Totally Tracky ... and Troops: April 2010

I am warning you up front. This is the story of Samuel's birth. If you are uncomfortable with that, feel free to dispense with reading this post. But I don't mind putting it up for my friends who are far away and want to know the story, and I want to record it as the miracle that it was. However, since I'm recording for my own family history purposes, it's long and detailed, because that's my favorite way of writing. Like I said, you've been warned.

I'm going to tell you from the get-go that despite the number of children I've actually given birth to, the whole birth thing is really terrifying for me. I don't cope well with pain, and I have a tendency to get really anxious, panicky even (Bob's translation here would be something akin to "She goes totally nuts!"). We've decided that had I lived in any other era of medicine, or even in some of the poorer regions of the world, I would have died in childbirth. My anxiety makes me really tense and draws the whole process out. That means that with my oldest I labored for 12 hours, with my 2nd for 24 hours, and with my 3rd for 36 hours. Remember that the 4th is adopted--best birth for me ever! My 5th was an induction and it was ... extremely hard--let's just say that I labored for 9 hours--the first 7 hours NOTHING happened, and then it ALL happened way too fast in the last 2 hours. And did I mention that the only child who came before her due date was Sariah, and that's because she was induced?

The point of all of this is to tell you that I spent this pregnancy with our 6th child trying to figure out how to make things easier, and trying to mentally prepare myself for whatever might come. I read a bunch of books by midwives and a bunch of books about natural birth and a bunch of books about coping with labor. The conclusions I came to are that 1) pain medicines are evil, and 2) you have to "ride the waves" of labor (whatever the freak that means), and 3) you have to stay calm. Here's where I start laughing hysterically. Okay, in reality, I came away from all that reading with a lot to think about. I had no idea how to stay calm, but I knew I needed to.

That's when I started praying. With past births, I've prayed a lot before, but usually about things that were just outside my influence, like which doctor was on call (it's always worked out to my satisfaction; if you know my doctor's practice, you know what this means), whether I had a c-section or not (I've never had to have one), whether I could make it without an epidural (whatever). Nothing wrong with praying about those things, I'd wager. This time around, I knew what I wanted, and I asked Heavenly Father to help me figure out how to get that, always with the condition that we went with His will. I didn't really want to add that condition, but I did it anyway. ;)

So here's what I wanted: a birth that I could remember. This because my last 3 epidurals were a little overdone. They had to wake me up to push with Lizziy. Or with Caleb, the details are a little fuzzy since I had just come down with a full-blown sinus infection and thought I was going to die before the contractions started coming. I didn't want that to happen this time. So, in my mind, this time around, that meant no epidural (ha!), and no freak allergy-related illnesses at the last minute. I wanted to be able to stay calm, like all the books said, so that I wouldn't top all the other labors with like a 48-hour labor or something equally dreadful. I wanted it to be a truly beautiful and spiritual experience. The books talk about that, right? Oh yeah, and though I didn't mention this in my prayers because I absolutely knew better, a super-short labor, a less-than-gargantuan newborn, and a timely arrival (i.e. not 2 weeks late) did cross my mind.

I did not stay calm, but it was a memorable (and short) birth, and it really was beautiful and spiritual.

I had been feeling very discouraged, because I'd been to the doctor on Thursday, and nothing had changed. Still dilated at a 1, and the baby hadn't even inched downwards at all. Dr. P set me up to be induced, I guess because he didn't think the baby would show up any faster than my other babies did either. I was excited about setting the date, even though I wasn't too hip on being induced again, but I was really disappointed that all of my praying and working on relaxing through Braxton Hicks contractions hadn't accomplished a blimmin' thing.

Hindsight being 20/20, on Saturday, I should have figured out that the baby was coming. I had a backache the entire day, and then I couldn't sleep that night because my belly was so uncomfortable and tense. Silly me! I really have given birth 4 other times, I swear.

I finally went to bed at 3 a.m., but woke up whimpering 45 minutes later with a decent contraction. My labors never start with decent contractions. Bob happened to be awake, and as I was laying there, my eyes popped open, and I jumped out of bed. "Hmm, that's interesting!" and I ran to the bathroom. My water had broken! I hoped. Eight. Days. Before. My. Due. Date. Wow.

Let's just say that I hadn't packed my bag or anything for the baby. We had just set up the crib that day, and I'd finally washed his coming-home outfit. In fact, I kept telling Bob we had plenty of time; last time my water broke, I still had to have help getting that baby here. And besides, what if I'd finally just peed my pants; I was 9 months pregnant after all. Blah, blah, blah. He completely ignored me. How did he know?! He got in the shower, and told me to pack my bag.

He was smart. I was having contractions every 5 minutes, and I was beginning to have an inkling that this baby was showing up faster than the others. We called beautiful Lorna at 4:freakin':30 in the morning, and got her all set up to do Easter with the kiddos. (I'm still sad that I missed that; Sariah's at just the right age for hunting Easter eggs!)

We're at the hospital by 5, praying that they will keep me. They check me, and I'm dilated to a 3 and 70% effaced, but the nurse warns me to wait to see if my water is really broken. I'm doing a mental happy dance though, because I've never made it to the hospital at anything but a 1. They were keeping me, even if they didn't think so yet. I had already started asking for my epidural.

I know, I know. I said no epidural. But by then the contractions had jumped from 5 minutes apart to 2 minutes apart (and they were still wondering whether to keep me??), and they were getting more intense. I just knew that I was going to need the epidural. And besides, I'd gotten to a 5 now without one so I was progressing in my pain management efforts, right? I'd never gotten past about a 3 without an epidural, unless you count Sariah's birth, when the epidural didn't actually work.

Getting the epidural was the painful part. It took the poor guy 4 tries, because I was shaking so badly and couldn't stop. He told me to, but I couldn't. The nurse told me later that's because I was in transition and didn't have any control over it. I was lucky to get my epidural at all, she said. But once I got it...yeehaw! It was the best epidural ever. Just right. Worth all the trouble. Took the pain away, but I could still feel my legs, and it didn't make me drowsy. The anesthesiologist said he knows he got it right because I was smiling and laughing. Somebody asked me later if I knew how fast the baby was going to come, would I have gotten the epidural? Heck yeah! I love me my epidurals. But they are a fine art. I'm still blowing kisses to the anesthesiologist today for doing such a good job.

Then, for a brief moment, all the doctors and nurses were gone, and Bob and Hannah and I were alone together in the room. Bob looked at me and freaked out, because where the second before there had been smiling and laughing Tracy, now there was crying Tracy. He must have thought something was wrong, but I had gone all teary-eyed because things were going so well and so differently from all the other times. Without a doubt my prayers were being answered, though what I did to deserve it this time, I don't know. I looked out the window and the sun was up and shining; it reminded me of one of my favorite scriptures: "weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning" (Ps. 30:5). That happened when Hannah was born, too. It felt like we were coming full circle.

And then right before 8, as happens with hospital births, the room filled up with people. Pretty soon, Dr. P shows up, and he looked wiped out tired. He says, "They called me about you at 5:30 this morning, and I rolled over and went back to sleep. I figured I wouldn't see you until at least noon." That's what I thought, too! One and a half contractions, not very many pushes, and a few minutes (oh yeah, and a whole conversation about our children's names, ending with Dr. P's prediction that Rex's nickname with the girls will be Sexy Rexie) later, out came Samuel into the world.

Of course he was beautiful! Just the right color, even if he didn't really want to cry much. Lots of dark hair. At first, he reminded me of Sariah, but then it became Caleb and Hannah. Oh wait! Our kids are cookie cutters. Except for Elisabeth. She broke the mold! Anyhow, Samuel survived the knot in his cord (which Dr. P untied before the student nurse could look at it), and weighed in at 7'3"--my smallest baby by an entire pound, and 2 whole pounds smaller than the last baby. He was tiny! (If your babies were smaller, there is no need to comment--this is the only little baby I get). And he's perfect in every way!!! More pics coming soon. It wasn't exactly the way I planned it, but it was the perfect answer to all our prayers.

P.S. It only took me two weeks to write this. LOL!

I've said this before, but every year about this time, I am completely impressed with our school district's instrumental music program. They put on all-city band and orchestra concerts. They are at the Lloyd Noble Center--you know, where OU plays its games. In the picture above, that's the entire floor of the LNC filled with all of the city's orchestra students, grades 5-12. Not a great picture, but you get the idea.

The cool thing about the concert is you get to see how far your kids have come from the 5th grade. Each grade plays one song apiece, so it doesn't drag on foooooorrrrrever. We paid especial attention to the 5th graders, who actually get to play 3 very short pieces, and the 7th graders. Wow! What a difference 3 years will make in orchestra performance. Am I a bad mom, though, to admit that it was really the 8th graders rendition of the Pink Panther that made my whole evening?

Then, at the end, all of the orchestra students perform a specially arranged piece. This year, it was called Songs of America, and featured and unfurled American flag, complete with a few streamers. It really was pretty awesome.

Meanwhile, one of my daughters was not too pleased to have her picture taken: