This is Mlada's story... or rather just the beginnings of her story. Even in the almost one month since her birth, she's started to add pages and pages filled with smiles, giant poop explosions, love of having her hair washed, and a million sweet hugs and kisses from her big sisters. I'm getting ahead of myself though.
The beginning: this pregnancy was a tough one. For whatever reason, I was worn out from the beginning and desperate to see her. The *ahem* trips to empty my stomach ended around 26 weeks, but I never quite hit a sweet spot this pregnancy. She is worth every drop of exhaustion. Some days I felt as though that exhaustion could fill an ocean, and it is the same with our love for her.
After my little stay in the hospital just a few days shy of our "due date", Grandma came out to help me recover, and I was hopeful she would be here any day. Every morning I would wake up thinking it may be the day, and every night I would beg for one more night of sleep for my tired, pregnant body. As we inched closer and closer to 42 weeks, every conversation started with a version of, "Are you in labor yet?" I can't blame anyone who asked, because I was wondering the same thing! In those several days before labor began, I would have runs of contractions 10 minutes apart, and would watch the timer, hoping they would start to edge nearer.
As time went on, my body became more and more tired, but so did my mind. I was so anxious thinking about the pain of labor and pushing that I would lie awake at night rather than getting the sleep I desperately needed. Also, the closer I got to 42 weeks, the more I began to worry about dealing with an induction on top of all of that. While the anxiety never completely went away, one of my big sisters who has gone through four inductions talked me through my fears. I also sent a message to one of my dear friends who has had epidurals in her births just to ask her some more specifics about it. Allowing myself to think about those options helped a lot.
Three days before I hit 42 weeks, I was sure "this was it". I had had strong contractions (still 10 minutes apart) most of the day before and previous night, and asked Daniel to stay home from work, hoping we'd be headed in to the hospital at any time. I even cancelled my NST, again, assuming they'd check on the baby when I got to the hospital. Of course, things fizzled out by mid-afternoon, and I felt like we were still getting nowhere.
Finally, since I hadn't slept the night before, I took benadryl at about 7:30 that night, hoping that sleep would come. Two hours into my lovely benadryl-ed sleep, the contractions were so strong I woke up in a sweat, with a surge of adrenaline. Daniel had been working and watching the KU basketball game on his computer, so I tip-toed out and told him it was time to start timing the contractions.
Two episodes of Man in the High Castle later, the contractions were strong, but still 8-10 minutes apart, and we decided to try to get a little sleep. As soon as our heads hit the pillows; though, the contractions got more intense and much closer. It wasn't long before we were waking my mom and calling both my doctor and our (amazing!) friend to come sleep on the couch and listen for our girls. Sometime around three, we were on our way into the cold night towards the hospital.
I was a six when we reached the hospital (I am ridiculously thankful that I don't seem to have trouble dilating, since I've never been less than a five when I hit the hospital in labor), and while I was handling things pretty well, two nights of no sleep meant I was worn out. My amazing husband and mom talked me through the contractions. I would lean against Daniel and my mom would give me counter pressure to help ease some of the pain. Even with all the awesome support, the difference from my last birth and the amount of energy I had was stark (at least to me).
This is where I lose a bit of my crunchy mama card, and I'm okay with it.
I got an epidural. Gasps all around and such, I know. It's funny how confident I was in that decision this time when I was equally confident (and still am) in my decision to have no pain medicine with Colette. Our nurse (who happened to be Catholic, from Kansas where my family lives, and new, but very competent and extremely sweet) sent for the anesthesiologist when I was around an 8, so by the time he made it to the room (several strooonnng contractions later), my guess is that I was somewhere between an 8 and 9. I'm just going to admit it for you all to hear: I loved the epidural. I could feel and move my legs, as well as the contractions, but I could also regain a little joy. I had been so tired, and so fearful, that I had had so little time to contemplate the excitement of this sweet baby girl. It was truly a relief, and I'm doubly grateful that I had no ill side-effects.
I had been at the hospital for somewhere between four to five hours and had the epidural for a little over an hour when the "time to push" came. Three pushes later, I felt that awesome little "pop" of a little body sliding herself right out, and, immediately, she was on my chest. She was quiet and a wee purple and there was some fussing as they made sure she was breathing, but a few minutes and a couple of sweet newborn smiles as well as angry cries at the pokes and prods from the nurses later, she latched right on to eat, and all was well. I remember crying, "She's here, she's real!" I think the longer I was pregnant, the more I was sure I would never get to hold our baby girl. There she was; though, all eight pounds, one ounce of her (which, by the way, is huge by my babies' standards... I love it!) From there, everything was beautifully uneventful. She nurses like a champ, sleeps like a newborn, and my recovery has been the best thus far (though those afterpains are something else... they aren't lying when they say they get worse with each baby!)
And now, because this has been long enough, I'm just going to share a few photos and let the rest be. We are amazed and so grateful we were able to add this little lady to our family.
