Labor Once, Push Twice

(Note: This will be the G-rated version of the birth story. I'll probably write up a more complete version with full mention of bodily fluids and all that for posterity on a birthing blog somewhere.)

I had bought the castor oil and orange juice Monday night, planning to take it Tuesday morning. But I still didn't quite have my nerve up. And then it occurred to me that we had a gift certificate to a very nice restaurant that would expire before the babies would be old enough to leave for a leisurely dinner.

So before the castor oil method, we decided to try the romantic evening out method. I managed to piece together enough garments to just cover me (the slimming effects of black are overrated), we had a lovely evening and ate a huge meal and came home and went to bed.

At five in the morning I got up and realized my water had broken, thus satisfying my long-standing curiosity as to what it would be like to start labor that way. The answer: messy. Fortunately the carpet was spared. I called the doctor and the doula, and the doctor said to head on in to the hospital. By the time we were driving and I was able to pay attention to timing contractions, they were four minutes apart.

We were amused to remember that our friend from church was having a c-section that morning at the same hospital. We were even more amused to discover later that she had the same doctor. He had promised to bring a book when I delivered so he wouldn't be bored waiting around, but perhaps this way he had enough to do.

The lady at the check-in asked all the various questions: "Has your water broke?"

Whereupon Grammar Commando wanted to rise up and say, "Has broken, my water has broken." But I sent Grammar Commando home, because a birth is no place for people concerned about propriety.

Our doula met us and we were sent up to labor and delivery with little further ado. While the nurse was setting me up and putting in the hep lock, I asked the doula to wash my feet. Unfortunately, I said, "Ah, that feels good," just as the nurse put the needle in. "That's not usually a good sign when someone thinks that," she commented, but I hasted to clarify it was the clean feet and not the needle that felt good.

After that things progressed pretty quickly--at least compared to D1's birth--and I was soon too busy to carry on much conversation. Our assigned nurse (secret identity Wonderwoman) had just passed her midwife certifications and had worked with our doula at another natural birth the day before. Fortunately they'd both had a good night's sleep, too.

DOB had wondered what exactly he was supposed to do with a doula there, too, but I managed to keep him and his mom busy as well as the doula: "Ice! Not there! No, too cold! Too warm! Rub my legs! Stop! More water!" Nobody got too exhausted and DOB had the chance to get something to eat, as we had rather skipped breakfast. The doula was wonderful at helping me spot where to relax, keeping me moving to good positions and generally distracting me from thinking things like, "If I'd just had a c-section two weeks ago, I would be feeling better by now!"

By 11:30 I was close to being ready to push, so we had to move to the OR (hospital policy for twin deliveries). I had dreaded this part, envisioning glaring lights, a bare table, and a huge unwanted audience, but the doctor and nurses kept the lights low until needed, let me stay on the comfy, movable bed from labor and delivery, and sent everyone extraneous out to wait in the hallway. (Permanently, apparently, because we never did need them, except for an extra nurse--whom DOB pleased by giving her the secret identity of Elizabeth Taylor--to help clean up the babies.)

Both the babies were facing sideways. (My children are always looking the wrong way.) So it took a bit of work to get D3 to turn her head. The doctor and doula helped me try different positions and push her into place, and finally at 12:45 she came through. I was astonished to discover that it was in fact true that I had produced a real, live baby and held her for a bit while we waited for D4 to start moving down.

D4, however, was still in no hurry to come out. He seemed to enjoy the extra room. So did I. Laboring with one baby was a piece of cake after laboring with two--not to mention I had the extra motivation of just having seen that all this work really did produce a baby.

The nurses took D3 away to clean her up. It was quite odd to have one baby out and still be working on another one. I tried pushing for awhile but he was really too high up so we decided just to wait and let the contractions move him down. After awhile I took D3 back and nursed her while we waited.

D4's heart rate kept dipping despite them giving me extra oxygen and fluids. The doctor finally decided it was time to break his water and get him moving out. When the water broke with signs of further problems and he still stayed high up, the doctor asked the nurse to bring in the forceps and vacuum extractor.

Apparently hearing those words was all the two of us needed to get motivated. A minute later, with three mighty pushes, D4 was out. He did just fine, too. We waited around for everything else to finish up, the nurses finished cleaning up the babies (they did both have some meconium ingested), and we finally were all tucked back into bed together and wheeled back to the labor and delivery room.

My doula awarded me the medal for going it natural (just in case anyone commented that you don't get a medal for turning down the medications) and then she had to rush off to yet another birth. (She's not usually that busy.) However, the real medal, as I told her, was that I already felt absolutely wonderful. The only real pain I had once the birth was over was from the bones separating under the pressure of all that baby, and I'd had that for the last few months anyway.

Before we were sent down to the postpartum room, D1 and D2 came by to see the babies. They were very excited to meet them and brought them name tags they had made. In fact, D2 began to show distress when it was pointed out that they were going to have to leave and go back to Grandma's house for awhile. Fortunately Grandma had foreseen this problem and had been saving his favorite set of toys for several weeks. "When we get there, you can get out the rug and the cars."

"Can I play with all the cars?" he asked, his face suddenly cleared and his eyes big.

"Yes," I assured him.

"Let's go!" he said.

This Is It

Suzanna Ruth
7/9 12:44pm
7lbs, 12oz; 20.5 in

Lincoln Theodore
7/9 2:05pm
6lbs, 15oz; 20 in

Full details from our regular commentator when she returns from her 48-hour maternity leave...

Watch This Space For a Special Announcement...

Bring It On

Labor-induction folklore is like hiccup remedies: the purpose is to keep you occupied and your friends amused until nature can take its course.

So far I'm still sticking to the versions that are fun. Walking (well, sort of). Fresh pineapple. Foot rubs. Etc. Some people apparently go for eggplant parmigiana, but others say it's the basil and oregano that are important, which is good because eggplant is a vegetable towards which I harbor a deep skepticism, no matter how thoroughly it is parmigianed.

The way I figure it, people must have gone into labor while doing almost everything except flying stealth bombers. One can therefore pretty much try anything to go into labor. Murphy's Law seems a good place to start:

Will removing the toilet from the main bathroom induce labor?
Taking DOB's spare jeans out of the hospital bag?
Having the house full of people?

So far, no luck with those. We considered trying attending a distant event, but it was too much trouble.

I also theorize that watching suspenseful movies should help. However, so far Alfred Hitchcock has done nothing for me.

Now it comes down to whatever I want to do, or whatever anyone else is trying to talk me into doing. Hey, maybe killing spiders induces labor! Cooking supper! Bopping DOB!

You never know.

WWTFFD?

It seemed unlikely that CNN had taken up necromancy, so I was not surprised to learn that the survey on what the Founders would think of modern America did not in fact poll the Founders, but polled what modern people thought the Founders would think. Measured this way, the "Founding Fathers' " approval of our country has dropped off sharply in the last seven years.

These poll numbers, of course, bears an uncanny similarity to those resulting from the question, "Do you think the country is headed in the right direction or the wrong direction?" What they bear no resemblance to is any particular beliefs or goals of the Founding Fathers themselves.

DOB and I considered that perhaps before being permitted to answer this poll, people should be required to name at least fifteen Founders, defined as those who signed the Declaration or participated in the Constitutional Convention, although I was permitted to sneak in John Jay. We tried it and found ourselves stretched to the limits, although there was some head-smacking when we looked up the lists. (And you know you're a history geek when you're head-smacking over George Wythe.)

Names alone would hardly be enough to qualify a person to answer the question; they should also have to recite or summarize a significant portion of the founding documents, and be able to contrast the views of a couple of different Founders, who, after all, hardly agreed in perfect concord. I bet Alexander Hamilton would be reasonably satisfied with the current America, while Jefferson would probably be horrified.

The trouble is, the Founding Fathers have achieved that sort of mythic status of Nebulous Good Guys, whose opinion, therefore, must pretty much match mine, because I am a Good Guy. The Founding Fathers would think just like I do about the country. Which is absurd.

It's rather like asking the question "What would Jesus do?" (Or how would he vote, or drive, or what not.) Jesus, also being good and wise, would of course come to the same conclusions I have. Considering the frequency with which Jesus astonished the apostles, I doubt any modern person can safely predict His actions in areas where he made no direct statement.

Not that it is bad to consider the opinions of the Founders politically, or the actions of Jesus personally. But we should keep in mind that it takes both an extraordinary amount of knowledge and an unusual degree of humility to genuinely apply their perspectives to modern circumstances. If all we're going to do is stick with our own happy opinions, we ought to be honest about and not project our personal ideas on our favorite icons.

Waiting Some More

You know how it is to drive down a long country road with directions that say, "Go on for several miles until you see the gray barn opposite the gas station," and somehow that gray barn seems like it's never going to materialize? Yet when you drive back home the trip back to the freeway only takes a few minutes.

Or how long it is from when you have the last touches ready for company and the company hasn't shown up yet and every time the phone rings you're convinced it will be them saying they can't make it after all? (When you're not ready, of course, they show up ten minutes early.)

I'm starting to feel like a freak of nature. (Not in appearance, necessarily. Even yet no one jumps to suggest I am having twins.) Every time someone sees me it's the same routine: "You haven't had those babies yet?" (What WAS your first clue?) "I've never heard of anyone going that long with twins!" Perhaps I should charge admission: "Step right up to see QOC and her uterus of steel!"

That and I get a lot of sympathy as to how miserable I must be. When in fact, I feel better than I have the entire pregnancy. Whether it's pre-labor hormones, better weather, or a more consistent exercise routine, I've had more energy the past few weeks than since last October. Plus I think I'm getting used to balancing. The only thing that is really uncomfortable is the occasional nerve-pinching in the legs, which is making those helpful long, brisk walks nearly impossible.

No doubt I really am uncomfortable, but I've rather gotten used to it. I'm sure I'll fully realize it later, like the peasant taking his livestock back out of his hut.

While we are waiting, Wondergirl has started on repainting the living room and we are making food for the Fourth of July. We are not planning on going anywhere. My mother stayed home from Fourth of July festivities the year my sister was due, and she wasn't born until the 13th. We did have a calf born that day, whom we named Uncle Sam, and then renamed Aunt Samantha when we were able to get close enough for a thorough inspection.

I have every classic sign of labor being imminent, but things just haven't started yet.

Miscellaneous

QOC, to semi-repentant D2: You should not have hit D1 with your bat. Bats are for hitting balls. We do not hit people with bats.

D2: But I couldn't find my ball!

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When someone on the other end asks, "Can you please hold?" don't you want to wail and plead, "NOOOOOO! Don't leave me! I can't hold!"

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It looks like we have passed the cutoff for having them born in June, which makes DOB happy since they won't share a birth month with D1. But he doesn't want them born on the Fourth of July, either. (Too hard for birthday parties, plus it will make D4's chosen name sound like patriotic overkill.) Cicero doesn't want them born on her birthday (tomorrow). Wondergirl doesn't want them born until she has finished preparing the house for the painting she wants to do while I'm in labor.

I want them born. Right. Now.

Another Try

My doula suggested that visiting the zoo was a good way to jump start labor. Not only did you have all the walking around, but the animal hormones in the air seemed to encourage things. With 39 weeks closing in and the babies edging closer to 8 lbs apiece (!) I am ready to try almost anything. But not castor oil. Not yet.

We were too cheap and tired to do a full zoo visit, so we went to see the farm animals at a county park. I had pineapple and raspberry leaf tea for breakfast. I walked around the animal pens, inhaling deeply (it smelled more like manure than hormones to me, but you never know).

Then, for good measure, we took care of some much-needed shopping: a booster seat for D1, a pair of "Uncle Steve" shoes (knock-off Crocs) for D2, whose feet have grown too wide to fit in the lovely leather sandals I picked up for him at a yard sale last summer. Then groceries and fabric store, to get fabric to try this. For two babies. Somehow.

Every time we passed a small baby, I pointed out to D3 and D4 how blissful existence in the outer world was. Unless the small baby wasn't looking too blissful, in which case I moved quickly on.

Now my feet hurt. DOB is passed out on the couch.

Still no labor. Does it really have to be the zoo?

D1 and D2 certainly had a good time, though.

To Each His Own . . . Nightmare

Last night I dreamed I had put up a couple of posts on the blog criticizing something. A few hours later, I realized they were full of bad writing and bad logic. I rushed back to the computer to edit them to what I really meant to say, only to find out that people had already read and replied ripping my original posts to shreds. Then I felt dishonest about editing them.

Vanity Fair

Vanity Fair is one of those books I've been meaning to get around to for a very long time. I finally did, much to my enjoyment.

In writing style, Thackeray feels most like Dickens, at least in the scope and detail of the picture he paints and general Victorian style. The colors are less intense, though; there is no broad comedy (though plenty of wit) and no dark images of despair. This can be something of a relief.

In plot, I was at first disturbed to find Vanity Fair very similar to Gone With the Wind: two women, one ruthlessly devoted to money and social position, the other so stupidly ignorant in her virtue that she becomes annoying, set against a backdrop of epic war. But Vanity Fair was a lot more fun.

Maybe it was because Becky Sharp is more consistent, coherent, and just all around villainous than Scarlett O'Hara. She knows exactly what she's after, she knows exactly what she's willing to sacrifice to get it, and she heads there with single-minded determination and unquenchable hypocrisy. It's wickedly fun to watch, and fortunately she doesn't take down nearly as many innocent people in her wake as Scarlett does. (It's a testimony to her nastiness that she makes her scapegrace husband look good by comparison.)

Or maybe the saving grace was that the see-no-evil woman, Amelia Sedley, finally does get thoroughly told off by the far too longsuffering Major Dobbin. Which gives somebody in the book a chance for happily-ever-after.

The Victorians were seldom subtle in their prose, and the theme of the book is right there in the title: the emptiness and deception of the big, glittering world. It gets hammered pretty thoroughly. But Vanity Fair is a fun place to visit, nonetheless.

Impatience

Yesterday I returned from a long waddle. (Three blocks out and back. That's a long way when every step hurts.) The ducklings were blowing bubbles with Wondergirl in the front yard. D2 came running to greet me and asked, "Can I hug the babies?"

"Yes," I said, "Hug the babies and tell them they can come out now."

"Oh!" he said, "Are they coming out now?"

"No. Believe me, if they were coming out, I would be making very strange noises."

"I want them to come out so they can hold my fingers. Will they come out when we go inside?"

"Probably not."

Nor did they.

A few other words of wisdom from the ducklings:

"Firemen put out fires and cowboys put out cows."

"Cowboys ride on cows to catch horses, but I don't know what cowgirls ride."

D1 Turns Four

We celebrated D1's birthday yesterday with a rather low-key celebration, just in case it had to be postponed. We missed our chance to have four children under the age of four, though. (Not that I had that as a goal.)

Alas, I forgot to make the birthday crown. But she had a snowman cake. (No, I don't know why. It was what she wanted.) She opened presents. She played with friends. In short, it was all that a birthday required.

As she has since infancy, D1 loves people. No need to prompt her to say "thank you" for her presents--she's ready to call up all absent family members on the spot. (In fact, the only time in recent memory she threw a tantrum was when I refused to let her take part in a phone conversation with my doula. She still has not learned that not *everybody* in the world wants to talk to her, or that we cannot randomly invite ourselves over to strangers' homes.)

She likes to read books with plots of her own composition, to write long words nobody else can read, and to sing songs never heard before. She knows what needs to be done, and she's happy to tell you how to do it. She can do practically anything around the house accessible to people under four feet tall, including folding and organizing her laundry more neatly than I can. She is baby-crazy and very eager to see her big sisterly role expand.

Waiting

Every once in awhile, at this stage, I feel a need to post just to say: Still here. Still in one piece. Still waiting.

We are also waiting to see if the ducklings are going to come down with the chicken pox. (Two weeks ago, Cicero had an outbreak of shingles right after babysitting them.) It would certainly be better to get that over with before the babies arrive. This situation has precedent, as DOB and his siblings began erupting just as their mother went into labor with B5.

One of the carseat covers is clean. The other does not seem to detach from the seat. That has got to be the stupidest idea ever--a non-washable infant car seat?--or else we are all just missing something obvious.

I have crossed the point of true desperation--where labor sounds like more fun than still being pregnant. Wondergirl sent ahead some matching outfits for coming home, both in newborn (5-8 lb.) and 0-3 m. sizes. If I snip the tags off the newborn size clothes and wash them right away the babies will wait until 41 weeks and be 8.5 lbs each.

The weather has cooled off enough to permit long walks and Wondergirl arrives tomorrow afternoon. Some people say fresh pineapple helps--it couldn't hurt to try.

Get Those Animals Out of the Muddy, Muddy

We read the story of the flood today. Later D1 was reading it to herself out of a "Bible." (Technically it was a Vest Pocket Rhyming Dictionary, but it was small and black and looked official.)

"And the Lord said, 'Take seven of all the clean animals and two dirty ones.'"

Identity Crisis

The ducklings have been insisting, with a surprising degree of consistency over several days, that each is the other. This sounds cute in the abstract. Switching places at the table was no problem. But what about comfort toys at bedtime--is that just asking for a midnight squabble?

When investigating the scene of a crime, how does one tell the difference between confession and accusation?

Toothbrushes--definitely the line must be drawn at swapping toothbrushes.

And then there's the whole factor of one being potty-trained and one not, which occasions much inappropriate small child mirth.

Eventually the parental mind becomes overtaxed with being corrected at every turn. "No, I'm not D2. I'm D1!" DOB was at last forced to declare a ban on assumed names until the grownups have more mental energy.

And privately commented that he had thought it most unfair long ago when his parents had enacted the same rule.

Things Containing Five

The rules:
1. Post the rules of the game at the beginning.
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves.
3. At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read the player’s blog.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.

I was tagged by Wendy from Zoom Times.

What were you doing five years ago?
Five years ago I was finishing up my work at two different jobs (public policy research and teaching high school government) in preparation for getting married and moving across the country. DOB was across the country, trying to start a financial planning business. We didn't get to talk very much. It's nice to have him handier now--at least we can collapse in exhaustion together, even though we still don't get to talk very much.

What are five things on your to-do list for today?
1. Fix breakfast.
2. Fix lunch.
3. Keep the ducklings alive and reasonably happy.
4. Make sure the ducklings are ready to go to Grandma's house.
5. Nap.

What are five snacks you enjoy?
1. Popcorn, air popped with butter and salt
2. Smoothies or popsicles made with yogurt and fruit
3. Banana bread or zucchini bread with cream cheese (Oh please, please, please. I've been craving this for weeks.)
4. Baby carrots
5. Graham crackers with peanut butter

What are five things you would do if you were a billionaire?
1. Buy an incredibly cool house.
2. Hire a garden designer to make an incredibly cool back garden with all sorts of surprises. And no mosquitoes. Or hardly any.
3. Hire a full-time housekeeper and maybe a gardener while I was at it.
4. Buy a second home on the Puget Sound and spend the summer out there every year.
5. Write books with DOB.

What are five of your bad habits?
1. Procrastination
2. Setting down books on their spines to mark my place (Evil, evil, evil. But I never can keep track of bookmarks.)
3. Reading or surfing the internet while I eat.
4. Ignoring everything around me.
5. Nit-picking the grammar and logic of perfectly nice and sincere people. (Not to their faces, of course.)

What are five places where you have lived?
1. Olalla, Washington
2. Olympia, Washington
3. Wilmington, Ohio
4. Loveland, Ohio
5. Cincinnati, Ohio

What are five jobs you’ve had?
1. Office manager for a homeschooling organization
2. Research analyst for a public policy think tank
3. Teacher at a Christian high school
4. Assistant to DOB in financial planning (Paperwork is NOT my thing, I discovered.)
5. Mother

Time to return to item number 5 on my to-do list, so I'll skip the tagging for now. Feel free to take it!

All-Natural Hair Mousse

All-natural hair products are hard to find. Especially mousse for some reason. What can be found is outrageously expensive. We didn't think there was any hope of us making our own, though, when we can hardly get dinner on the table. Until we discovered this recipe for homemade mousse:

1/4 tsp. plain gelatin
1 cup boiling water

Mix together thoroughly (that's the important part, it can take a few minutes for the gelatin to completely dissolve), allow to cool, and use on your hair.

That's it. We stored it in an old hair gel bottle and it works great. You don't get that fun foamy white stuff out of it, but it does hold hair steady very nicely. You can adapt the amount of gelatin if you want a bit stiffer mixture; DOB likes 3/8 teaspoon per cup of water.

Find more frugal tips at Frugal Friday.

The Guessing Game

After what happened last time, I'm a little nervous about posting this. But I refuse to be superstitious.

So, it is time to guess when D3 and D4 will arrive and how large they will be. Winner gets . . . can we award the same titles we used last time? If not, you'll have to be content with bragging rights.

Enter guesses as to: The date of their joint arrival, the time between their individual births, and each one's individual weight. If you really want to play outsmart the ultrasound technician and guess a different gender combination than we have been told, that's up to you.

Pertinent Facts:
Official due date is July 8.
Although twins proverbially come early, that's just an average and accounts for the larger number of people with complications. I haven't had any complications or any signs of labor so far.
I've never gone overdue.
I currently have no backup plan for induction or c-section. My doctor is committed to letting nature take its course, assuming there's no signs of trouble. I'm going to start taking long wobbles as soon as Wondergirl arrives on the 17th, though.
The twins have been measuring right on target for single babies of the same gestational age, with the advantage of an ounce or two going to the boy at last check. Ultrasound weights are notoriously sketchy, though.

We don't get it

Gone With the Wind. Supposedly one of the greatest movies of all time.

Why?

Every once in awhile DOB and I pick out a movie to watch just because of its alleged cultural significance (as opposed to the classic movies we watch because we do, in fact, like classic movies). We've been working our way through the Star Wars series, slowly and painfully, on this theory, but at least there I can see the childhood nostalgia angle.

But Gone With the Wind's popularity can't be coming from that. So what is there to like? Every single character in the film is either despicable or insipid. Or despicably insipid, like Ashley Wilkes. (Who really ought to be off being the Scarlet Pimpernel, anyway.) And everyone is so whiny. If the southerners were really that whiny, no wonder they lost the war.

We trudged on through hour after hour (not consecutively) of How Scarlett's Consummate Selfishness Caused Nearly As Much Trouble As General Sherman. We never did get it. I suppose it counts as tragedy, since she ends up with only the money and land she has sacrificed everyone else to get, but tragedy is only worth watching if the main character is somewhat interesting. Scarlett is just a brat, who transforms herself into a more cunning brat. A brat in nice dresses, yes, but that should hardly be enough.

At last we reached the end, and took heart. Tomorrow is another day, and the fourth season of Jeeves and Wooster has come into the library.

It's not what it looks like

We're really not running a gambling den for preschoolers.

But we do have some pretty shady characters around here.