Pain and Relief

I was dangling from a cliff when he found me. 

I didn't call to him for help; he came running. 

"I'm here," he told me sweetly. And he reached out his hand. 

"Don't look down," he warned me.

I didn't. 

I didn't know what was beneath me. I didn't want to know. I didn't have to now.

I clung to him with shaky hands. He began to pull me up. Slowly. Slowly. 

"I will be safe," I thought. 

I could trust him. No- I must trust him. For without him, I would find myself hanging from the edge again. He was my hope. 

I felt like I may have enough strength to pull myself over the rocky ledge- almost - but then he stopped pulling. He looked at me with interest as I hung there, looking back. 

"Do you trust me?" He asked me. 

"Yes!" I replied earnestly. 

I sensed his hesitation. Why didn't he believe me? What had I done to lose his interest? 

I felt his grip loosen on mine. And then, without warning, he let go. My body lurched downward. My arm swung desperately to the rocks in front of me, grasping the ledge for support. My other arm clawed up to meet it. 

"Please," I begged him, "don't go. I need you."

He paused. His eyes peered deep into mine. Would he save me? Was I worth saving? 

My arms throbbed. My clenched fingers ached. 

"I will do anything!" I pleaded. 

Then he reached down, his hand clasped mine, and he pulled my body up towards him. He held the weight of my body as I hung there, hand in hand, legs dangling over the unknown. 

Relief washed over me as the pain subsided. 

"Thank you," I breathed. He almost smiled. 

But his smile turned quickly. 

His grip loosened, then released, and I clawed at the jagged ledge. I caught myself on the rocks. My hands stung from the impact. 

"No!" I yelled to him, "No! Why?" 

What did I do? Did I say the wrong thing? What did he want me to say?

Confusion set in with the panic and pain. My hands were scraped, my fingers numb. My shoulders pulsed with adrenaline and desperation. 

"I will do anything!" I said as I had before.  But this time, he didn't reach back down for me.

No, that wasn't it. That was the wrong thing to say. So I fumbled for another way to convince him to come back to me. 

"You don't have to save me," I said halfheartedly. "You can go." 

But upon hearing this, he reached back down and pulled me up, closer to him. So close I could feel safety in my grip. So, so close. 

My muscles unlocked from their grip. 

The absence of the pain washed over me like a wave.

Ecstasy.

"I'm sorry." He said sincerely. "I care about you." 

"I know," I said after a moment. He must. Why else would he keep coming back for me? 

He pulled me closer to him. My body relaxed and let him hold me. I closed my eyes and breathed. I almost forgot I was still halfway over the cliff. 

Until I felt his hand twitch. 

My eyes sprung open. What was it? Was he having second thoughts?

He looked unsure.

Was I too trusting? Did I take him for granted? What did he need from me? 

No. Nothing.

No, he changed his mind. He wouldn't let go. 

His fingers tightened again around my wrist. Relief poured back into my body. 

I needed to know what it was that was making him doubt me. I needed to prove to him that I was worth it. I was worth saving! 

But was I? I wondered. 

Maybe he was right to doubt me. 

What had I ever done to earn his love? I didn't deserve him. 

And yet, here he was, holding on to me. Saving me from the pain. Keeping me safe. 

Loving me. 

But it didn't last. In an instant, he let go, and I found myself clinging to the ledge once again, bruised and scraped. My elbows began to bleed. My fingers were raw. The pain overwhelmed me. 

It was so sudden! I wasn't ready!

I looked at him in hopes of understanding this game we were playing. 

"What do you want from me?" I strained to ask as my body ached and swayed from the rocky ledge. 

He held out his hand to me. For the first time, I wondered if I really wanted to take it again. He would just let go. I knew he would. 

But the relief. 

Ah, that sweet, beautiful relief when I was no longer clinging to the edge. Had I ever felt anything so powerful? So intense? The more intense the pain, the greater the relief when he held me again. 

I couldn't resist. I couldn't stay in this pain. I needed him. I needed that rush. I needed that relief. 

So I grabbed him, all the while knowing that soon, he would let me go again.

 But maybe not as quickly. Maybe he would give me some time to rest. 

And he did. For several minutes, I hung there, held up by the strength of his arms. 

Waiting. Waiting. 

One arm holding on for life. 

The other anticipating the next fall. 

It was predictable. 

It came as I knew it would. 

The pain was familiar. 

Drop. Reach. Claw. Cling. 

Aching. Throbbing. Shaking. 

I felt my body numbing. 

The pain dulled. My tired body surrendered. 

And I said nothing. 

Waiting. 

Waiting. 

He'll be back. 

He always comes back. 

Relief will come. 

It always does. 

He seemed unnerved by my numbness. He watched me dangling there in silence, glued to the side of the cliff. Fingers locked in stubborn desperation. 

"I made a mistake." He said with sincerity. And he reached out his hand to me. 

But my numbness had overtaken me. 

Maybe I didn't need him after all, I thought. Maybe I can climb up without him. 

So I ignored his hand. And I swung my body, lunging for a foothold. 

Missing. 

Swaying. 

Hanging again. 

My body reminded me of the pain I was in. 

My mind remembered the ecstasy of the support he offered. The release. I needed it. 

I couldn't do it on my own. 

"If I grab your hand," I said, "you have to pull me up. All the way this time. No more back and forth." 

He nodded. "Of course. No more back and forth. Trust me." 

So I did. And with that, he grabbed both of my arms, and he pulled me up. Over the rocky ledge, away from whatever lay below. Away from my pain. 

My body reeled, sore and worn down. 

But that rush. That wonderful rush of euphoria when the pain was gone- it was almost like it never happened at all. 

So we stood there at the edge, he and I. 

And I fell into his arms. 

My rescuer. He saved me. He loved me. 

I wanted to hide myself away in him. 

Tie myself to him. 

"Never leave me," I whispered to him. For I knew now that I needed him to live. I needed him for survival. 

I was weak. I would surely have fallen to my death without him.

I owed him everything. 

We stood for a long time, I in his arms, recovering. Healing. Resting. 

And then- 

I felt his body move forward. I stepped back. 

He stepped forward again, and I back. 

Forward. Back. 

Forward. Back. 

My heel felt the ledge, and my body lurched towards him. I clung to him in sudden terror. 

"Please!" I begged him. "Don't let go!" 

I felt the anticipation of the pain setting in. The rocks digging into my skin. My muscles aching, holding the weight of my body. No. I didn't want to do it again. I couldn't. 

He took a step back. I stepped forward into him. 

He embraced me. A smile flickered across his face.

"What are you afraid of?" He said sweetly. "I was only walking towards you." 

I must have imagined it. How silly of me. 

I shook my head. "I'm sorry," I said, "I overreacted." 

"I told you," he reassured me, "no more back and forth. I meant it."

The reality of that security set in. He loved me. 

No more pain. No more fear. No more agony. 

So we stood. 

No more pain. 

And we stood. 

No more pain. 

Only relief. 

But we stood, and we stood, and a sense of uneasiness took over me. This relief didn't feel like it used to. I felt numb. Lifeless. Void.

Did he even love me anymore? How could I know? I looked in his eyes, and they looked as numb as mine. What happened? 

Perhaps it wasn't the relief that I wanted.

Perhaps it was the pain. 

Perhaps it was the fear that felt so wonderful. 

The intensity. The rush. The euphoria.

My body craved it. Begged for it. I didn't want to go on in this numbness- I needed to feel alive. I needed to feel that love again.

So I backed up. Just a step. And he followed me forward. He wanted this too. I could see it. 

I backed up. Just a little closer to the edge.

His feet followed mine. 

I felt the fear creep up my legs.

It felt horrible. 

Wonderful. 

And without a word, he took me by the arms and held my body out, leaned over the emptiness. My breath escaped from me. I dug my nails into his arms.

"Don't let go," I said instinctively like I had so many times before. 

He hesitated. I felt the panic wash over my body. Then the pain. Then the numbness. Then the waiting.

Like a script.

Like we both knew our part and played it well. 

He held me there for a minute. Debating. 

For a moment, I thought it was going to happen. He was really going to drop me off the side of this cliff. My stomach flipped. Would he really do it? 

And at the very moment I believed he would, he suddenly pulled me back into him. We tumbled onto the dirt together. 

I lay on my back, eyes closed, as the weight of the fear was lifted from my body. It felt surreal. It felt better than any time before. His love was so tangible. 

So real. 

I needed more. 

So we did this dance. Backwards, forwards. Pain, relief. 

Because anything less than pain felt like numbness. And only relief felt like love.

Pain, relief. 

Agony, ecstasy. 

Anxiety when it left. Euphoria when it returned. 

Pain, relief. 

Pain, relief. 

Until the day it stopped. 

The day when the cycle ended. 

The day when he walked me to the edge of the cliff, pushed me off, and walked away. 

And I fell. 

And in the moments before I hit the ground, I was sure I would die. He was never coming back for me. I would never survive the fall. 

But I did. 

I did survive. 

Because it was as I hit the ground that I realized that this cliff I had been clinging to wasn't a cliff at all. That the drop he had been saving me from wasn't far. That the pain I suffered from hitting the bottom wasn't half as agonizing as the pain I suffered from avoiding it. 

That he wasn't my rescuer; he was my captor. 

That I wasn't his damsel; I was his prisoner. 

That relief isn't joy.

That the absence of pain isn't numbness. 

That intensity isn't love. 

Perhaps he will go back to the cliff someday to see if I'm waiting there. To see if I'm clinging to hope that he may come back for me. 

Perhaps he will find someone else there instead. Some young girl who believes she needs to be rescued. Who doesn't know the difference between love and pain. He may find her there, breathless and desperate for his outstretched hand. 

But he will not find me. 

The Broken House

I am always fixing this house. It seems that every time I turn around, there's something new that I've missed. Loose bolts. Broken floorboards. I don't understand what's happening. I spend my time waiting, watching for these things to break. But I seem to miss it each time. 

He tells me it's me. He tells me I've been wearing this house down. That I've been putting this poor house through hell. That the wear and tear of my continual use is breaking it down, one piece at a time. 

I shake my head in disbelief. How is it that I could have missed this? I've been so vigilant. 

So I tread more carefully. I don't put weight on creaky floorboards. I tighten up screws before they loosen. I seal up the cracks in the walls. I board up the windows. 

But each time I turn away to mend a broken spot, I find that the places I looked away from have begun to break down again. I must be moving too much. I must stop walking. 

So I sit. And I make sure only to move when I must. Only for the most necessary things. Only when the rain starts and I desperately try to patch the leaky roof. Only when the wind blows and I board up the doors. Only when my foot falls through a weak floorboard and I patch it back up fervently. 

He looks around at this damaged house. He reminisces of the place it used to be- the place he built for me. It was perfect, he says. It was strong. What have I done? How have I let things come to this? 

I hang my head in my hands. My mind races. 

What have I been doing? How could all of my tireless prevention have led to this? 

He points out that I've begun to walk with a limp. I had felt my body slowing, but I didn't understand why. But there it was. Thud. Thud. Thud. My lead-like leg uselessly dragging behind. It's ugly. 

He looks at me disdainfully, like an owner looks at his dog before he puts it down. 

He tells me that I need to get help. I nod in agreement. I begin thinking up a plan. I must go out for help. But no, then who will take care of the house while I'm away? No, I must stay. 

I must call for help. Loudly, as we are so very far from others. I don't remember when it happened that we became so isolated here, out in the wilderness. I swear, when we moved in, there were neighbors just down the road. Family used to live nearby. But one by one, each moved further away. I will have to be very loud. 

I call. I only hear my own echo. No one hears. 

He shakes his head. His disgust is written on his face as he looks at my leg. 

"Call louder," he tells me. "Why aren't you trying?"

I strain my voice until it cracks. I want him to see how hard I'm trying. 

He doesn't believe me. He says I'm not trying hard enough. I ask him to help. He says he can not. What can he do for such a significant injury? Call louder. Quickly, for time is running out, he says to me. 

I scream. I beg for someone to hear me. I go to the boarded up windows and bang my fists against the splintered wood. 

"Please!" I plead, bloodying my fists in desperation. 

"Don't you care about me at all?" I hear him say quietly. I turn to meet his gaze. I see a match in his clenched fists. 

"Of course I do," I say weakly. He turns from me. He says I do not. He says that the burden of my injury is too much for him to bear. That I should have gotten help earlier. That he's suffered greatly. That while I've been calling for help, the house has begun to deteriorate. That in my selfishness, I've neglected the repairs. How could I do this to him? After everything he put into this beautiful home? How could I be so selfish? 

I apologize profusely. I had no idea. I will try harder, I promise. I will call louder. I will walk on this leg even if it doesn't work. I will fix up the house quickly. I will restore it to its former beauty. 

But as I make my promises, I see that he's already struck the match. I ask him what he's doing. 

His face is sullen. He looks remorseful. 

"You made me do this." He says, and he throws the match at my feet. The old wood beneath me lights up, and I begin to stomp the flames with my one good leg. I plead for him to help me. 

He says it is too far gone. The house is broken. It's too late, he tells me. 

My feet are burning. I continue to stomp anyway. It's not too late, I scream to him. But he has turned away from me. The flames spread quickly on this old, dry wood. I see his figure through the smoke. 

He is pouring something on the floor. 

I recognize it distinctly. 

Gasoline. Everywhere. He pours it haphazardly around me. Fire surrounds me and licks my skin with its stinging heat. My screams turn to bloodcurdling shrieks and gasps for air. Please, I beg him, please don't do this. But he looks at me through the fog of smoke and says, "I can never forgive you." 

And with that, he walks out the door, and bars it shut behind him. 

I watch as this tattered house erupts in flames around me. The thick smoke chokes me and chars my lungs. I will die here, I know. I feel the life slipping away from me. 

In one last desperate attempt to live, I claw at the thin, brittle walls and rip the wood from the frames. Light pours in through the hole I made. Smoke pours out, and clears the air enough for me to make out a shape on the ground. I peer through the thick, poisonous air. I see iron links bolted to the floorboards. I reach down to touch the scalding hot metal, and pull the chain. I feel a tug on my bad leg. 

My hand trails the links backwards from the floor. Link by link. It gets closer to me. Closer. Until I feel my own leg, clasped in the grip of an iron lock around my leg. By the light peering through the hole in the wall, I see clearly now. I see my injured leg chained to the ground. How long have I been captive here? How long have I been pulling this chain around? Why didn't I see it before? These unanswered questions spin with the clouds of smoke around my head. 

I try to free myself from the lock. It is securely fit to my ankle. The flames are closing in, threatening to burn me down with this condemned house. 

I pull on my leg. The iron cuts into my skin. I pull harder. It cuts me deeper. 

A glimmer catches my eye. I hold my hand up to the light and see my ashy fingers wrapped around a key. How long I've been holding it, I don't know. I don't have time to remember. I slip the key into the lock on my ankle. It releases, and I find that my leg is not injured after all. It was only weighed down by the grip of the chain. 

I throw myself into the broken wall with what little strength I have left. The wood splinters and breaks. My body tumbles through and I roll onto the dirt. 

Smoke and ashes follow me out. 

I get to my feet and I begin backing up slowly, trying to make sense of this turn of events. I loved this house. I worked so hard for it. How could all of my efforts have gone to waste? How could it all be lost so quickly? 

And that's when I see him. 

I see him throwing rocks at the burning house. I see him breaking the windows, one by one. I see him busting holes in the walls. 

And I realize he's been doing this for years. Throwing rocks. Breaking windows. Breaking down the house. Ripping it up when I was turned away. 

He calls out to me, "You did this!" 

I shake my head. No. No, I didn't. 

"You made me do this!" He yells. 

I back up further. 

"Look what you've done to me!" He cries. 

And instinct takes over. I run. I run away from the burning house. I run away from the chain bolted to the floor. I run to the open field, the flames at my back, the smoke rising in the distance. 

And the further I run, the clearer the air becomes. I can breathe. I feel the cool air on my skin. I had forgotten what it felt like. 

People are rushing to the scene of the fire. He will tell them I did this. He will tell them about my limp. He will tell them how I let the house fall apart. He will tell them how he had no choice. 

He will not tell them about my chain. 

He will not tell them about his rocks. 

He will not tell them that he left me there to burn. 

He will point to me running in the field and say, "see? She ran. Look what she left behind." 

But I will keep running. Because I am liberated. I will run until the flames flicker into nothing. Until the smoke is but a memory in the distance. 

Because I am free. 

Our Third Home Birth

7:30 AM

I woke up extra early on the Fourth of July. I was 41 weeks and 2 days pregnant, and I had been feeling like my body was about to "go" any day. I was feeling it so much, in fact, that I went to Target the night before and bought myself a bunch of postpartum things I needed- a new nursing bra, a comfy shirt, some postpartum underwear (if you've ever had a baby, you know what I mean). 

As I woke up that morning, I felt like it could be the day. I had been sleeping lightly due to cramping. Getting up and moving around, I recognized them as mild contractions. I didn't time them, because past false-alarms from my previous births had left me a bit jaded.

My husband brought me breakfast, I texted my midwife and birth photographer to let them know I was having some deep contractions, and I went back to bed. I made the mistake of not doing this with my first two labors. If it was real, I knew I'd wake up for it. 

And I did- the contractions got stronger and more consistent, waking me up about every 10 minutes. 

10:15 AM

I was tentatively confident that I was in early labor. I couldn't sleep anymore, so I got up to get myself and the girls dressed and ready for the day. In between contractions, I did my hair and makeup, got dressed, put the kids in their Fourth of July dresses, and did their hair. I could feel that labor was coming on stronger every minute- the contractions were getting deeper, and I was less and less able to focus on my other activities. 

I was leaning over our couch during one contraction as my three year old sang a little song. Something like, "I'm helping Mommy, I'm bringing her a pineapple, and a castle cake..." (The plush pineapple and Lego "castle cake" were brought and placed by my head as she sang this). She hugged my head and stroked my face with her tiny little hand, and that may have been my favorite contraction of the entire day. That moment stuck with me for the rest of my labor. I went back to it multiple times, when the contractions were much harder, and it kept me grounded. 

It wasn't long after this that my three year old announced, I think partly in reaction to my pain, "I want to go see Grandma." We had already planned on the girls spending the night at their house that night, as a second "practice run" for when baby came. My three year old had been saying that she wanted to be there for the birth, but we all had a sneaking suspicion she might change her mind. And she did. Grandma's house was just so much more fun than watching mom wander around, having contractions. (Who could blame her?)

12:00 PM

The girls left with my mom, and I went back upstairs to my bedroom.
The real world started its transition of drifting away and I began falling deeper and deeper into Labor Land- that space where time both flies and doesn't move at all- where the only reality is that which is happening in the body. 

My contractions were getting stronger each time, but were still irregular. 9 minutes. 8 minutes. 12 minutes. I had my husband text my midwife to keep her updated. 

The next two hours I spent laboring (still inconsistently), trying various things to cope with the growing intensity. 

I got in a warm Clary Sage bath at some point, and tried to drink a mug of organic grass-fed bone broth (you know, the really expensive good stuff) that I had been saving for labor. It was a shot in the dark, as I had, in my previous labors, never been able to eat or drink anything (that wasn't practically forced on me) due to terrible nausea. I got a few sips down before giving up on it and going back to ice water. 

I went back to bed, and found that the pain was so much worse lying down. And so, back to laboring on my knees over the side of my bed I went. It was the only position I could tolerate, and I was still trying to get baby boy to turn. He was posterior, as he had been for the last week. We had been trying lots of Spinning Babies techniques in hopes that he would turn, to no avail. (We were planning to do acupuncture in a few days, but he beat us to the punch!)

2:00 PM

My contractions had begun to come closer - 6 to 10 minutes apart- and the back and pelvis pressure had set in. That posterior baby wasn't messing around in there! I coped (a little) with a heating pad laid across my lower back/pelvis.

4:00 PM

My husband had been in contact with our midwives over text, and around 4:00, they arrived to check in. I don't remember much of what they said or what they did. They were minimally important in my head. Jen (my primary midwife) put pressure on my hips to relieve some of the pain from the back labor. They checked on baby's heartbeat with the Doppler. They had me eat some saltine crackers with my water to make sure I was taking the water in. And then they went downstairs to let me labor in my dark bedroom with my husband. 

I felt close, but I didn't trust my instinct. I had felt close with my second labor several times and was crushed and infuriated when it just kept going and going- 5 hours longer than my first birth.

I told my husband I wanted to go to the hospital. I said I wanted an epidural. I said I couldn't do this- that the back labor was too strong and I couldn't labor like this all day and night. He told me I could do it, that I had already done it, and that I needed to not say that anymore if I didn't actually want to be taken in, because they would have to take me to the hospital if I was truly asking to. (It's that whole "consent" thing... such a pain, right?)

4:30 PM

My birth photographer, Monet, arrived soon after. I was half-aware at this point, mentally. I should have known how far into labor I was by this lack of clarity, but, well, I was too far gone for that.  I saw her and thought "hello," but couldn't say it, so I put my head down on my bed and had more contractions instead. (Sorry, Monet!)

Time and labor moved on. I cried a couple of times. I snapped at my husband to STOP TOUCHING ME (once that I recall). I noted all the changes in my body- I had been spotting, I began to lose my mucus plug, my legs felt truly unhinged from my hip sockets, I was shakier and more nauseous... But I tried to not project how close I was to the end. I didn't want to be wrong. 

I had gone from breathing through my contractions to humming through them, to moaning through them, to roaring through them- and then one came that stood out to me. It was so deep and so intense that I was completely silent through it. I knew it was significant but I was too far away to recognize why. It passed, and I rested for what seemed like a long time. Then another one. So intense, so long. I wondered if I was in transition and then pushed that thought away. 

I had the thought to labor over the toilet (and pee, because I need to pee what seems like hundreds of times in labor- is that only me?). Sitting brought on an intense contraction and I yelled for my husband to help me. I wanted to hang my arms around his neck- as I had done in my labor before. The contraction passed and I felt the baby move very slowly but very deliberately. I knew he was moving down (and I know now that he was rotating anterior, although I hadn't known that at the time). 

My eyes were closed and my mind was in my womb with him.  
Yes, baby, I said to him, yes, go down. Right there. 

I envisioned him moving his head into the birth canal and heading downwards as I felt his body moving in me. 
And suddenly, POP. 
My water burst, he rushed downwards, and my body surged into an intense contraction. 

Duke yelled that my water had broken. The midwives came running up the stairs. Everyone was scrambling, moving, getting the room ready. Apparently I wasn't the only one who was a bit caught off guard.

This is it, I thought, here he comes. 

There's this adrenaline rush that comes at the end, when you know it's time. Fear, excitement, and energy all pulsing through what just moments before had been a drained and depleted body. Suddenly that tiredness lifts, and a new wave of motivation sets in.

The next contraction was equally as intense and I felt my breath puttering as he was barreling down. Those silent contractions were now replaced with guttural roars. 

"It gets a little more intense once your water breaks, remember?" Jen reminded me. "Try to have a couple contractions on the toilet to help him come down." 

"I need to get up!" I said,  "I need to move! I don't want to have him here!"'

Jen assured me that I wouldn't, and we would move to the bed before he came. 

Suddenly I had a moment of panic. 
Is he not coming? I can't do this! I'm not ready! It's harder but he's not coming! 

But the next contraction and involuntary push told me that he was coming NOW, and I stood up and said I needed to get to the bed.

 I couldn't stand up straight or walk properly, so my husband and Jen helped me waddle over to the side of my bed. I knelt down like I had been doing the rest of labor.

 5:35 PM

I had been preparing for this moment since my last birth- I wanted to breathe him out, not push. I was so calculated and alert in these moments. I let my body push the baby through the contractions, then relaxed into it. I rested, waiting for the next surge. 

And then it came, and my body decided to take the reigns. The fetal ejection reflex (which I previously didn't know existed) took over, and in one very quick moment, I had birthed that baby - head then body- completely. 

He was down below me, between my legs, where my midwife caught him. I heard him cry a gurgly little cry, which put my mind at ease, and put my head down on the bed for a second to process and breathe. 

It's over, I thought. It was a relief.

Then I looked down to see my very pink little baby wrapped snugly in a brown towel. 

"What time is it?" I asked. 

"5:35, exactly." 

I was helped onto the bed, and my sweet little Asher was placed belly-to-belly on me. I delivered my placenta soon after, and I was able to bring him closer to latch and nurse.

And thus ended my third home birth. Asher was 7 lbs 10 oz and about 20 inches long. He scored 10/10 on his Apgar and was content and alert within minutes of birth. He has continued to be much like this, even as I write this two weeks after his birth. He is a very content little human, who enjoys sleeping, nursing, and cuddling.

The birth story ends here for me. I've had to separate the two- birth and postpartum. Birth was as planned. It was hard, it was intense, but it was good. 

Postpartum begins another story completely- one that didnt go as planned, and that I've been working through processing as the weeks have passed and the fog has lifted. But that story hasn't been written yet, so I will save it for another day. 

All photos by Monet Nicole Birthing Stories

5 Ways To Survive The End Of Pregnancy (Without Losing Your Mind)

My babies cook for a really long time. Baby #1 came at 40w 1d. Baby #2 came at 42w 0d. Baby #3 is now approaching 41 weeks and I'm writing this from my bed as my mom watches my older kids for the millionth time this week. 

I'm coming to terms with this ten-month-pregnancy thing, the third time around. I can tell you that I certainly had not come to terms with it last time, when I went 14 days past my due date. I really don't know how many meltdowns my poor husband had to listen to that included the phrase, "I will NEVER have this baby!!" 

So, I'm past my due date again. And while I can't say I'm exactly jumping for joy to still be waiting, I can say that I've learned a few things. Finally. 

So if you're pregnant for the first time, or if you had your last baby early, or if you're almost due, or (bless your heart) post-due date already, here's some tips on how to not lose your mind while you wait for Baby to show up. 

1. Do not count down the days. 

Unless you actually have a deadline (i.e. medically necessary scheduled induction), think of your due date as a "due period." Healthy babies can and do come naturally anywhere from 37-42 weeks. (Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, when allowed to happen!) Your due date is an estimate, not a scheduled arrival time. Save yourself the agony and do not- I repeat- DO NOT do the countdown thing. Because if you hit that due date, or whatever benchmark you thought baby would come by, the next however-many-days until baby actually comes will be the longest of your life. That's a promise. 

2. Remember that late pregnancy is virtually indistinguishable from early labor. 

My midwife will often respond to me telling her my symptoms with a, "great! So either late pregnancy or early labor." 

And the reason why? The two are practically indistinguishable for a decent amount of time. 

Back cramps? Could be a sign of impending labor. Or you could be really feeling the strain of that big baby in there. 

Losing your mucus plug? Could be labor coming! Or it could take another 2 weeks to lose the rest of it. Or it could regenerate. Yes, they do that. 

Elevated blood pressure? Could be a sign that labor is around the corner. Or not. 

And that brings me to my next point...

3. Notice but don't infer. 

It's important to pay attention to what your body is doing, but the part that makes you crazy is assuming what it means. So try to think of it like an exercise in observation.

"I'm cramping a lot today."

"I have lower back pain."

"I have a burst of energy right now." 

"My appetite has increased." 

Period. No more inferences needed. No, "I'm cramping so I WONDER IF TODAY IS THE DAY!" 

No. Shut that down, if you want to keep your sanity. 

4. Do what makes you happy, not what will induce labor. 

If you enjoy bouncing on an exercise ball 24/7, eating spicy foods, going on extra-long walks, or any of the other "sure fire" ways to get that baby moving, by all means, have at it! But if it's making you miserable, don't. From experience, those things only work if baby is actually ready to come anyway. Focus on doing things that make you happy instead- take a nice bath with essential oils. Eat some chocolate. Think of ways to increase your oxytocin...which, by the way, is really helpful in getting baby to start coming. (But forget I said that.)

5. Make other plans. 

Do not count on baby coming every day. In fact, find fun things to plan as if the baby won't come. All plans should be flexible, obviously, as the baby could show up at any point! But putting your life on hold and thinking every day will be "the day" is an excellent way to make yourself miserable. So put into motion little benchmarks of "if-baby-hasn't-come-yet" plans for the weeks following your due date, and if baby doesn't come, go do them!

And most importantly... remember that the baby will come eventually. Whether on his own, or with a little help, baby will make an appearance. So when you think you'll be pregnant forever, just repeat it to yourself: "this is temporary!" 

Anticipation and Grieving

There's something sobering and sweet about the last days before another baby comes. 

It's equal parts anticipation and grieving; waiting eagerly for this child to make an entrance into the world, and watching the child in front of you, knowing change is imminent. Knowing it will never be "just us" anymore. Knowing that, although a new and wonderful chapter is about to unfold, this familiar chapter will be closed for good. It's bittersweet. 

I will never forget the last morning we had together- just me and my oldest- nursing in bed in the morning light, as I felt myself slipping into labor. She was so small. She was a baby- my only baby. 

And the next morning when she awoke and waddled her way into our room, we greeted her with a fresh, red-cheeked little sister. I swear, that night, she must have grown two years-worth. No longer did she seem so small and helpless, as she laid sweetly beside this tiny newborn stranger. No, she was big now. Only eighteen months old, but so big.

How was it possible that, only 24 hours before, she had only been a baby, and here she was, a toddler, so grown and smart and capable? 

But it was then, as I held my "big" and "little," that the words of every mother before me finally rang true. It was then that I felt my heart swell bigger, making room for another to fill. It was then that I was finally able to laugh with relief at my previous anxiety that I could never, ever love another child the way I loved my first. That somehow my love would be split. That there couldn't possibly be enough of me to give to another.

Yes, my oldest was no longer a baby. She was older, she was bigger; she was a toddler. But to me, she was still my baby. 

And today, almost two years later, as we approach the last days of the chapter of two, and prepare to flip the page and begin the chapter of three, I still see my baby when she looks at me. She can put a 12 piece puzzle together by herself, and create a house out of stacked-up books, and make herself a sandwich, and tell me a made-up story, and wash her own hands. But when I look into her face, I still see that same 18 month old baby that I nursed that late summer morning. The one who called me "mama" and wore diapers and had a chubby little protruding belly. I think I'll always see her in there, even if just in glimpses. 

So I blink back some tears from time to time, as I watch my "big" and "little," knowing that in the coming days, a new "little" will be shifting the framework of our family. Knowing that these beautiful babies of mine will so soon be my "bigs." That they will look so tall as they tower over the next newborn stranger who will come to live with us. That they will seem so old as they teach him all the things they know. 

But, more than everything else, that at the end of the day, when those big kids snuggle up with me, wet-haired from bathtime and dressed in footie pajamas, milk in sweet little hands, I'm going to see the eyes of the same newborn babies I saw so many years ago, as they laid on my chest for the very first times. 

"As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." 

To My Toddlers: Lessons I'm Learning As Your Mama

My dear toddlers,
Motherhood has been a journey for me. I am not the same woman I was four years ago, before I held my own baby in my arms. I anticipate that I will not be the same four years from now. I hope that I am not!
The older you get, the more I change.  But lately, I have been going through a "growth spurt," so to speak. And I've been keeping notes of all the things you've been helping me learn.

1. ALLOWING FOR ANGER

I've had to do some rewiring, and I'm sure you've noticed- it hasn't been easy for me. Anger is scary to me. It's easy for me to believe that if no one is angry, then everyone is safe. And you know what? That isn't true. 

I don't want you to get here someday, as an adult, and be afraid of anger- afraid of others' anger, or afraid of your own. It's not wrong to feel angry. And more than that, it's not wrong to express it, either. 

I don't want you to have the notion that I am afraid of your anger. That I am ashamed of it. That my love is conditional and will be withdrawn if and when you express it. 

No, I want you to know that I'm not phased by your big, out-of-control emotions. I want you to know that I can handle it. I can take it. 

You are the child; I am the adult. I am big enough to hear your anger. Dish it out- I'm going to be your anchor while your emotions are rocking and swaying out of your control. I'm going to be your safe place where you can learn to help yourself through your anger, not to hide it away for my sake. So go for it- scream, yell, tell me what you think. Show me what you've got. I'll be here.

(read more about dealing with anger here)

2. MASTERING THE UNRUFFLED ATTITUDE

Sometimes, I forget. I forget that you're a toddler, and you're on a wild roller coaster of emotions and development that you don't know how to control. And sometimes I forget that I am not a toddler, and that I can step off that wild ride. 

How freeing it is when I release myself from the notion that I must be upset if you are. How freeing that is for you to know that you are not responsible for my emotional stability. 

And let's be honest... sometimes, you really throw me some curveballs. Sometimes I really did not see that meltdown coming, and the last thing I want to do is stay calm. What I really want to do is throw myself on the floor and cry with you. 

But a funny thing happens when I choose to be "unruffled." Not only do you start to cope, but so do I. 

So I begin to say things like, "yes, I hear how upset you are! You really wanted a banana [for the fourth time today]. I'm not going to give you another one."

And you cry, because you are certain that I am being wholly unfair and the misery overwhelms you. 

And I say, "you REALLY wanted that banana. Yes, I hear you. You feel so disappointed to hear me say that. I wish I we could eat bananas all day long too!" 

And what happens for me, in that moment, is that, in giving you ownership of those big emotions, I remain calm. I am able to let you be unreasonable and loud and explosive, and I don't have to join you there. 

I can step off that roller coaster, be your safe place, and give myself a safe place as well.

(read more about being unruffled here)

3. LETTING THE UPSET HAPPEN

This one is hard for me. I don't like to see you cry; really, I don't. My mama heart wants to keep you happy at all costs. Instead of dealing with your upsets with an unruffled attitude, I would very much like to just keep you happy and avoid the situation altogether. 

But like a lot of things I want, I know it's not the best, both for you and for me. And so, instead of trying to walk on eggshells to avoid conflict with you, I'm learning to respect your right to be upset with me. I'm learning to set the limits that need to be set, and, rather than try to convince you to be happy, to embrace your emotions.
I nod, I listen, I hear you out. I let you cry. I argue with the voice in my head that does these things with the intention to stop you from being upset. I hear myself say, "it's not working!!" and I know that I've started to try and "fix" you again. It's my job to set the limits, and it's your right to experience emotions about that. Sometimes those emotions don't make a lot of sense to me. Truly. But they are not mine; they are yours. And you have every right to express them.

(read more about setting limits and allowing emotions here)

4. REJECTING THE ILLUSION OF CONTROL

I'm going to say something that you've already discovered. 

I don't control you. 

(I know. Big news!)

But we adults need that reminder from time to time. And you're quite good at offering those reminders, thankfully, so I get lots of practice!

I can't make you think my way. I can't make you like the things I like, or want the things I want. I can't make you feel sorry. I can't make you stop feeling sad. I can't make you eat, or sleep, or speak. I can't make you stop speaking, either. 

We've had this discussion a lot lately (looking at you, my darling three year old): "I make my choices and you make your choices." You've taken it as a mantra. You said it to me, the other day, after I insisted that you take a nap, because you were clearly so in need of one. You did me a favor and tried it out, and I appreciate that. You threw me a bone. But at some point, you resorted to opening your shades instead and playing quietly in your room. And you were gracious in reminding me how this works, when I asked later if you had decided not to sleep. 

"I choose my own choices, Mama, and you choose your own choices." 

And you know, that sort of sentence scares adults. Because it's scary to say, "you're right," and not try to threaten or intimidate or force you to submit to my will. It's scary to hand over that sense of control. But the truth is that you have always had that control anyway. The concept of "handing it over" is an illusion, because that never belonged to me anyway. 

So I will continue to control what is mine. I will control our environment to keep you safe. I will control my words. I will control my temper. I will control my own body, and use it to set appropriate limits when you can not control yours. But the rest of it is, as you know, yours. And I wouldn't want it to be any other way. 

5. "MODELING GRACIOUSNESS"

If I want you to be kind, I must be kind to you and to others. If I want you to be thankful, I must express my thankfulness to you and to others in front of you. If I want you to honor others' boundaries, I must honor  yours. If I want you to eat healthy food, I must model eating healthy food. If I want you to make a habit of cleaning, I must set an example by cleaning. If I want to be treated with respect, I must treat you with respect as well.

It seems so simple, but it's so ingrained that we must "make" you learn these lessons. That it's necessary that we coerce, bribe, or even threaten these lessons into your head. But I have seen it firsthand- you learn by seeing. You say what I say. Sometimes that makes me proud, like when you say, "Thank you for making this food for me, Mama! I really love you!" 

And sometimes that makes me rethink how I've been speaking to you. Like when you say, "you have to say you're sorry to me!!", and I remember how unpleasant it feels to have an apology demanded of you, rather than for it to be given out of sincerity. 

I want to be a good example for you. And this is making me not just a better mama to you, but making me a better person, too.

(read more about modeling graciousness here)

6. REFRAMING THE CONCEPT OF "SHARING"

It's funny- I think toddlers have a more realistic concept of ownership, sometimes, than adults. Somewhere along the line, we decided that adults may have belongings, that we may set boundaries with our things, but that children may not. They must share!
Somehow, it's become commonplace to expect that a child must be willing to let other children play with his or her belongings, whether out of the goodwill of their heart or out of fear of punishment.

Well, Dear, I'll tell you what. I don't share my personal things very often, and I wouldn't like it very much if I was told that I had no choice in the matter.

It took a little reframing for me to come to understand why the concept of forced sharing just doesn't work. That it isn't respectful or helpful, and even more so, that it isn't necessary. 

And you know, now, when I watch you share, it makes me happy. Not because you are obedient, or because you have learned to conform to societal norms- but because I know you are sharing because you want to. You're handing your sister your own special blanket out of the sweetness of your heart. You're offering to give your friend your toy because you want to make her happy. 

And nothing makes me happier than watching this budding empathy and generosity grow in you. 

(read more about forced sharing here)

7. IDENTIFYING REQUESTS FOR CONNECTION

It's hard being a parent. Sometimes, even with all the best intentions in the world, we miss things. We need help remembering how to understand you- how to translate your actions and words into what they really mean. 

Like when you say, "why is this a house?" 

And I try to answer that question, and you respond with, "are you my mom?"

And I say yes. And you say, "why are you my mom?" 

And I start saying things like, "because...you're my kid..." 

Or when you ask me to put on your shoes, and you've been able to put on your own shoes for quite some time now. But you insist that you CAN NOT do it without my help. And I want to say, "BUT YOU DID IT AN HOUR AGO." 

It's times like those that I really need help translating. You're not asking me a bunch of questions because you really want answers. You're not asking me to help you do things you already know how to do because you're trying to be difficult. You're asking me for connection. You're saying, "hey, Mom- I need you right now. Do you see me?" 

And the answer is "yes." It's always "yes."

But sometimes I just need help remembering.

(read more on connection in this post)

8. EMBRACING INDEPENDENT PLAY

You probably haven't noticed much change in this area, because I started doing it, really, from the beginning of our parenting journey. I didn't often shake toys in front of your face, or try to convince you to play any certain way. Often times, when it was just me and you (my sweet oldest), we would just lay on the ground together in silence, staring at each other. 

Not much has changed. We arrive at the park, and I sit on the bench, and off you go to do your own individual activities. Sometimes I check in to make sure you're safe, but mostly I watch. It works wonderfully for us all.

What has changed has been my release of guilt over this. I used to feel bad that I wasn't stimulating you enough, or that I wasn't a "fun" parent. I wondered if you wouldn't learn as much, because I wasn't constantly entertaining you and teaching you new things. 

But I don't feel guilty about that anymore. Because not only have I read and learned more about the benefits of child-directed play, but I've seen the results. I've seen you grow into wonderfully independent, curious, intelligent and confident children who don't need an adult to entertain them. Guilt be gone; boring parent I shall remain!

(read more about independent play here and here)

9. OWNING MY OWN BAGGAGE

I'll say it again: I am the adult, you are the child. You are not responsible for me. You are not responsible for keeping me calm, making me happy, appeasing my frustrations, or feeding my ego. If you do not do what I ask, and I get overwhelmed and frustrated, that is my baggage. If you do not make me look good in public, and I get embarrassed, that is my baggage. If you do not want to give me a kiss before bed, and I feel rejected, that is my baggage. 

You are responsible for you, and I am responsible for me. Remind me of this, will you? I know you will, because you very much like reminding me of things. 

10. REWIRING TO RESPOND VS REACT

I really don't need to tell you this, but sometimes I really have a hard time responding the right way. You know, like the other day when you would not put your pants on, and I had repeated myself 40 times, and I was sick and in pain and couldn't just do it myself? And you started crying and, instead of being an adult about it, I walked to my room and slammed the door?  Yeah. Like that. 

Sometimes I react. Okay, often times I react. I don't think. My lizard brain takes over and I turn into a toddler myself. And it makes things better for us 0% of the time. 

But I'm in a process, my little ones, of learning to respond, not react. To give myself a moment before making a decision, instead of letting my emotions run me (and you) over. And when that doesn't happen, and I find myself in an emotionally reactive place, you can bet I hate it. 

But I know that each time I do choose to respond- each time I take a breath, respond gently, and keep calm- I know that I am setting a new pattern for myself. And even though it's hard now, someday it won't always be so hard. That these new patterns I am setting now will someday set a stronger pathway. That it will one day become as second nature. It's okay that it's not second nature now- I keep practicing anyway. 

11. LEADING WITH CONFIDENCE

When I act confident, you follow. When I question myself (am I saying the right thing? Did I say it the right way? Is this even the right decision?!), you know. And I know you know, because I watch as my insecurity transfers to you. I watch as you try to gauge if we are okay. "Can you handle this, mom? If you can't handle it, how can I?" 

And, you know, a lot of times, I'm faking it. I'm pretending that I know what I'm doing, and I really don't have a clue. It happens. 

But the more I do it, the more I feel it. And the more it works, the more I actually DO feel confident. 

12. "DROPPING THE ROPE"

One of the things toddlerhood has really been teaching me is how to step out of power struggles. It's a fine line- how do I stand my ground but not go back and forth with you?

So this has been my new lesson, as I navigate these years where you often very much disagree with me...

 "A power struggle is when emotion is inserted into a limit being firmly held. A limit is a fact. It has no emotion. A power struggle is like tug of war. It can't be a struggle without two people pulling. Drop the rope." (Robin Einzig, Visible Child)

And this is hard.

It means taking a lot of deep breaths. It means imagining a shield around myself, setting an emotional boundary line between what is mine and what is yours. It means not engaging in that argument. It means acknowledging your upset, and moving on with our afternoon. 

It's hard, but you give me lots of practice.

Lots and lots of practice.

(read about "dropping the rope" in this post) 

13. REFRAMING POSSESSIVENESS

When you say, "that's mine," we adults hear, "I own that." It's one of those lost-in-translation things again. But I'm learning to hear what you mean. And what you mean is, "I like that/I want that/I need that right now." Toddler possessiveness is not rational, it's emotional. It's not, as Janet Lansbury says in her podcast (linked below), "my mom bought this at the store for me." It's "I want to play with that and I don't want you to take it." 

So I've been working on my response, when you say that it's yours. I've been working on not trying to rationalize you out of it with a "that belongs to all of us" kind of response. I've been working on empathizing. "I hear you really don't want her to have that right now. You'd like to use it." 

I've been working on letting the upset party (there usually seems to be at least one) be upset, even when it doesn't make sense. And what happens, I've seen, is that you are upset, and then you are heard, and then it passes. It always passes.

(listen to a podcast about possessiveness here)

14. REJECTING PERFECTION

Oh, how I would love to be the perfect mother. I would love to be endlessly patient and perfectly kind. Mary Poppins in the flesh, if you will. 

But (as you know), I am very, very human. And sometimes I really mess up. And as much as it kills me (and as bad as I am about beating myself over it), I'm trying to remember this: There will be slip ups, bad days, big mistakes. The importance isn't in never messing up, but in mending the damage in the aftermath.

So I apologize. And we reconnect. And I tell you that moms mess up sometimes, and I ask you to forgive me.

And sometimes, like the other day, after a big blow up in which I really lose my cool and demand you stop crying (THIS INSTANT OR WE ARE GOING HOME), you look at me and say, "Mama, I don't like it when you tell me to stop crying. That just makes me want to cry more! I don't like to be treated that way. I want to be treated kinder." And I swallow my parent-pride that says that kids shouldn't get to say that kind of thing, and I say, "you're right. That's so understandable. What do you wish I would have said instead?"

And you say, "I wish you would say, 'it's okay to cry.'"

And it's in those moments of reconnection that I remember that the cleanup after the spill can be just as impactful and precious to our relationship. That lessons can be learned (for both of us) out of imperfection, too.
Damage will be done in every relationship, not just ours. So I want to show you how to repair the damage. I want to show you not just how to love others, but how to love yourself, too.

Thank you, my little teachers, for pushing me, testing me, and making me a better mama every day.