What are you looking at?

Say anything (really, anything)

Yesterday was Kara's 18-month well-baby visit, and for the most part, things are great. She continues to top the charts with her height, measuring an even three feet tall, and clocked in at 30 lb 3 ½ oz for weight. The doctor was happy with her comprehension skills, eye contact, and ability to imitate and pretend. There was talk of dental visits and potty training. Overall, it was uneventful, except for one small thing: her lack of speech.
 
Kara is sharp. She knows her animals and is working on letters and numbers. She can identify characters in books and family members in pictures. If you need her to fetch Nathan's pacifier or turn off his travel swing, she can do it. If you ask her if she's finished with dinner, she'll either throw out her arms in an "All done!" shrug or shake her head no. It's obvious she can hear and understand us, and aside from typical toddlerese, Luke and I usually understand whatever it is she's trying to tell us.

The thing is, though, that she communicates her needs in every way but words. Babbling, grunting, screeching, laughing, shouting, pointing—this is how Kara gets her point across. She knows that Luke and I are Daddy and Mommy but normally doesn't ask for us by name (her babble includes "mama" and "dada" though). Sometimes she'll say what sounds like "eye" or "up," occasionally throws in a "go, go!" when she's pushing her shopping cart, and one time Luke swears she said "h i j k" when he was singing the alphabet, but generally speaking, if there's a way to communicate non-verbally, she will do it.

The doctor said that at this age, most kids are using at least a few words on a regular basis, and the fact that Kara isn't is something to pay attention to. He agreed when I pointed out that it's not uncommon for toddlers to refrain from talking much before their second birthday. He also admitted that he falls on the conservative side in the area of speech because he would hate to see a child lose out on an extra few months of help if the issue is addressed later rather than sooner. His recommendation was to informally follow up with Kara's progress at Nathan's six-month well-baby visit, and if things are still the same, we could talk about possibly having her evaluated by a speech therapist.

I really like and respect our pediatrician. He always spends a good chunk of each visit asking questions about the kids, really listens to what we say, and defers to our wishes in areas of potential conflict. I don't think he says anything without carefully weighing the necessity. And I even agree with him that Kara's practically non-existent vocabulary is something worth noting.

That said, I've already told Luke that we are not sending Kara to a speech therapist before the age of two.

It's not that I think speech therapy is bad or that kids who need it are bad. It's just that she's so damn young, you know? I think we have to give her a longer window to express herself than just another month before we start labeling quirks as problems. This issue was already on Luke's and my radar, and we do our best to encourage speech by talking with her, reading to her, and keeping her away from TV (though I admit to occasionally watching my stories when she's in the room). We ask her questions that require more than "yes" or "no" answers and sometimes refrain from giving her the answers she wants when we know she's capable of supplying them herself (a good way to piss her off, by the way, let me tell you). We know she needs more interaction with other children, so we've been dropping her off at the church nursery during Sunday services so she can get that. (I like to think of it as the poor man's Gymboree.) We are also looking into other (free) programs that expose her to other kids. Maybe if she hears them talking, it'll encourage her to as well.

And maybe, just maybe, she's a slow learner in this area and will need outside help from a qualified professional. I'm OK with that. What I'm not OK with is making that call today or even 30 days from now.

You know, you think parenting is hard when your kid gets up every hour of the night for two weeks or refuses to nap or fights you on every diaper change, but this? Having to make judgment calls on your children's development? Preparing to (politely) buck authority on their behalf? This is hard. And I know, I know, it's just the beginning.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

What’s your story?

When it comes to the blogosphere, I tend to stay out of controversial threads, mainly because I'm afraid of failing to articulate my points very well and instead pissing somebody off. In the five (!) years I've been doing this, it's never been my style. But for some reason, I can't keep quiet about this one.

Here's the gist of it: A video was recently made that addresses the struggles of the working mother, but it didn't touch on the specific stresses of those who work outside the home. One mother wrote about how upset she was that the work-outside-the-home mom demographic was completely ignored (one of my new favorite posts, by the way, because of Kim's ability to be brutally honest and respectful at the same time); another took it one step further to say that moms who work at home have it easier than those with traditional office jobs. One work-at-home mom (one of our very own Parents bloggers) wrote a post in response to that one defending her livelihood, which is the post that I came across first, and I took issue with the phrase "full-time mom" being applied only to stay-at-home moms. After all, a mom is a mom, you know? If you have a child, you're on call twenty-four days a week, 365 days a year, no matter how you spend your eight-to-five hours. I posted a comment to that effect and originally thought I would publish a longer dialogue here.

(Note: I chose not to watch the video because I didn't think any good would come of it.)

But after giving it more thought, I realized that's not really what I wanted to say. Instead, I want to give every mom out there a big, fat hug because damn, this job that we have is hard. Wonderful, yes, and life-changing and miraculous and beautiful, and parenthood is absolutely one of the best things to ever happen to me, and I wouldn't trade this experience for all the money in the world, but still. It's hard. And in analyzing my reaction to Lindsay's post, I discovered that I didn't want to pick apart her words when deep down I knew she meant no harm. I just wanted to take a minute to tell my story as a mother.

In the end, I think we all just want our stories to be heard.

So here's my story.

I am a mother who works outside the home to financially support her husband and two small children. Frankly, it wasn't my first choice—I desperately wanted to be the one home with my kids—but I have an amazing job in my field of choice with a competitive paycheck and fabulous benefits and a flexible schedule and an employer who strives to promote a reasonable work/life balance for his employees, and my husband didn't, and neither of us wanted to forgo having savings accounts or paying the bills on time or living in a shady part of town where we would fear for our own safety, let alone our children's, so there you go. Yes, it makes me sad sometimes, not being there every day, but the pride I take in doing my part to make a happy home for my family is well worth the sacrifice.

My life is a constant juggling act, trying to manage my day job, my freelancing job, spending time with my family, and working to improve my physical health. Sometimes I can take time off for doctor's appointments, and sometimes I can't. Sometimes I come home from work so late that I go a whole day without giving my son a bottle. Sometimes I miss bedtime completely. Sometimes I comfort a baby at two in the morning and get up for work at five. Sometimes (OK, most times) I leave the dinner dishes for Luke even though he’s done them the last three nights, even though he's been on his feet all day and deserves a break, too, because my day job has to continue into the night, because I never want anyone at work to say that Bree used her home life as an excuse to drop the ball.

And yet, despite the hard times and frustrations, I truly love my life. I know that everyone has stresses to deal with, and I don't think mine are harder than anyone else's. I feel blessed to have a husband who is right there in the trenches with me, fulfilling his own role as a stay-at-home dad and dealing with the sacrifices that go along with that. I thank God every day for the children we have, and I am glad to do whatever I can to see that they are happy and healthy. And when I feel guilty for making what I perceive to be a less than perfect choice, when I feel like I'm being judged for those choices, I'm learning to take comfort in the knowledge that the only people I have to answer to are Luke, Kara, and Nathan, and as long as they know I'm doing my best, that's all that matters. I am more than an adjective used to describe how I spend forty-plus hours every week. I am a mother. Period. And oh, what a gift it is, to own that noun.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

I blame the sobfest on the return of Aunt Flo

So! Gymboree kind of sucked. At least, that's what I yelled once we were safely out the door and I could sob freely in the car.

Our first problem was showing up late. Fifteen minutes late, to be exact, because I didn't print out directions and Luke and I bickered over the best route to take and even though we knew we'd only catch two-thirds of the class, we showed up anyway because it took us a freaking half-hour to get there and we weren't leaving without scoring some bona fide Gymboree fun, dammit.

And thus, the tone of the day was set.

We got our name tags at the front desk, and Luke tended to Nathan while Kara and I entered the play gym. Most everyone was crowded around an inflated balance beam, instructor at one end, the parents supporting their children on the other. The kids eagerly walked across the balance beam into the instructor's arms. I waited my turn and tried to do the same with Kara, but she only took a few steps before she lost her balance and fell into my arms. We tried a second time, but nothing doing. (I’m sure it didn't help that I was trying to rush so as not to hold up the line.) I smiled weakly at the teacher and followed Kara as she ran away from the beam and up to various children, pointing excitedly and oohing with delight. My heart melted a little as she went up to a girl and tried to kiss her face, but the little girl wasn't very receptive. I apologized to her parents. "She has a little brother at home and kisses him all the time," I said. They smiled politely and replied, "Sophia's more into her personal space."

Fair enough.

Next, we all surrounded the balance beam to play the Freeze game, which basically consists of slapping your hands on the beam in time with the music and stopping—er, freezing—when the music stops.

Kara wouldn't touch it. It was all I could do to just keep her next to me.

We gathered in a circle for a series of Follow the Leader sorts of games paired with more singing. Stomp your feet, touch the ground, that sort of thing, but Kara wasn't interested.

We pulled out a parachute and encouraged all the kids to sit in the middle, but Kara wouldn't do it. I even physically put her in there myself, thinking she'd warm up when she saw the other children, but she just cried out and ran back to me. She freaked out a little when we gathered underneath and clung to me the whole time.

She wouldn't touch the bubbles the teacher blew into the air. She wouldn't clap her hands during "If You're Happy and You Know It." And on the way out of the gym area, she refused to accept a Jimbo hand stamp.

The whole time I was in there, I could feel my chest tightening, my body tensing, and even though we only made about twenty-five minutes of the class, I couldn't wait to get out of there and have a good cry. Overreact much, Bree?
 
It's just that I felt bad for so many reasons—for showing up late and throwing Kara into a situation she clearly needed to warm up to, for my baby not getting so much of what the other kids were doing so easily, for wondering what other people thought of her when really, I shouldn't have cared in the slightest. She's not even a full year and a half yet, and it's freaking GYMBOREE, not a college prep course. Who cares if she won't clap her hands in time?
 
I guess I do.

After I was able to calm down, Luke put the morning into perspective for me. He pointed out that the class is geared for kids ages 16 to 22 months, which means Kara was probably one of the youngest ones there; at her age, even a few months makes a huge difference. We don't know how old the other kids were or how long they had been attending; maybe it took them a few times to get the hang of it, too. Plus, this is the first time she's ever tried to participate in any kind of structured/timed activity; of course there's going to be a period of adjustment. She barely had time to get the gist of one thing before we were moving on to another. And just because today didn't go well in my eyes doesn't mean she didn't have a good time. She really did like seeing all the kids and even showed interest in some of the play gym equipment, but we had to hurry out so they could bring in the next class.

We'll be out of town the next two weekends, but in the last week of May, we'll try Gymboree again. The receptionist was nice enough to invite us back for another free class since we missed a good portion of this first one. In the meantime, we'll also look into other activities that Kara might like that are also a little more low-key. If anything, this just cemented my gut feeling that it's time for Kara to socialize more. The learning curve might be hard now, but it will be so good for her in the long run. And honestly, for me, too.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

More honest than I planned on being about family size

Seeing as my return to work is a little more than a week away, I'm pushing really hard to get a few things done around the house that there hasn't been time for until now. One of those things is to remove all the maternity clothing from my closet, a task I began this afternoon while miracle of miracles, both kids were down for a nap.

As I took things off of hangers and folded them into neat little piles, separating capris from jeans and sweaters from tees, a small shudder ran through my body as I realized I never wanted to wear those clothes again. I'm OK with never being pregnant again.

But I won't be doing Essure.

I think the idea of this procedure is a great thing. I like that you can do it in an office visit with minimal anesthesia. And I LOVE that it would be free, free, free because I have a health savings account and my personal deductible has been met for the year (thanks, son). I'm not keen on the whole "metal clogging your reproductive parts" aspect of it, but I think I could've gotten over that. My biggest hang-up is how final it is. At least the big V is reversible.

Luke and I are kind of at an impasse right now. He is positive he doesn't want more children and is totally on board with getting The Snip. I'm pretty sure I don't want more but not a hundred percent—if Luke did want a third, I wouldn't be a hard sell, so long as we could wait until the two kids we have now were capable of peeing in something other than a diaper. The easiest solution would be for me to get an IUD or go on the Pill or use some other form of contraception that would allow us to revisit the issue in a few years, but I'm not comfortable with the way hormonal birth control works or could potentially work. Maybe that's not politically correct to say, but I'm just not. I could look into a diaphragm, cervical cap, or female condom, but seeing as I turn up my nose at even using a tampon, I have trouble putting my eggs in those baskets (no pun intended) (OK, a little intended). Before we got pregnant with Kara, I was following a fertility awareness method that worked pretty well, but now that we know how much my uterus loves to grow babies, Luke doesn't trust it anymore. If we put off sterilization, then our only other option is to subscribe to condom use long-term—certainly a viable option, but not ideal. That also allows a bigger window of opportunity for a surprise number three.

The original goal of this post was to say that I've decided against Essure. Now, though, I think the bigger issue is what to do when you and your partner aren't completely on the same page when it comes to family size. Luke and I are mostly on the same page, and the truth of the matter is, that will have to be enough. We already have with two beautiful, healthy children when some people go their whole lives wishing and praying for even one; to get all riled up about not having a third seems absolutely ridiculous. It's certainly not worth my marriage. Plus, even though the idea of not having any more children makes me terribly sad, I think I would always be sad no matter when we stopped. It's an incredible gift, the ability to give life, and I don't know that I would ever pump my fist in the air and dance for joy over being done with the baby-making part of my existence.

So, I'm not sure when it will happen, but at some point, Luke will most likely go in for The Snip. That way, if he's hit by a bus and Kiefer Sutherland wants to tone down his bad-boy image with a modern rendition of The Brady Bunch, my uterus will be ready and waiting. Just in case.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

Raise your hand if you’re Essure

Today I celebrated St. Patrick's Day with corned beef and cabbage and my six-week post-partum check-up, where the doctor cleared me for vacuuming, heavy lifting, and doing the nasty and at my request outlined my options for permanent birth control. Luck of the Irish, indeed!

"To three or not to three" has been a hot topic of conversation since the day I came home from the hospital. Seriously. Because I am not an easy, breezy, let's-wait-and-see type of gal. I am a planner. I want to know if I should hold onto my maternity clothes or ship them off to Goodwill. If we need to keep the bouncy seat and the swing and the bassinet and the numerous Tupperware bins of the cutest baby clothing you ever did see or offer them to a family in need. If we're shopping for condoms or scheduling The Snip. If we're done having children, I told Luke, then I want to do something about it now so I can come to terms with closing the BABIES BABIES BABIES chapter of our life and focus on the future.

Luke has always been pretty consistent in his "two is enough" stance. He just turned 35, and if he stays home with the kids until Nathan starts kindergarten (not set in stone, but it's what we're aiming for right now), he won't rejoin the work force until he's 40; a third baby would force him to put off his career even further, and he's not comfortable with that. He's also excited to get to a place where the kids are a little older and we're not sinking money into diapers, formula, and baby wipes.

As for me, I used to be squarely in the "two is good, but three is even better!" camp. The oldest of five, I can appreciate a chaotic household rife with sibling rivalry and sleepless nights, and I was afraid that "just two" would be too tame, too quiet. I figured a third child would add a little zing to our family dynamic, and I talked and talked and talked about it to Luke until he agreed to think about it, and at one point during my pregnancy with Nathan I sort of won him over, and then Nathan was born, and just like that, I lost him. And that's OK. While I think I could do this one more time in another few years, I'm also insanely in love with the family I have now. I'm no longer worried about things being too quiet (two screaming babies will do that to you). I no longer feel like anyone will be missing from our dinner table if we stop at two, even if the very thought of parting with Kara's and Nathan's old sleepers makes me want to Ugly Cry.

Where was I? Birth control. Right.

I always (half) joke with Luke that since they had to cut me open twice to deliver our babies, he could certainly do his part by spending some time with a local urologist. But then I learned about a procedure for women that offers permanent sterilization and can be performed during an office visit in under an hour. It's called Essure, and it involves going through your cervix to insert metal coils into your fallopian tubes and taking a confirmation test three months later to verify that the coils were inserted successfully. It's less invasive than having your tubes tied, but unlike a vasectomy, it's not reversible. The procedure is relatively new—around five years old, I think—so it's not very common right now, but my doctor said there's been a surge of interest at her practice in the last year. I'm seriously thinking about doing this because it all sounds simple enough. I'm not interested in taking any form of hormonal birth control, so if for some reason Luke and I decided to put off doing anything permanent, we would just use condoms until we were ready.

Have any of you undergone Essure? If so, what did you think?

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

Apparently five home pregnancy tests CAN be wrong!

When visiting the phlebotomist at my ob/gyn's office yesterday, I couldn't sit still. "It's OK," she joked as she grabbed my arm to keep it steady. "It's going to be just fine."

And I really did think it would be. I walked to my car and drove home and picked up Luke and Kara so we could meet the realtor who will help us buy our first home. I figured I would call the office in the morning to confirm my negative pregnancy test and finally get on with my life already.

But at 8:30 a.m., the results weren't in. "It usually takes 24 to 48 hours," droned the receptionist, not understanding my urgency. "We'll call you."

WTF?

As I was packing up for the day, I decided to call one more time. Because HELL NO was I waiting until Monday.

I’m pretty sure it was the same receptionist, because once again, she acted like finding out whether or not I had a human being in my uterus wasn't that big a deal and didn't she say they would call when they had news?

(She didn't say that. But I know she was thinking it. Bitch.)

I heard shuffling of papers.

"Well, the test came up positive, but we didn't check your levels, so…"

My stomach dropped. "Excuse me?"

"The test is positive."

"The test is positive?"

"Yes." She sounded slightly annoyed. Women get knocked up every day; what's one more, right?

And then I was grabbing my purse and hauling ass out of work as fast as my legs could carry me because I knew I was going to cry and I didn’t want anyone to see.

By the time I got to my car, I was hysterical. Perfect time to tell Luke.

"Hello?"

"HONEY?"

"Yeah?"

"I'M PREGNANT," I wailed.

"OK… Honey, are you OK?"

"I'M SO HAPPY I’M SO HAPPY."

And I was.

My doctor called last night. The plan is to schedule a full work-up in about three weeks. Because I've only had one cycle since Kara was born, and because I still haven't scored positive on a pee stick yet, we need some help with an exact due date. My guestimate? Is February.

I suppose we’ll need a lot of help until then.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

As told by Luke, as played by Steve Martin

This is what happens when you engage in marital relations on day 30 of your cycle without protection, assuming Aunt Flo is just around the corner but realizing two weeks later she is still nowhere to be found.

Scene: Chevy Cobalt, Walgreens parking lot, Northwest Indiana

Bree: So…. Do you want to run in, or should I?

Luke: I don't know.
 
Bree: I should go. I'm the one who's going to pee on the stick, I should be the one to buy it.

Luke: No, I'll do it; you’re already back there with Kara. I'll just be a few minutes.

Bree: Remember, First Response or EPT, and make sure it's a bonus pack.

Luke: OK.

Luke enters Walgreens; stands in entranceway, searching for appropriate aisle. Picture furrowed brows and much head scratching.

Sales Clerk 1: Sir, is there something I can help you find?

Luke: I'm looking for a…

(Still grappling with the possibility of having two children less than a year and a half apart, his mind blanks on the correct terminology needed to verbalize his request)

…birth detection kit?

Sales Clerk 1: Do you mean a prophylactic?

Luke: No! The opposite of that!

Enter Sales Clerk 2.

Sales Clerk 2: Sir, are you talking about birth control?

Luke: No, no! It's too late for that!

Sales Clerk 2: Ooh! You want a pregnancy test!

Luke: Nods frantically, fights urge to smack forehead a la "I could've had a V-8!"

In the end, a First Response bonus pack was indeed purchased, and by Mother's Day morning, both tested negative. But this evening, when toasting to two years of marriage, we used sparkling grape juice instead of wine.

Anytime now, Aunt Flo. Anytime.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

L&D Q&A numero tres (aka: The one about breastfeeding)

Be sure to read parts one and two. 
 
I would like to hear how breastfeeding went the first few times. 

Oh, breastfeeding. How I wish we'd gotten better acquainted.

Growing up, I never gave much thought to how I'd feed my kids. My mother tried breastfeeding me for the first few days after I was born, but that was the extent of it, and I can remember just one time I saw somebody nurse in public—one of my aunts, when I was twelve, at our family Christmas party. She was on the couch, babe in arms, blanket draped over her shoulder, and as I went to kiss her good-bye, I noticed my tiny cousin attached to her breast. I blushed, embarrassed, thinking I'd seen something I wasn't supposed to see. All of the other babies I'd known were sustained with formula. I'd given countless bottles to my youngest sibling and tons of cousins. In my world, nursing wasn't something "normal" women did. And when Luke and I started dating seriously and talking about the future, the topic of breastfeeding came up, and I didn't hide my trepidation. I knew plenty of people—myself included—who were formula-fed and turned out just fine.

Then came the Internet.

I discovered blogs in 2004, and it didn't take long to notice that a significant chunk of them were written by women, particularly mothers, and it wasn't until then that I learned about all the hype surrounding breastfeeding—the benefits, the challenges, and the "new" connotation often associated with formula feeding. I saw new mothers struggle with poor latches, mastitis, low milk supply, unsupportive partners, and a myriad of other problems to nourish their babies with their breasts, and after weeks, sometimes even months, I saw some of them give up. But not without a lot of tears and even more guilt. I admired them for trying so hard, but I still didn't get it. In ten years, would it really matter?

THEN came my first positive pregnancy test. You know the saying, "It's different when it's your kid"? It really, really is.

I still didn't care how other women fed their kids, but I suddenly cared a hell of a lot about mine. I scoured the Internet for more information on breastfeeding, read lots of books, and took classes at our local hospital, and for mini-Bree's sake and mine, I knew it was something I had to try. I was in awe that my body could produce a perfect mix of nutrients for my baby; that it could provide her with unique antibodies to protect her from illness; that it could protect me from several types of cancers, some of which run in my family.

Also, that it was free, free, free.

After Kara and I were wheeled into recovery that fateful Monday night, we were given the opportunity to nurse, and words can't describe how wonderful it felt to be that close to her, connected to her in such an intimate way. Luke, Molly, and Samantha were still in the room, but all I could see was my daughter.

In the first few days that followed, things continued to go well. The nurses said it was my colostrum that helped the meconium pass out of Kara's system so quickly, and one of the lactation consultants complimented my knowledge of breastfeeding terminology. "If every new mother were as prepared as you, I'd be out of a job," she said, and I beamed with pride. I may not have been able to give birth the way I wanted, but this? This was in my control. This was something I could do.

Until Wednesday.
 
It started around nine o'clock that evening, Kara's fussing and eating of her hands, and Luke brought her to me in bed so she could nurse. She latched on for a couple of minutes but soon grew restless, pulling her head away and crying. I kept putting her back on, and she kept forcing me out of her mouth. Confused, I switched sides and tried again, only to get the same result. Her crying escalated and I turned to Luke, not knowing what to do. "Maybe she's too wound up to eat. Let me calm her down," he said and took her in his arms for some quality father-daughter bouncy time. It worked; she did settle down, but she was still eating her hands and smacking her lips—classic hunger cues—so he brought her back to bed with me. Again, I latched her on, and again, she pulled away, crying.

We did that for six hours. It was awful. I've never felt so helpless.

At one point my nurse came in and noticed our situation. "I can see that she's hungry," I said tearfully while Luke drew Kara to him for the zillionth time that night. "She wants to eat. But I can't get her to stay on. I don't know what else to do."

She hesitated a moment before asking: "Do you want some formula?"

"No!" I cried immediately. "We're nursing. I can't risk my milk supply." I wiped at my eyes, afraid I'd lose it in front of this poor woman who was only trying to help me. "Let me try again," I said and hobbled over to the bed, the best place for me to nurse while recovering from my c-section.

Soon it was five o'clock in the morning, and Kara was inconsolable. Luke and I were both crying. Despite all my good intentions, for whatever reason, my breasts weren't doing their job.

"I think—I think we should give her formula," I said.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"No, but she's obviously hungry," I cried. "We have to feed her, don't we?"

Ten minutes later, after just a half an ounce of formula, Kara was asleep in Luke's arms. She stayed that way for three and a half hours.

I wept the entire time.

Four days into this motherhood gig and I'd already lost control in an area that had quickly become so important to me. The Books clearly stated that introducing artificial nipples so early could sabotage breastfeeding efforts. The Books said that babies didn't need much to eat in the first week and my breasts would produce enough to satisfy my daughter's tiny appetite. According to The Books, I had failed.

At the same time, I hated myself for not giving her the bottle sooner, when it's clearly what she needed.

Luke tried to comfort me, but I was too far gone. It didn't help that I was running on four hours of sleep accumulated over three days and still in a lot of pain from my c-section. I tried to control my breathing and attempted to lie down, but then I'd picture Luke giving her that bottle, and the hysterics would start all over again.

Eventually, through talking with our pediatrician, my ob/gyn, and one of a long line of lactation consultants, I got myself together enough to realize that supplementing wasn't the end of the world. Plus, the formula had filled Kara's tummy enough to curb her hunger, but not so much that she wasn't willing to nurse, which made things much easier. We continued to supplement as we waited for my mature milk to let down. Thankfully, it was in by Friday, but on Saturday night Kara's wet-diaper count was pretty low for being almost a week old—just five to six a day—and the doctor was concerned. He put us on a strict two-hour schedule that involved me nursing and pumping, and Luke feeding her the expressed milk, topping her off with a bit of formula if she wanted more. She always did.

I won't lie; that was a pain in the ass. I was never able to pump more than an ounce or two at a time, and that was from both Thelma and Louise combined. It wasn't long before Kara was once again unhappy at the breast, latching on and pulling away even though we knew she was hungry.

The last time I nursed her was in the early morning hours of Christmas Eve. I pumped until she was a month old, but by then Luke was back at work and it was too hard to manage without having somebody on hand to tend to Kara's needs. This past Tuesday, I packed up my Ameda Purely Yours and haven't looked back.

This (seemingly never ending) entry wasn't written to scare anybody off from breastfeeding. Luke and I plan to have more children, and when the time comes, I plan to try again. I still believe in the benefits it has to offer and the bond it can nurture between a mother and her baby. But I talked so much about nursing while I was pregnant that I thought it important to relay my experience as honestly as possible.

Am I disappointed over how things turned out? Yes. Could I have tried harder to make it work? Probably. Do I feel guilty? Sometimes. But I'm not beating myself up about it anymore. I'm at peace knowing I did the best I could and that breast milk is just one of countless gifts I hope to pass along to Kara as she grows up. There are many more to come.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

L&D Q&A numero dos

You know the drill, part one is here, blahdee blah blah.

Did you feel as if they rushed you through labor? Or were you able to go at your own pace? Also, is the pain really as severe as people say it is?

When pregnant with Kara, I took three different childbirth classes and read a bunch of booktalk that outlined the nitty-gritty of labor and delivery, and the most important piece of advice I gleaned was to be my own advocate; that I had a right to express my wishes, ask questions, and know what was happening to my body at all times, and I had a right to know why. Giving birth isn't like mending a broken arm; it's not about fixing what's broken but facilitating a process that's natural and beautiful, and it's not unreasonable for a woman to hope that process stays as intact as possible. Until I was admitted, I was afraid of the hospital staff placing their own scheduling needs above my desire to let my baby come in her own due time. We were already nudging things along with the induction, and while I was in full agreement about its necessity, I wanted to keep further interventions down to a minimum.

I say all of that so you can appreciate how relieved I was to learn that my medical team felt the same way. When my nurse started my Pitocin drip, she did so at the lowest amount possible and slowly increased it over a period of hours. When my contractions hit their stride, the dose was scaled back. Cervical checks were done sparingly, and I was mostly left alone to dilate and efface in peace. I received the epidural when I asked for it, but it wasn't pushed on me, and the nurse didn't laugh when I told her I might try to go au naturale. And it was only after twelve hours of labor that the idea of a c-section was even brought up as an option. All of my questions were answered promptly and completely, and my husband and I both were treated with dignity and respect. So no, I don't feel like I was rushed through labor, and yes, I most certainly was allowed to go at my own pace. I'm glad I was prepared to speak up in case things were moving too quickly, but things never moved too quickly. I have no regrets.

Also, HELL YES the pain is severe as people say it is; at least, it was for me, though to be fair, it's well known that contractions jumpstarted with Pitocin are more intense than those that come about naturally. It's hard to describe what they felt like; it's as if a giant hand had wrapped itself around my uterus to squeeze it like a grape. At their worst, I remember thrashing my legs about, trying to focus on another part of my body, but it didn't help, and breathing didn't do anything, either. Praise Jesus for the epidural, is all I have to say about that.

What were your first thoughts when they decided to do a c-section? Were you relieved, sad, scared? Was there ever a point where you had to ask people to leave the delivery room to give you privacy? Was it nerve-racking having so many people focused on your lady-parts?

Wow, lots of questions here! To say I was scared about having a c-section would be a gross understatement. Aside from minor dental surgery—a root canal here, an implant there—I'd never gone under the knife. Nothing sprained, nothing broken, nothing removed, and I had hoped it would stay that way, thank you very much. I was terrified that the epidural would stop working mid-procedure, like it had for my mother fifteen years ago. I hated that my chances for future vaginal births would be in jeopardy. And I was worried I'd come to resent my baby for making things so difficult for me.

Once the doctor left to let me think things through, I sobbed good and hard for at least ten minutes. Crying has always been the best way for my body to get rid of bad feelings, so I didn't try to fight it. But surprisingly, when I was done, I was really done. I was done trying to question all the ways my operation could go wrong. I was done praying for my cervix to dilate that last fateful centimeter or for mini-Bree to get to her proper station. I was ready to meet my baby, and at least with the c-section, I didn't have to wonder when that was going to happen anymore. And once she was out, nothing mattered but her.

In regards to having people in the delivery room with me, long-time readers will recall that I went back and forth on that issue way before the big day. On one hand, I wanted my family and friends to be with me on one of the most important days of my life. On the other, I was afraid I'd be too intimidated with everyone there to practice all the natural coping techniques I'd learned in childbirth class. I was also nervous about Luke and me not having enough time to just be together and take everything in.

In the end, though, it turned out the big crowd I was hoping for/afraid of wasn't meant to be. Most of our family members were too sick to make the trip to the hospital, but my sister Samantha and good friend Molly braved the questionable Midwest weather and came to Indianapolis. They showed up around lunchtime, which meant Luke and I had the whole morning to ourselves, and they really helped me keep my mind off all the "what-ifs." They brought me presents, they made me laugh, they massaged my feet. And when I found out about the c-section, they told me they loved me and said everything would be OK. I'm so glad they were there.

As far as the whole privacy/lady parts thing goes? Any shred of modesty I had left by that point in my pregnancy went out the window the minute they gave me those crappy gowns to wear; after that, I truly didn't care about trying to stay decent. Molly and Samantha were told by the nurse to leave the room for every cervical check and the insertion of my epidural, but other then that, I was perfectly fine with them sticking around as much as they wanted to.

I would like to hear how breastfeeding went the first few times.

Oh, this one’s a doozy, so I’ll save it for next time. Be sure to bring tissues.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

L&D Q&A numero uno

OK, folks. Now that my birth story has been laid out for all of you to see, it's time to address some of the questions you posed before I was admitted to the hospital. Because I have delusions of self-importance, and also because I like to babble incessantly about my female parts, I'll break up the answers into a series of posts and scatter them throughout the next couple of weeks. At this point, Kara will be hitting her first birthday and I'll STILL be philosophizing about her birth. How boring am I?
 
Don't answer that.

Let's get started.

Was it easier or harder than you imagined? 
Nothing like easing into things, eh? This is actually a hard one to answer, because really, it was both. It was harder than I imagined for a lot of reasons. I always pictured myself going into labor on my own without any trouble, and that didn't prove true for me. Kara went a week past her due date, it took a Pitocin drip for my contractions to finally reach a consistent pattern, and even after a full day of labor, I still ended up with a c-section. For a gal who once contemplated giving birth in her own home without the assistance of pain meds, things definitely didn’t go as expected.

On the other hand, it was also easier. I was able to handle my induction quite well for the first half of the day, I felt wonderfully cared for by my nurses, Luke was by my side the entire time, keeping me focused and calming me down when I was unable to cope, and Molly and Samantha pampered my feet with Warm Vanilla Sugar body lotion. Plus, most importantly, being in the thick of things made it truly real that this baby was coming. I was in the hospital, wearing those crappy gowns that never cover you completely, epidural in place. This experience couldn’t end any other way, and when times got really tough, that was the thought that made it all bearable.

I’d like to know if the nurse that put your IV in poked the area that she had just placed your IV and then had the audacity to ask if that hurt. Mine sure did! 
My nurse actually did a decent job; the biggest surprise was that she placed it above my wrist instead of on my hand, which is how it was done back in October when I went to the hospital worrying about pre-term labor.

Now that you’ve had your baby in the hospital, will you be more receptive or less receptive to my pro-homebirth brainwashing? 
This question comes from Katie, a longtime reader of my personal blog who, in case you couldn’t tell, isn’t a cheerleader for the medical profession, at least when it comes to childbirth. Sorry to disappoint you, Katie, but I was quite satisfied with my birth experience. Read on to learn why.

Did you feel prepared to deviate from your birth plan as needed? Did you feel supported by your medical team? And okay, did you poop? 
First things first: The whole poop issue actually turned out to be a non-issue, seeing as I never even reached the pushing stage of labor. And because I don’t see myself being brave enough to attempt a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) with any future children I bring into the world, I’ll never worry about it again. Score one for surgery.

Second, the birth plan. I’m so glad I had a birth plan. It was a simple one, really, and mostly consisted of things that were already hospital procedure, but as a person who makes her living as a writer and thrives on list-making, it was important to put down on paper what aspects of labor, delivery, and recovery meant the most to me—or at least, what meant the most to me at the time. Keeping that list down to just a handful of bullet points helped me not sweat about the small stuff, and when things didn’t go as planned (i.e., “No interventions unless medically necessary, i.e., Pitocin”—ha!), it felt good to know that at least my plan was a starting point.

I don’t know why birth plans get such a bad rap. We go through our whole lives preparing for best-case scenarios and re-adjusting when things deviate from our expectations. Does that mean we shouldn’t plan for anything, shouldn’t hope for anything? If you ask me, that’s a pretty pessimistic way to live.
 
So really, the problem isn’t the birth plan, it’s the attitude of the person writing the birth plan. During one of my later prenatal visits, my doctor once mentioned a woman who wrote a SIX-PAGE birth plan, filled with stuff like the temperature of the room and how often she’d be checked and how she did NOT want a c-section. Good God, the thing should’ve been copyrighted and displayed in the window of a Barnes and Noble. Do you think everything went according to her control-freak novel? No, it didn’t.

At first glance, it may seem like a lot of things in my birth plan didn’t come to fruition. I had a Pitocin drip and IV fluids from the very beginning, and I had continuous fetal monitoring. However, when you see that the phrase “unless medically necessary” is attached to almost all of them instead of “not at all,” you’ll see that actually, everything went according to plan. I didn’t want Pitocin unless it was medically necessary. Was it medically necessary? Since my doctor and I were both in agreement about induction, and since Pitocin makes inductions possible, yes. It wasn’t my first choice, but in the end, it was still what I wanted. You could say the same thing about my c-section except it wasn’t in my birth plan. I tried to include things that would reduce my chances of needing a c-section, but I knew if I needed one, I’d have to get one. No wiggle room there.
 
And you know what? I don’t regret that, either. My biggest fear was having something done to me that I didn’t understand. I was afraid of having a labor progress slowly but normally and a doctor who wasn’t patient enough to wait it out. But that’s not what happened to me. We’d given a vaginal birth the best shot we could, and Kara still wasn’t budging. Once I agreed to the c-section, I was freaked out and sad and scared, but I knew it was in my and the baby’s best interest, so at least I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I was doing the right thing. It’s not something I give much thought to these days. I’m ready to move on.

Some things that we thought we wanted didn’t happen. With all the hullabaloo in the OR, Luke didn’t cut the umbilical cord. He probably could have, but he totally forgot to ask. Does he care now? No.

And yet other things went right according to plan. I wore my contacts during labor and nursed Kara as soon as we were wheeled into recovery. Luke was with her when I couldn’t be. And nobody offered the baby pacifiers, sugar water, or formula. All in all, my birth plan kicked ass.

Pardon the French. 

More tomorrow.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

To think I could’ve had a daughter named Puppy! Birth story part four

Don’t go on unless you’ve read parts one, two, and three.

9:00 p.m.
True to her word, my doctor arrived once more to perform a final cervical check. No change. She looked at me, waiting for my cue. I wasn't crying anymore.

"We've waited long enough," I said. "Let's do the c-section."

The Pitocin drip was turned off, and the anesthesiologist was summoned to ramp up my epidural. Samantha called my parents to give them the news, and moments later, the phone was to my ear. It was my mother. Having given birth five times herself and delivered the youngest of us via c-section, she wanted to offer words of reassurance.

Also, lies!

"Mine wasn't bad at all," she said. "I didn't feel a thing."

"Yes, you did!" I cried. "The whole time I've been pregnant you’ve talked about how the doctors messed up your pain meds and how you felt them cut you open!"

"But I had bad doctors!" she replied. "You've got good doctors. Everything's going to be OK."

I sure hoped so.

The anesthesiologist arrived and increased my epidural. "How numb should I be?" I asked. "Should I feel pokes but no pain, or not feel anything at all?"

"You won't feel anything at all," he said. "At one point there'll be pressure, but other than that, you shouldn't feel a thing."

"What if I do?"

"Then you tell us, and we'll stop."

"OK."

Luke was given a gown and face mask and instructed to suit up. Meanwhile, the day was finally taking its toll on me; I thought I might fall asleep any minute. I actually hoped that I would.

9:23 p.m.
I was wheeled to the OR. (Thanks to Molly for jotting that one down. Luke was a bit preoccupied.)

I don't know what I imagined the operating room would look like, but it seemed a lot smaller than I thought it would be, and much brighter. I was transferred from my bed to the operating table, and my arms were laid out on my sides. My gown was rolled up to my chest, and a curtain was positioned just below my breasts. Luke had to wait outside while Kelli, nurse number three, prepped my lady parts for surgery. The anesthesiologist was there, too, ready to offer his services at a moment's notice.

My eyes kept closing. I really thought I might pass out. Then Kelli spoke.

"I've been poking you pretty hard," she said. "You didn't feel anything?"

"Nope. Where's Luke?"

"He's coming," she said. And suddenly, he was next to me, to the right of me, squeezing my hand.

"You're not going to look, are you?" I asked, and he shook his head. "I'm going to stay right here with you."

Part of me wanted to look into his eyes, but keeping them shut seemed like my best option. I kept willing myself to fall asleep and not wake up until the baby was out and I was put back together. I was still afraid of the epidural failing on me, just like it had with my mom.

Next thing I knew, the doctors were doing their thing, and I couldn't keep quiet.

"What do you think her name will be?" I said to Luke. "Do you think she'll be a Kara Leigh, or Maia Katherine, or Katherine Amelia?"

"She can be whatever you want," he replied. Later, he told me he would've agreed to any name I wanted, that's how bad he felt for everything I had to go through that day, only to have it end with surgery.

After what seemed like forever, the doctor spoke.

"You're going to feel a lot of pressure on your chest now," she said. "Remember to take deep breaths, OK?"

"OK," I said, and bam, there it was, all that pressure, and I was holding on to Luke's hand with all the strength I could muster.

And then I was hearing her cry. It was the most incredible moment of my life.

The doctor held her up for me, and I maybe saw an arm. But I didn't care.

"She's OK?" I asked. I was crying again, in a way I've never cried before. What else can you do when presented with such a miracle?

"She's perfect."

I looked at Luke, and tears were in his eyes, too. "I love you so much," I said, and he kissed my forehead. "I love you, too," he replied.

"Go and be with her, honey," I said. "I'll be OK."

And I was.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

All my poop worries were for nothing: Birth story part three

Don’t read any further unless you’ve seen parts one and two.

2:14 p.m.
By this time, the epidural had taken full effect, and the doctor had returned to perform another cervical check. Luckily, things were moving along, albeit still at a snail's pace: I was ninety percent effaced and eight centimeters dilated.

Eight centimeters dilated! No wonder the pain had been so intense; I was in the transitional phase of labor, that magical and pain-riddled time in which the cervix dilates from eight to ten centimeters and the baby drops lower into the pelvis—both of which are required to dispense a human being through one’s vagina. I’ll be the first to tell you about my low threshold for pain (my dentist would probably be the second), so I was extremely proud of myself for moving through the first half of labor with natural coping techniques and not crying “Uncle” the first chance I got. While it’s true they don’t hand out gold stars for Best Laborer, it was important for me to get a small taste of what natural (Pitocin-inspired) childbirth felt like. I’m happy I did.

But I was even happier about the epidural.

My ob/gyn proceeded to break my water, and a warm gush passed through my legs. Surely this baby would be coming any minute now.

3:00 p.m.
Another cervical check revealed I was fully effaced but the baby was only at -2 station, meaning her head had quite a way to go before fully descending into my pelvis. Bertha’s shift also came to an end; she would be one of three L&D nurses I’d interact with that day. Angela was number two.

4:38 p.m.
Molly and Samantha, who’d both arrived around lunchtime with gifts and good will, took turns massaging my feet while I drifted in and out of a half-conscious sleep, still optimistic about wrapping things up before dinnertime but confused as to why the induction was taking so long.

4:47 p.m.
I received my very first catheter. Good times.

5:15 p.m.
For the first time since the Internet's outrage over it last year, I saw that infamous breastfeeding commercial where the pregnant woman rides a mechanical bull and the caption reads, "You wouldn't take risks before your baby's born. Why start after?" That's one way to promote boob juice. I guess.

7:18 p.m.
Another nurse, another check, another disappointing update. Still no dilation past eight centimeters, and the baby's head was holding steady at -2 station. Any confidence I had in my body's ability to get this baby out the old-fashioned way was rapidly fading fast.

7:35 p.m.
My doctor paid me a visit and did a check of her own, even kept her hand up my girly parts to see how my cervix fared during a contraction. "Well, at the height of your contractions, you're almost at nine," she said. "But other then that, there's still no change. Let's start talking about our options here."

I nodded.

"You've had a long day," she said, "and your contractions have been doing exactly what they're supposed to be doing. In my opinion, the fact that you've been at a standstill for such a long time means Mother Nature's trying to tell us something."

"You think it's her size?" I asked. This time, she was the one who nodded.

"I think we've got ourselves one big baby."

She went on to explain that mini-Bree (who at that point still didn't have a set-in-stone name) had fared wonderfully throughout my entire ordeal, and there was no medical reason to rush into anything. She was more than willing to let me labor for another hour or two and see if a vaginal birth was still possible, if that's what I wanted. I agreed to take the time, and she made plans to come back by nine. Once she left, my face crumbled, and I let myself sob, really go at it, because I knew in my heart I'd be getting that c-section. The extra hour and a half was less about letting things progress and more about preparing for my first bout with major surgery.

To be continued…

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

People really do this without drugs? Birth story part two

Catch up on part one here.

9:49 a.m.
My Pitocin drip was up to 6ccs. Bertha checked me again and found I'd dilated another centimeter. "How are you doing on pain?" she asked. "Is it time for the epidural?"

"Not yet," I said, and it wasn't. The contractions were faster and closer together, but they weren't so much painful as they were uncomfortable. The breathing exercises I'd learned in childbirth class were enough to keep me focused and calm. I was seriously considering forgoing pain meds altogether.

"You're a big, strong woman," Bertha said.

10:21 a.m.
My ob paid her first visit since my admittance to the hospital. Her cervical check revealed no change in dilation or effacement, and in fact, my cervix was in a posterior position, which meant she had to navigate her fingers around the baby's head to feel it. She wanted to break my water but decided to wait until my cervix was closer up front.

11:17 a.m.
Up to 12ccs and still managing the pain just fine. I asked Bertha about the highest amount of Pitocin she'd ever administered. "I once gave 100ccs," she said, and I gasped. "Don't worry," she added. "I don't think we'll need to do that with you."

11:24 a.m.
Realizing I'd forgotten to swipe my armpits with my Dove bar that morning, I implored Luke to dig out his Old Spice deodorant from his hospital bag and hand that bad boy over because HOT DAMN, did I smell.

12:38 p.m.
Up to 20ccs, and it was getting more difficult to talk through contractions. Bertha had to excuse herself briefly in order to rescue her husband, who had locked himself out of his car. Fabulous.

1:08 p.m.
Slight leak draining through my special place. Did my water break? I summoned Bertha's temporary substitute to do another check.

1:10 p.m.
No breakage, just pee. Figures I made it through nine months of pregnancy with nary a urinary accident only to break my lucky streak in active labor.

1:40 p.m.
22ccs and the four-count deep breathing wasn't cutting it anymore. I graduated to the hee hee hoos and made Luke work through them with me. Hearing the pattern of his breaths was the only thing that kept me calm enough to focus.

1:46 p.m.
Bertha was back and happy to see the consistency of my contractions. I, however, wasn't as pleased. She decreased the Pitocin down to 15ccs to ease my discomfort, but it wasn't enough. My eyes were glued to the monitor, and with each spike, I could feel my uterus tightening as if it were trying to drain the essence of my very soul. I couldn't concentrate on breathing anymore. I couldn't stop crying.

"I'd like the epidural now," I sputtered.

2:00 p.m.
The anesthesiologist arrived armed with The Good Stuff. The bed was elevated, I was propped up with a pillow, and I think I was holding on to Luke and Bertha while the doctor numbed my back. The needle stung, and I cried out, but after living through the torture that is natural childbirth, the pinch was nothing. This? Was child's play.

2:11 p.m.
Oh, blessed, sweet relief! Bring that baby on.

To be continued…

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

One baby, hold the fries: Birth story part one

Seeing as my child is almost three weeks old, I suppose it's time to start spilling the beans regarding how she got here, right?

To prepare for just this occasion, I took careful notes in the hospital. You think I'm kidding? Don’t make me scan in my scratch paper.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 17, 2007

Luke and I were up by six o'clock to get ready for our 7:30 induction. After a rough night obsessing over the fact that the manner in which we were collecting our baby could be compared to somebody ordering a value meal from McDonald's—each incident a painful experience in its own right—I had finally reached a place where I was at peace with the whole situation and excited knowing that by the end of the day, I'd be holding my daughter in my arms. Hell, with such an early induction time, I was counting on having her by lunch.

We took our showers, gulped down bowls of cereal, double checked our bags, and before we knew it, we were off.

7:50 a.m.
After registering at the front desk, the two of us were escorted to a private room in the labor and delivery unit, where I would remain until after the baby was born. We were introduced to Bertha, the first of three nurses I'd be assigned to that day. I was handed a set of gowns and told to undress. With the exception of my bra, I wouldn't don actual clothes again until my discharge Thursday night.

Once I'd gotten good and nekkid, I made myself comfortable in bed while Bertha fired off a series of questions regarding my health and the progression of my pregnancy. She asked about my preferences regarding pain relief and I replied that I'd probably want an epidural.

Then she asked about my last meal, and I told her about the bowl of Cheerios I'd eaten a couple of hours before.

"Did your doctor give you permission to eat that?" she asked.

"She didn't say I couldn't," I replied, which was true, but it didn't matter anyway, because hell no was I going to starve myself before jumping into the most physical challenge of my life. I'd talked to plenty of nurses to know there's no real benefit in a woman refraining from food or drink during labor, so self-restricting beforehand didn't make sense to me.

I refrained from sharing these deep insights with Bertha (who really was a lovely person and a great support in the hours ahead) and simply smiled.

8:50 a.m.
Bertha gave me my first cervical check of the day and pronounced me five centimeters dilated and eighty percent effaced—no real change since my last doctor's appointment the previous Friday. She told me her instructions were to start me on 2ccs of Pitocin and increase the dosage in increments of two until my contractions were consistently two to three minutes apart. Once the IV was in place, monitors were attached to my belly to measure the baby's heartbeat and the pattern of my contractions, the drip was started, and Luke and I were left alone to take everything in.

At this point, I wasn't sure what to think. I'd taken classes, done my reading, and overall prepared myself to give birth as naturally as I felt comfortable. With continuous monitoring and drug administering, ninety percent of the laboring positions Luke and I had practiced were no longer feasible. The suite did have a rocking chair, which I was encouraged to use, and it was perfectly fine for me to walk around the room, but I felt most at ease just sitting in bed, watching my contractions dance about on the monitor, hammering out last-minute name ideas with Luke, and waiting for the arrival of my sister Samantha and good friend Molly, each of them warning me not to push the baby out before they got there.

To be continued...

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.