AND THE OSCAR GOES TO…

It was a dark and stormy night…

Just kidding.

I was sure that God had forgotten about me. Oscar was ten days late and my doctor would not let me go any longer than that without inducing labor. Induction was my biggest fear — I believed that my body and my baby would tell me when they were ready and I hated the idea of staging an intervention while the baby and I were still healthy. That being said, I also trusted my doctor with my life and respected her medical opinion. She was nothing but supportive throughout both my pregnancies, always complimenting my ankle bones (because she could see them) and telling me “you do this so well,” so I knew her recommendation to induce was for my safety and my benefit, not to fulfill her own agenda or cash another paycheck. We were put on the induction list for Thursday (9/13) and were told to wait for a call any time after midnight. Brandon came home Wednesday night (9/12) with a cough, so I put him and Elliot to bed at 8pm and moped around in despair for the next four hours watching Prison Break and eating my feelings (what empty ice cream carton?). I finally relented and went to bed, cursing the heavens for overlooking all the desires of my tender little extra pregnant heart.

What a dummy.

I woke up at 3:30am due to some painful ruckus in my uterus. I mean contractions, due to some contractions, but I didn’t yet believe that they were real contractions because, if you remember, God had forgotten about me. I got up (I’ll sleep when I’m dead) and paced my bedroom while timing the ruckus with a handy dandy iPhone app. It’s a modern world, folks. When I saw that I had had three what-I-was-still-calling-“fake” contractions in ten minutes, the sun started to part through the grey clouds of my despairing heart. When I had to hold onto the wall and moan through the next one, the angels started singing.

God hadn’t forgotten about me!

I packed up some last minute things for the hospital, woke Brandon, and called my mom. She came over to our apartment so Elliot could keep sleeping and would take him to her house for the rest of the time that we would be gone. On the way to the hospital, I played “He Leadeth Me” over and over and over. My gratitude for what was happening was already bubbling over.

At the hospital, I got dressed and strapped to the monitor, still having to make noise through each contraction but not quite to the Annoying Labor Lady stage, which I think is pretty impressive since I was seven centimeters dilated during my first check by the triage nurse. They started an IV and we were moved to the delivery room, where I got an epidural from the nicest anesthesiologist ever (bedside manner is sort of a big deal when someone is inserting a giant needle into your spine). I am a big fan of epidurals and I’ll stop to tell you why: I know that my body was made to birth babies and I know that I could do it naturally. BUT. I also know that I don’t handle pain well and that my memory shuts down during the times that I’ve been in mind-blowing pain (like contractions), and the birth of my children is something I want to not only remember but enjoy. With the absence of pain, I felt so completely present with each birth and was able to scoop each baby up and hold them for the first time without any sensation other than joy. My positive experiences might be the exception to the rule, but that’s what they are — my experiences, and I wouldn’t change a thing about them. Epidurals for the win.

I rested in bed until I was jolted by a firm “pop” and rush of fluid. My water had finally broken (on its own! Remember when God didn’t forget about me?). I called the delivery nurse, who was the reincarnation of Mother Earth and Mother Goose (and by that I mean AWESOME), she checked me, and I was fully dilated! Woot woot! My doctor arrived in record time and we proceeded to “get this show on the road,” as they say. Except it wasn’t much of a show because five minutes and four pushes later, our perfectly perfect little man was welcomed into the world and I clutched him to my chest in all of his glorious amniotic wetness. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. Thank you.”

Oscar Maxwell Piersol was born on September 13th, 2012 at 8:05am, after only four and a half hours of labor. He was 7 pounds 13 ounces and 20.5 inches long.

I loved my hospital birth. I never felt disempowered. Oscar was never taken from me without permission or explanation. I felt nothing but taken care of by every nurse we ever had. I felt safe and informed and understood.

I had worried this whole pregnancy that I couldn’t love another kid as much as I love my first kid, but then this kid looked me in the eyes and I fell completely in love. I’m in love, you guys. Three times over.

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UNSOLICITED ADVICE.

I tend to overlook my own birthday, but when my friends have birthdays I get all reminiscent. I won’t turn 25 for another year and a half, but I don’t need to wait until that quarter century mark to tell you what I’ve learned in this little life so far. That year and a half will probably lend a list in itself. Each year until now has certainly brought forth its own gargantuan lessons slash wait-what-just-happeneds. So happy birthday, Jess.

Don’t mistake best friends for boyfriends. Just because you enjoy spending every waking hour with someone does not necessarily mean you should consider marrying said someone. This should apply even more so if you do not enjoy kissing said someone.

Stop disappointing your parents. No matter how inept, wrong, outdated, mistaken, or dumb you think they are, they aren’t. They are trying. They are doing the best they know how. Stop hurting them without fear of consequence. They really do love you and want the best for you, even if that best is different than your best. Plus, you may need to move back in with them at least twice (each) in your severely complicated adult life, so it would be wise to keep that bridge unburned.

Just because your boobs are bigger than all the other girls’ does not mean that there is something wrong with you. Don’t spend your life trying to hide them under large t-shirts and the same black cardigan. Someday, you will learn how to dress them in fitted clothes without looking like a porn star and you will see that if they were any smaller, your hips wouldn’t look balanced and you wouldn’t be able to help your future daughter or whatever embrace her God-given body because you’d be left with zero insecurities, and a woman without insecurities is no woman at all.

There will come a time in your life when you deem showers unimportant. They’re not.

When you are nineteen and a boy lets himself into your bedroom, don’t freeze. Run. Run so far away from there because if you freeze, it will negatively affect every single moment of the rest of your life and you’ll have to go to trauma counseling forever and that is such a drag.

Don’t worry about not knowing what you want to be when you grow up. Chances are, you’ll turn into a classic housewife slash homemaker, in which case you’ll be so glad you didn’t spend millions of dollars on a degree you’d eventually forfeit once you had kids. And the things you enjoy doing most, like baking and drawing and reading and music, will come in handy when you’re raising tiny humans to be the kinds of people who don’t let themselves into young girls’ bedrooms.

Paint your nails. You may or may not work a job for five years that prohibits such things, so for god’s sake, reclaim your identity and paint your nails.

You will nurse a seething hatred for your home town. You will loathe the scorching summers. You will loathe the fact that it is a city sprawled out across too many miles. You will try to leave it twice, try to begin again thousands of miles away from it, and twice it will call you back. You will learn to love the summers because every year they fade into nine months of blissful weather. You will love the sprawl because it will take you at least twenty minutes to get anywhere, twenty minutes of driving and twenty minutes of music, twenty minutes to breathe. It is true to its name. It is home.

The friends you lose are worth losing. If they weren’t, you wouldn’t have lost them.

And when you know, you know.

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WE MADE SOMETHING COOL.

 

Two monsters to represent my two little monsters and an ode to one of our favorite hymns.

Oh! Great is our God! So let our songs be endless!

So awesome His ways, how could we comprehend them?

So we will make it known to our kids

And we will sing about the gracious gifts you give .

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BELLY DIARIES: 37 WEEKS.

My last post before Oscar is due is up today at Scottsdale Moms Blog. Read all about it.

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IGNORANCE.

I know. I should be writing.

It seems like the only things I want to write about are personal. And I don’t get personal.

Not because I’m too stuck up to get real. Well, I might be a little stuck up. But the people I want to write about will read what I write. And I wouldn’t be writing the most flattering things. And then I’d have to deal with that. So there’s that.

I’m not out to get anyone. It’s not a question of who is right and who is wrong. It’s just feelings. Stupid feelings.

See? I’m already discounting my opinionsAnd being cryptic, and cryptic shit is annoying unless it’s super poetic but I’m not poetic these days, I’m a big pregnant lady planet.

It’s easy to put off thinking about real life while waiting for the impending whatever to happen. This baby, in my case, is the whatever. I make lists of things I still need to buy, wash all of Elliot’s old clothes, organize them by age and season. I buy only our immediate needs at the grocery store so I’ll have an excuse to go back in a few days just to have something to do. I talk to the people I like and only the people I like because I could get into an uncomfortable conversation or have to face unpleasant people and consequently disrupt my pleasant little life.

Maybe I’d like to get a little uncomfortable. Maybe I’d welcome those rough conversations.

Maybe after I’m done being a planet. And then I’ll write about it.

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BECAUSE.

Because sometimes you just need a quiet place to sit and read, and that’s okay.

Because sometimes you don’t want to answer people’s questions, and that’s okay.

Because sometimes you’ll be the quiet kid, and that’s definitely okay.

Because sometimes you won’t have the words to say in the moment, they won’t come until afterward, and you can write them down and save them for later, for only you.

Because you’ll never be what they wanted you to be, and that’s okay too.

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TUH-TUH.

Gigi went to Hawaii and brought back a turtle for Elliot. Excuse me, I mean a “tuh-tuh.”

It does not leave his side.

He cuddles it in bed, on the couch. He feeds it his breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He takes it in the car.

Someone’s going to be a (fingers crossed) good big brother.

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RAIN, RAIN, STAY STAY STAY.

1. Sunless sky

2. Toy Story 2

3. Doodling

4. Oscar watches Toy Story 2

5. Elementary fort building

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