Merry Christmas (letter)

Dear friends,

What a year it’s been. Welcome to the first (and possibly only) edition of our annual Christmas letter. It’s been such a big year for us, full of so many changes, we thought it would be prudent to try to sum it up for those of you that haven’t been able to keep track.

As you’re likely aware, we sold our sweet little house in Regina and moved back to Victoria at the end of March. We always knew Saskatchewan was a 3-5 year plan for us, but that didn’t make the transition any less difficult. We left behind incredible friends, a greater community than we could have ever dreamed of, and the best coffee shop. We were back in April to see Jeff and Kim get married, and are hoping to make it back for a visit in 2019.

My mom graciously let us stay with her for 8 long months while we got settled and looked for a place of our own. With three adults and one bathroom, it was hard, but we persevered and are the stronger for it.

When we sold our house in Regina the only thing we knew for certain was that my mom would take us in. We had no jobs or childcare lined up, just the faith that Victoria was our next destination and the hope that God would provide so we could hit the ground running. And that we did. We had childcare and jobs lined up before the UHaul was even loaded.

Karl and I each have good jobs. We’re lucky enough to have dear friends watching our kids during the week.

If you’re a little behind, you might not know that we recently bought a home with my dad. We are now the proud owners of half a pink duplex in beautiful Sidney by the sea. Dad is living in the main level suite, while us Mortons mostly occupy the upper level. The house needed some work done to make it livable and hygienic, but the bulk of it is scheduled for completion right before Christmas. As you read this (likely in the new year, let’s be honest) we will be done all the renovations that I naively thought could be completed in two weeks.

The kids are doing great. Parker never stops talking and is so curious about the world around him. He wants to know everything, and has a great imagination. Molly is incredibly sweet, but also becoming very strong willed. They have both done so well with all the changes of the last year and totally exceeded our expectations of them.

We’ve settled back into life in Victoria and have found a new church, new community, and reconnected with old friends. It’s so good being close to family again, and the kids absolutely adore seeing their grandparents regularly.

We accomplished a lot this year. Moving, starting new jobs, putting the kids in daycare, and doing a renovation are all big things. We’re also currently navigating through some serious health issues in the family. While I’m not sure we’ll be sorry to see the other side of 2018, it was a big year for us. We grew, we stretched, and Karl and I got our first ever night away from our kids.

We did not do a great job at keeping in touch this year. We’re sorry. You’re important to us, we just got overextended.

Please consider this your formal invitation to come over for dinner in 2019. If you’re from out of town, bring your pajamas and spend the night. We don’t have a proper guest room anymore, but our laundry room fits an air mattress quite nicely and we promise to make it cozy for you. You’re also welcome to bunk with Parker, who transitioned into a double bed this year and would love to tell you about dump trucks as you fall asleep next to him.

Merry Christmas, friends. We hope 2019 brings you much joy and happiness. Thank you for all you’ve done for us. We’d be nothing without you.

Anna

If you're still here, as always, thanks for sticking around.

My kids are currently eating popcorn and I'm introducing Parker to The Santa Clause. My tree may be coming down tonight as part of our roaring New Year's party, (I also plan on binge watching Travelers and eating Oreos in my sweat pants) but we'll finish the season strong with Tim Allen in a fat suit, just like Jesus always liked to.

I see you, 2017.

November and December got away from me, as time sometimes tend to do. All of 2017 kind of did. I blogged a grand total of 15 times last year. Compare that to 32 in 2016, 44 in 2015, 43 in 2014, 49 in 2013, 205 in 2012, and three times in 2011. I wasn't going to count back through my entire blogging "career" thus far, but it was kind of addictive so I couldn't help myself. In case you lost track, that makes this my 377th presently available post on this blog. Over the last six years there have been a post or two that have been deleted or archived for the greater good but, like some of my older stuff, they probably aren't worth remembering anyway.

If you're worried that this little retrospective is the prelude to my retirement, don't be. You're still here so you're clearly still invested (bless you). Dear friend, you can take comfort knowing that I have no intention of retiring Make Mine Decaf. I, too, am still here and I'm not going anywhere.

2017 proved to be a year of chaos. I'm not one to decide on a word for the year until after the fact (mostly because I really don't care) but at one point I thought my word of the year might be "sprinkles." I used a lot of sprinkles in the first half of the year and it brought me a lot of joy. Who can't find joy in rainbow sprinkles? Serial killers, that's who.

But, no, sprinkles didn't make the final cut. "Chaos" did, though.

I've never been big on New Year's resolutions. (Except for the one year in high school I didn't eat McDonald's for an entire year and beyond. For the record, it wasn't very hard.) I find January 1st to be an arbitrary date on the calendar that doesn't really mean much. Of course everyone plans on eating better but it's hard not to after the food marathon that is December (more on that later) but, other than that, nothing really changes.

I finished off 2016 with a bold statement: Bring it, 2017. Three days later I kind of started to regret that.

It didn't matter in the end, because Molly was born healthy and screaming but there was no denying that 2017 showed up and made a point that it wasn't just going to be an arbitrary date. (I sometimes think of last year as The Year of Molly, but that's kind of unfair to Parker so we won't pursue it any further.)

Spending an entire calendar year at home with two really little kids proved to be nothing short of chaotic. There's a lot more that can be said about that, but for now just believe me when I tell you that an 18.5 month age gap (I know, I can't let go of the .5. It feels important.) is straight up chaos. Looking back I'm not sure how I did it. At times it felt like an incredibly long year, but now it all seems like a big blur of sleep deprivation and decaffeinated coffee.

I had to let go of a lot of expectations in 2017. Molly, although incredibly sweet, is just not the easy baby that Parker was. We're a week away from her first birthday and I'm still really hoping we get her sleeping through the night by then. Forget next week's cake, that would be the best belated push present ever. I'm not holding my breath.

I've learned a lot about myself as a wife, mother, and person this year. If that sounds cliched it's because it is, but kids wreck you, guys, and I'm one good cry away from pouring my heart out in a deeply sincere Instagram post that ends with a #blessed.

On that note, I feel like I should appologize for treating my IG as a blog. And for just calling it my IG. I've been prioritizing my time lately and, it may not seem like it, but when I blog it takes about an hour to get a post out. This is partially because of the novellas I write, but also because when I'm only posting once a month I feel like my content needs to be a little more thought out than it was in 2012, the year of plenty. On Instagram it's so much faster, easier, and I don't need to consciously neglect my kids while doing it. I Instagram on my phone and blog on my laptop. It's easier to hold a phone over your head and out of your toddler's reach than a computer.

This past year has been hard in a lot of ways. There's been a lot of joy, but also struggles. The year didn't start off as planned and our new baby was more complicated than I'd expected. (Apparently it wasn't my superior parenting skills that made baby Parker so easy.)  There was also tragedy and heartache, parenting woes, and minor health issues.

I made a lot of new friends, found a new rhythm in our day to day lives, and kept two tiny people (never mind Karl and I) alive and well. If survival is how you determine success, then I'd say it was a good year. It wasn't a bad year, but I'm not sorry to see the back of 2017. Onward and upward to the future, where hopefully we all get to sleep through the night and Parker learns how to give foot rubs.

The coming year is likely going to be Chaos 2.0. There are big changes heading our way and with them comes a lot of stress. I anticipate that the next six months will give me a lot of grey hair and bigger eye wrinkles. (Seriously, when did I get old enough to wrinkle?) I'm really looking forward to the last half of 2018, though, because in my mind it involves a lot of sleeping.

So cheers to 2017 for the good and the bad and the babies. Thank you and goodbye. And cheers to 2018 for exciting new things, the terrifying unknown, and the year I blog more than I ever have in Molly's life.

Too hot to handle.

Karl's parents came to visit last week. They were here for five days. Karl's parents and I don't really have a lot in common. That's a lie, actually. We all really enjoy time to ourselves and watching TV.

Their visit actually went better than expected. Karl's mom and I went out together a couple times to run some errands and do a little shopping. We've never done much together, so it was fun to go to Old Navy and contemplate buying matching shirts. (It's cool, we live two provinces away so our paths don't cross very often. We can get away with. Except that once she realized we were looking at the same shirt in the same colour she was no longer interested. I choose to believe it's because she didn't want to be hampered by the comparison of who wore it better. Just roll with me on this.) We went to Chapters, Michael's, Winners, and we sat outside the closed knitting store and wept bitter, fibrous tears that we couldn't go in. We had a really nice time.

My father-in-law got a minor bout of stomach flu that I refuse to call food poisoning and take responsibility for so he missed out on the morning we went to the farmer's market. It was a very authentic experience and culminated in buying deliciously overpriced apple bread and my MIL getting excited about Saskatoon berry jam and hemp hearts. I even bought myself a homemade marshmallow for $1. It was delicious, but I'm thinking the lemonade I washed it down with may have induced Type 1 Diabetes.

The only downside of the visit, aside from the possibility that I unintentionally poisoned Karl's dad, was that, as you may recall, our air conditioner decided to call it a day. Thankfully, it chose the middle of a heat wave to do so and timed it perfectly for their visit. We got it fixed the day after they left.

The thing about extreme heat is that I hate it. I do not do well in anything but moderate temperatures. I was not my best self. We were all melting. My coconut oil was so liquid I thought it might turn into a gas. I was worried about the physical well-being of the chocolate in our house. Did you know that if your chocolate starts to melt you have a solemn duty to eat all of it? That's not actually true, but I decided that I'd pretend it was anyway. Thankfully things never got that dire, but it was touch and go for a while.

I was really looking forward to showing my in-laws how good a house I kept, cleaning the kitchen every night, baking delicious desserts, and meal planning like a boss. Instead my energy level was akin to a sloth and we just barbecued everything. Even using the microwave felt like it warmed the house up and let's not even talk about the necessary evil of using the coffee maker.

Not only did I fail to impress with my domestic abilities, our fridge decided that it, like the air conditioner, had lived a good life and just couldn't handle it any more. It was a hard week for our milk. I'm also glad that Parker doesn't fully understand how horrible the milk I accidentally gave him yesterday was.

Karl's parents left Tuesday, my mom flew in 13 hours later, and we got our new AC unit installed the next day, a week earlier than anticipated. I'm not saying I screamed "God bless you" into the phone when they called to ask if they could come a week early, but I'm not saying I didn't. But I did make them cookies.

We went to a memorial/family picnic yesterday in honour of my great uncle. It was a big day that involved little in the way of naps for either kid, so they were both in bed and asleep an hour earlier. It was magical. Naturally Karl and I celebrated by leaving Mom with the sleeping babies and my Netflix password and went to Lowes, where we bought the cheapest fridge they had. We date night so hard.

The new fridge is currently sitting in its packaging next to our table waiting for its moment to shine. Apparently it needs to sit upright for 24 hours after being on its side or it might spontaneously combust, so it's just taking up space like a fancy new conversation piece that's very big in Europe.

We were lucky enough that our tax returns this year worked out to be almost exactly what we needed to cover the costs of the new AC and fridge. There was just enough left over to include the $100 in steaks we splurged on ordering from my mom's cousin. God provided for our needs before we were even aware of them and He said, "Let them eat steak."

You win some, you lose some.

After a solid month of having family around, we are finally getting the chance to try our hand at being just a family of four. Today was the first day of just me and the kids at home, and there were no tears. (Even though only two of us are actually able to produce tears at the moment.)

Molly will be four weeks old tomorrow and, even though I'm not as much of a mental case as I was when Parker was born, I'm still pretty sleep deprived and, as a result, plain old stupid. My brain power is being used to change bums and ensure that anyone under three feet tall is fed in a timely manner. Everything else is secondary. Except laundry. I am a laundry doing fiend and when it eventually gets folded I put it away like a fiend, too. We're still working on getting back into a fiendish folding routine. We're only four weeks in though, and I know it was a solid eight with Parker before I felt capable of life.

When I dropped my mom off at the airport Saturday evening I managed to confuse myself enough with figuring out how to drive to Michaels afterward that I started thinking it was Friday and wow rush hour traffic was light and dang I might as well go to the thrift store on the way home to pick up some books since I have no kids. Except of course it was closed because it wasn't Friday at all and things close earlier on Saturdays. Then I went home and to bed at 8:30 because adulting is fun.

I cleaned my kitchen this morning, did laundry, and emptied the dishwasher so I think the second time mom is ahead of the game. I imagine moms with three or more kids are making dinner in the delivery room they're such pros.

Having a toddler and a newborn presents its own challenges. When Karl's around I like to negotiate my way out of changing all the diapers. I'll offer to do one kid in exchange for him doing the other. The question I find myself asking is whether I'd rather change one giant raunchy toddler turd or eight newborn ones. Usually there's no actual option, but these are the deep things I think about in the middle of at the night while I'm up at BFG o'clock acting as baby buffet.

I remember thinking with newborn Parker that he never napped when I wanted. Why did that kid just want to be awake and torment me? Now I can't help but wish he slept like he did when he was a newborn. Okay, I wouldn't trade the 13 Parker-free hours I get a night for all the diamonds in the world, but during the day? Yes, please, nap all the time. I didn't sleep while holding him until he got his first cold at two months because I had the fear of squishing him branded into my soul by the health nurses. This go-round Molly and I nap together regularly and we tend to co-sleep half the nights. She's got some gas issues (she doesn't like it) and I have some issues with being woken up every couple hours (I don't like it) so cuddling is mutually beneficial. She has someone to fart on and I can get up to three and a half hours of sleep in a row.

During the day I get to stare enviously at Molly napping in her vibrating massage chair, working to get the gas out, while I get fed pieces of chalk and pull a wooden bee around the house on plastic cord. Today the big game was helping Parker put on his hoodie and zipping it up everything 90 seconds.

With Parker I found I had to go easy on my ginger consumption, but I now I've had the horrendous realization that I may need to take a break from eating black beans with Molly. I was planning on making (and eating most of) a bean cake for her due date. I'm glad I realized the negative impact that can have on our lives/sleep before I went hardcore. I'm sad, but I've got coffee to comfort me so it could be much worse. And I'm fairly confident in my ability to make a decent chickpea cake.

Parker fell down the stairs yesterday before going to a Superbowl party with Karl. It wrecked me, hearing the thump-thump-thump-cry. He was fine, just scared, but we didn't see it happen and I had visions of him with a broken head or neck and then I contemplated getting our fireplaces removed and wrapping him in bubble wrap. I had a lot of that kind of anxiety when he was born, but I'm doing really well this time. I've never thought about getting a helmet for Molly, and she's only had one head injury so far.

Parker is very into his books, and the other day he got a little over zealous with the Toot book (his current favourite) and hit Molly in the temple with the corner of it while I was burping her. She cried, he cried, she had a tiny red mark on her head all day, but the real takeaway was that he loves her enough to feel empathy to whatever  extent a toddler can actual feel complex emotions. I just know they're going to be BFFs, he just has to stop trying to stick his fingers in her eyes and ears.

Molly and I had our own grand old Superbowl party. We drank milk, ate cookies, got tummy massages, and watched Sherlock. I even did laundry. The good life.

I have to say, I really wasn't sad to see the tail end of January. Excepting Molly, it was kind of a crummy month. Sure, I ate some amazing cake, but I spent a fair amount of time in a body that was, in all likelihood, trying to kill me. Without modern medicine I would have been a walking bag of infection (probably still would be, and super pregnant to boot). Nevermind the whole water breaking thing, but I also got a stomach bug last weekend. There is nothing more desirable than having a 2.5 week old infant and being forced to spend an embarrassing amount of time in the bathroom while also necessitating a giant mixing bowl beside your bed. It's okay, though, because I lost five lbs over night, and since I'd over indulged in lactation cookies my milk supply didn't seem to suffer one bit. I was also the only person in the house to get sick and had a good excuse to stay home from church with Molly and watch Netflix.

I've got to hand it to January, though. I surpassed my weight loss goal, and am now down 23 (okay, 20 since I started eating/drinking again) lbs. Take that, Christmas weight.

Speaking of food, our church has arranged a meal train for us, so instead of making supper this week I can do other productive thing instead of preparing food for my family. Like blogging.

Molly's birth story

With a due date of February 7, I always suspected Molly would be a January baby. Parker was, after all, eight days early, relatively unusual for a first pregnancy. Babies, of course, don't follow any rules, though, and no one can ever predict what's going to happen. Pretty much the only guarantee is that eventually, somehow that baby is going to exit your womb. In my mind I figured that she would probably be two weeks early, never imagining that she'd be so eager to join the outside world she'd try for a full 36 days early.

This is a birth story. It's long and involved. Go grab a coffee, grab a snack, and maybe grab a quick nap beforehand if you're feeling drowsy. I make no apologies.

I wrote about those first few days already so I'm not going to spend too much time rehashing them, but my water broke early, possibly January 1st but definitely January 2nd. When presented with our options, my doctor recommended being induced on the 2nd at 34 weeks and 6 days.

I was fairly flexible with my birth plan, the goal always being to have a baby and bring it home, and this time I knew with absolute certainty I wanted an epidural. I never thought much about the bringing baby home part of the plan because it always just seemed like such a given. With a normal pregnancy and normal ultrasounds and prenatal appointments it never even crossed my mind that leaving my baby at the hospital was an option. Standards vary, but in Regina if your baby is born before 36 weeks they go to the NICU. I'm still a little unclear on if there's wiggle room to take them home earlier if they're doing well, but the NICU certainly did not fit into our birth plan. 

We opted for 48 hours of IV antibiotics in hospital, then five days of oral ones at home if labour didn't start naturally. When we went into the hospital January 2nd I had minor irregular cramping that seemed like it might be a prelude to labour, but it went away. I spent the next two days in a hospital bed, trying to catch up on sleep and watching Jane the Virgin. I had a visit from the NICU doctor while I was there to talk about what we could expect when Molly was born. The big worries were her breathing and eating. Babies that early don't necessarily have the sucking reflex figured out yet, let alone superstar lungs.

I had an ultrasound on my second day in the hospital and the tech informed me that baby still looked like a girl (I asked, since she was looking around) and that she estimated her weight at 7 lbs 3 oz. Considering Parker was 6 lbs 10 oz at 10 days early, I was shocked. Naturally, I knew that there's room for error in that number (usually half a pound) but I couldn't believe the baby I expected to be tiny was actually a relative giant five weeks before her due date. The tech even asked if I had gestational diabetes because of my baby heifer. Part of me wanted to be induced at that very moment just to make sure she didn't turn into a 10 lb turkey. Sorry, lady bits.

When I was done my antibiotics and getting ready to be discharged my doctor popped in to chat. He told me that the steroid shot I'd been given to mature Molly's lungs was a little controversial and, he thought, unnecessary. The obstetrician hadn't told me that the shot was definitely needed before 34 weeks, but that it might not be necessary for a baby at 34 weeks and 6 days. She also hadn't told me that the shot could have the side affect of helping the baby gain a lot of weight for a week or so, particularly if I had a lot of sugar. My favourite part of the hospital food I'd been getting was the juice they gave me four or five times a day. The food was so abysmal that I was taking full advantage of all the wonderful orange juice they were giving me. If I had to stay in the hospital, I could at least treat myself to an abundance of juice. I had visions of myself giving birth to a 10 lb juice baby, being ripped clean in half during delivery, and her not fitting any of her newborn clothes.

The doctor and I decided on Monday as my induction date, a week after my water officially broke, since it wasn't quite 36 weeks, but was the last day of my antibiotics. He warned me that there was a slight possibility my membranes could fix themselves and, in that case, we could actually make it to 39 weeks. I prayed that wouldn't be the case. I'd gotten used to the idea of a 36 week baby and laying off the sugar for a week. (I made it three days at home before I got back on the chocolate train. I'm weak and was leaking. Hold the judgement.) Do you remember the story of the 14 lb baby that was born a few years ago? I saw Molly and I following in his footsteps and becoming the next headline on the news, possibly entering the Guinness Book of World Records.

When I was discharged Wednesday afternoon (January 4th) I was thrilled. It's hard to sleep in the hospital, especially when your antibiotics need to be changed every few hours and your ruptured membranes like to do their ruptured thing while you're in your deepest sleep. With Parker I thought 36 hours of broken water was horrendous, but a week is a whole other adventure. Remember, amniotic fluid regenerates itself so your broken water just keeps going like you're constantly wetting yourself, no matter how empty you keep your bladder. Glamorous.

On the way home from the hospital, Karl and I went to Costco. I was a little worried that all the walking would start labour (as most people go into labour within 12-24 hours of their water breaking), but I am now convinced that if left to its own devices my body would never actually go into labour and would just leak amniotic fluid until toddlers eventually crawled out of my womb and demanded peanut butter and jam sandwiches. My body just isn't interested in the whole giving birth ordeal and I can't say I blame it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Costco did not cause me to go into labour (surprise, surprise), and the only painful part about it was how much money we managed to spend. 

We went home, where my dad was watching Parker and they were having a grand old time. I planned to never leave the house again, then Karl talked me into a trip to the grocery store that night. Apparently there's a part of me that can't say no to the control that comes with buying the week's groceries and scoping out good deals. While at the store I felt an all too familiar gush as I bent to pick up some almond milk from a lower shelf. Thankfully I was wearing a long winter coat and we were at the end of our list, so my laughing husband, wet pants, and I finished up our shopping with as much dignity as I could muster. I vowed not to leave the house again and, short of one five minute trip to the drug store for what I like to affectionately think of as "lady diapers," I became a shut in until it was time to go back to the hospital.

While I really wanted to make it to my induction date, I knew everything would be okay if I could just get a couple hours at home before having my baby. I needed to mentally wrap my head around it all, even just have a chance to pack my own hospital bag and put some baby clothes in there. Karl did an okay job, but he didn't understand which swaddle blanket I wanted or how many headbands to bring. I also just needed the chance to go home and wrap my head around it all. Molly's room wasn't done, the laundry room was a mess of boxes of kids clothes, and our darn Christmas decorations were still up. Had she come on January 2nd, the tree would probably still be up today.

As it was, I had five days to hang pictures on her walls, sort through what felt like hundreds of boxes of kid clothes, do some baking, reading, and sleeping. I was tired, but got everything done that I needed to.

Two days before I was due to be induced I started cramping again. Karl and I went to the hospital but they sent us home after an hour and the cramping went away. It had been a pretty intense day of doing laundry and hanging pictures so I opted to take it even easier from then on. I finished Molly's room and it went from a space that I really didn't like, with its mixed and matched furniture, to a room I'm genuinely envious of. It's amazing what the random art I've had laying around the house and a crocheted triceratops head can do for a space, never mind my mental state.

We got the call early Monday afternoon to come in for our induction. There's something so nice about walking into Labour and Delivery and being greeted by your smiling nurses, then calmly brought back to your room where, yes, finally, you know that baby is going to come out. There's not as much uncertainty, no tears, no labour pains, just friendliness and anticipation.

In the delivery room the white board had a tick mark next to the NICU section. When I asked about it, they informed me that the NICU people would be present for her birth because she still wasn't quite 36 weeks. While it wasn't what I wanted, I was glad that there were measures in place to help our little girl should she need it.

Being induced with Molly was very different from my experience with Parker. With Parker it took hours for anything to happen, and when it did it was like someone had poured kerosene on my insides and lit them on fire. With Molly, they started the drugs at 3:30 and I had minor cramping registering on the monitors within the hour. We started taking bets as to what time we thought she'd be born. Our nurses thought it would be just before midnight, and they didn't think we'd still be there when they got back in the morning. They were lovely, but we were okay with not having to see them again. Operation Get The Baby Out was in motion.

I listened to an audiobook and played Tetris on my phone to pass the time while we waited for things to get going. Because my membranes were ruptured no one was in a hurry to check how dilated I was due to our dear friend "infection risk." My doctor visited at 8 o'clock after delivering a 10 lb baby in the room next to us (that poor mother) and checked me. Three c.m. dilated. Before leaving, he instructed the nurses to call him if I seemed at all ready to go, even if they thought it was a false alarm. My baby, he said, was going to fly out of me when the time came. I have super children.

An hour or two later my cramping started getting more uncomfortable. It was still manageable and I could talk through it, but I decided to ask for my epidural. The magical epidural window is, ideally, 2-4 c.m. so I knew I was eligible. I didn't necessarily need it at that point, but I remembered what could happen without it and I wasn't ready to start practicing any heroics. Parker wasn't born so long ago that I've forgotten the excruciating pain that came along with his induction or how quickly it came on. Besides, who wants to be in pain if they don't have to?

When I got my epidural with Parker it felt like it took less than two minutes from start to finish. This time I must have been more in touch with reality because it took significantly longer. Last time my back was stiff for several weeks where the needle went in, but this time I don't even have a bruise. Once the epidural got going everything was set right in the world. They joked that we could name the baby Molly after a variation of the anaesthesiologist's last name. Karl and I laughed awkwardly.

After my epidural came one of my favourite parts of the birthing experience: the relaxing, comfortably numb part. It was ruined at 11 o'clock when I had to admit to the nurse that I probably needed a catheter since my epidural was doing such a good job. I was still only three or four c.m. After that, I couldn't get quite as comfortable. Ironically, I constantly felt like I needed to pee. The catheter was not everything I'd dreamed it would be.

From there on out I managed to relax for a little while if I let my mind wander and Karl even took a little nap. I couldn't feel anything, but the nurses assured me that my contractions/cramping were still happening regularly and we just needed them to get stronger. Have I told you how much I love my epidural?

Around 1:30 the nurse recommended that I try laying on my side since I'd been on my back the whole time. She said that sometimes babies can flip or turn when you're on your back for an extended period of time and it looked like maybe mine had done that. She didn't have to tell me twice. I rolled onto my side, but the darn catheter kept getting more uncomfortable. After a few minutes, I told the nurse it just wasn't working for me and she said I could go back onto my back.

At this point I was getting really uncomfortable. I wanted nothing more than to rip my catheter out and throw it across the room. I called Karl over to hold my hand and the nurses decided to check my progress. Lo and behold, I was 10 c.m. and baby's head was right there. I'm a little unclear as to the timeline on this, but I think it was around 1:55 when they called my doctor to come in.

Eight minutes later, at 2:03 a.m. he came in, gowned up, and they took the bed apart. It was go time.

Labour with Molly was very different than with Parker. With him I felt a lot of pressure like I needed to poop, but with her I was really uncomfortable on the front. I didn't feel the pressure come in waves like I did with him, I just felt so uncomfortable, even with the epidural. It was bearable but not something I'd want to do long term, and more intense than when I'd gotten the epidural a few hours earlier.

At 2:08 a.m. as I put my aching legs in the stirrups, my doctor told me that without the epidural Molly would have been born already because my urge to push would have been too strong. It felt like they were telling me to push even as they still took the bed apart. It was hard to wrap my head around being able to push without the urge to do so. I wasn't sure how much effort I could muster through the pain (more than discomfort, but akin to really bad period cramps), so I tried to push while talking to them through it. The next thing I knew they were telling me not to push so hard because that was baby's head. I let up on my push to the point that it felt like I almost wasn't doing anything at all and my body was just running the show.

And then her head was out. And it was another gentle push and the rest of her came out, crying with those perfectly strong and capable lungs at 2:13 a.m.

I took eight days of stalling, two pushes, five minutes, one fabulous epidural, and zero tearing (praise the Lord!) to bring Molly Faye Morton into the world. She was a perfect 20.5" long and 6 lbs 6 oz light. It all happened so fast that it took my brain a couple hours to fully comprehend that I had, in fact, given birth again and my little girl washere. I don't even think my doctor was up for an hour before it was all done and he told us he was going home and back to bed.

When they first held her up, one of the nurses told us we had the little boy we were expecting. "I mean girl!" Well that would have been a funny story.

Before heading to Mother and Baby we told the nurse to let the anaesthesiologist know that we had, in fact named our baby Molly. Hopefully it made her night.

We made it to 36 weeks and 133 minutes before our little nugget was born. She was right on the edge of being jaundiced but my doctor let us go home the next day as long as we promised to keep an eye on it and bring her in the next day if she wasn't improving. We were so glad to head home, and after four full days in the hospital in just over a week I was getting much too used to the menu. I also got the delightful experience of being a teaching experience for six nursing residents while we waited to be discharged, but that's another story for another day. Going home was wonderful and Molly did everything she could to kick the jaundice, including surpassing her birth weight within a week.

She is quite probably the mellowest baby in all of history. We all love her dearly and can't wait to see who she grows up to be.

The highs and lows of 2016.

I read something online the other day where someone said that they get together with their close friends at the end of the year and share their high and low points of the past 12 months. I thought that was brilliant. I've always loved going around the room and hearing everyone's high points of the year, but I like the idea of sharing the low moments, too. It's good to look back on where we've been in the year and see how far we've come or, maybe, still have to go.

I know a lot of people that have had big struggles in 2016 whether it's health, professional, or personal. Breakups and health scares and job drama have all been big players in the lives of many of our friends this past year.

Looking back, it seems like the high and low points of my year should be fairly straightforward. High point: getting pregnant again. Low point: losing my job. It's not all black and white, though.

Losing my job was hard. It really was. The funny thing is, before I knew that my job was gone, I was struggling with the prospect of returning to work. Having the choice to return to that hard job taken away from me was actually a blessing. It taught me something about my faith, and it reinforced for me that God's plan is so much bigger than ours. There is no part of me that wishes I still held that position, and I'm so grateful for the part time opportunity that was dropped right at my feet when I needed it the most. I applied for a dozen jobs and got only got one offer and it was the perfect offer. God was there, holding my hand the whole time.

I was searching for a different post today and came across one I wrote a few years ago on the cusp my 24th birthday. So many years later and it seems to echo so perfectly a lot of the same sentiments that I felt this year.

It's hard to put into words the high points of 2016. We spent a lot of time with my side of the family, and accidentally spurred a family reunion in Ontario when we visited. I hadn't seen my dad's siblings since I got married in 2010 and most of my cousins for almost 15 years. It was wonderful to discover that not only are were connected to these people through blood, but that I also really like them.

This was also the year that I ate some many vegan/dairy-free doughnuts that I almost got tired of them. 2015's word of the year was "baby" and 2016's is "doughnut." 2017's will probably be "thighs."

Getting pregnant again has, of course, been a huge highlight. Not that pregnancy is the most fun thing in the world, but I feel like I've been better at it this time around. I'm looking forward to welcoming our little girl in a month or so and have, for the most part, gotten over the nerves I initially had about it. Raising a boy and a girl is going to be a wild ride, I'm sure, but I'm ready. Bring on the headbands and frilly bums.

How do you round up your biggest moment of a year without feeling like you've left things out? Visiting friends, doing puzzles during Parker's naps, the anticipation of a new life in our home, sharing in the joy of friends' pregnancy announcements, months at home with Parker and now watching him grow into a little person with a fabulous personality, working on a women's ministry, discovering a dairy-free bakery, and finding a new hairdresser all made up the high points of 2016 (some more so than others). It's been a wild ride of a year, but was ultimately so good to us.

I know that 2017 is going to be its own beast. We'll be growing our family and I won't be the only one wearing dresses anymore. I'll likely be off work for the entire year. Towards the end of the year we'll (hopefully) start making gradual plans for moving back to Victoria. I'll read a lot of books, paint a lot of things, and knit through my ever growing yarn stash. I'll also drink a lot of decaf coffee to make up for lost time.

Bring it, 2017.

And I always thought I was Phoebe.

I used to think that meal planning was something for other people to do. I was too good for it. Then I realized that meal planning is not actually a big deal, and just involves three to five minutes of sitting at the table before we go to the grocery store asking Karl what he wants to eat this week. My descent into adulthood is well on its way.

I heard myself tell Karl yesterday that Parker would be around to play with tomorrow, but the kitchen wasn't going to clean itself tonight. I know, I should get a freaking mom of the year crown. At least my kitchen's clean.

My blissful four day vacation back home wasn't nearly as relaxing as I envisioned, but it was still lovely. I crammed so much Christmas shopping, eating, visiting, and baby snuggling into those four days that it made up for the lack of downtime. I had a delusion that I would go for coffee (hot chocolate) with my book and just spend a couple hours in a coffee shop, alone, relaxed, at peace. Then when it came time for it, I had to decide on a solo trip or taking that drink to go and walking along the water with my parents. I can be alone at home, but the ocean and my parents don't come to Regina very often. And if Game of Thrones has taught us anything, it's that we really don't want the ocean coming to our landlocked homes.

I also enjoyed the now unfamiliar luxury of flying alone. The last time I took an airplane by myself was nearly three years ago, during the interview process for the job that brought us to Saskatchewan. This was much more relaxing. I had a giant bag of sweet and sour Skittles (my new favourite candy in the whole entire world) to keep me company and awake several hours past my bedtime. That and the very near presence of my seat mates on the teeny tiny plane. Our thighs touched regularly. It was not magical.

While I was gone Karl informed me that Parker was sleeping in at least an hour every day. I'm not sure how, but my son has gone from toddler to teenager over night. He slept 14 hours Sunday/Monday. This is not remotely normal, but considering my flight got in at 1 a.m., I got home at 2 a.m., and I couldn't fall asleep until 4 a.m. (WHYYY?), I fully embraced it. Sometimes you don't have to understand something to know that it's magic. Don't question magic.

Today I realized I had made a significant miscalculation and will not, in fact, have enough hours for my maternity leave. I almost had a panic attack. There were nearly tears. I had visions of myself dressed up as a pregnant elf at the mall, herding children onto Santa's lap to make my few remaining hours. Thankfully, my boss is amazing and going to let me put in extra hours (even though I'm not busy) to hit my goal. I will be bringing cookies into the office every day from now until the end of December to show my appreciation.

I am 90% done my Christmas shopping. All I have left to do is get Karl something, figure out stocking stuffers, and pop our Christmas cards and a couple packages in the mail. This is what happens when you see your family over a month before Christmas and won't again until February. I feel like such a Monica. It's terrifying being so on top of things, but also incredibly empowering. If I can conquer Christmas shopping over a month early, what else can I do? Make it through an entire episode of Call The Midwife without weeping? Look out, world, I'm coming for you.

Left. Right. Left.

We celebrated Thanksgiving this weekend and it was marvelous. Except that half the people at supper on Sunday were sick Monday and it snowed all weekend, but aside from that it was fantastic. The family and I drove to Edmonton where we stayed with friends and played games, ate dairy-free doughnuts, hit up IKEA, crafted with yarn scraps, and had a fabulous mom date that involved Starbucks, H&M, a children's consignment store, and two thrift stores. And then we ate turkey and it was good.

Parker and I flew home Monday. It was a bold move considering how well things went last time, but only involved 90 minutes of two children compressing my bladder instead of 7 1/2 hours in the car with just one kicking my insides. Let's just say, things went better, but I still had flashbacks. I also may have had to use the airplane bathroom on our 90 minute flight. It wasn't actually that bad, seeing as teeny tiny spaces don't really leave anywhere for crazy toddlers to go. I felt pretty accomplished and am surprised no one clapped and cheered when I walked back to my seat. I am Super Mom with an incredibly small bladder.

Parker stayed true to form and passed out with 20 minutes left in the flight.

When we got home I dropped Parker off at the neighbours' so I could run to the grocery store. It was snowing, I needed to install his car seat, and he'd already had a long day of travelling. I figured playing with other children would be more fun than picking out bananas. When I got back they were feeding him supper. When we move I'm taking them with us. I love them.

Normally Karl runs the bath time show while I clean the kitchen. Karl wasn't around, though, so it was up to me. I decided it would be the perfect time to introduce Parker to his first bubble bath. He didn't understand at first, then loved it. He also kept trying to put the bubbles in his eyes. The whole lavender scented experience was so relaxing for him, in fact, that he decided to just let it all out. In the poop department. I'm so #blessed.

This morning Parker woke up an hour early and decided to chase me around the house whining all morning. I was so excited to drop him off at daycare and escape to work that I put my boots on the wrong feet. I noticed two hours later after I'd taken my wrong footed feet to daycare, Starbucks (because the sun wasn't even up when Parker was), and around my office for two hours. I miss coffee.

We have our small group tonight, so my friend that watches Parker/is the pastor's wife/hosts small group told me I should just leave him there after work and take a couple hours to myself before coming over for dinner. I love her, too. Maybe she noticed my boots and didn't tell me.

Lately. Again.

The other day we decided to go Costco. As we were heading out the door I took out all the extra stuff from my purse, like my lunch, book, scarf, etc. so that I wasn't carrying around a million extra things for not reason. Reasonable, right? When we got to Costco I realized that I'd done such a great job of taking all the heavy stuff out of my purse that I'd left my wallet, and that magic Costco card, on the kitchen table. Thank God I'm pregnant so I can totally blame the baby.

A year or so ago I became a real adult and got on the "clean the kitchen before bed" train. I feel like most people know to do this intuitively, but it freaking changed my life. Now my kitchen is always close to being clean! The dishes don't stack up, the dishwasher doesn't sit clean for days on end, and I can actually find things on our kitchen table. Never mind that I'm not stepping on the whole week's ration of floor Cheerios every morning. If I had to make a list of the one thing you need to do to change your life for the better (aside from meeting my friend Jesus) this would totally be it. Life. Changed. I can also flop onto the couch at 8 p.m. guilt free knowing that the mess is gone. Amahhhzing.

We had our last weekend of livable weather this weekend and I had plans. Oh, I had plans. Okay, we were just going to wash our windows, but it was a big thing. We don't wash our windows ever (we're animals), so I was curious how much more natural light we could actually get into our house. Then, oh, the reality of being a parent happened in the form of a tooth. Yep, always with the teething.

After just getting over his awful molars, Parker had another front tooth come in on Saturday and it was a real demon. No one slept. No one could leave the house. He ate a lot of pumpkin muffin comfort carbs and I ate a lot of ice cream when he was in bed. We make a good team.

Now that toothmagedon is over, Parker has an ear infection. It's like it never ends. Karl gets to miss a couple days of work because it could be potentially contagious (HOW?) so I guess they get to enjoy some impromptu male bonding.

Speaking of children, we found out a couple weeks ago that the little kickboxer in my womb is a girl. I've been thinking of her as a girl for over month for no reason and couldn't believe when the tech told us. I cried. Also, when has looking at a labia ever been such a happy event?

I'm going to be honest with you, part of me is terrified of having a girl. I was nervous about having a boy the first time around, but now that I know I'm going to have one of each I'm not really sure what to think. Having a boy meant I'd have to deal with boy things. Figuratively and literally. I've already got one, so how different would having another be? Aside from having to get a second job to feed them when they're teenagers, of course.

Having a girl, though, especially second, means that I'm going to have to go through girl and boy puberty at the same time. Puberty was traumatizing enough going through it once, but having to go through body changes and bra shopping and the hormones all over again gives me the cold sweats. It was hard enough the first time! I'm just praying for a couple of late bloomers so I can delay the inevitable.

In all truth, it's going to be amazing having a little girl and boy. My family is going to be so Hallmark ready, unibrows and all. I'm also so glad that those big decisions like deciding the sex of my children are out of my hands. Like I told my doctor, if someone had put a gun up to my head and told me to pick whether #2 was male or female I couldn't have done it. My little boy is going to be amazing, and so is my little girl. And, bonus, now there's no pressure to have a third! Glory, hallelujah. It's the little things. And the tiny polka dot frilly bottomed pants I bought yesterday.

Lately.

Can we talk about molars and how horrible they are? Have we done this before? They're like giant icebergs trying to break through tiny gums. We were lucky, Parker's first three came through and we didn't even know it. His fourth, though, is killing us so hard. I didn't go to work today because he only napped for 30 minutes Monday and Tuesday at daycare. This is unacceptable on so many levels. He's been so sad and snotty that I just decided to keep him home and do my best to get him sleep today. And, glory Hallelujah, it worked. And, bonus, I got to take a sick day when I'm not sick and no one can blame me for enjoying myself during nap time.

I just finished reading As You Wish, Cary Elwes' memoir about working on The Princess Bride. I currently have the movie on hold at the library (I only had it on VHS growing up) and I just pulled the book off my shelf. I read it 14 years ago so I'm looking forward to having another go at it.

Did you watch This Is Us last night? Can we talk about how good it was? And I how I swore I wasn't going to watch it again if it made me cry but I made sure the next episode was scheduled to record before I'd even stopped sniffling?

I've been craving ice cream for a while now but trying so hard to abstain. Coconut Bliss was not on sale at the grocery store this week and after a month of birthdays and unashamed vegan doughnut eating I've got to slow down. Don't bother telling me I'm pregnant so it's okay, I did this not too long ago and still have 6 extra lbs of cookie-filled regret. I'm also in a wedding six months post-partum, so I'm trying to make life as simple as possible for myself. Anyway, that wasn't my point. My point was that, after all the molar drama and excruciating days of ice cream cravings, last night I kind of caved and made this bad boy. It was amazing and I wish I had eight more to eat right now. But we're out of frozen bananas at the moment, and I feel like that's probably a blessing.

My CD player broke a couple weeks ago. I'm pretty distraught. I've had it since I was 15 or 16 and it's a beast. You know the kind, with the five CD changer and the big speakers. I can't decide if I should spend $25 and get one off Varage Sale or if I should grow up and get one that isn't designed for teenagers. What do grown ups even use for CD players these days?

I feel like we can't go long without a CD player because I hate Regina radio and Parker loves music. That kid can bust a move like no other. Lady Gaga came on the other day while I was watching The Office and he took her to heart and just danced. He also loves The Office theme. He'll stop whatever he's doing and stare at the TV whenever it comes on. It's the only time he ever cares about television. I might put him in accordion lessons someday.

Working full time last week made me so glad I work part time. I never have to deal with traffic, don't need to pack eight meals to get myself through the day, and don't feel like going to bed at 8:30 every Friday.

Okay, I'm going to go have a hot chocolate before I do something I'll regret. Like make an entire batch of these and eat them all before bed.

First post of 2016. I talk about poop.

A month or so ago I saw something on Pinterest talking about how to potty train your baby. I scoffed at it because it seemed like an absurd waste of time. Who wants to spend their days holding a grunty baby over a toilet? Do you know how often babies do their business? All. the. freaking. time. I figured diapers weren't that bad in exchange for some independence.

Well. Now that Parker's more interested in solid foods (and trying to jam the spoon as far down his throat as possible) I have changed my story. I've decided that the whole "food before one is just for fun" line is a load of b.s. There is nothing fun about what happens to that food. With out next kid, I'm going to breastfeed exclusively until potty training is done. You can say that's weird, but I would so much rather have a two year old hanging off my chest than deal with that diaper. That mom that potty trained her newborn clearly knew her shiz.

On that note, we had a lovely Christmas. Flying with Parker was a bit harder this time because he seems to know when we have to get up early and adheres to the teenager's logic of "Why even bother going to be bed?" I also, foolishly, thought that taking him on a 6:30 a.m. flight would mean he'd sleep through the whole thing because that's his normal sleeping time. Don't make the same mistake I did. It wasn't too bad, especially since airplanes are full of babies at Christmas, but we did have to have a little chat with our screaming, over-tired baby on the second flight of the day. I like to think the passengers around us appreciated our magnificent parenting style of telling Parker that no one on the plane liked him and that he should probably just be quiet. WestJet will be sending us our parents of the year award shortly.

We painted our living room last weekend and it wasn't as hard on our marriage as I anticipated. The hardest part for me was living in a mess. We didn't live in squalor before Parker was born, but our house was never this consistently tidy before. That's what Saturdays were for! Going back to work in a few months will probably kill me. I hope Parker's figured out how to work a vacuum by then.

There's an extreme cold warning for the city tomorrow. Naturally, I made Oreo ice cream today. It's hard to believe it's -30 out when you're at home in your sweatpants all day. Instead of doing the rational thing and hibernating tomorrow, we've decided to abandon Parker with some friends and go to the movies. You just can't beat going to the movies in the middle of the day.

I finished watching Gilmore Girls last week. It was an emotional time and, even though I'd seen bits and pieces of it over the years, I never actually saw most of the last season because it came on at 10 and I got off work at 10:10 back then. Memories. They ended it so well, though, and I may have cried a little. I'm now very, very excited about what they come out with next. All I can say is, I hope Jess has sorted himself out and that I don't think I'll take much parenting advice from Lorelai.

You wouldn't think Fridays would be so magical, staying home all the time, but they really are. In my great attempts to not eat junk throughout the week five p.m. on a Friday really means something, especially with the teething that's been going on around here. I find that ice cream and Kahlua really help take the sting away.

Four months.

Life with a four month old is nothing like life with a two month old. Parker could stay this age forever and I would be okay with it. He's pretty happy, full of giggles and snuggles, independent enough to entertain himself, and a good sleeper. He's still small enough to be the cutest thing ever, and heavy enough that I get a major arm workout every time I pick him up. It's all in the brain box, though, for Mr. 97th percentile.

Yeah, we're sleeping through the night now (thank you, Jesus!), no longer afraid of going anywhere in the car seat, and playing with toys. He's at that magical age where he can grab and put things in his mouth but not at all mobile. That means he can entertain himself with his toys anywhere and everywhere (but sometimes they get into screaming matches with him and and make him cry) but isn't actually getting into anything yet. Again, thank you, Jesus.

It's great watching him grow up, though, and oh, I could kiss those cheeks all day every day. Sometimes I just want to take a big bite out of them to keep forever. That's normal, right? And his sausage toes? I die with happiness every time I look at those chunky little feet.

Basically what I'm saying is, four month olds are great. Everyone should have one. Their thighs may not be as soft as a newborn's, but it's well worth it for everything else. Forget therapy dogs, I should bring Parker to old folks homes and physical rehab centres and show everyone how he feels about zippers. Remember the paper ripping baby? It's basically that. I'm pretty sure his giggles could cure cancer if bottled and injected into infected cells.

We have finally finally finally hit a groove where I feel like a normal human being. I may have said that before, but I actually feel so much like myself again. I'm no longer afraid to take him out in public. I can go out visiting and not have to worry about how he'll do or if he'll have a meltdown or need to go home to eat or nap. Feeding him only takes ten minutes these days, and I don't have to arrange my whole schedule around it.

I was never one of those people that always knew they wanted to be a mom. When we decided to try for a baby, I knew I wanted one, but was slightly (hugely) terrified about what that would mean. Could I do it? Would I survive? Would the baby survive me? Mostly I just tried not to think about it and then, nine months later, boom. Baby. Motherhood.

Now that I have Parker there are days where I think I could have six of him right now and life would be so good. The first eight weeks, though, believe me when I say that they were hard. H-A-R-D. Hard. Days that were so hard that made me wonder if we should have waited a little longer to have a kid because I was sure I was never going to sleep for more than four hours at a time for the rest of my life, and that I was always going to be so consumed with painful worry over Parker's well-being. Maybe I should have appreciated those pre-baby days a little more. There are still really hard days, but the good ones far outweigh them. And I get it. I so get it.

Being a mom is great. Even though I feel kind of bad for Parker for having such weirdos as parents, I'm excited for the little weirdo that he's becoming. And he's totally weird. I mean, who thinks zippers are funny? Weirdos.

Parker's birth story/The coolest thing I've ever done

I always thought it would be weird to write a birth story. I never thought much beforehand about whether I would share Parker's or not. I guess I just kind of assumed I wouldn't. Now that it's happened, though, and people keep asking me how it went, I think writing it down makes so much sense. I mean, there was a human living and growing inside of me and then suddenly he was living and growing outside of me. It's still blowing my mind.

So what follows is Parker's birth story. If ever there's a time to over-share about the cringey stuff, this is when it's going to happen. Be warned, I will be using the term "leaking" an awful lot. If you can handle that, though, I recommend grabbing a snack before jumping in. I recommend some sort of baked good and an iced coffee. This might take a while to read. Your call.

Drop it like it's... a baby?

Parker carried really low throughout my whole pregnancy. From the time I was about five months pregnant he hung out on my bladder most of the time. This meant that I didn't look as big and round as most people, that I constantly had to pee, and was generally really uncomfortable. It also meant that when he dropped I kind of thought he might have, but was kind of just guessing. Everyone says you'll definitely know when the baby drops, but they have no idea. I think he dropped the Friday before he was born but the only thing I noticed was that I could actually hear my stomach gurgling under my ribs for the first time in months and that I was getting uncomfortable and crampy. After comparing a couple belly pictures it looked like he may have dropped a little bit, but it was hard to tell.

The Monday before he was born I started having signs aside from crampiness that maybe baby might come early. I'll spare you the details. It was supposed to be my last week at work but I had a few sick days banked so I was going to see how things went. I was so uncomfortable that I couldn't imagine another 40 hour work week. My co-workers were pretty sympathetic, and when our receptionist commented on the fact that I was starting to waddle a bit (it's okay, she's truly delightful and it was true) I knew people would understand when I decided that I'd stick out Wednesday morning then just call it a week. They were having an office potluck/bbq in honour of me and a couple other people's big life events (a wedding and a departure) Wednesday afternoon. My goal was just to make it to that lunch.

I had my 38 week (and 4 day) check up with my doctor over my lunch break on Tuesday. He informed me that I was 1 cm dilated and, in parting, said that he hoped to see me before my next week's appointment. I was excited. A lot of people are dilated for weeks before they actually have their babies, but my doctor's words gave me hope. I could be one of those rare first time moms that wasn't ten days overdue!

A couple hours later I was chatting with a co-worker and looking at pictures of his 1 1/2 year old when I suddenly felt like I'd peed myself a little. Except, even though there was an enormous amount of pressure on my bladder, I was pretty sure I hadn't just become incontinent. I wrapped up our conversation pretty quickly (read: walked away mid-sentence) and thanked the clothing gods that I had decided to wear navy blue pants instead of tan ones that morning. My water had most assuredly just broken while talking with my co-worker, and he hadn't even noticed. File that one under awkward encounters with everyone.

I called my doctor's office, totally unsure of what to do and thankful that it was still business hours. The nurse that answered checked with my doctor and informed me to go to Labour and Delivery after heading home, showering if I wanted, and getting my stuff.

I phoned Karl and my parents, my dad already being on his way, and told them that we were going to have a baby soon. My mom wasn't supposed to be out for another week and a half, so right away she started changing her holidays around.

They say that only about 15% of women have their water break before they're in actual hospital labour. I imagine a good chunk of those that do have it happen in the comfort of their own homes, too. They also say that it doesn't happen like it does on TV and that it's not a big dramatic gush all over the place. I was grateful for that. I had the chance to say my goodbyes to my co-workers and not one of them noticed that I was walking around in soggy pants, intermittently leaking.

Karl beat me home, and we went about packing everything up. I went through a couple pairs of leggings, trying to determine exactly how much liquid I needed to anticipate coming out of me and eventually accepted that it would be a lot. Bring on the massive hygiene products. How much amniotic fluid does one person's body actually hold? And how long does it take to all come out? Forever. The answer is forever. It never stops coming out until the baby's head plugs its exit route. At least I think that's what the nurse said. When we had that conversation later on I was a little preoccupied.

We got to the hospital feeling really good about ourselves. Driving across town to the hospital in rush hour, during construction season, was our worst nightmare. Except we weren't in labour and were feeling really good. There was no panic, just a wonderful sense of anticipation. It was 10 days to my due date! Way to go, baby boy!

When we checked in at Labour and Delivery we let them know my water had broken and my doctor had told us to come in. Just as they were about to send us to sit tight in the waiting area to be assessed things got real. I had my TV worthy water breaking moment. A veritable tsunami of fluid came gushing out of me, all over my last pair of clean leggings and the floor. Karl was horrified. I was embarrassed, having essentially wet myself in front of the nurses. Apparently they're used to that kind of thing there, though, and they just shuffled me off to lay in a recovery bed while we waited to be assessed.

They hooked my stomach up to some monitors and informed us that it was going to be a bit of a wait to see a doctor because they were full up. We hung out for five hours, waiting, anticipating, and leaking (me, not Karl). A nurse came by fairly early on and asked us about our birth plan, informing us that we'd likely be given the option to be induced if we wanted it. We were all over that. I was so tired of being pregnant, and did I mention the leaking?

"I'm leaking!"

We were close to Labour and Delivery room 5. Karl and I both got the uncomfortable giggles when we could hear the poor woman in there wailing her way through labour. My big fear was that I was going to lose my dignity by using all the swear words I know and being nasty and mean. My second big fear was that I was going to become one of those panting, wailing, moaning women we saw in the video in our pre-natal class. A wailing woman just like the poor lady in Labour and Delivery room 5. So we laughed at her for lack of anything better to do. But eventually we heard the sound of a screaming baby and it was one of the greatest sounds ever. Soon that would be our screaming baby!

Eventually a doctor came and assessed me, told us that my doctor wanted me to be induced if I wanted, but that we'd have to go home because they were too busy induce us. Another nurse informed us that we would likely hear from them around 8 a.m., or earlier if we were okay with a middle of the night call. If we hadn't heard from them by noon we were to give them a call. She let us know, though, that if we didn't get induced the next day we'd have to come in for a non-stress test and possibly an ultrasound to make sure everything was okay with baby.

I had always been under the impression that if your water breaks they want that baby out in the next 12 hours because of the risk of infection. In reality, if your strep test (the dreaded Q-tip test) came back negative they're happy to let you wait for labour to start naturally, you just have to count baby's movements every two hours and take your temperature every four. Most people have labour start within 12 to 24 hours of their water breaking. Most people also don't have their water break while they're at work. Spoiler alert: I'm pretty sure that if I'd waited for labour to start naturally I would probably still be pregnant.

We got home around 11:30, snacked, and went to bed. While we were kind of disappointed that we weren't coming home with a baby, we knew that it was likely going to be our last night ever to get a good night sleep so we took advantage of it. A morning induction would be the best thing, because we'd be bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for life's next big adventure.

The call never came. Just before noon the next day, I called the hospital and was informed that they were still quite busy but we'd probably get called right after lunch and wasn't I waiting for labour to start naturally? I informed them that, no, I was waiting to get induced because that's what my doctor wanted.

We went to my office's potluck that afternoon. We had missed dinner the night before and I really wanted to eat as much and as well as possible before baby go time. My office is also a five minute drive from the hospital, so we were ready for their after lunch call. When it didn't come we went home, did some laundry, and took a nap.

We phoned again just before dinner time. I had done an excellent job of planning the week's meals (for once) and wanted to know if I'd have time to actually make a proper meal. Once we established with the nurse that I was waiting to getting induced, per my doctor's wishes, and not waiting for labour to start naturally (because it really wasn't) I was once again informed that they were still very busy and that they'd have to call me back around 8 p.m.

As you can imagine, we were getting tired of waiting and were gearing up for another night at home. The waiting was brutal. I was uncomfortable and the baby was starting to put more pressure on my insides. Also, we'd just finished watching Friday Night Lights so we didn't have anything good to watch. I was starting to lose my patience.

At 8:30 we got in touch with the hospital again. I informed the nurse that we were waiting to get induced, not for labour to start naturally like she thought. Finally, we were told that they had room for us and we could come get induced. The only catch was that my doctor wasn't on call that night so depending how quickly things happened he might not be there to deliver. I asked the nurse about getting a non-stress test or ultrasound and she said that we could come get the test if we wanted, but that my doctor would have to schedule the ultrasound the next day. I asked her if we should come in for the non-stress test and she said it was really up to us but that she probably would. I then asked if we should get induced or wait until the morning and she said it was also really up to us, but that they couldn't predict whether they'd be busy again in the morning. We decided to go in for the non-stress test to make sure everything was still going well, and would decide from there how to proceed. Off we went to the hospital again.

During the non-stress test there was either a problem with the monitor they used on my stomach or Parker's heart rate was dipping a little bit, they were never quite clear on that, so, instead of the usual 20 minutes, I was hooked up to the machine for an hour and a half. Eventually we got the go-ahead that we could go home and keep waiting for labour to start naturally (are you sensing a pattern here?). It was getting late, and we were a little worried about baby's heart rate so we decided to stay and get induced. How quick could we actually expect labour to be anyway? My doctor would probably be back on call by the time I was ready for him anyway.

The doctor that came in and checked my progress was a nightmare. She brought in a med student, but, much to my surprise, he wasn't the problem. Where he was as gentle as you can be when feeling a baby's position and checking dilation, she was like a bull in a china shop. My china shop. She must have been punishing me for correcting her when she said that we had changed our minds from waiting for labour to start naturally. I'm almost positive she wanted to see if she could manage to make me give birth through my mouth with the amount of force she used to check me. One thing I knew was that I did not want that woman to ever touch me again, so when she asked if she could show the student something and use me as a further teaching opportunity I didn't even feel bad for telling her no. Besides, the student thought I had gone to 2 cm, but she said I was still only 1 cm. What a jerk.

My dad got into town while we were getting the non-stress test and we needed him to bring some paperwork to the hospital so I got to see him for ten minute before heading into my room. It was surreal knowing that the next time we saw each other there would be a new little Morton with us.

I was assigned to Labour and Delivery room 5. The humour of it was not lost on us.

At 11:45 that night they started me on the oxytocin. It was a long, uncomfortable night. I didn't get much sleep because I was still crampy and uncomfortable. The difference between spending the night getting induced and spending the night at home in your own bed is that you're hooked up to a bunch of monitors and can't move around very much. Also there are apparently certain positions that your unborn child doesn't like you to lay in. Every time I thought I was comfortable I would start to ache another five seconds later. My hips were like fire, and sleep wasn't really on the horizon. Both Karl and I tried to nap and I think we may have managed a collective hour or two.

Our night nurse was amazing. Seriously, I have this little daydream where we bump into each other in Superstore and become BFFs.

I'd gone into labour with no real birth plan. We wanted to have a health, happy baby by any means necessary. I wasn't afraid of being induced like so many people are, and even though I didn't want a c-section I wasn't about to fight against one if it seemed necessary. Modern medicine seems to have its act together (nurses pushing for waiting for labour's natural start not included) and I'm not a doctor. I'm happy to defer to the experts.

As far as pain management went, I knew I wanted to labour in the tub, on the ball, and try using laughing gas to get through contractions. With its excellent reputation, I was really looking forward to giving the laughing gas a go. Initially I'd thought I'd wanted an epidural but the more I learned about them the less sure I was. I wasn't afraid of my spinal cord being hit or anything, but I was worried about the terrible headache that people sometimes get from the removal of that little bit of spinal fluid. As a migraine sufferer, I really didn't want my nether regions to be ripped and torn with a really bad headache to top it off. That said, I wasn't about to be an unnecessary hero so I was still open to the idea one.

I spent a little time on the birthing ball to ease my discomfort but it only served to put more pressure on my insides and I found I was more comfortable in bed. Well. I knew before the oxytocin even kicked in that I was going to want an epidural. Since the birthing ball did nothing for me with just regular cramping and I was already so uncomfortable with nothing having even started, how was I going to survive what lay ahead?

When we said goodbye to our night nurse we all joked that we hopefully wouldn't see each other again that night, but the way things were going we probably would.

Our day nurse was really good, too. I informed her and our departing night nurse that I was hoping for a really easy labour where the baby just kind of fell out of me with one, maybe two pushes. I was really afraid of tearing and there wasn't going to be any of that going on either. Things were going to go really well. The birthing ball hadn't worked so maybe the power of positive thinking would. The nurses all thought I was hysterical, but our day nurse high-fived me. Again, I knew we'd be great friends.

My doctor popped his head into the room at some point to check in and say hi. He asked why I'd gotten induced the night before when he'd told them he didn't want me to be until he was on call. Naturally.

After ten hours of being induced with nothing happening, I heard that the woman in the room next door had less than half the oxytocin going and her contractions were two minutes apart. I was happy for her, I guess, but jokingly wished that she'd have tearing. I think I was joking.

My nurse suggested that maybe getting in the bath would help with my discomfort. At first, the tub was amazing. Why hadn't I taken more baths at home throughout my pregnancy? I was really uncomfortable still so Karl rubbed my back through the worst moments. I then proceeded to projectile vomit all the blue Jello I'd eaten (a lot) into the tub with myself. Then things got real. Like the Jello had been what was holding me back, things started to move forward. And by things I mean pain.

I got back into bed, convinced that the agony I was in meant that labour had finally started, but what felt like contractions weren't registering as anything. Still just cramping. My nurse had already thrown around the idea of an early epidural and I told her I was ready. There was an hour before the anaesthesiologist had a scheduled c-section so I was hopeful that I could sneak in there first.

Even though it didn't register on the monitor as anything, what I felt was like a constant contraction. The pain didn't let up much at all. Except it wasn't a contraction and I wasn't in labour but, oh, it freaking hurt. Then they checked my progress and determined that I was only 3, possibly 4, cm dilated. They estimate for every 1/2 or full cm of dilation it takes about an hour to get there. I knew I had a long road ahead of me and that drugs were going to get me through it.

I was informed that the c-section had gone in early so I'd have to wait for my epidural. I asked for laughing gas, knowing it was going to be my new BFF. Except apparently I don't like laughing gas. It made me nauseous and I had to take several big hits for it to do anything else. I could still feel my non-contractions clear as anything but I wanted to puke and everything else went numb. Crushing disappointment.

The next big disappointment came when I was informed that there was an emergency c-section and I'd have to wait another hour or so to get my epidural. At this point, I had become the moaning woman of Labour and Delivery room 5. I only dropped one little curse word the entire time and only Karl was in the room to hear it. So at least I wasn't the cussing woman in Labour and Delivery room 5, too.

I kept telling the nurses and Karl that I couldn't do it anymore, and couldn't understand why anyone would have more than one child. And I wasn't even in labour. The nurse told me that I was, in fact, doing it so I totally could. Easy for her to say, she'd never had a baby. I kept asking how long it would be before I could get my epidural. Knowing it was just another defined amount of time helped me get through it.

I'd been told earlier that sometimes people have to be induced twice. I'd initially thought that would be the worst thing ever in the entire world, but I didn't even realize that they had turned my oxytocin off until I started to fall asleep between non-contractions. Apparently I'd been in so much pain that my eyes were rolling back in my head. Karl kept having to remind me to breathe while I dozed between the painful moments but sleeping was just so much more appealing, especially after over 12 hours in that darn bed.

Finally, the anaesthesiologist was done with his c-sections and came to see me. It was a beautiful moment. Although I'd hardly noticed it at the time, I was glad they'd stopped giving me the induction drugs so that I could rest. Non-contractions are no joke, especially when they don't have definite breaks between them.

I was excited to get my epidural and get some sleep. I requested that my nurse give me a catheter, too, since I had no interest in making anymore bathroom trips. I just wanted to sleep and let labour eventually start without me even knowing it.

I'm sure the anaesthesiologist is the most popular person in Labour and Delivery. Things had calmed down enough that I was able to appreciate him coming in and joke with him. He gave me a really generous sized dose of whatever they put in there and I felt better almost immediately. The nurse was impressed by how much he gave me. My toes were tingly and mostly numb, I couldn't feel the fire in my hips anymore, and cramping? What cramping? I don't remember his last name, but if we hadn't had a name already picked our Parker might very well have been named Mark.

Once the epidural was in they put me back on the oxytocin, starting my induction all over again. My doctor came in and he checked my progress again. It had only been about four hours since my last check, so when he said that I was fully there and ready to go we all looked at him like he was lying to us. I'd would have told him not to lie to a not-quite labouring woman, but I was so comfortably numb in the lower part of my body that I really didn't care if he was joking with me or not. Except he wasn't. He asked if I wanted to push and I said no, so he said to call when I did and figured he'd see us in an hour or so.

The nurse told me that contractions were finally starting to register on the monitors. They weren't regular or anything, but something was definitely happening. Cheers to Mark and his fully loaded epidural! I couldn't feel anything, but apparently I'd become relaxed enough for things to start moving forward. Contrary to popular belief, epidurals don't always slow things down.

My nurse told me that she could see Parker's head and, when I asked, that he had hair. Apparently my low-sitting little boy was slowly making his way out on his own, just like I'd predicted.

After a while she asked if I was ready to think about pushing and I thought I probably was. I could feel a bit of pressure, like I maybe needed to go to the bathroom, but aside from that nothing.

When the doctor came back to the hospital we had a great time. The worst moment was when he told me I might need an episiotomy. That's when I prepared myself for a rough recovery because episiotomies aren't really done that often anymore, the preference being for more natural tearing. So if he was suggesting that? Well, thank God for my epidural.

They monitored my intermittent contractions and told me when to push until I started feeling more pressure and could feel for myself when it was time. Giving birth is really a lot like pooping. You use the same muscles to push the baby out and, at least when you've got that epic epidural, all that pressure just feels like maybe you've waited a little too long to go to the bathroom. Too much information? Well, I wasn't leaking anymore, in case you were wondering.

Karl sat back and ate an apple while I pushed. Neither of us wanted to see what was going on down there. No mirrors here, thanks very much.

I was feeling so good that my doctor put on some music. We started our 45 minutes of pushing to Weezer's Island in the Sun. It was kind of the perfect happy song after so many hours of waiting. The hardest part was not letting my doctor make me laugh while I pushed. He commented that he hasn't had many people giggle between pushes before.

I surprised myself by wanting to see Parker's head when given the opportunity. It was that or close my eyes. His head looked like some sort of alien rock or egg, all slimy and grey, nothing like a little boy's skull. I didn't see when his head came out because that push required a lot of concentration, but I did see his body come out.

When they put his slimy little body on me I couldn't believe that he was ours. Sure, I'd seen him come out of me, but it was still so surreal. So tiny and so perfect. And had Beverly Hills been playing in the background? No one had been quite paying attention.

He slid right out of my child-bearing hips a perfect 6 lbs 10 oz, at 5:45 p.m. on Thursday, May 28, our little Parker Karl Morton.

Stop. Hammer time. Break it down.

My doctor had been right about my good hips and smaller baby. He was wrong about my episiotomy, though, because after seeing how things went I only had some internal tearing. Where first time moms usually have second degree tearing, two hours of pushing, and go late, I had only first degree tears, 45 minutes of pushing, and a baby eight days early after my water broke. And I didn't even get a catheter. Boom.

(Side note: 1st degree tears = internal, 2nd degree = external, 3rd degree = to the pooper, 4th degree = you're ripped completely in half)

The only downside was that my doctor informed me I likely won't be able to get an epidural next time around considering how quickly things progressed. The joke's on him, though, because I'm going to ask for one as soon as my water breaks again (in line at Walmart probably, knowing my luck).

We did see our night nurse again, but only long enough for her to get some Parker snuggles in and send us to our new room. She had the fun jobs.

Not a poop!

It's been three weeks and I'm still in disbelief that this little boy is ours. We love him so much, even when he pees on us, eats non-stop, or shoots milk into our faces out of his nose (he's very advanced). It's hard to believe that this child is the little ninja that lived inside me for so many months, or even that he's the wiggly little bean that peed in that first ultrasound six and a half months ago.

Long story short, we had a baby and are going to keep him forever. Because we luuurve him.