beautiful

It was moments, literally, after her birth.  My midwife was on the phone with the birth center.  I had finished a shower and was dressed for our trip there.  Our daughter was snugly wrapped in a blanket on our bed, and my husband closely admired her with his perfect love.  I sat next to him and stared at my first - my only - daughter.

There are things that a somewhat-anonymous blog don't let you know about us.  For example, I try not to have a lot of photos posted, so you might not know that our boys look a lot like my husband.  Once in a while, people who knew me or my brothers as children might say that they resemble my side of the family. Otherwise, everyone seems to think the Obi-boys are little Matryoshka versions of Mr. Kenobi.  Another thing that many people don't know is that I never really hoped to be a mother - at least, not until I fell in love with Mr. Kenobi.  Now, four children later, I still find myself learning how to parent, and often realizing I never had dreams or visions or hopes or plans that many women spend years cultivating. 

So, when we found out we were having a girl this time, I didn't have many specific dreams for her life.  At least, there wasn't anything unusual from my hopes for any of my children. I didn't really want lots of pink, but I wasn't super-picky about clothes.  I didn't start imagining princess play and tea parties, nor dreading the drama or Bieber-crushes.  I may have thought about how sweet it would be to have a ballerina in the household, or looked forward to finally purging all that blue sports & dinosaur-themed clothing, but overall I just felt sort of in shock that I would actually have a girl.  

A daughter.  As the days got closer to her birth, I allowed myself some small daydreams. Maybe she'd like shopping with me.  Maybe she'd even look like me!  Maybe she'd have my curly hair, my oval face, or my long legs.  In the moments after her birth, there had been choruses of "she's beautiful" ringing in our bedroom.  When my husband and I sang the Doxology in breathless joy and he cut her umbilical cord, I had felt excitement to see her and certainty that I loved her.  But here I sat, fresh from birth, staring at my girl.  She didn't look like me.  She didn't look like our other babies.  She... I didn't recognize her.  She slept peacefully, and the newborn checks of heart rate, breathing, everything was "perfect," they said.  Still, I felt... well... something was wrong.  I'm not sure I said anything, but Mr. Kenobi whispered what I was thinking.

Her eyes - she kind of looks like she has Down Syndrome.

The shock hit me like a rip tide.  No.  That can't be it.  The rush of everything,,. a mix of horror and insult and grief and fear and "how could you say that?!?!" ran through my mind. I don't know.  It was overwhelming.  Mostly because I was really thinking, Did somebody just read my mind - out loud?

Mr. Kenobi was hushed, even awe-struck, maybe a tiny concerned, and yet totally and completely in love with her.  He looked at her and looked at me as if it was the happiest moment in his life. I couldn't look at him, for fear I'd burst into tears. I was trying to convince myself that it was all fine.  I felt numb and my mind raced, wondering why she didn't look like I expected.  I tried to tell myself that my mind was clouded from the surge of hormones and adrenalin of birth.  I was still reeling from the unbelievable birth experience, but if we could just get to the birth center, everything would be okay.  I'd have our daughter, she'd be beautiful just like they said she was, and everyone would come visit us and make us dinners and love our family.  If we could just get there...

We walked into the birth center.  We were the only family there, and the place was quiet, warm, and beautiful.  As we were welcomed and settled into the room, the midwife began checking me and our girl for vitals.  I stared at my sleeping girl.  We were at the birth center, but I didn't feel any different.  She had hardly opened her eyes, and I blurted out, "why aren't her eyes open?  Is there something wrong?"  The midwife suggested that the fast birth probably gave her plenty of swelling.  Her advice was meant to reassure - just wait it out today, and we'll surely have lots of time to stare at each other.  It wasn't satisfying for me to hear it, though.  There was something she wasn't discussing with me.  Her smile seemed uncertain.  I was sure of it. I wanted somebody to say those words again - Down Syndrome - or maybe I didn't.  I wanted somebody to say normal.  I also wanted people to stop saying, "beautiful." I couldn't see it.  I could just see, "unexpected."

I felt like a horrible mother.  I wanted to think she was the most beautiful, adorable, lovable human being to ever enter my life.  I wanted so desperately to stop looking for what might be wrong with her and start loving every bit of her.  She nursed, and I was relieved she latched so well, even as my toes curled and uterus contracted with each feeding.  She cuddled up close to me, and I prayed... please God, please... make her healthy... make me love her... what is wrong with us, God?   My head and heart felt like they were on a spin cycle.

I cried, too.  I'm not sure how many tears were just from sheer exhaustion and how much was from fear, uncertainty, and hopes that this was all some sort of dream. It felt like it could be a dream, but I knew it was all real.  I'd try to pray, but there were no words.  I felt completely empty, entirely tired, but I couldn't sleep.  I just stared at my baby.

One of our midwives came to visit us early in the morning.  She has a nurturing spirit and a contagious ease about her.  She listened as we recounted the birth story, laughing out loud as I described bagging blueberries, and sincerely honoring Mr. Kenobi for his care and calm presence during the birth.  She cuddled our girl, and lovingly studied her toes, chubby limbs, puffy cheeks, and full head of hair.  She listened to her heart and watched her tiny, rhythmic breaths.  "Perfect.  Wonderful.  Beautiful."  She left and promised to visit again soon.

Mr. Kenobi kept holding his girl, telling her how much he loved her.  Our boys arrived, eager to meet their sister.  It was love at first sight for all three.  Never have I been so proud of the Kenobi Obi's as when they sat together, clearly enamored with their sister, loving one another, and showering me with adoration. Their love for her was sincere, and incredible. Our family was the way we are supposed to be... for a moment, I forgot my fears and got swept up in the love in that room. With them there, our family felt exactly as I imagined.  In the days to come, my boys would be with their grandma much more than me, and I would long for them to be around - to bring some sense of normal to my topsy-turvy new life.  Through tears of those days, I would reassure my heart with memories of that first morning, before my life changed forever.

Our primary midwife came soon after the boys left.  I came out of the bathroom to see her arranging a lovely bouquet of flowers on the dresser.  "Oh, those are beautiful!"  I exclaimed. "Thank you."  She seemed mildly annoyed with the arrangement, and muttered that one of the center blooms wasn't very fresh once separated from the wrapped arrangement.  It wasn't like her to show anything but perfect calm or optimism around me.  Maybe it was just lack of sleep.  The flowers looked great to me.  I assured her it was still beautiful, but she commented, "It's just not what I expected.  I was hoping it would be perfect."

The words hung in the air heavily as she then smiled at me and asked to hold our daughter.  She cooed and ahhed over her, and asked how were were doing after such an amazing night and birth.  She checked us both for vitals and healing.  She made small talk.  And then, she sighed and looked into my eyes.

"I have to talk to you about something.  After I checked you in here, I left with a hitch in my spirit.  I called A (the other midwife who'd been in earlier) to talk about things.  We're not certain, and A thinks it may be nothing, but I see signs of chromosomal abnormalities...  There are tests to run and things to consider in the days to come, but you should know that she's wonderfully healthy and doing great.  And she's beautiful..."  She said a lot more.  She told us that there were some traits that made her think it could be Down Syndrome, but again she and A were not certain because of the many traits our daughter did not seem to have.  It could be something to diagnose, or nothing at all.  We'd need to consult our pediatrician and do some tests, but there was no need to transfer or do that today.  For now, we were doing well and healthy. 

I was crying.  She told us she knew this wasn't what we expected, but she believed everything happens for a reason.  She went on... Something about our journey and love and our perfect family and blessings... I have no idea.  I'm sure it was lovely and kind.  I was sobbing and couldn't hear a thing. Mr. Kenobi, tears in his eyes, held me close and sat quietly, listening.  My heart was breaking.  My spirit felt crushed.  My exhausted body could no longer take it.  My daughter, yet unnamed by her parents, had received a new identity in my mind.  Chromosomal Abnormalities.

I later told my midwife that the birth center should turn off its wi-fi before delivering news like that.  It was Saturday afternoon, and I'd had about 4 hours sleep since Thursday morning.  I'd birthed a child in a matter of minutes, at home with my husband.  I'd spent hours alone in the hours before dawn, staring at a newborn girl who didn't stare back.  And now, I'd been told she was different at the cellular level. After I calmed down from our midwife's visit, I did the most logical next thing: I googled.

Of course, bleary-eyed me found long lists from my internet search.  Within moments, I'd seen good Down Syndrome links, but there were others, too.  At one of them, I thought I saw something about a mother's hypothyroidism being the cause of genetic disorders.  I have hypothyroidism, and so of course I hastily believed that I was the reason our daughter had a lifetime of health, cognitive, developmental, and identity challenges.  It's all my fault.  I've done this to her! I ran to the shower, and sobbed uncontrollably for what seemed like hours, as the water ran over my head.  Later, much later, I would learn that hypothyroidism is a potential health concern, but not a suspected cause, for children with Down syndrome.

Poor Mr. Kenobi.  And poor baby.  In those hours, where my broken heart and madness nearly took over, he steadily loved her and me.  His compassion and strength were unfailing.  If it were not for my husband, I'm certain somebody would have hauled me into a straight-jacket.  The hours of that day are a blurry, muddled memory.  There were phone calls to parents, there were visits from the boys, and there were tears... many tears.   Between the tears, mostly during the visits, there were forced smiles meant to convince our visitors that I was happy.  We didn't want to tell anyone yet.  I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud. What if our midwife's concerns were wrong?  What if our daughter really was just "swollen from birth?"  What if...

As evening fell, I put my baby against my chest and crawled under the covers.  I wanted to bond with her even though all my previous attempts left me in tears and emptiness.  As we laid there, I could feel her little breaths, hear her tiny sighs in rhythm with Mr. Kenobi's deep sleep beside us.  Her body was so fragile, and yet she stirred intently.  I sat up, figuring she wanted to nurse, and looked at her face.  Her eyes were open.  And for the first time since her birth, she stared at me.  With both eyes, steady newborn-grey, she looked at me.  I stared back in silence. There was so much I wanted to be able to tell her.  I wanted to say I love you.  I wanted to tell her about her brothers and family.  I wanted to say she was beautiful.  But I couldn't.  I just stared back, hoping to hear something, to feel something, for this little one.  She seemed to recognize me.

Mama!  Don't you recognize me?  I'm your daughter!  I'm the one who kicked you as you watched Leno late last night.  I'm the one who was still as you picked pounds of blueberries.  I'm the one with the heartbeat that sounds like rushing wild horses - the sound you couldn't ever tire of hearing at prenatal appointments.  I couldn't wait to meet you - I came days early and in record speed.  I am your daughter.  Don't you recognize me?

I stared at her and began to commit her face to my mama-memory. It was the first in many healing, sweet moments. There would be other times of great perspective, peace, and rest in the next couple days at the birth center.  Friends would visit and look at her carefully, then pronounce her, "beautiful."  Some would ask, "does she look like your boys did?" but none would hear our suspicions about her health in those days and none would voice their own in our presence.  We skyped with my parents, sharing what we knew but also holding out hope that it might not be as predicted.  We began to adjust and think hopefully, without really knowing what we hoped for. We even posted a couple photos on facebook.  And then, I got an email...

"... I just have to ask, MamaToo... was your daughter born with Down syndrome?..."

It came from a good friend whose young daughter has Down syndrome.  She had seen our photo online, and wondered.  Her letter was perfect, lovely, supportive, and kind, but it struck dread in my heart.  If she could see it in one photo, it must be true.  If she noticed, than others were probably noticing too.  Maybe that's why so few people were calling... or visiting... Our church services were Sunday, and we figured we'd hear from people as the news broke, but so far we hadn't.

Turns out, ours was not the biggest news for our little church family that weekend.  As our community came together for a worship service and a meeting, they received an announcement.  Our campus, which is one of four locations for our church, was closing.  The reasons made sense, but the timing sent shock waves.  This was the last service.  Everyone was invited to come to other services and campuses in the weeks to come.  There was a time of questions and comments.  They took communion together, sang a song of praise, and hugged one another goodbye.  Meanwhile, we sat in a birth center and stared at our daughter, oblivious to the events unfolding for our church family.  We would not know the news until a couple days later.  When we found out, it was through an email.  The support system, the friends, the community we had one assumed would ride this wave with us.. well, they were all now in the turmoil of their own losses and change.

I often cope with big unknowns by making a list of the things I can do, however small, and taking care of each item. By the time we left Monday morning, we had a pediatrician appointment setup to begin some tests.  We had also named our daughter (a process that took a couple days).  Someday I'll share more about her name, but for now this story has gotten long enough. A friend had arranged for some meals to be delivered to us in the next days.  The diaper service had been called.   We dressed our little girl in her "going home" outfit (also known as her "going to" outfit) and hugged the midwives.  Then we walked out the door.  As I sat in the car while Mr. Kenobi double-checked the latch of the carseat, I felt waves of uncertainty flood over me and spill out my tear ducts.  It just felt like I was taking somebody else's baby home.  Yet at the same time, I knew that she was mine, and I was starting to love her, and even beginning to believe that she was beautiful.  I took a deep breath and held my husband's hand on the drive home.

So, this is the story of how an unattended, unplanned home birth was only the beginning of many unexpected things in our life.  It is the story about how family is precious and health can be uncertain.  It is an unfinished story, and it is already too long in this entry so I will have to wait to share some of the more hopeful and interesting things with you in days to come.  However, because my writing can be notoriously sporadic, I will share a few final details.

First, genetic tests have now confirmed our daughter has Down syndrome.  She also has her mothers' love for deep sleep and my long fingers and toes.  She has the calm demeanor of her dadda, and takes after her brothers in her ability to put on weight quickly in early weeks.  In short, she is doing great, and I'm doing better than I was on that first weekend.  I'm falling in love with my daughter, and catching up to her father's adoration and sweet love of her brothers.

At the advice of pediatricians and others, we have decided not to share much about this diagnosis with her brothers.  To them, and I quote, "she's the cutest, most wonderful-est baby in the whole world."  And to be honest, she really is a pretty remarkably unremarkable baby.  She eats, she sleeps, and she poops.  She's healthy, she's growing, and aside from a lot of doctor check-ins and tests, there's nothing unusual about her at this point.  If you're one of our friends or parents of our kids' friends, we trust you'll respect our choice on this and leave us to navigate the whens & hows of sharing more with our children.

That said,we've started to tell some adult people about her diagnosis, but we're quickly realizing everyone has their own questions, concerns, and even grieving/processing to do as they take in the unexpected reality of our news.  Also, there is the added complications of no regular moms' groups, school activities, or church services to see people in one place.  Our friends and family are spread all over the world, in many time zones, on many cell phone carrier plans.  Add to this the human limitations of talk-time in the midst of our busy family, doctor visits, and the all-elusive sleep, and we've gone a few weeks without sharing our story with many people. So, I'm going to try to write more here, to give updates to more people in one shot, but still offer it somewhat personally.

Truthfully, that is hard for me, because as much as I love the convenience of blogs and facebook for sharing news, I've also had the unfortunate experience of somebody using these technologies as weapons against my heart.  It makes me more cautious, and less eager, to share online.  It's funny.  You can diagnose something like "chromosomal abnormalities."  You cannot, or at least usually do not, get a diagnosis for, "thinks too much about what others think" or "cares how people judge her," nor, "carries the pain of hurtful words."  Yet in the realm of disabilities and problems of this lifetime, these can be far more crippling than Down syndrome.  I should know.  I've struggled to give up worrying about others' opinions for years, and it is often a battle I limp away from with scars and wounds.  In the past three weeks, however, I've felt like God is literally lifting this burden from me.  As a result, I'm sharing in this blog, and will try to continue to do so.

Thanks for reading, praying, loving, and understanding.

Love,
MamaToo

and then there were four

Some of you may remember that having a baby takes time for me... lots, and lots, of time.  So, when I felt a few easy contractions start up this time, I disciplined myself to stay relaxed and try to rest early.  It was a little before midnight on Friday evening and realistically, and I knew we'd be lucky to meet our little girl before the end of the weekend.  Still, I text-messaged my midwife to let her know that maybe, just maybe, this was really the beginning of labor.  She wisely reminded me to get some rest and keep her posted.  I settled next to my slumbering husband and tried to go to sleep.

A bit over an hour later, my mind was filling with "to do's" - things I wanted to make sure were wrapped up around the house before we left have a baby.  In spite of wisdom calling me to stay in bed, I got up, convinced that I could settle my mind in a warm, steamy shower.  Contractions continued, seemingly "organizing" a bit into an evenly spaced, hardly noticeable rhythm of labor.  Still over 15 minutes apart, I knew this was (at best) very early labor, and so I enjoyed a leisurely shower.  Long, hot showers are a bit of a luxury when your "career" is full-time mama of little boys.  So, wee hours of morning or not, I really enjoyed it.

As I left the downstairs bathroom, I noticed a few large containers of blueberries.  We had just picked about 25 lbs the day before, and I had not gotten them into bags (and the freezer).  Realizing that if labor actually progressed overnight, I wouldn't be able to finish that project, I stopped and began bagging blueberries.  (Yes, it was a little before 2 AM.  Yes, this made sense to me at the time.  Rest, schmest.)  As I began organizing ziploc bags, however, I noticed that the contractions felt a little uncomfortable and seemed a little closer together.  

I headed upstairs to time things, and found contractions, though still mild were now around 10 minutes apart and maybe - just maybe - this labor would not take all weekend.  I decided that I should have Mr. Kenobi call his mom, who lives about an hour & a half away, to let her know we could need her to come stay with the boys before they got up in the morning.  When I woke him, I also asked him to send a message to the midwife to let her know I was predicting we'd want to head to the birth center within the next few hours, as I didn't want to labor too long at home and have to get in the car when things were difficult.

He called both his mom and the midwife.  Everyone would be ready for us within an hour or so, and we could speed up the timeline if I wanted.  At this point, I noticed that stacked in neat piles, around the border of our bedroom, were stacks of clean laundry.  I had spent much of the prior day purging  maternity clothes and larger-sized diapers from their places, making space for the infant-sized diapers in the changing station and (hopefully) smaller-sized, normal clothes for me.  Since it was still over a week to my due date, I had not packed much into the small bag I planned to take to the birth center.  I decided to find the baby's "going home" outfit and a few things for myself.  In the process, contractions actually started to get uncomfortable, a good sign that things were moving along.

Before I had found my shampoo and a couple blankets for the bag, however, I decided that I'd rather get to the birth center than stay around the house much longer.  The contractions seemed closer together and I was certain this was progressing into "real" labor.  I asked Mr. Kenobi to call the midwife back and ask her to meet us earlier, and call our neighbor to stay with the boys until his mom arrived.  While he felt I was probably overly excited, he obliged.  My midwife asked if he'd prefer she come to us, in case we felt labor was really progressing quickly.  He asked me, and we both assured her that we really wanted (and were able) to get to the birth center for the more difficult stages of labor.  Our neighbor said he'd be there within 10 minutes, and Mr. Kenobi told him it would take us at least that long to get the car loaded and ready to leave.  This was around 2:45 am.  Our three Obis slept soundly in their room down the short hallway from our bedroom.

I headed to the bathroom while Mr. Kenobi tried to help finish my bag-packing task.  As I rounded the doorway back into our room, I told him that this was starting to get hard to handle.  Labor was progressing faster than I'd ever experienced - after all, it was only a couple hours from the first sign of contractions, and I was feeling like these were coming quite quickly and getting painful.  He calmly reassured me, and softly advised me to breathe deeply and relax; we'd get to the birth center soon and I'd have a wonderful, beautiful birth.  He also dialed our midwife to give an update.  "Let's go downstairs and get in the car, honey.  We're not far and Mr. L (our neighbor) will be her in a minute."  He took my hand to help steady me and I was reminded how much I can rely on his wise, strong, calm presence at all times, but especially in moments like this.

As he spoke, my heart and mind calmed but my body launched into a massive contraction.  I stood by my bed, and tried to remain focused through it.  Suddenly, I looked at my husband in surprise and said, "I think this baby is coming quickly!  I can't go get in the car!  I don't want to ride anywhere."  

My husband spoke calmly and deliberately: "it's okay, sweetie.  You're doing great and you've got time.  Just take a breath in - nice, deep breath."  He had my cell phone cradled on his shoulder and dialing.

Another contraction followed quickly as I hissed my reply to his "breathe in" advice: "I CANNOT SUCK HER BACK IN!!"

"Oh my gosh!  There's a head!"  Mr. Kenobi, ever calm but obviously shocked, held out his hands to help me as the phone dropped on the ground.  I could faintly hear our midwife's voice from the speaker.  With little more than a single, difficult contraction, our daughter was emerging into this world.  Mr. Kenobi began grabbing from the pile of clean, large cloth diapers behind me, and said something about me being tall and distance to the floor.  I lowered myself a little closer to our bedroom carpet as I felt another contraction, and found my husband "catching" our daughter and quickly (expertly, even) checking her umbilical cord to make sure it wasn't wrapped around her.  A small cry and snarfly breath later from our baby, and we looked at each other in shock.

Our child was beautiful, breathing, and very much here.  Time was spinning fast.  I held her and began trying to rub her skin with blankets and keep her close to me for warmth.  Mr. Kenobi picked up the phone to hear the midwife say she was around the corner and offer some instructions for the next few minutes.  Our neighbor knocked on the door, and my husband let him in, saying, "The baby is here.  Could you stick around and keep the dog downstairs?"  Bless Mr. L, he did stay - even offering to help if we needed anything.  He was an amazing sport, though I'm pretty sure we may have traumatized him forever.  The boys, meanwhile, were still sleeping.

Our midwife arrived within a few minutes, and hustled upstairs to check out me and our little "Princess Leia." The umbilical cord had started to cease pulsing, offering the last surge of oxygen-rich nourishment to our baby.  Mr. Kenobi was offered the chance to "cut the cord."  Since he'd already delivered the baby, I suppose that was a little anti-climatic, but still a special privilege.  The midwifery team helped me complete delivery of the placenta and began newborn checks, and both of us proved healthy and well.  Ever practical, I looked at my midwife and quipped, "I suppose I'm going to have to replace this carpeting."  Birth is, after all, a notoriously messy endeavor, and I'd just had an unplanned home birth in my bedroom.  She laughed and just congratulated us on a "very natural" childbirth.

Within a half hour or so, I went to take a quick shower while the midwives cleaned up my room.  Thanks to my lack of task-completion (leaving piles of cloth diapers on the floor), everything had actually been completely contained on washable linens.  Before I returned to my room they had put everything into the wash.  There was literally no evidence that anything unusual had happened in my room.  My girl is speedy AND tidy.  Sweet!  

While I showered, Mr. Kenobi sat nearby in case I needed anything.  The adrenalin of the past two hours (an endorphin rush that is supposed to help a woman naturally labor through transition and final stages of labor) was beginning to hit me now, and I felt a burst of energy.  "Well," I said, "I guess I can check 'have a baby' off my to-do list for today.  What do I do now?  I'm awake - maybe I could finish those blueberries!  Or, I could put on makeup.  We are going to take some pictures, right?" I think Mr. Kenobi nearly fell off his seat as he laughed out loud. My husband and I are nothing if not a really good team with a common sense of humor.

I returned to my room, held my baby, and looked to the midwives as they laid out the next options.  "Well, you're both doing great.  If you'd like we can keep monitoring everyone and you can get ready to head to the birth center."  YES!  I may have had a home birth, but I was headed to the most wonderful B&B-like experience anyway.  Every mama should get to have a baby in that sort of space and nurturing environment, really.  A complete team of midwives, post-partum doulas, lactation experts, and massage therapists would care for me and our daughter during the next three days.  My husband would hang out with us, our boys and family would get to visit, all in a homey and beautiful sanctuary of baby bliss.  Andaluz Birth Center, I *heart* you and your people.

While incredibly weird to load a newborn into her "going home" outfit and car seat to take her TO the birth center, we went anyway.  And three days later, we put her back in that outfit and car seat to head back to the place of her birth. 

In the end, all that really matters in this long story are these four words: We. Had. A. Baby.  A beautiful baby girl is now part of our family.  Mama and daughter are doing well, older Obi's love her to pieces, and Dada will forever get to tell the story of catching her in his protective, loving arms - the first act in a lifetime of care for his girl.  Two parents, four kids, a dog, a fish, four chickens, awesome neighbors, and incredible extended family.  Our life overflows with blessings. Welcome home, little one.