Fear, Faith, and Fun

My daughter has a 7th birthday approaching, so we were discussing where she wanted to have a party. Suddenly, she adamantly stated, "Mommy, I want to fly to Peru and tell people there about Jesus for my birthday!"  While Chris and I are admittedly fans of missions, as I drew a sharp breath, I realized my first impulse was fear. My sweet child wanted to sacrifice her party for the sake of evangelism. (And she knew the name of another country, even!) But all I could think about was how in the world we would pay for our family to get to Peru, what terrible hygiene we would encounter, and the chances that harm might befall us.

No worries, though. Chris, aka Mr. Logistics, gave her a very thorough list as to why we can't go on a foreign mission trip to Peru in two weeks. So the eldest piped up, "Hey, my birthday is in November! We can go then!"

Even in the face of my human and well-founded fears, I smiled at the faith of my children. Of course they want to tell others about Jesus. He is the wellspring of our lives and the abundance of our joy. Why wouldn't you want to tell everyone about such a life-changing encounter? Well, just as I was glowing in the spiritual maturity of my kids, the conversation took a realistic turn, with the birthday child acquiescing, "I don't have to tell people about Jesus on my birthday. I just want to ride in an airplane."

My last day

We are upon the last hours of my 32nd year. I noticed more laugh lines today, but I thanked God they were laugh lines and not worry lines. I'm not as strong as I used to be, but I helped Chris heave a desk upstairs today without severing any phalanges or straining any muscles.

I spent the whole afternoon cleaning the girls' room, including pulling pound and pounds of old clothes. I think we could have clothed an entire African orphanage with the clothes I pulled out of the closet today. But I thanked God that He gave us so many clothes. Meanwhile, the girls finished up the rest of the house cleaning! It's an early birthday present! (Now, if I go into the boys' room, I think I'll faint. The girls recently pulled a prank on the boys by moving all their clothes into the bookshelves and all the books into the dressers. It was funny at the time.)

I spent 15 minutes pushing baby J on the swing, relishing her giggles, tickling her toes, drinking in the joy of motherhood.

At this point in my life, I can feel overwhelmed with the mundane, drowning in the tedium of routine, weary with the never-ending to-do list. The Lord brought this verse to me, a birthday reminder: "Come unto me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

So for my birthday, I am going to rest. A real-live, true, for serious rest. Maybe I can talk the girls into giving me a foot-massage, too.

Being the Mommy

Being the mommy means I get to take the baby to the surgery center this morning at 6:30. After setting out our clothes, preparing the paperwork, diaper bag, and car arrangements, I climbed in bed last night at 9:30 and set the alarm for 5 a.m. with a grimace. Our household usually gets moving at about 7, but I was looking forward to the silence of the morning after a solid night's sleep.

Lo and behold, a child walked into my room at 4:30 a.m. Being the mommy also means I get to comfort tummy aches.

I may not ever experience a good night's sleep again, but I wouldn't trade it for motherhood. (Good thing, too, because apparently, even if I plan for a good night's sleep, I can't get one.)

The woman who fears the Lord, her children will rise up and call her blessed. Probably at 4:30 a.m.

What are you?

I woke up this morning with a popular Christian song on my mind. It states, "I am because You are."

As a homemaker and home schooling mother, there are a lot of things I feel like I am NOT. I'm not organized enough, I'm not healthy enough, I'm not patient enough, I'm not thrifty enough, I'm not fun enough.

But because of the transforming power of the Holy Spirit, I am.

I AM beautiful, even without makeup or the latest fashions, or even, sad to say, stylish shoes.
     "Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that fears the LORD, she shall be praised." Proverbs 31:30

I AM peaceful, even when the baby is crying, the boys are fighting, the girls are spilling food coloring everywhere, and the pasta is boiling over.
     "Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful." John 14:27

I AM befriended, even when I feel lonely, when I'm too exhausted to enjoy my husband after bedtime, when I don't get "me-time" all day long, or even when someone unfriends me on Facebook.
     "From now on I call you not servants; for the servant knows not what his lord does: but I have called you friends; for all things that I have heard of my Father I have made known to you." John 15:15

I AM forgiven, even when I feel guilty, when my anger controls me, when my regrets haunt me, when my failures crush me.
     "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." I John 1:9


I AM chosen, regardless of my powers of organization, persuasion, bedtime prowess, mastery of the English language, or any works of righteousness apart from the Holy Spirit.
     "But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for God's own possession, so that you may proclaim the excellencies of Him who has called you out of darkness into His marvelous light." I Peter 2:9
     ^"And so, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience; ¹³bearing with one another, and forgiving each other, whoever has a complaint against anyone; just as the Lord forgave you, so also should you.   ¹⁴And beyond all these things put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity.  ¹⁵And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body; and be thankful. ¹⁶Let the word of Christ richly dwell within you, with all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another with psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with thankfulness in your hearts to God.  ¹⁷And whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through Him to God the Father." Colossians 3:12-17

When your world is swirling in chaos and your duties blind your heart to the whispering of Jesus, remember what you are.

Possessions: Blessing or burden?

This morning, I found deep blue ink lines all over the face of our antique leather-top coffee table. The perpetrator had gouged the leather top with the pen. The perp also admitted to writing on the furniture in spite of the rule against it. I should get that kid an easel!

The defacement highly devalued the set of  four French Provincial furniture that has been in this house as long as I can remember. I caught myself yelling at Tyler out of instant anger, so I took a breath and evaluated my anger.

Why was I angry?
--The damage cannot be repaired, thus permanently devaluing the set.
--The child broke the rule.

We have rules for a reason, usually for protection, respect, or good stewardship. My children do need to learn to obey the rules. But the stuff that I'm trying to protect--is it a blessing or a burden? It requires so much of my attention and energy to protect, polish, and organize. Have I prioritized my possessions over the character development, education, or enjoyment of my children?

So, I've come up with a solution. I'm throwing out all the writing utensils.

Fourth Birth, Twins Delivery, no C-Section

If you tell me you hear voices in your head, I'll call you crazy. But one time in my life, I heard clear direction from the Lord in my head as though someone had spoken out loud. It happened exactly nine months before we had twins.

We had three small children at home, ages 3, 1, and 9 months, when my husband suggested that he'd like a brother for our youngest before he was 2. "Well, I'll get right on that," I sarcastically responded. Finally, I said, "I am not ready for another baby, but I will pray about it." That night, I had not even finished formulating the prayer when I felt very clearly that the Lord wanted us to have another child. Right away. As in, throw away the pills right now.

It was difficult for me to stomach, the thought of a fourth pregnancy in four years, caring for four children under age four while my husband worked two jobs and finished seminary. But I very firmly believed the Lord had planned it for us.

Within two weeks, I was pregnant with twins.

Twins? The doctor performing the ultrasound said, "Now hold still while I look for a third one."

I said, "Please stop looking!"

I think I walked around in a daze for a month. Five children under age four. Five. Is that even physically possible?

I bought a fancy, automatic, grinding, programmable, coffee maker as a treat for the impending craziness. (I still use it!)

My doctor had stopped delivering at Baptist, so I had to find another doctor. I had planned a home birth, but no midwife in the area wanted to deliver twins at home. I had read that most doctors these days prefer to C-section twins due to the high risks they typically pose, so I interviewed several doctors before I found one who would let me attempt a regular birth, provided both twins were head down at birth.

I called Penny Williams immediately. She had attended two of my previous births at Baptist, and I found her services and advice incomparable. I praise Jesus that we had no difficulties at all during the pregnancy. I enjoyed an ultrasound once a week throughout the course of the pregnancy. The twins stayed head-down the entire time, except once. At 34 weeks, I felt an incredible turmoil in my womb as Baby B somersaulted. I looked down at that baby and demanded, "You flip back over right now!" Well, he took his sweet time, but he did manage to revert before the birth.

The pregnancy was difficult. I gained 75 pounds. I couldn't reach the faucet while doing dishes. I had to chase around three toddlers, one of whom still required me to lift him in and out of his high chair, crib, and car seat. So, at 35 weeks, I asked the doctor how much longer until she could induce me.

"Not until 39 weeks without a medical reason," she said.

"How about maternal sanity?" I asked.

"I'm not a psychologist," she said. But she did sign for a handicapped placard for me, which did make my life much easier.

At 37 weeks, I told her that I had been having contractions everyday. They wore me out. She said she was going on vacation at the end of the week, but she could induce me on Friday if I had contractions. I did everything I knew to induce contractions that day. Spicy food? Check. Nipple stimulation? Check. That other thing that husbands get so excited about? Check. Castor oil? Ew, castor oil? Some friends swore by it. I called Penny to get her take on it. She said she wouldn't do it, but it was up to me.

I was desperate. I mixed the castor oil into a milkshake and didn't even taste it. Delicious! I certainly regretted it the next morning, though. I will never do that again. It was painful and unproductive.

But I did have contractions.

So we sent our kids away. We packed our hospital bags with movies, games, clothes, pillows, and towels. We stopped by Chick-Fil-A for lunch. It was the strangest feeling--the surprise of labor eclipsed by the joy of induction.

When we checked in, I was still in early labor. My husband was not allowed admission to triage until I had been asked the safe-haven question. I knew it was coming from my previous terrible experience, and I tried to circumvent it, but to no avail. But this time, I checked in at 3 cm dilated, not 9, so I was happy to let him wait. I was happy all around.

Until they checked the monitor strip. "Well," the nurse said, "I don't really see any contractions."

I said, "I know I'm having them. I can feel it."

She checked my belly. "Oh, here's the problem," she said. "The strap had slid down."

After 15 minutes, my file had proof of contractions, and my doctor started me on Pitocin to augment my labor.

I lay in bed all afternoon, resting in between visits with my mother-in-law and mother. Penny spent the afternoon at the hospital with us, too. At 9 pm, nine hours after checking in, my doctor suggested breaking my water.

I was game.

I told my nurse that I would want an epidural when I reached 7cm. I don't know why I chose that number, but maybe it was because I had a hidden fear that the contractions would stop, and I would end up with a C-section. The nurse suggested that if I had chosen an epidural, I might as well get it now, at 5 cm. She didn't have to talk me into it. The doctor broke my water, and after 45 minutes of outrageously painful contractions where Penny rocked me and rubbed me through them, they finally worked in the epidural. They said everyone had to leave the room but one person. I chose Penny. She helped me to stay very still during the insertion of the epidural.

I never expected to go from 5cm to complete before midnight, but I did. In a very short amount of time, I felt like pushing. I calmly called the nurse over. "Do you mind checking me? I think I feel like pushing?"

Her eyes widened, and she pushed the call button on the hospital bed. "Call Dr. Carney back now!" Apparently, Dr. Carney had left the hospital to perform a C-section at a different hospital.

Meanwhile, the nurses wheeled me down to the operating room for delivery. One of the conditions for a vaginal birth was called a double set. I could deliver the babies in the operating room so that I could be prepped for a C-section quickly in the event of an emergency. I could only have one visitor join me, so of course, I chose the father! The nurses kept saying, "Don't push!"

Dr. Carney strolled into the operating room, pulling on her gloves, and said, "Okay." Tobias slid out without any effort at all.

At 11:59pm.

"Cool," I said. "They're going to have different birthdays!"

For 29 minutes, Dr. Carney pressed her hands on my abdomen to keep Baby B from turning. With each contraction, the sac bulged out the birth canal. Dr. Carney had a full-face shield, and all the attending nurses turned their faces away in case the bag broke. The room was full of laughter, Tobias was being attended by a team of NICU nurses and doctors, and Chris was reminding me to push lightly so I wouldn't burst the capillaries in my eyes. Tyler finally made his appearance at 12:28 am in his sac.

I didn't make it back to the room until 3 am. Chris texted a picture of the babies to the waiting relatives so they wouldn't worry. Poor Tobias' nose was squashed after nine months of being on the bottom!

The doctors tried to send me home the next day, which ordinarily would have thrilled me, but I felt overwhelmed at the idea of taking care of five children under age 4 less than 9 hours after coming back to the room. They said insurance would send me home because Tobias had technically been born the day before, making my total visit two days. I rolled my eyes. They finally agreed to call it "fatigue" so insurance would pay for it. They weren't lying!

What I would repeat:

Basically everything. I think this hospital experience went very well because I followed all the policies and rules willingly.

What I would change:

Insurance. The one minute Tobias enjoyed before midnight cost $1500 for "nursery." Sometimes automation does not beat human logic.

Third Birth: Pushing for the doctor's attention

  Twelve months, two weeks, and five days after I left Baptist with the birth of my second child, I was back in labor and delivery with my third baby. I had hired the same doctor and the same doula, Penny Williams--both of whom rejoiced with me in our fertility.

   My largely uneventful pregnancy with David ended with a magnificent 10-day run of contractions. The first contractions hit on April 1, and I lamented an April Fool's baby. Each day after that exhausted me, filled with mild contractions scattered throughout the day. Finally, the day before David's due date, the doctor stripped my membranes. He told me he expected me to go into labor the next day, but he had a conference to attend, so his backup doctor would be delivering David. The exact scenario occurred with birth #2, so I was not caught unaware.

   I did, indeed, experience intensified contractions throughout the night. Having had a week of hopefuls, I hesitated to call Penny until I felt more certain that these contractions would lead to the birth today. I walked with my husband around our apartment complex for a few hours, then I called Penny at 10 am or so. She had talked my doctor into allowing me to receive a shot of Rocephin at home to combat the Group B Strep I carried. My husband, a nurse, administered it to me before she arrived. I walked, ate, and bounced on the birthing ball until about 1pm, when we decided to make the 45-minute trek to the hospital. I ate some grapes.

   I honestly don't remember much about the ride, but I do have this wonderful memory of Penny, carrying my huge, bright pink birthing ball through the corridors of the hospital and into the elevator while I moaned and groaned with each contraction.

   Here, at the hospital, the story turns sour. I waddled up to the check-in window in obvious pain. The nurse, unhurried, shuffled some papers and asked me to take a seat. On her papers, I noticed aloud a friend's name who apparently was already checked in and delivering her baby. The nurse did not take kindly to my Hippa violation. She called me back in her own sweet time, but she specifically refused my husband or my doula admission. I was unsettled, but my husband was seething. Penny let that nurse have a piece of her mind, too.

   Baptist has a safe-haven policy, where they admit women alone so they can ask if they are enduring any abuse. I wasn't. I told them so. Then I asked for my husband and my doula. Nothing. For 45 minutes. They checked my cervix and determined I was at a 9! Still no husband. Or doula. Or birthing ball.

   Or doctor.

   While Chris and Penny were in the waiting room seething, I was fighting my battles alone. I had asked my doctor if there was any way I could go without the IV during labor, and he agreed without hesitation. However, my doctor was at a conference. The admitting nurses had never heard of such a thing, and basically told me that it's hospital policy, and they would not treat me if I refused it.

   I was having the baby, and they were going to put me out on the street?

   So, of course, I consented. Sadly, the first nurse experienced some difficulty inserting the IV. She poked and prodded, then passed me off to the second nurse. She had no more success, but during her attempt, my husband burst into the room, so angry, he was shaking. I told him they made me get an IV and now they couldn't insert it. He demanded to do it himself. The poor nurses were shaken and confused, but he showed them his Baptist badge and said, "I am an employee of this hospital. I have successfully inserted more than 1,000 IVs, and my wife has veins like ropes." Unfortunately, the vein had already been blown. I still have phantom twinges from the blown IV insertion point.

   After they found a good site, they started IV antibiotics to combat the Group B Strep, per hospital policy. I explained that my doctor had prescribed a shot of Rocephin for that, and it had already been administered.   

  "Doesn't matter," they said. "Hospital policy."

   I was about sick of hospital policy.

   Then, they wanted to monitor the baby and check my cervix. I compliantly lay on the bed, strapped to the machine, legs open, when the back-up doctor whirled into the room, face hard as flint, eyebrows furrowed. I felt his hands on my legs, as I expected, but I couldn't see because of the hospital gown. At this point, Penny rounded the corner and shouted, "Hold up!" She looked at me, "Did you tell him he could do that?"

   "Do what?" I asked. As far as I knew, he was just checking my progress.

   "Break your water!" she replied.

   "No, I did not," I said, clipping my words.

   Well, that irritated the doctor. But after discussion, we eventually decided it would be okay. My mother and my husband's mother had joined us, and each was answering phone calls during the short wait before pushing began. The ringing seemed so loud and annoying at the time, but I was floored to see the doctor take a call or two. Probably personal, considering he was speaking French into the receiver.

   After he broke my water, the contractions approached uncontrollable intensity. I vomited during transition. The doctor spread my legs, told me it was time to push, and then turned on the television. Then he turned around to watch the debate on immigration.

   While I was pushing.

   Hmmm, I wonder if that's hospital policy?

   David didn't take long to crown. But it was long enough for me to burst the capillaries in my eyes again. I looked like a freak science project for a solid month! He was born facing up, which accounted for the incredible back pain and strange frontal sensation as he descended.

   He weighed 9 lb 1 oz, but I don't think I needed any stitches. My husband handed the baby to me after they cleaned him up, but I couldn't hold him because of the frontal pain in my nethers. That baby bruised me!

   What an ordeal. We had decided to name him David Brayden, but after my mom saw his face, she turned to me with tears in her eyes, and said, "He's just like Walter." So David's name was changed to David Walter on a whim. My brother has managed to make it cool, so maybe David will have the same luck.

   The doctor recommended Pitocin after delivery to stop the bleeding. I had heard this was standard, but I wanted to avoid unnecessary interventions. Penny examined me and said, "I'd do it." So I did. And I had no hesitations or problems with it.

   I nursed David well and sent him to the nursery for the night. I enjoyed rooming in with my first baby, but I learned to appreciate rest when I had the chance, with three children under the age of three now.

   A few days after his birth, I discovered a very distressing bulge in the birthing area. I called Penny, a little panicked and worried that it might be my uterus. She recommended I see a doctor as soon as possible, where my fears were allayed. It was a urethracele--a part of my ureter had bulged out, swollen, from the trauma of birth. I needed a healthy uterus, after all, because within eighteen months, I delivered twins!

   What I would repeat:

   My doula. I loved having someone in-the-know to stand by my birthing choices and guide me in making intervention choices.

   Laboring at home. I know the nurses and doctors hate seeing someone come in at 9cm, but the hospital "policies" are so restrictive that it makes pain management difficult without an epidural.

   What I would change:

   My communication. I wonder if I had contacted the back-up doctor myself instead of waiting for the hospital to do it if he might have been less irritated. I also wonder how badly the admission nurse treated me because I highlighted her Hippa violation.

   My husband's absence. I wonder what would have happened if I had just waited with my husband in the waiting room if they refused to admit him. That's probably not the best way to get on the good side of the nurses, but they made him wait 45 minutes before admitting him. To put it in perspective, David was born two hours later.

   Pretty much everything about the hospital policies, the doctor, and the nurses. This experience drove us to choose a home birth for our next delivery. However, when we discovered twins, we consented to a textbook hospital labor and delivery. But we did finally enjoy a wonderful home birth with our sixth and final baby.

Second birth, Group B Strep, epidural

After experiencing a nearly perfect hospital birth with my first child, my husband agreed to accompany me to a birth center in Cary, NC for the birth of our second child. I had read about the natural pain-relief provided by a bath and about waterbirths, but we still weren't ready to pursue a homebirth. The birth center provided both the comforts of home, including a kitchenette, bedroom, and oversized jetted tub, and the access to medical care in case of emergency. It was nearly adjacent to the UNC Hospital.

Then we moved to Memphis.

Memphis does not have a birth center with all the comforts of home.

I was 32 weeks pregnant. I wanted an intervention-free birth, but I didn't know how to locate a doctor who would help me achieve that goal. Penny Williams was recommended to me within my first week here by two different sources. When I finally tracked her down, she recommended a doctor who, sadly, is no longer delivering babies. He was very laid-back. He heartily approved my birthing plan to deliver at Baptist. He even agreed that I could refuse the IV.

I had mild contractions on St. Patrick's Day, two weeks before my due date, accompanied by a fever. The contractions continued into the next day, but were much milder than I expected. The weather was nice enough to walk, but I kept the block short so I could come home quickly if I needed to! My husband and I wore a rut in the road that morning. My grandmother drove past and rolled down the window to visit. She asked, "How are you doing?" by way of introduction, and I responded, "I'm in labor." She hastened away!

I alternated walking and bouncing on a birthing ball to alleviate the pain. I called a friend of mine to ask how she knew she was really in labor with her second child, because I really wanted to avoid going to the hospital too early and being sent home. I also had a plan to avoid laboring in the restrictive hospital environment--I would labor as long as possible at home and arrive at the hospital just in time to push. I knew I was Group B Strep positive, but I never suspected it would throw a wrench into my plans.

The contractions continued regularly but mildly until one in the afternoon, at which time, my husband suggested trying to augment the labor naturally. Within the hour, the contractions became so intense that my husband expressed a concern that we wouldn't make it to the hospital in time. I packed some grapes and bottled water, and we hurried to the car. The thick Memphis traffic slowed us down, and my groaning didn't calm my husband. He parked at the door, and we rode the elevator with an older man. I felt sorry for him as we all awkwardly endured the groaning and moaning of a long contraction together.

Penny met us at the hospital and parked our car, but neither she nor Chris could accompany me past check-in until they asked the "safe haven" question. I had several contractions during the very slow assessment in triage. Only after the nurse checked my cervix and found it to be at 9cm dilated did a spring come to her step. Curtains flying, carts zooming by, yelling for my family, strapping me into the bed monitor, inserting an IV. A crew of student doctors crowded around my crotch, eyes wide with anticipation, awaiting this new life imminent in my loins.

And there we sat. And sat. And sat. For four hours. My contractions slowed down to about one every ten minutes. They were long and painful, but no longer productive. My laid-back, naturally-minded doctor was at a conference in Colorado, and no one else there cared about my birth plan. They broke my water and started Pitocin (which makes the contractions so much more painful, by the way.) As each intervention approached, I asked Penny what she would do. I'm so thankful we hired her because she was able to confidently and gently guide us in the right direction.

I asked the nurse if I could get up and walk to help get things moving along, and she said, "No, you're in the best position to have a baby." (I secretly thought, "The best position for you, maybe!") Then she actually said to me, "You have a fever, and you're cooking your baby, so you will probably have a C-section." Well, I didn't want a c-section, but when they tell you that's what they have to do, then you just have to go with it. The nurse said, "Since you'll need an epidural, you might as well just go ahead and get it now." So I agreed without hesitation.

The nurse anesthetist reviewed the morbid list of possible side-effects just before she whipped the catheter in. She made everyone in the room exit during the procedure, but it did take effect almost immediately. About ten minutes later, my eyes widened and, startled, I said, "I think I have to push!" The students had exited long ago, but the doctor scooted in to catch the baby. They rubbed her off and weighed her at 7lb 3 oz. Kora reached her little hand up and grabbed my husband's finger so tightly that he was able to lift her gently off the scales! I finally enjoyed holding the baby after the nurse team finished their obligations.

I was surprised at how long they left the epidural catheter in. I asked the nurse to empty my bladder, because despite the medicine, I could still feel the uncomfortable feeling of a full bladder. She must have used a very small catheter, because she and my husband had a lengthy conversation at the south end while my urine dribbled into a cup... and I still didn't feel relieved. After the nurse left, I asked my husband to help me to the bathroom because I still had to go.

We sent Kora to the nursery during the night because I was exhausted. But the hospital staff still awakened me almost every hour to do one test or another. It turns out that hospital policy dictates that all patients who are GBS positive receive two powerful doses of IV antibiotics four hours apart before the delivery. Since I didn't have time to receive the second dose before Kora's birth, they mandated that she stay admitted for 48 hours, receiving IV antibiotics, even though she exhibited no symptoms. When we finally brought her home, she smelled like a sick dog, and she cried for four months straight. We highly suspect that the antibiotics caused gastric trouble that caused upset stomach and colic.

What I would repeat:

Laboring at home. I enjoyed the freedom to walk outside without stopping to be checked or monitored, to eat and drink, and to, um, "augment" labor naturally.

What I would do differently:

Walk at the hospital. If I had been in any position to argue, I would have hopped off that bed and started walking, squatting, or bouncing on a ball while we waited for the epidural. I firmly believe movement can aid labor as much as Pitocin.

Refuse antibiotics for the baby. I don't even know if you can do this. Plus, Group B Strep can cause fatalities in babies who contract it, which explains the hospital's policy.

Try to get better sleep at the hospital. I came home to a toddler and an infant, and I'm not sure I slept for four months.

First birth, with a midwife, in a hospital

During my first pregnancy, I found myself drawn to books like The Thinking Woman's Guide to a Better Birth by Henci Goer, which led me to a ruthless determination to avoid an epidural. I remember thinking that:

Epidural + Stirrups = C-section

My husband adamantly opposed a home birth due to his profession as a nurse, but we had a great support system in Raleigh, NC for low-intervention and natural alternatives to hospital births. We ended up pursuing care through a midwife in a hospital. She discussed my birth plan at length with me, and specifically asked me, "When you ask me for an epidural, do you want me to give it to you, or try to talk you out of it?"

I smiled. "I want you to talk me out of it."

My contractions started on Halloween, five days after my due date. My husband and I walked around the mall a while, enjoyed the neighborhood festivities, and then I went to bed by ten that night. I awoke at midnight with harder contractions. I spent the next six hours in the guest bedroom and the shower, rolling on my birthing ball, doing squats, and breathing through the contractions. When they reached five minutes apart and one minute in length, I called the midwife. She agreed to meet me at the hospital. The hospital didn't have any bathtubs, but they did have a wonderfully powerful shower that never ran out of hot water. I spent the majority of my eight hours there in the shower.

Even though I had a midwife to deliver the baby, the hospital still wanted to monitor the baby's heartbeat for 15 minutes out of every hour. So, every 45 minutes, I climbed out of my very comfortable shower, dried off with the puny towel provided by the hospital, and clambered up to the bed for monitoring.

My husband left the room for breakfast. I joked with him that it didn't seem fair that he could eat and I couldn't, since I was doing all the work.

The midwife suggested breaking my water at noon, after four hours in the hospital. The contractions really gained intensity after that!

After twelve hours of labor and very little sleep, I asked for the epidural. My midwife put her face nose-to-nose with mine and said, "Listen to me, Dorothy. You do not need an epidural. Just breathe with me." I think she started a LaMaze pattern of breathing, but it seemed to calm me down. She then suggested that I take a dose of Stadol. to take the edge off the pain. I dropped into a wonderful doze almost immediately, even managing to sleep through the hard transition contractions.

As the Stadol wore off, the midwife expressed concern that the baby's heartrate was dropping. Since I had a lip on my cervix, she said I wasn't fully dilated, and she would manually dilate me on the next contraction so I could push. She donned her gloves, performed the manual dilation, and told me to push! I pushed so hard that I burst the capillaries in my eyes and spent the next four weeks wearing sunglasses to hide the bloody mess! I also vomited.

I don't think she was prepared for what a powerful pusher I could be, because Saja was born with two pushes, and the midwife caught her barehanded. She was unwrapping a surgical scalpel to perform an episiotomy when Saja's head popped out. She was 8 lb 8 oz, and had the cord wrapped around her neck. My midwife told me to stop pushing while she unwrapped the cord, but I thought she surely couldn't be talking to me, because everyone had been yelling at me to push just moments ago! The midwife placed the baby on my bare chest and covered her with a blanket. She announced, "Here's your baby!" Chris had to lift the blanket up to check what kind of baby we had. "It's a girl!" he announced. I nursed her almost immediately, and we roomed in with her, never sending her to the nursery.

I ended up with two stitches from a tear, but I experienced a quick and easy recovery.

I am glad I avoided the epidural, because at one point after the Stadol had been administered, the midwife told me my contractions were slowing down, and I needed to get up and walk around if I wanted them to start up again. This would not have been possible with an epidural. I may well have been a great candidate for a C-section.

What I would repeat:

Hiring a midwife. She stayed with me the entire delivery. She honored my birth plan. She acted as a liaison between what I wanted and what the hospital wanted.

No epidural. Because I maintained feeling, I was able to change positions, walk, or squat to encourage labor.

Nurse the baby immediately. Hospitals don't encourage this.

What I would do differently:

Hire a birthing coach or doula. My husband just didn't cut it as a breathing partner. I can't blame him--even though we attended a birthing class on natural childbirth, he still didn't know what he was doing and wasn't comfortable with guiding me through the pain.

Labor at home longer. The hospital policies interrupted my pain management. I also would have been able to enjoy my bathtub.

Eat and drink, even if I had to sneak it. I needed the energy!

Learn to push properly. I burst my capillaries with two of my six children. My husband eventually learned to whisper to me, "Don't push too hard," "Breathe," and "Push from your abdomen," while the doctors and nurses yelled, "Push for ten seconds as hard as you can!"

Bring my own towels. Large, fluffy ones. But I would have expected them to get bloody. Childbirth is a bloody business!

Fat vs. FAT

As we were eating our low-carb baked chicken artichoke dinner tonight, my 6-year-old daughter wrinkled her forehead and stated, "I feel fat."

Oh, boy, I thought, glancing quickly away from her slender frame. How do I handle this one?

We have always tried to focus our children away from body image and toward a healthful lifestyle. In other words, instead of saying, "Don't eat that cake because you'll get fat," we commend the children for making healthy eating and exercise choices. If we absolutely have to, we'll condemn cake "because too much is unhealthy and will make you feel sluggish."

Yet my daughters still often use the "F" word. (The three-letter "F" word, of course.)

So while I was formulating a response, my daughter slid her fingers between her teeth and grabbed a chunk of chicken fat. She placed it on the plate and said, "There. That's better."

Whew. She narrowly missed a lecture!

The Bible admonishes us to not exasperate our children, to not worry about what we will eat or what we will wear, and to love one another as we love ourselves.

So, how do you handle body image issues with your children?