whole time to be out of room #319, and more than just a few feet away from my baby. I truly felt I was on the verge of crazy. My life was now living in that room, waiting for nurses to tell me what was either wrong or right with my sick baby. My life was now going to the nursery for my baby's scheduled meds. How was there ever going to be life outside of this?

I'd look at my husband with him. He was so natural with him. I was blown away how his instincts kicked in right away. I felt so frozen with fear, I relied on him so much to help our son, and help me. He took the lead a lot. He was great with diapers, talking with the nurses, everything. I felt like he was so much better at this than me. I felt lost. I just didn't know what the outcome would be. But Id' look at him, and think, "this is his experience, too." Whatever was going to happen, he was going to go through it as well. And the unthinkable was just not going to happen for my Matt. It just wasn't. It just couldn't. Knowing he was living this too was maybe the only thing that kept me from truly losing my mind.

I cried all the time. I felt turned completely inside out. I also felt so full of love for both Matt and Charlie it hurt. Whenever Charlie was out of our room I physically ached. I've never known that feeling before. It literally hurt to be separated.

I could go on, listing all the jargon we heard that scared us. The traumatizing trips to the nursery, but I think I'm done. I'm just done digging it up over and over. It hurts too much.


At the end of the week I found myself so ready to be home and away from the interruptions of the nurses, that my desire to be done outweighed the stress I thought I'd feel to be without them. I was so worried I'd be dependent on them, but I was ready for it to be just the three of us. I was ready to figure out what that would even be like, one week late. I was ready to start to learn who my baby was outside of all of that, and let my own instincts kick in.

He'll be a month in two days. Now our week in #319 seems like a lifetime ago. I have my moments where I will feel a traumatic ping of something I experienced that week, but for the most part I'm doing great. I had to leave the rough beginning behind, and move forward. I had to let myself believe the doctors, that Charlie was healthy. That he would be okay. 

That week did leave me as an extra worried and paranoid mom. Each day gets easier, but there have been times when I have felt at a bit of a loss and some panic, still wishing there was someone to tell me whatever he is doing is normal. I've had a hard time with other people holding him at times, or wanting to visit. I can still ache when he's just across the room. A part of me wants to hibernate with him forever.

I can never go back to who I was before Charlie, I can never go back to who I was before Charlie. 

I can't even explain to you the hug between myself and my husband once we put the carseat in the car,  oncethe nurse left, and we were free.

I'll never be able to put into words the sadness I felt when we came home. The bed still unmade. Just as we'd left. Who knew what was in store that morning I woke up at 2:30 with contractions. I felt heartbroken for the version of me I now was, versus just one week ago.

That's where I'll leave that part of the story. It's just time to be done.

And now?

Charlie is great. He is okay. He is strong. He is healthy. He is so beautiful.

It's never felt better to keep moving forward.




xo Charlies' mom.

Post Baby Body Secrets

I wanted to talk about body after baby because the idea of what my body would go through during a pregnancy and where it would end up was so daunting to me. I didn't know what transformation was in store, if I'd go back to where I started out quickly, if ever. There's no way to know what your body will do, going through a first pregnancy and childbirth.

This journey was all about TRUST for me. Trusting my body to know what to do, trusting it to carry and deliver my baby, and trusting it's recovery.

I was shocked at every turn. My body always knew what to do. I don't know why I kept expecting it to fail, but I did at every turn. I was nervous something would go wrong the entire time. I hardly enjoyed being pregnant because I was so stressed. During Charlie's quick birth (1 minute 36 seconds) the doctor and nurses told me it was because I was so healthy, my uterus was healthy and squeezed him right out just like it's meant to do.

I certainly didn't expect recovery from childbirth to go so quickly and smoothly (I was only a little uncomfortable for the first week and the most uncomfortable part was actually trying to sit with an ice pack), and I never imagined my body would look (nearly) back to normal so fast.

I wanted to share with you what I did during and after pregnancy so that any woman expecting a baby or planning on it in the future who felt as scared of the unknown as I did can try my tips and tricks. It is an unknown, there is no guarantee, but maybe I can take a little of the fear and mystery away, as well as give you some things you can actively do to bounce back.

1.) Work out
I was walking on the treadmill or outside on warmer days for an hour at a time, 5 days a week Some days the time may have been 45 minutes, or I'd have a 4 day week, but I was walking regularly up until the day I delivered.

2.) Stretch Marks
They say they are hereditary, and women in my family got them. I didn't. I used Palmers Cocoa Butter for Stretch Marks daily. Did it help? Some women swear by it, some say it doesn't do anything. All I know is that I used it, and I didn't have a problem. Worth a try!

3.) Belly Binding
I'd planned on doing this for months. I asked my doctor for a belly band and I got it the day after I delivered. I've worn it nearly 24/7 (I take small breaks here and there). I even sleep in it. Each day since I've seen a difference as it's helped me squish everything back together. The results are super quick. Again, some doctors and women will swear by it, some won't. Do your research and follow your instincts. I'm a firm believer.

I'm not exactly the same as I was before, but it hasn't even been three weeks. Everything in it's time. In the end, it doesn't matter. My body gave me Charlie, and I'd take it any way it wanted to end up. I've never felt more beautiful or appreciative of my body for doing what it did. You'll never hear me say a negative thing about my body again.


Deena

The Birth Story (Part I)

When I look at my son, I see the circle of life. I see humanity. I see mortality. I am all heart. One giant heartbeat. I physically ache with this new love. It consumes me, and it hurts.

I went to bed on the night of March 15, 2015 as I had for months. Convinced I'd be pregnant forever. I was past my due date of March 12, and my induction date was the night of March 19th. I'd grown tired of waiting, I felt good, so I'd just finished making plans to resume life the next day. I was supposed to head into my on camera reporting gig for a couple of shoots, and was even going to attempt to see a play that night. The waiting was killing me, and I needed to keep distracted.

At 2:30 in the morning I woke up with painful contractions. I wasn't sure what was happening at first. Is this what contractions feel like? I gave it some time. I didn't want to wake my husband yet. We'd just been to the hospital two nights ago with a false alarm, and were sent home. I started timing them. 10 minutes apart. Is this how painful contractions really are? I thought I was supposed to start slow and ease in. This felt intense right off the bat. I woke Matt. He held me through each one and tried to keep me calm. It was nearing an hour. It was time to go.

I was checked, told I wasn't dilated enough to be admitted, and to take a walk around the hospital for an hour. We slowly strolled, me in my hospital gown and booties. Recalling what the contractions felt like now, two weeks later, makes me feel sick. They were coming regular, and would reduce me to leaning against the wall, praying for them to pass, at a loss for how to get through them. It would start slow, seize up, and slowly vanish. Over, and over, and over. I was exhausted. How could this be happening but they couldn't admit me? Isn't this what I'm supposed to get the epidural for? I didn't plan to feel any of this. When the hour was up I was checked again. They still wouldn't admit me. They could give me a shot of morphine for the pain and I could go home, or I could walk another hour. Both seemed unbearable, but I had no energy to get dressed, go home, and come back. Another walk it was. By the end it was crippling. I thought I was going to be sick. They were coming at two minutes apart. I cut the walk short by fifteen minutes. I had to lay down. They checked me again, and I was dilated enough to be admitted.

Matt called my parents. This was it. All I could think was, "you just get through this. There is no way out. You just get through."

This is all so hard to put into words. I don't know that I'll ever be able to do my story justice. To really share what I experienced.

I find doctors and hospitals a little traumatizing. I hate IV's, I hated having my cervix checked over and over. I hate the invasion and discomfort of it all. I'd been terrified of the epidural and of childbirth for as long as I can remember. When the anesthesiologist came in for the epidural, my parents were across the room. Matt held my hands and I didn't know how hard I squeezed them until after the fact when he told me I nearly hurt him. I don't know how I'd describe it other than I could feel and hear the tube feeding into my back, it seemed to take longer than I expected and it was, well, gross. However, I'm glad I got it. I knew that for me, I needed to.

I wasn't feeling the effects and I told the nurses I was worried it wasn't working. "Have you tried to move your legs?" One asked. I hadn't, and when I did I was surprised that they were totally falling asleep. A catheter was placed, and pitocin was started.

I felt some painful contractions through the epidural, but not many. My parents and Matts parents were in the room most of the time. I was checked at some point and dilated to a 5. The next time I was checked I was at a 10. Things were happening quickly. Next came "rest and descend", before it was time to push.

I almost forgot to mention that my doctor was off that day! Another doctor in the practice would be delivering my boy. This seems like something that would be a worst fear for a new mom, but it was hardly an issue when it all happened. The doctor who delivered him was great. I had to trust, and I did.

It's a bit of a blur, but the next part happened something like this. A nurse was getting me ready to assume the pushing position, and to everyone's surprise, she could see the top of they baby's head! He was coming fast. I remember them telling the Dr. to hurry, and the Dr. asking if she needed to run. A nurse asked Matt if he wanted to see his baby boy's head of black hair. "What? Black hair?" I asked. I hadn't pictured that. Matt hadn't planned to watch, but he said yes, and actually went to look. I asked for a mirror, and they brought one in for me to see the birth. Matt had a leg, and maybe my hand, and ended up watching the whole thing in the mirror as well. At first I told him not to look, but he said it was okay. I pushed 4 times. He was here in 1minute 36 seconds. The Dr. said I'm in the upper 99 percentile. The nurses said how rare this is for a first time mom. It was incredible to see him come out. I felt no pain. It was magical. Again, I can't explain the feeling, the vibe of the room at that moment. Absolutely sacred.

It was a strange sensation as they pulled him out of me. I felt like there was so much coming out. They said he was a big baby, which was a 180 from all those weeks we worried he was too small. Something happened that last month and he packed it on. Matt cut the cord.

Here he was. Charlie. That's Charlie. Looking nothing like I'd imagined. I was laugh-crying as he was placed on my chest. "He has dimples!" They said. He didn't cry long. I couldn't believe this was who was in me. This was him. It was the most surreal moment of my life. I knew him, but I didn't. But I loved him. Nothing can prepare you for this. Our sacred hour went over. Two hours later we let parents in. "Oh my god, oh my god," my mom said over as she rushed in. He was so beautiful.

It gets vague for me here. I've lived a lifetime since his birth. I never could have imagined how much I'd love birthing him. I never could have imagined all the trauma that was coming next. There is still a big lump of sadness smack in the middle of my chest. I still have to try to separate the birth experience from all that followed, so it's not tainted. I refuse to let the beauty of it be atken away from me. But it runs together, and it's hard. All I could think as it started spiraling downhill next was, "I can never go back to who I was before Charlie, I can never go back to who I was before Charlie," on repeat.

It's true what they say. All of it. How permanently, drastically, and instantly life is changed. A true transformation in the most literal and purest sense. I was reborn, as was my partner, as were my parents.

Before I tackle the next part, which I don't have time to do tonight, I need to make sure you know he is healthy and great after our rough start. He's sleeping peacefully next to me at this very moment.

It's hard to find the time to get this all out, but I'm going to aim to finish the rest of this tomorrow.

Thanks for reading, for the love, and support.


Xo


Charlie's Mom

Progress weeks 37 - 40! ANY DAY NOW!

Our due date has come and gone. Saturday March 12 marked 40 weeks, and no sign of the baby. From the start I haven't been one of those women who had it all riding on that magic date. It's been fun to count down, but I've always known that it's going to happen around that date, give or take. My instincts also turned out to be wrong once again, too. Remember how I was sure he'd come early after my dreams that he did? Ha. Pregnancy has been nothing like I thought, and so full of surprises.

I've talked about how small my bump was through pregnancy, and how it even caused a little concern. I never measured where I should, always weeks behind. An ultrasound at 32 weeks brought peace of mind that he was okay, just a little on the small side. Well, somewhere between weeks 36 - 37 he had a growth spurt, and my week 37 appointment was the first time I measured just where I should! Obviously the health of my baby is always the #1 priority, but it was kinda nice not to have to deal with a large bump up until the final month. This is the month I truly feel pregnant. Strangers can finally ask me when I'm due, confident that yes I am a pregnant woman! I can't believe the changes at the end. I didn't expect him to grow like this after planning for the arrival of our tiny guy, and for my bump to change so much!

I've had a smooth pregnancy, and despite feeling a little uncomfortable at times with this out of proportion tummy,  I basically feel fine. I found that trying to rest in these final weeks doesn't really work for me. There is no such thing as forcing myself to relax, or storing it up for later when it's not needed yet. Staying on the busier side and keeping distracted is much healthier for me. Otherwise I can't stand the wait, and my mind goes a million miles an hour. I still haven't learned the patience I'd hoped to learn.

The blog here continues to be the place where I can let it all out, and leave it. I want to purge it and I want to share my journey, but I don't always feel comfortable with discussing the details across all social media. Mostly because this still continues to feel like the biggest and most personal thing I could ever imagine going through, and I can't stand the (unasked for) opinions. I just want to share. I don't want an opinion, a story, a suggestion, advice, or a comparison. Now there ARE exceptions to this. If I know you really well or if I'm asking you. But generally, if you want to send anything my way, just make it support!

I do have an end date in site, now. I'll go in to be induced the night of March 20th if he hasn't come on his own by then. This was yet another surprise. We've been preparing for a little pisces to come to us, and now we're looking at a very real possibility we're getting an aries (my husband and I are both aries and have jokingly been saying the last thing we need is a third in the house)!

A non stress test this morning showed he is doing great. I'm just so anxious to meet him I can't even stand or explain it. I NEVER thought I'd look forward to birth like this.

So, chances are I'll be pregnant one more week. I'm definitely not going to be a woman who will miss pregnancy. It's too stressful for me to not be able to see him with my own eyes, and touch him with my own hands. I can't wait for the pregnancy journey to be over.

Here are the final images, through week 40! Although I may have that bonus week #41 to post next saturday at the rate things are going. He just likes living in my tummy way too much!


weeks 26-32
weeks 21-25
pre-pregnancy - week 20 



Check out the crazy difference before and after his growth spurt!

And week by week:

The final image is actually 40 weeks and 2 days to be exact, but who's counting?

Thanks for reading, 

Deena Marie 

What's on the inside

I have sat down to write about my personal pregnancy journey this far (nearing week 34) a few times now, and it never comes out right. While it feels good for me to purge my thoughts, it doesn't end up being something I want to post. I suppose that falls in line with how I've felt all along the way. Tidbits are fun to share, but only to a point. This is such a private, vulnerable, and intimate time. I am reluctant to let the world in. I'm not even sure what I want to say today.

I saw this photo and it touched me deeply. The phrase that sprang into my mind was, "It's what's on the inside that counts." I giggled to myself, but these words have never rang more true to me as they do with pregnancy. This may be repetitive to you if you've been following my blog, but I've had a hard time with everyone commenting on appearance. Mine, and pregnant women in general. It's like it's the only thing anyone can, wants, or knows how to talk about. They compare you to others, or their former pregnant selves, they hijack your stories to talk of their own experience, and they offer unwelcome advice.

It's hard enough to trust your own body, which is now doing something it's never done before, and get comfortable in skin you've never lived in before. With all the information out there, books to read, the focus narrowed to our outward appearance of what our growing bellies look like, all that's sacred about pregnancy is easily lost in the shuffle.

I've had quite an internal struggle with the concept of trust. The further I get and can look back on my pregnancy, I see (knock on wood) it's been fairly smooth sailing. The problem is, I've spent the majority of my pregnancy afraid of what my body will or will not do. It's been a time of great stress for me. It's been eye opening to see that for most of my life I haven't trusted my own body. I've been waiting for it to fail me in some way, and for no reason. It hasn't done so yet.

Why aren't we helping to empower pregnant women instead? Why aren't we simply listening to whatever they choose to share about their experience, or expressing genuine happiness for them and leaving it at that? Why do we instead offer unsolicited advice? Or tell them they look bigger than her, or smaller than her? How is this helpful in any way? Why aren't we connecting deeper as not only women and mothers, but as fathers and humans?

This is the time to reshape the frame we hang any and all ideas of what womanhood and human life mean. 

I am reminded once again that life and birth are part of the same whole. Until you experience it (especially that earth-shattering first), there is no way you can fully relate. With both there is transformation. There is the deepest permanence. An end, and a beginning. A metamorphosis that can only come with life, and with death.

It's a rearranging of identity, and purpose, and intention of how we will now choose to live.

It can be fun to document through imagery a growing belly. For my sake mostly, but also for my family and friends. But that's just the external. Belly size, maternity clothes, and weight gain are the last on the list of what's interesting about pregnancy, not to mention what matters.

It's my journey of pregnancy, yes. But even more, it's his journey. It's his journey into life.

I'm merely a vessel. 

I prefer to concentrate on the depth of what this experience is as the two of us race toward the finish line. Our combined energy is palpable. I prefer to think about how I will explain the world to him when he is here. I'd rather wonder how sensitive, dreamy, and wise my little pieces may or may not be, and how no matter what he is I will never label it. I will never tell him he should be one thing, or should not be another, or should have any other interest or love than whatever he will innately bring into the world. I will teach him from day one that the universe is vast, the possibilities are endless, and the only right way is the right way for him. I'd rather focus on what it may feel like in six-ish weeks from now when my body, heart, and soul crack open in ways I can only begin to fathom. When I get to meet someone I somehow know, but have never seen.

This, this, all of this...

This is for him.



"There is no way out of the experience except through it, because it is not really your experience at all but the baby's. Your body is the child's instrument of birth."
-Penelope Leach 



xo Deena Marie