bikes planes and automobiles · birthing babies · Keepin' it real · parenting · waxing philosophical · weight loss

Day 161: Living (Extra) Large

I’m typing this while sitting at my new desk. In about thirty minutes of ignoring my kids I was able to cut, glue, and install the slide-out tabletop which will house my keyboard, mouse, and laptop. My large monitor sits on top. This is a very comfortable setup, not least of all because I’m sitting in a chair that lets my feet sit flat on the floor while my back is supported by the chair back, my keyboard is at an appropriate height, and my monitor is at eye level.

Translation: my new desk is low, but it’s exactly the right height for me. It’s been a long time since I was this comfortable at a workstation. I’m forty years old and I deserve to be comfortable, dangit! And I’m not just talking about my desk.

I have gained fifteen pounds since the COVID shutdown. In the year prior to that, I gained fifteen when I was sidelined for months by a concussion. Both of these gains felt like huge setbacks because two years before the concussion, I managed to lose 45 pounds that really needed to be lost. I was mostly keeping it off, too. But then concussion happened, and COVID came, and here I am spilling out of my clothes.

I’ll pause here to tell you that I really hate the value judgments that come with weight gain and loss. I’ve never had as much positive attention as when I’d dropped those 45 pounds. I’ve run a half-triathlon, written and recorded a solo CD, won scholarships and academic medals, and built an awesome house. In short, I’ve done a whole ton of fabulous things. Why do I get the most praise and interest for losing weight?

All my life I’ve been hearing that weight loss is good and weight gain is bad. That thin is good and fat is bad. When I was thirteen my ballet teacher told me I should lose ten pounds if I wanted to continue dancing. I wasn’t thin, but I sure as heck wasn’t fat. I never went back to ballet.

Our colloquialisms betray those values. Phrases like “fat slob” and “fat and lazy” are rarer now than when I was a kid, but still not rare enough. People come away from performances saying things like, “He’s fat, but boy, is he an amazing dancer.” Why “but?” I love to bike, dance, and paddle. I’ve done these things when I was fat, thin, in between, and nine months pregnant. My skill level has not fluctuated with my weight; indeed, I was able to bike a farther distance with a much heavier load back when I was wearing the largest sized clothes my closet has ever housed.

Ah, larger clothes. I wish I had some. Sadly, I mostly bought into the philosophy that if you get rid of all your “fat” clothes, you’ll maintain your lower weight because you’ll want to fit into the clothes you have. So now I’m relying on stretchy capris and roomy t-shirts (some of them pilfered from Mr. December, without his knowledge — sorry, honey!), and some empire-waist dresses. Last year my summer clothes were snug but wearable. This year if I do up the button on my jean shorts, I have a muffin top to rival all others and I can’t breathe deeply. So I spend many of my days slightly very uncomfortable in the clothes I’m wearing, because maybe by making myself feel terrible in them I’ll get motivated to lose some weight. It’s ridiculous.

For the record, I don’t hate my body. It’s carried me this far, dancing, biking, walking, running, building, and birthing babies. Right now it’s doing what it’s supposed to do, saving up energy just in case there’s a famine on the way. As Eric Cartman said on South Park, “I’m not fat, I’m famine resistant!” Yes, I’m less comfortable with the extra padding around my torso, and yes, I’d like to be slimmer, but the extra weight doesn’t make me less beautiful, just less svelte.

I’ve decided that this is where I’m drawing the line. I’m going to buy myself clothes that fit me right now, not “aspirational” sized clothes, even though I don’t plan to stay at this size for too much longer. I’m going to be able to sit, walk, eat, and move without discomfort. I need to start choosing and using things — furniture, clothes, tools and equipment — that fit my body, rather than trying (and failing) to make my body fit those things and hurting myself in the process.

I need to show my daughters that the value of our bodies lies in our strength, resilience, endurance, and agility — not in our body fat percentage. And if I want my daughters to believe that, I’d better start acting as if I do too. Right now I believe it intellectually, but emotionally I’m not quite there. So I’m starting with clothes that fit me.

If anybody needs me, I’ll be in my room…y new pants.

birthing babies · Good Grief · waxing philosophical

Day 140: I Thought I’d Be Sad

I thought I’d be sad when I finally weaned my last baby. I loved breastfeeding them and couldn’t imagine every wanting to stop. But one day I realized that whenever E was ready to stop, that would be fine with me. I thought I’d be sad, but I wasn’t. Nor was I happy. I just was. E was weaned, and it was okay.

I thought I’d be sad about not having a baby in the house anymore. I love babies — the baby years are my forte when it comes to parenting. We had nine straight years of diapers, sleepless nights, babywearing, and peek-a-boo. I thought I’d be sad, but I wasn’t. Our family was ready for new experiences, for being able to go places without a huge stroller or a diaper bag, for having toys with tiny little choking-hazard parts strewn around the house, and it was okay.

I thought I’d be sad when I couldn’t lift my kids up in my arms and carry them around anymore. But they got heavy and my arms got tired, and I found that I enjoyed walking hand-in-hand with them or watching them go on ahead, strong and independent. It was okay.

From the moment our first child was born, we heard this message from all sides: “Enjoy it while it lasts!” “I’m rocking my baby, and babies don’t keep.” “One day you’ll miss these times!” Everyone implied that as we moved on from the baby phase we’d be bereft. It was as though we were supposed to mourn our babies growing up. And indeed, I cried when our oldest outgrew her newborn-sized diapers at four weeks old.

Many years ago I was talking to a friend about how I felt after my miscarriage. I described having this awful empty feeling in my belly where the baby should have still been. “But Sara,” she asked me, “did you have that same feeling when your belly was empty after giving birth to a living baby?”

Did I? Probably, but the emptiness in my abdomen was nothing compared to the fullness in my arms and my heart. It was a transition, not a loss, and it was okay.

It’s probably in my nature to feel thankful and content with what I have now. Do I miss high school? High school was a phenomenal experience that I’ll never replicate, but I love this time in my life, building a home and raising my kids. Do I miss the newlywed days when Mr. December and I lived downtown and could just decide, at the last minute, to walk across the street for dinner and a movie on a random weeknight? A little. But If we had that, we couldn’t have this. Life changes; the world changes; people change.

My favourite neighbour, Olga (may her memory be a blessing), often said that things would happen “in the fullness of time.” I love that notion. I think that when things change before their time — when someone dies suddenly or too young, when a pregnancy ends in anything other than a live birth, when anything in life gets snatched away without something else arriving in its place — that’s when shock, pain, and grief set in. But in my life, there’s usually a bit of serenity and grace around big changes. I’ve been able to let go of what’s over and embrace what’s coming.

And you know what? It’s been okay.

birthing babies · crafty · education · fame and shame · Kids · mental health · parenting · whine and cheese

Day 92: Not My Sport

I’ve been listening to The Parenting Junkie Show (podcast) for over a year now. There have been a lot of good topics and episodes, but my favourite by far was Avital’s comparison of parents to olympic athletes.

Her point was that nobody expects an elite athlete to be good at every sport. Of course all athletes are physically fit, but nobody criticizes a sprinter for being bad at swimming, and no skier spends time frantically trying to get better at bobsledding. Every elite athlete focuses on one event.

Parents, on the other hand (myself included here), feel like to be good (or amazing) parents we have to be good at all the things parents are supposed to do. It doesn’t feel like enough to be amazing at planning travel and outings with the kids; We also need to be able to plan birthday parties, do crafts, help with algebra homework, instil discipline, enforce bedtimes, discover and nurture the children’s talents, and foster social skills. Oh, and get a nutritious dinner on the table (and into their tummies.)

Anyhow, Avital pointed out that as parents, it’s okay to have a specialty. I tried to get my head around this philosophy (I don’t have to be good at everything? But I’m the parent! I do have to be good at everything because it all falls to me!) but as much as I’ve tried, I can’t help feeling like a failure when I bump up against one of my weak spots.

Last night I jokingly told Mr. December that I’m considering having a fifth child just so I can feel competent again for a couple of years. You see, I’m really good with babies and toddlers. I get them. I can handle the crying, the constant holding and rocking and shushing, the diapers, the feeding, the spontaneity and the need for flexibility. I understand what they need, and I love providing it. I don’t know if I’d call myself an elite athlete in the baby event, but I’m pretty darn close.

Then those babies grow up and go to school, and it’s not my sport anymore. I mean, I’m not a delinquent by any means, but the school years seem to require so much more organization and consistency, which are two of my weakest areas. I can create systems and organize supplies beautifully, but enforcing the systems consistently? Nope. Not a snowball’s chance in hell.

Do you know why my kids’ school agendas were never signed? Because I only remembered to ask for them once a week at best. Yes, they should be responsible enough to remember to get them signed in the first place, but my point is that I couldn’t consistently reinforce that at home. When my kids were at Montessori they used to bring home a portfolio of their work every Friday, to be returned empty on Monday. After a few months the teachers started giving my kids their homework in a paper envelope; they’d figured out that those plastic folders weren’t coming back. For reasons unfathomable to me, I just couldn’t return them.

All of this to say that these days I’m constantly feeling like I’m failing, or like I should do better or be better, and I suspect it’s probably as frustrating as a swimmer being told she has to pivot and become a distance runner. I could do it, but where all the other marathoners were running, I’d be walking (and then limping) to the finish. And yet these things need to be done, and by and large I’m the one who needs to do them. I have to teach these kids consistency and discipline even though my own is sorely lacking. It doesn’t help that Mr. December is nothing if not organized and disciplined. I look pretty darned incompetent in comparison.

But we’re not supposed to compare ourselves to other parents, right? We’re supposed to have our own events and focus on our strengths. And yet… it’s lovely that I can design a house, build furniture, sew quilts, navigate all sorts of medical issues with aplomb, comfort most crying infants in mere seconds, lead singalongs, plan a fabulous road trip, and read stories with all the funny voices; still, the truth is that right now (for the past three months if not more) none of those skills are in demand. So what’s a mom to do?

better homes than yours · birthing babies · blogging

The more kids I have, the more organized I get.

It’s been an eventful five(!) months since my last post. Most notably, I had a baby. She’s beautiful, magical, sweet, everything a baby should be, really. For those of you who have difficulty keeping track, I now have four kids.

I get a couple of different reactions to my large family. Generally, religious people (of any faith) say something along the lines of, “what a blessing!” or, “isn’t that wonderful!” while the non-religious seem to favour, “you really have your hands full.” It’s a fascinating dichotomy which I’m sure reveals some deeper societal tendencies, but I’m too sleep-deprived to think any more deeply about it right now. If you can draw conclusions and articulate them, please share with the rest of us by leaving it in the comments.

But I digress.

I’ll let you in on the secret to having four kids and not going completely insane: organize, ritualize, and build infrastructure. And having some help, either paid or grandparents, doesn’t hurt either. But I can’t tell you how to make that happen, so I’ll elaborate on the first three.

Organize:

Every person in our family, adult or child, has a binder which contains all of their official documents, all of their health information, school reports (for the kids), extracurricular information, tax information, and – for those who need it – sections for speech therapy, occupational therapy, etc. Everything gets filed in these binders so that everyone knows where to look for the important stuff.

Each child (well, not the new baby) has a “look at me binder.” It’s just a plain binder with plastic page protectors inside. Whenever they bring home work that they are especially proud of, it goes into a page protector in that binder. If there’s a whole pile of artwork or school work, I ask the kids to choose a few favourites to keep. Those go into the binder, and everything else goes into the recycle bin. The binder doesn’t require any annotation, creativity, or time, and yet it creates an archive of work that’s very easy to flip through and enjoy.

We write everything down. Corollary: if it’s not in writing, it didn’t (or won’t) happen. I have a chalkboard in the kitchen where I write down the menu for tomorrow’s breakfast (usually a smoothie and something else) as well as any important notes, like “remember to bring gym clothes for trampoline class” or “no lunches – today is pizza day.” Not only does it remind us of what needs to happen, it seems to reduce tantrums, too. Recently K suggested, “Eema, you should write down what’s for dinner on the blackboard, too. That way I won’t have to feel disappointed.”

Speaking of dinner, I finally got smart and typed out a 3-week meal plan along with recipes for every dinner on the plan. The recipes are written simply (so that one day the kids will be able to cook from them) and include serving suggestions and side dish recommendations. It’s all in one binder (yes, I love binders) in the kitchen, which eliminates the frantic scramble for dinner ideas and then for recipes. Of course, we often don’t feel like what’s on the plan, so we improvise, and then there’s a scramble anyway… but on days when I can’t think or decide, the dinner binder is a lifesaver.

And lastly, the smartphone. Yes, I caved and bought the smartphone I was so afraid of. Everything is on it – calendar, “to do” lists, random notes – and it’s like walking around with an extra brain outside my body, which is a good thing since the brain inside my body seems to have lost its sharpness for now.

That’s about it for being organized. In fact, that’s it for this post. Tune in next time, when I expound on creating rituals.

What organizational tricks can I learn from you, readers? Please comment and let me know.

birthing babies · blogging · crafty · Infertility · mental health · Renovation

Is this thing on?

*tap**tap* *feedback noise*

So… it’s been a while. How’s it going?

The past year has just been so full of everything, good and bad, that it’s hard to know where to begin. I offer no excuses for my absence, and I would like to thank both of my loyal readers for sticking around.

Anyway, for those of you who are here because you like hearing about my life, here’s the update (in no particular order):

  • The children are now ages 6.5, 4, and almost 3. K (girl, 6.5) has lost four teeth and is currently sporting the adorable gap-toothed look. N is as sweet as ever. R just started potty training and has now gone 26 hours with no accidents.
  • Mr. December is pretty much the same, although this past year he started a very demanding volunteer position, which I’m tempted to blame for at least some of my blogging hiatus. For the record, I’m very proud of the work he’s done (even though I won’t be blogging about it.)
  • We still live in our little house, although we’re slowly putting together plans for a second-storey addition. I’m getting to the point where I’d really like to have my own bathroom (separate from the kids, anyhow,) not to mention the fact that we’re going to run out of room sooner or later because:
  • I’m pregnant. Once again, I’ve lost all my infertility cred. Come January, God willing, we’ll have four children.
  • Depression still looms large in my life, though I’ve finally gotten the hang of treating it like any other chronic illness.
  • I still sew, but I’ve found that I have less and less time for it. You’d think that evenings (after kids’ bedtime) would be a good time, but I’m usually too tired to contemplate going downstairs and starting to sew. Instead I stay up way too late on Facebook, arguing for common sense in the face of hysterical helicopter parenting.
  • I still bike, although I haven’t done any really serious biking in almost a year, and it looks like I won’t be biking any significant distances until maybe March or April, or whenever the ice melts around here.

In short, life is good. I am well. And I plan to pick up blogging again, even though at times I am, as Elizabeth Bennet says in P&P, “unwilling to speak, unless [I] expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.”

And on that note, I’m off to bed. ‘Night!

birthing babies · family fun · have you bento my house for lunch? · Jewy goodness

Shabbat Shalom!

Ah, the secret to speedy Shabbat prep – bentos in the bath! A wooden cutting board make the perfect floating table.

The stories this bathtub could tell... births, babies, bentos...

I’m still trying, as I have been for years, to make Shabbat feel more restful and holy. Last week I managed to resist the lure of my laptop (and the internet) for the entire 25-hour day, only because just before Shabbat I shut down the computer and took it downstairs. I spent the day talking with Mr. December, playing with the kids, napping, and getting together with friends. Our Shabbat day is a work in progress, but this feels like a step in the right direction.

And speaking of progress and steps… R seems to think that she has to keep up with the other little people around here:

Up on all fours and rocking. Mummy is not ready for this!

And so, I’m shutting off my computer to spend Shabbat with the little people. I hope your Shabbat (or just plain Saturday, as the case may be) is delicious, relaxing, and happy… just like the current moment in our home.

birthing babies · blogging · Infertility · whine and cheese

Horton runs for office.

You guys know Horton, right? “A person’s a person, no matter how small”?

I think we all know where he ended up… in the Oklahoma state senate. Supporting the newly passed Oklahoma personhood bill.

The bill declares that unborn children (by this bill’s definition, any stage from newly fertilized ovum up to full-term fetus) are recognized as persons, with the same rights as any other person in Oklahoma. This, of course, opens up all kinds of potential abuses:

“But officer, Iam a high-occupancy vehicle! I’m a fertility doctor and I have three hundred test-tube embryos in this cooler!”

“I’d like to claim a dependent on my taxes… how old? um, six weeks gestational age.”

All joking aside, I’d like to explain to you why the abortion debate infuriates me:

It seems to me that there are a couple of straw men here, at least one for each side. The pro-life camp decries the use of abortions as a form of too-late birth control. They seem to feel that, left to our own devices, women would throw caution to the wind and have unprotected sex because “there’s always abortion!” Perhaps there are some women who operate that way, but I can’t imagine there are so many of them.

In the meantime, the pro-choice camp trots out the argument that no woman should be forced to carry to term a pregnancy that resulted from rape or incest (although I don’t really understand the “or” there; if it’s consensual incest, she could have forseen the possibility of pregnancy and it’s not the same thing as rape. If it’s forced incest, how is that different from rape?). Again, I’m sure that there are some women who have been assaulted, became pregnant as a result, and chose to terminate. But to use that example over and over again as the reason for keeping abortion legal is missing the point of a movement called “pro-choice“.

Because when you really get down to it, the legality of abortion affects all kinds of reproductive choices – it’s not just about terminating a pregnancy. If a fertilized ovum is a person, if a three-day-old blastocyst is a person, then any infertility doctor who creates more embryos than she intends to transfer back into the womb would be a murderer. So would any infertility patient who, after having frozen a number of surplus embryos, ends up getting a divorce and choosing to destroy the embryos rather than use them. These issues alone would be enough to make many fertility treatments unfeasible, thus restricting women’s right to choose to get pregnant.

Women who get pregnant the “good old-fashioned way” aren’t exempt here, either. If a pregnancy is discovered to have implanted outside the uterus (some figures put this as happening in 2% of all pregnancies) it generally must be terminated. Yes, must. An ectopic pregnancy can cause the rupture of the fallopian tubes or other organs, leading to hemorrhage, leading to death. It’s not even a question of the mother’s life or the baby’s life in those cases – it’s either the mother’s life, or nobody’s. Under the personhood law, a woman who is treated medically for an ectopic pregnancy could be found guilty of murder, although one presumes that she could plead self-defense.

And let’s not even get me started on the alarming idea (already a reality, albeit a rare one) of court-ordered caesarian sections on the basis that the mother may be endangering the life of the fetus (for example, a mother who wants to have a vaginal breech birth.)

There are other cases I won’t go into here, but I think you get the picture. The abortion debate is about choice, and it’s not just about termination. I don’t usually hold with slippery slope arguments, but as soon as you erode one reproductive choice, you erode them all.

See these guys? The one on the right is N (we think.) The one on the left (aka "the one who didn't make it") could be Oklahoma's new poster child.

 

birthing babies · the Breastaurant

How I lost 9 lbs, 4 oz in 2 and a half hours

I woke up at 5:30 on a Wednesday morning. This was nothing particularly new, and I figured I’d go pee (for the fifth time that night) and then have a snack before going back to bed. I was having mild contractions, but this too was old hat and I refused to get my hopes up that this might be the real thing. I used the bathroom, had a glass of milk and went back to bed.

I couldn’t sleep – the contractions were intensifying and it was impossible to sleep through them. I decided I really needed a cup of tea, so I made one while the bathtub was filling. I nudged Mr. December awake and told him I had paged the midwife. “Are you sure this is it?” he mumbled, opening one eye just a crack. “Yes, I’m sure.” I snapped back, “And she’s on her way right now, so for God’s sake, get up and PUT SOME PANTS ON!” I’m pretty sure it was my tone of voice that convinced him.

I got into the tub with my iPod (cleverly sheathed in two ziploc bags) playing some solo piano music and breathed through some contractions. I sipped my tea. Mr. December appeared at my elbow with deviled eggs and I ate half of one before the next contraction demanded my attention. The midwives arrived and checked me – I was somewhere around 7 centimetres and fully effaced. The baby’s heartbeat was good. I breathed through some more harsh contractions.

I remember from N’s birth, feeling out of control with each contraction and feeling physically wrung out in between. “It’s not actually about the pain,” I blithely told people later, “you just have to manage the intensity!” It may have been true at the time, but this time I raised my head from its resting spot on the edge of the tub and announced to the midwives, “This time it’s about the pain. This f***ing hurts!”

That being said, I was completely silent during contractions. Mr. December got the birth on video, and it looks like I’ve just decided to rest on the edge of the tub for a minute or two. It looks peaceful and serene. I can assure you I didn’t feel that way. But it didn’t feel scream-worthy, and besides, my two kids were asleep in their bedroom a mere fifteen feet away from where I laboured.

Right, the kids. We tried to give them (and my parents) some extra time to sleep, so we didn’t call the parents until about 7:00 a.m. They arrived eventually (later I learned that my mom had almost fainted at the thought of me in labour) and began ushering the kids out of the house. N was too sleepy and snuggled against my dad to notice me as he passed the bathroom, but K saw me and doubled back. I asked her for a good-luck kiss; she sneezed on me instead. And then the kids were gone, and suddenly I needed to roar. It was around 7:45 a.m.

The student midwife asked me to shift position so that she could hear the baby’s heart. I did, but as she was maneuvering the Doppler scanner, I pushed her hand away and got back into my position over the side of the tub just in time to roar through yet another contraction. When it was over, she asked me to try again. This time I managed to lie there through a contraction, but it was more painful than if I had been on all fours. I wondered whether it would feel better to do some mini-pushes through the contractions. I tried, but it just wasn’t going anywhere. I was roaring through contractions by this point, and the midwives gently asked me to turn around so that they could have access to the baby.

Suddenly I got the unmistakable urge to push, and I did. My water broke but nothing else happened, or so it seemed. I pushed again and got that “pooping out a bowling ball” feeling, but instead of relief as the whole head slid out (as it did with N), I felt it stop halfway when that contraction ended. Seriously, there’s nothing worse than that head-half-in-half-out feeling.

One push later the head was out – what a relief! – and I knew what would come next: a single push and the feeling of little arms and legs as the body slid out of me. That didn’t happen. The body felt stuck. As the next contraction hit me, I yelled, “Jeez, will you guys just PULL!?!?” The midwife did some maneuvering with the shoulders, and our baby was born. It had only taken a minute, tops, from the birth of the head to the birth of the rest of the body, but it felt a lot longer than that. It was 8:13 a.m.

I turned around and sat while they put the baby on my chest. It hadn’t cried yet – had it breathed? – and the midwife rubbed the baby vigorously until it did. At this point I looked at Mr. December (still manning the camera) and held the baby up, butt-first. “Call it, honey,” I instructed. “Is it a boy or a girl?” “A girl.” came the reply.

Our girl was quite cold and wasn’t breathing the way she should be, so the midwives took her to the “warming station” they had devised and gave her some oxygen and wrapped her up next to a hot water bottle. They had asked if I wanted to get out of the tub and go with her, but I decided I’d prefer to deliver the placenta in the tub and then take a shower. See where my priorities were? I was stinky and couldn’t wait to get clean. Mr. December was with the baby anyhow, and our midwives are lovely, and I figured they could do without me for five minutes while I worked on feeling a bit human again.

By the time I got back to the bed the baby was warm and pink and ready to try nursing. She latched beautifully, after I was reminded that newborns need a lot more support and guidance than older nurslings. How quickly I’d forgotten!

The midwives checked me for tearing and found only a very small one that required no stitches. Someone brought me breakfast, and the midwives left Mr. December and me to snuggle with our daughter as they gathered in the dining room to eat and debrief. A while later they returned and completed the newborn assessment (she was 22 inches long and weighed 9 pounds and 4 ounces – a pound and a half bigger than N, and two and a half pounds more than K!). Around 11:40 that morning, the midwives were on their way to the clinic to get on with their day.

This birth didn’t quite have the magical feeling of N’s. Because the baby’s shoulders were getting stuck, or maybe because she was so big, pushing wasn’t quite the relief I remembered it being. Also, there are a few pretty unsavory details I’ve left out (suffice it to say that your body deciding to empty your intestines before labour is good; your body making the same attempt during labour is really, really gross). That being said, I’m still glad we decided on a homebirth again. The atmosphere was so peaceful – there were no interruptions to break my focus – and having the midwives to support me throughout was absolutely priceless. They handled what could have been a very bad situation (shoulder dystocia) so calmly and efficiently that Mr. December hardly noticed that anything was amiss, and even when they had to take the baby from me to get her breathing, they asked my permission to take her and offered me options. They even cleaned up and left us with only a bag of laundry, a sealed bag of garbage, and a placenta in my freezer (we need to plant another tree).

And now our baby girl is here, and our life is forever changed. Oh, and I feel positively svelte.

birthing babies · Kids · well *I* think it's funny...

… and baby makes three

She had her first bath in a soup pot. Mr. December wanted to move this photo shoot to the kitchen and throw in some onions, but I nixed that. Notice that baby girl is sleeping? She slept through the entire bath. I think I might buy her one of those upright european baby tubs.

 

Notice the dark circles under Mr. December's eyes? He always looks worse after childbirth than I do. Must be the endorphin rush that he's missing.

 

Our whole crew. Baby is about eight hours old and has now survived being held by her big sister and closely inspected by her big brother.

birthing babies · Kids

Oh, baby.

It’s a girl!

She’s 9 lbs 4 oz – a pound and a half bigger than N was, and 2 1/2 pounds more than K. She’s beautiful and amazing and has a ton of dark hair.

Labour was pretty quick – I woke up with some mild-ish contractions at 5:30, and baby was born just after 8:00. Stay tuned for a birth story sometime next week.

Going to nap now.