They see me rolling

Thomas rolled over on my birthday. Three times, from tummy to back. I think it was my birthday present from him. He is my favorite new toy. ❤️

Here's Thomas!

Thomas was born on August 25, the grand finale to a miserable pregnancy that I hated from the start. Though I loved the baby, my mind and body just couldn't stand being pregnant.

The puking was erratic. The SPD began breaking my pelvis at week 16. That lead to back, hip and leg pain and made any kind of exercise impossible. I became allergic to strange things, like pizza. By 30 weeks I began to fantasize about having an emergency C-section. A week or so later I was diagnosed with polyhydramnios - too much amniotic fluid. This enabled me to freak out about all the additional ways I might lose my baby. Could the placenta detach? Could he get strangled by his cord? Could he JUST DIE???! I panicked. Polyhydramnios made my tummy huge and so cumbersome. Rolling over was a joke. Picking up dropped items was for fools. Once it hit the floor, it stayed there until Steve came.

I spent my third trimester sitting on the loveseat. I. Just. Couldn't.

My midwife told me to prepare myself to go overdue - can you BELIEVE her?? - but there was no way I could do that. I tried not to slay her with my eyes. I was certain he'd be out by August 15 and that I'd be able to watch the Rio Olympics while in labor. What a fantastic distraction!

Pretty much on cue, I had bloody show on Saturday, August 13. See? I was right. I told my mom, and she debated beginning her 14-hour drive. She stayed home that night. The next morning I had larger clots, cramping and back pain. Mom hit the road.

By that evening, everything had stopped.

My midwife, Lindsey, was off Monday, buy she asked me to go in to the office that morning. The midwife on duty said I hadn't dilated more and, even worse, that my baby was sideways! What! She immediately scheduled me for an ECV - external cephalic version - to put the baby in head down position. That was supposed to happen three days. Since an ECV can be painful, the plan was to give me an epidural first. After I recovered, they'd send me home to await a spontaneous labor.

Now, I'm not dumb. Of there's an epidural, there needs to be a baby. Ain't no pregnant Carol going to the hospital and getting an epidural without getting a baby. No. They'd have to make it happen. Besides, with all that water, there wasn't any guarantee that my baby wouldn't just revert back to laying sideways.

I was torn - secretly relieved that my wait was over but sad to lose any control over my labor. Plus, my least favorite midwife was going to be the one to deliver my baby that day. Ehhh.

Mom was downright mad. She hated all the interventions and the sudden change in plans. Still on the road, she insisted I call my (fantastic) chiropractor. As soon as Mom pulled in the drive, she and I went to the chiro. Dr. Jessica used the Webster technique to inspire the baby to move. It was painless. I felt the baby move into the head down position as I climbed back into my van to go home.

On Wednesday, an ultrasound confirmed what I'd felt - he was head down! But he was also 10.5 pounds, the technician said.

But where was the labor? I went back to the chiropractor to have her push all the pressure points that can provoke labor. I had hours of contractions that night, but they stopped. Two days later, I went again to my chiropractor with the same demand. I had false labor again that night. And another night. I walked with Mom in the mornings. I'd hear her take phone calls in her room from coworkers. "No baby yet," she'd say, and I'd cringe. How could this be happening? It was a unique anguish - to have had enough signs of labor to get my mother to leave her home and her job but then... Nothing. No baby yet. I felt I'd made a big mistake.

Finally, I woke in the night to potty at 2 a.m. on August 24. I was leaking fluid. It was unmistakably amniotic fluid. I was ecstatic. Contractions came. I sat on the birthing ball. At 4 a.m. I woke my mother. At 5 a.m. I called my midwife. At 7 a.m. everything stopped. I went back to bed.

I went to my regularly scheduled doctor appointment at 11 a.m., having erratic but frequent contractions. My midwife said I was dilated to a 3 and 80℅ effaced. Yay! An ultrasound revealed that the baby was head down. Yay! A bulging sac of water was under his head, getting squeezed with each contraction. Because of the polyhydramnios and the risk that the baby could trap the cord under his head, they wanted my water to break in the hospital. That way they could monitor his heart rate and avert disaster if it came. Lindsey declared me in labor and sent me to the hospital. My contractions became much more painful.

Throughout my pregnancy, Lindsey promised third babies come quickly and this would be a speedy labor. I fully believed her. Why not?

After three hours of laboring in the hospital, in and out of the tub, I let the attending midwife, Jamie, break my water. My labor intensified again and moved into my back. That was excruciating. Three hours later, midwife-in-training Marie checked me and said...

"She's a 3, and 80% effaced."

Nothing could have been more discouraging. All those hours of labor?! WITH NO CHANGE???!

I gave in. I demanded an epidural, and fast. I got one, and the pain left. My body shook on and off for hours. I had to receive fluids to keep my blood pressure up. Eventually I was a 4, then a 6, then I hung around at 8 for a while. It was dark outside. Nurses changed shifts. I ate Tums like crazy and sipped water. So thirsty!

At 11 p.m. my body was finally ready to push the baby out. Of course, another laboring mom was already pushing at that time, so the midwives were not available. I waited thirty minutes.

When my turn came, I pushed with all my might and felt no change at all. Again and again... Nothing. And again. Suddenly I stopped mid-push because it felt like there was air in my tummy. I thought I might burp? Within minutes I was puking, rejecting all my Tums and precious sips of water.

"Don't worry," my midwife said. "That's very effective pushing."

Finally the baby was crowning. FINALLY!!! Jamie said he had red hair. Not possible! I was sure she was wrong. We worked carefully then to push out his head without causing any tearing. When his head came out I was watching in the mirror. It. Was. Huge.

Thomas was born at 12:30 in the morning. I cried and rejoiced. During my miserable pregnancy, I'd decided that the first hour after he was born would belong solely to me. I didn't want him washed or weighed or wrapped. I just wanted him. They allowed me to hold him for 2.5 hours while my epidural wore off. Even Steve didn't ask for a turn. When I offered to share the baby, he said no - I should keep holding him.

It was heaven.

When I let them take him, he weighed in at 9 pounds, 9.9 ounces. He was 20 1/2 inches long. And yes, his hair was red.

And that's the story of how nine terrible months ended with 22 hours of labor and gave me the cutest, happiest red-headed baby the world could imagine. I LOVE him.

The very little girl

At one of Natalie's last doctor appointments, she was measured.

"She's very little," said the doctor. "She's in the 93rd percentile. That means if you put her in a row of 100 kids born on her birthday, 93 of them would be bigger than her."

Of course I knew what that meant. I didn't know she was quite that little, especially since she has such a big personality and she's so physical with her big brother.

She beats him up. Kind of - we don't allow the kids to hurt each other, but we do allow wrestling. Natalie wins. She will stand behind him on the bed and tackle him, driving his face down into the covers. He laughs and sits back up. She repositions and piles him back into the bed. On repeat.

One time I was in the bathroom next to my bedroom when they started to wrestle on my bed.

"Be careful," I said. "No kids getting hurt."

"Okayy," they said in unison. Then I heard a giggle out of Natalie.

"Yeah, you gettin' hurt!" she said, and tackled Sam again.

I just don't like it when it's someone else's birthday

Yesterday our little Natalie turned two. It was a big deal - to everyone except her. Adorably innocent, she didn't know what a birthday was and had no idea how old she was (though that part might run in the family). She waited patiently to open her presents. She was thrilled with her alphabet outfit from Grandma Tractor and gasped when she saw her new Cabbage Patch Kid. She's precious and very funny and we all had a sweet day.

Except for big brother, who couldn't appreciate what we were appreciating. None of the gifts were for him? It wasn't his birthday? Can't he just have a balloon? Or a new toy? Why is it not his birthday? What am I getting him for his birthday? Such moanings were ringing in my ears all day. I'm sure it's hard to be 4 and to know what birthdays are and to see a big stack of presents that are ALL for someone else. (Though he later learned there was one hidden up there for him, it did little to satisfy his inner turmoil.) But his persistence was exhausting.

Natalie has turned into one of the most charming little things I've ever seen. She's strong, sweet, funny, loving and provokes her brother all day. She'll spend 30 minutes playing in running water at the kitchen sink - "Need wash my hands," she'll say. "Need soap, Mom. My hand, right here." She prefers to wear a shiny blue cape and run around as "SuperNat". She likes to color, breaking at least one crayon each time. And she loves food. Candy in particular. We have a vintage cloth book called something like My Pocket Book with a variety of real pockets sewn into each page. I showed her how to use the book by putting buttons, candy and tiny things in the pockets. She never forgot about the candy. Now she brings me that book almost every day. "Need candy, Mom." What's a mom to do? I give her candy. Annie's organic fruit gummies. It's still a dose of diabetes, but it's ORGANIC diabetes.

In other news, we are getting ready to welcome a third tiny person to our family in August. I'm delightfully nauseated as I write this, eating a KIND bar at 12:30 a.m. to stave off the pukes. Pregnancy is pretty awful. Though, since this is likely my last pregnancy, I made the decision today to try to enjoy it. That should be easier next trimester. I still get random flashes of jealousy when I see men engaged in their daily doings. Men, who can never get pregnant. Men, who can never fathom the long-term disability of pregnancy. Men, who don't understand why when their pregnant wife asks them to buy PHILADELPHIA CREAM CHEESE AND ONLY PHILADELPHIA CREAM CHEESE they must not bat an eye at the price or notice the off-brand offerings. We are not eating that. Forget about it.

Sam knows about the new baby and is anxiously awaiting his/her arrival. Today he made the baby a large collection of tiny pink balls of Play Doh. He considered it his work and took it seriously. He thinks they will really please the baby. He was not impressed when I stuck some of them on the frame of my glasses.

This is life and we are living it. Rather nauseously, and often at decibels believed to be humanly impossible. Please come over.