My daughter’s birthday was saturday, the 24th. We went home the following monday afternoon. I felt like I had a fairly good handle on the breastfeeding by then, though my nipples were sore already. 

The nurse at the Public Health Clinic gave me a nipple shield the next day at our appointment, to help latch Eve onto my nipple properly. But my daughter’s voracious appetite had me in tears more than once, toes curling in pain. 

A few days after our original visit to the Clinic, another nurse called us to check up on Eve’s weight. I guess the first nurse we saw had called this one to give her the heads-up on us. Eve was still pooping sticky blackish-green meconium, and wasn’t peeing nearly enough. The nurse made it sound urgent that we needed to come in to get her weighed right away, so off we went. We were there within the hour.

I was freaked out. I was tired and emotional and worried about our daughter. My nipples hurt so much – how could I possibly get enough milk to her without her chewing my nipples right off? 

The nurse told me what I wanted to hear: “Just give her a bit of formula. It will get her weight up and give you a break.” 

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best thing to do. We bought the formula and started giving her a little bit after each feeding. Eventually, however, she started to get lazy. The nipples on the bottles we have are quite a bit easier than my own, and she gives up too quickly. 

I am trying to give her more breast than bottle, but it’s hard. It’s a vicious circle, too. The more she drinks from the bottle, the lazier she gets. The lazier she gets, the quicker she is to scream her head off when I put her to the boob because she’s frustrated. And when she’s screaming and not latching even though there is obviously milk there for her, what am I supposed to do? Starve my kid? Let her scream? I give her a bottle instead. 

I read on a message board when I consulted other October 2009 moms about my dilemma: every ounce of formula I give her is another ounce my body thinks it can quit making. Breastfeeding is all about supply and demand, and if my daughter isn’t telling my body to make milk for her, it won’t.

Feeding little Eve is a huge source of anxiety for me. Alex says I shouldn’t worry about it, but every time I give her a bottle I feel like a lazy mother. I wonder if there isn’t more I can be doing to make sure my breast milk gets in her little belly. It is the best thing for her, after all.

 

My due date was the 20th, officially. At 10:30pm on the 23rd, I started having contractions. Earlier that day, I’d had a little bit of bloody show and a pair of contractions an hour apart at 4pm and 5pm. I knew things were starting to happen, and so when Alex and I finally went to bed at 10ish, I tossed and turned, too excited to sleep until I had to get up to pee.

As I stood up from the toilet, my water broke – not in a huge gush, but an unmistakable trickle. I took a couple deep breaths and ran a shower. I scrubbed myself clean, shaved my legs and washed my hair. I dried off with my massive white towel and got dressed in the comfiest clothes I have. Alex was sleeping. 

I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and put on a little make-up. I crawled into bed and shook my husband awake. 

“It’s time to go to the hospital,” I whispered.

“You’re kidding, right?” He laughed and rubbed his eyes. I reassured him many times that I wasn’t, that it was really time, Baby was coming. I got the bag together while he got dressed. 

On our way out the door, I figured it was probably a good idea to let someone know we were going to the hospital, so we knocked on the door to the big house. Sam let us in; she was in a frenzy. I was surprised the whole household didn’t wake up, with all the commotion. The older kids who were awake all gathered around us as we told Ang where we were going. They were so excited and Ang smirked at them as she told us to call if we needed anything. And off we went.

In the truck, the contractions were five minutes apart and fairly painless. They only lasted 30 seconds or less, and I could talk and laugh through them. I think Alex probably didn’t believe me until the nurse was showing us to our room a few hours later. 

It took them a while to actually determine if my water had broken, once we finally arrived at the hospital. They had to call a doctor in and they looked at the fluid under a microscope. It was the real deal all right, and we got taken into the delivery room. I was surprised by how nice it was. I was mostly impressed by the massive bath-tub, and I knew I would be spending a substantial amount of time in there.

Our first nurse’s name was Kat. I remember her because of her sense of humor and love of Buffy, and she was amazing. She chatted us up and distracted me from the pain until it got too intense, and then she lowered her voice and talked me through each contraction. I was so sad at 7:30 the next morning when her shift was over and the pain was getting really bad. I felt like there was a real connection there, and she wished me luck and turned me over to what would become an endless procession of faceless nurses. None of them were quite as good as Kat. But she told me that a woman in labor usually does get attached to the nurse who checks her in, and I think it’s probably because it’s her job to make us feel safe and taken care of, and we’re still at such a coherent state of labor that we remember her the best. As the pain got worse and worse I remember less faces, even though there must have been 4 or 5 nurses in the room at any given time.

Throughout the course of my labor, the best sources of pain relief were the birthing ball, a hot bath, the laughing gas and finally the epidural. Kat had put me on an IV because I was GBS positive, so I was getting increasing doses of oxytocin to speed things up, and as a result the contractions got really mean around 6am. By 11am I was begging for the epidural. The nurse told me that because I was only 3cm dilated, it was probably the best course of action. I was naked, shivering and shaking with sobs as I sat on the bed, trying to keep still as the needle went in. This was no time to worry about appearances, let me tell you. Labor does wonders for modesty. 

The epidural was such a relief. After 13 hours of labor, the worst pain of my life, I could hardly imagine not being in pain. To finally be blissfully able to sleep was wonderful. When I woke up, Alex was beside me and the doctor was checking my cervix. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “The head is right there. It’s time to push.”

Still groggy from my nap, I looked up at my husband with tears in my eyes. “We’re going to have a baby,” I said. Because I couldn’t feel the contractions anymore, the nurse had to look at the monitor and tell me when to push. It felt like I was pushing for hardly any time at all. 

The moment she came out, was the most amazing feeling of relief and amazement of my life. There she was, our little daughter, slipping easily out of my body and into the world with one last push. Eve was born.

It officially started at about 10:30, saturday night. My water was broken, and the contractions were easy. Alex thought I was kidding when I woke him up, telling him it was time to go to the hospital. “You’re joking, right?” He wiped the sleep out of his eyes, laughed a little and got up to get stuff ready to go. 

When we got to the hospital, they got me into a gown and ran a couple tests to see if my water had indeed broken. I moved up to my room and we chatted with the nurse while the contractions got more intense and we talked about laboring options. She hooked me up to a machine that measured the contractions and her little heartbeat, and ran the tub. 

I labored for 13 hours before they finally gave me an epidural. I had been hoping for a natural childbirth, but after so much pain for so long and I was only 3cm dialated, the nurses strongly recommended it and I was sobbing at that point so I readily accepted. It was the best thing ever. 

I got a nice long nap in, and after a few hours I woke up, still feeling no pain, and the doctor came in to check my cervix. “Oh, the head’s right there,” he said. “It’s time to push.” I looked at Alex with tears in my eyes, grinning. “We’re going to have a baby! Like right now!” He smiled at me reassuringly. I still didn’t feel anything so the nurse had to look at the machine and tell me when to push. 

It was so encouraging knowing her head was so close already, and in about 5 or 6 contractions with 4 or 5 pushes each, my daughter was slipping right out, and there she was on my chest, wiggling and squirming around. WILD. 

We’re home from the hospital now, and Eve is meeting her family and getting tons of love. My mom gets here wednesday and my dad will be here on sunday so they can have their chance to love up their new little granddaughter. 

She’s beautiful, she’s perfect. 

Eve Anita Jantzen 
Born Saturday, October 24, 2009 at 4:10pm. 
Weighed in at 6 lbs, 13 oz and 19 inches long.

40 weeks yesterday. I went to my doctor and she did an internal exam, and stripped my membranes. It’s supposed to facilitate things by releasing hormones. She could feel Baby’s head. It was wild. Weighed in at 86.2 kg (190 lbs) woo! (As excited as I can be for 190 lbs… at least it’s not 200, right?)

My next appointment is Tuesday the 27th. If Baby hasn’t come by then, we’re going to make a plan to induce. But since the Doctor did her thing, I’m horribly crampy. Nothing regular or increasingly intense, so no need to rush off to the hospital yet, but things are starting to happen. 

Alex is so cute. He’s in such great spirits lately, and even suggested that we put the bassinet on his side of the bed for the first little while. I smiled. “Really? You’re going to get up with me every time Baby needs night-time num nums?” He figures he will at first, so we’ll see. 

I’m going to write a letter to my Hannah in a bit, after I clean some floors. I’ll walk to the mailbox and see if I can’t kick-start some contractions. It’s kind of crazy to think that in 2 weeks (probably less), we’ll have a baby. A small, wiggly human being for whom we are completely responsible. Me? A mom?

Okay, so I have plenty of other things to talk about, but I feel like punching something. I’m 39 weeks, Baby is due in 6 days, though I feel like it’s going to be about a week late.

I went to the doctor yesterday (it was my first appointment in 2 weeks) and I’m sitting pretty at 87.5 kg… also known as 193 pounds. I’m sick of this belly, I’m sick of feeling like a manatee, I’m sick of pushing TWO HUNDRED POUNDS… get this baby out of me already!!!

I needed an egg.

My husband and I were up at 9. I sat at the kitchen table reading “The Vegetarian Mother and Baby cookbook” and eating some toast while he set up his hockey pool online. We heard his dad’s truck outside and I began looking in my cookbook for today’s project while my husband brushed his teeth. 

“Oh shit,” I said. “I need an egg.” 

“Why don’t you walk down to the neighbor’s and get some?” he asked. 

“You know,” I said, “that is an excellent idea.”

So as Alex left to go to work on his grandparents’ deck with his dad, I grabbed some change and set out into the sunshine. As I was walking up the  driveway, Tia called to me from the porch, asking if she could come along. As she ran back inside to ask her mom if she could come down the road with me to buy some eggs from the neighbor, I stuck my nose into the big house and invited Sam to come with us.

The three of us set out to the neighbor’s house. He has a bunch of chickens and sells free-range eggs to people in the area. We walked arm-in-arm. 

We started talking about the Feast, and how Amy is talking about bringing her boyfriend. We giggled about that a little bit, and I expressed interest in her being with someone who didn’t grow up in the church, so I could have someone to talk to about what it’s like, coming from outside the church and marrying into this family. I’m excited to meet him.

Sam talked about how lame it is having no one her age to spend time with at the Feast. She’s almost 16, at that awkward in-between age where there are no girls to hang out with and if she so much as looks at a boy her brothers rip on her ferociously. 

“You can hang out with me,” I said. “Chances are I won’t want to be out partying very much.” We won’t have a ton of money anyway. 

“Whatever,” Sam scoffed. “Except everyone is going to want to go out with you ’cause you’re pregnant and awesome.” Aww.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think Alex and I are going to be left out of a lot of the young adult activities.”

“Why?” Sam and Tia both wanted to know.

I told them about the “party” mind-set, about how my husband and I go to bed between 7:30 and 8 every day, and I don’t have the energy to stay up any later because I get up 4-5 times a night to go to the bathroom. Cathy however, is finally out of her parents’ house, she can do whatever she wants, and the Feast is going to be major party time. 

The neighbor didn’t have any eggs.

As we were walking back, Sam clutched my arm tighter and said, “I love you. You’re totally my big sister.”

My chin quivered. 

I made a joke about how it was just because of all the yummy treats I’ve been bringing them – muffins, cookies, apple crumble, oat delights – but then Sam said, “Well yeah, but also because I remember what it was like when you left.” 

Okay, heart-strings. Tia, Sam and I all sniffled a little bit. None of us like to think about the day I packed up and moved back to AB. Are we closer for the space I put between us? 

I had my year of crazy. I had my party time, my time away from my parents. My husband and Curt work hard every day. Because I’m pregnant, we’re happy to go to bed at 8, while Cathy wants to stay up and socialize, take advantage of her newly-acquired freedom. 

My point here is that as you get older, your priorities shift. You realize what’s important and what really isn’t. I know that probably sounds pompous coming from me; my husband and I are still so young. But even though we are only early-twenty-somethings, it’s more important for me to spend time with my husband turning in early and watching an episode or two of Smallville than staying up until all hours of the night drinking and socializing. You know? And I think it’s good for us to be on the same page as newlyweds (are we still newlyweds if it’s been half a year?), for us to both be learning what’s important, and for us to be spending this time together even just watching a stupid TV show. 

I feel closer to him and more in love than ever.

My husband was excited. We were going to have sexy times! Hard and eager, he bent over me, pressing himself against me. My belly was large and ever in the way, but he didn’t seem to mind; he even thought it was sexy while I was feeling like a manatee. I was grateful for his desire.

I looked down as he prepared to enter me, and I saw a small hand reaching out from inside my belly, protruding from somewhere just to the right of my navel. Wrinkled and bloody, it reached upward, and soon there were two little hands and the beginning of a little head. 

“Oh shit,” we both exclaimed, my husband backing off me and staring as I sat up. I pressed my palm against the writhing protrusion of child in an attempt to push it back inside, and it grabbed ahold of my hand.

With its little nails that were surprisingly sharp already, it dug into my flesh, harder and harder until I was gasping with pain. 

The scene changed and my husband and I were sitting at the kitchen table. 

“Look,” I said and I showed him the marks left on my hand. “We need to talk to a doctor. This is no normal child.”

He went to get the phone for me, and I continued to gaze at our son. Though I was still pregnant, there he was, already a toddler’s size at only an hour old, sleeping with pillow and blanket on the floor. 

“It’s because he’s ready to come out,” I said. “He’s had enough in there. He’s ready to be born.”

I suppose we couldn’t get a straight answer from anyone at the hospital, so we decided to fly to Vancouver and visit a hospital there. With our bags packed, we were ready to go.

The scene changed again, and we were back at home. Visited by some neighbors, the drinks and conversation were flowing.

My son and I sat together. He was only a day old, but he was an unattractive, redheaded young adult with deep black eyes.

I asked him, “Do you remember what you did to me? How you hurt me?” I showed him the marks on my hand, still red and angry. I tried to express to him the terror of seeing that little hand reach out of my abdomen.

“Yes,” he replied, “I remember. And I am deeply sorry.” There was no emotion in his voice.

“Have you hurt other people?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes,” he said again. “I have killed.”

I have kept a journal since I was 12. I have always loved the feeling of putting pen to paper and expressing my inner-most thoughts with the confidence that no one would ever read it. Until I met Alex.

We’ve talked about the possibility of our daughter keeping a journal. “Of course I would never read it,” I said, thinking of my own mother and the trust I have that she never read any of my journals. “What if there was reason to?” my husband asked me. Well, I guess we’d have to see what reason there was. If I suspected she was doing something hazardous to her health, I might peek just to make sure her life wasn’t in danger. But unless it was a pretty serious concern, I wouldn’t. I want my kids to trust me to respect their privacy.

As for my journal, I have given my husband reason to read it. There have been times in the course of our relationship when I have given him reason not to trust me, and so now he reads my journal on a regular basis. Normally, I would feel like it was a gross invasion of privacy. I did, at first. But with allowing him to read my journal and both of us having all each others’ passwords to things like Facebook and e-mail, it makes it very difficult for either of us to keep secrets. And isn’t that a good thing? For a girl who gets into trouble very easily, I am kind of thankful for being made to stay honest. He may make an honest woman out of me, yet.

I’ve been thinking about the people we’re living with, here on the Compound, and I’m realizing that I can only ever get so close to them. There is a certain distance between all of them, subjects that are just not mentioned, that I never experienced growing up. Before Amy moved away, she and I spent a lot of time doing crafts together. I had more good talks with her than I have with anyone else so far, but I still had to be careful. I mentioned my blog casually, and she begged me for the address. It was so tempting to completely open up and share this past year with her. Share my secrets with someone. But I thought about all the things here on this blog, (things that I have now disposed of) and I realized that the opinion she would have of me after reading that was not one I wanted to facilitate.

When little Hannah gave me her journal to read, I was touched. She just turned 14, and I’ve known her her whole life. My mom and her dad went to university together. Until our moms fell out relatively recently, we did Thanksgiving and Christmas together every year. Their family was our family.

This little girl is so special to me. And when she gave me her journal, I couldn’t feel more privileged. She let me into her heart, a little bit. In return, I wanted to give her my blog address. Cora (thankfully) talked me out of it. Sometimes, I forget that Hannah is only 14, and while I can usually talk to her as I would any other friend of mine, I still care about her opinion of me, too. That’s why I also gave up the idea of giving her all of my journals, one for each birthday from now until she’s caught up. After going back and reading them, I realized that none of them were appropriate.

And now she’s gone and found my Deviantart page, and favorited a piece that I would probably have been happy if she’d never read. 

My mother-in-law says, “Nothing is ever private.” And it’s true, especially in a house like this, and if you really care what people think. I’m in denial.

Lately, I’ve been feeling anti-social. I don’t especially want to go anywhere or see anyone, and I would much rather hang out at home with my husband watching Smallville than make an effort to go out and do something.

Part of it is that we don’t have as much money as either of us is used to, and with Baby on the way we have to watch our pennies. Nowadays, my husband can’t just go out and buy a case of beer whenever he wants, just as I can’t go to karaoke once a week and have a couple of beers.

I’m getting tired of carrying this belly around. Standing up, sitting down, getting in and out of the car, early bedtimes, and frequent trips to the bathroom are all things that seem to be working against the lifestyle I used to lead. And as much as it is my choice, it’s weird trying to wrap my head around just plain not wanting to be social when staying at home often makes me feel old and boring.

Last weekend, everyone was wrapped up in the wedding hustle and bustle. Except for me. I sat in my room sewing breast pads and watching LOST and I could hear everyone rushing by our window on their way to the church or the rental place or to pick someone up from somewhere. On the one hand, I felt lame for not spending more time with Cathy’s family while they were here. On the other hand, just listening to how busy everyone was exhausted me and I was glad for the safety of my bedroom. 

I also saw the two newlyweds heading down to their place with 3 or 4 kids in tow, all carrying a piece or two of GH3 equipment. It’s nice that theirs is a place where the kids feel comfortable hanging out. It occurred to me that ours really isn’t.

When I lived with my roommates in Nanaimo and Victoria last year, ours was always the place to hang out. We had a large group of friends and they would just walk in and help themselves to a beer and a slice of pizza and join us for a round of Rock Band. It was a delightful change from my mother’s house, which was always beautiful but never the kind of place where my friends felt comfortable coming to just hang out.

Now, here I am, a grown-up with my own home, and my house has become my mother’s. I think I’m totally okay with that.

It’s kind of about the baby, too. If our place was the hangout place for all the kids, when Baby comes they would feel more entitled to come in and see it than they will as it is. And I KNOW I am going to want to drill into their brains right from the get-go: I bring Baby to you. I can see myself losing patience very quickly with people beating down my door trying to see the baby.

Whenever I’m feeling weird about being so anti-social, my husband reminds me, “You’re at a completely different stage in your life than they are.” I guess I am forgiven for wanting to keep to myself. I do have an introverted side, after all. And all this change has been exhausting. Speaking of which, I could use a nap.

I don’t know what it takes to be a mother. I don’t even really know what it takes to be a wife, yet. But here I am, living and breathing one and about to jump into the other. How do I know I can make it in either? How do I know I have what it takes? That I won’t fail?

Today is a rainy, gloomy day. My husband is home again, and it is nice to just hang out with him inside when it is so gross outside. He burps really loud from where he sits browsing TSN.ca, and baby kicks me in the ribs. I smile. My little family.

My mom once shared with me a theory that she has: Super moms = lazy kids, and lazy moms = super kids. There are moms who do everything, so their kids never *really* learn how to take care of themselves. There are also lazy moms who force their kids to grow up a little faster and learn the hard way. 

My grandma was a bit of a drinker, and spent a lot of time doing her nails and drinking rum while my mom taught herself to cook. My mother went to India by herself when she was 18, moved to Calgary and put herself through Art school. My mom was a super mom, and I never learned how to cook. 

The Magpie wonders if I’m sacrificing too much of myself in this new life I’ve chosen. But I have to look carefully at the things I’ve had to change or give up for the sake of my relationship and this new role.

1. I’ve had to learn how to cook. 
Well, I’m still learning, and it’s probably going to be a while before I feel any kind of confident in the kitchen. But it’s a good skill to have, and cooking for someone else is the kind of kick in the pants I needed to get off my ass and learn a new skill. Is it stressful? Absolutely. Frustrating? Frequently. But I’m definitely learning.

2. I’ve had to cut all contact with past lovers.
It wasn’t even especially my husband dictating who I can and cannot speak to, it was more about whether or not it makes sense to keep these people in my life, when they pose a threat to my relationship with my husband (which should be the most important relationship in my life, should it not?), and wouldn’t it make me feel much better about our relationship if he did the same and didn’t talk to any of his past lovers? Let me tell you something, it sure does. Some of my past lovers were my best friends, and that’s been really hard, to let go of that aspect of my relationships with them. But it all comes with the territory of doing what’s best for this new family that I’ve chosen.

3. I’ve had to move away from my family and in with his.
What were we going to do, move into my tiny room in my mother’s house? There was a space for us here, low rent, built-in babysitters, and a hand here and there when we’ve needed it from my in-laws (new bed, anyone?). I wonder sometimes when we’ll leave the Compound, because I know my husband isn’t eager to leave, but if getting off the Compound means higher rent and not always being able to afford diapers or food, I’m okay staying here until our financial situation changes enough for us to buy a little house or something. Not that being away from my family hasn’t been hard, especially being pregnant and being away from my mom. But she’s selling her house, downsizing so that she’ll have some extra money with which to travel. She reckons she can come visit 5-6 times a year. Of course, my first choice would be to have her on the island, but you can’t have everything.

4. I’ve lost some of the best friends I’ve ever had.  
Well, it’s a shame that I no longer have these people in my life, but they obviously weren’t as true blue as I thought since they up and bailed on me at the most important time in my life. Not to mention the things they stand for, that I once stood for, are not the kinds of values that I want to influence my kid. That’s all I’m going to say about that.  

5. I pretty much always have to censor myself.
This is probably the hardest one, and I’m still wrestling with it. I have to accept that I am now surrounded by people who did not grow up in the liberal household I did, and are not used to discussing sex and other scandalous topics as freely as I am. And if nothing else, I do have to respect the way Pops and Angela are raising their kids, and try to refrain from certain topics  of conversation for the sake of their children’s innocence, even if the way they do things isn’t necessarily the way I would.

Things are different, there’s no doubt about that. Since I got pregnant and married my baby’s daddy, my world has pretty much been turned upside down. And yeah, I’ve had to make quite a few changes in order to find my place in this life. But I think, as far as compromise goes, these roles that I am now faced with require compromise and sacrifice from anyone. I don’t know any married person who didn’t have to compromise something, even if it was something as small as whether or not the toilet seat being left up is acceptable.

And about being a mom, even though I’m not one yet, I know enough moms to know that the role of “mom” is the most selfless one out there. If that doesn’t spell sacrifice, I don’t know what does. But I’m also pretty sure that being a mom and raising this kid with my husband is going to be the wildest adventure of my life. And I can’t wait.