No more mullet

I sat everyone down. I said, "Now listen. Mommy is going to trim Miriam's hair. I am the ONLY one who is EVER allowed to cut ANYONE'S hair ever. For any reason. Do you understand?"

Enthusiastic, "Yes, Mom!" 's met my ears.

"If you find scissors in the yard are you to cut anyone's hair at all?"

"No, Mom!"

I continued, "If you think, 'wouldn't it be fun to cut someone's hair' because you are bored, do you do it?!"

A resounding, "no!" came in reply.

"Miriam, do you cut your OWN hair EVER?"

"No, Mama!" She chirped.

"Who can cut hair in this family?" I drilled.

"Just Mom!" They chanted.

Still disconcerted, I quickly did the deed. I gave my baby girl her first hair cut; just a trim to get rid of the mullet.

But now, I'm nervous and jumpy around scissors left laying around. I don't THINK they missed the point of our little discussion, but heck if I know.

Hopefully, no one gets balded any time soon.

Thanksgiving Extravaganza 2014!!!!

We had a mighty eventful Thanksgiving.

Turkey out brining in a bucket in the snow.

Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve, the power goes out. That is what happens when a foot of HEAVY snow falls hard and fast.

The snow blower also breaks. All within like... five minutes!

Derek's sister and her sweet family are wending their way to our house in a blizzard from the south.

We have no power.

Take out pizza by fire place light. 

It's cool. We have a generator.

No. The generator doesn't run. AWESOME.

Amber's family shows up in the very very very dark, and I offer them left over glow sticks from Halloween. Cousin fun will not be hampered by silly things like power outages!

FUN!

The men-folk (neighbor friend included, good friend from the ward also included) attempt to get our generator running. In the snow. And the dark.

No.

Two generators. One works! One doesn't. 

Finally, good friend brings us HIS generator, because the show off had power at his own abode.

Generator comes to visit. Power is marginally restored. But no water, because we can't be greedy.

Thanksgiving dawns bright and early. MORE COUSIN FUN. Derek takes his 4wd out to get more gas for the borrowed generator.

Brother in law and Morgan FIX THE SNOW BLOWER. WE ARE AWESOME.

Brother in law snow blows! Then it breaks again.

Oh well.

Neighbor texts, they have no power, they need their generator.

QUICK! Cook the turkey before they come for their generator! We'll have Thanksgiving dinner at noon!

Melting snow to wash dishes. 

GO GO GO.

Kids in and out, no one has snow boots for the season yet (I'm a terrible mother.) In and out, in and out. In and out. Wet. Cold. Change clothes, lather, rinse, repeat.

Cousins in the snow.

Dinner is almost ready. Generator is still running. All is well.

Crap.

Ezra is crying. Ezra is coming closer. I turn to see. Ezra has a gaping head wound.

Derek is dispatched again in his 4wd to get Ezra's head sewn back together.

The generator is staying! Friends have borrowed one from someone else. We can keep our power! Hurray!

Ezra gets nine stitches.

Poor Ezra's head. 

Poor bud.

Kids table.

We give thanks, we eat. We play. In and out and in and out and in and out.

Cold. wet.

FUN!

Ezra in the window. 

PIE!

Black Friday, we declare we are all disgusting and need baths. Still no running water.

To the church we go to play basketball in gym, and shower, etc.

Less cold and wet!

Morgan buys snow boots for everyone.

Did you know snow boots are not big "Black Friday" sale items? We paid full price. FULL PRICE.

Get home. The driveway is blocked by work crews removing the felled tree from our wires. Our felled tree. Our wires. Power? Soon?!!!

Power crews working.

POWER!

HEAT!

WATER!

FLUSH ALL THE TOILETS!

WARM UP ALL THE THINGS!

TURN ON ALL THE SWITCHES!

HURRAY!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

GOD BLESS US EVERYONE!

Being a Farmer is Gross

(Please enjoy these entirely unrelated pictures of our little town's fall festival that we went to this past weekend.) 


"Hello, Pediatrics Nurse Line, this is April, how can I help you?"


"Hi, April, I have a question, that I don't know if you know the answer..." I trail off.

"Oh," said April brightly, "I'll try."

I took a deep breath and went on:

"Okay, here's the thing: Our chickens have round worm. The kids, all of them, have handled the chickens before we KNEW they had worms. According to Dr. Google, people can get round worms pretty easy. Do I need to deworm my children?"

"Oh," said April, less brightly, "I'm not sure about that."



After making sure she had my correct information, she hung up, promising to call back after talking to our pediatrician.


In case you're wondering, every single inhabitant of our little farm has now been dewormed.




Every.

Single.

One.

The medicine tastes like a disgusting banana smoothie.

The Tale of Spencer's Extra Curricular Dilemma

When Henry started first grade last year, we decided after we moved and got settled that he could start some sort of extra-curricular activity. We settled on karate, and he's LOVED it. It's been good for him. He's an orange belt, and really does enjoy  the two nights a week he gets to "hiyah".

This year, before the official school year started, we knew that Spencer was ansty to start karate as well. Watching Henry many times over the last school year got him all excited. 

But, my mom-heart knew, that while Spencer might LIKE karate, he would LOVE a dance class. 

So, I started the great Google search in hopes of finding something that would be a good fit for him. 

Then... there is was! Perfection. A hip hop/tap class for BOYS only, ages 5-7. YES!

I gently brought up the idea of trying a dance class, which Spencer immediately dismissed. 

"No, I don't wanna do that!" 

So, a few days later, I asked him if he would try it, please. 

He finally relented. 

Derek and I were both torn. We didn't want to force him to do something he didn't want to do, but at the same time, we BOTH knew our guy love it once he gave it a chance. 

The same week he was to take his trial hip hop class, the karate studio was offering "Buddy week" which meant Henry could bring a friend to try a free class. Spencer was BEYOND excited, and I was worried our ship was sunk.  

I was resolute though: I was going to let him him choose. 

"I will let him choose," I repeated to myself, over and over. 

Whenever Spencer would declare (before attending either class) that he was pretty sure he was going to pick karate, I'd grit my teeth and try to stay silent. Sometimes I couldn't help myself, "Let's not decide anything until you've tried both," I'd beg. 

The night of the great karate class came. The next day would be hip hop.  So much excitement!!

Derek did the karate class run, and declared that Spencer definitely seemed to enjoy himself, and that every time he did a move correctly, he'd do a LITTLE DANCE. 

"I think I'm going to pick karate, Mom," he said enthusiastically. 

"Oh, okay, I'm glad you liked it," I choked. 

Finally, MY long awaited day arrived. He and I struck out to the dance studio. In borrowed shoes, he wiggled and tapped and did head stands, and all sorts of stuff I thought looked super cool. 

But, he was so stoic, throughout the entirety of the class, I couldn't tell if he was enjoying himself or not. It LOOKED like fun, but what did I know? 

Finally, he was finished and came dancing out to me. 

"Mom, if I choose dance, will you buy me my own dance shoes?" he asked. 

"I will." I promised. 

"Then, I want to do hip hop. It's so cool!" 

My heart sang. 

And he got himself dance shoes, and now, on Mondays, Henry declares, "I have karate tonight!" which then leads to Spencer declaring, "THAT MEANS I HAVE HIP HOP TOMORROW! YES!" 

Ha! Vindication. 

But I mean, come on, any class that has the kids doing (teacher-assisted) BACK FLIPS on the second day is guaranteed to please, right?

AND poor Henry said in response to watching one of Spencer's classes, "No one asked ME if I wanted to do dance." Poor kid. When I told him that he could choose dance or karate too, he replied, "Okay, when I'm a black belt, then I'll switch to dance." So... in about seven years? Great. Perfect. 

I'm relieved, not because he chose what I wanted, but because he went with what HE wanted. It would have been easy to go to karate because Henry already did. I wanted HIM to choose. The fact that he chose what I thought he would was just icing on the cake. He loves it. I'm happy he's happy. 

In the Wee Small Hours

She started out in her own bed last night, like many nights. By midnight though, she was not having it anymore.

I bring her into bed with me to attempt some sleep.

She reaches over, yelling out in her half-sleep for me. I lean over and try to comfort her with her binky and a gently squeeze. She yells again. Thus begins the next three hours of hazy, half-awake nurse for two seconds, binky for two seconds, yell, nurse for two seconds, binky for two seconds game. At 3:30, I finally get frustrated enough to wake up enough to deal with this on a deeper level.

I stumble around the bedroom, while Derek wakes up and keeps her from falling out of the bed. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"She needs medicine." I say back. Can I find the liquid tylenol or motrin? No. That would be silly. I know we have a bottle of each... where the heck are they? I search. She screams. It's fun.

Miriam is almost a year old. She has no teeth. I assume anytime she behaves this way, therefore that she is teething. I have yet to be right, but ONE OF THESE DAYS I'M GOING TO BE VINDICATED!

Finally, I find a bottle chewable tylenol. One tablet for a two-year old? Fine. She can have half. I break it in half and am grateful it's one of those melt-away kinds, because remember she has no teeth.

She thinks this is delicious and wonderful.

I sit with her feet on my lap, binky in mouth as she starts to doze. Then suddenly, her eyes fly wide open and she starts babbling and kicking her feet. Huh?

Oh. I give her a sniff. She now needs a new diaper. Great. Thanks kid. That's just perfect. I don't have any diapers up in my room because I'm not accustomed to middle-of-the-night-stinkies. We, using my flashlight app make our way toward the living room.

As we pass Henry and Oliver's room, I see Oliver sitting up in his bed. Weird for 4am. Sometimes though he sits up and lays back down in his sleep. I pause to see what's up. He looks right at me. "I need new pants." Then I smell what he means.

Truly bizarre, Oliver NEVER wets the bed. Well, never say never. I set Miram down on the floor and she yells at me because, hello, she has needs here. I help Oliver into dry clothes and strip and remake the bed. Miriam cries. Henry sleeps through entirely. Amazing.

We make our way downstairs, and I realize the situation is much worse than I thought. She needs new pajamas too. Much complaining as I set her down to hunt some up. Finally, she is clean, my hands are clean, the dirty is put where dirty belongs.

I am dying.

She is AWAKE.

I take her back upstairs and realize it's cold in the boys' rooms because their windows are open. The last thing I want is awake boys at 4:00 because they are chilly. I shut the windows, thrilled to see Oliver has gone back to sleep.

Into bed we go, she kicks me. She nurses. Binky. Nurse. Binky. I look at my phone. It's after 4:15 now. Then 4:30. Then 5:00.

Finally, either she gets tired or maybe that medicine I gave her kicked in, I don't know. She sleeps.

In mere moments, but it actually over an hour, Derek's alarm goes off. Ezra comes in, needing attention, Miriam sleeps on. Thank goodness. I finally manage to crawl out from her, she had been using me a pillow of course, and find that Derek has already left for work. Sigh.

Now it's day, and I'm tired.

Everyone is awake, and I must fight the temptation to ignore everyone and let Netflix play on and on.

Good morning world.

Chicken Run

Chickens don't belong in houses. Baby chicks? Sure. CHICKENS, no. Just no.

Except it's still butt-cold at night here on our little hill, so we don't keep the chickens outside then. That and the coop is in six pieces.

So, my dashing prince of a husband made the run for them this weekend. It isn't QUITE finished, but close enough.



Each morning we gather the chickens out of the wire dog kennel in my dining room where they spend the night, carry them out-of-doors to their portable run and shove them in.

It's fool-proof, except when it's not.

We also have to stick a feeder and waterer in there because there aren't enough bugs in their limited "free-range" run to fill up the growing bellies of these fat girls.

And ^^^that is where we got into trouble yesterday.


After carefully flinging the girls under the run, we realized (by "we" I mean me, and five super helpful children) we'd forgotten the food and water.

No matter, just lift and stick.

Food in.

Water... water... "STICK THE WATER UNDER THE WALL OH MY GOODNESS. SPENCER!"

Then, little Pecky Becky who is Derek's chicken, ducked her little fat chicken butt under the tiniest little space and was suddenly a real-live-free-range chicken.

And she was gonna enjoy it. She.ran.for.it.

Thus began the chase of the century. Four children, running in all directions as that white poultry dodged them all. Miriam was SCREAMING at having been plunked rudely down in the grass.

"Stop chasing her! Stop!" I hollered.

No one stopped.

For a stupid bird, she was pretty smart. She headed straight for the woods. And my dear sweet children headed straight for her.

Well. Becky picked the prickliest, thorniest spot of our yard to hide.

Of course.

The boys were determined to rescue her from her fun. She wasn't interested.

After chasing her even deeper in the woods (oh the crying as they scratched themselves), they FINALLY realized that there wasn't anything to do but listen to MOMMY. LISTEN TO MOMMY.

Goodness.

Spencer went left, Henry went right, clapping their hands, to scare her away from heading up the hill over the stone wall and joining the wild turkey clan that resides up there.

Oliver began to cry again when I dare suggest that we wait until she decided to come home.

Finally that feather-brained dinner on feet realized that life wasn't that great in the wild (Luckily she's never seen "Chicken Run") and came on out, while the little boys clapped and clapped to scare her down the hill.

Eventually she wandered out and right up to me and cocked her head to one side as if to say, "Hey, don't I know you?"

"Yes you stupid bird! I'm your momma!" A slow chase ensued where Oliver headed her off and I grabbed her from behind. Clutching her to my side I lifted the run and shoved.

WOOHOO!

Miriam was rescued, grass dug out of her angry mouth. Oliver was STILL crying but about how scratched he'd gotten.

"Good morning, Mary!" I called to our only neighbor, who was enjoying her morning coffee on the porch, watching EVERY SECOND of our chase.

"Morning!" she called back jovially. She was laughing. Of course.

Then all into the house to start school.

Except I had lost Spencer somewhere.

A quick yard sweep showed he'd gotten himself completely stuck in the brambles. The harder he tried to free himself, the more stuck he became.

I saved him, never fear And my badge of honor is that I'm completely covered in scratches.

All because of Derek's chicken.

Why My House is a Mess

Gosh, those dishes sure need to be loaded into the dishwasher.



But wait, everyone is starving. Time to eat!

Miriam is having a ride on my back in the carrier. Perfect!

Okay, time to straighten up.

Oh no, we have no bread, must start the bread instead!


Okay, bread is rising.

Now, maybe clean up a bit?

No. It's time to get dressed/brush teeth/make beds, boys. Go go go!

Get dressed Oliver.

Find a shirt Spencer.

Get your pants on Oliver.

Henry, did you brush your teeth?

Get dressed Spencer.

Get dressed Oliver.

Go use the potty Ezra.

Get dressed Ezra.

Henry stop distracting them.

Get dressed Oliver.

Get dressed Spencer.

OH MY GOSH.

Did you brush your teeth?

It is now 9am, time for school. Get to work boys!


Miriam has been crying all morning, NAP TIME.

Hey, maybe while I'm upstairs putting the baby down, I can get dressed.

Nope! Ezra is having a fit. He needs help getting on the potty. It's POOP time people! No time to waste!



More school.

I am still not dressed. The house is still a mess. The dishes are not done.


The bread is finished, the baby is awake, everyone is STARVING.

LUNCH TIME.
We eat through the loaf before it is even remotely cool.



By tasking her brothers to feed her yogurt bites, Miriam is distracted long enough for me to...dundundun... LOAD THE DISHWASHER!

Go me.


Just in time for the lunch dishes to fill it back up again.

I put Miriam down to do piano with the boys.




Someone, in that time, smeared soap all over the bathroom mirror.

Diet Coke for lunch.


It's 1pm. I am not dressed.



Miriam is thrilled, her unwashed, pj-clad mother picked her up again! The world can go on!

The house is still a mess. I am still not dressed. Ezra did not nap. The washing machine is beeping incessantly telling me to come put the diapers in the dryer. The children are educated.



I am blogging. Miriam is banging on the computer.

This is my life. This is why my house is a mess.

In Which I Yell...

Dear World:

A foot A FOOT on March 19th. This is so deeply offensive.

THEN add to that a dead (and I mean DEAD) snow blower.

What does that mean?

(If you guessed, "I guess that means you had to shovel the driveway", then you could not be more WRONG.)

It means I'll be going nowhere until the darn snow melts. MELTS I say.

(Shovel? I'm sorry, I don't understand that. Come visit. See my driveway, THEN talk to me about shoveling.)

Then this morning, I was TRYING TO BE A NICE PERSON, so I betook myself (and the dog) outside at 6-frickin'-am to do his business, and clean off Derek's car. (BECAUSE I'M A NICE PERSON!) And I fell down ALL the stairs. (THERE ARE 8 OF THEM). Now, there is a strange numbness in a portion of my back.

I did not clean off Derek's car. I HAVE MY LIMITS.

And this darn winter is PUSHING THEM WAY BEYOND MY HAPPINESS.

I did not intend, when I came here today to gritch about the weather. BUT APPARENTLY THAT IS WHAT IS HAPPENING.

EVERYONE has a runny nose again. AGAIN. What is this, JANUARY?

Can someone please tell me, if it is possible for a two-year-old to poop in his SLEEP, because I declare that is what is happening. I thought you had to be awake to do so, but he is proving otherwise. EVERY SINGLE MORNING, Derek or I rush in there to catch him as he is waking to get him to the potty in time and EVERY SINGLE MORNING he is greatly distressed because he has ALREADY DONE HIS BUSINESS.

Pull-ups are NOT designed for that much BUSINESS if you know what I mean.

ALSO, the toddler and preschooler gave up naps last week AT THE SAME TIME. This is so rude I can not even explain it. BOTH OF YOU??? AT THE SAME TIME??

I want a vacay to somewhere warm and poo-free.

Love,
Morgan

We Survived Our First Nor'Easter!

We survived our first Nor'Easter!

It was ridiculous. SO MUCH SNOW. The official totals for our area was just over 2 feet, but our little hill was gifted with much closer to 3 ft.



(Looking down on the van from the porch. I had to dig a door out because Derek's gloves were inside.)

I've been having to potty the dog on the driveway, if that is any indication of how much snow there is. He can't out in the yard because the snow is so light and deep that he sinks. He's also a pathetic beast from Las Vegas, so he's not a fan of winter.

Derek did the bulk of the snow-blowing, although I did one run up and down (did you know our driveway is over 200 feet long? Meaning that one run up and back took me an hour?)



(What a champ. For comparison's sake, Derek is 6'4, and he had to go over everything twice.)

Our neighbors who are also in our ward showed up with an extra snow-blower, shovels and teenaged daughters to help.

Four hours later, we had a driveway!

It was crazy.



(Ezra was unimpressed.)

I am so grateful to have maintained power throughout. We were warm and cozy and feasted on homemade bread for two straight days.

Today it is snowing/raining again and so instead of going to the store to get food to replace everything we ate as we were snowed in, I shall simply not do that.

Perhaps more bread is for dinner?

The Day I Vacuumed Up A Mouse

Friends, I have so much to tell you.

Like how we woke up to SNOW yesterday morning (this morning too!) and how we played and froze and I couldn't believe how freaking cold it was.

See? So FUN.

And also awful.

Additionally, I need to tell you that buying a house is quite possibly one of the most unpleasant things I've ever participated in. Seriously. I *think* we're over the hump of hideousness but, really, I don't know. I mean, it's awful. Poor Derek is all on his own doing the work, and that makes me feel bad.

But, truthfully, today, I am here to tell you that yesterday, I vacuumed up a mouse.

Yes, our vermin is still with us. He's getting bolder too, dashing out whenever it gets even a little quiet around here (so,  no not that often). I've been within inches of him, and sad to say, he's rather cute. I don't know that I can be a party to his death at this point. We've bonded. And I yell at him when he shows his nasty little face. Things like, "Have enough respect to wait until I leave the room before you pop out!" Things like that.

In no time at all, we'll be very best friends.

So, yesterday, after a snack of popcorn, naturally the living room needed vacuuming. I was running the hose along the underside of the couch. THE couch that i know our little fuzzy friend hangs out under... anyway, I was running the hose along, gathering popcorn kernels when I heard a dull THUMP.

The vacuum immediately lost suction. I immediately lost my shiz.

I waited a moment, the whatever-I-vacuumed-up-probably-a-mouse stayed clogged for a second and then zoomed up the tube where it got lodged again, somewhere in the internals of the vacuum cleaner.

I shut off the vacuum and decided to die.

I mean what else could I do? I had just vacuumed up a mouse. Most likely, it was now mortally wounded, and stuck in somewhere. How would I get it out? What if it WASN'T mortally wounded and GOT ON ME when I was trying to save it? What if it was dead? And bloody?

WHAT IF IT HAD RUINED MY VACUUM?

It's a Dyson people. I have my priorities here.

I desperately wanted someone to come and rescue me and my poor faithful vacuum, who's end was seemingly brought about by a mouse.

DAMN MOUSE!

So I listened closely to the vacuum to see if anyone was squeaking. No one was. I pulled the hose taut to SEE if anyone was wedged uncomfortably within. Nope.

That meant it was SOMEWHERE inside. Oh, what if I took the hose off and the mouse sprang out at me, intent on revenge?

This was all very terrifying. I crouched down by the canister, my heart in my throat, terrified that I was going to see maimed mouse bits all mixed with popcorn and dog hair.

It wouldn't be pretty, that much I knew.

I swallowed my terror. I am 29 years old. I am a grown up. I have no husband to come save me.

My mommy and daddy were both at work.

I was alone.

I searched one side of the filthy canister.

Nothing.

Trepidation gripping me, I swung around to search the other side.

Then. I saw it.

The THING that had caused my vacuum clog. The THING that was giving me an honest-to-goodness heart attack.

Right there. Stuck firmly between the wall of the canister and the filter:

It was a baby wipe.

Vermin Report

Mice. In my house.

Henry said, "Mom! I saw a mouse in the bathroom!"

To which I replied, "No you didn't, Henry. You must have imagined it."

He was insistent and so was I. Therefore, the subject was dropped.

Then, as soon as the quiet descended, and I was snuggly tucked in on the couch, baby in her swing, Derek at work, I looked over toward the fireplace when out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I looked again. Mouse. On the wall by the fireplace.

So, naturally, I stood up on the couch. The dang mouse was Mission Impossibly climbing ON THE WALL, but standing on my couch was surely protection! (I'm super brilliant!)

I texted Derek: "DO NOT COME HOME WITHOUT MOUSE TRAPS!"

To which he replied, "WHY?"

Seriously.

"BECAUSE THERE ARE MICE IN OUR HOUSE! INOURHOUSE!"

Derek brought home mouse traps.

Which now a week later have trapped NOTHING.

I sincerely hope they got the hint and moved on to greener pastures.

But I still live in fear.

Miriam's Birth Story (LONG!!!)

Well. The big boys are at church. The littlest boy is in bed (yes, naps trump church when one Ezra Lee decided 4:27 was MORNING ) and Miriam and I are sitting here. And it's my birthday.

I should nap. But, I've accepted that I am going to be tired and there's not a nap in this world that is going to undo that.

So instead, Miriam's birth story. My birthday gift to you. ;)

Hurray!

So, by way of back story, Ezra was born 20 months ago. His birth was rough for me. It was good, and it worked out perfectly, but certain aspects of it were very very hard. I carried a bit (a lot) of fear and anxiety throughout this pregnancy because of it. Would labor this time be as physically demanding? Emotionally? I couldn't handle the irrational fear that I was going to end up in some sort of identical situation. And I couldn't get passed it. I would jokingly tell people who asked about planning another home birth, that yes that was the plan, but I still wanted an epidural!

So, fast forward to Monday, August 13th. Kim, Midwife Super Hero Extraordinaire and her two fantastic daughters arrived just in time for dinner. Having my due date recorded at August 15th and having had every single baby at 39 weeks 5 or 6 days, we all joked that Tuesday would be the day.

Kim left a large slew of clients still pregnant, some OVERdue, and I knew that she needed to haul butt back home as soon as possible. However, I also knew by the time the boys were in bed that we'd have a baby by morning. I don't know HOW my body does this, but every single kid comes at the SAME time. It's weird. Truly weird.

I didn't say anything to anyone because I was afraid to jinx it. I'd been having contractions since week 34, some so bad toward the end, I thought labor might actually start. I didn't want to undo it if it was real. Silly, but still. Six weeks of contractions will make one do weird things.

We hung around, watched tv, and finally put ourselves to bed. Derek had blown up the pool and gotten the liner all ready earlier in the day, so we could rest easy, knowing it was all ready for water the minute I wanted it.

At 12:38am on Tuesday, August 14, Ezra woke up. That child is NEVER EVER going to consistently sleep through the night. Never.

He let me rock him for just a minute and went back to bed with no fuss.

And I was up for the duration. Contractions had started long before I'd gone to bed, but I had managed about an hour of sleep. Not great, but whatareyagonnado?

I woke Derek at about 1:45 to tell him "REAL DEAL!" and he got up and got things started. That man. I tell ya, he's a good one. I'm keeping him.

Next call was to Stacy, my dear friend and doula. I had asked Stacy before I'd even gotten pregnant this time around to come to the birth. We are really close, and without any real solid reason (after having had two home births with no doula present) I felt I'd need her.

Then we called Kim. Yes, she was sleeping in my guest room. But we called her so she could come whenever she wanted. It was funny.

Everyone wandered in eventually. I just did my thing until the pool was ready. (SOMEDAY I WILL HAVE A TANKLESS WATER HEATER... just saying.) Contractions weren't awful at all, really. Breathing mostly was all they required.

But.

Next came the worst part of baby-having The combination of baby's position, plus pain causes my extremities to basically STOP WORKING. Hands? Nope, can't use 'em. Arms? No, not really. Legs? Gone, other than insane cramping. Face? I can't even open my eyes or mouth.

 I can't say I enjoyed it ever in any of my labors and here it was again. So, everyone in the room got to help! Derek had to constantly (and by constantly, I mean, if he stopped for a nanosecond, I scolded him.) keep massaging my legs. Stacy and Kim were on hand-duty. It's the only thing that stops me from panicking.

It's really actually scary for me to not be able to do ANYTHING at all.

But, then after a pretty short while, baby shifted and I was fine. Ah, feeling. It was lovely. Contractions also took a big break which was welcome.

So, we chatted. Kim's daughters were also invited to the birth, so at some point, they had come in.

At one point, I asked what time it was and it was 3:30.

Contractions started picked up again.

And here is where all that fear that I had been carrying around for almost two years kicked into high gear.

I declared that I was going to be unable to continue in  the process. That I was terrified. That I DIDN'T WANT TO DO IT. And therefore would not be.

Now, I have talked many MANY women through this phase of labor: that end when you're pretty sure you're going to die.

And I know all the right things to say to get a woman to find within her, the strength to let it happen.

And it ALWAYS happens.

So, Kim and Stacy (and Derek) said ALLLLL the right things. The things I've said countless times to powerful, strong, scared, tired mamas.

Bless them.

I could not, however, seem to find the words to explain that I was not JUST SAYING IT. I wasn't just done. I wasn't just in transition, I really really really meant.

I was not going to be pushing this baby out.

No. Really.

It wasn't going to happen.

I couldn't. I wouldn't. It hurt too much. I wasn't interested. I had reached a point wherein I was literally incapable of doing so. I was completely paralyzed with the fear that it was going to take hours and hours  like it had with Ezra.

Oh and my friendly neighborhood vasovagal issues crashed down on me with full force again.

So, here I was: a mess.

A sobbing, crying, can't-feel-my-own-body-EXCEPT-for-contractions girl, in a fishy pool, yelling at everyone to KEEP RUBBING whatever various body part they'd been handed (Kim's daughter had been initiated into the doula-role at this point, pretty sure she had my hand) fully dilated, refusing to push. Kim checked and tried some "guided pushing" which helped ground me a little, but the fact was, I wasn't going to push.

I pushed a tiny amount so people would leave me the heck alone. That made my water break.

But I was not pushing this baby out.

So, I breathed. Everyone seemed fine with that decision. I breathed. That's all I did.

Kim told me to find the baby at one point, and I did, and she was a good knuckle up. Fine. Be up there. I didn't care. She could just stay up there.

I was not pushing this baby out.

Just as I settled into my new "Screw all of you. I am NOT DOING THIS" routine of breathing through contractions, something changed.

My body decided I was done.

With zero effort from myself, the biggest contraction I have EVER felt in FIVE babies took over.

I screamed. I swore. I tried to STOP IT and it wouldn't.

I felt the baby move move move down and out. My hands were around her and she was out.

One minute, she was nowhere near here. 10 seconds later. she was in my arms. 


5:34am, Tuesday, August 14th.

Ouch. And I cried. Ugly cried.

Everyone was a bit... surprised to see that baby. According to Derek who was the only one at a good angle TO see anything said she shot out like a cannon.

Yes. My nether regions agree with you.

But here she was.

For the record: I did not push her out. I wasn't kidding when I said I wasn't going to do it.

And the only thing I can think is that God knew I wasn't joking. He knew I really really couldn't do it. I wasn't being dramatic. I absolutely, as my little, ridiculous self couldn't. It was beyond me.

So, instead, SHE did it.

That was cool with me.

The boys had woken up EARLY today, of course, so Kim's girls had been regulated to babysitters and so, even though Kim TRIED to get them there in time, Miri had other plans, and they were right outside the door when she flew out. The boys came in just minutes later to see her and then went on their way to eat and watch cartoons.









 Eventually placenta came, and I got up and collapsed into bed.

The morning passed with weights and measures, and Derek and my poor Dad trying to figure out how to make the pump drain the stupid pool. They got it figured out, but I'm pretty sure my poor daddy is scarred for life.












It worked out. It was exactly what we needed. It was wonderful.

It TOTALLY sucked for a while, but that is pretty par for the course. My birth team was incredible. They never waivered from their "you can do this" stance, which is good because if they'd agreed with ME at any point, then I'm pretty sure that would have been the end of the "home" part of the birth. They were dear, kind, gentle, firm, helpful, smart, and present.

And I ended up needing every single one of them. I'm so thankful for them all.

It's hard work, this birthing babies thing, no matter what. Each kid is just so different. So, once again, here I am, learning, growing up and hopefully, being made into a better mother, person, and human.




Miri's stats again: 8lbs 2 oz, 20 1/4 inches long.

We all love her. And we're happy she's here!

And in case you missed it earlier : I did not push that baby out.