time to be real

I can't sit with myself. I haven't been alone ten minutes and I start compulsively cleaning. I promised myself this is exactly what I wouldn't do. This foreign concept of alone time is so unfamiliar I default into what I do when there's any sort of kid free moment.

So I forced myself to stop. To sit and open up my laptop. And even here...I sit, staring blind out the window. Words are battling in my mind. Flowing over each other, tangling, colliding. I want to speak fluidly. I want to be honest. This isn't about being a mother. This isn't about being a wife. This is about me. Plain, old, boring me. I deleted that last sentence then retyped it. Honesty here. That's the first thought when I thought of how to describe me. That is NOT how I want to describe myself. I'm not even sure why I would think of myself that way. I tend to undersell myself. Underestimate. I really want to be real here. I am constantly beating myself down. Not enough echoes through my mind. Not enough ____________ (fill in the blank here). If you've thought it about yourself I guarantee I've  thought it of me.  I can't write. I can' communicate. I can't influence. There's too many breaks. Does that mean I'm trying too hard?

I struggle with confidence. It's the single most paralyzing thing for me. I can walk into a room, and I fear that everyone is cataloguing every flaw on my face. The heaviness of my thighs. The tooth that sticks out further than the rest. Everything I berate myself about, I fear they see too. I feel exposed. I've stayed home, made excuses, because I believe all the hurtful things I say to myself. How am I supposed to raise a strong, confident daughter, when I talk myself down? How am I supposed to lead by example when I hate the face I see looking back at me? Some days I fear my husband will wake up and look at me and wonder what the hell he was thinking. When he tells me I'm beautiful I rarely believe him. I struggle with my skin more now than when I was in high school. I hide out at home because some days I feel too self conscious to be out in public. I bet if you know me you never knew that.

Admitting that makes me feel so weak and so shallow. Some days I feel like I spend more time picking apart my flaws then being present with my children. It hurts to be this honest. To even type out the things I think all too often. I have so much to be thankful for. So much. and I know this isn't something worthy to let consume me; to break me. I hide behind hair, I hide behind make-up, I hide behind the right fashion. I claim honestly and realness, but I'm a scared, insecure woman....maybe more like woman child.

I don't have it figured out. I though becoming a mother would bloom within me a new found confidence. I mother-bear don't mess with my cubs fierceness. I've found instead a world even more judgmental that's left me feeling skittish and more unsure than before. A world waiting for me to misstep, to point fingers, to put down.

I don't want to be a part of that world. I want to reach out and hold on tight to women like me. I want to raise other women up. I want to speak positivity and confidence, but how can I do that without starting with my own heart first?

I'm back

Hi - I'm Riley, and it's been a while since I've done this writing thing. I miss it. Oh, how I  miss it.  I'm not sure why I let it go. Life? Is that too general for an excuse? Maybe not "life" per se. Busyness? Misplaced priorities? Fear? It's rooted somewhere...to something. I have kept journals starting from 2000. Writing has been a life force for me. Whether it's been shared or not, it's a craving I've denied satisfying and I keep returning to why? Here's a truth: I'm afraid I don't have anything worthwhile to say. I'm just another stay at home mom talking about her life. I don't want to believe that, but there's a voice in the back of my head that tells me that. And I made the mistake of listening.

I did something tonight. I commented on an Instagram post from @sheiscaptivating (if you don't follow her you should!). Her post said this, "I want to know. Into the depths your beautiful bones. I've never done this before, but comment below with a "❤️" and I will comment back an encouraging word for your dear heart tonight. I truly desire to connect with you all on a deeper level. Ready, set, GO!" My initial reaction was to pass right by it, but I stopped and reread it and thought, an encouraging word would actually be nice. Even from a stranger. So I did it. I left a heart. She responded with: @rileyhudiburgh Riley! you are a very talented writer! I really loved your last blog post ❤️

My last blog post was written in July! JULY! I reread it and felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. Why haven't I written a post since July? I've written since then, but nothing I deemed worthy. Worthy to who, I am not sure. I am fantastic at setting imaginary standards for myself.   Enough is enough. I am going to stop hiding from my writing. Whatever gets unearthed I will embrace with open arms. I do have a voice and I might not know what it has to say all of the time and it might sound like a bunch of rambling but I feel a yearning and I know something is trying to come out. We are each unique, each of our voices. No two are the same. You might not like mine, and that's ok.  You might resonate with it and if you do that's amazing! Either way, I need to  remember what passions truly make me me, and I know without a doubt writing is one of them.

So, to wrap this up and put a bow on it, THANK YOU @sheiscaptivating for writing a post that grabbed at my heart and for taking the time to leave a response. You made an unimaginable impact and I will forever be grateful.

losing touch

Let me paint you a picture:

Cool mountain air whispers across my face as the sun settles behind the distant peaks. Birds call out their goodnight songs, and the flames of the fire mesmerize me with their seductive dance. The warmth just starting to feel welcoming as the heat of the day wears off. I take a deep breath, the first in what feels like days. I glance into the darkening woods beyond the yard and wonder at what animals might be waking to begin their nightly hunt for food. The mountains are working their magic. I can feel my soul begin to settle in for the renewing only a quiet, fireside night can do. 

Now let's flash back a little over 24 hours ago:

If you would have seen me you would've thought maybe I was quiet because of a long day of 4th of July traditions. You would have probably heard a sigh of exasperation directed towards overly tired children using up their last leg of energy (theirs and mine). You would have probably seen a smile or two, and maybe heard some obligatory small talk. 

What you wouldn't have seen is how hard I was fighting to keep myself from falling apart. You wouldn't have known how tight my heart felt in my chest or known about the burn of tears right behind my eyes. I couldn't wait for the day to be over. I couldn't wait to escape the people, my family, just to try to breathe. 

I feel like I've lost touch with who I am....or who I thought I was. Maybe I got caught up in an image I thought I wanted to be, or an image I thought was expected of me. I stopped fighting for my happy and now I don't feel sure of what that is anymore. I think it would be easy for me to put the blame on social media, outside standards, other people, long days of mothering...but the truth is I allowed all of that noise to take over. 

You might not know this about me, but behind the pretty pictures I post, hides an insecure woman, who has let fear and social anxiety call the shots. It's not pretty. It's isolating and lonely. I more often than not avoid situations that I know will make me feel uncomfortable. I rarely try new things and I make excuses for not following my dreams. I recently finished reading Hannah Brencher's book Come Matter Here and first off go buy it and read it. I'll even lend it to you if you don't mind a book that has underlines every where.  I was sad when it ended. In fact, I forced myself to slow down while I read it; to really take it in. I felt like I was sitting with a friend in a coffee shop being confided in. I loved it. Her words were so relevant to me, so eye-opening. Sometimes I felt gut-punched with conviction by them. 

I might struggle to see my strengths and I may doubt that I have a calling, but I know that I have something to offer someone. I might have lost sight of what really matters in life and what things truly bring me joy but I don't have to wallow and continue to feel alone. Her book definitely helped me to recognize how much I let fear run things and I'm so over it. Of course I will have weak moments, and I will falter. I won't change over night but I will try to be more aware of when it starts to happen. I have goals and dreams and I'm ready to start pursing them instead of making excuses. I love being a mother and I love being a wife, but I know there is more for me. I know that the more I nurture myself and my calling the better mother, wife and friend I'll be. 

I am making a small goal for myself, because I think small goals make the big ones more attainable. I'm starting with vulnerability. Honest answers that are usually covered with genial pleasantries. Maybe on the 4th, I should've shown my pain instead of hiding it with quiet smiles. Had I gone out on a limb, and shown some vulnerability, I wouldn't have had to struggle alone. And maybe, just maybe, I could have had help turning my mood around and actually enjoyed myself and my family. 

...sometimes that is heavy

I wrote over a week ago. Old school style, in my journal, with a pen. It started out just for me: ramblings, thoughts weighing on my heart. I haven't' been able to stop thinking about it so I decided to share it.

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel like there's something deep inside of you just waiting to come out of your mouth? Like you can physically feel it simmering in your chest? 

I feel it but I don't have the words yet. I'm sitting in the sun at our dinning room table watching my kids as the play outside. The window providing a perfect viewing of two best friends exploring a world they've created in their imaginations.  I'm listening to music, feeling my heart beat heavily in my chest. I rarely write like this anymore, pen to paper and as I continue I'm mentally critiqing my handwriting. I never received penmanship awards. I remember envying my girlfriends with their perfect bubbly penmanship. I remember a boy once telling me I squish my letters too close together. 

I've been thinking a lot lately about what my spiritual gifts might be. Do I have any? Is it hard for me to see but easy for someone on the outside looking in to see? I started a spiritual gifts test online and bailed halfway through. I felt discouraged by my answers. Introspection fills me full of self doubt...questions.  

This isn't making my heart feel any less heavy. What happened to writing being my therapeutic outlet?

Sometimes I feel like a fraud doing this whole motherhood thing. I don't know what I am doing one day to the next. I don't know if I am using the right discipline methods. Do I discipline enough?  Do I discipline from a place of love or anger? Am I nurturing their individuality? Am I using words that build them up? Am I encouraging them enough? 

I sometimes feel like a misplaced person. Plucked up and dropped into this life and I am turning circles, taking in the things around me. The house, the kids, the husband...and I start spinning faster and faster until it's all a blur and I am wondering how did I get here? Wasn't I just 18 wondering if college was right for me? 

Now I am deep into this life and I'd be lying if I said I didn't question....if I made a different choice here or there would I have still ended up here? Playing house? I ask myself could I have been more and as soon as I think it I feel like I'm betraying the people I love most. But I am human  and I peeked down the rabbit hole and more questions come rushing out. 

I can hear their laughter trickling in on the breeze through the open windows. The sound making me feel as if I've been caught for even questioning. My thoughts instantly change. I am everything to them. I am their world. Why can't that be enough for me? It should be enough and more. These little humans I call mine, life wouldn't be without them. 

I think about the way she says "right mama?" My heart hurts with overwhelming love. I told my husband I wanted to record her saying it, to forever have her innocent, trusting voice saying "mama" in just that way. I never tire of it. 

I have it all and more. In a world overflowing with material things, I've got the true treasure. My people, the unconditional love. It's not a perfectly curated image filtered with the right glow.  It is messy. It is hard. It's loud and confusing and frustrating and painfully beautiful. It's ordinary and unexpectedly extraordinary.  I stumble through each day falling more times...too many times. It's tears and forgiveness. It's the new days. Oh the new days, another chance. 

Maybe the pain in my heart isn't something deep and euphoric trying to find it's way onto my paper. Maybe it's my heart breaking a million times over how fleeting it all is. I blink and they are not babies anymore. I lose my temper and that moment is time stamped, never to be taken back. That moment just gone. Maybe it' too much love bursting to get out or tears needing to fall. I am everything to them and sometimes that is heavy. 

Renewal

"You are the guardians of the hearth. You are the bearers of the children. You are they who nurture them and establish within them habits of their lives. No other work reaches so close to divinity as does the nurturing of the sons and daughters of God." - Gordon B. Hinckley

Easter weekend is emotional for me. When I really take the time to think and read about Jesus' sacrifice my heart cries out. I feel so undeserving. He died for ME. He suffered for Me. He knew He would suffer and He still did it....for Me. I don't want to forget this feeling today or next week because this feeling, it makes me want to run to Jesus. It makes me want to fall at his feet and cry out.  I want to cry out my thanks, my love, my desire to share His love.

April, for me,  means renewal; it's time to dig in deep and refocus. Forget about New Years Eve. Spring is where it's at. There's regrowth, there's a changing of season and it is so beautiful. April is the month I've dedicated to starting Ann Voskamp's The Way of Abundance. Her words always speak deep into my heart. They leave me feeling gutted, but in a good way. She pulls out all of the ugly and reminds me there is beauty in the broken.

This life...this life where I get caught trudging though the weeks, where I struggle hour to hour, it is SO precious.  And I don't have to trudge...I don't have to struggle. God entrusted me with three beautiful babies. They are life, purity and unending grace. They are love, and forgiveness and they are mine to mold into the image of our Father. I feel like I've spent months, maybe even years (if I'm being honest) trying to find myself, my place. The truth is, it has always been right here. Right here, in this messy house, surrounded by my kids who some days drive me to the edge of my sanity. My place is here, in the trenches of motherhood. There are days I feel like I'm merely existing; wiping butts, tripping on toys, and trying to throw a meal together.

Motherhood though, it is holy work. What greater calling could I ask for than motherhood? "Holiness means to be set apart to the service of God, to be different in character. It also implies action. There is a way in which holiness moves us to be different then, to act differently. Holiness is being like God both in our character and our actions." I think I fall into the lie that in order for me to be holy I need to do something big, that staying home to raise my kids isn't enough. That couldn't be farther from the truth. What is holier than raising children of God? God does have a plan for me, just as he does for my children. It's up to me to have faith, to pray and to look to Him for guidance.

the end

I fed Dashel his last bottle of breast milk a week ago today. No more stash in the freezer. No more pumping. My breasts are engorged and painful; in the process of drying up. It's a very sharp reminder of the decision I have made. Our entire breastfeeding journey has been the furthest thing from what I imagined. While I was pregnant, Jeff and I joked that I'd nurse until he was 10!  Neither of us imagined he would end up being strictly bottle-fed. And while I am 100% fed is best, it doesn't negate my very personal battle with nursing, or lack there of.

I've thought about telling our story but never really felt like I could find the words. Now, I'm desperate to overcome my heartbreak and I feel like the only way that's possible is to write.

I wanted this to last, but I'll always have this moment

I was apprehensive about breastfeeding from the moment I found out I was pregnant. I've mentioned this before, but nursing was a struggle with both Brody and Lola, not becoming smooth sailing until about four months in. There were tears, anger, frustration...you name it, I probably felt it at some point. I'd experienced sore, cracked, bleeding nipples, plugged ducts. Luckily not mastitis. I used the nipple shield with all three at some point, and I was pretty chummy with the lactation consultants. I was determined to make nursing happen and my determination paid off, regardless of the effect it had on my emotional well-being. Babies first. That was it. I breast-fed Brody for a little over a year. Our honeymoon was the major player in ending that journey. I was ready and I wasn't overly sad about it being over. I mean, yes, I missed that bond, but the freedom was a welcome relief.  I knew I would have more babies; another shot at nursing. Nursing Lola was different, not the struggle part, that was the same, but the connection with her. Maybe because she was my girl, maybe not, but I felt like I never wanted to stop. I loved our time together when she'd nurse. It was as much a comfort for her as it was for me. I thought I would stop at a year but as her first birthday rolled around I knew I wouldn't. Each passing month I would tell myself "next month".  When I did finally stop I felt all the emotions. I was ready to be done, but I wasn't. A third child wasn't a for sure thing at the time and I hadn't really prepared myself for her last time until it was already done. You can read more about that here.

Fast forward to Dashel's arrival. I thought things were going great! I mean honestly, nursing him started out so much smoother than I had anticipated that I was kind of waiting for the shoe to drop. In the hospital, when the lactation consultant came in to check on us, she said his latch was great, he had a good suckle and we should be fine. I remember still being apprehensive to go home and not have someone at a phone call away to come check on us, but I also thought, this is my third time, surely I know what I am doing.  I nursed him on demand and I would let him nurse until he wanted to be done. Eat, sleep, poop, repeat. Yes, I had sore nipples, but not as bad as I remember. Not at first, at least. I was amazed at how easy he was. I kind of feared he wouldn't be, since Brody and Lola were. Like maybe I was pushing it having a third baby and now I'd really learn what a challenge a newborn could be.

So, at around 2 1/2 weeks, you can imagine my panic when he started to become extremely fussy unless he was eating or sleeping. I was nursing him and letting him eat as long as he wanted so I couldn't understand why he was so upset! I thought I was doing everything right. Jeff and I asked each other "is this what a colicky baby is like?".  There were a lot of tears. No one likes seeing their baby cry inconsolably. What was I doing wrong? How could I be this bad at taking care of a newborn  when I'd done it twice before?!  At his 3 week well-baby check my heart dropped when the scale showed he lost weight instead of gained. This was completely new to me as the other two were quick to gain weight, always above average on that DAMN baby growth chart. I'd never experienced the complete opposite. It took everything I had to not start sobbing at the doctors office. He recommended I see the lactation specialist again. I called the minute we left.

The next morning, with all 3 kids in tow, we arrived LATE to my appointment. It was a matter of minutes before she informed me Dashel had tongue tie. What?! I didn't even know what that was! He had posterior tongue tie and upper lip tie. So, all the while I thought he was nursing and getting plenty of milk he wasn't! Because of the tongue and lip tie he couldn't properly latch and massage my nipple so he was barely getting any, hence why never seemed satiated. I know this is not how I should have looked at it, but I felt like I had essentially been starving my baby! It's an extreme way to look at it, but I was so emotional and so exhausted I felt like I had been failing me sweet boy. Not only was he not getting enough, but since he couldn't nurse properly my milk supply plummeted! Something else that was completely foreign to me. I was quickly put on a new nursing regime to increase my supply and hopefully get some weight on Dash.  It consisted of  nursing on each breast for 15 minutes, then pumping on each side for 15 minutes and then bottle feeding dash whatever I pumped out. Oh and I had to do this every three hours around the clock. Essentially I had no life outside of my boobs. And depending on how much I was able to pump, I had to supplement.

I made it two days before I had a complete meltdown. It took so much time. I felt like I'd just get done washing everything only to start back up again. I began to dread trying to latch him, constantly checking to see how open his mouth was, which resulted in me accidentally unlatching him, which basically made my nipples a raw, bloody mess. My body would tense when he'd cry, dreading having to feed him. I was beginning to resent him for needing to nurse, which made me feel like an awful mother. I went through the motions, not feeling much of anything. I was neglecting my older two because there was no free time. I was becoming angry and short with anyone who interacted with me. I never wanted to leave the house. I'd never felt so low. I wanted so badly to have the experience I had envisioned and nothing was going right. Nothing was coming easily. I couldn't keep sacrificing my well being all for the sake of an expectation I was holding myself too. I feel like I was waiting for someone to tell me it was O.K. to stop, that I didn't have to nurse and pump and feed and supplement and run myself ragged. Not that I needed permission, but somewhere deep inside of me I wanted that acknowledgment that I was doing everything I possibly could and it was costing me my connection with Dashel. I was so convinced that if I quit nursing I would lose my bond with him; that there would be some sort of cosmic shift and he'd always look at me like I'd given up and let him down.

Through tears, I told Jeff I didn't want to do it anymore. Unfortunately for him, there was no right way he could have answered. I gave him my reasons, thinking if I justified it to him, it would make it easier for me. I got angry, I cried some more, and I hated myself for being so weak. It was not an easy choice. Just writing about it makes my heart hurt all over again. I thought, maybe once we got his tongue tie and lip tie laser cut, I would revisit nursing. It was a week away, which would give my nipples time to heal. I could start over. In the meantime I would pump and bottle feed. I would build my supply back up. I truly did feel a weight lift once I stopped nursing. I no longer dreaded having to feed my baby. He still curled his body into mine when he ate. He still looked into my eyes and he still fell asleep against me. He knew too. My body was no longer tense around him. We settled into a rhythm. It was also a relief knowing Jeff could help more this way. We alternated late night feedings so we were getting more sleep. When he was home he'd bottle feed while I pumped, freeing up more time. I enjoyed my baby again. I laughed, I smiled. I spent one on one time with Brody and Lola.

At that point we were going into the doctor for weekly weigh ins. I have never dreaded doctor appointments more. It was never good news. One week he'd gain a little, which felt so positive then the next he'd plateau. I continually felt like I couldn't get it right. I was basically failing my 3rd baby. His appointment to correct his tongue tie and lip tie came and went with success. They asked me if I wanted to try nursing him in the office right after they did it to see how different his latch was but I said no. I told them I'd wait until I could meet with my lactation consultant.  Another week came and went and I had excuses lined up for not making an appointment to start nursing again. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I lost all desire to nurse him, which gave me very mixed feelings. I had built my supply back up and had a nice stash going in the freezer. We had established a routine and I wasn't interested in messing that up. I was afraid if I tried nursing him, I would be starting over. Sore nipples, latch issues. I just couldn't bring myself to revisit it. To this day I chide myself for not trying; for giving up to easily. I know I should let it go but I don't know that that will happen anytime soon.

His constant weight issue was another sore subject. I know that our doctor had Dashel's best interest at heart, but it was beginning to eat at me that they never thought he was gaining enough. Yeah, he was definitely smaller than Brody and Lola and a lot of other babies his age. But was that so bad? Who decides that he needs to be a chunky baby? The constant comparison was driving me nuts. Some days I would be defensive that they were so nit picky, other days I'd go down the rabbit hole of what if something is seriously wrong with him and we keep missing it? They eventually ordered blood tests and urine samples, which sent me into a tailspin of emotions. He was fine. It was me. It was my milk. He wasn't getting enough calories from it so we had to start fortifying my breast milk with formula. It was just another peg in my board of failures. Why wasn't I enough this time? What is wrong with me?

It wasn't long before I started to hate pumping. Yes, I loved that he was getting my breast milk, but then I felt like, it's not even enough for him why do I bother? I made small goals. Pump until 3 months, then 4 and finally I settled on 6. I wasn't even sure I would quit at 6 months but then a weekend away and a forgotten piece to my pump plummeted my supply. I decided to quit because I was barely pumping enough for one bottle every two days. There has been about a hundred times I've almost picked up my pump, regretting my decision. I've regretted a lot of my decisions with Dashel. It's been so hard. I wanted to be better for him. I wanted my milk alone to be enough for him. I wanted to be stronger and fight through all the misery to nurse him. I keep thinking he's my last, why didn't I try harder? I know the decisions I made were for my own emotional well being. I was dipping pretty low into postpartum depression and I chose myself. I needed to be happy, to be able to breathe easy,  if I wanted to be a good mother to all three of my babies.

Dash is almost 7 months now. He's putting on the chub in all the right places. He's so incredibly smart and strong. He's sitting up, getting on all fours, rolling everywhere, and sharing our meals. He doesn't care that he is bottle fed. He doesn't care that it's formula now and not my breast milk. If his tummy is full he is happy. He's got big love eyes for me. He doesn't see my failures. Someday, I hope I don't see them either.

Dashel Richard Hudiburgh

I've thought about writing Dashel's birth story a hundred times. I've tried, knocked out a few sentences and stopped. Distracted as always...

My third and final baby is 6 months old today. A half a year! My heart is breaking and bursting. That's possible right? It's breaking at how quickly time passes. Milestones are coming quicker than I remember. All things baby are lasts. Maybe that's why I've avoided writing. Maybe. My heart is bursting because I have a thriving, happy, chill little dude. Seriously he's so happy and his smiles...the best. He is so desperate to do everything he sees big brother and sister do that I think he's hitting his milestones in lightning speed just to catch up to them.

Dashel...where do I begin. I wrote my last post the day before he was born. Literally less than 24 hours before he was born. It's like the minute I let go of mentally pushing to go into labor, I went into labor. No joke, I wrote my post, and then went out and cleaned our chicken coop. I feel like I was thinking...well labor isn't happening so I mine as well get off my ass and distract my mind. Cleaning chicken coops do just that.

That night I was laying in bed with Lola and felt the familiar braxton-hicks that had been plaguing me for weeks. It was around 8:30. I remember not wanting to get out of Lola's bed. It's inevitable, towards the end of pregnancy, to look at your youngest, to really soak them in, because you know any day they won't be the youngest anymore. I tickled her back, her arms. I let her talk endlessly, all the while feeling my uterus contacting, becoming more consistent. I thought the longer I lay with her the longer I could avoid wanting to time them.

I did though, start timing them. By 10:30 I knew. They were consistent and growing stronger. I could feel excitement and nervousness tremor through my body. We texted both of our parents. I started to put last minute items in our hospital bags. I brushed my teeth, washed my face. Those random things you start doing before you go to the hospital. I was going through the motions of a normal night, all the while knowing this would not, in fact, be a normal night. Around midnight, things intensified.  I was on the phone with my mom and I would have to stop talking during contractions so I could breathe my way through them. I told Jeff we needed to leave, that things were really picking up. Now, if you talk to my husband I am sure he will say differently, but to me he was taking his sweet time. We had a good 30 minute drive ahead of us between taking the kids to his parents house and getting to the hospital, and yet, he was preparing a pot of coffee!! I kept telling him we needed to go, we needed to load the kids up. "I am not having our baby in the car" I am pretty sure I said that about 10 times.

I remember being in extreme discomfort during the car ride. I remember fear creeping in as the contractions intensified. I'd birthed Brody and Lola naturally, and remembered all to well the excruciating pain that accompanies natural birthing. Mine were not euphoric, barely-any-pain-at-all natural labors. So with each contraction I began anticipating the next one being even worse. We checked into the hospital at 10 minutes to two. The nurses and midwife who joined us for my birth were amazing. The let us lead the way. We set up a diffuser, got oils out and set up the Bose. All the thing I had with Lola's birth. Shortly after, my parents arrived. Initially, I had thought I wanted it to be Jeff and I, but in hindsight, I'm so grateful they stayed in the room. I think Jeff is too.

A part of me hates recalling the moments leading to Dashel's birth because it makes me feel weak. Weak because I had expected more of myself. I had expected to have better control. During Lola's birth I know there was a point where I told Jeff I didn't think I could do it. I knew I would probably feel that way this time too. The emotions this time were out of control. I was in so much pain and the contractions were coming so fast and so strong. Again, anticipation was getting the best of me. I knew in the back of my mind that everything would get stronger, the pain indescribable, unless, of course, you are a mother and have gone through it too. I remember most of the time, I'd get through contractions by standing beside the bed, resting my head on my arms that were folded on the bed. Does that make sense? I'd stay on my legs while my upper body rested on the bed. It got to the point though, where it felt like there was never relief. Not even for a second.

My mom and Jeff were standing with me, taking turns rubbing my back and telling me to breathe,  to try to relax my body. My dad sat quietly in the corner. Later, he told me it hurt him to see me in so much pain; unable to do anything to help. His silent, solid presence was help enough. "I can't do this anymore" escaped from my lips. Quiet at first, but growing louder as I began to repeat it over and over until I was yelling, my voice ragged. Reassurances were washed over me, yes, yes you can, you've done it before, you can do it again. you are strong, you can do this. I felt so weak. So exhausted, I could barely hold myself up, but I refused to move from my position. Afraid. Afraid the pain would increase if I moved. "I want an epidural, I can't do this anymore." I felt like I had broke. I had never asked for one before, and then on my third time, the time I thought I would be the most relaxed, the most in control, I felt like I had lost it all. No, you don't my husband said. You know you don't want one. You know you can do this without one. Rage took over and I yelled at them, Yes I want one. This is my body, this is my labor, I am not a failure for wanting one! My mom had tears in her eyes, not because I wanted an epidural, but because she knew my pain.

My midwife said  I had to be checked and in order to be checked I had to lie down. I did it, I moved onto the bed, thinking if I did, I'd get relief from all the pain. She checked me and I was completely dilated, it was too late. The only thing keeping my baby from being born was the amniotic sac. She could see the baby right on the other side. She asked me if I wanted her to break the water, telling me yes, things would intensify, but the baby would come. I said yes. Five minutes later, Jeff was holding our sweet baby boy. They felt like the longest five minutes of my life. I got on my hands and knees, getting a birthing ball to rest my upper body on. I remember them saying he was coming, just keep pushing. And I kept pushing, and pushing, groans and yells escaping my mouth. My mom, right by my head talking me along, reassuring me, hugging me. My husband, right there ready to deliver our boy, and then the relief, our boy entering the world at 3:40 AM. My body went limp from exhaustion. I remember being kind of stuck on my hands and knees feeling desperate to see my baby to hold him.  It felt like it took forever to get rolled over onto my back and him placed in my arms. And just like that, with my baby boy finally in my arms, everything, all the pain, the feelings of weakness and defeat were gone, and my heart was full.