Cat Skinner Club

Happy New Year!

Noah Challenge

Noah says “You can do it!”. Be your best in 2013!

Happy New Year beautiful readers!

I am completely, totally, head-over-heals in love. The object of my affection has, in a most clichéd fashion, completed me. I am a calmer, more patient, more compassionate woman, and I am living in the moment in a way I had assumed was lost to me. Of course I’m talking about the love I have for my wee son Noah. What a beautiful blessing to cruise into a new year with!

I am happy to report that I’m back to normal, in all ways post-partum, and breastfeeding is a piece of cake. In fact, I love it. We do it anywhere and everywhere, and sometimes even in our sleep. My body rhythms fell into place just in time for me to return to work with Les Coquettes and get back on stage to host our New Year’s Eve show in Brantford. It was a blast. The matinee performance to a crowd of nearly 300 people with an average age of 75 was an experience I won’t soon forget.

As the holidays approached, something big happened for me. The horrific shooting in Connecticut rocked me to my core. I think it impacted me just as much as that September 11th horror from years ago. I think about those beautiful little munchkins and their families every single day. The headlines may have moved on to other subjects, but that particular event really cemented how precious life is. CNN may not be thinking about that city anymore, but I sure am. I wonder if I would have been affected the same way if I wasn’t a mom?

Last year at this time, I resolved to take great care of my health so that I would hopefully be able to get pregnant. Then, at the end of January Noah was conceived. I love this time of the calendar because I fully subscribe to the “fresh start” mentality and I have always thought that the beginning of a new year is the very best time to enjoy the feeling of a clean slate. This year, I’m resolving to be the very best Mommy I can be from top to bottom, to be a great mom to all three of my children. Here are some of the steps I’m taking thus far:

I’m working with my amazingly talented brother Kyle to get into hella shape this year. Both of my partners and I are on board to streamline our lifestyle in order to promote optimum health.  We’re eating low carb, low sugar, and starting to make sure we get daily exercise.

I’m organizing my home from top to bottom, and taking on household management and mothering as my new full-time job. I’m crafting and creating, and looking for fun new ways to enjoy my children, and hopefully get more involved at their school.

I invested in a session with a financial advisor as a Christmas gift to my partners, so we can make the most of our resources and work towards realizing more of our dreams of travel.

In 2013, I’m going to take the biggest bite out of life yet, and I want to share it all with you here. I’ll give you the inside scoop on my fitness routine, my dietary changes, my creative exercises, and my experiences in personal growth. What are you resolving to do this year?

The Other Side of Pregnant

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We’re at the Niagara house as I write this, and I love this place. It’s gray and misty today and the back forty looks like a painting with the tall grasses a rich palette of umber and golden. I’m watching my family pass around little Noah who is snoozing peacefully in their arms, and my girls are curled up on the sofa with Faerie Tale Theatre playing on the television. My life feels very rich.

In my vast amount of pregnancy reading, there seemed to be lots written about how the bonding process isn’t always instant. I had no worries about bonding with my baby. I knew when he came out into the world I would feel very connected to him, and feel very natural about my role as mother. What I didn’t count on was how much love I would feel for him. I love this little creature with every ounce of my being and I feel that he is completely a part of me, which I guess is true – I grew him with my body, and with my body he continues to grow. Deep in my heart, I know he knows that I am where he came from, and that we are connected by blood.

With parenthood comes the knowledge of the very deepest kind of fear. Never before have I been so aware of my own mortality, or of the finite amount of time we have in this life. One of the easiest triggers for my postpartum tears was contemplating how soon my little babe would grow out of his tiny clothes, how fast the passage of time would fly, and how one day he’d be in the world without me. I cannot imagine a time when I can’t just reach out and touch my son, and yet that is exactly how the natural course of things unfolds. We create lives, we nurture them, and then we set them free to find their own way. I want this little man of mine to experience all of the richness and love that his own life has to offer.

This love I feel is so profound that now I understand why people unflinchingly say they would do absolutely anything for their children. This love is the deepest ache I’ve ever felt, and that ache is compounded whenever I think of my own mother, and any of the moments when I was unkind to her. I cannot imagine that anyone has ever felt for me what I feel for little Noah, and the realization of that love is the most humbling thing I’ve ever felt. I hope my children can look at the scope of their parents’ love one day and feel like they are worthy. For me, it is only through having children who are so beautiful and inspiring that I feel like I’ve done anything to deserve a love as deep as a mother’s love.

My heart is on my sleeve now. If I feel like compassion is hard to reach, I merely think of my baby and then think of how each person (hopefully) has a mother who loves them as I love my little boy. I think of how they were once perfect and unmarred by life’s heartbreaks, and how they received such deep and simple comfort in their mother’s arms. With my stepdaughters I feel a true sense of sadness, realizing that I missed so much in not knowing them when they were babies, and I understand so clearly now the bond they share with my partners. I know how despite loving them with all of my heart, and knowing I want their lives to be filled with love and happiness, there is something unique about shepherding a tiny life from conception on.  I understand the huge risk my partners took in deciding to let me be a part of the girls’ lives.

Have you had friends who’ve had children, only to vanish from your life, forsaking you for the company of their new parent friends? I now realize that this choice isn’t personal. The experiences of childbirth, postpartum hormones, insane new sleep schedules, and early breastfeeding woes are not unlike having survived a traumatic event. You are left raw, and changed forever by what you have felt and seen. You need the company of other survivors who know what it’s like to glance up from the dinner table when your baby coos, only to burst into tears as you realize you’ve created this magnificent little life and he totally depends on you. We probably don’t give our child-free friends enough credit, but I think we’re afraid to speak candidly about these feelings and experiences in case we frighten them, or worse, have them judge us.

I’ve known for a long time that I wanted to make a baby. Now, on the other side of baby-making I have few regrets. Each step I’ve taken has led me to the path of motherhood, and I feel confidant in my abilities and so very blessed to be able to give life. My child has three amazing parents, two unbelievably brilliant and beautiful sisters, three adoring grandmothers, three proud grandfathers and some truly golden aunties and uncles. We have the means to provide for our children, we have a wonderful network of friends, an incredible school family, we live in a beautiful house in the heart of a beautiful city, and we are healthy enough to enjoy the life we are living. Without the mistakes of my past, I would not know the success of my present, and this present really does feel like a gift.

Birth Story, Part Two

My last post (read it here) left off just before I demanded that we make our way to the hospital instead of continuing to labour at home…

For nine months my heart had imagined a spiritual birth where I was at one with my body. Now that labour was here, I knew I needed the sweet, sweet relief of modern science in order to bring this baby into the world. I thought about my girlfriends who had managed to deliver without drugs and I wondered what kind of hocus pocus allowed them to do this and not suffer from PTSD. Downstairs our children had returned from their play dates, and the grandmothers were still holding court. We couldn’t pack up and get out of the house fast enough. My contractions felt like they were starting to come every three minutes and panic was really starting to take hold.

I was in my pajamas because we thought it would be smart to just wear what I was going to wear to push to the hospital and with the only maternity jacket I own wrapped around me, it wasn’t enough for the cold night air, but I was barely aware of this by this point. I got into the car, and the grandmothers followed in their own grandma-mobile.

Once in the grandma and children-free shelter of our vehicle, I came totally unhinged. I made animal sounds. I swore like a sailor. I turned into one of those labouring women from television or the movies – noisy, crazed banshee women. I didn’t understand why the drive was taking so long, or why the route had so many potholes. I ranted and raved and after what felt like about two hours (but was really only about fifteen minutes) we arrived at the birthing centre.

Nekky dropped us off and went to sort parking. Sarah helped me to the door. We were right near the lake at St. Joseph’s and the wind was howling. I could really feel the cold now. Managing contractions while your body is rigid from the cold is a very special kind of hell. As luck would have it, we arrived ten minutes after hours and the birth centre doors were locked. Our midwives had warned us of this possibility, and had gone ahead to prep a room and meet us there to let us in, but they were nowhere in sight. Instead, we were trapped outside with two women who were soon terrified of me as I began to scream and pound on the doors with both fists. Finally, some poor lady with her young children came along and as they exited, the doors slid open to let us in. The children stared at me in horror.

We stood at the admitting desk for about eleven years while everyone behind it ignored us. Finally our midwives appeared. I clutched at one of them and said, “I NEED AN EPIDURAL.” She gently removed my claws from her arm and said, “I suspected that might be the case and we’ve already given the hospital staff the head’s up.”

As the midwives led us to our birthing room, I clung to the railing along the wall with each new contraction. I was making angry jungle cat noises at this point I think, and still swearing my head off. It was like Tourettes, I couldn’t stop. As we rounded the corner these little mocha-coloured children shuffled slowly out of a room to see what the commotion was. They peered at me curiously with their big, liquidy brown eyes as I was seized with another contraction. I gritted my teeth, trying with all my might not to frighten them. “The children…” I whispered, now sweating profusely. “The children….”

Finally we were in our room. As I realized I couldn’t wear my “birthing pajamas” and get an epidural, I began to strip off all of my clothes and put on a hospital gown. Or perhaps Nekky or Sarah did this for me? I can’t recall. What I do remember is how long it seemed to take before the anesthesiologist came (which in reality was only about half an hour). I needed to let them take blood and get an IV started before I could get the epidural. The blood taking was no problem, but our student midwife did something funny with my IV and blood began spraying all over me, and all over the bed. My left hand was dripping with blood. It didn’t hurt though. Or else maybe I was in so much pain, it didn’t feel like it hurt. For reasons that escape me, she neglected to clean me up, but the feeling of blood caking under my fingernails was lost amidst the contractions, which were now about a minute apart.

I don’t know why nobody bothered to check how dilated I was when we arrived at the hospital, but I’m glad this oversight occurred, because I’m pretty certain they would have forgone the epidural if they had. I think it was pretty close to pushing time, based on how I was feeling. Finally a tidy looking Asian man named Steve arrived with my salvation. He prepped me and froze me and assured me he would try to avoid putting the needle into where my tattoo ink was. I kept having contractions, and so he kept needing to pause. At one point the contraction was so violent I moaned “FUUUUCCK” and Steve apparently had to suppress a chuckle. I’m glad my back was towards him. I noted with this last contraction a very strong urge to push – like I had to take a big poop. I said nothing about this though because nothing was going to keep me from the sweet relief that Steve had to give.

Once the epi was in, Steve stepped back and waited to make sure the magic would happen, and happen it did. I cannot convey to you the vast, vast difference between drug free and drugged up labour. The pain literally vanished. My contractions went from feeling like someone was prying me apart by pulling my pelvis in either direction with a tractor to feeling like a gentle tightening of my pelvic region, not unlike a kitten curling up in my lap. I looked at Steve and uttered the first non-offensive sentence to leave my lips in about two hours; “Thank you so much.”

Then it was party time. I was back to my old self. I was better than my old self, having been rescued from the brink of insanity. My jokes were the best jokes I’ve ever made. I was witty, and charming, and ready for anything. Nicole, our labour nurse, was my BFF and my son might possibly be named after Steve, my savior. We waited for Dr. Pham, the lovely OBGYN on call (the midwives had to ‘hand over’ my care until the baby arrived with the introduction of the epidural) to come and check my dilation. She appeared, and she looked about my age. She was very friendly and confidant, and informed us that I was 10cm! The midwives wanted me to wait until the baby descended a bit more to start pushing, but Nicole didn’t want to wait because of how long it had been since my water broke. She kept asking if I felt pressure in my bum, but Steve was so thorough that my bum could have been anyone’s bum at that point. Nicole and I both agreed that I wouldn’t be feeling anything in my bum for many, many hours.

And so the pushing began. Dr. Pham was busy with another delivery, so the midwives took over with the help of super awesome Nicole who I really felt was my touchstone. So weird that I would feel more connected with her than with the midwives I’d built a relationship with for nine months. I think I felt on some intuitive level that she really “got it” and knew what was happening for me and for the baby, and she seemed so much more confidant than the midwives. Now, in my mind I wanted to push without straining too hard, so my first pushes involved trying to imagine pushing with my abdominal muscles while exhaling slowly. I laugh at this now.

The midwives looked at me, puzzled. They said, “We need that thoracic pressure caused by bearing down and holding your breath.” I began to push while holding my breath and the resulting feeling was like an eyeball might pop out or a blood vessel in my brain might explode. I was very glad we were in the hospital in case either of these things happened. I pushed, and pushed, and pushed. The onlookers kept seeing the baby’s head crowing, but then it would disappear again. The midwives kept telling me to push down towards my bum, but all instruction was useless because I couldn’t feel a damn thing below my waist. I tried in vain to visualize the process. I tried different pelvic tilts. I tried, and tried, and pushed and grunted for TWO AND A HALF HOURS.

Dr. Pham returned to see what the issue was, and why the little guy wasn’t budging. The head that everyone thought they were seeing was actually only a part of the head. Baby was on his way to a pretty awesome cone head because he was stuck on my pubic bone. The doctor gave me two more tries but warned me if this didn’t work she would have to go in with the forceps. Since I couldn’t feel anything, my main concern was how this would mark up the baby, and so I asked Sarah if she could photo shop out the forceps marks in the baby pictures. Then I started to remember that eventually the epidural would wear off. Nicole assured me she was a pro with forceps and everything would be okay. They both told me that the “baby was getting tired” which I already knew because I could hear it on the monitor. This is happy language that means that the baby’s heart rate is slowing down very dangerously.

Now the people in the room were starting to rush about. Some new nurses had appeared and were prepping the baby warmer and some other equipment that I tried not to think about because I knew it was for emergency resuscitation. The giant, silver forceps were placed on a stand in my periphery, a gleaming reminder of why I had to make the next pushes count. Sarah leaned over me and said, “Do NOT let them use those salad tongs in your vagina.”

As the next contraction came on, I gathered all of my strength and concentration. I glanced at the prayer beads that my brother-in-love let me borrow and asked the powers that be to aid me in my efforts. With no less than six people cheering me on (plus two grandmothers who were peeking into the room behind the curtain) I grunted and strained and pushed with every fiber of my being. The crowd said, “There he is! He’s coming!” and then suddenly I heard wailing. Noah’s head was finally out and he was ready to announce his arrival before any of the rest of him could be born. Imagine a tiny head sticking out of my vagina, screaming. Dr. Pham looked at me and said, “Would you like to pull him out?” Stunned by the prospect, I stammered in the affirmative, then reached down and put my hands under his hot, slippery little arms and lifted him from my body onto my chest. Nothing else in my entire life will rival the elation and triumph I felt in that moment.

After Noah came out, there were hands everywhere cleaning him up, cleaning me up. I was oblivious as they set about their business, so long as my baby stayed on my chest. Sarah cut his umbilical cord, and I delivered the placenta without any difficulty. Then Dr. Pham set to work sewing me up, as I ended up with a second degree tear. She assured me that this was quite common, but there is nothing common about the amount of time it seemed to take her to restore my hoo ha to its former glory. I felt a bit panicked about the amount of time she was taking, and she explained that the repair had to be done in layers, and that she wanted everything just as it was. United in this common goal, I decided to focus on something else while she finished her job. She warned me not to let myself get constipated or I would tear my stitches. I banished all thoughts of trying to go to the bathroom in any way from my mind because this simple task seemed really terrifying.

The rest of the next twenty-four hours remains very fuzzy. I know someone took Noah to the warming table to weigh him and check his Apgar scores (which were 9 at both intervals!). I know Noah and I tried our first breastfeeding latch (the fact that he left me with nipple hickies should have been my first warning that something was wrong there). I know it took a long time for my bleeding to slow and my uterus to harden, and I needed some oxytocin to help this along. I know we waited forever for the epidural to wear off.

The midwives informed us that we’d have to transfer over to hospital care and stay another 24 hours because I wasn’t ready to be discharged, and if we got caught mid shift-change, we were stuck with hospital policy. Strangely, when they went to inform the staff there was no nurse on the ward, so our poor, exhausted midwives got stuck staying with me. They went to rest in the on-call room, and I tried to sleep, but I was completely wired. Nekky rested in a reclining chair with Noah on his chest and Sarah was passed out on the sofa. I just watched everyone and tried to wrap my brain around everything that had happened.

I took stock of myself and realized I was covered in DNA; meconium from where the baby had his first poop on my thigh, blood caked all over my hand where the IV went awry, dried amniotic fluid, and god knows what else decorated my hospital gown and myself. I continued to move my legs and feet as much as I could to help the feeling return. There was no way I was leaving the hospital without a shower.

Eventually the midwives came back and told me they were just going to try to get us out of the hospital, rather than make us stay another 24 hours. I begged for a shower, so they helped me to my feet and got me set up in the washroom. I moved slowly and carefully, and eventually I was clean again. When I emerged, Nekky and Sarah were awake and they were being hustled to get the baby dressed and to pack up our things. I started to get the feeling that we were being smuggled out. In the parking lot I noticed the dusk sky was pink and a few stars hung out by the thin sliver of moon while the sun began to take over the next shift. The midwives helped me into the car with a big hug, and then the rest of the ride home was spent staring at my beautiful baby resting peacefully in his car seat.

At about 7:30 am we walked into our house. Everyone was awake, including the girls who got to meet their brand new baby brother. I really don’t remember any of this, but I do remember going upstairs and napping for a couple of hours. I imagine everyone else used this time to pass around Noah. The entire day floated by like a bit of a dream. I was surrounded by our close family, and really just trying to take it all in and rest after the incredible intensity of labour. I kept pulling myself into the moment by smelling the soft little head of my sweet baby, and I knew that I would never, ever think of myself the same way that I had before my water broke.

Schnooville is presently overrun with subjects like poopy diapers and breastfeeding challenges, so I hope you’ll indulge me as I work through these subjects here. I promise whatever I write about will be entertaining, because every day I am humbled and amazed by what my life has become.

 

 

16 Days

A Little Tin of Chocolate

I began writing this blog in 2008, fresh after a breakup from a very complicated relationship, and filled with excitement because I was about to embark on a solo vacation to Paris. Life felt pretty huge and terrifying then. I was raw with emotion, and apprehensive about what the future held for me. When I returned from my trip, I would have no place to live, and I’d be facing the realities of being single and thirty-something.

I drank Paris in, and fell deeply in love with a city that I always suspected would have a special place in my heart. Because I was on a very tight budget, I allowed myself only a few token souvenirs, mostly purchased at a well-stocked supermarket and the Parisian equivalent of Winners. One of these mementos was a tin of French drinking chocolate, so I could enjoy the delicious little ritual I had created for myself each afternoon no matter where I ended up back home in Canada.

When my new family and I combined our households, the chocolate tin came with me. I hadn’t expected the chocolate to survive, but the tin was pretty so I imagined we could use it for storage in our kitchen. French chocolate is resilient though, and to my amazement still tastes as good as it did when I first bought it almost five years ago.

On Tuesday night, A and Daddy made us a post-dinner hot chocolate and marshmallow nightcap, and all five of us sat around the table enjoying it together. As I gazed at the faces of these beautiful girls who have been one of the greatest gifts of my life thus far, I was suddenly overcome with emotion. Strolling through the aisles of that Parisian grocery store, trying to choose just the right thing to bring home, I had resigned myself to believing that children and family were a long, long way off and perhaps something that were not meant for me in Schnooville. But now I sat surrounded by my family, (a family I have chosen against all odds, and a family who freely chose me despite all of my flaws), drinking that Parisian chocolate and ready to burst with another brand new life who gets to go through each day with these wonderful people. I feel no fear about this huge milestone because my heart believes I am exactly where I should be, with the people I need most in my life.

Look defeat in the eye and love yourself even harder. Tell disappointment that you deserve better. Treat your broken heart to vacations and decadent chocolate and trust that somehow, probably in the most unpredictable way, it will all work out. If you believe that you are lovable, the love you crave will find you.

20 Days

My feet, or what I’m now calling my ‘Frodo Bagginses’.

Cervix Says…

What a unique and complex challenge this third trimester business is. Not only are the physical challenges quite remarkable, but the mind warp of hitting 37 weeks is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

Pregnancy is a great teacher for the control freak. Each morning I wake up wondering (read: hoping) that I will go into labour, and then I must push this thought to the very back of my mind so that I can function through the rest of my day. I am not really known for my patience, and there is something really humbling about realizing that nobody, not nobody can predict when this baby will decide to make his entrance.

So I am trying this “living in the moment” business, which is insanely hard for me. For much of my adult life, the kind of work I’ve chosen has me always three steps ahead of myself. With labour, once the nursery is done and the bags are packed there isn’t really much left to do but wait, and try to deal with the realities of what is happening to my body now that this little guy has dropped down into my pelvis.

Here is a list of things that I’m working on to help pass the time.

Improving my gait – Walking is supposed to be excellent for bringing labour on, so I’m trying to be active. However when I walk now, I look like George Jefferson, waddling and flapping my arms behind me. I am actively concentrating on tucking in my pelvis and finding a stride that won’t leave me winded (so that when I enter the house, I can still bellow out ‘Weezy, I’m home!”)

Naturopathy – Our midwives sent me home with my ‘birth binder’ after my last appointment. Among many other useful things were some natural tips to help prepare and encourage labour. Here’s what I’m doing, and please note NONE of this is a good idea before 37 weeks, nor am I a doctor or healthcare professional recommending you do any of this:

Red Raspberry Leaf Tea – 5-6 servings a day to help strengthen my uterine muscles and stimulate contractions

Evening Primrose Capsules – 1000 mg 2x per day to help efface my cervix

Acupressure – self administered on two specific labour-inducing points. This seems ridiculous, even to me

Pineapple – nobody anywhere has proven that this works, but people everywhere swear that it does. I am mostly just using labour as an excuse to gorge on pineapple

Hands and Knees Time – I spend 15 minutes a day with my ass up in the air in child’s pose. This is supposed to help the baby turn and settle into optimum birthing position. Cat stretches and rocking also work in the hands and knees pose. Daddy has requested I always work on this when he’s around to watch, which can lead to…

Various Oxytocin-stimulating activities (use your imagination) to help bring on contractions

Event Planning – What? Does that seem crazy to you at this very pregnant point in my life? Yeah, me too but all three of us wanted to see our families for Thanksgiving, and we had to spare ourselves all of the running around and driving. We decided to host dinner for 20 people at our place next Monday. Either the plans go smoothly and once our pre-planning is done I get to sit with my feet up surrounded by family while Mama S and Daddy do the bustling, or the baby comes and there is no party to host. In which case we’ll have a 23 pound turkey up for grabs. We’ve insisted on pot-luck to reduce the insanity, and I think it will be lovely to see everyone in our home. The real challenge will be relaxing and doing nothing because I have a very, very hard time with this (as evidenced by planning a dinner party for 20 people at 38 weeks of pregnancy) I hope they don’t mind paper plates!

‘Working’ – I’m trying to be productive with my duties for our family business. I can’t focus my brain on ANYTHING for more than ten minutes right now, (except writing, it seems) so this is actually kind of hilarious. I keep telling myself SOME work is better than NO WORK. My boss is hopefully sympathetic because when I’m not working, I’m growing his son.

Napping – Oh my god, how I love a good mid-day nap these days. One hour is all I need, and one hour is all my poor bladder will allow me. With this spotty sleep I’m experiencing, it’s really a necessary part of my daily routine so that I can make it through the rest of the day without crying, or making anyone else want to punch me.

Deep Breathing & Relaxing – At several points throughout the day I will pause and just see where my body is holding tension, and then I breathe and will those places to relax. This exercise is particularly useful through my Braxton Hicks practice contractions, and through a new phenomenon I like to call the Cervical Ninja Chop. I’m really not sure exactly what this is, but it feels as though the baby is suddenly and forcefully bashing his head into my cervix. There is no warning here, just sudden shocking pain and me doubled over the counter/shopping cart/back of the sofa etc. Fun times.

Setting Timers/Alerts/Alarms – Timers are my friends right now, because I cannot remember ANYTHING. Timers tell me when to switch the laundry loads, and when my crazy herbal tinctures are ready to drink, alerts remind me of appointments and tasks that I have to complete, alarms tell me when to wake up and pick up the children from school. I’ve even worked out a system where I must climb the stairs to pee every hour. It feels like I need to pee EVERY MOMENT OF THE DAY, and so if I wait an hour between visits, I don’t have to be disappointed when all of that climbing yields only a miserable little trickle.

Reading – I’m working my way through the last of my pregnancy books, and moving on to books about breastfeeding and early infant care. I would read other stuff, but pregnancy, breasts and babies are all I can think about, so there really isn’t much point in trying right now. The more I read about labour techniques, the more I realize that NOBODY actually knows what to do, and cannot possibly be prepared in advance for the experience of birth. There is real comfort in this – I have all of these tools and techniques, I know exactly what happens to my body at each stage of labour, but I have no idea what it is going to feel like or what my body will surprise me with and everyone else who has ever birthed a baby is in the exact same boat. When I read my birth plan, which I wrote at four months pregnant, it seems really funny to me now. My new plan is to relax as best I can, embrace what’s happening, and try to get out of the way of my body so it can do it’s thing.

Labour Play List – We’ve got two on the go; a mellow and relaxing one for during early and hard labour and then a Pushing Playlist. The Pushing Playlist may not ever make it into rotation, but it’s funny to work on. There is a lot of Zeppelin on that list because Mama S says I’ll need some good ass-kicking music by that point. Daddy and I listen to tunes while we work and yay or nay them.

And with that, I’m feeling so restless that I can no longer sit in this chair and type. Time for a stretch and round two of the Raspberry Leaf Tea. Please dear mommies of the Interwebs, share with me your secrets for not completely losing your shit waiting for baby to come!