Friday, June 24, 2011


I've deliberated over what to write here, knowing that some people are annoyed by this type of self-indulgent drivel.  (If you are one of them, please don't read this.  I hate being annoying.)  But I have persisted for three reasons:
1. I am a writer (or, we should say I like to write) and I get unsettled about things if I leave them unwritten.  Telling people, aloud, can sometimes fill the need, but I often forget things or say them poorly.  Writing in a journal for myself alone doesn't work either (anyway I've sworn off journals); it doesn't seem REAL.  Writing it here, and having to edit myself and consider whether I'm being excessively dramatic, etc., produces results I'm less likely to hate in ten years.
2. I love reading about births, myself.  I don't usually feel like I have to get defensive about it.  We're all different, etc. etc.  I just find childbirth and motherhood fascinating subjects and part of our heritage as women. (Slightly related: for an exellent article on birth and its symbolism, see here.  The author brings up fascinating insights; subjects for a future post, perhaps.)
3. One particular detail in this story seems too good to keep to myself.  
Intrigued?  Then pray, continue.
It was a dark and stormy night.  Not really, but weren't the "Spring" months in Utah disappointingly rainy?  It was actually a beautiful sunny Saturday morning, the first for some time.  I thought to myself as I woke up, "The baby was waiting for nice weather and it will come today."  It wasn't my intuition telling me so, but the contractions I'd felt through the night.  They'd been going on long enough that I was pretty sure.  I wasn't necessarily expecting immediate results (cf. Malachi's arrival six minutes after arriving at the hospital) because of my previous labor with Daisy, which was long and leisurely, but I felt it was time to get ready.  We showered, packed kids' suitcases, stopped at the neighborhood bakery for breakfast, and drove the kids down to stay with my mom in Provo.  It passed the time.

Driving home, my contractions slowed, but didn't stop.  Sam and I spent dreamlike, child-free hours walking the neighborhood, going to a movie, going out to eat, all while the contractions came and went.  It is the most delightfully secretive feeling, to be around crowds while in labor, and no one knows but you.  I wasn't worried because my body seems to prefer laboring at night, and sure enough, as it got dark, the contractions increased in intensity and duration.  I was supposed to host a breakfast for the Young Women leaders in my ward the next morning, so I called my counselors to let them know I was (conveeeniently, I'm sure they thought) in labor, and figure out a change of venue.  Then Sam and I filled up the birthing pool in our room and went on a walk.  It was such a beautiful night, with sprinkles of rain in the air and the moon nearly full, and walking was difficult but the air felt wonderful.  We walked by the temple, resting on benches when the contractions got strong, and enjoyed the quiet darkness.

Back at home, I slept somewhat restlessly, and around 2 a.m. woke up feeling much stronger surges.  I texted my midwife, Cathy, and she drove over in her tiny red car.  So far, everything was feeling just like with Daisy, so I was pretty sure I knew what was next:  labor that progressed quickly and ended with a sweet baby at dawn.

All morning I waited for the familiar upsurge in intensity, the mixture of certainty and fear that always comes when the birth is imminent.  But after several hours I started feeling fearful because nothing was changing.  The sun rose.  Cathy and her assistants assured me that all was well with baby, and went to get themselves some breakfast, trailing many cheerful encouragances behind them.

It seems excessive to give a play-by-play account here, but from that point on, I felt I had entered some sort of other existence, where I was only half living in the real world, and the other half of me wandered through endless empty, shadowed halls somewhere inside myself.  As overdramatic as that image probably sounds (and I hesitate to use it because I don't want to sound like I'm feeling sorry for myself or like I think I had the worst situation in the world or anything---of course I know it could have been MUCH worse, and IS for many people), it describes perfectly how I felt.  I always turn inward during labor, but the length of this labor seemed to increase the effect.  The constancy of the contractions, the uncertainty of what would come next, the lack of sleep, all combined to make me feel otherworldly, like I was alone in a boat drifting farther and farther from reality and closer to some other fog-covered shore.  I started doubting everything, especially myself:  Was I dreaming? Were these contractions psychosomatic? Was I even really pregnant?

My midwife monitored me throughout the days, making sure baby was still active and undistressed.  So many days, so many nights: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.  I know, and I knew then: it's just four days.  Really nothing, in the general scheme of things.  Still, it felt like weeks, or months.  Because I was dilated to between a 5 and a 6, had this been a hospital birth, I would no doubt have been induced within 24 hours.  My midwife gave me various herbs and tinctures to help urge progression, and my chiropractor did a gentle adjustment to make sure the pathway out was clear and straight for baby, but it didn't feel right to do anything further yet.  Or at least I didn't think it did, but as I was uncertain about everything, this decision worried me along with everything else.  Many people knew I was in labor and all of them were wondering about me, and I knew this, but I literally could not deal with it, so I drew further inward.  Turned off the phone.  Turned off the lights.  Went on long drives with Sam, and emerged for long walks when it got dark and the contractions increased.  I listened to all the echoes of my fears in those dark, inward caverns I couldn't seem to escape, and couldn't hear which ones were real and which were products of hormones---sleeplessness---irrationality.  I reached points of absolute desperation, cried, and prayed "I absolutely cannot endure this for one more minute"---and then (somewhat sheepishly) did.  (Isn't that always the way?  I don't know why I bother to keep giving up when I have no control over when I actually can give up.)  Sam and I read poetry to each other, hiked in empty canyons, let the rain fall on our heads.  I felt like we were different people who had somehow sprung into existence from nowhere.  I anchored myself to him and let him hold all the weight.  Hauled myself back to reality when I had to talk to someone other than Sam, and then let myself drift away again like mist.

As I think back, my memories have that odd, shifting quality too, like light and shadow underneath fast-moving clouds.  Sometimes I thought the fear and the uncertainty and, more prosaically, the embarrassment and the impatience, would swallow me up and I would get lost in the dark halls.  I felt so sorry for myself, and then ashamed of feeling sorry for myself.  I felt exhausted and fragile and like my whole body was contracting at once: waves of tension, regular and deliberate, washing over me every so often despite my desperate attempts to let them drift downward, to float on top of them.  But then, my head was full of voices, and some surfaced to reassure me: "In a dark time, the eye begins to see."  Yes, and I did, and there are flashes of brightness: yellow-headed blackbirds by the salt marshes; rain sifting down over daffodils; fresh avocados and yellow eggs on a plate; the moon's reflection staring out crisply from the middle of a dark lake; the first mountain flowers, yellow dogtooth violets, emerging between patches of melting snow.  And I think: it can't have been that bad.  And it wasn't.  I survived it from one of those flashes to the next, clinging to each as I got there, holding the memories to me even as they were forming and thinking: This.  Remember this when it's all over.

And eventually it was.  Wednesday night began like the others: a gradual increase in contractions, a surge of hope and fear, quickly pushed down.  I slept and woke in waves, finally getting up to wash dishes (I clean while in labor---it's because I want the house to feel like a nice hotel) in the dark.  I didn't wake Sam until I was pretty sure something was different this time.  But I wasn't really sure, of course.  I didn't know how to trust myself anymore.  I wanted to be in the water, warm and cocooned like the baby inside.  The full birthing pool had sat there expectantly all those days, getting cold and adding the spice of danger to every midnight bathroom visit (would I fall in?).  I didn't know how to drain it quickly (naturally it didn't occur to me to ask Cathy for her pump) so I turned it over to Sam: I need this warm.  Make it happen.

And now, finally, here is the detail too good not to share: he sprang into action, following that most basic of all male urges: to BOIL WATER.  He bailed water out into the bathtub, filled pots and pots for the stove, and ran up and down stairs with them.  I was sufficiently myself to feel bad for him, but when I told him he could stop, he laughed triumphantly.  "It feels like exactly what I should be doing!  It satisfies some deep need inside!  I only wish I'd been able to do it during your other labors!"  So, up and down he went, while I rolled around on my big blue birthing ball, and started out my window at Moroni, and breathed.  When the water was warm I got in, and this is the beauty of a waterbirth: you can MOVE.  I was perhaps not as graceful as a dolphin or a porpoise, but compared to elephants and houses I might as well have been.

You remember, of course, the story of Elijah---how "the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake:  And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice."  But do you remember how Elijah reached that mountain?  How he found the strength to scale it?  I'll remind you:

He "went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down under a juniper tree: and he requested for himself that he might die; and said, It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life; for I am not better than my fathers.  And as he lay and slept under a juniper tree, behold, then an angel touched him, and said unto him, Arise and eat . . . because the journey is too great for thee.  And he looked, and, behold, there was a cake baken on the coals, and a cruse of water at his head. And he  . . . arose, and did eat and drink, and went in the strength of that meat forty days and forty nights unto Horeb the mount of God."

As I said earlier, before I give birth, there is always a point where I hover in darkness between certainty and fear, between peace and doubt.  This time that moment extended for four days.  But sometime that Thursday morning, the scale tipped, as it always does, to peace, to light.  To confidence.  To gratitude.  And with that dawn, Baby slipped out like a little blue eel, and Sam fished it out of the water and put it in my arms.  A baby girl.  "Sweet baby, I was waiting and waiting.  I wanted so much to meet you," I whispered in her ear.  And we finally had her: our sweet Juniper Lark.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Sky lava

Last night was lovely.  We saw baby (teenage?) ducks, and then the sunset was such a bright orange-red.  The sky looked like one of those slow Hawaiian lava flows, sweeps of blue-grey edged by fire.

Friday, June 17, 2011


Everyone has been asking me, "How is it with five kids?"  The answer I usually give is, "We're finding a new normal." Because in spite of the fact that we're happy and Juniper is amazingly good and the boys are frequently the helpers every mother dreams of, there's just . . . I don't know, more chaos, more uncertainty, less time.  I've adjusted to it in the past and I will again, and the untidiness of it all is balanced out by the sweet, sweet baby smiles and those tiny, clutching hands---but there is definitely a learning curve with each new addition.  Let me illustrate:  

The other day in an ill-advised fit of productivity, I set out with the children to Costco.  Abe and Seb are out of school for the summer, so I thought they could help me and it would be better than going with just the little ones.

I think I forgot about how you can't see over the cart with a baby seat in it, so it's not a question of whether you're going to crash into someone but how often, and how annoyed of a look they'll give you (and how sure you are that they have sized you up and decided you are one of those poor polygamous wives stocking up for the compound).  And maybe I forgot about how everyone in the family wants the samples yet none are actually capable of independently eating the samples (walking while simultaneously holding a food item and a spork is among the highest-level motor skills, apparently).  And about how large bags of flour don't fit in carts already holding flats of marigolds.  And so forth.

I got to the check-out line holding Juniper (screaming, like a baby cat) in my arms while her carseat sat in the cart and continued to block my view of everything; Daisy in the other seat with food dribbled all down her dress and saying "Too hot!" accusingly at me as she ate a piece of ravioli; Ky alternating between running into people's legs and saying "Wait mommy!  I need to sit down!"; and Sebby and Abraham fighting over who would push and who would "guide" the cart (answer: neither, instead they would keep crashing into the edges of the aisles as they wrestled it back and forth between them, drawing glares from [no doubt population-conscious] bystanders).  

As I started trying to unload the cart with one hand, a lady came up to me and said, "Here, come over here in this other line; you'll be next and I'll unload your cart."  I thought she was an employee at first (probably there to tell me about some rule my children were violating) so I followed obediently, but then I saw she was just another customer, there with her two darling red-haired teenage daughters.  They put me in front of them in line and unloaded all my groceries onto the conveyor belt while I stood there holding Juniper and blinking back tears (of embarrassment and gratitude).  And then after I paid, the mom said, "I'm sending my daughter out with you to unload and help you with your cart!"  So one of the girls shyly pushed my cart out and filled my trunk up with crates and boxes while I buckled in children.  I couldn't believe it; I was SO grateful.  I kept  saying Thank You and the girl kept smiling and unloading and then finally running back inside the store with a little wave.  All the way home I kept thinking how nice they had been, how I KNOW when you have a bunch of kids that some people will think you're an idiot or irresponsible or whatever and I was prepared for that but it makes me self-conscious anyway, and to have someone smile and help instead of glaring at me was just . . . so nice.  And how even though I sort of felt embarrassed that I'd looked so needy and probably desperate, because I thought I was holding it together pretty well actually, and I WAS capable of managing by myself and I would have managed (eventually), it still touched me that someone noticed and CARED, and wanted to make it easier for me.  And it still brings a few tears to my eyes, actually, thinking about it.

And that's how it's going with five.

Monday, June 6, 2011


When I was a little girl one of my favorite things was to go to work with my dad, which meant walking over to the Eyring Science Center at BYU with him, spending an hour or two drawing on the chalkboards in his classroom, maybe having a look at his model of a salt crystal, reading some of the e.e. cummings poems taped to his wall, and then getting him to take me to see all the best parts of the building: the giant ground sloth skeleton, the wave machine, the anechoic chamber, and of course, the top of the Foucoult Pendulum.

Visitors to the building can observe the pendulum as it swings on the ground floor, but if you look up, you can see the long wire going up through all four stories to the top floor.  This is where my dad would take me so I could look down the long, long hole to see the pendulum way below.  It made me nervous to peer down through all that space (unprotected by a railing or anything) but I loved it anyway.  I just tried my very hardest not to think about falling.

Twenty years later, my kids are enjoying the same things in the ESC, thanks to my mom, who takes them on field trips there when they stay with her.  They love all the same things I loved (although the ground sloth skeleton has somehow grown skin since then, and it's much less cool and scary than it used to be).  Sebby, especially, has been fascinated with:
a. the telescope, and its filter to allow you to look at the sun without burning your eyes
b. the "pendulum hole"

I suspect his fascination stems partly from the fact that both those things scare him a little.  But he deals with it so differently than I would.  Instead of trying not to think about it, he builds things like this:

The Eyring Science Center (note empty column where the pendulum hangs)

Top view, looking down into the pendulum pit.  "Do you know what that triangle down there is, Mommy?  A person!  Someone who fell down the hole!"
And, whenever he runs down a hill, he pauses at the top for a moment, rocks forward on his toes, and then:
"Help!  Help!  Oh no, I've fallen down the pendulum hole!  Help!  Fooooooour stoooooooories doooooown!"

It's better than being immobilized by his fear, I guess.  Or being scared of the Pixar Lamp like he used to be.  However it's not much help to me, whose formerly dormant fear of heights has returned on behalf of my children.  It's MUCH worse seeing them teeter atop various perches and craters, and having to act like I'm not terrified they'll fall, than it ever was to teeter atop those things myself!  (I wonder what my Dad, World Champion Worrier, went through every time I peered down that pendulum hole?)

Still, I have to admit it's funny.  "Oh help, foooooooour stoooooooories dooooooown . . . .! "

Saturday, June 4, 2011

An elephant, a ponderous house

Maybe you've read Sylvia Plath's poem "Metaphors"? This is how I felt during most of the month of April.
I'm a riddle in nine syllables.
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.
She may have come to an unhappy end (have I ever mentioned that I used to have a t-shirt that said "Sylvia, get your head out of the oven"?) but she knew pregnancy, by george!