We Can Do Better!

 For the past—God! How long has it been, now? Nine months? 

 

For the past nine months, I’ve experienced theoretical anger on behalf of all the poor people stuck in nursing homes (and by stuck, I mean, “imprisoned.” Other appropriate terms might be “restrained,” “locked up,” “captive,” “trapped,” “kidnapped,” “confined,” and “incarcerated,” and a host of other terrible synonyms), separated from their loved ones, their friends, and the ability to leave.

 

Then, a few months ago, my grandma joined the ranks of the imprisoned; having worn out my aunt’s ability to care for her, and being unable to stay in my parents’ house (it has stairs, which don’t mesh well with her reduced mobility), her only option was to move to a beautiful, private room in a care home. And she was fine with it—right up until the moment when she found out that once moved, she wouldn’t be able to leave. Like, ever. And no one would be able to actually visit her in person (I mean, unless you include sitting on the other side of glass trying to shout to another person who is most likely wearing a mask and who won’t be able to hear you, nor you them into the definition of “in person.” But you don’t. I mean, right?). 

 

“You might as well put me in prison!” she shouted. I mean, I wasn’t there, but I know my Grandma’s temper well enough, so when my mom recounted the story to me…I knew how it played out. 

 

Naturally, my grandma was incensed. For weeks—again, my Grandma has an Irish temper (is that xenophobic?) and is definitely comfortable with carrying a grudge. But in the end, she didn’t have a choice. 

 

And that’s where my anger went from theoretical to personal. I know how awful it feels to not have a choice. To be railroaded into something that you are strongly averse to and to feel like you have no agency to say “No.” (Ask me about my surgery some time.)

 

My Grandma is 80-something years old. She has slowly declined over the past decade and now suffers from mobility issues and the onset of some kind of age-related dementia. She clearly is not able to live on her own. But maybe she doesn’t want to be locked in a private room in the back corner of a nursing home full of absolutely no one she knows or is in any way related to. Maybe, at 80-something, she’s lived long enough to make her own choices about how she wants to live—or, for that matter, die. I mean, I get it: there are other people in the home who may not want to put themselves at risk of contracting the Scamdemic. But then, why does Grandma have to live (and die) all by herself because they don’t want to put themselves at risk? Why is it she who has to give? 

 

I mean, we’re the human race who has conceived the iPhone, an artificial pancreas, surgery performed by robots, and yet we can’t somehow conceive of a way to allow those who wish to live out their lives in contact with their loved ones, whilst still receiving the care they need to do so while simultaneously allowing those who are truly fearful (or at risk) of succumbing to the Scamdemic to remain safe(ish)? 

 

Can we seriously not do that? Or have just become such a risk-averse society that the totality of the human race must now give way to the very lowest common denominator and give up the very things that give their lives purpose, meaning, and joy so that the rest of society can shutter themselves in their basement and cower from…Life. 

 

Because that’s pretty much the only alternative.

 

Epilogue: Since the writing of this post, I’ve had another intensely personal experience with nursing homes, and it’s certainly not made me any less disgusted at our current—for lack of a better descriptor—F’d up process. 

 

I’ll talk about it another time.

 

From Seed to Sauce

So my husband has this garden--it's huge and fantastic, and, with regards to green beans (am I the only person in the world who hates fresh green beans?) and tomatoes, it's quite prolific. Here's photo proof:

That's about 20 gallons of tomatoes. We've since bagged up 7 more gallons, and, I'm told, there are still more to come. We'll be eating a lot of tomato-y stuff this year...

With the tomatoes threatening to take over my freezer, I decided I should try to start using some of them, so last night for dinner, I decided to make spaghetti. Of course, I would make the sauce from scratch. With no recipe. Because I'm awesome. Awesome-ish.

I started the adventure around 5 pm, and figured I'd have dinner on the table around 6:30 or 7 pm. Yeah. Not so much. More on that, later.

I started with two bags of tomatoes, because I knew that they reduce quite a bit when they're cooked.

I'd been reading all over the internet that all I had to do with these frozen tomatoes was run them under hot water, and the skins would just slide right off. I was more than a little skeptical (nothing is EVER as easy as it's supposed to be, right?), but I threw them in the colander and ran them under hot water. Surprise, surprise! The skins really did just slide off. Seriously. It was kind of gross. But, anyway. So I de-skinned the tomatoes, and put them in a little pot on the stove, so I could start turning them into sauce. 

As the tomatoes thawed, I kind of squished them between my fingers to make them more sauce-y and less tomato-y. And, honestly, I was really hoping that I could get away with not having to drag my blender out. More on that, later, too.

I had originally just de-skinned one bag of tomatoes, because I wasn't sure if I needed two or not, for my sauce, but after not-very-long-at-all, it was quite apparent that I would definitely be needing both bags, so I ended up straining off the stuff that had turned to liquid from the original batch into a larger pot, and adding those chunks to the new batch of de-skinned to tomatoes to continue reducing.

This is the saucy stuff that I strained off from the first batch of tomatoes.

This is the seeds and the chunks leftover after I strained the sauce off.

I alternated between turning the heat up high, and turning it down to medium, because I really didn't know what I was doing (this was where I probably should have consulted google...), so I didn't know exactly how to get the stuff to reduce to the correct consistency. So after about 30 minutes of alternating heat and stirring, I decided to just turn it to medium and leave it alone for a while. 

 I had a good bit of watery sauce at this point.

 I decided to add some fresh basil from the spice pot in our window, since the sauce would need seasoning at eventually, anyway. I threw it in when I checked the consistency after about 45 minutes of simmering on medium heat.

This was an hour and a half into the process. I was nursing a very fussy baby, stirring a very watery sauce, and wondering when the heck this was going to start turning into magical spaghetti sauce. This is my "This is taking waaaay too long" face.

Here's when my 6-year-old came into the house bearing a gift: a teeny-tiny ladybug. Seriously, it was the smallest, ovaliest one I've ever seen. Look, it only has three little spots:

Oh, and my husband dropped these off for me, on my nice, just-cleaned counter:

We had words. 

While I was waiting for the sauce to finish, I fried up some ground beef to add to the sauce (we like our marinara meaty!). I like to cook a small amount of garlic, salt and pepper, and italian herbs right into my meat. It tastes super yummy that way! Meanwhile, my sauce was starting to thicken up to the right consistency:

It went from this...

To this...

And finally, to this. And it only took three hours!!

As I was stirring my sauce all this time, I kept pulling up these mushy, membrane-y tomato chunks from the bottom of my pot. I had this irrational belief that as the sauce thickened, these would melt away into a perfectly textured marinara sauce. Yeah. Didn't happen, so I had to dig around the top of my cupboards to find my blender, clean it up (holy dust, batman!), assemble it, and then pour my steaming hot sauce into it (holy hot tomato sauce burns, batman!). It worked great, though, and after a cycle or two through the blender, the mushy things were gone.

Now I had to season this stuff, which was harder than I imagined since, you know, I'd never actually made sauce straight from tomatoes before. I threw in a few stalks worth of fresh oregano leaves,

a little garlic, a lot of salt, some pepper, crushed red pepper, dried italian seasoning, some onion from the garden, and about a tablespoon of brown sugar. I should have tasted it before adding the sugar because, as it turns out, it was fairly sweet in its own right, and the sugar almost made it too sweet. The husband and I each sampled it when it smelled like a fair representative of spaghetti sauce, and we pronounced it, surprisingly, good. So, at this point, I added it to the browned beef, rinsed out my big pan and set the noodles to boil while I brought the meaty sauce to its final boil.

The sauce and noodles were then assembled in my favorite spaghetti casserole (which I discovered, as I was assembling, had a broken handle. I still used it. I'm not good at change). I smothered my spaghetti, as usual, with mozzarella, parmesan, fresh-ground salt and pepper, and a light dusting of italian seasoning. Then I popped it in the oven to bake at 400º until the cheese spilled over and set off the smoke detector. I mean, until I turned golden brown.

I'm not kidding about the cheese spilling over and setting off the smoke detector. Unfortunately...

And the final product was actually quite tasty. Surprisingly. We accompanied the spaghetti with fresh garden corn, garlic bread (a half-loaf of buttered french bread covered lightly with garlic, salt, parmesan cheese, and italian seasoning), and garden salad, featuring carrots, tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers fresh from the garden. (And yes, I know it's not really a salad once it's buried in cheese, croutons, and bacon bits, but that's the only way I know how to get those greens down me. So leave me alone about it.)

Don't worry, you won't be getting regular installments from my kitchen, I promise. Usually, I slap a frozen pizza on the table and call it good. Which is why I turned one little pot of sauce into an entire blog post--when you don't usually cook, you have to bask when you do, right?

Right?

My Birth Journey: The Beginning

This is the story of my oldest son, of how I became a mother, of lessons learned the hard way. It's a story I have told in my head, angrily, a million times, that I have borne on my body in the form of a scar, but have never written down until now. Now, it is time to tell it. This is the beginning:

When I met my obstetrician for the first time at twenty weeks (I had to switch doctors because my original obstetrician needed hand surgery), I was laying half-naked on an exam table with my feet up in stirrups. He entered the room, shoved his hand painfully up my barelynotvirginal vagina, and commented to me on my "narrow pelvic structure." When I mentioned my wishes for a natural birth (I was concerned about being induced at 38 weeks, because most doctors do not "allow" women with my pre-existing condition to go past 38 weeks), he told me that I probably shouldn't rule out a c-section. I scoffed, while secretly wondering if my pelvic structure really was narrow.

My son was born at thirty-seven-and-a-half weeks, after four hours of pitocin-induced hell that the labor nurses called "labor." (No, sweetie, I've done labor, and that wasn't it!) I can still see the doctor and the relief nurse huddled over my EFM strip, having barely acknowledged my existence, staring at those contraction lines scribbled electronically on the strip--giant, pointy peaks of contractions, with no valleys. At all. They translated to an hour-long contraction that had me doubled over in pain, begging for an epidural. And now the doctor and this nurse were standing in the corner of the room discussing those mountainous contractions on the EFM strip, and the corresponding dips in my baby's heart rate. "Non-reassuring heart tones," they called them, as they shaved my pubic hair, washed my belly with antiseptic, prepped me for surgery.

The operating theater was stark white, with rows of blazing white lights set in cadence between white ceiling tiles. I was strapped, spread eagle, to the operating table, my gown pushed up to my chest, and a giant blue sheet draped vertically below my breasts, lest I see my baby's birth. Someone kept covering my nose with an oxygen mask, and I kept shaking my head to get it off. Strangers poured into the room, gathering around me, gathering instruments, chatting. The doctor prodded my stomach with his scalpel and asked if I could feel that.

I could not.

I lay there, passively birthing my first child--crossing a threshold, transforming, becoming a mother--and I could not feel a thing. All I could think about was that this doctor had scheduled me, in his mind, for this room, seventeen-and-a-half weeks ago, because I am "high-risk," and he didn't want to bother with me. Maybe this was not true, but it would be difficult, these six years later, to convince me differently. I was just another girl to him. He was just delivering another baby. Another surgery. Another day. But this was my beginning; and I would never get another. Ever.

I don't remember seeing my son in the operating room, although I'm told that someone held him up for a millisecond as the doctor shouted, "It's a boy!" And then he was gone. This baby that I grew in my body, nourished with my blood, dreamed of, loved--I could not touch him--not first. He was wiped, weighed, measured, diapered, swaddled, and finally whisked away to somewhere with my husband. And I could not feel a thing.

There was a glass-fronted cabinet next to the operating table, and I discovered that, after half the strangers cleared out with the baby, I could watch the doctor replacing my organs and the yellow mounds of fat, stitching my uterus, and then stapling the flaps of my stomach together. I watched, fascinated, thankful to have something besides my failure to think about. The doc finally patted my shoulder cheerfully and said, "All done," and I was wheeled off to the recovery room to be monitored.

Three hours. It was three hours before I saw my child. Three hours, and then he was wheeled into my room, swaddled and laying in a clear plastic bassinet, surrounded by a battalion of nurses, followed by my husband. The first thing anyone said to me was, "If you want to try to feed him, you can for just a minute or two, but most cesarean moms don't breastfeed at first because it hurts their incision. Do you want me to get him some formula?" I was repulsed. I had failed so horribly at birthing this little child, that I determined that I would not fail at breastfeeding. And anyway, I still couldn't feel a thing.

The doctor sent us home a day early because I was healing so well. I struggled through the first weeks, months, lifetimes. I struggled to get my baby to breastfeed after two days of sabotage by nurses, doctors, and lactation consultants. I struggled to function on little sleep, to do household chores during those rare baby naps. I struggled to find a new normal in all of the upset. I struggled to adjust to my new, notsopretty postpartum body. I struggled to find my stride in a sea of wavering hormones. I struggled with a bit of postpartum depression. I struggled to feel like a mommy.

It galls me, now, to think back to the days following my gutting, when I was actually thankful to the doctor for "rescuing my baby." That I breathed a sigh of relief as he stood by my bed and said, "Well, it's a good thing we did that c-section; his cord was wrapped around his neck three times!" as though after the fact, he was glad he had come up with a reason for cutting me. And I was thankful. I truly loathe myself for that. It was weeks, maybe months, before I gathered up the courage to pull up my browser and look for information on birthing babies with cords around their necks. On labor induction and fetal distress. And I was appalled at myself when I read that what I had suspected but refused to acknowledge was most likely true: the doctor should not have cut me.

Next time--I vowed that I would have another chance. I vowed that I would not be bullied or pushed around again; I would not be submissive or uninformed. I vowed that I would not be cut again. Next time, I would feel. Everything.

It's not just texting and driving that's dangerous...

I rue the day I started texting. Really. I should have never opened that Pandora's box, but, sadly, I did. So now, at least once a week, I get to experience the horror of having to explain to someone why they got a weird, and often cryptic, text from me. And it's never just something simple like, "hey, hubs, could u pick up some mlk while you're at the store?" Oh, no. It's usually much, much worse. 

Just tonight, I tried to send my husband a text because he was upstairs in his office putting in some catch-up hours for work. I needed him to take the dogs out because the sheltie was threatening to release the entirety of her 50-gallon bladder on my living room carpet, and I didn't want that. Unfortunately, the baby had just recently fallen asleep (finally!) in my arms, and I was afraid that if I got up to take canine faucet out, I would disturb her and we would have another screamfest on our hands. My hands, actually. So the dog was being annoying; and I was being crabby, so I sent this text to my husband: "Idiot may need to go out, and eg is finally asleep, but barely." I thought I sent that text to my husband. Actually, though, I sent it (in all of its not-very-gracious sarcasm) to a very nice lady from my church, who, I'm sure, was utterly appalled to see me texting the word idiot to her. And, really, telling her I meant to send that to my husband didn't do anything to make the text any nicer, so either way, I came off like a--well, like an idiot. She and her husband are supposed to come by for a visit on Friday--if she doesn't call and cancel, now. Which I would totally deserve. 

The pièce de résistance, though, happened a week or so after the baby was born. We were in town, and I needed to pick up some more sanitary pads because of the after-birth bleeding. Since my girlie-bits were feeling a little bit gnarly (and not in a good way) that afternoon, I sent my ever-accommodating husband in to fetch them. I told him I'd text him what I wanted, instead of trying to tell him and hoping he'd remember. So I texted him: "always ultra thin with wings. Overnight. There are three little pad shapes in a box somewhere on the front of the package. You want the one with the biggest pad shape filled in. Those are the overnights." 

A few minutes later, I got a text from my husband asking me what kind to get. And that's when I realized. I'd sent my pad description text to a guy from craigslist who I was meeting later  to possibly buy something from. Yeah, after that text he never showed up for the meet. Lucky for him, he now knows what kind of pads I wear, and how to identify them. 

Insurance--Again!

Ugh. I just went through the huge (HUGE!) headache of applying for different insurance. Currently, I pay $$$ a month just to insure myself. On top of that, my insurance company requires me to pay out of pocket for my prescriptions, and then, eventually, they will reimburse me the 80% they're supposed to pay for those. So the new policy would only cost $ a month, and I'd have a flat fee at the pharmacy counter for a month's supply of medication, so I wouldn't constantly have to deal with the rising prices of my particularly expensive medication (incidentally, the cost of my medication has risen almost 70% in the last seven years--YOUCH!).

So I had a question regarding the letter of creditable coverage that I would need to get coverage for my pre-existing condition before the 365-day waiting period, and I was informed that I had been rejected. Rejected. Now, granted, I have a pre-existing condition, but it's well controlled. I've had a baby within the last 8 weeks, but I had the obligatory 6-week post-partum checkup that the new company was making me get in order to apply (which I now have to pay for with absolutely no benefit for having jumped through this hoop), and everything was perfectly normal. So why was I rejected? Because I'm too fat, apparently, for them.

Now, to give you some perspective, this is me when I got married:

According to the BMI charts (which the insurance company uses to determine whether or not a person is "too fat" to be insured), I was overweight in the picture. Now, really? Overweight? I was fit and healthy, and if I got any skinnier, I'd start looking frail. Granted, I don't look like this anymore (although, I'm working on it!), but, if I was "overweight" back then, imagine what I am now, with the remains from four children clinging to me (because, yeah--I need to lose some weight now)! Yeah. So that's super duper annoying. Well, more than annoying--insulting. I mean, here I am, 8 weeks removed from childbirth, already counting calories and exercising as much as I can, trying to BE as healthy as I can BE now, and GET as healthy as I can GET while I'm at it. And no one the heck cares. All that matters is the numbers. It's downright discouraging, and makes me feel just a little bit sub-human. 

Okay, and the fact that I have to keep paying for insurance that I can barely afford is really maddening, too. Why can't I have the same options as someone else, who better falls inside the little box allowed for us by the stupid BMI charts? Well, because I'm "fat," that's why. And fat people are stupid, and unhealthy, and lazy, and undesirable riffraff that need to be purged from society. Apparently.

How'm I Doing?

I've been asked this more than a few times since baby was born. With my mom here, it's been the easiest week-after-baby ever. And then she left. Honestly, I am a little out of my depth right now. We stopped at the store today, and I had all four kids by myself, and I was trying to buy wipes so I could change my toddler's diaper (conveniently, the entire brand new case of wipes that I bought three days ago were sitting unopened at home, an hour away). We got to the checkout line, and my preschooler started doing The Dance (mom's of preschoolers now what I'm talking about).
"I have to go potty!" she said.
"You just went!" I said, slightly exasperated. Her bladder has terrible timing. "Hold it till we get through the line."
"I caaan't!" she wailed. I could tell she wasn't joking, either.
"Hold it," I said, sternly. Because that totally works. Yeah.
"I caaan't!"
"You have to!"
I looked at her again, and panicked. "You have to hold it," I said, again. In case she missed it the first time. I texted my husband a desperate message, "Need help! Register 19. NOW!"
He never got it.
We managed to get through the line without an accident, and I rushed the toddler and my six-year-old to the bathrooms. I was less than patient, I'm afraid.
I pulled the baby car seat out of the cart basket, grabbed the toddler's hand, shooed the other two in, ordered the preschooler to go potty.
The baby started wailing, and the six-year-old started a round of 20-questions with me.
I plopped the toddler on the changing table, got his pants off, and realized I'd left the wipes in the cart outside the door. I sent the six-year-old out to get them. Meanwhile, the preschooler finished pottying, but couldn't reach the soap to wash her hands.
"Mooooommmmy! I can't reach the sooooaaaaap!"
"Just WAIT!" I said.
The six-year-old brought the wipes, so I finished changing the toddler. I turned to help my preschooler reach the soap, and the toddler shoved an entire roll of paper towels into the sink. The sink with a motion sensor that never turns on when you're washing your hands. Turned on; doused the entire roll.
The baby was still wailing.
We finished, and left to wait for my husband to meet us.
It totally sucked.

So, yeah. That's how I'm doing right now. However, this isn't my first time around this block, so, while I feel tired and overwhelmed and still a little postpartum-weepy, I also know that we will, eventually, equalize. Baby will stop feeding around the clock, the toddler will start sleeping, and I will get the hang of  how this works. In that sense, I'm doing okay. NO matter how dismal things seem today, I know they will get better.
That, and my mom stocked my freezer with meals, so I won't have to cook for, like, two weeks. Booyah!

The End; The Beginning

I made it to 42 weeks before I got impatient. My mom and my mother in law had been here for longer than they were hoping to be here, and we were all suffering from Antsinpants disease. Plus, I'd gone to 42 weeks, and I wasn't sure how comfortable I felt going much longer than that, especially with my pre-existing condition (doctors have this irrational-in-my-opinion fear that my placenta will age prematurely, and cause baby to be stillborn, but I can't find actual documentation of this happening in real life. However, due to their fear of this, people with my condition, who birth with a doctor, will be induced at 38 or 39 weeks, regardless of how the mom or baby is actually doing). So at 42w1d, I took castor oil to try to get things moving along.

I took the castor oil at lunch, and by 3p, I was having noticeably regular braxton-hicks. They continued through the afternoon, so after we tucked the older two kids into bed, my husband and I took the toddler, and went to our local Wal-Mart to walk around for an hour or so. The contractions got to the point at which walking was getting uncomfortable (plus, it was, like 11p and I was exhausted), so we packed up and headed home, expecting we'd have a baby that night.

When we got home, I was so tired that I just fell into bed, and didn't wake up until morning. I was disappointed to discover the next morning that, not only had I not had a baby, but my contractions had all but stopped. I showered and took a nap, and hoped they'd start up again, soon. They reconvened at supper, and, after a few hours of their being fairly strong and fairly regular, I texted my midwife to tell her that I thought I might be in labor. At bedtime, I nursed my toddler to sleep, fell asleep myself, and assumed I'd have a baby that night.

I woke up the next morning, still pregnant, and the contractions were on-again-off-again. I was frustrated and tired, and fed up with not knowing what was going on. I told my midwife that things had stalled again, but I'd started having bloody show, so I knew things were moving along, even if labor wasn't starting in earnest, yet. I had bloody show—gobs of it—all day that day. The contractions didn't stall out completely again, but they weren't regular, either. I went to bed completely exhausted, hoping I wouldn't have a baby that night. 

And now it was Friday—Good Friday, actually. I'd had prodromal labor for 3.5 days, I was tired, crabby, frustrated, and over all the uncertainty. The moms took the kids for a walk, and I decided to go to the store because I'd been stuck at home for the past three days. I got out, got some lunch, and watched a show while the house was empty. I contemplated what eternal pregnancy might feel like. 

That afternoon, the contractions picked up again. They were very far apart, but they were definitely stronger than they'd been. The moms went grocery shopping that night, while the kids, my husband, and I stayed home. The contractions were growing stronger still, but were still quite far apart. I started looking around on http://www.spinningbabies.com, to see if it had anything to say about prodromal labor. I found some information on a technique called "The Lift and Tuck," that they purported would help a stalled or inefficient labor. The post warned that it could make labor progress very quickly, but after almost four days of prodromal labor, I rolled my eyes and said, "Yeah. Right." I tried it through a few contractions, and it made them immensely more manageable, so I figured whether it helped improve my labor pattern or not, it made me more comfortable, so, by golly, I would do it anyway. 

The moms returned from grocery shopping, and I helped them put groceries away for a few minutes, but I had to keep stopping to work through contractions, so I went to bed. My toddler came in for milkies, but I sent him out because I wasn't ready for the super mega contractions that nursing him was going to bring on, unless I was going to get a sleeping toddler out of the deal, and he wasn't close to being ready to sleep. I sent him out to watch Mythbusters with daddy. The contractions continued to ramp up, and I suddenly realized I was grunting and pushing through them. Which freaked me out, because I wasn't yet ready to commit to the idea that I was even in labor yet—fool me once, and all that—so I definitely knew I shouldn't be feeling pushy yet. 

I had to pee (again), in fact, I was feeling like I constantly needed to pee through every contraction, which was driving me nuts, so I got up and sat on the toilet for a while. And tried to keep from pushing. Which totally sucked. So then I decided to heck with it, and pushed anyway—but I, apparently made this ridiculous compromise with myself, so I only kind of pushed. Which also sucked, and also freaked me out, because obviously I wasn't making progress if I was only kind of pushing, so then I was all, "Ohnoes! I'm not going to ever get this baby out!"

I went back to bed because I was tired, and my husband sent the toddler in, saying he was ready for bed now. So I nursed (and pushed!) until the toddler fell asleep, and then I decided to get in the shower for a little hydrotherapy. While I was in there, my husband came in and asked if he should maybe call the midwife. Still in denial that this could really be labor (yes, I am a little irrational in labor), I said, "No; things will probably slow down again after I go to sleep." He stood there for a minute, listening to me push and moan, and said, "I think I'll call her anyway." 

After a short conversation with the midwife, in which it was decided that she would head out, since she had a two-hour drive to our house, my husband came back in the bathroom and said, "The midwife wants to know how far apart your contractions are." He timed my moans and pushes for a few minutes, then called the midwife again, to tell her the contractions were coming about two minutes apart. "Hope you're ready to catch a baby," she said. He laughed. She's such a jokester.

I moved from the shower back to the bed, and pushed while lying on my side for a while, but that didn't  feel right—especially since I was still only kind of pushing. Finally, I said, "Oh, to heckwithit!" I threw a chux pad on the floor by the bed, knelt down, and gave a good push with the next contraction. My water broke. In my pants. Because I was still in denial that this was labor, so I'd neglected to remove them. Although, I wasn't in denial anymore.

I started pushing in earnest at this point; the contractions scooted closer and closer together, and got stronger and stronger. I had my husband performing counter-pressure duty on my lower back at this point. 

"Let me know when you have your next break," he said. "I need to tell the moms that you're in labor." 

"Don't you dare leave!" I gasped. "You'll never get back in time for the next contraction!" 

"I'll make it—I promise!"

"Fine—go NOW!" He ran off, and just made it back in time to slide into home and shove his fist into my lower back. 

The contractions were crashing one atop the other, now, and I was feeling pressure—the kind no pregnant woman wants to talk about. Ever. But this is a true story, and I'm sparing no details, so—.

"Tell me when you get another break," my husband said. "I need to get some more chux pads. And some toilet paper." He was so polite about it. "I know—I pooped! No breaks—just deal with it later," I said, as one contraction subsided and the next one started up. I had started feeling the "ring of fire" as I felt the baby's head push past my tailbone, and it totally confused me because a) I had just felt the head push past my tailbone, and b) that only happens when the baby's head is crowning. And I couldn't possibly be crowning yet. I still had hours of labor to go. At least, that's what my labor-addled mind was telling me. Plus, I wasn't in my "labor zone." 

With the next push, clarity came. I could feel the head pushing against the opening of my vagina. I was having a baby. Now. With only one chux pad and no toilet paper. "Here comes the head," I told my husband. "Where? Now?" he said. "Yes!" I shouted at him. He bent down for a closer look and said, "Gah! There's the head—what do I do?" "Catch it!" And so he did. "Body's coming," I warned him, now that the pressure from the head was gone. He caught it as it slithered out of my vagina. "It's a girl!" he said, as he passed our crying baby up between my legs. I pulled my tank top down and latched her on, still kneeling on the floor by the bed, the umbilical cord dangling between my legs. 

"Can you help me up on the bed?" I asked. My husband was rushing around the room, trying to clean blood out of the carpet, and wipe up the various bodily fluids that had missed the chux pad. He'd done astoundingly well at squelching his inner germaphobe while I was birthing. "Hang on—let me get this cleaned up." He lost his head a little in the confusion, but a little throat clearing brought him back, and he helped me onto the bed just as the placenta slid out. Which was good because, you know, only one chux pad, and all.

We called the time at 12:36a, although, we aren't for sure, because, I mean, when you're having a baby (somewhat unexpectedly), you're not going to look at the clock. The midwife arrived two hours later, and we all had a good laugh because—well, it seemed like the thing to do. Our baby girl was born at 42w5d, weighed 8lbs11oz, measured 21 1/4 inches long. 

That's my story.

Forty Weeks, Come and Gone

Today was my (estimated) due date. Which, of course, means absolutely nothing, since baby doesn't read calendars yet, and, could she (or he?), wouldn't give two craps about it, anyway. I know all of this, but I am still finding it difficult not to be impatient; not so much because it's my "due date," and baby is "late," but because my mom and my mother-in-law are here, waiting around for baby to show up, and baby isn't here. And, because, with all the bleeding and nonsense that was going on at the beginning of all of this, I really geared myself up for a miscarriage. We made it all the way through, and there's still this niggling fear that something will go awry. I know this is, well, possible —but unlikely. And still it persists.

Other than that, things are going well. I'm still hideously comfortable, for having carried this child in my uterus for such a very long, short time. My ankles have started swelling if I'm on my feet too long, but they go back down immediately once I'm off of them. I'm peeing all the time, but that's hardly even worth mentioning, since that's what pregnant women do. I'm still tired all the time, but since the moms have been here, I've been able to rest some, without worrying about the kids doing anything rotten. The moms have been watching the kids, cooking for us (they even stocked our fridge and freezer, and are making meals to freeze so I don't have to cook right away after they leave).

So there you have it. We'll see when baby decides to come, and I will try to be patient.

Unfortunately, patience is not one of my life skills.

March

The reality of this month is (sort of) beginning to set in. I'm still waiting for nesting to show up, which means that it probably won't, and my mom and my mother-in-law will be forced to shower in nasty bathrooms. Sorry, ladies. I've been extra crabby with the kids lately, due, in part to being tired all. the. time. And, due in part to trying really hard to keep the house picked up until baby comes (yeah. Every try this with three little kids around?). I'm working on the crabby thing.

I'm now completely ready for baby to come--car seat is here, newborn diapers are all ready to go; just waiting for baby. I'd be lying if I didn't say that I've felt more impatience this time around than I did last time around. I think that might be because I was really expecting my last baby to be very late, like his sister was, so I wasn't expecting labor to show up the day before I was due. This time, I'm definitely getting antsy (and I'm only 38.5wks!) already. I need to find stuff to do before baby comes. Besides cleaning the bathrooms.

Can't Believe I'm Almost There!

I am in my 37th week, now. It's hard to believe that the end is near (well, probably not that near; if this pregnancy follows my previous patterns, I have anywhere from 4 to 6 weeks left, but—I can see the finished line, you know?) I have most of my birth supplies, now; I still need to purchase a car seat (um, yeah. I should probably get on that, huh?) and a throw-away bottom sheet to put on the bed for D-Day, but other than that, I think I'm all set in that department. I bought a little boy and a little girl sleeper last week, so we'll see which one gets returned. My mother-in-law will be coming out, probably beginning of March, or so, and my mom will come a week or so after that. I'm kind of looking forward to getting some naps in, and having a few extra sets of hands to help out with the kids—I have been so tired lately, it's just really hard to get stuff done. I'm still waiting for nesting to kick in, and I'm afraid that I may just miss it this time. Which is kind of disappointing, because my house could really use a good scrubbing.

In other news, I'm trying to figure out what to do with my still-nursing-really-frequently toddler. I'm not planning to wean him, but he nurses waaaay more than my older two did by now, and I'm not sure that I'll be up to cluster-feeding a newborn, while my toddler throws a tantrum on the floor because I'm not cluster-feeding him, too. And bedtime is going to be a challenge if he doesn't at least partially night-wean soon (which he's showing no interest in even considering, right now). We may have to cut back a little, against his wishes. I don't know how that will work out, though. My four-year-old is down to one or two sessions a week, now, and only at bedtime, so I'm not terribly worried about her. I've been thinking of throwing her a weaning party to get her to finish up, but I'm not sure if she's completely ready, yet. She still asks for milkies fairly often at bedtime (our new rule is that she only gets it if it's not past bedtime). First-world problems, huh? I suppose we'll get it all figured out when the time comes that we have to. And I'll just have to not think about it until then.

Thirty-Three

Today, I am thirty-three completed weeks pregnant. I'm astonished, actually, that we've made it this far, considering our rough start. As far as actual pregnancy complaints, I'm pretty sure this has been my very, very easiest pregnancy thus far; which is information that I don't quite know what to do with, honestly. I have not had any swollen ankles so far, no heartburn to speak of (oh noes! Am I going to have a bald baby?!), no sciatic/back/leg/round ligament pain, no discomfort of any kind. The only thing I've really had to deal with is exhaustion, which is complicated by the fact that I'm also suffering from pregnancy insomnia. But, really, of all the things that could be going on right now, as a pregnant mom with three young kids, I'll totally take the exhaustion/insomnia. I mean, I'm a bit crabby, and it's hard to get much done during the day, but I can function if I have to. I'll take that.

Maybe 2013 Isn't Completely Unsalvageable

I would be remiss to not post this update, after all the whining and carrying on I've been doing lately. So I got a call from Behemoth Hospital yesterday, telling me they had received my nasty letter, and were willing to negotiate payments with me. Unfortunately, the lowest they could go was about $20 above my current budget. The (very, very nice) lady on the phone also informed me that she had plugged the information I'd provided into her system, and was pretty sure that we are poor enough to qualify for a bill reduction, or, possibly a total bill cancellation. Which, you know, would have been nice. But the thing is that we used the services. And we can pay the bill. If we can make monthly payments for, oh, a year, or so. But we can pay, so, of course, we should pay.

So we told her this. So we negotiated up and down a little, and she said she would recall any portion of the debt sent to collections, and, it'll hurt for a few months, but I think we can make the payments, and then, when our tax return comes in March (I hope it comes!), we can pay it off and be done with it. The lady told me to make sure to call them if we can pay it off then, and they will give us a Paid-In-Full Discount. Which, of course, I won't turn down.

So I don't know if my nasty letter worked, or what, but I didn't have to give ridiculously private information to them, and I was able to negotiate workable payments, and, I hope now this issue is in the past, and I can move on. I hope.

Choice

Choice. Everybody talks about it like it's something we're entitled to, but the minute you try to actually choose something, everyone gets all up in your business and tells you that You can't do that! For instance, with all this bruhaha going on with the hospital goliath in our city, I am looking for a non-affiliated FP who can provide care for me for my pre-existing condition. I called a few places today (after having been sent to collections again, you could say that I am highly motivated). I spoke to one nurse who was supposed to take my medical history, and then give the info to the doctors in the practice, who would then decide if they can take on a new patient. So I gave her my information: my pre-existing condition, the fact that I'm currently pregnant (I made it very clear that I am not looking for prenatal care, or any pregnancy-related care), how I heard about their practice, when I'm due, and who my pregnancy care provider is. I told her that I was receiving care from a midwife and that we were planning a home birth.

I got a call later that afternoon telling me that because I have this condition and am choosing to home birth, they cannot provide any sort of medical care for me ("But best of luck with all of your future endeavors, etc., etc.,"). Seriously? Because they don't agree with my choice to home birth, they are not going to help me. Now, obviously, I know that choice goes both ways, and they're free to choose not to help me if they don't want to, but it's just a little aggravating that I'm never the one that gets to make any choices here. And it's not just with this. I mean, the whole reason we started home birthing in the first place was because I was given no choices my first pregnancy (there are standard-of-care protocols for people with my condition, and regardless of a person's individual situation, these protocols must never be deviated from, even if it puts the individual in danger, or causes poorer outcomes). I ended up with a c-section because the OB who insisted on inducing me at 37.5 weeks had the nurses turn the pitocin up so high that it sent my baby into fetal distress (more on that another time). Then, when I became pregnant with my second baby, none of the doctors in my area were willing to support my choice for a vbac. So I found a home birth midwife who would, and did it myself, thankyouverymuch. Which ended up being the awesomest thing ever.

During my third pregnancy, people pretty much left me alone, which was actually refreshing, and I was feeling pretty good about this whole choice thing.

Fast-forward to this pregnancy: the care provider that provided early prenatal care to me in my last pregnancy informed me that she was no longer able to provide prenatal care because I birth at home. "Take your business elsewhere, fool!" So then I called around to other care providers at the other goliath hospital system in town, and was told that I could only be seen by actual OBs; no NPs, no CNMs, no FPs. When I went into be seen for my first visit (which, ironically was with an NP, because everyone sees the NP first at this system), I was criticized for choosing home birth. Which, you know—I can handle criticism.

So, now, it's this. I can't choose my care provider. I can't choose home birth. I'm supposed to bow down and let everyone take care of me. Because, last I checked, people taking responsibility for their health is the best way to, you know, be healthy. But apparently, it's frowned upon in the medical community, and all doctors are spoiled brats who take their toys and go home unless you play their way.

At least, that's the way I choose to see it. Because, darn it, that's one choice they're making it easy for me to make.

Well, I Guess I Know Where I Stand, Now, Anyway

I got sent to collections. Again. For $10. A scant three weeks after I was sent to collections the last time. Like, somewhere in there I was supposed to make a third payment to them (during a one-month period)? Like, apparently they didn't like my nasty letter, and just sent me to collections without calling or notifying me in any way so we could discuss things further? Like, even though I technically fulfilled all the requirements that I was supposed to fulfill for their little pay-your-bill-in-smaller-increments thingy (they demanded all kinds of info from me, and told me to send a letter of explanation for any information I did not provide. Which, I most certainly did), and even though they technically are not supposed to send me to collections when I'm working out a payment plan with them (or so I'm told by the billing CSRs), apparently, we're both playing passive aggressive, and I'm the one getting screwed over by it.

It really is frustrating, actually. I mean, I feel totally powerless, because I'm sure that technically they have every legal right in this situation, and I have none (and, if I do have any legal rights here, it's not like I can afford a lawyer to find out that I do), so they're bullying me into doing something that I really can't do. Note to Sanford Health System: just because you have a legal leg to stand on, doesn't mean you ought to go around standing on it. Stop being a bloated, bureaucratic, feelingless automaton, and recognize that, you know, you're dealing with individuals here, with individual situations. We are not patient numbers.

So, anyway, I'm going to fight this the best way I can (and they darn well better take that $10 bill back from collections!), and I am going to take my business elsewhere, because I refuse to pay for crap service, and I absolutely, positively refuse to be bullied.

And now, I am angry.

Thanks for Nothing, Folks!

The third trimester exhaustion has hit me. Hard. My husband keeps subtly suggesting that maybe a little exercise would boost my energy levels a bit. I disagree. Plus, it's hard to muster up the energy to exercise, when I can barely muster up the energy to go pee. Again. Which is—serious—to say the least. Other than the exhaustion, though, I've not really had any third trimester symptoms; no swelling, no difficulty breathing (well, except for when I'm trying to chase the toddler up the stairs), no real discomfort. Well, maybe insomnia, but, since I'm exhausted, anyway, who really cares. Right?

Other than that, I'm embroiled in a battle with the billing department of the hospital from which I receive all my medical care for my pre-existing condition. As in, I have, like a $500 bill running with them right now, and they sent me to collections over $45. Which I was totally incensed about, because I'd been making monthly payments to them, like, every single month this year, and a couple of months I actually made two payments to them. So I called them to square all of that up, and I was told that the remainder of my bill would be sent to collections if I didn't set up a payment plan. But when I tried to set that up, they wanted waaaaaay more money per month than I can afford. I mean, we keep it cheap at our house. As in, we don't do cable or Netflix, my husband's cell is paid for by his employer, and I have a cheap no-contract phone so that I have a way of keeping in touch with civilization in case I'm stranded out in the middle of nowhere with three kids while making the 30-60 mile drive that I have to make whenever I need things like groceries, gas, and medication. As in, if I wanted to make these obnoxious monthly payments, I'd have to take them out of my grocery budget. Which, I ain't doing.

Now, let me explain: I've been receiving services from this hospital for the past seven years. In seven years, I've never, ever, ever not paid my bill. Ever. But, apparently, they've totally redone their billing system, and the new one has no long-term memory. Or something. So the CSR said that if I wanted to negotiate lower payments, I would have to fill out an application. Fill out an application, folks. Like, regardless of whether I fill out an application, I can't pay more than what I've offered to pay. But I said, fine, so she mailed it out to me.

Yeah. I got the "application" in the mail a few days later, and, let me tell you: my mortgage application didn't even require as much information as this "application" required. Plus, they wanted the last two pay stubs of every adult member of the household, and permission to check our credit. Um—let me think—NO. So I was totally insulted, because the little letter that they sent with the application was totally demanding and demeaning ("We don't trust you or believe you, so prove that you're too poor to pay the monthly amount of money that we think you should pay."), and the application was ridiculous. As I said, I've been making payments on my bills for the past seven years, and I've always paid them off. Dude, I'm not "applying" for financial aid or bill reduction. I'm simply telling them that I can't pay the monthly amount that they're demanding; here's what I will pay.

So, instead of enabling this pettiness, I sent them their empty application back, along with a nasty letter (they said that if I didn't send the requisite information, it had better be accompanied by a letter of explanation—well, they asked for it!) explaining just what I thought of their system and their demands and their overall suckiness. Or something. This is what I said:

To whom it may concern:

Last week, I received a very unexpected letter from [collection agency name], informing me that [hospital name] had turned my account over to them for collections because of a $45.77 outstanding balance. I immediately called [hospital name]'s billing department regarding the letter because not only had I been making monthly payments on my [hospital name] bills for the entire year (I have enclosed bank records that indicate this), but I had received no phone calls or any indication that [hospital name] was somehow not satisfied with my payments. When I spoke to the CSR in billing, I was informed that [hospital name] has been implementing a new billing/patient records system, and that my account had not had any payments made on it for several months and was past due. The CSR also informed me that the new system automatically sends all past-due accounts to collections. Apparently, because I had been paying off a bill (that I had received prior to the bill sent to collections) from the old system, the monthly payments that I had been making were completely irrelevant. I paid the balance that had been sent to collections over the phone, but I was absolutely insulted that my bill was sent to collections at all, despite my best efforts to make payments, and I was beyond frustrated that your system, apparently, has no actual person reviewing whether an account really needs to be sent to collections.

I called your billing department again, later that day, and spoke to a different CSR about setting up a payment plan so that the remainder of my bill would not be sent to collections, but the CSR informed me that I would have to make the first payment immediately, and, furthermore, the minimum payment that your system would have allowed me to make was much, much more than I can afford. I told the CSR that I could pay a lower amount, and she said that I would have to fill out a form, provide copies of my last two pay stubs, and would probably want to provide information regarding my monthly expenses. I agreed to do this, so she mailed the form to me.

I received the form in the mail on Friday, 12/21, and as I looked over it, I was again completely insulted. The letter accompanying the form was extremely demeaning and petty, and the information that your form is demanding I supply is completely irrelevant to the situation. My mortgage company didn't even require all of the information that your form requires, when my husband and I were applying for a home loan. I can possibly understand asking for every minute detail of my financial situation if I were applying for financial aid or a bill reduction, but that's not the case. I am simply trying to pay my bill—in its entirety—in increments that are affordable to my family's budget. You do not need to know who the lien-holders are on my mortgage and car loans; you don't need to make inquiries into my credit. None of this information will get my bill paid any faster than I am able to pay it, and it is a gross invasion of my privacy.

If you review my payment records, you will see that in the seven years that I have been receiving healthcare services from [hospital name], I have never once failed to pay my bills. And let me be very clear: I will be paying this bill—all of it. I will pay it as quickly as I can, in increments that are amenable to my family's budget. You can take my word for that, you can let my seven-year bill-payment record speak for itself, or you can take this letter as a written contract. But I will not be providing the very personal financial details that your insulting form is demanding. I have enclosed my family's monthly budget for 2012, and while I object strongly to providing this information to you, I have also enclosed copies of my husband's last two pay stubs. If your billing system can't work with this, then perhaps it's time to reintroduce a little human reason, understanding, and compassion to your new system.

If you would like to discuss my account further, you are welcome to contact me.

I may have just totally ruined my really, really good credit. But, dude, it felt so good to mail that letter.

Updates on That Which I Promised Not To Mention Any More

So we had that big, mid-term ultrasound yesterday, where they check baby all out, and you can see all of the bones and internal organs, and all of that fun stuff. Have you ever tried keeping three kids entertained while you peek at indiscernabletothem pictures of the baby in Mommy's tummy? Yeah, me neither. Candy works, though. I mean, I'm not all about giving my kids candy, but I've been known to do desperate things sometimes. So we settled them all in with candy, and checked out the baby's spine, brain stem, kidneys, fingers & toes, leg and arm bones, eye (sockets), umbilical cord, and, for daddy, gender.

So baby looks really good, which means I got to sit down with the doctor afterward and tell him, "thanks so much for the help; we'll take it from here." Which, he actually handled well. He told me that he was obligated by hospital policy to inform me that my decision to birth baby at home does not meet current standards of care ("But," he said, "You can obviously do whatevertheheck you want!"), which he documented, and then wished me luck in all of my future endeavors. And told me to get in touch if I needed anything else. So, overall, I have been fairly impressed with my interactions with this doctor. No hard-sell to birth at the hospital, or anything like that. I don't know if he just saw me as a hopeless cause (a woman walks into the office with three kids, two of whom have been born at home, you're not liable to get anywhere trying to convince her to go back to the horrors of hospital birth), or if he's just really a nice, easy-going doctor, but...I was actually mildly impressed. Which, you know, says a lot.

So baby is measuring a few days behind, but still well within normal range, which means that I may actually be pushing out a newborn instead of a full-sized toddler. Comforting news for my nether regions. My placenta is in a good position--toward the back, not near my previous c/s scar, not near the cervix, so that was very good news, too.

They tried to get one of those creepy 3-D ultrasounds of baby's face (am I the only one who totally gets weirded out by those?), but baby wouldn't move her hands away from face at all. Camera shy, apparently. Daddy got a peek at (her?) gender, but he's keeping it a secret because I don't want to know. Obviously, my use of the feminine pronoun will clue you in to my personal gender suspicion. But I could be totally wrong.

Our little addition: nicknamed Macadamia

Nursing in Public, Sunday-Style

My sister and I visited a church this weekend; it wasn't a church that either of us would ever, ever attend. Ever. But we both went to the school associated with this church, years and decades and lifetimes ago, and we still know and love a lot of people there.

So we sat up in the balcony with our two and three kids respectively, while the pastor stood up at the pulpit and made it very clear that noisy/crying/distracting children should be immediately removed from the service, as we would not want to hamper the work of the Holy Spirit. Who is, apparently, a lot less powerful than I always gave Him credit for. So five minutes into the song service, my eighteen-month-old started talking. Loudly. So I took him to the designated "cry room," which had been pointed out to me the moment I stated that my kids would be sitting in the service with me. Yes, even the baby.

The cry room was--weird. There were no less than thirteen people in there, several of them men. The chairs were arranged in rows, facing the front of the room, but no one was at the front of the room. The sermon was being piped in, and everyone was sitting in the rows of chairs, facing the empty front of the room, listening to the sermon. I was one of two people with a child. I sat in the back, next to a lady that I had known when I went to the school, and started to discreetly nurse my baby.

"Do you have a blanket or something to cover up with? That doesn't bother me, but there are men here."

"No, and my baby won't nurse under a blanket."

"Here, I'll get you a blanket from the nursery." She laid her coat over my baby's head and stepped out.

My baby immediately threw her coat on the floor.

We stopped nursing, and tried our luck walking around in the lobby. We ran into her as we were leaving--I told her my baby was done, and she handed me the blanket anyway. "The nursery has little curtained rooms in it if you need to nurse again."

Honestly, I was annoyed. Probably incensed. I was nursing my baby in the only place I knew to nurse him (and really? I'm supposed to shut myself up in a little curtained room every time my baby wants to nurse?). I was covered, but apparently, because that covering was a tank top, my shirt, and my baby, instead of a giant flannel blanket, I was being dirty. Immodest. Disgusting. Probably causing men to have lustful thoughts.

In the five-and-a-half years that I have been nursing, I have never encountered negativity while nursing in public until now. And of course, it had to be in a church, because obviously, God hates breasts. Especially those used for nourishing a baby.

A mom nursing her infant as discreetly as I was nursing.

A Little Too Much Help

So I got a phone call from the doctor's office on Thursday, telling me that they wanted me to start on antibiotics because of the results of my urinalysis (I had an appointment on Monday and had to pee in a cup for them while I was there). I assumed I had a UTI, so I called them back on Friday to find out more about it. Turns out that it's not a UTI. I tested positive for Group B Strep, so they wanted me to start on antibiotics to treat that. So I asked them why they were going to treat that now, when I'm only ten and a half weeks pregnant ("Isn't that something that you usually give abx during labor for?"). They said they wanted to treat it now, and then, of course, they would have me on abx during labor if my 36-week swab came back positive also.

So, first of all, I'm not going to be getting that 36-week swab because I stop seeing the doctor around 24 weeks, after I have the "big" ultrasound. And, if for some horrible reason, I did have to go have my baby at the hospital, I would not consent to abx during labor for gbs. The chances of my baby getting sick from it are small, and there is conflicting evidence as to whether abx actually help the baby, and, in the event that the baby does get sick, receiving abx during labor can make the gbs resistant to abx, thus increasing the risk that the baby will die. So there's that.

Also, gbs tends to colonize transiently. As in, I may test positive today, and negative tomorrow. So why would I subject myself and my nursing toddler to unnecessary antibiotics in my 11th week of pregnancy, with no apparent benefit?

When I thought it was a UTI, I asked the nurse which antibiotic they had prescribed. My husband is allergic to amoxicillin, and on the off chance that the baby has inherited his allergy, I don't feel comfortable taking that antibiotic while nursing. So then, I get a call back from them a little while later, and they told me that they decided to wait until next month (my next visit with the doctor), to treat the gbs. So it's obviously not all-fire important to treat it now, so why were they rushing me to the pharmacy to treat this right now!! if it's not that big of a deal?

Then, while I was on the phone with the nurse, she also pointed out that I'd had glucose in my urine, and asked if I'd been watching my blood sugars, and she said it in a very implicating way. And you know what is annoying about this? It's that when I really needed their help, they were all like, "Screw you, lady!" and now that I just want to go about my pregnancy, they're determined to get all up in my business. Well, I'm telling you now: butt out.

What You *Really* Need for Breastfeeding

So I had another "first" prenatal with another doctor the other day, and they sent me home with another prenatal pack with info for new moms. I was actually semi-impressed with this pack--there was only one publication that contained formula advertising in it, and I couldn't find anything that was actually published by formula companies. It appeared that the hospital self-published much of their materials, and contained some fairly good information. Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure none of their doctors have actually read said materials, because when I birthed there five-and-a-half years ago, they pretty much didn't do any of the good stuff. Which is why I now homebirth. Different topic, though. Anyway.

So they included a copy of the Babytalk pregnancy planner, which I ignored at first because a)most mainstream pregnancy publications suck, and b) this is not my first time around the block. But, yesterday, in a fit of procrastination, I picked it up. And it was every bit as appalling as I'd expected.

First thing a saw when I opened it was a full color double page spread ad for Similac. Now, I know they have to have advertising, and I know that lots of moms formula feed, and I know that since breastfeeding is free, no one can really make any money advertising breastfeeding, but, still. I'll give them a pass on that, though, for the above reason, and because it's a mainstream publication, and all mainstream publications advertise formula, and all kinds of crap that no one actually needs or use for their babies, but it makes you all warm and fuzzy feeling when you flip through it as a hormonal pregnant woman, so whatever.

What caught my eye, and, consequently, my temper, though, was the breastfeeding supply list. It just screamed "I was written by someone at the formula company!" Here is what the spring/summer 2012 edition of the Babytalk pregnancy planner says you need in order to start breastfeeding (this list can be found on page 39):

• breast pump This purchase can make or break your nursing experience. If you're going back to work full time, you'll need to buy or rent a super-efficient (but pricey) double electric pump. But if you're staying home, a much less expensive manual pump may be fine.
• freezer storage containers or bag 
• 4 to 6 bottles
• nursing pads 
• nursing pillow
• nipple cream
• 2 nursing bras for now (your size may change when your milk comes in)
• can of formula in case of emergency
 (it's always good to have one on hand!)

Okay, so here's the deal. Really, the only thing you need to get started breastfeeding, is a baby and a boob. That's it. It's not complicated. It's not expensive.

You don't need a breast pump. Not at first. If you're planning on going back to work at some point, then yes, you'll need a breast pump. But you don't have to go out and drop $250 on a Medela before you've left the hospital in order to succeed at breastfeeding. If you are having supply issues, your hospital can rent you a hospital grade pump to help your milk come in (and often, your insurance will pay for it). You can also hand express (the first time I tried hand expression, I was actually shocked at how effective it was. So effective that I had clean milk off the opposite wall when I was done). You can use a "much less expensive manual pump" if necessary. Really, though, if you're having supply issues, your best bet is not to go out and buy a breast pump, but to contact your local LLL representative and get help. Immediately.

Obviously, if you don't pump, you don't need freezer containers or bottles, since those would be absolutely useless to your breastfeeding baby. So I'm really not sure why these are on a list of things you need to breastfeed. Maybe they mislabeled the list for "Things You Need for Pumping."

Before my oldest was born, I bought a huge box of nursing pads, because all the lists told me that my breasts would turn into geysers after my baby was born, and I would soak through my clothes, and embarrass myself. I never used them. Not one. Granted, I know some women who do leak, so I'm not saying you absolutely, positively will. not. need. them. I'm just saying, wait. Find out what your body does with milk before you buy stuff that you won't ever use. Like I said before, the only things you need to start nursing is a baby and a boob.

Nursing pillows are--well, I hated mine. Hated it. It didn't sit right, and the baby would slip down between me and the pillow, and it never quite propped him up high enough, and it was so bulky that I could never take it anywhere, and at home I had free access to all kinds of pillows (which I could arrange to work much better than my nursing pillow did), so it was totally a waste of however much money the lady who gave it to me spent on it. Again, I know some women who love their nursing pillows. Wouldn't go anywhere without them. Can't imagine breastfeeding without it. That's fine. But wait. To get started breastfeeding, all you need is (let's hear it, ladies) a baby and a boob.

Nipple cream, of course, falls into the same category as nursing pillows and nipple pads. When I was first starting out breastfeeding, my nipples did crack and bleed and hurt like holy heck. I honestly didn't find that nipple cream helped me (it was a latch issue, and often is. Breastfeeding should. not. hurt.). Half the time I forgot I even had it, so, whatever. Some women probably find it really helpful, so I'm not saying it's not something that you may need. I'm just saying that, well, first of all, if your nipples are cracked and bleeding, or constantly sore, contact your local LLL representative and get help. And second, all you really need to breastfeed is--yeah. You get it. Right?

Nursing bras I can actually understand. I mean, I don't wear them anymore because I can't find one that's comfortable that I don't have to mortgage my house to pay for, and I've found it's quite easy to slip my boob over the top of my regular bra, and pop it back in when I'm done. I'm an experienced breastfeeder, though, and I'm not positive I could have done that with my first couple of kids. Also, I may have ill-fitting bras. But, a nursing bra is not something that you need in order to start breastfeeding. I mean, I don't know about anyone else, but the first two, three, four years weeks after my babies are born, I don't even wear a bra. At all. So I certainly don't require the services of a fancy, expensive bra in order to feed my baby with my boob.

A can of formula is something that a beginner breastfeeder (or any breastfeeder) should never, ever, EVER have on hand. Those first couple weeks of breastfeeding your first baby are, well, hard. I won't sugar-coat that. Depending on how much support you have, you may have people telling you that baby is starving every time he screams, and that you need to top him off with formula to make sure he's getting enough. You'll obsess over diapers ("Is this poop the right color? Is he pooping enough?"). You'll cry because you just fed this kid six minutes ago, and he wants to nurse again. It's a mountain, and if you're going to breastfeed, you'll have to scale it, at least once. Probably. And let me tell you, a can of formula will hold you back. It will sit on your shelf and taunt you. It will remind you of how inept you are at feeding your baby with your boob. It will ask you if you know for sure that your baby is eating enough, and laugh when you stammer back that you th-th-think so. It will glow in the dark when you get up for those great many middle of the night feeds, and remind you that statistically, formula-fed babies sleep for longer stretches of time (it will not elaborate on whether this is actually safe, however). It will sabotage you. 

Incidentally, I find it (kind of) funny that the list of breastfeeding necessities is eight items long. Eight things that you're supposed to need in order to start breastfeeding. You know how long the formula-feeding list is? Six items. Six. Because last I checked, you need a lot more than a baby and a boob to formula feed.

Breastfeeding is--amazing. I've been doing it non-stop for five-and-a-half years, and I'm currently tandem nursing (while pregnant. Do I earn points for that?). I know whereof I speak, ladies. It may take some effort to get started, it may take some fortitude, some determination, some bull-headedness, some focus. But really, it just takes a baby and a boob. That's it. Now go for it!

Sackloth and Ashes

In the circles in which I grew up, the name Jack Hyles was big. Really big. Really, really big. If we had been catholic, he would have been the Pope. If we had been Mormons, he would have been Brigham Young. We were not, of course, associated with any of those sinful cults, so he was simply called "The Founder of Fundamentalism." Or something. His church, First Baptist Church of Hammond, was the bastion of fundamentalism. Books and sermon tapes poured out of our Mecca at an alarming rate, telling us how to live, how to raise our children, how to dress, how to be good, upstanding Christian men, and meek, submissive Christian women. I remember a great many hard-bound books on my mom's bookshelves bearing the names of Jack Hyles and his family members as authors. When I was in middle school, my school (it was a Christian school, of course) took a part-day field trip to a local church to hear The Man himself speak. He was well past his prime by then, and I don't really remember much about him or his sermon, other than the fact that for some reason, I thought he looked a lot like my grandma on my mom's side. On the bus ride there and back, I heard stories of stage antics in which he threw microphones, jumped off pews and pulpits, yelled, screeched, hollered, slammed books down, and did all manner of strange and wondrous things. He didn't do any of that this day, and I must admit, I was mildly disappointed, but he was an old man by then, so I understood. Anyway, he was a really, really, really big deal.

I remember, as a teenager, hearing whispers here and there about The Man, and some supposed sexual forays. My mom viciously discounted these rumors and forbad me to speak of them, saying they were stories made up by jealous men who were trying to destroy the Cause of Christ®, and the great name of Jack Hyles. I accepted this, mostly because I was young and dumb, and honestly, I didn't know enough about sex to really understand the significance of this accusation, other than that it was a Bad Thing. Later on, in college, when I was old enough to think for myself, and understand the import of such stories, I read Robert Sumner's expose of Jack Hyles, "The Saddest Story I've Ever Told," in The Biblical Evangelist. I delved further into Jack Hyles' teachings, writings, life, and family, and his church, First Baptist Church of Hammond (FBCH). I admit it was mostly morbid curiosity, since by this time, Jack Hyles had been dead for some years, but it was also somewhat of a Truth-Finding mission, since I was going through a crisis of faith, of sorts, and wanted to know if all that I had been taught as a child was based on actual Bible, or on some sexual deviant that got his kicks out of making up crazy rules that people had to follow in order to be "godly."

The truth, as I discerned it eventually, fell somewhere in between these choices, although closer to the crazy side than to the biblical side. I've had to reconsider a lot of what I believed about God and His demands, but honestly, I'm totally okay with that. God makes a lot more sense, now that I know Him better. Mom never has come around to the Truth about The Man, or about God (as I see it), so we just don't talk about that stuff. Maybe someday.

Anyway, I say all of that to say that I've happily been out of that world for quite some time now, and all of a sudden it all came crashing back into my reality this past week, when The Man's predecessor and son-in-law, the newest Archbishop of Fundamentalism, Jack Schaap, was ousted from FBCH for some kind of sexual mishap with a teenage girl. And this is what I want to talk about. Because obviously, the Schaap-haters are out en masse vilifying him, posting YouTube links to every crazy sermon and sound-bite he ever made, saying, "Dude! You're surprised about this?" (a la "The Polished Shaft"). And I have to admit, as a Schaap-hater myself, I sort of agree with them. I mean, there is definitely something wrong with the guy. Has been for a while. But of course, when the Schaap-haters come out, the Schaap-lovers come out, and defend him. Tirelessly. Sometimes crazily. They flood message boards and Facebook pages and blog posts with messages of support and love and grammatical malfeasance. And you kind of feel badly for them, because you know they're yelling so loudly because their world is crumbling around them and they're trying desperately to grab at something firm and truthful. At least, that's what I hope is their reasoning. Otherwise, they pretty much just need to be committed and medicated. 

I head him speak a time or two, as a teenager. He was a big deal, like his father-in-law. The only sermon of his that I really remember was something about sackcloth and ashes, and I think he came out on stage wearing sackcloth and ashes to illustrate whatever point he was making. I don't really remember what the point was, but I know he played clips of an Amy Grant music video that showed her dancing around and taking a scarf off her shoulders, and he told us that's why we shouldn't listen to the world's music, because it's all about sex. As a fourteen-year-old teenage girl, I didn't really get it, and I kinda liked the song, but it certainly wasn't a new message (my parents told me the same thing all the time), so I figured he was right, and whatever. Sackcloth and ashes, right? 

Later, I started hearing all the crazy, crazy stuff he wrote and preached about, but by then, I was waaaay out of the movement, so I just kind of chuckled at him and took a moment to be grateful that I was in a much happier, saner place now, and--end thinking about it. So when crap hit the fan at the end of July, and rumors started seeping out of Mecca about the Archbishop stepping down indefinitely for "medical reasons," and the Word About Town was that he was indeed sick, but not of the physical variety, I can't say that I was either surprised or sad. Yes, to my shame, I was just a little bit glad that maybe crazy was finally going to have it's microphone shut off. Hate me if you must, Schaap-lovers. 

So as the story came out (for yea, verily, it always shall), his ailment was one of a much darker variety than stress or Crohn's disease or irritable bowel syndrome. Mostly, it was sex. With teenage girls, apparently, among (I suspect) other things. So this is what I'm getting to with all this. There has been some discussion amongst, well, just about everyone, as to whether or not Schaap's fall should be labelled "Adultery" or "Abuse." Cue angry opinions on both sides, and toss around words and phrases like consensual, molestation, legally of age, old enough to choose abortion so she's old enough to choose sex. Really, I'm not interested in any of these words and phrases, because they have absolutely no bearing on Schaap and his actions. 

Here's the truth, folks: Schaap is a 54-year-old man (I'm using the term man loosely, of course) who was supposed to be counseling a 16/17 year-old girl for sexual abuse (a "bus girl," from what I understand, although the details are hazy on this point). Stop right there and think about that for a minute. A teenage girl has been sexually abused by someone, probably someone close to her, since statistically, that's who it is, and she goes to her pastor for counseling, because obviously, she's troubled about it. She's vulnerable and emotionally fragile and she probably doesn't have a really great support structure at home, if I may be allowed to use stereotypes for a moment, because most bus kids don't. (No, really--what good parent in his right mind would send his kids off on a rickety church bus, staffed by teenagers and over-exuberant college kids, and one old guy (the driver), to spend all day at some church somewhere that he has never seen and knows nothing about?) Her pastor, a man she has been taught to look up to, admire, and trust, a man old enough to be her grandfather, starts to shower her with "attention" and "love." He tells her she is special, and means a lot to him, and she's been dying all her life to hear this. I mean from someone--credible. He hugs her. Maybe kisses her. Suddenly, he's having his secretary transport her across state lines so he can "counsel" her when he's out of town. Did she tell him "No!"? Did she gladly lay down in the bed with him? Does it really matter? Really? No. No, it doesn't. Regardless of what she did, or what she said, every shred of responsibility falls smack at Jack Schaap's feet. He is at fault. He took advantage of her, yea, preyed upon her. He failed to have another woman counsel her (or, at the very least, attend the counseling sessions with her). He is the adult. Regardless of the "age of consent" in Indiana, she could not consent, truly, because she was not in a position to do so. Regardless of whether she is old enough to operate a motor vehicle, or have an abortion, or buy alcohol (oh. wait.), she was not in a proper frame of mind and understanding and emotional stability to truly consent to his advances. She was not some brazen hussy who wooed him with her wily, teenage-girl charms. She was not a temptress or a slut. She was a broken, bruised, and wounded young girl who came to him for help, and found--the furthest possible thing from that. He sexually abused her. Which, whether it is recognized as such by the legal system in Indiana, is, of course, called rape. Ugly word, huh? It takes an ugly man to rape a teenage girl. And Jack Schaap is an ugly, ugly man.

So why do I care? Why am I even talking about this? Because it bothers me. It bothers me that anyone can possibly be placing any kind of culpability on this teen girl, thereby lessening--softening--the ugliness of Schaap's evil deeds. She is a victim, twice over (or many, many times over, possibly). She is a victim. He is evil. He has destroyed her. He has destroyed his family. He has grossly misused the trust that was placed upon him as a pastor, an adult man, and a counselor. He has, I have no doubt, injured his marriage beyond reclamation. Whether his wife stands by him or not, he has damaged that relationship irreparably. He has dirtied his name--the name that his children must now ignominiously bear forever. He has shamed and broken his wife. He has raped this young girl, sexually abused her, taken advantage of her trust. He is evil. He is wicked. He bears all the responsibility. Don't you dare say otherwise, because you know you're wrong.

Sackcloth and ashes, dude. Sackcloth and ashes.