I was just sitting in our living room drafting up an insta-story speech in my head, trying to organize what I thought I wanted to say so I didn't screw it up and blather for 15 minutes, and came to the conclusion that I should just sit on down and write a blog post if I've got so many thoughts and opinions that I can't keep them straight long enough to make an instagram story.
So. General Conference. Two of my favorite weekends in the entire year. And not solely because I get to bask in the low expectations of staying at my house and in my pajamas the entire day. (Definitely haven't put a bra on since like, yesterday.) But I do also enjoy the up-kick in mood and inner well-being that inherently accompanies an uplifting experience such as this.
Though all that is neither here nor there, I come to this post to...fine, I suppose to "rant" about the comments made against social media. I *ahem* missed it but I guess at some point the Prophet recommended a fast from social medias. Having just partaken in my own lengthy hiatus from all things Facebook/Instagram, I hardly disagree with this admonition at face value. I do however, take some issue with the villifying of social media on such an all encompassing level.
Done right, social media is how I find myself serving and ministering to my fellow humans the most. When I came back from my hiatus, I found my relationship quite healed with my social media accounts. I've been much more comfortable just sending my thoughts as I get them either scrolling through my feed or watching through everyone's stories, and I'm not going to deny that those moments are applicable as acts of service just to protect my integrity and humility.
Because I know how nice it feels to receive well-meant, kind, genuine responses. As a society we have moved beyond the point where we can all sit out on our front porches while the kids run amuck in the streets and chat with our neighbors because we live in Mayberry, we're struggling to soldier on and lead normal lives despite the fact that our schools, movie theaters, concert venues, banks, random offices, malls, shops, gas stations, you-name-it are teeming with Mass Shootings every other minute. (Not an actual statistic, don't fact check me, you know what I mean they shouldn't be happening at all LET ALONE AT THE RATE THEY CURRENTLY ARE.)
My venn diagram of people that I have regular access to, in order to minister effectively, is literally a circle and we're all young moms of miniature sized velociraptors. Getting together in person is, firstly, an ACTUAL MIRACLE if all our schedules coincide, and secondly, a clusterfluff of tiny dictators who barely speak our language and take everything out of our mouths as a personal attack on their very happiness. You don't willingly hop into an orangutan exhibit and expect to maintain any peace and be able to hold any conversation, no, you get poop flung on you, you and probably some of the monkeys cry, and everyone loses a shoe and your favorite shirt gets ruined and someone is always climbing much higher than is conceivably safe and on the precipice of falling and dying. Being kind to each other IS avoiding each other. Not to mention, I certainly don't want people randomly showing up to my house, barging through the door and offering to do my dishes, or fold my laundry, or clean my floors, and I would never expect that of others. And even if I got over being embarrassed, I still wouldn't want help because it's just like letting your husband or your kids help out. They do it wrong and you have to go back and fix it later, it's just more work...
MY POINT BEING--I personally feel like it can be just as helpful when we share honestly online, let people see the slumps as well as the peaks, and get validation and commiseration and funny quips from our peers. That's where I think a vast majority of our generation get our sense of community.
"Get off your phones and be nice to each other." Ok, well, yes. If you're feeling like social media has a toxic effect on your mental/emotional/physical well-being, as I did a few months ago, then by all means, SHUT IT DOWN. But we can be nice to each other on our phones, too.
Obviously all of this comes with a disclaimer. *All comments subject to personal preferences* I don't mean to speak for an entire generation of people, that's bonkers. Not everybody will feel the way I do. And of course I appreciate the anti-bullying message. Now I'm wishing I'd just done the instastory, this isn't a cohesive blog post either.
I do not categorically disagree with the apostles. I simply wish they would encourage the good parts of social media rather than suggest to boycott it completely for a short period of time.
Saturday, October 6, 2018
Friday, May 18, 2018
2nd Month
We've moved!
In a nutshell; we are on our third investment property, and it's going to take the dream home to make me leave this one. We've been concentrating most of our efforts on prepping the place we moved out of for the incoming renters, and the new place is still undergoing a few renovations, so "chaotic" is quite the accurate descriptor for how things are going over in the Douglass household.
But we're managing, and it's the preferred brand of chaotic so I'll take it!
Rohan is rocketing up the charts like it's a competition, the boy has really packed it on and quick. We feel like Ander was born three months old (aka huge) and just kind of grew at a steady, shallow incline. Rohan was born on the large side of normal and was like, "hold mybeer bottle."
He still hasn't confused his days and nights, and we've had two nights within the past week where he didn't wake to feed at all! Sleeping through the night and we are so grateful.
He's on full formula and obviously thriving, giving us more and more smiles and starting to try out his little voice. He loves to be outside and listen to his brother playing. We've noticed that he's quite the social butterfly, wanting to be right in the center of all the action. Whenever he's not snoozing, that is.
Amidst all the moving and renovating, Mark brought Ander into our room the other day, instructing him to "tell Mommy it's time to go swimming!" So we packed up as fast as we could and journeyed out to Butcher Jones out by Saguaro Lake.
Upon arriving, there was a Ranger in his truck who just had to stop to say hi because he "couldn't resist" Ander's adorable, frantic waving. We trekked out to the beach with all our stuff and were immediately set upon by a small pack of wild horses. Mark was instantly nervous and insisted we move our set-up back from the water a bit.
While I snapped photo after photo with our DSLR, I gave Ander my phone so he could feel involved as well. A couple of other photographers with their big fancy lenses thought it was adorable and they snapped a few of him, asking for my email so they could send them to me. Which I thought was very sweet.
Soon after, the horses meandered off and we were able to finally get in the water and play around for a bit. Rohan, however, enjoyed the beach from the comfort of his carseat and napped in the cozy sunlight.
In a nutshell; we are on our third investment property, and it's going to take the dream home to make me leave this one. We've been concentrating most of our efforts on prepping the place we moved out of for the incoming renters, and the new place is still undergoing a few renovations, so "chaotic" is quite the accurate descriptor for how things are going over in the Douglass household.
But we're managing, and it's the preferred brand of chaotic so I'll take it!
Rohan is rocketing up the charts like it's a competition, the boy has really packed it on and quick. We feel like Ander was born three months old (aka huge) and just kind of grew at a steady, shallow incline. Rohan was born on the large side of normal and was like, "hold my
He still hasn't confused his days and nights, and we've had two nights within the past week where he didn't wake to feed at all! Sleeping through the night and we are so grateful.
He's on full formula and obviously thriving, giving us more and more smiles and starting to try out his little voice. He loves to be outside and listen to his brother playing. We've noticed that he's quite the social butterfly, wanting to be right in the center of all the action. Whenever he's not snoozing, that is.
Amidst all the moving and renovating, Mark brought Ander into our room the other day, instructing him to "tell Mommy it's time to go swimming!" So we packed up as fast as we could and journeyed out to Butcher Jones out by Saguaro Lake.
Upon arriving, there was a Ranger in his truck who just had to stop to say hi because he "couldn't resist" Ander's adorable, frantic waving. We trekked out to the beach with all our stuff and were immediately set upon by a small pack of wild horses. Mark was instantly nervous and insisted we move our set-up back from the water a bit.
While I snapped photo after photo with our DSLR, I gave Ander my phone so he could feel involved as well. A couple of other photographers with their big fancy lenses thought it was adorable and they snapped a few of him, asking for my email so they could send them to me. Which I thought was very sweet.
Soon after, the horses meandered off and we were able to finally get in the water and play around for a bit. Rohan, however, enjoyed the beach from the comfort of his carseat and napped in the cozy sunlight.
As summer approaches we are starting to see the light at the end of this long tunnel. Our renters move in at the end of the month and as soon as our kitchen and laundry room are taken care of, then it's simply time to get all our stuff where we want it. The fun part of moving!
We've renewed our City of Mesa pool pass and plan on utilizing it thoroughly. June is packed with trips and reunions and someone's third birthday (which I am avoiding planning because then it won't happen and my baby will stay a baby forever, right? That's how it works, yeah?).
We couldn't be busier, but we couldn't be any more blessed, either. Full schedules, full hearts.
Monday, April 23, 2018
1st Month
Let's see if I can even remember how to write a monthly baby update post, shall we? Granted, he is only one month old and still a newborn, so there's really not much to update upon...
Rohan has been such a calming influence in our family. Which has been greatly appreciated considering the constant amount of chaos we are currently undergoing. That is not to say it hasn't been difficult at times, or that we haven't had to make adjustments, or that I don't feel the need to sleep for three days straight. But if all my babies could come out with Rohan's temperament, I'd get pregnant again tomorrow.
It's bizarre to me to have a baby so reliably easy to console. They say babies only cry if they're hungry, tired, or uncomfortable and with Rohan that holds so blessedly true. When in doubt as to why he's fussing, we literally just double-triple wrap him in warm blankets and as soon as he'ssweaty toasty, he settles right down.
Gas drops and pumping his legs actually works to get the tummy bubbles out, what a concept!
He hadn't soiled a diaper in a little over 24 hours the other day, so I ran out to Walgreens for some suppositories, and whaddya know! It worked like a charm!
We got so much advice and suggestions with Ander when he was tiny, and in all honesty hardly any of it ever worked. So to get a firsthand example of how these things could have worked is blowing my mind in all sorts of great ways.
I guess I'll take a hot minute to try and explain where Rohan's name came from.
We are indeed aware that it looks like a hardcore Lord of the Rings tribute. It is not. I originally brought the name to the table, very much liking the sound of it but disliking the traditional spelling of 'Rowan'. I researched and found that 'Rohan' was a suitable substitution, but Mark was staunchly against giving him a name so steeped in pop culture as to condemn him to a life of having his name mis-pronounced, or being teased as to it's presumed origin.
But after explaining that 'Rohan' is indeed an official, anglicized spelling of the Irish 'Ruadhain', it was much easier for Mark to swallow.
In the end we compromised so that I was allowed 'Rohan' as long as we used Mark's favorite, 'William', for the middle name.
Coincidentally, 'Ruadhain' means "red one/red-haired" and as of now, our Rohan is certainly looking particularly auburn. In Celtic it also means "keeper of wolves", which is completely bada**. Just sayin'.
Rohan is keeping up the Douglass tradition of dominating the upper 90th percentiles of all his physical measurements. 96th for height, 99th for weight, and we won't even talk about head circumference. He always fills his diaper literally seconds before the doc walks in, so we always get a proper thumbs-up on his bowel integrity.
He does a magnificent job of giving us loads of awake-time during the day, and very rarely does he give us any trouble going back to sleep at night. He reliably gives us solid three hour chunks of sleep, sometimes extending to nearly four.
He eats a TON. Our one, single struggle in all of this glorious baby perfection has been the breastfeeding. But it isn't Rohan at all, it's me. Without getting into the nitty-gritty, we're giving it all we've got, gonna keep on truckin', and in the meantime he enjoys the occasional formula bottle or two.
We're all absolutely smitten with this chunk of love, Ander loves to "let" Rohan watch as he plays games on his tablet, and wants so badly to just pick Rohan up whenever it strikes his fancy, and Mark will undoubtedly fall asleep each and every time he holds Rohan. Regardless of the place or the hour. The baby sedative is strong with this one.
He's growing faster than I would like, but I anxiously look forward to seeing who this chill dude becomes.
Rohan has been such a calming influence in our family. Which has been greatly appreciated considering the constant amount of chaos we are currently undergoing. That is not to say it hasn't been difficult at times, or that we haven't had to make adjustments, or that I don't feel the need to sleep for three days straight. But if all my babies could come out with Rohan's temperament, I'd get pregnant again tomorrow.
It's bizarre to me to have a baby so reliably easy to console. They say babies only cry if they're hungry, tired, or uncomfortable and with Rohan that holds so blessedly true. When in doubt as to why he's fussing, we literally just double-triple wrap him in warm blankets and as soon as he's
Gas drops and pumping his legs actually works to get the tummy bubbles out, what a concept!
He hadn't soiled a diaper in a little over 24 hours the other day, so I ran out to Walgreens for some suppositories, and whaddya know! It worked like a charm!
We got so much advice and suggestions with Ander when he was tiny, and in all honesty hardly any of it ever worked. So to get a firsthand example of how these things could have worked is blowing my mind in all sorts of great ways.
I guess I'll take a hot minute to try and explain where Rohan's name came from.
We are indeed aware that it looks like a hardcore Lord of the Rings tribute. It is not. I originally brought the name to the table, very much liking the sound of it but disliking the traditional spelling of 'Rowan'. I researched and found that 'Rohan' was a suitable substitution, but Mark was staunchly against giving him a name so steeped in pop culture as to condemn him to a life of having his name mis-pronounced, or being teased as to it's presumed origin.
But after explaining that 'Rohan' is indeed an official, anglicized spelling of the Irish 'Ruadhain', it was much easier for Mark to swallow.
In the end we compromised so that I was allowed 'Rohan' as long as we used Mark's favorite, 'William', for the middle name.
Coincidentally, 'Ruadhain' means "red one/red-haired" and as of now, our Rohan is certainly looking particularly auburn. In Celtic it also means "keeper of wolves", which is completely bada**. Just sayin'.
Rohan is keeping up the Douglass tradition of dominating the upper 90th percentiles of all his physical measurements. 96th for height, 99th for weight, and we won't even talk about head circumference. He always fills his diaper literally seconds before the doc walks in, so we always get a proper thumbs-up on his bowel integrity.
He does a magnificent job of giving us loads of awake-time during the day, and very rarely does he give us any trouble going back to sleep at night. He reliably gives us solid three hour chunks of sleep, sometimes extending to nearly four.
He eats a TON. Our one, single struggle in all of this glorious baby perfection has been the breastfeeding. But it isn't Rohan at all, it's me. Without getting into the nitty-gritty, we're giving it all we've got, gonna keep on truckin', and in the meantime he enjoys the occasional formula bottle or two.
We're all absolutely smitten with this chunk of love, Ander loves to "let" Rohan watch as he plays games on his tablet, and wants so badly to just pick Rohan up whenever it strikes his fancy, and Mark will undoubtedly fall asleep each and every time he holds Rohan. Regardless of the place or the hour. The baby sedative is strong with this one.
He's growing faster than I would like, but I anxiously look forward to seeing who this chill dude becomes.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Rohan William
It's impossible to start at "the beginning" because the beginning is convoluted, and much too long for what this post needs to be (which would be just a simple birth story) (if such a thing exists). But perhaps someday the backlog of dramatic drafts I have wallowing in the queue can be spruced up and fashioned into something semi-intelligible and worth posting.
In the meantime, we can start at the beginning of the 19th of March--a Monday. We weren't scheduled to arrive at the hospital until 10 am that morning, which sounds delightful, until you factor in the minor detail that I would be undergoing major surgery so I wasn't allowed to eat.
Talk about a looooong morning.
Ander woke us up at his usual time, between 6:30 and 7, completely oblivious of the monumental shift his universe was about to undergo. He had spent Friday evening, all of Saturday, and most of Sunday leading up to the 19th down in Tucson with his grandma and we were all thrilled to have a quiet, relaxed morning just the three of us.
My mom arrived just before 9 am and we began packing up our car with hospital things, and packing her car with Ander things.
The dog tried to hide his mild panic. Unsuccessfully. Jerky helped.
Soon it was 9:30 and we were off, whizzing down the freeway and discussing the birth plan(s). We were scheduled for c-section, but if they checked me and I was dilated, in conjunction with a baby not the size of a small toddler, we were to be allowed to discuss induction.
We arrived in triage, the nurse pointed me towards the bathroom and I was instructed to disrobe. I mentioned the call for cervical check and ultrasound. Her poker face was less than successful as she said she would run it by the doctors and get word from them. As we waited in our little room directly beside the front desk, Mark overheard an exasperated nurse ask, "why are we doing this? Isn't she a c-section??"
But I immediately discarded that bit of information from my mind. I didn't want to be crying just yet.
I wanted to offer to walk to the ultrasound, in order to avoid the Wheeling Throne of Awkward Feelings (aka the gurney), but turns out I'm glad I didn't because it was in an entirely other zone and floor of the hospital. With the level of waddle I had achieved by that stage of pregnancy, it may have taken most of the afternoon to get there.
As the tech gooped me up for the ultrasound machine, she asked how we were doing, why we were up here, and I joked, "we're just hoping to get a better idea of his current size and how impossible it will be to birth..."
To which she immediately chirped, "or how possible."
And that was the first (and last) medical professional to give a positive remark in regards to my desire to VBAC. Cue more choking back of waves of emotion.
She estimated 8 pounds 10 ounces, give or take a pound, which was actually pretty shocking to hear. I'd been resigned to hearing over 10 pounds again, and when faced with the sudden possibility that we would actually have to go through with discussing induction, I had the sudden realization that maybe I would have to be brave and try to labor and risk all the risks every doctor had been throwing in my face for the last nine months and it was scary.
Though it didn't matter anyway, since they'd forgotten to check my cervix first, and when they finally got around to it, I was about as high and tight as they come.
Which they could have just done when we first walked in and avoided the ultrasound and the waiting and the eventual delaying of our surgery by an entire hour.
But whatever. I'm not salty about it at all.
After that I finally met the OB who would be performing the surgery. And she was a gosh darn delight. She jabbered on about the procedure and everything leading up to it, offering to give us skin-to-skin time in the OR, possibly even breastfeed a little, and was very aware of our concerns regarding abdomen incisions and having a nearly three year old circus performer at home, proactively offering solutions before I'd even thought to bring it up.
Turns out they can provide binders for your belly there in the hospital. What a concept!
Basically, she turned the entire morning around from heading in a stressful direction, to feeling safe and comfortable and eager.
Already my memory of this next part begins to haze up, since it's the phase I dreaded the most going into it.
Mark dressed in his operating room paper suit and they instructed him to grab our belongings, leading us down a short, short hallway into the "hugging area". One wonders if the blatant naming of such an area is as good an idea as it seems, considering the frantic leaping and tugging of my heart as I got separated from my husband.
The room was just as barrenly crowded and cold as I remembered. Walls piled to the ceiling with machines and wires and not a speck of warmth, or dust even.
I found immense comfort in the kind but sassy Russian doctor who held my hand and gave me heavily accented instructions to make it through the spinal tap. If you have to have surgery, might as well get yourself a Fairy God-Babushka. I tried to read her name tag so I could remember her properly, but all I know is it started with an O and was approximately 28 letters long. With numerous X's.
As the hustle and bustle continued to flurry about me, I strove to take deeper and deeper breaths, talking to God and asking Him to help me be calm and stifle the anxiety. I know the anticipation is more often worse than the outcome and I was dangerously close to crying.
The nurses continued to lay out the medical science for me, I presume in hopes that it would be comforting, but explaining that pain and cold are registered by the same area of the brain don't make it any less bizarre and terrifying that the only way I am to be assured I won't feel that scalpel is by being sprayed in the leg with cold air.
That will never not petrify me to the deepest degree.
Just before I was about to blurt out that I was sure they'd forgotten to let my husband in, Mark arrived and I took a shuddering breath. He grabbed my hand and glued his fingers to my face, as I had emphasized how reassuring it had been during Ander's c-section.
They began, and I steeled myself as best I could. The motion sickness was about as bad as I remembered, if only slightly better because they couldn't be as quick as before due to some organs with scar tissue loitering about.
Far more quickly than I would have liked, things got more uncomfortable. I started feeling a pulling sensation in my left side, similar to that of a side cramp from running. I mentioned it and they "doused" me with Lidocaine (topical anesthetic) and reminded me how perfectly the spinal tap went, she got it on the first try, everything is fine, yadda yadda.
The discomfort didn't abate. And soon it spread into a fiery burn across my abdomen, increasing in intensity at an alarming rate. Try as I might I couldn't refrain from arching my back, fingernails digging into my palms. They were close to getting the baby out. The anesthesiologist was going to give me something else, I just needed to hold on a minute longer. I was "doing so well". Swarms of people spitting words at me.
Splats of water hitting the ground.
"There's the head."
Gurgling and tiny baby cries.
Mark struggling to hold my hand, touch my face, hold the phone steady to take a video, see our child, the simultaneous joy and concern twisting the corners of his eyes.
More hoarse baby cries and a sudden cavernous empty feeling.
Mark faltering between leaving me and going over to the clean-up station, which I could not see from my vantage point. I urged him to go to the baby.
All they had to do now was close, right?
"That is a big placenta!"
It still hurts.
"This really hurts."
They throw the rest of the Lidocaine in.
Mark's holding our baby up to my face. I choke out the only thing I can think to say about a million times, "Hi, baby. Hi. Hi, sweet. Hi, baby. Hi."
I want to touch his tiny face but I don't trust myself. I beg Mark to hold onto him tight.
They ask if I want to do skin to skin and I've never wanted anything more but they just don't understand how much it HURTS.
My face must have said enough because they whisked Mark and the baby out and I saw the anesthesiologists face leaning over mine as he said something that didn't matter.
I blinked and the curtain was removed. It took a moment for me to understand and remember that I was feeling better because I had been feeling pain in the first place. They told me to hug my arms around myself as they moved me onto a rolling gurney.
As I wheeled backwards out the OR door I noticed the clock read TWO:FIFTY.
I blearily recalled we had started at one o'clock. It seemed strange but I couldn't put two and two together.
I remember how fondly I looked upon Mark sweetly holding our newborn to his chest, relaxed and calm and reassuring. I don't remember what was said for awhile. Turns out they had to pump me so full of meds that I finally just went under and went to sleep.
I may have asked the nurse why my face itched a gross amount of times. Blinking was arduous, and keeping my eyes from crossing with each blink even arduous-er. But our child was born, we were both alive and healthy, and I wasn't being cut open or sewed shut anymore.
And the entire rest of our hospital stay was a flurry of rainbows and unicorns and every nurse was precious and wonderful and Rohan is just a literal champion of babies.
Ironically, though he weighed less than Ander (9 pounds 12 ounces to Ander's 10.10), he had difficulty passing the blood sugar tests. We were thiiiiis close to having to put him on an IV but he pulled through at the last minute. Which sounds more drastic than it was, he simply had to have a blood sugar level surpassing 45 three times in a row. His poor little heels are all chewed up from the poker and he's still sensitive about people grabbing his feet, but all things considered he's an actual real-life peach.
He immediately latched like he'd been a pro at it for months already. It took some convincing to get him to feed for longer than two seconds (not even exaggerating) and we had to supplement with formula because of the blood sugar, but even after we'd only been home for barely 24 hours he was already feeding almost exclusively from breast so we're optimistic that we'll be able to save that formula moolah for more fun stuff!
He passes gas and poops and burps without question and it's just...such a turnaround from Ander's first coupledays months home.
He rarely spits up, and when he does it's the tiniest amount. I've actually been able to dress and swaddle him without fretting that I'm risking ruining the cute clothes and blankets.
And best of all, Ander has been so incredibly sweet with the baby, I am thrilled with his reaction. He finds binkies or teething toys and comes running over, "here, baby!"
If I'm feeding Rohan, Ander's right there to say, "baby eat! Baby eating food!"
If Rohan cries Ander asks, "baby hurt? Baby okay?"
Ander wakes up from his nap and first thing, he asks where the baby is.
The other night we were putting Ander to bed and unprompted, he went up to Rohan's swing, kissed the baby on the forehead and said, "good night baby, wud you!"
We feel incredibly blessed and lucky and over-the-moon that we get to keep this precious bubba. He is a gift and was always meant to be in our family, I genuinely feel like he's always belonged.
I love my sweet boys, and I love having talented and sweet friends who want to take photos of my babies! Thanks, Allie! <3
In the meantime, we can start at the beginning of the 19th of March--a Monday. We weren't scheduled to arrive at the hospital until 10 am that morning, which sounds delightful, until you factor in the minor detail that I would be undergoing major surgery so I wasn't allowed to eat.
Talk about a looooong morning.
Ander woke us up at his usual time, between 6:30 and 7, completely oblivious of the monumental shift his universe was about to undergo. He had spent Friday evening, all of Saturday, and most of Sunday leading up to the 19th down in Tucson with his grandma and we were all thrilled to have a quiet, relaxed morning just the three of us.
My mom arrived just before 9 am and we began packing up our car with hospital things, and packing her car with Ander things.
The dog tried to hide his mild panic. Unsuccessfully. Jerky helped.
Soon it was 9:30 and we were off, whizzing down the freeway and discussing the birth plan(s). We were scheduled for c-section, but if they checked me and I was dilated, in conjunction with a baby not the size of a small toddler, we were to be allowed to discuss induction.
We arrived in triage, the nurse pointed me towards the bathroom and I was instructed to disrobe. I mentioned the call for cervical check and ultrasound. Her poker face was less than successful as she said she would run it by the doctors and get word from them. As we waited in our little room directly beside the front desk, Mark overheard an exasperated nurse ask, "why are we doing this? Isn't she a c-section??"
But I immediately discarded that bit of information from my mind. I didn't want to be crying just yet.
I wanted to offer to walk to the ultrasound, in order to avoid the Wheeling Throne of Awkward Feelings (aka the gurney), but turns out I'm glad I didn't because it was in an entirely other zone and floor of the hospital. With the level of waddle I had achieved by that stage of pregnancy, it may have taken most of the afternoon to get there.
As the tech gooped me up for the ultrasound machine, she asked how we were doing, why we were up here, and I joked, "we're just hoping to get a better idea of his current size and how impossible it will be to birth..."
To which she immediately chirped, "or how possible."
And that was the first (and last) medical professional to give a positive remark in regards to my desire to VBAC. Cue more choking back of waves of emotion.
She estimated 8 pounds 10 ounces, give or take a pound, which was actually pretty shocking to hear. I'd been resigned to hearing over 10 pounds again, and when faced with the sudden possibility that we would actually have to go through with discussing induction, I had the sudden realization that maybe I would have to be brave and try to labor and risk all the risks every doctor had been throwing in my face for the last nine months and it was scary.
Though it didn't matter anyway, since they'd forgotten to check my cervix first, and when they finally got around to it, I was about as high and tight as they come.
Which they could have just done when we first walked in and avoided the ultrasound and the waiting and the eventual delaying of our surgery by an entire hour.
But whatever. I'm not salty about it at all.
After that I finally met the OB who would be performing the surgery. And she was a gosh darn delight. She jabbered on about the procedure and everything leading up to it, offering to give us skin-to-skin time in the OR, possibly even breastfeed a little, and was very aware of our concerns regarding abdomen incisions and having a nearly three year old circus performer at home, proactively offering solutions before I'd even thought to bring it up.
Turns out they can provide binders for your belly there in the hospital. What a concept!
Basically, she turned the entire morning around from heading in a stressful direction, to feeling safe and comfortable and eager.
Already my memory of this next part begins to haze up, since it's the phase I dreaded the most going into it.
Mark dressed in his operating room paper suit and they instructed him to grab our belongings, leading us down a short, short hallway into the "hugging area". One wonders if the blatant naming of such an area is as good an idea as it seems, considering the frantic leaping and tugging of my heart as I got separated from my husband.
The room was just as barrenly crowded and cold as I remembered. Walls piled to the ceiling with machines and wires and not a speck of warmth, or dust even.
I found immense comfort in the kind but sassy Russian doctor who held my hand and gave me heavily accented instructions to make it through the spinal tap. If you have to have surgery, might as well get yourself a Fairy God-Babushka. I tried to read her name tag so I could remember her properly, but all I know is it started with an O and was approximately 28 letters long. With numerous X's.
As the hustle and bustle continued to flurry about me, I strove to take deeper and deeper breaths, talking to God and asking Him to help me be calm and stifle the anxiety. I know the anticipation is more often worse than the outcome and I was dangerously close to crying.
The nurses continued to lay out the medical science for me, I presume in hopes that it would be comforting, but explaining that pain and cold are registered by the same area of the brain don't make it any less bizarre and terrifying that the only way I am to be assured I won't feel that scalpel is by being sprayed in the leg with cold air.
That will never not petrify me to the deepest degree.
Just before I was about to blurt out that I was sure they'd forgotten to let my husband in, Mark arrived and I took a shuddering breath. He grabbed my hand and glued his fingers to my face, as I had emphasized how reassuring it had been during Ander's c-section.
They began, and I steeled myself as best I could. The motion sickness was about as bad as I remembered, if only slightly better because they couldn't be as quick as before due to some organs with scar tissue loitering about.
Far more quickly than I would have liked, things got more uncomfortable. I started feeling a pulling sensation in my left side, similar to that of a side cramp from running. I mentioned it and they "doused" me with Lidocaine (topical anesthetic) and reminded me how perfectly the spinal tap went, she got it on the first try, everything is fine, yadda yadda.
The discomfort didn't abate. And soon it spread into a fiery burn across my abdomen, increasing in intensity at an alarming rate. Try as I might I couldn't refrain from arching my back, fingernails digging into my palms. They were close to getting the baby out. The anesthesiologist was going to give me something else, I just needed to hold on a minute longer. I was "doing so well". Swarms of people spitting words at me.
Splats of water hitting the ground.
"There's the head."
Gurgling and tiny baby cries.
Mark struggling to hold my hand, touch my face, hold the phone steady to take a video, see our child, the simultaneous joy and concern twisting the corners of his eyes.
More hoarse baby cries and a sudden cavernous empty feeling.
Mark faltering between leaving me and going over to the clean-up station, which I could not see from my vantage point. I urged him to go to the baby.
All they had to do now was close, right?
"That is a big placenta!"
It still hurts.
"This really hurts."
They throw the rest of the Lidocaine in.
Mark's holding our baby up to my face. I choke out the only thing I can think to say about a million times, "Hi, baby. Hi. Hi, sweet. Hi, baby. Hi."
I want to touch his tiny face but I don't trust myself. I beg Mark to hold onto him tight.
They ask if I want to do skin to skin and I've never wanted anything more but they just don't understand how much it HURTS.
My face must have said enough because they whisked Mark and the baby out and I saw the anesthesiologists face leaning over mine as he said something that didn't matter.
I blinked and the curtain was removed. It took a moment for me to understand and remember that I was feeling better because I had been feeling pain in the first place. They told me to hug my arms around myself as they moved me onto a rolling gurney.
As I wheeled backwards out the OR door I noticed the clock read TWO:FIFTY.
I blearily recalled we had started at one o'clock. It seemed strange but I couldn't put two and two together.
I remember how fondly I looked upon Mark sweetly holding our newborn to his chest, relaxed and calm and reassuring. I don't remember what was said for awhile. Turns out they had to pump me so full of meds that I finally just went under and went to sleep.
I may have asked the nurse why my face itched a gross amount of times. Blinking was arduous, and keeping my eyes from crossing with each blink even arduous-er. But our child was born, we were both alive and healthy, and I wasn't being cut open or sewed shut anymore.
And the entire rest of our hospital stay was a flurry of rainbows and unicorns and every nurse was precious and wonderful and Rohan is just a literal champion of babies.
Ironically, though he weighed less than Ander (9 pounds 12 ounces to Ander's 10.10), he had difficulty passing the blood sugar tests. We were thiiiiis close to having to put him on an IV but he pulled through at the last minute. Which sounds more drastic than it was, he simply had to have a blood sugar level surpassing 45 three times in a row. His poor little heels are all chewed up from the poker and he's still sensitive about people grabbing his feet, but all things considered he's an actual real-life peach.
He immediately latched like he'd been a pro at it for months already. It took some convincing to get him to feed for longer than two seconds (not even exaggerating) and we had to supplement with formula because of the blood sugar, but even after we'd only been home for barely 24 hours he was already feeding almost exclusively from breast so we're optimistic that we'll be able to save that formula moolah for more fun stuff!
He passes gas and poops and burps without question and it's just...such a turnaround from Ander's first couple
He rarely spits up, and when he does it's the tiniest amount. I've actually been able to dress and swaddle him without fretting that I'm risking ruining the cute clothes and blankets.
And best of all, Ander has been so incredibly sweet with the baby, I am thrilled with his reaction. He finds binkies or teething toys and comes running over, "here, baby!"
If I'm feeding Rohan, Ander's right there to say, "baby eat! Baby eating food!"
If Rohan cries Ander asks, "baby hurt? Baby okay?"
Ander wakes up from his nap and first thing, he asks where the baby is.
The other night we were putting Ander to bed and unprompted, he went up to Rohan's swing, kissed the baby on the forehead and said, "good night baby, wud you!"
We feel incredibly blessed and lucky and over-the-moon that we get to keep this precious bubba. He is a gift and was always meant to be in our family, I genuinely feel like he's always belonged.
I love my sweet boys, and I love having talented and sweet friends who want to take photos of my babies! Thanks, Allie! <3
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)