My son is a wonderment. I see so much graciousness in him, more so than what Garrett and I have. When I see things that I know I couldn’t have possibly done, but they are so good and wonderful that someone has to take credit, I usually just blame it on God. I think Isaiah is who he is because of God. I haven’t completely worked out that line of reasoning, but I know he is so pure and good that I couldn’t take credit for that.

Yesterday Isaiah was baptized. It took less than five minuets but, I am certain, changed my life forever. For our family, Isaiah’s baptism was a recognition of his membership into the church and the acknowledgement that God redeems us to Himself even before we can acknowledge it through faith. Something about that baptism flipped a switch and reminded me that, “WHOA! This is a human life!” His soul has assigned value in Creation, he is a member in the Kingdom of God, he matters, and I am in charge of his care. THAT was a bit overwhelming. I can say, though, I am thankful that I was given this child, and this assignment, but it isn’t to be completed alone. I have Garrett. Garrett is BEYOND awesome as a father and friend. We also have our community. Our church. Our friends. All these people who are willing to link arms with us and help guide Isaiah, in love, toward a life that is his to live…

Stupid tears

This weekend reminded me, in SO many ways, to hold fast to those who are willing to not take the easy way out. Hold fast to those who will confront the hard stuff with you. Hold fast to those who will affirm that there is good in your despite your shortcomings. Hold fast to the piece of innocence in all of us….

It is that mix of dirt and deity. That innocence and love that shows on my son’s face (even when he half naked annihilating flies).

Happy Monday Y’all.

So when it came time to figure out this whole home birth system I had to come to a rock and a hard place. With the medical model of birth you just do what hospital protocol is or what the doctor wants. Although you can make choices on if you receive drugs or not and things like that, you are still put through a system… when I signed up for home birth I found that  my midwife and her apprentice started asking me nonsense: “Jasmine- what do you want to make you comfortable…” I swear I answered, “whatever is easiest for you.” She chuffed at me and calmly patted my hand. She explained, “Jasmine. This is ALL about you. Every moment is about what is happening to your body and what you need to facilitate that.” Can I admit that it freaks me the hell out that something is ALL about me? I am not OK with that. Lets talk about YOUR problems, what YOU need, how YOU are doing. My best friends have annoying habits of asking me what I need from them and I rarely have answers. “Uhhhh? Friendship? Make me goulash? I dunno!” Like my grandma, IF I answer their questions I have to admit that I NEED something. This translates into I need other people and can’t do it all by myself! But who has time to admit that! Certainly not ME!

Garrett and I sat down and thought about what we wanted (with the most weight going to what I wanted) and made a game plan. During this time of planning I’ve had to chant to myself, “I will not feel bad about wanting things my way, I will not feel bad about wanting things my way, it is okay that this is about me, it is ok that this is about me.” I don’t know if I will get used to this fact. I don’t know if I will ever get to the point where I can unabashedly proclaim, “Stick sucka! I am doing things how IIIIIIII want them, forget how you feel…” Because the truth is, I care about how people feel (a little too much sometimes), and frequently when I do what I want I second guess myself for weeks afterward. I do the whole, “geez Jasmine, you are selfish and bratty” lecture in my head. But  this home birth experience is teaching me how to take care of my personal needs, how to fill myself emotionally so I can better give to others (like Isaiah and Garrett) without being totally drained, and how to receive love and care without feeling guilt.

Pssh! And I thought I was  JUST signing up to have my baby at home *guffaw* things are NEVER that simple in my world!

Jasmine does not make this any easier on me, as she has the ability to make amazingly good coffee with cinnamon and just the right composition of coffee, milk, and sugar. Sure sure, I could ask her to bring me a cup every morning, and she would maybe do it. But something in me feels bad about saying “Hey. I know you are all 9 months pregnant and about to have a human come crashing out between your legs, but would you mind driving over to my house with a steaming cup of joe? Mm’Kay thanks.”

Through my pregnancy I have had some relief from the cruel juxtaposition of my dreams about coffee and what I actually make at home. In the beginning I was all “Blahhhajchuir! Death liquid! The urine of Satan!” and then in the middle I was all “Mmmm…I just really love some tea. I am not a frail enough human to need coffee” but now I am 31 weeks along and find myself indeed a frail human who has an incredibly vicious want of the drink. The want is bad enough that I have been willing to drink the coffee I make and just pretend it is as good as I have dreamed.

This was all good and fine except that something like 20 minutes after the desire for coffee kicked in, Norah broke my coffee pot. Its my own fault really, because I am the dummy that lets her play inside the cabinet where my coffee pot lives. That was a little over a week ago, and I have been surviving on coffee from the cafe downtown, Jasmine’s house, an amazing cup of vanilla nut coffee from Atlanta Bread Company, and yesterday, some wretched tar from Sonic.

This morning Norah and I woke at a leisurely 9:30am, and after taking a shower, the coffee craving hit me. But I really didn’t want to drive to the cafe, nor did I want to pester Jasmine. So in a moment of desperation, I rigged my coffee pot to work again. I measured out some haphazard amount of grounds and used my Pyrex measuring cup to measure out some haphazard amount of water. Then I put the Pyrex where the pot should go and used a spoon to depress the thingy at the spout where the coffee comes out. I was rewarded with a half-decent cup of coffee.

There was much rejoicing in the land of Sadie. And I don’t really know why I felt compelled to tell this story, except to point out the fact that in the face of adversity I don’t just roll over and give up. No no! I am industrious and unconventional! I also have an unhealthy love of coffee.

Have a good day, friends.

The other day I was nesting like a psycho womancleaning out a couple of drawers and I found our old calendar. Turns out that I wrote down that Garrett and I had sex (I wrote it down because I had previously been taking fertility meds) on June 30th. For all you conception gurus out there, it means that IF I conceived on or around that date, then Addison should be born on or around the 23rd of March! Hooray! At least some kind of direction and clarity, right?!

In the mean time, my body is telling me it is full term and I am getting anxious. In a week in a half Addison will be considered medically viable (no complications if she was born)… which is a really bad thing. It is a bad thing because I am notoriously BAD about delaying gratification, especially when I have planned and scheduled and worked so hard for it. Last year I picked tomatoes too early (knowingly) because I decided that I waited long enough for them to do their damn job! Silly aren’t I! I am very patient with children (unless they live inside me) and family and friends (for the most part)… but any projects I have initiated better get themselves DONE by golly or there will be some issues.

So my little in-utero project, Addison, is quickly wearing out her welcome. Janessa, my midwife, is doing the smart thing, reminding me: “Jasmine… all things come in season- she won’t stay in their forever, but let her grow as long as she needs to.” Excuse me Janessa! Do you KNOW who you are talking to…. I want her! I want her NOW!  My OB knows this about me. He told me I could be induced when I wanted. I think this is a dangerous idea and I turned it down, but its appeal grows everyday that my hip pops out of place and I almost pee on myself when I sneeze.

Help me friends. Remind me it is okay to wait, that I will make it, and that all things come in season (even though I will most likely ignore you and drink and ungodly amount of Castor oil).

So the decision in question has been about how Addison should arrive into this world. What, you ask, are you saying, “Jasmine! There is one way to have babies… drugged up and in the hospital so you don’t feel pain and if anything goes wrong you have medical professionals around you.” Readers, truly, I thought so too.  IN FACT my refrain used to be, “why in the HELL would someone NOT want drugs… that HURT!!!” However, after my birth experience with Isaiah there was a sneaking suspicion in me that what happened to me at that hospital was NOT how it was supposed to be. I had always been taught, by my beautiful and wise Momma, that birth was something women could do… because we were made that way. She had no strong opinions about meds or no med or where you have the baby, but she always reminded me that women were created capable.  My hospital experience left me feeling like I was broken; pregnancy was to be treated, and that I couldn’t give birth, and my baby had to be delivered. The suspicion that maybe a women’s labor shouldn’t be stopped when it wants to starts urged some seriously uneasy choices in front of me. Here is the quick and dirty birth tale so you can understand (enjoy the run on sentences):

I went into the OB unit after a whole day of back labor. My contractions were 1 min. a part. When I arrived they checked me and saw I was dilated to 4 cms. My doc was out of town and I was only 37.5 weeks and so the attending was not happy about delivering a “premature” baby. So they gave me shots in my belly every four hours to stop the labor until Friday night when my doc arrived. My OB arrived and my labor had stopped and Isaiah’s heart readings were in distress so they decided to induce. I was given pain meds, Pitocin, epidural, Cervidil, and told to hold on tight this baby would be here. I finally was able to push on Saturday. Isaiah was born blue and unresponsive (because of the drugs he had absorbed) until they pinched him really hard. Isaiah was 6 lbs 5oz and CLEARLY not premature. I was hallucinating (from the drugs) and semi-unconscious most of the experience. That delivery followed a long stint with Postpartum Depression and Psychosis. This followed a year of attempted bonding with my son.

*Inhale*

That is the skinny. I don’t want to repeat that experience as anyone, who has given birth under extremely stressful circumstances, could understand why.  I am an emotional introvert and even before the birth of my son the idea of so many people fussing over me or not being in a comfortable environment made me feel all panic stricken and nervous. So I began researching what options I had. This was really difficult because I am a big fan of the medical field (since I will be working in it) and modern technology. Most of the birthing stories I heard where from my crazy Hippy friends, who I was convinced had some sort of Patchouli induced power to withstand pain and stuffing. I was very uneasy about all of it. What I found most interesting during my period of research (6 whole months of it) was that IF you are educated about what ACTUALLY happens during birth and what is SUPPOSED to happen via natural processes, the story changes significantly. I didn’t just watch hyped up pro home/un-medicated birth documentaries and read biased books. I logged on to EBSCO search elite and whipped out my ole researcher hat (hope I make you proud Dr. Froman) and even ran Pearson correlations on medical findings. See… ya’ll think I was joking! Just wait till I have to help my son make a decision. I am going to make the process so damned difficult, I am sure, that I render him emotionally incapable of making a decision.

What yielded after my research and conferring with my OB and my primary care physician was that a home birth (for me: an experienced low risk mom) was extremely safe and favorable. My OB is very close to me and was very sad to see me go, but soon admitted he was excited for me and knew all would be well. My primary care physician joked that his wife would hate having the mess and bustle in her home, but that he felt I was a great candidate and medically, barring freakish emergencies (which I will discuss later), it was a safe choice. So Garrett and I joined hands and made a big decision to have Addison at home, with a midwife, doula, select friends and family, and no meds or interventions. We have chosen our midwife (she has been caring for me for some time now) and we are preparing to meet Addison soon.

Damn those Hippy weirdos! They DO know something about something after all!

Part 2 coming soon……

Yesterday I wanted to share with them the peril of the pregnant pants. The note went a little something like this.

So I just got back from buying another pair of maternity jeans. Don’t ever get pregnant. I mean seriously. Because if you get pregnant like I do then you will go through three completely different sizes of clothing in just nine months. What fits in the beginning is unbearable by 29 weeks and what fit you at 29 weeks laughable at 40 weeks when it takes all your strength just to roll your self out of bed in the morning. And then you will have another nine months after the baby is born to go through three more sizes before you end up somewhere near where you were before you got pregnant. Except that, you will actually be a totally different shape than when before you were pregnant, with parts of your body that are totally foreign and nothing like what you used to call “your hips”. And then, when you get pregnant again, you will realize that while you thought you had lost all the baby weight from the first baby, you are actually a whopping 15 pounds heavier than you were at this time 2 years ago.

You will just never fit into the clothes you used to wear before the babies came and ruined you (and totally stole your heart away and gave your life a bigger meaning, but whatever, none of that has anything to do with your butt, which you accidentally saw naked in the Old Navy fitting room. You might want to just gouge that memory out with a plastic hanger).

I mean sure, maybe you will be the kind of woman who only gains weight in your belly and the rest of stays all fit and firm and glowy. But not me. I gain weight everywhere and especially like to pack the pounds into my neck and JOWLS!

Anyway, I’ve got to go now. I’m going to eat a bean burrito. I want to make sure that the pants I just bought don’t fit me in three weeks.

Loves you!

HAHA! I am an evil, evil person.

As we’ve begun to prepare for this big change, we’ve attempted to transition Isaiah the best we know how. He is very fond of my belly and loves to say ‘good morning’ to it. He also loves to rub lotion on it and talk with Addison (who he has randomly started calling “Ernie”). We like the nickname Ernie… we are gonna call her that.  I digress. As we’ve attempted to explain that this room is where she will live, these diapers are what she will wear, etc, he has seemed to understand. He knows babies grow in bellies and that they come out one day. I have this underlying fear that although he seems to understand he will completely freak out when she arrives. THEN I will have that mommy guilt moment where I cry and wonder why I chose to destroy my little boy’s life…. weird, I know.

So I am reading and researching and attempting to figure out how to make this the easiest transition possible.

Jasmine: I hope this store doesn’t smell like Patchouli….  Sadie: Yeah! I hate Patchouli!   

 And so began our journey to Terra Tots. We packed the babies up and started the ipod. We decided that throwback high school songs should be the best musical choice. So a bit of Sarah McClachlan and Dashboard Confessional peppered our conversations as we drove to Fayetteville. We entered a beautifully decorated store with a warm greeting from Bernice.   

 Jasmine: “I just need to warn you that ANYTHING you say to me could end up on our blog.”   

 Bernice: *Laughing* “Its okay, I am used to that. We get on a lot of blogs from around here.”   

 I gave Bernice (the lovely owner) the run down:   

 - I care about the environment but I don’t like poop.   

  -I care more about not being poor, cloth diapers save money.      

-I passed on skin allergies to my kids. I think this is a good alternative to the diaper issues we’ve had.    

Armed with that knowledge, Bernice started in on a very long tour of the store. I got my diaper education while Sadie wrangled the babies. Bernice knows her shit (pun intended). She had ALL of the info on what to use, what not to use, and how to use it. I was thankful and surprised to hear her say that she didn’t recommend certain styles. I asked (about a million times), “but the poop…. will it leak out of this!?” Toward the end of our conversation Bernice commented, “You MUST have a strong gag reflex or something.” That was after she tried to feed me this line, “Just think of it as food that was in you that comes out of your baby….it is a natural process.” *Uhhhh! Yeah lady! Spend a day with my poo throwing feral child and then tell me about upchuck reflexes!* I knew I had already decided to take the dive whenever I walked in the store. So I registered (feel free to buy me things…. yes I just said that, even you stranger who reads my blog, you want to buy me diapers?..go for it!) for the essentials and vowed that I would give cloth diapering a shot.    

Prefolds

 

Diaper Cover

The Lavender one is a cover and the pink one is an actual diaper with a Snappy thingy that holds it closed (NO PINS!) 

Cute Diaper Covers

 

 

<—–These are bundles of prefold cloth diapers that you can use with or without a cover   

                                                                                                                               The best part of the whole set up is that there are several different kinds of diapering methods. There are simple cloth prefolds, prefolds with a cover, all in ones, and pocket diapers. You can mix and match to your heart’s desire. All of the covers snap or Velcro. Some ever have adjustable waistbands and leg holes. The picture doesn’t do justice to the amazing inventory this shop had. I am tempted to never let Addison wear pants, so she can show off her snazzy diaper covers all the time!   

 

  

 

   

Da Belly

 

I suppose this has become my staple look: Over sized sweater, saggy pants (because NO maternity pants seem to fit), flats, and a big ole belly!   

 I decided on waterproof diaper covers with traditional cloth diaper prefolds and hemp prefoldsfor at night( I am sure I am calling them the wrong names). I plan to sew some of my own inserts (because I think I am just that hardcore!). I like the method (after hearing about the million other ways) and I think it will work best for us. Bernice was incredibly kind and knowledgeable. I didn’t feel pressured to buy anything or try anything that I didn’t feel comfortable with. It was a big plus that she was enthusiastic about supporting local businesses and cloth diaper makers.   

  Garrett is really excited to go to their cloth diaper workshop on the 23rd of this month.  

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Let me start by pointing out that the cloth diapers? Are really stinking cute. I mean, a few times I was about ready to do cloth diapering just because they are so fancy. Pink! Purple! Aqua! A snazzy retro green with grey! Polka dotssssss! But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, I happened to come into the store carrying a tote bag from another local baby shop that just happened to have the name of the shop emblazoned on the outside. I imagine the two stores are competitors. Oops. Sorry for the fauz pas.  

Second, I was not aware that I was on the adventure in order that I could wrangle the babies. Had I known, I would have swallowed my anxiety pill with a shot of vodka before embarking. I tend to get a little freaked out when the kids are running around all willy-nilly in places where they can stick their hands in stuff. And break stuff. And wipe their noses on expensive blankets. And Norah has a thing for throwing around recently folded clothes, so when we walked in the store and I saw the stacks of cute little organic t-shirts, I honestly thought they would be my undoing. I made it through the past 20 months but those t-shirts are my last straw! Surprisingly, she left the t-shirts alone.  

In fact, for the first 1/2 hour Isaiah and Norah were perfect angels. They went directly to the back of the room where there were toys laid out with the sole purpose of being played with (which, thank you for that Bernice) but eventually they discovered, and wanted to play with, the walking stick toys. Now really, I do not get the purpose of walking stick toys, except to bang them on the floor and make me want to pull out all my hair and use it to plug up my ears. So after 10 minutes all I could hear was “Wheeee!!! Clank clank clank! Crash! Smash!” all under toned by the incessant pinging of the tiny wooden balls inside the wooden death toy.  

Toy O' Death

 

 

I tell you, I was about ready to just leave Jasmine there with the babies and the death toys and the stacks of organic t-shirts and the woolen breast pads and the cute cloth diapers. I was ready make a break for the door and go get myself a chocolate milkshake. Fortunately, just as I was sneaking toward the door, Norah and Isaiah gained a renewed interest in the tiny wooden vegetables and wooden people with their wooden potty. So I walked over to the footstool and slumped down.

  

I was sitting there, innocently looking at my wounded finger when suddenly, the adults in the room (Jasmine and Bernice) shifted their attention to me. “I’m just interested” Bernice began, “Interested in the reasoning behind not wanting to cloth diaper.” I got a little squirmy here, because no, I have nothing against cloth diapering. I will gladly support and encourage Jasmine and Garrett and will even try it out when my creature is born (using Addison’s outgrown diapers) and who knows, maybe it will be something I think I can do. But this humorous post is not the place to really get into my reasons not to take the plunge just yet. Suffice it to say, my history with anxiety and barely managing the basic tasks of household cleanliness after Norah was born were enough of a reason to stick with disposables for now. Ok, so I leave diapers laying around my house. Yes, I know that is gross and sick and lazy, but hey, at least I wrap them up first. And I am willing to bet that I am not the only person in the whole world who does that. But I do it with disposable diapers and I know I would do it with cloth diapers too and people, I draw the line at having rotting poop pads laying around in my living room. I have standards you know! So I explained this to Bernice,and she seemed a little grossed out by my diapers in the living room, but she conveniently had an answer to all my excuses, and to be honest, I began to think about really doing it. But still, I resist.  

At one point I said “So, you have to like, rinse them out when they get pooped in, right?” and Jasmine and Bernice answered in unison, “Well not when you are breastfeeding!” and I was all “Ok, but eventually your kid will eat solid food and then there will be that day when she eats and entire can of olives and you are going to find those partially digested olives in her diaper and then you are going to have to deal with that.” If you had been there, on the olive diaper day, you would get my point.  

 So Jasmine and Bernice, left me, exasperated with me and my plastic diapers and I returned to casually wandering around the store looking nonchalant when I was really planning to burn up those stupid death toys that had, again, made a noisy appearance. I happened to wander by the section of Gently Used Diapers and I picked up a bright green one. I was holding it, considering how cute it would look over Norah’s Luvs when I caught a whif of patchouli. Patchouli! On the green Gently Used Diaper! I threw it back in the bin and hurried away.  

 Eventually the death toys were put in time out, which was a good thing because I just knew that Norah and Isaiah were going to break them and then I would have to buy all 6 of those stupid toys and then they would be in my house FOREVER! And soon after, we left. I fell in love with an octopus t-shirt, some Simple shoes, and Norah banged her head on the concrete floor a few times, just to get a laugh. Other than that, we left unscathed.  

Later that afternoon I was reflecting on my experience and I sent this conclusion to Jasmine via text message: Dear Jasmine,
I love that you are going green but if you start wearing Patchouli deodorant I don’t think I will be able to continue this relationship.  

     

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That is the story of our adventure! Isn’t motherhood amazing! It is like driving to a destination. You can take lots of ways, back roads or highs walk or plane or train, to get to where you are going. It really doesn’t matter how you get there, as long as you do so safely. So regardless if you cloth diaper, use conventional, breastfeed or don’t, spank or redirect… all that REALLY matters is that each Momma has made a decision that best fits her family and helps her be the mom she wants to be, while keeping her sanity!  

Cheers!  

♥ Jasmine and Sadie  

 

I have never made French Onion soup and maybe had never even had French Onion soup, but I saw the recipe in Real Simple and it sounded delicious so I thought we’d try it. Plus, as you probably know, a major component of French Onion soup is a toasted hunk of bread with melty cheese on it and I am a sucker for toasted bread and melty cheese.

So Rusty and I set out to make this soup, and let me preface this next section by letting you know that I have terrible knives. Terrible, awful knives that require a sawing action to cut through tomatoes. Tomatoes! I am perfectly aware that my knives are crap so I knew that thinly slicing three large onions would take me about 8 years, not to mention the arm exertion and smelly hands I would have for three solid days. For some reason I happen to have a mandoline in my kitchen drawer. I have no idea where this scary kitchen tool came from, I certainly didn’t buy it, but I imagine Rusty’s mom had something to do with it’s existence in my drawer. I have acquired a corkscrew, a pie pan, and several cups via Carol’s Kitchen so it wouldn’t surprise me if the mandoline was another stolen utensil. Anyway, given the three large onions I had to thinly slice, and the prospect of smelly hands, and the crap knives, I decided the mandoline was the way to go, never mind the fact that I am a real dunce when it comes to sharp things and once tried to use a cheese knife to cut some lemons.

Basically I was planning to use scary kitchen utensil that I had never used before to make a soup I had never even tasted before. Maybe you can see where this is headed.

I got through the first 1/2 onion with no problem, but then one of the prongs broke out of the safety cover and since one was already broken out I was left with only one prong. I was ready to admit defeat and finish up with my crap knives but the onion smelling hands were just too much for me to handle so I thought I’d just wildly over-estimate my cutting skills and finish the onion slicing on the mandoline…without the safety cover.

Again, maybe you can see where this is headed.

There we are, Rusty and me in the kitchen with an ever growing pile of thinly sliced onions. My hand is precariously close to the sharp edge, sans safety cover, and Rusty has a look of dread on his face. “Don’t worry!” I say, mentally scoffing him for his lack of faith, “I’ll be careful!” Ahhh…those pompous words. They weren’t even out of my mouth before the outside of my right thumb went sliding through the slicer, just behind a hunk of onion.

We both gasped and then Rusty goes “Ack! Do you need stitches!?” And then I’m standing there in the kitchen holding my bloody thumb, looking around for something to put on it. What I really needed was a werewolf, ready to tear off his shirt and sop up my blood (New Moon, anyone?). So I’m just standing there, looking around, with blooding pouring off my finger,  and Rusty starts to back away from me going “Umm. I don’t do well with blood..” He was obviously looking for a place to pass out so I said “Well get away from me!” and then ran to the bathroom to finish trying to figure out what to do. And I’m still just standing there when Rusty comes in with the first aid kit and hands me some gauze.

We do all the appropriate things, like staring at the blood as it drips in the sink, putting pressure on the wound and wondering at my amazing amount of stupidity and then I decide that I should maybe wash it. There was onion juice in the wound, you know. So I tell Rusty to get the alcohol (rubbing alcohol, though tequila would have been alot funnier) and help me pour it on my finger. He reluctantly agrees and we go back into the bathroom. He carefully pours some alcohol into the cap and holds it over my hand, gritting his teeth and grimacing. He looks at me for permission because he knows its going to sting like the dickens.

And then he pours. And he’s bouncing up and down on the balls of hit feet yelling “Ow! Ow! Ow! Oh my gosh! It’s ok, you can yell if you want to!” and I’m just standing there looking at him because seriously? I don’t feel anything at all. And then Rusty, in true Rusty fashion says, “No really. It’s ok if you yell and cuss. I won’t get mad at you. They’ve scientifically proven that cussing helps deal with pain” and I’m like, “No really, Rusty. I don’t feel anything at all.” And then he walks away, amazed at my pain threshold.

Two onion scented hours later the soup was done, and wouldn’t you know it, it was gross.

So my finger is disabled and I had no idea how much I used my right thumb until today when I popped the cut open a good three or four times. The soup was a failure and I’ve been through more than my share of jumbo sized Band-Aids. But at least my hands don’t stink like onion.