Baby Kynsie's Birth Story

After the surprise of Brown-Eyed Boy being born a month early, I figured the birth of our second child would be pretty typical. Every doctor's appointment confirmed her perfect health. She was a week away from being full term. We were fully prepared for her arrival.

Or so I thought.

Around midnight on March 14th I woke up to put Brown-Eyed Boy back to bed. As he wiggled and jabbered and refused to sleep, strong contractions started washing over me. It's not labor, I told myself because I had gotten my hopes up too many times before.

When Brown-Eyed Boy finally fell asleep, I returned to my bed and started to time the contractions. There was no pattern to them. The strong ones came 10, 15, even 20 minutes apart, with some piddly little contractions in between.

Mr. Brown Eyes was snoozing peacefully next to me all this time, but as I leapt out of bed to struggle through another strong contraction, he woke up and asked me what I was doing. "Having a contraction," I said breathlessly, crawling back into bed next to him. As I explained how inconsistent they were, he agreed that it probably wasn't time to go to the hospital yet. So we laid together in the dark, timing my contractions, sleep far from our minds even though it was two-thirty in the morning.

We had just called my midwife and decided maybe we should go to the hospital just to see what was going on, when the most intense contraction yet drove me out of bed, struggling to find a relaxing position. Kneeling beside the bed, my water broke with a warm gush and I exclaimed to my husband, "My water broke! Crap, we waited too long!"

Mr. Brown Eyes jumped out of bed then and I called the hospital to let them know I was coming. But when I got off the phone my darling husband was still in the closet. "What are you doing?" I snapped. "We need to go!"

"Don't you want to get changed?" he asked.

"No," I replied, grabbing my hospital bag and marching out to the truck. I didn't care how much I looked like I had peed my pants. I had bigger worries on my mind right then. Like how exactly one gives birth to a baby on the side of the road.

I got into the truck while Mr. Brown Eyes woke up Brown-Eyed Boy, who was surprisingly wide-awake and cheerful for the early hour. The plan was to take him to my parents' house before driving to the hospital, but my midwife, familiar with my speedy labors, called and told us to just bring him with us and have someone pick him up there. So we sped down the freeway, Brown-Eyed Boy occasionally stroking my arm and saying, "Mommy owie?", me telling Mr. Brown Eyes to drive faster, faster, faster. With each contraction I was sure I was going to die, and my breath came in short, rapid gasps. Then I experienced a new sensation:

"My arms are tingling," I gasped to my husband.

"That's because you're hyperventillating," explained my calm medic husband. "You're not getting enough oxygen. Take deeper breaths."

He coached me through my breathing, and then we finally arrived at the hospital. I dashed out of the truck as fast as a woman in labor can, was promptly shoved into a wheelchair, and was wheeled upstairs with my husband and son trailing behind. Thinking I was just a few minutes away from jumping into that blessed delivery bed and finally being able to push filled me with incredible relief. It will be over soon, I told myself.

When we arrived at the delivery room, Brown-Eyed Boy played happily with his toys while Mr. Brown Eyes stood at my bedside and squeezed my hand. "This baby is coming!" the head nurse announced as everyone rushed around. Thank goodness, I thought as she helped me get into a pushing position.

Then came the words that changed everything: "That's not a head," the nurse exclaimed. "That's a foot!"

At no time during my pregnancy had there been any indication that my baby was anything but head-down. As the room broke into barely-controlled chaos, I looked up at my husband. "She's breech," I gasped in panic. "No one ever said anything about her being breech."

Mr. Brown Eyes calmed me while the nurses tipped me upside down, stuck me with a drug to slow my contractions, and diligently held that dangling foot inside me. The snatches of conversation I heard included the words "OR", "OB Surgeon," and c-section. My heart sank.

"Are they goimg to do a c-section?" I asked my midwife.

"No," she said decidedly, but as Brown-Eyed Boy retreated down the hallway with my mom, they wheeled me into the operating room and ordered me not to push as we waited for the OB surgeon. I resigned myself to the c-section. As long as they got my baby out of me, I no longer cared how. Through the agony of not being able to push I looked up into my husband's eyes and felt peace and strength.

Finally the OB surgeon, Dr. Grabowski, entered the room. The first words out of his mouth were "C-section?"

"No, we want to try a natural delivery first," my midwife replied. "She can do it. She'll do anything you ask. Just let her try."

Have I mentioned I love my midwife?

Dr. Grabowski seemed unconvinced, but after ordering a quick ultrasound and explaining to me that he might have to use forceps, he agreed to deliver my baby breech.

I was finally allowed to push, and my husband explained to me later how they carefully manuevered our baby's body so she could be born feet-first. I didn't feel like anything was happening as I pushed, and when everyone--doctors, nurses, midwife--told me to push again I snapped, "I am pushing!" Then I felt her head, and with one final push and a scream of pain my baby girl entered the world. Relief literally flooded over me and I just cried. She was here. She was here and she was healthy and it was finally over.

I know everyone says this, but a moment later they laid my newborn baby on my chest--my grayish-white, slippery, warm newborn baby girl--and I forgot all about the agony and fear and chaos of the last hour. It was all for her. And it was all worth it.


Wigglebug Photography



P.S. She has the most beautiful feet.

Mother of Two,

The Brown-Eyed Girl



An Update

I apologize for being missing in action for the last few weeks. I've been a little distracted by this little darling:



Courtesy of Wigglebug Photography

Her birth story is pretty amazing. I will tell you about it soon.

Right now I am busy being the mother of two absolutely beautiful children.

I'm so lucky.

Talk to you soon,

The Brown-Eyed Girl

Five Years

Happy Anniversary to my best friend and one true love. I can't believe it's been five years since we promised each other forever in the Lord's Temple, slow-danced in the light of fake streetlights and a gorgeous city skyline you worked so hard on, and smashed cake in each other's faces.

Oh, and got to our luncheon late, only to discover my family had eaten all our food.

I love every memory I make with you.

 

Let's make lots more.

Love,

Your Brown-Eyed Wife

Waiting

I am now officially more pregnant than I've ever been before.

Courtesy of Wigglebug Photography

Brown Eyed Boy was born at 36 weeks. I was totally unprepared. My baby shower wasn't for another week. We had no diapers. We wrapped Brown Eyed Boy in dish towels until we had a chance to buy some swaddling blankets.

I am now 37 weeks. I've had two baby showers. The bassinet is set up. The carseat is secured in the back of our car. The dresser is full of adorable little girl outfits, just waiting for a little girl to wear them.

The newest addition to the Brown-Eyed family can come any day now.

Seriously, any day.

Like, the sooner the better.

I'm not getting any younger here.

With Brown Eyed Boy, there was no anxious waiting, no sudden onslaught of contractions sending my hopes soaring, only to fizzle out hours later, no constant speculation about "when he might come." I was only pregnant for eight months. I never got into that "just get this baby out of me" mindset.

This is a whole new world for me.

I guess, while I wait, I will enjoy that never-gets-old feeling of my baby squirming and kicking inside of me. And eating all the Oreos I want. And sleeping. Sleep is a precious commodity these days. 

And soon, it will be even more so. 

But I can't wait.

Feeling large,

The Brown-Eyed Girl 

Valentine's Day

Happy late Valentine's Day! Since Mr. Brown Eyes had to work, Brown Eyed Boy and I made these

and delivered them to Mr. Brown Eyes and the guys at the station.

There's nothing like celebrating Valentine's Day by seeing my husband in uniform.

Sigh.

If you look at the cookie in the upper righthand corner, you will see Brown Eyed Boy's overzealous attempt at applying sprinkles.

They were everywhere.

But it's impossible to be mad at this face:

Besides, you can never have too many sprinkles.

Unless they're all over your floor.

Happy sprinkles day,

The Brown-Eyed Girl



Feeling Loved

Lately I've been complaining a lot.

About how so-and-so slighted me and I will never forgive her.

About how fat I am and how I wish I could just fit into my regular clothes again.

About how Brown-Eyed Boy won't let me sleep in.

About the annoying cat who meows outside my door, and the annoying inside cat who throws up on my floor.

About a certain co-worker who tries to dump all his work on me.

About how it's too cold, too hot, too early, too late.

About how I am a crazy, unstable, air-headed, swollen, hormone-ridden pregnant woman.

About how no one loves me and no one appreciates me.

About everything.

And then, this morning, as I was walking with a co-worker to what I thought was another dull meeting, he threw open the conference room door and I was greeted by pink streamers and table cloths and my family and co-workers shouting "surprise!"

They threw me a surprise baby shower. I almost cried.

Now I feel ashamed for all the complaining I've done. I don't have it badly. Not even close.

But when all I think about and care about is myself, it's easy to feel that way.

Thank you to my awesome sisters and everyone who helped out with the party. Thank you for making me feel loved. But also for reminding me that there are other people in this world besides me.

And I want them to feel loved, too.

Love,
The Brown-Eyed Girl

Of Colds and Conspiracies

Hi little blog. It's been awhile. Happy New Year! I am only twenty-two days late.

2013 started off by kicking me in the butt with an icky, awful cold. Just as I was starting to feel better, my husband got sick, the details of which I will not share here. Let's just say 2013 could be called the Year of the Toilet Scrub.

Then a week-long cold snap invaded our town. Like, below-freezing temperatures every night. We had to break up the ice in our horses' water every morning, cover our plants at night to keep them from freezing to death, and bundle up in hats, scarves, and multiple layers to play outside.

I bet some of you are thinking, "Yeah, that is what we do all winter long."

Well, we don't. Our temperatures are now back into the blissful 70s, and I finally feel warm again.

There is a reason I live in the desert.

To celebrate the nice weather and get out of the house, I took Brown-Eyed Boy with me to an outlet mall yesterday in my hunt for the perfect pair of boots. This particular outlet mall has those brightly-colored carousels and trucks and boats strategically placed in the middle of the sidewalk, the ones that cost from 75 cents to a dollar to make them go around or rock back and forth or whatever it is that they are meant to do.

I think this is a conspiracy to make parents feel guilty. Because of course every time he saw one, Brown-Eyed Boy wanted out of his stroller and onto the ride. And of course, I, the unprepared parent, did not have an ounce of spare change on my person. Thankfully, Brown-Eyed Boy is still at that age when just clambering in and out of the cars and boats provided plenty of entertainment. But I kept thinking how much cooler a mom I would be if I had a stinking three quarters in my pocket to provide my son a minute of fun and enjoyment.

Then I watched a cool dad plunk his child and 75 cents into one of the rides, a truck that made driving noises and rocked back and forth. And ten seconds later the terrified child wanted out. As they walked away, Brown-Eyed Boy pointed toward the still-moving truck. And I thought, Well, why not?

So I got to be a cool parent for thirty seconds.

Or until Brown-Eyed Boy decided he wanted out, too.

So we went to play at the park.

It's free.

Being cool is overrated,
The Brown-Eyed Girl