Baby blows out diaper.

Mom leaves baby in highchair to start bath.

Baby puts hand in diaper.

Cat sniffs highchair tray.

Baby rubs poop hand on cat.

Mom yelps.

Cat runs.

Poop, pear purée, breast milk rice cereal and fur everywhere.

Mom reconsiders all life choices up until this point.  

As a card carrying liberal feminist in Nebraska (a precarious position to begin with) I, like many others, was quite disappointed by the 2014 midterm election results. Of course, my fellow local liberals took to social media so we could collectively “cry in our beers” as it were. In mere moments the amount of “I can’t wait to move” and “how fast can we relocate to California?” posts were deafening. This is an impulse I cannot condemn, for I have felt it and spoken it at different periods in my life as a Nebraskan. I can relate to such a degree that I was rather surprised to find myself having a different reaction all together. I, quietly, thought to myself “well, someone has to stay.”

Let’s face it; I hypocritically martyr myself by labeling my position in my community precarious. At the end of the day I am an over-educated,  married, mother-of-two, white, privileged woman. While not every stretch of road I’ve walked has been easy, it would impetuous to pretend that I’ve faced the true hardship so many face daily. I’ve always had a soft place to land with my family and I’ve never been followed around a gas station and accused of stealing. I drive a mini-van for fucks sake; I could rob a bank and count the money in the car. It probably doesn’t matter what state I live in.

Embarrassingly, I admit I’ve rested on this on the past. I’ve ignored social injustice because it was too uncomfortable, because I didn’t want to engage in controversy, because I was worried I would accidentally offend the people I was trying help. But something in the 2014 midterm election results shook me.

I can stay in Nebraska and perhaps I can be of use if I’m smart enough to shut up, listen, and stop making this about my feelings – because in the reality of how these policies will impact those they are intended to, my feelings aren’t relevant.

My desire to leave this state, to be surrounded by like-minded individuals isn’t wrong, but this isn’t about me.

Someone has to stay and tell the 14 year old he’s not a freak for questioning his sexuality. He needs a voice in this community that tells him he is appreciated and never alone. He needs someone to stay and listen to his story. Here.

Someone has to stay and tell a young, scared mother who is lashing-out that she isn’t a “leach” or “lazy” for needing Medicaid for herself and her baby. Someone needs to listen to her story and fight for her and for her baby’s care. Here.

Someone has to stay and tell the community that acknowledging their privilege isn’t proclaiming they haven’t worked hard to achieve their successes, but it admitting that others had opportunity forsaken from them and that it’s an injustice we all participated in. Here.

Someone has to stay and listen to friends worry and cry over the fate of their children if anything should ever happens to their partner. Someone has to tell the community that’s happening. Here.

Someone has to stay, here.

Someone has to listen, here.

Someone needs to be here, so these voices can be heard.

This pregnancy was tricky. Because Max was born early we approached everything differently and with caution, which is to say I maintained a irregularly high baseline of anxiety the past nine months. Once a woman gives birth prematurely their risk of doing it again goes way up. I had reoccurring infections, which create an inflammation risk and lead to premature birth. The result? Ten courses of assorted antibiotics and attempted home remedies. Exhausting and stressful. Additionally, after reviewing research with our doctor, Jessica Sandmeier at Integrated Women’s Health, we decided to do weekly progesterone injections from the second trimester to the end of the pregnancy. It’s clear the injections and antibiotics are what allowed me to carry to term, but the stress was less than enjoyable. Not to mention, the morning sickness and general “yucky” symptoms of pregnancy were dialed up to 11 this pregnancy.

Stress and throwing up aside, we were shocked and excited when I made it to 39 weeks pregnant. Excited is a relative term though. I felt like a whale with a bear strapped to it. When people tell you that you’ll show twice as quickly and get twice as big the second time around, they’re lying. It’s actually four times. I was beyond ready to have this baby.

Monday January 26th we had a family dinner at my parent’s house. Morgan made some beef tips and potatoes and we all gorged ourselves. As we were leaving I started to notice that perhaps I was “leaking” water, but after *cough cough* a mistaken case of broken water and an unnecessary trip to the hospital two weeks before I was a touch cautious with my assumptions. We arrived home around 8:45pm and Morgan was exhausted. He laid down and I briefly struggled with Max who, putting it lightly, isn’t the biggest fan of bedtime. Around 10:00pm I think I felt my first stray contraction, all in my back. I attempted to get some sleep, but couldn’t. So, duh, I took a shower. Seriously smart move ladies. Showers are the best.

By 12:30am contractions were consistently 10 minutes apart and I decided to wake Morgan and call the hospital and my parents. During this time I also watched 3 episodes of Scooby Doo: Mystery Incorporated and read my “urban fantasy” novel about a fairy detective in San Francisco. Priorities.

The pain was easily manageable at this point and I’m confident in saying I hadn’t entered active labor yet. My dad stayed at our house with Max and Morgan and I left for the hospital. We arrived around 2:15am and quickly determined that while my water was indeed broken I was only 1 centimeter dilated. They checked me in and ordered my antibiotic IV because I’m a Strep-B carrier (of course).

I had an unmedicated labor and delivery with Max and was dedicated to doing it again. I hadn’t particularly kept timing anything, but contractions were suddenly coming fast, heavy, and almost constantly. After about 40 minutes of those contractions I was a little panicked. I looked at Morgan, as we were both a little bewildered about what to do. We didn’t take a birthing class this time – been there, done that, right? Incorrect. We remembered nothing.

People joke about how great it is to have a fast labor, but holy moly, this was too fast. Between 2:15am and 3:15am I went from 1 centimeter to 7.5 centimeters. By 4:00am I was in transition and a room full of nurses were begging me not to push just yet.

I would love to weave some beautiful earth goddess story. That I turned to my inner strength. That I was the strong silent type (like I was during Max’s birth). No. It hurt. It hurt a lot. I screamed. I cried. I screamed and cried a lot. My mom heard me scream from the waiting room. No strong silent type here.

At what I assume was 4:22am the nurses told me that the midwife from my practice that was on call (Jearlyn Schumacher who also delivered Max) was walking in and that it would all be over in two minutes. Both Morgan and I asked if that meant I would start the pushing process in two minutes. Again, no. She would be here in two minutes. They flipped me on to my back and Morgan yelled “there she is!” and I asked why I didn’t hear crying. A nurse smiled and said, “you have to push.” I had been crowning for 10-15 minutes. I pushed once. At 4:24am on Tuesday January 27th they handed me our Eleanor. Morgan cut the cord and nurse ran to get my mother from the waiting room. She’d only been there 15 minutes.

Eleanor’s birth was a very different unmedicated birth experience than Max’s. Her birth was raw, brutal, and intense. It’s an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything, but I have a new (renewed?) respect for birth. It’s no joke. My pain levels were significantly higher this time. The second time around was faster but not easier. I was so much more aware of how messy birth is. I saw the floor guys. Holy mother of God, I saw the floor. 

Because she was term and healthy at 7lbs 11oz and 19.5 inches, I haven’t had to be separated from her since her birth – no NICU! They handed her to me and we laid there together, skin to skin and nursing for almost two hours before moving together to the recovery wing.

Max came to visit us that morning and was delighted to meet his sister. Eleanor is a natural at breastfeeding and started gaining weight by day three.

She’s tough, fierce, beautiful, and one of ours. We are simply overwhelmed with our Eleanor.

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I sit on the board of directors for a local breastfeeding clinic and advocacy center. I do this because I believe strongly that women who choose to breastfeed should be able to get support, information, and adequate care – needs I see as lacking in the general medical community more often than not.

I want to be clear, however, on my personal outlook on breastfeeding: Your body. Your boobs. Your business.

I was heart broken to learn recently that several times friends were nervous or intimidated for me to find out that they either decided to formula feed from the get-go, or after struggling to breastfeed, decided to quit and use formula.

My hope for any mother is that they find confidence in their own choices and parent in way that caters to their specific child and needs.There are thousands of good reasons to decide to breastfeed. There are thousands of good reasons to decide to use formula.

I’ll say it again: Your body. Your boobs. Your business. It is up to you whether you decide to continue lactating after giving birth. It is your call when you decide to wean your baby. It is your decision whether or not you cover when you nurse. It is your choice to pump exclusively rather than nurse. This is no different than any other reproductive rights issue.

Last time: Your body. Your boobs. Your business.

Whatever choice feels right to you, for your baby, I got your back mama. You do you. Love that baby. I’m cheering for you.

When I was pregnant with my first I felt bonded immediately. I instantly knew that the pink line on that test was our Maxwell. I told people, “oh I know him, he’s a kind, zen, sensitive little person.” They kindly patted me on the head and said, “yes, pregnant lady.” Sure, I knew he’d be like any other small child, often full of energy and adventure, but I was right. Yes, the messes he creates aren’t the first thing one would associate with “zen” but overall I hit the nail on the head. He is my perspective. He is my lighthouse during the storm. Max is pretty sensitive to his own mistakes and to the feelings of others. I knew my baby and I was so very proud of that.

This pregnancy? This pregnancy I feel a little… unprepared? I bonded instantly in that we were very excited to learn I was pregnant, and due to the high risk nature of this pregnancy, because I felt so frightened of losing this pregnancy. Beyond that elation and that fear though, I have no clue. I thought it was a girl in there but can honestly say I wasn’t sure. I was right, she’s a she, but I have no clue what she’s like. She moves around a lot more than Max every did. She feels stronger somehow, but I don’t know her like I knew him. Perhaps this is because I haven’t the time to focus on her like I did with Max (a reality that already makes me a little sad) because I’m busy with a full time job and a two and half year old. She’s quietly and safely tucked in my uterus, so she can’t particularly command my attention like he can.

I don’t feel guilty, though. In some ways I feel excited. I can’t wait to meet her, watch her grow, figure out who I’ve shaped and grown.

I have no clue who we’re bringing home from the hospital this time, but I do feel certain of this, she’s one of ours.

At 6:41 in the morning my first baby softly pads into my bedroom. I know I should be hard, send him back to his cold toddler bed for the last 19 minutes of night. But I’m not. He’s damp, couldn’t make it those last 19 minutes. The cat scared him. I strip him of his damp jammies and he carefully climbs into our big grown up bed. His soft young skin brushes mine as he curls into me. He clings to me, around the swollen belly holding my last baby. She gently kicks as if she knows she’s surrounded, he doesn’t notice. He curls so close Im reminded of carrying him. When I could keep him so safe, so protected from life. For 19 minutes I relish a rare moment. Holding both my babies, wrapped around me, skin to skin, womb to mother. For these minutes I can shield them both, cover them both, hold them both. I intended to fall back to sleep. Instead I stay awake thinking that I must remember every moment of this feeling. But 7:00 comes. My first baby, my small boy, jerks awake and announces he needs to poop and watch trains. His sister rolls over inside me. My alarm calls. We begin our daily march to their independence. But I still relish. For 19 minutes on a cold December morning I held all three of my hearts, nurtured all three of my souls.

Sharing, writing, and reliving Max’s story as I prepare to welcome our second child.

On Saturday May 12th, 2012 I was 34.5 weeks pregnant. My husband Morgan and I figured we had at least a month to go before our son would be born. Morgan had learned the week before that his father passed away. Saturday was his last day in Philadelphia to attend his father’s funeral. It was a trying and emotional week for him and our family. That day, I was working as a leasing agent for Century Sales and Management. 48 hours before I had just learned that I had not passed the Bar Exam I spent weeks and months preparing for. I would be unable to practice law for at least 6 to 9 months.

In several years prior we had struggled to get pregnant, finally gave-up for the immediate future and took some career risks. I was aiming to launch a law firm with my close friend Mike Echternahct, and Morgan was working as a delivery driver to supplement the student loan income. Then we got the most wonderful surprise: our first baby during my third year of law school! The timing was challenging but we were beyond thrilled. I graduated from law school about 5 months pregnant in December, 2011. By May, with me a recent law school grad trying to launch a firm, we were struggling financially and we lacked health insurance. It was, all together, a very challenging but a very exciting time.

I’ve never known the coexistence of stress, fear, and joy like I did 2011-2012.

Thus on May 12th, at 34.5 weeks pregnant, I was anxious. I started noticing “a problem” around 11am while showing an apartment at 5419 Ervin Street here in Lincoln, but thought it (what ended up being my broken amniotic sack) was just normal symptoms of late pregnancy. I was just sure I was being an over reacting first time mom, but because our midwifes, Jearlyn Schumacher and Karen McGivney-Liechti were so cool about taking calls and because of how serious our Lamaze instructor, Jill Morrow, had explained a ruptured sack is, I decided to call around 6:00pm that evening after spending dinner with my best friend Frances (Schoonveld) Hayes. After Frances left, I went to the hospital at the midwifes instruction. Jearlyn, a nurse, and I all were “just sure” it was not my water. The nurse took the test while I watched Resident Evil on SyFy in the hospital room. About 45 minutes later the nurse came back in and told me I was ruptured and having a baby! Mentally, I still somehow associate this news with Milla Jovovich.

I called my parents and they rushed to the hospital. My father, despite the rush, remembered to call the Embassy Suites and cancel our reservation for Mother’s Day brunch the following day. Morgan quickly started trying to rearrange flights to get home. Frances and my mother ran to the apartment to get me some clothes and basic necessities.

Jearlyn checked me and determined I was 60% effaced, I was 1 centimeter, and the baby was at -2. They took me and my parents on a tour of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). I recall pretending that seeing the incubators and breathing masks didn’t terrify me. I took copious notes. I took enormous pride in not falling to pieces.

My midwife and doctors figured I would need Pitocin in the morning to really get labor going. Wrong. At 12:30am or so active labor started. Because I was early and high risk I had to stay on the monitors and the baby had the scalp monitor. Even though I couldn’t have my water birth as planned or walk the halls I had positions and tactics for laboring in my room. My mother stuck with me. She and an amazing nurse, Jen, got me through intense (and FAST) labor without any medications at all. I used my wedding ring as a focal point and comfort object to touch. I found it super helpful to move my pelvis in rhythm with the breathing a contraction to offset the lower back pain. Jen and my mother were great coaches throughout the whole process.

Labor, like any woman who has experienced it can say, is rather indescribable. It was pain with purpose – not at all like spraining an ankle or other physical injuries. I’m not a quiet individual by nature and expected I would be noisy in labor. The opposite was true. I turned totally inward. I lost all concept of time, of the scenario, of my embarrassment of my swollen body. Only at one point did I break, and it this period of time I remember. Between contractions, I began sobbing that this experience was not supposed to happening like this: early, without Morgan, and during a week of awful and hope-dashing news. My mother rubbed my back and simply told me “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

After seven hours of un-medicated labor and a half hour of pushing, Maxwell arrived early in the morning Sunday May 13th, 2012 at 7:02am. It was Mother’s Day. My mother cut the cord for her first grandchild on Mother’s Day morning. Morgan was flying over Houston when Max was born. At landing he was bombarded by texts and pictures on his phone.

Once Maxwell was born they laid him next to me for a few minutes before he was whisked away to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. My mother went with Max to the NICU for his first bath and evaluation. Maxwell was 5 pounds, 12.5 oz and 19 inches long. I stayed in the labor room to deliver the placenta and be stitched up. I hadn’t slept in over 24 hours and I was exhausted. Truly joking, and in a post-birth haze, I asked Jearlyn if they could just “yank” the placenta out by the cord. She knew me and chuckled, but the over-seeing physician thought I was serious and explained that could be very dangerous before catching on. For reasons unknown to me this odd little conversation is seared into my memory. The nurse, Jen, had stayed two hours after her shift to aid me in labor. As she was leaving I thanked her deeply and sincerely. I then blurted out that she looked so much like Christina Applegate (side note, I was right. Several weeks later when my friend Demetra Simmons was in labor she identified Jen solely because her resemblance to Miss Applegate). At that point they suggested I eat. Oddly, I elected to order a club sandwich and french fries. I ate approximately three bites of this. That “hazed feeling” you hear about post-birth? True. All true. I was acting like a stoned person who, incidentally, had never touched any drugs.

Morgan got to the hospital, thanks to a ride from the airport from Ben Craig, at about 1:30pm with Mother’s Day flowers in hand. I was so relieved to see him that I burst into tears upon hugging him. I remember telling him how scared I had been, which wasn’t something I had allowed myself to verbalize until just then. While I was happy my mother could be there and that Max was safe, I was devastated Morgan wasn’t there to support me and that he missed the birth. Morgan had a very positive attitude, and while he obviously would have preferred not to miss his son’s birth, was very proud of me and excited to meet Max.

Maxwell did not need respiratory assistance or a warming incubator. He had a few IVs to ensure he would not lose too much weight and needed lights for jaundice for the first few days. My last night in the hospital was Max’s third day in the NICU and Morgan and mine’s 2nd wedding anniversary, May 15th, 2012. We ordered in Olive Garden to our hospital room. Had I left the hospital I wouldn’t have been able to stay checked in as a patient and I wasn’t willing to leave Max’s side just yet.

Maxwell’s total NICU stay was exactly 10 days. The nurses and lactation consultants we had during the whole experience were absolutely fantastic. I never could have made it through the first 10 days, or the first month really, of breastfeeding and pumping without their support. Maxwell’s diet was only supplemented with formula, meaning it was still mostly breast milk, for the first 3.5 weeks of his life. By 6 weeks of age I was producing almost 30oz a day! I really credit the support of the Saint Elizabeth’s staff in those early days, Morgan’s continued support at home, and my stubborn attitude for making it work.

Life has sense gotten easier, careers have been prosperous, and we know great love in our lives. Maxwell will be welcoming a little sister in 2015.

I packed my hospital bag by 30 weeks.