What I Remember About the Day I Almost Died

My Muffin is fast approaching his first birthday. Can you believe it?

This year has been tough. Not only in the "it's hard having four kids under six" kind of way, but in a very personal and emotional way. If you didn't notice, I'm not surprised. I've discovered that I'm kind of a good actress. I spent the year praying that my kids wouldn't notice if I was just going through the motions, but rather, they would feel that I was there, truly there, in the ways that matter. I did my best most of the time and I guess I will never know whether or not it made a difference, but I tried.

When I started to come out of the fog of PPD and PPA, I had this horrible realization that I really don't remember much of anything that has happened in the last ten months. My baby's entire life so far is a blur. It's a punch in the stomach to realize that your baby is now sitting and playing with blocks and you have no idea how it all happened. I have snippets of memories here and there, some high points and a lot of low points. It all ties back to the day that Muffin was born. It was the day that I almost died.

I remember the day that I went into labor. It was a strangely warm day. A Monday. 78 degrees. Sunshine. The day that I brought Muffin home, however, it was cold. Very cold. It had snowed the night before. So while we entered the hospital wearing t-shirts, we bundled our new baby up and brought him home in the frost.

The dichotomy of the weather on those days is not lost on me.

Muffin was due on April 13, 2014. Labor started during the night, but it was very sporadic. Contractions here and there. I did my best to sleep and my husband went to work the next morning. I had a few more contractions in the morning, and I could tell they were the real deal, but they weren't a big deal. I got the kids ready for the day and avoided texts from friends asking if I was in labor. Around 9:30, I called my husband to tell him that I was in labor and that he should let his boss know and come home soon. I called my mom to leave work and come take care of the kids.

Labor was not intense by any means at this point. I had an epidural with Big Kid, but had drug-free deliveries with Toast and Beam, and my goal was once again to deliver drug-free, so I wasn't in any rush to get to the hospital. I felt fine. However, I was Strep B positive for the first time ever, so I knew that I needed two doses of antibiotics before delivery, and I needed to be in the hospital for at least four hours in order to receive the proper doses. So we headed out.

We stopped for brunch at a diner near the hospital. It's kind of a tradition for us to have a "last meal" before a new baby. I had a few more contractions while we were eating. I figured that it was probably time to head in, and we paid our bill and headed to meet the midwife at the hospital.

We arrived and checked in, and I was dilated to a four. The midwife wasn't convinced that it was real labor (despite the fact that a mom of four certainly knows and despite my warning that Beam had been delivered one hour after I was dilated to a five!). So we walked the halls for a bit and she checked again, and Muffin's head was very low and I was dilated to a five. So the nurse started an IV and the first dose of antibiotics, and I ordered some lunch. (Yes, that is a good indication of how easy my labor was - I was sitting in bed and eating.) By this time, it was about noon.

Around 2:30 is when labor really picked up. The contractions were stronger and closer together and I began to pace the hospital room and lean on my husband as necessary. I'm not sure why, but standing is always my go-to labor position. I'm more comfortable that way. If Strep B wasn't a factor, this is when I would probably have decided to call my husband to go have a baby. Up until this point, it was really no big deal.

Around 3:30, I realized what an idiot I was for opting out of the drugs. Epidurals are amazing, aren't they? Why would I ever decide to feel this if I didn't have to?! If you've never had the fortune of having a drug-free birth, I'll share this tidbit with you - at some point, you will realize that it was a bad idea. It's usually too late at this point to change your mind and it's really an indication that you are doing awesome - it's almost the end!

I was standing up, leaning on the bed when my nurse came in to see how I was doing. I don't remember what time it was, but I remember that I told her that I was tired. I told her that I just couldn't do it any more. She watched a few contractions and told me, "No wonder you are tired! You aren't getting a break anymore. Your contractions are only about 40 seconds apart." I asked for water. I drank an entire glass in between each contraction.

The midwife came in and she offered to catch the baby right where I was standing if I wanted to stay where I was and push him out. My legs were giving out though, so I climbed into the bed and was kneeling and leaning  forward on a birth ball. I alternately felt the urge to push and breathe through contractions, so I did what felt right at the time. The nurse and midwife were amazing at letting me do whatever felt good. My hips were killing me, and my darling husband alternated between putting hot cloths on my hips to ease the pain and quickly removing them when I yelled. Those cloths went from feeling amazing to feeling like a cinder block in a matter of seconds, and he was a good sport during our "cloth on/cloth off" game. At some point, he gently suggested that I may not be able to push the baby out in the position that I was in, and told me that I should try turning over if I wanted to get it all over with.

I tried turning quickly between contractions, but I guess I wasn't quick enough, because I had one right in the middle of moving, and I remember screaming, "I'm dying! Help me!"

Birth is glamorous, right?

Bless his heart, my husband was right, though. After changing position and a couple of quick pushes, Muffin came screaming into the world at 4:44 pm, on April 14, 2014. Baby number four was here and we were elated.

This is where it gets graphic.

Shortly after Muffin was born, one nurse took him and cleaned him up and did his measurements while the other helped me to the bathroom to clean up. I remember that there was a lot of blood, and the nurse commented that I was bleeding more than she would like, so she was going to watch me. I washed up and climbed back into bed and snuggled my new baby.

I nursed Muffin as soon as I could. It was around this time that I noticed that something wasn't quite right. Every mom will tell their tale of nursing cramps. They suck, and they get stronger after each baby. These cramps weren't right, though. They were worse than labor and I could barely breathe through them. A short while later, I called the nurse to come help me to the bathroom. She came in with another nurse, and as they tried to help me out of bed, I got really hot and really dizzy. I must have fainted because I remember the nurse calling to me to "come back" and I remember saying, "I'm here! I'm fine! I'm awake!"

The cramps continued. My sister came to meet Muffin and I remember telling her about how much pain I was in. It was worse than labor, I would say. Something isn't right.

I don't remember exactly who was in the room when everything took a bad turn. I've relied on my husband to fill in the gaps here. From what he told me, I was sitting in the bed and all of a sudden I went limp and became very pale. He called the nurse. She rushed in and checked my blood pressure and it was 51/18.

She pulled my blankets away and according to my husband there was "more blood than he had ever seen."
She rushed to get the doctor.

I was in and out of consciousness during all of this. I remember the doctor asking the nurse if I had an epidural. She told him no. He said, "She isn't going to like this."

I remember screaming at him, "Please stop!" But I was so weak that I could barely lift my head or move. It was a strange half-wake, half-sleep state, but I distinctly remember him reaching and pulling tissue out of me. I remember him telling me that they were going to have to take me to the OR. Retained placenta. They would be moving me as soon as possible.

I remember them fitting the mask over me in the operating room.

I woke up in recovery and my throat was killing me. I asked for water. They gave me ice chips.

I woke up again in my room upstairs. This time, it was a different room. My husband told me that they had to clean the other room. I will never forget the worried look on his face. He looked like a man who had just watched someone die. I kept asking him if he was okay.

I was so weak. I was told that I was not to get out of bed. Eventually, they gave me a blood transfusion or two. I can't quite remember that, either.

On April 14, 2014, we welcomed our baby boy into the world. I almost died.
Two days later, on April 16th, we brought our baby boy home in the snow. I cried, a lot.
On April 17th, my husband went back to work. Life went on, and the world just spun out of control.

I had a baby! Why didn't anyone care? Why was everyone just moving on and going about their lives? I almost died! Didn't you know that? Does anyone care that I might not have been here anymore?

These are the thoughts that I have carried with me for the past ten months.

If you think that everything is "fine" because Muffin is "fine" and I am "fine," you are missing the point. Yes, we are here and of course, that matters. But everything else matters, too.

I have struggled to overcome these feelings for the past year. I'm not quite there, but I'm getting better each and every day.

Sex After Kids

I debated writing this one.

I prayed that I could blog anonymously. Then I contemplated having a fake "Guest Blogger" write the post.

I mean, after all, my mom reads this. Probably my father in law. Maybe even my boss.

Yes, I'm a 30 year old prude.

But, as much as I tell my children that they were stars in the sky who landed in my belly and were gently removed by a doctor and no it didn't hurt, you all know the truth. My husband and I had sex. At least four times.

We were driving in our sweet minivan a few weeks ago and, miraculously, all four kids fell asleep. I'm not exactly sure how the conversation came about, but my husband said to me, "Remember that time, on Mill Street, when we almost burned your apartment down?"

And I laughed. Because I remembered. We were engaged, and it was Valentine's Day, and we were in the middle of a blizzard. So we did what anyone does when it's cold and you are bored (hello, September babies!). And we may have started a small fire due to poor candle placement and a faulty shower curtain rod. We both started laughing. One of us wondered out loud what happened. The other glanced back to the four sleeping kiddos in the back and reality smacked us in the face.

They happened.

Sex after kids is kind of a chore. Let's be real. Especially if you are a nursing mom, or the mom of young kids. The last thing that you want after the kiddos finally fall asleep at night is another person tugging on your yoga pants or grabbing your boobs. But at the same time, it's fun. It's the best way to reconnect with your husband after a long day at your respective jobs. And after it's all done, you probably wonder, "Why don't we do that more often?!" If you don't wonder this, you probably aren't doing it right.

Now, we've obviously managed to do it three times since having our oldest. And we haven't started any fires. And although getting naked on the living room floor can be fun (Hi, Muffin!), we've really been slacking in the whole marriage department.

And so, we made a pact. A New Year's Resolution, if you will. Sex three times a week. For you out there reading, that may sound like a lot or it may sound like not enough at all, but that's our goal. Today is January 6th, and we've done it a half time, twice. We have some work to do.

Now, if you don't know what "half sex" is, I'm going to assume that you don't have kids. Keep on with that birth control, sister. If you do have kids, you can appreciate the humor that is "Sex After Kids."

It's no secret that I'm breastfeeding Muffin, every two hours, AROUND THE CLOCK, sleep be damned. So after a long night at work and a few skipped feedings, the girls are huge. They look AMAZING. I just showered. The kids are all asleep. I tiptoe into my room and climb into bed topless, hoping to "surprise" my husband. (BTW, three nights in a row of this has ruined the surprise. He came to expect it and I told him I would have to scale back. Anywho...) Topless. Seven hours without feeding the baby. Spraying milk everywhere is the opposite of sexy. It just leaves you saying, "Son of a bitch! Where's my bra?"

Last week I went shopping without the kids. VS was having a sale, so I bought some new underwear - all boyshorts - and I was excited. I showed them to my husband when I got home. The conversation went something like this:

"Didn't you wear thongs when we started dating?"
"Yeah. But I've had FOUR babies. They aren't comfortable anymore."
"Well what if I buy you some?"
"I'll put them on in the bathroom immediately before going to bed."
"Deal."

The EPITOME of sexy, let me tell you.

Last night, I kindly pointed out to my husband that it was the fifth of January, almost a whole week down, and we were already breaking our resolution. After a quick argument over who was surfing Facebook more instead of, you know, stripping down, we tiptoed to bed. The name of the game these days is "Quick, before the baby wakes up." We ALMOST had it before we heard Muffin's cries, and I said, "No, don't stop!" and husband said, "I didn't even hear him." So maybe we will count that one as a success. Yes, success.

Day six. 1.5 times. Victory.

My Children are Afraid of Cats

A Fear of Cats... and Other Things that Annoy Me

A few weeks ago, we tried to adopt a kitten. The key word here is "tried."

In less than 24 hours, it went from excitement and joy and love...

To this:

If pictures had sound, you would hear shrieks of sheer terror.

Now mind you, my children have been around cats their entire lives. I've had my adult cat, Sammy, longer than I've had my husband. The kitten has since moved in with a friend, but the fear of cats still remains. The kids cannot walk past Sammy without screaming in fear.

This morning, I sent Big Kid upstairs to get a clean pair of socks. He had "dressed" himself in a too-small shirt and pants, but had somehow missed his sock drawer. (Come to think of it, I wonder if he changed his underwear? Too late now.) Anywho, I said, "You have EIGHT MINUTES until your bus gets here. Run upstairs and get some clean socks."

A minute later, he comes downstairs whining. He's still barefoot.

"Where are your socks?! Your bus comes in FIVE MINUTES!"

His response? "I couldn't get them. Sammy is laying in the hallway."

Being the sympathetic mom that I am, I told him to march his butt back upstairs and come down with socks or I was going to send him to school late, with a note that explaining that he is terrified of big, fluffy, kitty cats who take naps.

Big Kid suddenly found the courage to change his socks.

Hunger Pains

My children are hungry all.the.time. It wears on a woman to hear, "Can I have a snack? Can I have a treat? Can I have pasta for dinner? No sauce. Just pasta and butter. I'm hungry mom! I'm SO HUNGRY!" all.the.time.

Sometimes I think to myself, there is no physical way that they are actually hungry. I mean, they have just eaten, and I can't remember the last time that I had anything except water.

This morning, Beam was sitting at the table. She was sitting in front of two plates, one contained a sliced up apple, the other contained a waffle. To her right were cups of orange juice and dry cereal. She got up from the table, after eating a bite of each, and yelled to me, "I'm HUNGRY MAMA!" I told her to eat her food. She went to the kitchen, got a stool, opened the cabinet, and demanded cheddar fishies. Not wanting to fight (and wanting to eat my own cereal in peace), I put some in a bowl for her. She walked to the living room, put the bowl on the shelf without eating a single Goldfish, and came back to ask me for a bite of my cereal.

Honest to God, I could rip my hair out some days. Every morning, I found myself shouting, "I've fed you seven times! I've been awake for FOUR HOURS and haven't eaten. Leave me alone for five minutes before I put you back to bed until dinner."

Grocery Shopping

Grocery shopping with four kids is so annoying that it deserves a post of its own. Some day, I will write that post. For now, though, I'll share this morning's annoyance.

I wear Muffin in a Beco carrier while we shop. I pray to the gods of the grocery store that Beam will cooperate and ride in the front seat of the shopping cart (she won't.) I direct Toast and Big Kid to hold onto the cart or walk beside me and NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING.

It never fails that the kids somehow end up wandering back and forth in front of the shopping cart, "leading the way," so to speak. They don't know if we need grapes or cereal or to restock our supply of vodka, so they have no idea where to go but yet, they end up in front of the crazy train. After running down two toddlers and fruitlessly trying to tell them to go left or right, I finally snap. I tell Toast to hold onto the cart. I tell Big Kid to hold his sister's hand. The conversation goes the same each and every time.

"You guys cannot walk in front of the cart. Hold your sister's hand and follow me."
"But it's STICKY!"
"HOLD HER HAND."
"She's so gross!"
"HOLD. HER.HAND. NOW. or you will not get a cookie from the bakery."
Relenting and taking his sister's hand, "Fine. Beam, you are SO GROSS."



Somehow, we manage to get out of the house with clean socks and buy fresh food at the grocery store. But I still don't get to eat it.

There's Something You Don't Know About Me

I debated whether or not I should write this.

We can laugh about my parenting mishaps. We can squirm with jealousy over my husband's fancy vacation digs (I'm kidding babe!). But do you want to know my heart? Share my pain? I'm not so sure. But I decided I would break the silence and write it anyway.

I am the mom of five babies.

I have a son, and you don't even know that he exists.

I'm not sure how to begin telling his story. My husband and I were surprised, to say the least, when we learned that I was pregnant. Big Kid was just six months old. I was one of those "lucky" ones who's cycle started right at six weeks postpartum, breastfeeding be damned. I wasn't supposed to be pregnant.

The  mini pill failed me. It would go on to fail me twice more.

We did the math. Baby #2 was due in July of 2009. Big Kid would be turning one a month prior.

I was embarrassed to be pregnant. Ashamed, even.  My new baby weight was easily disguised as "old" baby weight. I wore scarves and sweaters to cover up the fact that my belly was growing rather than shrinking.

We didn't celebrate the pregnancy. We only told our doctor, our moms, and my siblings.  If you had to know, you  knew, and that was the extent of it.

Somewhere around 16 weeks into the pregnancy, I began bleeding. I knew something wasn't right. I saw my doctor a few times, but nothing significant was found. Baby was thriving. We heard his heart beating strong.

The following weekend, I attended a friend's bridal shower. I began cramping regularly. I knew that whatever was happening was getting worse. I left the shower early, went home, and told my husband that we needed to go to the hospital.

We waited for hours. Finally, the ER doctor ordered an ultrasound. Baby was thriving. We heard his heart beating strong.

The doctor discharged us before radiology reviewed the scan.. I was given silly instructions, like  don't vacuum. Rest.

We were standing at the check out desk when a nurse stopped us and called us back in. I was being admitted.  Suddenly, I wasn't even permitted to walk or sit upright. They wheeled me up to the second floor.

It wasn't long before my OB arrived in my room on the Maternity floor. The news wasn't good. With tears in his eyes, my doctor told me that my cervix was funneling and dilating. We tried to stop my contractions with an awful drug called terbutaline.  If it worked, we could place a cerclage and hope for the best.

My water broke early the next morning, and our son was born a few minutes later.

He was the tiniest baby boy that I have ever seen.

My baby never took a breath in this world. And as his mom, I have failed. You see, my heart is beating strong. The air is mine to breathe. And yet, I have not used that breath to tell you his story.  You don't even know that he exists.

I have a son. His name is Michael Joseph, and now you know that he was here.

Taking a Shower

Taking a shower sounds simple enough. The more kids you have, though, the more complicated it gets. Some moms just don't bother, but it's one of those things that I refuse to skip, even if I have 12 kids (I won't). The key to getting it done is to simplify the process. So here it is. 

Taking a Shower in 1400 Easy Steps.

Put oldest kid on the bus.
Realize you have to leave in 1.5 hours.
Usher three kids upstairs.
Lock gates at both ends of the hallway so that no one wakes the sleeping baby or breaks their neck falling down the stairs.
Settle the baby down for a nap.
Hear your three year old shout, "MOM! I pooped AND peed!"
Wipe your three year old's butt.
Start the shower to let it warm up.
Help your two year old on and off the toilet.
Rescue your deodorant from the hallway. Realize the cap is missing.
Remind your two and three year old that the baby is sleeping and they need to play quietly.
Yell, "BE QUIET!" when they inevitably slam the bedroom door.
Pray that the baby didn't hear.
Get into the shower and realize that the hot water has been running for 12 minutes.
Wash your hair while refereeing a fight about a motorcycle.
Get out of the shower and dodge awkward remarks about butts and nipples while you try to dry off.
Help your two year old onto the toilet.
Wave goodbye to poop.
Search for a new diaper.
Apply deodorant. Share it with the two year old. Body odor starts young.
Dodge requests for snacks, orange juice, and complaints about eye pain. 
Search for a tie-dye shirt to no avail. Convince the three year old that his TMNT shirt is super cool.
Dig out some fresh nursing pads and your bra with plastic hooks.
Remember the days when cute bras were the norm.
Throw on yesterday's yoga pants and a tank top and usher the two older kids downstairs quietly, hoping that the baby sleeps long enough to put your hair up in a pony tail.

You're done! It's 9:30 am. Go eat some breakfast. You don't have to share, but you probably will.

Oh mama...

This morning, I was in the boys' bedroom as Big Kid was picking out his clothes for school. He chose his alligator shirt, the one that his nana brought back for him from her vacation to Florida. It is black and white, and the colors appear in the sun. He excitedly told me, "My classroom is really bright! I wonder if it will light up at school!" It was one of those moments that I wanted to pause. Bottle up. Remember forever.

I've been a mom for six years. I've got four kids. I like to think that I've learned a lot, but I know I have a long way to go. Some days, I wish I could go back in time and tell myself to slow down. Relax. That no matter how hard things were, how sweet they were, how exhausted I was, that this crazy train through motherhood was just getting started, and I needed to savor it.

Oh, mama. You are 39 weeks (8days7hours32minutesbutwhoscounting) pregnant. Your body aches. Your feet are swollen. You don't see how you can possibly grow any bigger. Oh, mama. You are just getting started. Some day, very soon, your little one will be born. But those aches won't go away. Your body will ache and cramp and groan as it tries to return to its original size. Your feet will swell from pacing the floors with a crying newborn. You arms will hurt so bad that you will be convinced that they will fall off because your sweet 32lb two year old insisted on being carried through the grocery store. But some day, very soon, you will miss being pregnant. You will miss the bumps and the kicks and the "Did my water break? No, that was just pee," moments of pregnancy.

Oh, mama. You are sitting on the couch holding that sweet eight day old baby. The newborn clothes are still too big on him. You adjust your shirt, prepared to nurse him for the 67th time that day. This is hard. Your body is tired. Your nipples are sore and cracked, and you aren't sure that your boobs can grow any bigger. They hurt so bad that a breath of wind could bring on the tears. Oh, mama. You are just getting started. Some day, that baby will be five months old. He will smile up at you as he drinks his milk, and you will realize that nursing got easier. It is the easiest and sweetest and most precious thing you have done. You have grown this baby from a microscopic egg to an 18lb giggling boy! And one day, you will sit down in that spot on your couch, cuddling that baby, and you will unclip that tattered nursing bra, and you will nurse him again. And that will be the last time that you ever nurse your baby. Maybe the tears will come because you realize that this phase of your life is over. Maybe you won't realize it is the last time and those tears will come later, as you look back and remember the days of nursing your newborn. You won't remember that you curled your toes and held your breath as he latched on. Instead, you will remember feeling the milk flow and the sweet weight of the baby in your arms, and you will realize, "I was just getting started."

Oh, mama. I see you. You are up for the third time with your eight month old. You are wondering if you will ever sleep again. Should you let him cry it out? Should you rock him back to sleep? What do the books say? What do the moms on Facebook say? What have you done wrong? Nothing, mama. You've done nothing wrong. You are tired, mama, but you are just getting started. You may get your baby to sleep now, but it won't be the last night that he wakes you up. He will get teeth. He will be sick. He will simply need a hug. One day, he will be three years old and he will get out of bed 47 times between 7:30 pm and 8:17 pm, simply to ask for water, request you to wipe his butt, or discuss spiritual questions of the universe that you have no answer to. It's tiring. The mamas of the universe are with you when you pour yourself a giant cup of coffee the next morning.

Oh, mama. You are wrestling with your 18 month old. All you want to do is put pants on him, but he won't comply. He has other ideas. Instead of putting on those pants so that you can run to the grocery store for more diapers, he's on the ground, kicking and screaming. The phrase "Terrible Twos" come to mind. Oh, mama. I'm sorry to say it, but you are just getting started. They don't call them the F*cking Fours for nothing, mama. Pick your battles, and stay strong. It's hard to discipline and train and teach all day and night, but it's worth it. You will recognize the fruits of your labors soon enough. So when you can't take any more, put them to bed. Get yourself some chocolate. Cry in the corner. It will all be alright. Remember that you are doing a great job.

Oh, mama. Sending your baby off to school for the first time. It's scary. Who will make sure that he gets to his classroom safely? Does that bus have car seats? What if he walks around all day with jelly on his cheeks after eating lunch in the cafeteria? What if he gets lost on his way to the cafeteria? Oh, mama. You are just getting started. You've gotten through the baby days and the toddler years, but your worries have changed.Now it's bullies and food allergies and "will he make friends?" It will be okay, mama. He will learn and grow in ways that you never imagined. But you may have to reconsider the way you spell things to your husband when you don't want your kids to catch on. Now, he will know what you are saying.

Oh, mama. Standing in a messy boys' bedroom, surrounded by superheroes and blankets and dinosaur teeth. You wonder if it will ever be clean. You wonder if they will ever find that missing library book. And you overhear an excited giggle, "I wonder if this shirt will light up at school!" One day, it won't be "cool" to wear a color change shirt to school. One day, it will be name brands and fashion and "What will my friends think?" Oh, mama. It's just getting started. Remember these innocent moments. The last six years have flown by, and before you know it, another six will be gone, too. Savor it.

And we are off...

It's Back to School time!

Big Kid is off to First Grade! Reading, writing, riding the bus. I can't wait to see how much he grows this year!

Toast is leaving the bread box for the first time. He's starting preschool this year.

I know that so many parents look forward to back to school season. I get it. After a busy summer, school is a much needed break from parenting. From 8:24 am to 3:09 pm, Big Kid is out of my hair. From 8:30 am to 11:30 am, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Toast is gone. That's nine hours a week of kid free time! I can relax, clean, and write. I can eat a bowl of cereal without children demanding that I share. I can shower without someone dropping Matchbox cars on the floor of the tub. I can enjoy the quiet at home. 

NINE HOURS A WEEK JUST FOR ME! 

Oh wait.

Enjoy your "break," you lucky ones! You know where to find me.