I love Love. Last October, when I photographed my first wedding, I remember feeling so so happy, giddy almost. I loved watching the bride get ready, walk down the aisle, and share one of her and her husband’s big moments as a couple with their family and friends. Their happiness was contagious. Or maybe it’s just me . . . Love, emotion, passion . . . ah, I’m just a lover of love.

So, earlier this Spring, when I learned my friend C was pregnant, I was ecstatic. I love babies. I mean, maybe you’re thinking, well, didn’t you have postpartum depression? Doesn’t that mean you loathe babies? And maybe you’re not thinking that at all. But I’ll tell you my thoughts on babies anyway. I love them. They are so so precious. Symbolically, a baby represents the perfect union of a couple’s love for each other. Babies are innocent, they are heavenly, and oh the smell of a baby; that new smell, you know what I mean?

My friend C also happens to be quite beautiful and I was very very eager to do a session with her. Having reached 35 weeks, she agreed, and the following are a few of my favorite photographs from our two hours together.

C, you are amazing, you are beautiful, and oh, I cannot wait to meet your little girl!

Today, Levi, 6 months ago, I gave birth to you, upstairs, in my bed.

You surprised me.  I couldn’t believe how broad, how big, how full of joy you were.

It wasn’t an easy birth.  Hard work. On my hands and knees.  Wondering why and how

I had let myself find myself in such a place.  Hard work.  An amazing place.

I pulled from within, deep from within, and you were born.  My first baby boy.

Today, Levi, at 6 months old, you inch forward, pressing your toes into the floor.

You press your chest and head up and reach for your toys.  You smile at me.

When we part, you now cry.  It didn’t used to be that way.  I guess separation anxiety is setting in.

Because your zest for life and discovery is so strong, I am surprised when Kristina tells me you refuse to eat while I am away.

I guess we are still just as connected, just as attached to each other, as your sister and I . . . even though I bottle nurse you,

even though . . .

I am so proud that we made it to this day.  I am so proud of you.  I look at you and feel joy, gratitude, and amazement.

These 6 months with you, have been, an amazing adventure.

And so, I get it.  I understand why, while washing the dishes, and listening to this song, I feel tears in my throat.

*********

Grandma, Nanna, and everyone else, there are more photos here, of Levi, at 6 months old.  Can you believe we made it?

“I didn’t want to scare you with all the medication,” Dr.- tells me at our third appointment. I sit on the doctor’s sofa beside my husband. He holds our baby. Annabelle is exploring the doctor’s office. I want to curl up in a ball; I feel as though I am going to jump out of my skin. She prescribes atavan.

A half hour after I take one, I feel as though, well, as though I’m not running for my life. I am calmer than I have been in weeks.

That night, I go to bed, the baby lays beside my husband and me; our night is split into two 5-hour shifts. I drift off to sleep now and again waking to bottle nurse the baby . . . this is unlike any night so far. It is the first night of many on a long road (back to a healthier me). When it is my turn to sleep I take ambien and fall into a deep, zomby sleep.

Weeks, no months pass. Each night gets easier and easier. We stop relying on our 5-hour shifts. I hold Levi in my arms through the night. I tell my therapist, “It is all I can do for him. I can’t breastfeed, so I’m giving him this.” She thinks co-sleeping isn’t a great idea. She thinks it disrupts my sleep and in her eyes, that is bad.

“I want you to get ready to go off of the ambien, Jessica. You sound better and better each time I see you. Do you think you can try it?” I nod but I don’t want to. I feel so afraid. I fear a night without sleep. It makes me someone, something else.

But I try it. First I cut my dose. When I see that I can sleep well on a small dose, slowly I let myself let go of the sleep aid. Like my doctor tells me to do, instead, I take an atavan to calm myself at the end of the day. I drink a glass of milk. I sleep. I sleep as much as a mother of a newborn sleeps.

“So are you feeling better now?” a friend asks me. I do, though the question raises feelings I do not want to confront. My logic throughout this entire experience has been that if I were diagnosed with a physical ailment, like diabetes, I would take insulin. I would change my diet. Anxiety and depression are no different. Medicine helps my brain produce what it needs so that I can live. I eat a good diet and exercise daily. I take vitamins and supplements. Taking care of myself is my priority. I am a better mother for it. I am a better me for it. I love myself. This isn’t and has never been easy for me to do. Isn’t that sad?

I now go to bed each night and drink a cup of chamomile tea. I take a single atavan. I don’t want to. I move back and forth on how I feel about needing this medicine. I accept that I will likely be a “lifer” on my antidepressant (a term I take from another mother who was treated for ppd) and somehow I think I am comfortable with taking only that. I accept the stigma of having a mental illness. I accept the stigma and fear wrapped up in having take medicine. But it is simply another mountain, of so many, that I climb. The stigma that is. Of medicine. And funny, that in a way, the medicine is like my gear, helping me climb that mountain.

That is all for now. I needed to write this.

I have been given strict orders from my husband to sit my ass down here and write. So that’s what I’m doing. I’ve been telling him for days, maybe even weeks (gosh, has it been more than a week?) that I really need to update my blog and let everyone know that I’m doing okay (with shitty days mixed in between) and am not lying in bed everyday . . . an emotional wreck. Okay, honestly though, I guess I am an emotional wreck, but I am a well medicated emotional wreck, :-) Here’s what a typical day in the life of me, Jessica, here known as Green Mamma, and to others as Mamma and Sister, is like, since being diagnosed with postpartum depression:

6:00/6:30 a.m. wake up; roll Levi onto my hubby’s chest; slip out of bed; make a bottle for Levi; get dressed and lace up my sneakers

7:00 a.m. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run like my life is depending on it (it sort of is). Run because my psychiatrist says so. Run because it makes my heart beat, makes my legs ache in that fantastic achy sort of way, and it makes my mind slow down . . . the faster I run, the further away from the fog I go. When I finish, I down some water and take my meds. I figured out that zoloft makes me edgy; I’m just loving my Lexapro though, :-) oh, and I thank the creators of atavan just about 2 or 3 times a day.

Somewhere between 8:00 and 8:30 a.m. Open front door; listen for several scenarios: a) children well fed,dressed, husband folding laundry, and husband offering to let me take a shower, b) children are still hungry, both are screaming, husband is grumbling, and the cat is circling my legs begging for attention, or c) a mix of both a and b.

9:00 a.m. I bottle nurse Levi for almost an hour. Somewhere in there I fit in a shower; meanwhile Levi is either asleep in his bouncer or screaming until his head is purple (color coded crying . . . something only other parents of newborns can relate to . . . I stole this one from my friend Andrea); Annabelle is either at preschool or zoning out watching Dora the Explorer (hey, at least she’s learning Spanish vocab, right?); I have heart palpitations while showering at record breaking speed (this is great for the environment but horrible for my anxiety disorder); I throw some clothes on, pick up Levi (whose head color slowly returns to a peachy reddish color), and tie my hair back in a wet pony tail before applying makeup (I must wear make up . . . I am just one of those women who wears make up . . . I like to think of myself as a lipstick wearing feminist even though I don’t wear lipstick . . . oh my goodness, I am so rambling and so thinking this entire post is going to suck . . . oh well.)

10:00 a.m. or 11:00 a.m. (depending on how long all that takes from 9 a.m.) Go do something. Leave the house. Drive to the grocery store or meet a friend, make a phone call. Whatever. I just try to get out of my house. I am learning that I am an extrovert and I need people to feel good. I need my friends. Thank you God for friends.

12:00 p.m — ish Lunch. I whip up something for Annabelle (often vegetarian chicken nuggets with carrots, sometimes pizza or pasta) and I try to remember to eat something myself. Meanwhile Levi is either starting to fall asleep or is waking up from his nap. Of course, these interval naps occur on my chest because I wear him in the Ergo just about all day long.

1:00 p.m. I read Annabelle stories and tuck her in for a nap. Naps are getting shorter these days but that’s not totally a bad thing because bed time keeps creeping earlier and earlier (I think we are all just exhausted; I know that I am). After snuggling, a kiss, and an I love you, I take Levi to my room for our nap (if I’m lucky). I lower the blinds, turn on a fan and lay down with him, bottle nursing, and we rest. On other days, he wants to play. I let him stand up on my chest and my belly and he smiles and smiles and smiles. He loves when I sing to him. He loves to show me how strong he is. Even though I am usually dead tired on the days when he wants to play (instead of napping with me), I find that these are some of my favorite moments right now.

3:00 p.m. Annabelle wakes up. I strap Levi back into the Ergo. We snack and head back outside; we visit with neighbors, friends; draw with sidewalk chalk, blow bubbles, or walk over to our park; we walk the neighborhood when Levi is fussy (gassy), and every now and again, I sit down in my tailgating chair and feel all happy inside because I know that in the affluent area where we live, I look very much like a redneck. Oh well. I like being a redneck.

On some days, an awesome chick who I hired to help with the kids comes over. She’ll play with Annabelle or take Levi for a walk. She stays for 2 to 3 hours. I am thanking my lucky stars for her. Not only do the kids love her but I do to. I am praying that she stays with our family for a while.

5:30/6:00 p.m. My husband glides in, either on bicycle or sometimes in his car. I swear a choir begins singing inside my head the second I see him. I am just like, “Halleluiah! Halleluiah!” We (my hubby and I and our kids) stand outside (in our parking lot) and catch up with each other because for some reason, Levi starts to wail the second we try to step inside the house. I think crying his bloody head off is how Levi decompresses from the day . . . that or he is just 8 weeks old and is fartin’ up a storm with his immature digestive system. From here on in, we take turns with Levi, walking up and down our street or sitting on our couch, patting his back. Levi really is a farty little baby.

7:00 p.m. Someone gives Annabelle a bath. Lately it’s been me though this has long been a Daddy-Annabelle ritual. To be honest, I love giving her a bath these days because I actually get to see her one-on-one. We talk about the day. She rates the day telling me whether it was good or bad. Apparently she also rates the day later in the evening during conversations with her dad. She likes to report to him on Mommy. I just love it when she shares the really good nuggets of info with him, like how Mommy slipped the f-bomb out while getting dressed (or something equally juicy). Gotta love my 2 year old. She’s getting so smart, so articulate. I really need to watch my mouth around her.

7:30/8:00 p.m. I collapse into bed with the kids. Annabelle snuggles next to me and asks to nurse. There is no milk anymore but I let her nurse because it’s a bond we are managing to maintain as we go through this transition to 4 and well, I have to say that I feel really guilty that my 2 year old has had to see her mom hit such low moments (I am only human though and well, it might not be so bad for her to witness a range of human emotions). I’ve been telling her that we’ll have a retirement party for the nummies when she turns 3. She is really excited about a party; she is pretty appalled at having to say goodbye to the nummies (and nursing). A part of me is sad too but the part of me that is trying to save myself right now feels like it is okay for me to let the nummies go (for both kids).

Over in my other arm is Levi. I snuggle him into my elbow and bottle nurse him. He is getting so big; such cute chubby cheeks; he slings his leg over my stomach.

And the day sort of wraps up with Matt picking up Toby and bringing him down to the basement (I’d wanted to find a new home for our cat Toby but after some woo woo with Robin, I’ve had a change of heart. Toby can stay but I’ve told him he can stop pissing all over our basement and that he really needs to let his mommy sleep when she can sleep since sleep deprivation is a huge factor with ppd. So far, Toby seems to understand). Matt then does a bedtime routine with Annabelle before collapsing into bed with me and Levi. Our night just kind of goes on from there with intervals of sleeping, bottle nursing, fussing, diaper changes, etc. The best nights are the ones where Matt and I will wake up at 2 a.m. and are like wtf, our baby is still sleeping? And he is. And Matt will ask, “Is he breathing?” And I assure him that yes our baby is still breathing and being adorable and being his beautiful baby self.

So, if you didn’t pick up on it already, I’ve decided to let go of nursing Levi. I know what those of you who are breastfeeding advocates are going to say, think, maybe even comment; or maybe I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my own insecurities. But how’s this? I am starting to feel good again. I am not saying I am Ms. Happy Pants with a license to smile, but I will say that I am starting to smile again, now and again. I am cleaning my house again (and you all know how fantastic that makes me feel, :-) ). I am starting to accept that I am a mother of 2 babies who need me so much and that I am only one person capable of just so much.

I am getting there. One step at a time, but with each step, I climb a little higher.

Over these past two weeks, as much as I’ve been in awe (and in a state of delirium) with my new babe, I have wondered, “Will I ever blog again?” Putting together a coherent sentence while simply talking with other people has been something of a challenge, so you can only imagine how hard it is to translate thoughts to words on a written page. I’ve revised and revised the last few sentences because even though I am highly caffeinated (thanks to Starbucks black tea), I just can’t think straight. There goes blogging, huh?

Well, I don’t think so. I think what I’ll do today since I’ve really been wanting to write is simply share words as they flow into my mind; here is what’s happening:

bronchitis. yuck. I always seem to get bronchitis when I’m going through a change . . . a good change, a difficult change, an inversion of one’s existence kind of change. A welcome change.

preschool. Annabelle met her teacher yesterday. I deal with letting go by getting angry. I feel all sorts of angry (guilty) about sending Annabelle to school at age 2. I feel all sorts of guilty about not being able to craft, read, run around with her as much during these past 2 weeks. My husband (my other half) tells me that preschool will be good for Annabelle, good for me. We’ll see . . . I feel jealous of her teacher. Her teacher told me about all these neat crafts and activities planned for Annabelle and 5 other kids. I want to be able to do these things with her. I want to be able to do everything. I realize this is leading to another word . . .

expectations. I need to pair down. I need to not have expectations. One foot in front of the other . . . it’ll all get done, the laundry will get folded, the baby will be fed, Annabelle will be tickled and cuddled with; it all just happens slower; walking from the front door to the car now takes about an hour . . .

weaning. my stomach turns over. guilt again. I don’t think I can keep up with nursing two kids. the bronchitis again. I wonder whether my body is able to support 3 immune systems and feed a big, big baby boy. He gained one and a half pounds in these past 2 weeks . . . I’d worried that I wasn’t producing enough milk; apparently baby boys in my family grow big and grow fast . . . so different from nursing a wee baby girl, who didn’t reach 9 lbs. until she was somewhere around 3 or 4 months old; Levis has already grown an inch and reached 9 lbs. 8 and a half oz. He’s always hungry . . . and then Annabelle looks up at me with big eyes wanting to nurse and I feel awful because I want to keep big growing baby boy happy and still meet Annabelle’s needs for comfort and bonding . . . I tickle her instead . . . I squeeze her and make her laugh . . . I pretend to eat an Annabelle-foot sandwich with ketchup and mustard. She loves that . . .

laundry. oh there is always more laundry. always. thank goodness my husband seems to be on top of it. Annabelle, Levi, and me? We just create it.

camera. snapped photos twice. viewing them on the camera? done. viewing and sharing them with friends and family . . . well that’s another story.

baby carriers. praise the creators of baby carriers all the world round! My goodness, I have 2 arms again! . . . and sometimes just one but heck, I’ll settle for one arm! I can, when Levi lets me, sit down and do this thing known as blogging . . . it’s amazing! When Levi isn’t nursing or begging to nurse, he’s snug against my chest either in a carrier or laying down. I don’t think I could eat, use the toilet, or have a conversation (with that guy who lives with me (the one who folds laundry)) if it weren’t for baby carriers. I cannot say enough good things about baby carriers. Love them all! Though I’m looking forward to Levi filling out my Ergo. Always had a thing for structured carriers.

Pre-pregnant me. Yeah I wonder whether I’ll ever see her again. Nope. I doubt it. I am forever changed. Mentally, physically, spiritually. My heart is now split between 3 . . . I get all weepy just thinking about it . . . I will never again not worry about my 3 loves: Annabelle, Matt, and Levi. I will always want to know that they’re all okay, well, healthy, happy, safe, doing no harm and out of harm’s way. And then there’s my rear end. I wonder whether it’ll ever go back to how it was. Doubt it. A friend told me she just went out and bought a new wardrobe after baby #2 . . . it’s been 2 weeks. I think I’ll wait on wardrobe splurges for a while . . . besides, my baby is nursing around the clock and I’ve already lost more than half my pregnancy weight . . . between the constant movement he seems to like (require) and all the nursing, I imagine my physical self will resemble something of its pre-pregnant form . . . and so what if it doesn’t? My inside self is changed too and I just rambled about that and I’m not revising this so well, I’m wondering about other mamas, did you feel yourself change inside and out when your baby(ies) came?

Gotta go. Need to walk with Levi a bit more, :-)

Hugs, peace and love,

Jessica

So I think I’ll call this the first draft of Levi’s birth story. Here is what happened (in a nutshell):

On Tuesday morning my husband and I drove 40 minutes to my midwives’ office for a 41 week stress test (though I was just 40 wks and 4 days pregnant); we were also curious to find out how my care would continue should my pregnancy go beyond the practice’s 42 week window (at which time I would need to transfer care and likely be scheduled for a hospital induction). My heart was in my throat because I’d been hoping to give birth to Levi at home . . . with each passing day I worried that I, my husband and my baby would find ourselves in a similar situation as we’d experienced for Annabelle’s birth (let’s just say that my birth plan at Annabelle’s birth was ignored . . . her arrival into the world was not the peaceful one my husband and I wanted for her). With so many emotions, so many fears swimming through my mind (our minds), our car ride to the midwives’ office was intense; I felt as though the silence in the car could be cut with a knife . . . looking back on it now, I think my husband and I just didn’t know what to say (to each other) or what to expect (from our midwives) . . .

When we arrived at the office I learned that I’d missed my appointment. Fortunately the midwives were able to let me stay for the hour long stress test and a midwife would be able to see us for our regular care visit. I have to say that though I’d made up my mind in the car that I would accept whatever my midwives recommended we do, I was anxious to give birth and anxious to let my pregnancy be at its end (I wanted them to help me have my baby). And yet, though I felt so many emotions, felt so much fear, and had so many thoughts running through my mind, I found myself silent . . . no words would come to me as I lay there during my stress test; I did feel angry at one point because a substitute midwife who I’d seen the week before and confided in that I felt so miserable and so ready to have my baby happened to be at my stress test. She commented at one point, “So you still haven’t had your baby, huh?” with what seemed at that moment to be at my expense (though I was feeling extremely tender and much like a caged animal with no options . . . I was feeling similar to how I’d felt the night before Annabelle’s induced birth . . . just a “patient” who would be told how to proceed by her caregivers). I felt afraid, I felt so afraid, and I felt so angry . . . I simply wanted someone to help me . . . I wasn’t believing in myself and I wasn’t believing that my body could do it (give birth) on its own.

After the stress test, I met with another midwife for my baby’s regular care appointment; she listened to his heart beat, measured my womb, and asked me whether I wanted her to check my progress (my cervix had been dilated to 3-4 cm. for about 3 weeks and all the midwives were wondering when I would “go”.). We talked about the natural ways that I could attempt to go into labor (evening primrose oil, raspberry leaf tea, sex, nipple stimulation, and castor oil) and a prostaglandin gel that could be applied to my cervix to help with thinning and dilation. I explained to her that another midwife thought I ought to wait to try anything until after my 41 week sonogram, which had been scheduled for the coming Friday. My midwife (who I was meeting with at that moment) looked at me and asked me whether I wanted to attend that sonogram; I nodded my head and told her that I did . . . I wanted to make sure that my baby was healthy. She then asked me whether I wanted to try castor oil (I had joked that cousins in my father’s family swore by castor oil but that I wasn’t sure whether it was safe). She explained to my husband and me that castor oil’s association with meconium being passed during or prior to labor and delivery tends to happen because many post due babies pass meconium on their own (without an agent like castor oil). She also shared that one of her own labors had been brought on by castor oil and that if my body were not ready for labor, I’d have an upset stomach and need to rehydrate (and do so within the 3 days I had until my sonogram appointment that coming Friday). I left her office with 2 bottles of castor oil; one she told me to take that afternoon and if that did not work, I was to take the second bottle after attending my sonogram.

On the car ride home my husband and I talked about it; I wanted to take the castor oil, I wanted to have my baby. My husband said he felt more comfortable with castor oil because we’d talked with my midwife about its effects on me and the baby (if my body were not ready to labor, I would simply have an upset stomach and the baby would be okay). Once home, I ate lunch with Annabelle (I only ate a piece of bread to keep my stomach empty), read Annabelle her midday stories and then snuggled with her; I felt that these would be our last moments together as just us two . . . I looked in her eyes as I nursed her (my milk likely was not in, nor had it been for much of my pregnancy, but I’d continued to nurse her for comfort) and told her that her brother was going to be born soon and that once he arrived he would not leave our home. I told her that she was always going to be my baby (even when she declares herself a big girl) and I always would love her . . . perhaps because I am an oldest child, I could foresee how she might cope with the huge change that was coming to our family of three (the arrival of a baby can completely rock the older child’s world). She looked up at me with wide eyes (and I realize she is just 2 1/2 and may not understand everything we say to her) and something in her eyes let me know that she could feel what I was telling her.

A little while later I sat down at my kitchen table with my husband and mother-in-law. I sipped hot tea, spooned castor oil, and drank orange juice. Five minutes later, I had finished the castor oil; I looked at my husband and mother-in-law and told them I wasn’t sure it would work, but just in case it did, I wanted to be well rested. I headed upstairs and lay down. Three hours later I woke up with a bit of an upset stomach. I decided I needed to walk so I got dressed, headed downstairs and invited my husband on what would turn into a 3 hour long walk. Thank goodness my mother-in-law was there to play with Annabelle; while I would not describe the 3 hours that my husband and I walked as “painful,” I will say that I needed to focus all of myself on my labor and my husband gave his everything to helping me do that (had we needed to also keep Annabell occupied during this time, I’m not sure how I would’ve coped with labor). He timed my contractions, made me laugh (again and again), and would hold me up when a strong rush/surge/contraction/wave would move across me. After an hour he wanted to call the midwives (I did not because I still was not believing in myself and thus was not believing that I was in real labor).

My midwife and birth assistant soon arrived and I told them about having taken castor oil and not being entirely sure that I was in labor; they assured me that I was and that they’d set up their supplies inside our home (we’d already acquired many of the supplies like the cord clamp, birth pads, oxygen tank, etc. at 36 weeks) while I continued walking. We walked for 2 more hours on perhaps the hottest night of the summer. My husband draped a large wet towel around his neck and carried a bottle of water that we filled up again and again on our “labor loop” around my neighborhood. At the end of 2 hours I felt that I was ready to go inside my house and have my midwife check me.

Inside, my midwife told me that she wasn’t sure why my other midwife had given me castor oil (apparently my midwife who I’d met with earlier in the day had informed another midwife who was supposed to be on call around the time they expected me to go into labor but we had waited too long to call for that midwife; the midwife who’d been called to my house had not communicated with either of the other 2 midwives. I have to say that in the moment I felt so vulnerable and afraid that I “was in trouble” with the midwife who was attending my son’s birth . . . it took me several days and conversations to arrive at a place where I am now that understands that she was not criticizing me or my decision but that she was telling me what was going on for her). She told me that she would check my progress but that if I had not progressed far enough that she and my birth attendant would need to leave and get rest for the night. I wanted to shower before she checked me (I was completely soaked from having walked outside in 90 degree weather for 3 hours); while showering I started to worry again that I wasn’t labor; I prayed to God to help me keeping going, I talked with Levi and asked him to help his mamma keep going, and then I nearly fell over in the shower with a hard contraction. When I came out of the shower, my midwife checked me and told me that I’d dilated to 6 cm, though my cervix was behaving oddly . . . one side was entirely dilated and the other side was partially there (I later learned that my cervix dilated this way because of Levi’s positioning his hand against the side of his face). She told that I would be pushing soon.

I asked for my birthing ball and knelt on the floor beside my bed. My birth attendant coached me to make low moans through the hard contractions that I would come to feel and know as transition. It didn’t take long before I was fully dilated and ready to push. My midwife asked me if I wanted to lay down on my side. I crawled up to my bed and got ready but I felt the most intense feeling in my pelvis and what I thought was an urge to pee. I walked to our bedroom’s bath but sitting there on the toilet, the pain continued and I knew it wasn’t that I needed to pee but that I was fighting the work I needed to do, which was pushing.

I found myself back at my bed and just leaned into the bed rail vocalizing everything that my physical body was enduring; I could not believe I was there in the moment (later I would confide in my birth attendant that I now understood why women want pain relief during labor . . . though I have to say that it is such a short moment that I’ll do natural birth again when the time comes . . . ). Again I lay down on my side and my midwife coached me to tuck in my chin and put all of myself into pushing my baby out; she asked me whether I wanted to feel his head moving down; I nodded yes so she told me to place my hand inside myself and feel Levi’s head pressing against my water bag. I tucked my chin in again and pushed and my water broke all over my hand; Levi’s head moved down onto my hand but I was not finished pushing. I had to push slowly and wait and wait and wait while my midwife and birth attendant applied warm rags against my perineum and suctioned Levi’s nose and mouth (there had been a small amount of meconium in the water). I later learned that what had caused me so much pain was Levi’s holding his hand against his cheek with his elbow sticking out to the side; for some reason, my boy decided to move his hand to the other cheek and this relieved a great deal of discomfort for me and I was able to push him the rest of the way out with greater ease. Seven minutes later he was lying against my stomach letting out a soft cry.

For the next hour my husband and I lay in our bed with Levi. I nursed him and stroked his back. My mother-in-law came upstairs to meet Levi while Annabelle continued sleeping on the futon downstairs (she never woke up during the birth; my mother-in-law later told me that despite the sounds I thought I’d been making, my labor had been a fairly quiet one). After checking Levi’s vitals, my midwife and birth attendant cleaned up my bedroom and headed downstairs to give us some time alone with our baby. Perhaps 2 hours later we had completed his birth certificate, weighed and measured him, and were saying goodnight. I fell asleep with Levi tucked in my arm and my husband’s arms around me . . .

Hey there, :-) Thank you for all the well wishes; Levi’s birth was beautiful . . . fast, hard at times, but just beautiful. I feel relaxed and am happy to be with my family at home.

Ruth, our family practice took care of Levi’s PKU (newborn exam and blood test) though there was confusion at first . . . we needed to visit a nearby lab and were not informed of this extra visit ahead of time (much to our frustration). My husband and I are finding that our baby is receiving good care and the services we require for a healthy home birth and follow up care have been met; sometimes however, we are observing that some individuals in medical services are not familiar with how they need to respond to families who make decisions that are not necessarily in the mainstream (like choosing to birth a child in the peace and safety of one’s home); this is sad, but the good (I see) in these experiences is that I am learning more and more about what a good parent needs to do (make choices in the best interest of their child even when society, friends, and family too do not understand the reasons or are not educated about the alternative). I am so happy that we chose homebirth for Levi; having watched his birth last night and watched Annabelle’s birth too (the hospital induction at 37 weeks), I cried my eyes out watching how my daughter had been handled at her birth. I plan to birth all my other children in our home (with a healthy, low risk pregnancy). Having to navigate medical services as a homebirth family takes a bit of confidence, education, and straightforwardness. And the good news is that our son and daughter (both children receive alternative vaccination schedules) are receiving excellent medical care, are in good health, and shucks, are happy (Levi seems to be pretty content so far . . .)

There was a bit of chaos on the second day of Levi’s life: On the same day that we took care of Levi’s (doctor) newborn exam (the first one was performed by the midwife), we received an urgent call from our mothers telling us that Annabelle woke up from her nap with a fever of 105. Having not slept and reacting from a place of fear, my husband and I called our new family practice and asked what we needed to do (give her tylenol and then take her to the E.R. if her fever did not go down). With no tylenol in the house and the fear of Annabelle having a high fever (though in retrospect I have to say that Annabelle has had high fevers before and she’s been fine . . . a fever being a healthy way to fight off infection), we told our mothers to meet us at the hospital since we were on our way there for Levi’s lab tests.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, Annabelle’s fever was down to 100.5 and she was walking around, wanting to play and acting completely normal. Phew! Still I felt worried about having her in close contact with her brother, so for 2 nights she enjoyed slumber parties with her grandmothers downstairs; meanwhile, my mother-in-law and I disinfected the house (she insisted I let her do it but I felt an overwhelming urge to just do whatever I needed to do to protect both my babies and keep the home healthy). By the next afternoon everyone was feeling good; my husband and I got good rest and what felt like an unbalanced home (for a day and a half) returned more to what my husband and I’ve worked hard to create: a peaceful and quiet home for our children.

I write to you from that place right now. My babies are sleeping, my mother-in-law is resting and likely catching up with our family in Connecticut (love to you all and to our family in Maine and all along the Atlantic coast), and my husband is either trying to work from home or is reading. I ought to be napping and resting too (Levi is cuddled up in my lap), so I think I better sign off here and check back in a few days. Again thank you for all the well wishes; I hope to post more photographs soon.

Love and peace,

Jessica

My prayers have been answered. On Tuesday night, we welcomed our second bundle of joy, Levi Matthew. I gave birth to Levi at home in our bedroom. It was an awesome experience, a quieting and stirring one. When the words come, I promise to share my birth story. Right now, I feel tired. My mothers are taking care of me, as is my husband. I think it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, I feel so blessed.

Levi is a big boy, physically larger than expected. I am still in disbelief that my body produced such a big baby, especially since I’d been told that babies made by vegetarian mammas tend to be a bit smaller . . . Levi weighed 8 lbs. 9 oz. and was 20 1/2 inches. He also has a big quiet soul and likes to sleep as much as his dad does (I am thanking the stars).

Annabelle met her brother the morning after his birth; she stood in the kitchen getting breakfast with her grandma when she heard Levi’s voice. We heard her yell out, “What’s that? It sounds like a kid.” We laughed and told her to come upstairs to meet her brother. She giggled, covering her mouth when she saw him and she kept repeating, “He’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.” Then she asked to hold him so we set her up in a chair and she held her brother for the first time.

Meanwhile, my husband and I are learning how to take care of a baby all over again, though we both agree that it feels so much easier this time . . . we’re both so relaxed. I keep telling him how grateful I feel for having had Annabelle because she taught us so much about how to parent (she insisted on being held, being nursed, being loved); Levi likes to be held too, though he is content to just lay down on his back and take the world in . . .

Again, when the words come, I want to share more. Here is our beautiful Levi.

So my estimated due date has come and gone. I joke that my current babe is making up for the time I lost while pregnant with Annabelle (she arrived 3 weeks before her edd). I won’t lie to you; even with all the positive labor vibes that folks are sending me, I spent much of yesterday in a big heap, just sobbing and feeling all sorry for myself because I so badly want to meet my baby boy, and I am, admittedly, so selfishly, wanting for this pregnancy to be at its end.

The good news? Yesterday evening my mother-in-law arrived to help out with Annabelle while we wait for baby boy to make his move . . . my hubby and I took full advantage of her presence by bringing her and Annabelle home and leaving them for 2 glorious hours together to see the Time Traveler’s Wife. Since I’d read the novel, I anticipated that the film would be a tear jerker and I have to admit that I wasn’t sure that would be the best remedy for my day (already so full of tears and longing), but as it turns out, watching Clare wait for Henry, wait and wait and wait to have a baby with him, and ultimately finding acceptance with her whirlwind fate as a time traveler’s wife gave me a bit of perspective (even if her story is just a story).

That said, I think that something else might have mended my aching, (mother’s) heart: I held my husband’s hand for the entire 2 hours we watched the movie, a simple gesture really . . . though nowadays, with our 2 year old jumping between us whenever we try to hug each other (not to mention that another little one is on the way and will soon join her in her shenanigans), I happily held my husband’s hand as though I were 15 years old again . . . feeling all sorts of tingles in my fingers and not wanting to let go (sweaty palms and all).

When we came home from the movies, Annabelle was waiting for us, and I have to say that after being away from her for 2 hours, I couldn’t wait to hug her, nurse her, cuddle her; funny how just a year passes and your little baby is not a baby anymore but a little girl taking on the world. It felt good to be reminded (by her calling my name and running for me when I walked through the door) that she needs me now just as much as she needed me last year at this time (and now I’m wondering if she needs me even more . . . even when her words, moods, actions seem to say, “Let me do it, mamma. Let me be, mamma.”)

As I fell asleep last night, I felt more at peace with our baby’s continued residence inside my belly . . . I envisioned all the light and love (that so many people are sending me) surrounding my baby, keeping him happy, helping him feel at peace . . . I also sent him my own feelings of love (and longing too), and yet, I let him know that he can stay right where he is until he is ready to be born.

This morning I woke up with new energy, focused on finding fun ways for Annabelle, my mother-in-law and I to spend the coming week(s), and I asked my mind to stop thinking about being pregnant. I exercised at the Y, laughed when folks pointed out that my baby is taking his time, and managed to talk matter of fact, when asked, about the logistics of how his birth may unfold over a 2 week timetable (at 42 weeks I have to transfer care from my midwifery practice).

So I plan to be “around” in the coming days, week(s), what have you till my baby is born, and since I’ve got more planned to do with Annabelle, I’ll be sure to share it here. In the photos below, Annabelle is working on a foam beaded necklace and key chain, which is a great intro sewing craft for wee ones with tiny hands.

Last thing, I’d love to hear ideas for how to fit handwork (sewing, crochet, knitting, felting) into a week of play for a toddler . . . right now her crochet needle (the largest kids’ version I could find) frustrates her (she tosses the needle aside and declares that she “can’t do it!”) . . . and I would love to find a craft that is in line with her ability and interest at this age . . .

So I decided to make some changes . . . yesterday while speaking with my midwife and sharing how lovely my intestines are feeling (no, not really . . . but the good news is that the baby has dropped to a lower station), she suggested that I find projects to work on over the next several days (and oh my she alluded to weeks) while we wait for little guy to be born. I told her, “I am driving my family crazy. I have taken on just about every house project that I can think of (really I have; this weekend I even began sorting through my husband’s closet and would have organized his computer gear into color coded boxes if he hadn’t caught me)”

My continued rant to my midwife: ” . . . I’ve planned out weeks of activities to do with my daughter . . . I just want this kid to be born already!” To which my midwife laughed. Yes, she laughed at me. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’ve gone off my rocker, and to be honest, I (and probably most who know me) feel that way too.

My husband tells me that the woman he married must have checked out of her body oh, about 4 weeks ago . . . here I am, the woman who prayed for a natural birth . . . a birth that could even happen at home . . . and I hear myself telling my husband, “I just want pitocin. I just want an epidural. I just want my baby.” And this guy, who I love dearly and was just months ago arguing for a hospital birth is telling me, “He’ll be born when he is ready. You know that.” If I weren’t feeling so crazy right now (so pregnant . . . so, so pregnant), I’d appreciate his wisdom and encouragement (because deep down I know that he is right), but alas, I am crazy, I am pregnant, and I am a woman eager to give birth.

So I listen to “patience,” go for long walks, clean my house (Martha would be so proud), water my garden, drink raspberry leaf tea, and pray pray pray that my boy will soon be born. Oh yeah, and now I am working on Green Mamma . . . that was the whole point of this long drawn out rant . . . I decided that I’d change the theme here, move a few things around, and work with my husband (because he is code savvy) to make things run smoother. I like the Thesis Theme; it’s neat, simple, and organized . . . which is this pregnant woman’s dream come true.

And now for a winner . . . I’d like to congratulate Jamie at Suburban Saving Mama as the winner of Fiona Bird’s Kids’ Kitchen by Barefoot Books. Congrats Jamie!

And to everyone else who participated in the Kids Kitchen giveaway, thank you! Stay tuned for another creative, green Barefoot Books giveaway soon. Oh yeah, and I have a few baby items coming too . . .