Things I've learned about labor: fourth edition

There is an old saying that goes like this: The fourth time is the charm.

I'm pretty sure that's how it goes. It's a very ancient saying.... you've probably only heard of its more contemporary cousin.

Okay, so the fourth time may not be the charm, but sometimes in life there are mysteries that just don't come together until you have all the pieces.  And, for some of us extra-special people, all the pieces can take a lot of tries to gather.

So, as I near the finish line on this last time around, there are a few things I've learned about myself in labor that I hope may help me this time around.

1. My babies don't engage in the pelvis.  It literally took me three tries to figure this one out.  I couldn't find any information on it.  No doctor ever told me... aside from the fact that I have the hat trick on doctors and nurses who exclaimed, "WOW!! These babies are high up!!" immediately before or even after hours and hours (and hours) of labor. (Sidenote: what does that even mean?!  I'm just a mom laying here spread eagle, trying to have a baby!  HOW IS THIS HELPFUL INFORMATION?!  More importantly: what can I do about it?)

Much more helpful is the information I've stumbled across during this pregnancy (whole article here):

"Lack of engagement is a common issue for the woman who labors but the baby remains high in the pelvis. For about half the cases, the uterus gets overworked trying to get a baby into the pelvis for days of labor. Contractions may be very, very strong and very grinding on the pubic bone and dilation isn’t the predictive factor."

Ah-HA!  Now, that sounds familiar!  Even more familiar:

"Early labor can go on for a day, or two or three. Sometimes the woman thinks her starter is broken. This is because the labor can start and stop as the baby tries to get into the pelvic brim. Women may not dilate beyond 3 cm when the baby remains high. 

Labor can feel so strong as the uterus works hard to rotate baby’s head to drop into the pelvis. These strong contractions can go on for days. Once baby engages labor becomes effective and the baby is born in 8 hours or less."

This is it!  The missing piece.  The explanation I've been waiting for that finally makes my experiences make sense!

I've never been dilated past a four on my own, even after something like 35 combined hours of labor in two pregnancies. It explains why things move so quickly after the epidural: getting an epidural isn't about pain management for me, it's about bringing the head into the pelvis so labor can progress.  (PS - don't ask me why an epidural helps with that.  I simply don't know, although I suspect it has something to do with forcing the pelvic muscles to relax and spread out.)  I go from a measly 3 or 4 cm dilated after hours and hours - or even days and days - to ready to push in something like 2 hours once baby engages... but so far, I haven't been able to get there without the help of the epidural.

I have been learning so much I wish I'd known before about positioning baby for his exit.  It has given me renewed hope that I might be able to do this without an epidural.  Not to mention, a few actual, practical strategies to try if I get into labor and baby's head is still high and unengaged.

The Spinning Babies website has been so very helpful to me in identifying and educating myself about my own experiences in labor.

And luckily for me, they have a "daily three" exercises to help best position our little guy for his exit:
Step 1: Rebozo Sifting

This activity helps "jiggle" the mother, taking away the weight of the baby and relaxing her ligaments.

Step 2: Forward-Leaning Inversion

Which is pretty much exactly as much fun as it looks like for a great big pregnant lady.  The idea is to invert and take the pressure off of your lower uterus.  When you return to an upright position, baby uses that space and the pull of gravity to create more space for the head to fit in preparation for labor.

Step 3: Sidelying-Release 

Full disclosure, I'm not 100% sure I'm doing this one right, so I'm going to let you read all about it and draw your own conclusions.  But the basic idea is that, when done correctly, this movement uses a static stretch to slightly enlarge and soften the pelvis.  When done in labor, it may help encourage a stalled baby to rotate and descend.

They also have several recommendations about positions specifically for babies who do not drop once labor has begun.

2. All those contractions I had with Livvy were actually Prodromal Labor.  What is Prodromal labor, you ask?  Since I didn't know, even when I was experiencing it, let me tell you!  Prodromal labor is a type of labor that happens before the onset of active labor.  It is not Braxton-Hicks.  It is sometimes described as "false-labor," but the truth is that Prodromal labor is real labor contractions in terms of intensity and frequency, but labor that comes and goes without ultimately producing a baby.  Prodromal labor can go on for days or even weeks before active labor begins.

Two years ago, I could not figure out why I was contracting night after night without fail.  They would begin about ten minutes apart, get stronger and closer together over the course of 5-7 hours.  Just as I was convinced it would soon be time to go to the hospital, my contractions would simply... disappear.  This went on for more than two weeks, usually at night, but sometimes during the day as well.  One sleepless night I did the math and realized I would have more than 100 hours of contractions before active labor even began.

But why?  Well, that question is trickier to answer, as there does not seem to be a consensus I can find from the medical community.  One theory seems to be poor positioning of the baby, which again rings true in my case.  The uterus attempts to reposition the baby with contractions and eventually stops if it does not work.

Of course, there are no guarantees in labor, and the most important thing is to have a healthy baby and mommy at the end, however we get there.  On the plus side, we've changed hospitals so we're only a 9 minute drive.  That frees me up not to have any concerns about timing the trip; I can be ready to push and we'll still make it to the hospital in time.

I feel pretty confident though.  I think we have our best chance of having this baby truly the natural way.  Certainly, I understand my body and labor process better than I ever have before.  That is in itself a victory, however things go.

On reading, making it through and Downton Abbey

Our days are a flurry of repetitious, usually wonderful, sometimes stressful, almost always loud and busy series of events.

He has been in Texas all this time: first to San Antonio, then to Austin, back to San Antonio.  He was supposed to be home for all of 22 hours - which I was really, REALLY looking forward to! - but, because DC was in the path of the great snowpocalypse 2016, his flight was rerouted and he bypassed Colorado.  Presumably to make it there before DC became entombed and Andrew Lincoln commenced riding a horse down the deserted streets of the Capitol.

It was a little ridiculous how very disappointed I was, considering it was only 22 hours at home.  Still, that would have been my husband's first hours at home in 2016.

The kids and I have fallen back into our usual routine:

5:30 - Mom wakes up

5:30-6:15 - Exercise and Bible study

6:30 - kids wake up

7:00 - breakfast

7:30 - get dressed and make beds

8:00-11:30 - School 

12:00 - lunch and play time

1:00-3:00 Nap (aka mom's chore time) 

3:00-5:00 - afternoon activities

5:00 - Make dinner and helper jobs

5:30 - Eat dinner

6:30 - baths and get ready for bed

7:00 - Livvy to bed, kids read or watch a show

7-7:30 - big kid night time routine and to bed

8:00 until quarter past forever - Mom cleans up, folds laundry, tidies, finishes jobs, preps for tomorrow and maybe gets some quiet TV or reading time.  Maybe.  (But probably not.)

The two big ones are doing swim lessons twice a week, and Leah is getting ready to start piano lessons at the beginning of February.  We also have CC every Monday from 9-12, and when you add in play dates, field trips, library visits, church, grocery shopping, doctor's visits and errand running, it's more than enough to keep us hopping.  

I have decided that 2:30 is tea time in our house.  Possibly because I've been watching too much Downton Abbey, but also because I desperately wanted a dedicated, relaxing, set apart time each and every day for me to rest.  

{See?  I'm really trying to make sure I schedule that in!}

Each day, I prepare my tea and a scone and settle in for thirty solid minutes of quiet reading.  It's heaven in the middle of my busy day.  If there are dirty dishes, they stay dirty.  If there are piles of half-folded laundry, it remains half-folded.  

That thirty minutes is my gift to myself.  

I'm also trying (hard.  And most often unsuccessfully) to get myself in bed at 9:00 to read, pray and wind down from the day.  I have such a difficult time sleeping when Casey is gone; I'm on extra-heightened alert all the time.  I hear each tiny whimper the kids make through the night.  I interpret every perfectly normal middle of the night noise as cause for serious alarm.  So going to bed is a legitimate challenge for me, but also incredibly necessary for sanity and patience and not losing my every loving mind purposes.  

Back in December, Casey and I made up our minds to quit Facebook and social media.  It has been such a blessing!  And frankly, I'm amazed at how much time it allows me to reclaim.  It's embarrassing, really.  

I've made it through five of the books on my 2016 list (and it's still January!  Score!): The Martian, Educating the Whole Hearted Child, Things You Won't Say, The Daily Five and One Thousand Gifts.  

The Martian was my favorite by a long shot.  And Matt Damon was adorable in the movie adaptation, which I watched one night having ordered myself Chinese take-out after the kids went to bed.  To eat All. By. Myself. {which, in case it was in question, is a ridiculous luxury.}

See?  Look at that awesome self care I'm practicing!

Sundays are my favorite, though.  I've given myself permission to let go of my usual evening routine - which, more often than not consists of chores, meal planning or prep, school planning or prep and a basket of laundry - and actually be in bed at 9 with the added bonus of Ben and Jerry's so that I can watch Downton Abbey.  It's my very favorite, the only show I consistently want to watch every single week, and it's the very last season.  

Plus, every now and again it strikes me that in my own home, I perform every single function of the entire cast of characters in Downton Abbey.  Hopefully with at least one tenth of the witty repartee.  

So January has been swallowed up in a fast-moving haze of motion and activity.  I'm blessed beyond measure that we usually do just fine on our own, even though it can be difficult and exhausting.  My kids are awesome, so helpful, and typically easy to manage.  I truly enjoy being their momma.  

And, with a little more emphasis on taking care of myself, the on and on-ness of it all is pretty manageable.  Of course... we're only three and a half weeks in. 

There's still time!

Me and Amy, we sound the same.

I would like to hereby proclaim my undying love for Amy Poehler.  Because I think we can all agree, she's completely hilarious.  So many amazing SNL moments.  The best Hillary Clinton impersonations (one of my all time favorite skits and the absolute only good thing to come out of election year dramas.  Two funny, funny ladies).

Here's the problem, though: it's day one (seriously?  It's only day one?!) of a two week single mom stint and already I sound waaaay too much like Amy.  

And not the nice, conversational, complementary side.  

I'm a little more intense.  A little more "HOW DO YOU MISS A PASS LIKE THAT?!"   

Because, I love my little stinkers.  More than life itself.  This Mom gig is my most important job, and all those sappy, inspirational quotes that have those with kids and without kids debating whether motherhood really is the hardest and most noble job in the universe... they totally get me.  Sentimental and sappy though they may be, there is no question which side of that debate I fall out on.

I also feel a very strong sense of obligation to teach them right from wrong, proper manners, good citizenship, character, patience, gratitude, humor, joy, about good books and belly laughs, empathy, the beauty inherent in hard work, kindness, self-reliance, humility, prayer, how to fall in love with themselves, appreciate what they bring to the table and all those other things that will be so necessary as the real world seeps in to beat them down.  And more often than not, I hope very dearly to confer these mighty life lessons, not with words or lectures but by living them out.  By being my very best me, flaws and mistakes and imperfections and stretch marks and all, and letting the wisdom and the lessons that are learned in those ordinary, everyday moments flow out of me and into them.  Not because I've taught them anything, but because they've come along with me and watched me learn.  Watched me grow.  Watched me fail.  Watched me try.

But I have a secret to tell you: there are days.  Like, well, today. 

Days that begin with milk and cereal spilled because, in some miraculous role reversal, the one year old has much more control of his body and choices at meal time than the four year old.  Days where it took us literally an hour to get our sad selves out of the house.  Days where, despite the conversations about how important it is to rest her body and staythefrickinbed, there are fairy wings and dress up clothes strewn about her room and her motto is nap?  We don't need no stinking nap! which would all be fine if only she could be a reasonable, rational, somewhat decent human being until 7:30 p.m. without a nap.  Days that end with me nixing a bath and giving the go-ahead for tiny humans to run around in public looking rather like that dirt-cloud kid from Charlie Brown because, as Twisted Sister once said: we're not gonna take it anymore!  And by we, I very fervently mean me.  

Hello, my name is Melissa.  And I can't take it anymore. 

Which is bad, mostly on account of the fact that there's no relief pitcher in my house for the next two weeks, it's just me.  And all those life lessons I'm working to pass on through my Super Mommy Behavior are cancelled out, and instead the message is I'm TIRED! and ANGRY! and FRUSTRATED! and sound all Amy Poehler-y.  WHY ARE YOU DISAPPOINTING ME?!

Yeah, well done on that.  

Which brings me to the last important lesson I hope I am conferring to my children: the lesson that involves just showing up.  

True, it is a far cry from those inspirational motivational posters and a little more like the "hang in there, kitty" posters that used to make me cringe in high school.  But the truth is, there are times in life where we won't be all that we can be, and to GNC's dismay, we won't beat average, we'll just be average.  Not because it's what we're striving to be, not because it's our ultimate goal or because we don't want to improve, but simply as a result of that little state of affairs called being human.  

If the goal is to only show up for the days on which we're sure we can be perfect and can fulfill all those other things on that list I made up there, we're... well... totally screwed.  We'll never, ever show up. 

Life doesn't give me the luxury of waiting until I can be Super Mommy who knows ALL THE ANSWERS to ALL THE THINGS and manages to handle every circumstance with grace, wisdom and style.  Life asks me to just show up, beautiful mess and imperfections and all, and keep trying.  To make sure that, above all else, my kids know that they are loved and cared for and that they have a mommy who will always, always show up for them, even when that's the very best she has to offer.  

Because I love them, perfection cannot be my goal.  If that's the legacy I'm determined to leave for my children, what a massive, unrealistic disservice I've done them in the long run.  I've set them up for failure if perfection is not only the goal but the expectation and they miss the huge, average-but-critical importance of just showing up, when it's hard and when it's easy.  When you want to and when you don't.

Which works out well for me, particularly after a day like today.

Parenting Paradigm Shift: Embracing the What-Ifs

There is no doubt: one of the most difficult things to do is modify behavior.

There's a reason that countless resources exist, whether in the form of books, college courses, self-help courses with any multitude of strategies and perspectives on raising children.  Because, the truth is that for each and every one of us, we all spend our adult lives analyzing the way that we were raised.  Nobody gets out of this without a little therapy. Freudian formal or over Starbucks with a girlfriend, we all end up laying on the proverbial couch over the relationships, habits, norms and values we were brought up with.

One of the things that is most troubling to me, though, as I try to define for my children what their "normal" will look like, is how very easy it is for the world to undo the lessons I am working so diligently to deliver.  Those values that I'm working so hard to model and reinforce are easily overridden by the hundreds of messages they are receiving simply as a byproduct as they go about their day.

It certainly plays into my decision to homeschool.  I've watched kids cry about wearing a certain type of pant to school because "the girls at school don't like pants like this."  You'd think this message came from my 8th graders, right?  I wish.  This was from kindergartners.  I've listened to second graders talk about Miley Cyrus (not those adorable Hannah Montana years, either) and all the images that conjures up.  At the age of four, Barbies have become the top "get" as presents, and, though I know it flies in the face of little girl "tradition," I'm just not sure what redeeming value that particular toy has.  At the end of the day, it just doesn't fit in with the values we're working so hard to help instill in our children.

 So, for our kids, we've made a very intentional executive decision: Embrace the what-ifs.

What if, from the time that child is tiny, we fed him or her exclusively with positive messages?  I am not suggesting parenting without limits - quite the opposite - but positive messages in the form of music, modeling, books, toys, movies, TV shows, other parents and, yes, other children.  What if we surround our children with an array of age-appropriate, well-vetted imagery, speech and actions that nurture their spirits, character, and souls?

What if we cast off that which is negative, limit that which is neutral, and seek out only that which gives voice to the value and potential of our children?

What if we stand between our children and the idea that the status quo is acceptable, even best, as a yardstick for what goes into developing our children?  What if we reject the notion that, since everyone else is doing it, strength in numbers somehow equates to raising compassionate, joyful and engaged offspring?

What if we approach parenthood not only as a major milestone in our own lives, but as an intentional, inspired launching pad for our little beloveds?

If there is one thing I am discovering as a mother, it is that God has entrusted me with the high honor to speak identity into my children.  Not to say that they are empty vessels who wait on me to breathe life into them; clearly they are their own beings with amazing personalities, strengths, ideas and preferences all their own.  Every mother knows how difficult it is to force a child to eat a food he or she doesn't like, or to argue a point with a toddler who has made up his or her own mind on an issue.  They are willful, independent beings right from the start!

Still, the ability we have been given as mothers to influence, touch, guide and develop our children cannot be overstated, nor should it be undervalued.  We are not to simply sit on the sidelines as our children grow - particularly when they are small and willing to embrace the lessons and wisdom we have to offer.

If you've ever tried to speak with someone about sheltering your children, the responses are as mixed and varied as your audience.  In some ways, the idea of "sheltering" has become a veritable bad parenting buzz-word, equated with unhealthy, awkward children who will undoubtedly grow into adults who melt at life's simplest challenge.

Done well, this could not be further from the truth.

The goal of sheltering is not to keep them from the world, but to better equip them to enter a world full of tough choices.  To arm them with self-confidence, Godly knowledge and discernment.  To help them know where their parents stand on difficult, controversial issues - and more importantly, why we feel that way - and give them roots to make their own choices out of wisdom.  To gift them the opportunity to develop their own character, skills and minds as individuals and give them lots of practice making choices while the stakes are small so that they are ready to function in our much larger world of pressures, choices and consequences.

In education terms, we would call it "front loading."  Without getting too technical, it means to spend a great deal of time pre-teaching the skills we know our learners will need to use independently later on.  In fact, most of what we do as teachers isn't conveying knowledge or facts, but investing up front in the "big ideas" that will carry them through the lesson, then refining processes and providing feedback so that when students are ready to grapple with the subject independently, they have the greatest chance at success.

The idea, then, for raising children, is to identify the characteristics and behaviors we would hope to see from our children and spend time investing in those while they are little.  To surround them with a world that supports and reinforces those values while we can, and gradually release them, with guidance and feedback, into young adults who make their own independent decisions.

"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it." 

Proverbs 22:5

It's not about protecting them from failure.  Failure is our greatest ally in making wise choices.  It's not about protecting them from pain, since some things you can only learn through experience, pain and loss.  It is about asking two questions: who can our children become if they are allowed to focus on becoming the best version of themselves, and what do they need from us in order to get there?  Not for the purpose of engendering selfishness or vanity or entitlement, but because when they embrace the best version of themselves, when they know who they are and why they're here, they have the most to give back to the world.  

Where they take it is ultimately up to them, and the issues they'll confront over coffee (I pray it's just coffee and not more intensive therapy!) will undoubtedly be their own.  For my part, though, I'm content to err on the side of caution.  It's alright with me that when my four year old hears "Don't Stop Believin'" on the radio, she confidently informs me that she likes the song because it's about God.  That she found it odd when, at a dinner with our friends recently, they didn't pray before their meal.  That she calmly informs other children that they need to use kind words and gentle hands. At four, this is the "normal" I have prepped her for.

And I'm cool with that.  

It doesn't mean we will be perfect.  It doesn't mean our children will be.  But what if we keep trying?

On labor, forgiveness and a third time around

Watching my best friend have a baby was one of the super-coolest of the super cool moments. 

I heart this photo.  For reals.

For several reasons: 1) because watching a person come into this world is, like, overthetop amazing.  2) It was nice to see that labor and delivery can go the way it's "supposed" to - in other words, if she'd been doing this 100 years ago, both Jess and Lauren would have been totally fine (whereas I'm pretty sure I'd have lost both of mine and/or been dead...).  3) It gave me a new sense of accomplishment over my own labor.

Because, here is what a new mom looks like after 4.5 hours of labor:

 

Peaceful, relaxed, kinda glowy.

 

 

Here is what I looked like after 24 hours of labor:

 



 

Like I'd been through a war.  Like the postergirl for abstinence: Hey kids, keep your knees closed, or you'll wind up looking like THIS! (dramatic music plays.)

 

I've had a fair amount of guilt over the way my labor played out.  I wanted so badly to do the natural childbirth thing, and instead I put myself and my sweet little guy through hell.  His poor, poor head.  My poor everything. 

 

As I've re-played it, I keep thinking how I "should" have done things better.  I should have held on longer once the pitocin started.  I should have kept pushing so we didn't have to use the vacuum.  I should have been stronger; tougher.  The should haves have plagued me more than a little since August.

 

After watching Jess, I've finally given myself permission to let all that go.  My misconception is in thinking that people who are able to have truly "natural" childbirths are some sort of superhero and I am not. 

 

Here's the truth: Jess had 4.5 hours of labor.  Her entire labor from start to finish was less than the time I labored on my own on pitocin.  Not that she is any less awesome for having done it by herself - it's amazing - but I've been comparing apples and oranges.

 

The truth is that after about 45 minutes of intense, transition-level contractions, she had a moment where she didn't think she could do it anymore.  The contractions were heavy and coming on top of each other, and she was overwhelmed and worn out from having one big contraction.

 

This was my experience on pitocin.  Once that medicine hit my system, I never had a moment of peace again.  My contractions definitely peaked and lessened, but they never, ever went away.  And they were tough.  I always suspected that laboring on pitocin was a lot like laboring in transition, and after watching Jess, I'm convinced that's accurate - at least for me.  After 45 minutes of this she nearly called it quits.  I did more than five hours on my own, after already doing 12 hours on my own and with no end in sight.  And the knowledge hanging over me that I'd likely need an epidural anyway. 

 

She pushed five times and a baby appeared.  I pushed with absolutely everything I had for over an hour and still couldn't get him out.  Evidently, I had to push him from like my trachea.  At the end of her experience, Jess was totally wiped.  Exhausted.  I'd been awake close 40 hours in a row and had no food or water for at least 16 of those.  Exhausted?  I needed a whole new word to describe where I was at.

 

It sounds like there is a jugement or comparison here, and there isn't.  She did an amazing job.  Period.  But all this time, I've felt like I somehow didn't do an amazing job, like I caved early or didn't try hard enough.  If I could have done just a little bit more...

 

Now that I've seen what it takes under absolutely ideal conditions, I no longer feel that way.  I kicked ass - for hours and hours - even while I was getting my own kicked.

People who do this big job without meds are awesome.  And super lucky that their bodies are able to work flawlessly and easily to make that possible. 

We learned a lot.  And the crazy thing is that after all that, I still hope to go back and do it again.  We'll have to seriously weigh the options and consider whether to go the c-section route, because I can't willingly put another baby through that horrible experience.  The difference between my sweet baby Leah, who was alert, head up, nursing well right off the bat and my poor tiny, cone-headed, dazed Logan was truly alarming. 

But oh how worth it those precious little people are. 

It's out there

1/3/12
Standing in front of my closet each morning might be the worst part of my day. 

When I was pregnant with Leah, my students asked me if I was pregnant in September, when I had just managed to stick my toes into the second trimester.  I felt huge, but realistically I was in that awkward phase where you wouldn't know I was pregnant unless you had a side-by-side comparison of how skinny I had been three months before.

Now, each day I face the challenge of finding attire that effectively hides the large canteloupe that is growing under my shirt from nosy, personal-space-invading kids.  Kids who thought I looked pregnant when I ate too many Christmas cookies at the beginning of December.

Yes, it's out there, this belly of mine.  And so's my secret. 

Not to the kids, thankfully.  Just a few select members of the staff who are keeping track all too closely of how often I have to pee.  Yep - that happened. 

No less than three random strangers have commented on my belly.  Asking questions like, do you know what you're having?  Have you felt the baby move yet?  I don't have the heart to tell them that, despite all evidence to the contrary, the baby is approximately the size of a pea. 

I'm starting to have some serious concerns over how many are hanging out in there, too.  Not only am I huge, but I'm feeling very, very pregnant.  All the symptoms I had last time seem to be amplified this time around.  Or maybe I'm just not as tough as I was.

Nausea?  Last time around I definitely had it.  It was more like things that I smelled or was around would make me gag, but I only once got to the point of being physically sick.  This time, my stomach literally twists and rolls and does a little dance that brings me to the brink of running to the toilet.  I haven't lost it yet and I hope to keep it that way, but I still have a ways to go on the not-hurling front.

But here's the thing: I also had some very tiny spots of blood in my underware. 

And with them came the right perspective.

Because there is nothing -  nothing - in the world as wonderful and blessed as having absolutely no clothes that fit and a stomach that feels as if I'm standing on the U.S.S. Arizona in the middle of a hurricane.  You couldn't pay me enough money to take away this imsureimgonnahurl feeling. 

The little things?  They just don't matter.  If the kids find out, so be it.  If I throw up 15 times a day for the next 5 months?  I'll take it.  What matters is this little life that is still, thankfully, growing inside me.  And with a little luck and a lotta prayer, I'll still be saying that in August. 

And the odds are good that I still won't have any clothes that fit. :)

Hope in hiding

The feeling overwhelms met at moments, claiming my breath and nearly bringing me to tears.

But this time, it's not grief. 

It's that familiar feeling, that overpowering sense of gratitude I get sometimes when I'm feeling particularly happy or hopeful. 

I am notorious for crying not when I'm sad, but when I'm happy.  And I'm doing it again.  It's been a while.

There is an unfamiliar sense of peace coursing through me.  A knowledge that something is coming.  A certainty in my own motherhood; confident in this vision that lingers in my head of four.

Strength.  Perseverence.  Fortitude.  These things I have in reserve, although I'd very much like to keep them in storage for a while. 

Hope.

I've still got it.  It's just been hiding for a while. 

I'll be your cheerleader

I like to consider myself an optimist. That glass right there?  It's half-full.

Which is why I felt weak and whiny about sharing my anxieties and frustration related to getting pregnant. 

The comments I have received over the past week, however, make me extremely glad I did.  Your e-mails and Facebook messages and comments amazed, encouraged and humbled me, and have had me in tears more than once. 

There are so many of you out there who have been through your share of struggles on the path to motherhood.  Often a silent and lonely struggle, where people tell you with almost patronizing enthusiasm just to give it time, or that it will happen when it's supposed to.  You've gone to baby showers and smiled with as much genuine happiness as you can muster.  You've watched friends "glow" and patted bellies and wondered why it was meant to be for someone else and not for you.

I don't claim to get it.  I haven't faced the fight the way many of you have.  But sharing my struggles revealed that many of you are suffering or have suffered varying degrees of similar emotions.

In other words, I'm not alone in thinking that not getting pregnant or not staying pregnant feels like crap.  Why did I think I was some weird freak?

Why is it that, as women who willingly bare our souls about so many different topics, we keep these struggles a secret?  I am asking because I don't have an answer, just a lot of kind and empathetic comments as evidence.

It takes big girl guts to admit to this stuff, and it's neither whiny nor weak to let it be known that some days, it hurts. 

So, while I don't ever, ever want to view that glass as half-empty, nor do I want to turn this blog into one gigantic catalogue of woe is me, I do want to renew my commitment to what's honest.  Keeping all of this to ourselves does no one any good.

And if you ever need a cheerleader, don't be afraid to share, here or in person (so-to-speak): melissa.strassner@gmail.com.  It's worth it to send each other some love and support.  And icecream.  You know, if you're close enough that it won't melt...