Post Category → family

her

Nineteen days old.

The fleeting moments of eyes open are stretching into longer moments.

Skinny legs are still skinny — but sturdier. Feet less fragile. And cheeks. Cheeks smooshier every day.

Baby acne popping out on forehead and cheeks. Welcome to Earth. Things aren’t quite clean and pure here. We need Jesus.

Doted on. Poked and pinched (in love — overwhelming, smothering sibling-love.) Held. All the time. Just because. Because she’s my baby.

Curls up in just the right way next to me while we sleep. Babies just fit, don’t they?

Those hands. I just love newborn hands.

special moments

Special moments sometimes just come upon you. Sometimes you’re just nursing a baby, and suddenly, you realize that all six (six!) of you are sitting together. Mostly all cuddled as close as possible with Daddy. As quietly as little guys can be, because there’s the broadcast of Red Sox vs Yanks to listen to. The boys’ eyes shine with every good play. Little fist pumps. But mostly quiet.

For a moment, time just hovers. Dusk drops a blanket of calm, and souls are full.

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fiona, part 2

And so labor began, and with it, a flood of thankfulness that I’ve never had before. Hours later, while in the throes of hard contractions, I would find, “Thank You, thank You so much,” coming to my lips. Wanting to have a baby at home, rather than being induced at a hospital: Sort of small potatoes when you consider the degree of needs in the world. And yet, He heard and cared and moved, just in time.

Since it was “only” 8pm, I decided to just move as much as I could. Contractions had begun with a bang (a bit sporadic, but about 2 minutes apart right from the get-go), and I figured I could work hard and get this baby born without pulling another all-nighter. I’ve just never been good at those!

So the first friend arrived from down the road — an RN who got to do some of the nitty gritty (and somehow acted like she was the one being blessed? I have the best friends.) I took a bath, which is totally unlike me, put on cuddly clothes, and started to slip into my labor zone — wherein I become completely unaware of time, surroundings, people, activities… Fairly quickly, I was having to focus through contractions. I kneeled at the foot of my bed and thought how perfectly cushioned my rug pad is. Ha!

My sister and mom came. Friends gathered. Liz’s brand new baby cried in the kitchen, and I smiled through contractions. A baby. That’s right. This is about a baby.


This girl? Amazing. She just knows what to do, where to be. Loving and serving.

Minutes slipped by. Intensity mounted. The baby kicked and wriggled, and I just wanted it to stop. It felt like a roller coaster, inside out. Heart tones were fine. Trips back and forth to the bathroom, to my knees, to my side on the bed. Labor is timeless, and so is the middle of the night. There’s something peaceful about that.

It was hard. Harder than usual? I think yes. My hips hurt. I wanted to be done. I tried to laugh when I said that, knowing how silly that sentiment sounds, knowing I couldn’t be done. Knowing I had to just keep going.

I think it’s because of the books and simple diagrams I’ve read, but for whatever reason, I’ve always been able to sort of track my body’s progress. Maybe everyone can? But four babies later, at some point, I knew I should be feeling that little baby body descending, pushing on my spine — and it wasn’t. Hard, strong, almost undoing contractions. Longer, harder. Blocking all thoughts but Thank You… Relax… Hips burning oh, so much. (Little testimony: at one point I laid down out of exhaustion, but could barely handle the pain in my hips. I just burst out, “Oh, Jesus! Please help me with this pain! I can’t handle it!” And the next second, it was gone. I could have laughed, I was so blessed! Like the Holy Spirit giving my hand a little squeeze and saying, “Hey, I’m here.”) I followed my instincts and ended up hanging from Ryan’s neck (I have no idea how he survived the night!) through waves of contractions. Laying down sounded all wrong, even though it’s always been my favorite way to labor, and I only laid down when exhausted, and when my legs were just giving out. Finally, Regina suggested someone hold my belly during the next contraction — and yes! That was the engagement I was looking for! She pulled out a wide cotton scarf, and we got super hippie, as Ryan would say. Ryan held me up from behind, Regina held the scarf under and around my belly while she stood behind Ryan, and after several powerful contractions, things were finally heading in the right direction. Time to push.

I laid on the bed to deliver, as had been discussed and as is best, given my history of bleeding. There was the scurry of instruments, warm blankets, flashlights, people positioned here and there, a sister being sent to get the boys from their beds, and Regina’s firm voice saying, “Now, I’m going to coach her, and I want to be the only voice in the room doing so.” I love that. I suddenly feel like I don’t have to do this alone; she’s completely involved and ready. Pushing contractions came, and for the first time since Jameson, I had to really think, Now, how do I push? My body wasn’t taking over, but I figured it out — after a moment of slight panic! Two contractions, and everyone excitedly cheered me on, telling me of progress that I didn’t feel. I tried to not worry that this may go on forever. Third contraction, and my water broke. Relief; progress was happening. Next contraction, and I called out, needing to know she was still with me, “Regina, tell me what to do!” I remember feeling the head crown, and my courage failed. I forgot. This is hard. Can I do this? There is no choice, though, and grace rushed in. Okay. No turning back. The head crowned. Regina’s voice, my mother’s voice helping me. Those voices. They are amazing. My mind just latched onto them, and the sensations of my body faded into the background. Then a head, born. A cry! But they were still telling me to push. Push. “Push, Danica!,” my mother said firmly. Yes. Push. Okay. I can do this. And a body. The cheers and elation. A wailing baby passed up to me, laid in my arms. “A girl!” Everyone celebrating. Me, sinking into my pillow, marveling, exhausted.

A girl.

And of course, that’s just the beginning of the flurry. Now there’s warm towels, and helping hands getting this sweet new baby to nurse. Regina working fast and intently to get the placenta delivered and all bleeding stopped. Two big brothers, taking turns being held up to see this sister who was just born into the world before their very eyes. And all in a general hubbub of laughter and joy! The midwife’s assistant was so blown away by my birth “crew”, and why wouldn’t she be? Sisters who love each other, friends who love each other like sisters. What a gift.

And me. Eight hours later, still amazed by it all, by the timing.

When I finally fell asleep two hours later, I was feeling stronger than I ever have before. Regina’s game plan of a preemptive shot of pitocin immediately upon delivery made all the difference — as did loads of Floradix and liver. I never had the waves of chills and shakes that I had other times, and by the time everything was cleaned up and the baby examined and dressed, I was ready to walk to the bathroom. That might not sound like a big deal, but to me, it was huge! Sunday night, I was walking about without the least bit of dizziness. Just amazing. Another answer to prayer!

Another girl. Another girl! She was perfect. Her nose looked like she’d been in the ring with Rocky, her fingers were long and slender and delicate, and her toes! They looked like a row of sugar snap peas, all perfect and round and sweet. She was grimacing and making faces as she was born, and cried before her body was even delivered. And she made my heart melt. I will admit: I am stingy with my new babies. There is nothing like those first few days of carrying a brand new baby close to your heart, snuggled on your chest, everywhere you go. It’s where they belong.

And her name, Fiona Elspeth: I have loved the name Fiona since I was a teen, but when Beatrice was born, well — she was Beatrice, not Fiona. But this girl. This was the one, and it makes my heart happy every time I hear someone say her name.

Fiona. Pure. White.
Elspeth. Pledged to God.

So her name became my first prayer for her: That she would be one guarded by purity and a covenant with her God.

Welcome to the world, sweet Fiona. You are a miracle and a wonder.

(As for the baby engaging, scarf tricks, having to push cerebrally rather than instinctually — well, that’s all for another post. Plenty of thoughts!)

in the meantime, baseball:

Ryan promised the boys he’d take them to make a baseball video, and so last Saturday, he took two excited boys and their uncle to a baseball diamond and did so. Of course, for the entire week previous, they were outside morning, noon, and night, practicing and perfecting and dreaming of being Ortiz.

When Ryan showed them the finished product, they were beaming. And I was all teary. These little boys. I love them so much.

(And Merrick? Well, how awesome is he, making them look good in every shot? Such a good guy.)

fiona, part one

I was just looking at my phone history to see what sort of text conversations were happening one week ago. They were something along the lines of: “If I don’t have this baby soon, I’m in ‘trouble.'”

Jameson was born hours before his due date rolled around.

William was born hours after his due date.

Beatrice waited a whole four days before labor kicked into gear.

And this baby? Well… Dates can be wrong, but you go with what you’ve got, and according to calculations, this baby was happy as a clam, despite the Big Bad Forty-Two Week mark that was quickly approaching. Sometimes I’d have a contraction that would make me perk up and wonder, Yes? Maybe? Then long minutes, hours, would tick by, and No. Not it.

Thursday, when I was 41w4d along, I met with my midwife and we discussed Options. When she left, I knew I had a few days to do my best to walk and take baths and drink tea. And I knew that Monday morning, she would call the hospital to make arrangements for me to go in and get things rolling.

Here’s the deal: I don’t hate hospitals. But I do home births for good reasons, one of those being a deep preference. Giving birth in a hospital isn’t my first choice, but getting an IV, pitocin, EFM, and all that could lead to? Really, really not my first choice. But [deep breath], God is bigger than all of that. I know that. I knew that. But I had to remind myself. A lot. Things don’t have to go my way. Sometimes they don’t for good reasons, for reasons I can’t possibly understand and simply have to trust in the perfect Father who holds my life in His hands.

These are the thoughts that would go on in my head while I walked briskly, mile after mile. (Because, as an aside, I felt really, really good right until the end of this pregnancy. I was incredibly thankful for that. Floradix? Liver? A walking regimen all 9 months? Whatever the reason, it was a gift.)

There were plenty of mornings waking up and feeling “hope deferred-ish”, as I told Ryan. And then I would remind myself, don’t hope in labor today. Hope in God. (Hope in God never leaves you with a “deferred-ish” feeling.)

Anyway, that Saturday, we had the option of having my midwife stop by in the evening to strip my membranes, or we could just wait till Sunday, when she was planning on coming and pulling out all the stops — herbs, membranes, you name it. We just couldn’t decide! Saturday or Sunday. Or Monday in the hospital? Were we getting ahead of God? Gah! I just couldn’t sense what was the right decision. My hormones, which had stayed amazingly in check for 9 months, were suddenly clouding everything. Take it away, Ry.

He made some last phone calls for advice, and finally decided Yes. Tell her to come tonight.

At 7:08, she texted to say she’d be at our house in an hour or so. I let my friends and family know what we’d decided, and then got a game plan together. “Okay, kids. Here’s the deal. In an hour, Regina is coming. We need to clean the kitchen, pick up the house, get pj’s on, and be in bed by then. Let’s go!”

And — I kid you not — no sooner had I stood up to start cleaning up from dinner than a contraction hit me. And another. And another. In fact, the whole time I was tidying, they just came faster and faster. It took me a bit to realize what was going on, and when I did, I just couldn’t believe it. Didn’t believe. Just cleaned faster and more furiously, thinking I should just ignore them rather than get my hopes up? But they were there. I’ve always been a bit excited when labor started, in spite of the looming ordeal, but I’ve never, ever been so thankful. Really? Really, we decide to go ahead with stripping the membranes, and Boom! Labor starts? Really? One more day of trying every trick up our sleeves, knowing none of them were sure guarantees of anything, and Boom! God steps in? Really? I wanted to cry, but I was just too surprised to even do that.

Ryan was out mowing the lawn — we all have our Before Baby priorities! — and although I was tempted to ask him for help with kids, I decided to let him keep mowing, and I’d just keep moving. There were a couple of snippy moments I had to apologize for, trying my best to explain to them that I was just getting really uncomfortable. Jameson seemed to understand, and got very busy going the extra mile on my behalf.

We all sat together on Beatrice’s bed to read Jemima Puddle-duck. Ryan came in, and I told him about the contractions. Regina arrived and smiled at the news. I finished the story, tucked them all in bed, and — deep breath — got ready to move on to the rest of the night. Here we go!