Most women recount their labor stories in terms of hours, but I have to use days as my unit of measure. I’ve begun the count officially, and so my husband and I had a talk about names, considering several of the ones people have mentioned recently. A hearty “thank you” to everyone who posted and emailed name suggestions—even to those who left girl names because, well, you just never know.

In the end, I’m content to wait and see, not worried about anyone’s timetable. Truth be told, it is me who is more flustered than anyone else. Even if He hasn’t told us yet, He has chosen the perfect name already. God is never late; He is always on time. If He cares for the sparrow, I know that He cares much more about His gift to us, created in His image. He’s not worried, and so I take my cues accordingly. God is ever-patient toward crazy pregnant ladies, I suspect. How blessed to have nothing of greater concern at the moment.

On the home front, we are enjoying getting the strawberries right, finally. We’ve supplied our own tomatoes (and extra for the neighbors) for months now, but it’s time to replant new ones. I probably won’t get right on that just yet, though.

Apparently, however, I need some remediation with the blueberries. I think this is a respectable amount of berries on a one year plant, but I suspect there are supposed to be leaves on it too.

My husband bought a new-to-us van recently, and just like the houses we buy, he tore it apart. The picture here is actually pretty good, because you can’t tell that the ceiling was ripped out too. He’s installing all kinds of things, but the one thing all mothers of little ones might appreciate is…the onboard DustBuster. Yeah, baby.

I’ve heard that there are some men who are unable to buy gifts for their wives that plug-in, but I’m too practical for that. While others ride around with gold earrings and smashed Goldfish in their carpets, I’ll be smiling purty with a fully-charged vac in the back.

Now, my husband isn’t a car mechanic, but I there was a moment in time that I remember that I would be lost without him. It was the summer of 1995. We had met a couple months earlier– while I was a very poor, working college girl, and he was a youth pastor in seminary. My only transportation developed a major gas leak. He went to the library to obtain a diagram of my engine and fixed my problem with a .99 + tax piece of rubber/PVC thing. I knew right then, for sure, I was in love.

And now with an onboard DustBuster, I guess you could say that he’s still winning my heart ten years later.

What is thy only comfort in life and in death?
That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ, who with His precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and redeemed me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me, that without the will of my Father in heaven not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must work together for my salvation. Wherefore, by His Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto Him.

How many things are necessary for thee to know, that thou in this comfort mayest live and die happily?
Three things: first, the greatness of my sin and misery. Second, how I am redeemed from all my sins and misery. Third, how I am to be thankful to God for such redemption.

~ The Heidelberg Catechism

Being assured of the greatness of my sin and misery is no problem right now. It wasn’t too long ago that women were grateful to make it through childbirth alive; now we all just want to make it through without too much pain. Times have changed. The good news, if it can be called that (since the Apostle Paul tells us that dying is gain) is that I’m not going to die—at least not just yet. The bad news is that I feel like it.

I walked out of my midwife’s office this morning with a diagnosis—posterior baby. I use the term “diagnosis” knowing that it is a little dramatic, but I’m allowing it considering my condition. After reading on the subject, however, I’ve concluded that maybe my gloom is justified. Enter Eeyore.

As I processed what she was saying, I knew that the midwife was putting things in the best possible light. It’s kind of like the dentist saying that you’ll feel a “little pinch.” I read a lot on the subject of childbirth, but I tend to skim the subtopics that don’t apply to me: gestational diabetes, c-sections, RH compatibility, and now, posterior babies. All I could process initially was the (extensive) knowledge I had on the subject: posterior = bad, bad, bad.

I came home and told my husband the reason why things weren’t moving along and why they probably never would (he already knows how to sort out my hyperboles), and so he did what all responsible husbands do. He googled it. After a couple minutes of reading, he got up and left his laptop open. I stole a peek, to which he admonished, “Don’t read any of that stuff.”

“That stuff” that he was trying to protect me from was the following knowledge: Mothers of babies in the ‘posterior’ position are more likely to have long and painful labors, generally requiring increased use of interventions. The fact that posterior babies generally don’t engage means that it’s harder for labor to start naturally, so they are more likely to be ‘late’ or require an induction. “Braxton-Hicks contractions before labor starts may be especially painful [tell me about it], with lots of pressure on the bladder [no comment], as the baby tries to rotate while it is entering the pelvis.” Many homebirth sites stated the need to transfer the mother to the hospital for interventions, including but not limited to: forceps, vacuum, pain relief due to fatigue, and cesarean sections.

You know you’re in trouble when even the Natural Childbirth sites employ the phrase, “tremendous pain.”

Having had long, painful labors four times already when everything was going in my favor, frankly, pops my balloon. If I didn’t know better, you could have almost heard me say a few weeks ago, “I am woman; hear me roar.” (Kidding, folks.) I am ready. I am knowledgeable. I can do this. Now, I’m thinking about calling for a home health nurse to come put in the epidural now.

Sure, in labor, most all women have their moment of weakness. But they usually save it until the end. Being an overachiever, though, I like to get a head start on things. My husband calls me a “pessimist,” but I prefer to refer to myself as a “realist.”

Now, of course, it’s entirely possible that the baby could turn, but seeing as how he’s been comfy like this for several weeks now, I don’t hold much hope. Additionally, in my reading on the subject, I learned that there are ways to turn the baby. Holding your breath and crying for a bowl of Bing cherries isn’t one of them.

Now that it seems that my hopes for a more natural birth are dashed (there are other factors, like a positive Group B strep test), I rest in the fact that this pain I am in now cannot last forever. Because I am His, I have comfort now and ultimate comfort to come. Not to be trite, but what is my only comfort in life and in death (and in pain)? That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ.

I am His and He is mine! Yes, there are worse things than posterior babies. Like cancer, chronic pain, and watching your children suffer. But there is no worse tragedy than not belonging to Jesus Christ.

Now, if I can just hold on to this. Or else the shrinks will diagnose me with something else entirely.

Loved with everlasting love, led by grace that love to know;
Gracious Spirit from above, Thou hast taught me it is so!
O this full and perfect peace! O this transport all divine!
In a love which cannot cease, I am His, and He is mine.
In a love which cannot cease, I am His, and He is mine.

His forever, only His; Who the Lord and me shall part?
Ah, with what a rest of bliss Christ can fill the loving heart!
Heav’n and earth may fade and flee, firstborn light in gloom decline;
But while God and I shall be, I am His, and He is mine.
But while God and I shall be, I am His, and He is mine.

Thank you for the notes of encouragement on the last post. After reading each one, I am strengthened for the road ahead! It is possible!

I’ve been able to try a lot of the suggestions for turning Baby this weekend, as my husband took the kids while I labored for two days. Early this Sunday morning, I thought that we’d finally established a strong pattern, but alas, things are slowing down again. I am very uncomfortable, but at least now, I’m getting longer breaks.

This evening has been very quiet. I even attended the evening service and directed the children’s choir. I was slated to play for our church service this morning, but being unable to walk or talk through the contractions, I called in “sick.” Now I feel like I should have produced a baby to explain my absence, but here I sit with nothing apparent to show for all my hard work.

This reminds me of my garden sometimes—all work with not much to show for it.

When a person can barely walk, has to be manually rolled over, moans all day, attends weekly doctor visits, and can’t think straight, the usual protocol is to call a family meeting and arrange for home-health care, convalescent care, or some other form of involvement. It’s just the right thing to do.

But when these are just pregnancy symptoms, somehow standard protocol is overlooked. Ignored. In fact, not only is nobody rubbing my swollen ankles and feeding me mushy food, but they’re hounding my phone at the same rate as telemarketers.

Me: Hello?

Other Person: You haven’t had that baby yet?!

Me: Who is this again?

I feel like a watched circus animal who is unable to perform her tricks. I must need more treats. We all know that a watched pot doesn’t boil. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the original due date has come and gone, my husband’s mid-February prediction passed, and the adjusted due date occurs this week. I’ve never gone past my due date, but apparently, this baby didn’t get the memo.

Everything has a time. Ecclesiastes 8:6 says, “For there is a proper time and procedure for every matter, though a man’s misery weighs heavily upon him.” He orders all things perfectly. Even the delivery of baby memos.

The answer to, “How do you do it all?” is simple. Nobody does it all. If you bake your own bread and mill your own wheat, then you probably don’t polish your silverware. If you polish your silverware, you probably don’t parse Latin verbs with your kids. If you do Latin with your kids, you probably don’t have a garden. If you have a garden and do all of the above…you probably don’t take a shower. And I’ll bet your garden has weeds.

I had another chance this week to discuss the How-do-you-do-it question from a still wet behind the ears mom. Why she’s asking me, I figure, is just for the sake of conversation. She can’t imagine I do it all. I mean, if she bothered to look, she would have noticed that I didn’t even bring my Bible to church. Let alone the diaper bag. (One can scrounge a diaper from a hidden place in the van, if necessary…)

When the mom with the newborn told me about her day and its trials, she related her baby’s routine and his nighttime bath.

And I remembered. I remembered when I had my firstborn and gave him a bath every evening before bed. I remembered that I dressed him in sleepy-time clothes and powdered him up. I remembered that I would comb his peach-fuzz hair. I’d even brush his one tooth. I’d talk and sing to him, rock and cuddle him. He even had a mobile in his crib that sported working batteries.

Then I remembered my #4 baby. We didn’t even own one of those plastic baby tubs. Takes too much storage space. A box of baby wipes is much more efficient. Sure, we’d rinse her off in the sink when one of the diapers failed to contain its contents, but she had to wait until she could sit up to have a real bath. With the other girls, of course. Currently, we line them up, three-in-a-row, and wash their hair in assembly line fashion. Not wanting to ruin their childhoods entirely, I do use (generic, of course) lavender-scented baby shampoo. Then, we dress the baby in cozy blue pajamas, a remnant of an over-indulged firstborn. I feel no guilt.

For the record, when I sorted through the newborn clothes for our #5 baby, my husband put his foot down and told me that no son of his was going to wear pink pajamas. Even if it was only for around the house.

With each addition, the grooming and manual tasks get streamlined. But don’t for a second imagine that their caretaking gets short-changed. Number five will not have special baby Q-tips and coordinating sleeping booties, but he will have more hugs, lovin’, attention, prayers and holding than any baby in the neighborhood.

Our 20-month-old was just getting over the flu a few weeks ago. My oldest boy asked if he could have another job to earn more money before we left for the store. I conceded, and we left together for a quick shopping trip. He pulled out his money, counted it several times, and checked the prices carefully on everything. And then he purchased a glob of candy for his baby sister. Because she didn’t feel good.

And so, my conscience remains ever clear about #4’s babyhood bath time. It’s all good.

Amy’s husband here - looks like the day has finally arrived. We’ll be going to the hospital soon (it’s 8:40AM now). I’d write more - but I’ll get in trouble!

Baby arrived at about 2:40PM - 8# 14oz and 20″ long.

Mom and baby are doing fine so far.

Thanks for all your prayers.

EDIT: We’re still working on the name.

Late last night my husband and I decided on a name for our new treasure: Charles Liam Scott. Our infamous Naming Criteria List set some high standards, and yet the name we chose meets the most important feature—it fits him. He is named “Charles” after his paternal grandfather (Greg’s dad). We will be calling him “Charles,” but we’ll allow people who identify themselves as Peppermint Patty to refer to him as “Chuck.” Don’t do it, otherwise.

I plan on recounting an abridged birth story after we are settled in and putting up a few more pictures.

Usually the men folk are noted for their interest in statistics, facts, and figures. Who the third baseman was for the Phillies in 1976 doesn’t interest me– or most women. However…you get a group of women together swapping labor stories, and the stats start flying. It is difficult to get a word in edgewise. We know, remember, and recount all the numbers. Fifty years later, women still remember how many hours they labored with their second child.

My husband, on the other hand, wonders what all the hubabaloo is for. So, I’m offering two birth story versions. I’m asking you to read the one that suits your gender. If you’re confused which one that is, you’re reading the wrong blog. While the women’s version is modest and abridged, I still ask that you only read the one that applies to you.

For the guys
We went to the hospital and had a baby boy. He is hardy and strong. Everyone is home and doing well. See you next post.

For the ladies
When we arrived at the hospital, the scene could only be described as a clip from a bad Chevy Chase movie. If you don’t know me in real life, you have to imagine a five foot two (with shoes on) petite lady doubled-over carrying a nine-pound baby. While I wasn’t in transition yet, I was obviously not there to fill out a job application. Never having delivered at this particular hospital, we entered through the main entrance and asked for Labor and Delivery.

Has anyone ever noticed what happens when you give a volunteer a badge and too much down time?

The women at the front desk demanded our ID’s and told us to stand in front of the camera for a picture pass. This took a few minutes, but we happily complied. Then they asked why we were here. Chuckling, my husband notes that I’m in labor.

Well.

Both of the front desk ladies picked up their phones and started dialing extensions, asking questions, arguing, hanging up, and repeating the process several times. Since this was the weekend, I was informed that I needed to check in somewhere else. Only nobody knew where that somewhere else was. Apparently, having babies on the weekend isn’t standard protocol.

Not trying to be funny, I muttered, “You do deliver babies here, don’t you?” Nobody heard me, and nobody laughed–except my husband.

First, we were sent to Outpatient Registration, which seemed odd. The folks there thought this was odd as well, so after more phone calls, we were shuffled to the Emergency Room. I’m not even kidding. An ER doctor mentioned in the hall that he thought I was having a baby. We were very glad that someone noticed, but our escort then mentioned that that was his first correct diagnosis of the day. If this was a movie and not my real life, the doctor would be Chevy Chase, but thankfully, the scene ended here.

I want to mention that we don’t live in a rural town, and this isn’t a small hospital. My husband and I kept looking at each other while I moaned and laughed, “This isn’t really happening, is it?”

After signing my life away in the emergency room, we were then escorted to the fourth floor—Labor and Delivery. Thankfully, the nurse there, who had been called already by my midwife, had my chart, stats, and the lowdown. And again, if this were a movie and not my real life, the music would turn now from cheerful to melancholy.

My heplock was hooked up (for GBS), and we walked the halls for an hour until the midwife got there. The lady next door was delivering and screaming uncontrollably. My resolve weakened, and I started to lose it. Hearing her anguish reminded me of what was in front of me. My husband talked me out of losing it too, but it would only prove to be short lived.

I began vomiting, but I knew I wasn’t in transition yet. I was not handling the contractions well, which were constant from the night before (and continuous from several weeks beforehand, as well). I was still only 4-5 cm at this point.

Wanting to get this moving before hunger and exhaustion set in further, I asked the midwife to break my water. The contractions hit me hard and fast. I tried to keep my vocalizing low and controlled. When that didn’t work, I surrendered to moaning a primitive, “Help me, Jesus,” repeatedly. At this point, I was still coherent because the thought crossed my mind, “What if the nurse and midwife think I’m taking the Lord’s name in vain?” I didn’t want them to think I was cussing or anything.

Shortly after, I remember the clock reading 1:30 p.m. I did not know that the baby would be born at 2:32 p.m., but this is when I lost the ability to cope. I begged my husband for pain meds, and he just sat there. Everyone just sat there, and I felt so betrayed. They weren’t cold and calculating; I just felt someone should be doing something other than just me.

I tried to yell, but no sound came out. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where someone is chasing you, but you can’t run away. I wanted to yell, to protest. With my last birth, I remember screaming, “I’m going to DIE,” and somehow it made it seem like I wouldn’t.

Sometime after this, I received 5 mg of Nubain. I kept waiting for a break in the contractions. But it never came.

I wanted mercy. I heard them calling my name, asking me to sit up, to move, to respond. I just lay there and delivered the baby flat on my back. There was no sound from me for that last hour. The baby was placed on my stomach, but I did not see him. They shot my leg with pitocin (something I’d never agree to in real life), because obviously, I would not be nursing him to help with the bleeding. I do remember feeling him when he was placed on my stomach, but I did not care. I do not know how much time passed, but the baby was gone by the time I “came to.”

I asked to see him in the nursery, and we went. I did not hold or touch him. I just cried. The nurse asked if I was crying from the cramping, and I agreed even though it was a lie. The pain was not forgotten upon seeing his face. My psyche was just altered forever and everyone acted like this was normal. It took three hours for the shock to wear off, and then I snuggled and enjoyed him. It was strange.

Then the second wave hit—the after pains. They did not send me reeling into another state again, but nonetheless, the thought of nursing a baby during those contractions was unbearable. It would be three days before I’d attempt latching the baby. Knowing that this could possibly sabotage any hope for nursing, I refused anyway. Thankfully, all is well with the milk supply despite the delayed nursing.

I will never say, “I will never _________.” (Wait…)

The baby is strong. He is well. (In fact, his APGAR scores were 9/9.) I am getting stronger, and I will be well. And I’m not crazy, just in case you were wondering.

Incidentally, the day before the delivery was unusual. I received several phone calls (including a few long distance) and emails, and our friends unexpectedly brought by dinner as we played games in between contractions. All our kids spent the evening going bonkers, and it was a great time. I recognize it as grace before the storm, though I’d rather have just avoided the storm altogether.

Philippians 1:29 says, “For it has been granted to you on behalf of Christ not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for him.” We become like Christ not in spite of suffering, but through it. Every trial is an offering to Him and profitable to make us more like Himself, who did not despise the cross but bore it willingly. If this were a movie, the story would end here. But it’s my real life, and the end is better than any of us can imagine.

There is nothing like a newborn around the house to remind a woman that she is blessed. The squeaks, the content sighs, the soft downy head all tell again and again the goodness of God. Yesterday we sang in church Tell Me the Old, Old Story, and I thought of how the story of Jesus and his love is told to me in more than just words.

My seven-year-old son sat next to me in church, holding the hymnal for me while we sang together. He did not know the tune very well, and I smiled hard as he sang loudly and confidently. I think he was concentrating on reading the words that he forgot about the tune part of things. When the song was over, he whispered, “Mom, the notes go up and down a lot, but it’s a good thing I can sing it so well.”

Yes, I am glad he can sing so well.

While faith comes by hearing the Word of God, our faith is made stronger by His constant everyday goodness. It is there if we will see it. Precious newborn babies and seven-year-old boys who love Jesus are just some of the ways that He sends us more faith for the road ahead.

Oh, how abundant is your goodness,
which you have stored up for those who fear you…
~Psalm 31:19a

There is nothing like a newborn around the house to remind a woman that she is…busy. The around-the-clock feedings, the continuous diaper changes, and the soft newborn cries all tell again and again that I need to get my act together.

I’ve five kids now aged seven and under, but save any pity and send cash donations instead. While the newborn takes the most care, the older ones still need to be fed, clothed, schooled, and refereed. Even I might start to feel compassion for myself now. Remember, though, that these are just the ramblings of a 13th day postpartum woman, and I intend to resume my normal self as soon as I can find her.

In between my blessed baby’s calls for comfort, he sleeps. In fact, he sleeps most the day away. I think God does this on purpose. Yes, the Lord in His kindness gives rest to the weary, to little babies, and to rambling postpartum women.

One of my email pals told me that it’ll take three months to finally see to my toes again get into a good routine. And, I believe her, well, just because three months sounds doable. My sweet little newborn will not awake every two hours until he’s a teenager. I hope. While these days are long, this season is short. Though this good season is more demanding, I will remember that this is still the day the Lord has made. And rejoice.

Sing to him; sing praises to him;
tell of all his wondrous works!
Glory in his holy name;
let the hearts of those who seek the LORD rejoice!
Seek the LORD and his strength;
seek his presence continually!
~1 Chronicles 16:9-11

To all the expecting women that I terrified with my birth story, my apologies and prayers for a grace-filled delivery. Life is unscripted sometimes, and I do my best to be honest. But if you think about it, our stories could always be worse. You could– after all– be a porcupine…

Womanhood– particularly the part that involves mothering– can be a bittersweet calling.

If a newborn isn’t enough to keep one busy, the washing machine began making very loud sounds this week. It turns out Someone-Who-Will-Remain-Nameless left a marble in his pocket. The washing machine took many hours over the course of a few days to dis- and reassemble. Here’s the front loader that sat in the middle of my kitchen this week:

Now, my husband is working on the broken ice maker. We already checked for foreign objects, but that’s not the problem this time. Thankfully, we can do without an ice maker for awhile…but only because I’m not expecting right now.

How does a crying baby know if you’re sitting or standing? I mean, how does he knooooow? Why is being over my shoulder at an altitude of five feet so much better than three feet? And while we’re on the subject, how do they know exactly when you’re walking out the door?

I already know that I have the best babies. Don’t try to tell me any differently. They are always the cutest, the cuddliest, the sweetest I’ve ever seen. (The fact that they have only an ordinary mother to show for themselves is a cross that they will have to carry in life. You can’t win them all, you know.) Yes, I’m still in the newborn fog: happy, in-love, and…tired.

It is in this tired state that one shouldn’t make huge decisions. I’ve learned this. That’s why I’m mentioning it. You shouldn’t chop off all your hair, hock your maternity clothes, and tell your husband that he needs to find a permanent housekeeper because you just quit—at least, not all in the same week. No, after a woman has a baby, she should not operate heavy machinery, sign legal documents, or visit the hairdresser. When one is sleep deprived, one doesn’t necessarily think through the consequences of one’s decision. That’s why if you color your hair, you should use the washable kind.

No, I didn’t chop off my hair, but I did gather my maternity clothes to go out on loan. But this time, I put my initials on them. Because you just never know.

I try not to have a myopic view of life, but sometimes I fail on that account. I remember on my wedding day that I went to the store on an errand. I recall thinking that it was odd that everyone was going about their business as usual. I mean, didn’t everyone realize that this was a special day? Twenty-year-old brides are probably some of the most self-absorbed people on the planet. Well, at least this one was.

Moms with a new baby might run a close third. (In case you’re wondering, two-year-olds take the second place prize.) As a member of the postpartum mom club again, the clue to why I might be a little myopic in my perspective is that in our nightly family prayers, the top prayer uttered every night from my lips goes like this, “And Lord, please help the baby to sleep longer tonight. Please.” It is customary for me to pray for wisdom, to pray for our children to love and obey Jesus, and to ask for forgiveness for the many sins I’d committed earlier that day. However, the way I see it now, I’d probably sin less if I got a few more hours sleep.

I had the privilege to play for a funeral yesterday. This was the second one I’d played for this year already, and this time, it was for the unexpected death of a man the same age as my husband. As with most people, I ponder my mortality at these events. What am I doing with my life? What am I leaving behind? Will they say that I was faithful? Will God call me faithful? How much time do I have left?

In light of the life-and-death significance of a funeral, does God care about sleeping babies? Of course He does. We ought to bring all things to Him. When we bring the dailyness of our lives before Him, we acknowledge His sovereignty over all things. The danger, of course, is forgetting that His Kingdom is big. When we bring the small details of our lives to Him, we ought to remember, too, that His kingdom extends beyond our four walls to the four corners of the earth. It is not only about the moment, but also about His Church that began with Adam and Eve and extends to future generations.

So, tonight when we pray again together, I will remember to pray that my new son will love, serve, and fear the Lord as His older siblings do—and that it will be the same for their children and their children’s children. Of course, I still will pray for him to give his mother a little rest… and I won’t say aloud which one I think would be the greater miracle. A little sleep ought to clear up the dilemma.