I walked into the bathroom this morning, flipped the switch and the light came on. I realize that for most people this is not an unusual experience. But our bathroom light is special. In the words of a friend (describing the windshield wiper on his 1980 pickup truck, which coincidentally had a similar sort of problem) "it's not broken, it just works in a different way". A few years ago, the light went out. Experiments with a new bulb and jiggling various wires failed to make it come back on. We assumed a problem with the wiring. Fortunately vanity lights and the good old sun keep the room reasonably well lit, and "fix wierd bathroom light" soon fell to the bottom of a very long to-do list.
The habit of flipping the switch persisted, and a few months later the light came back on. Over the years this has become a pattern. The light is off and then, one day, it comes on. Once it resumes functioning, we have light in the shower for days or weeks, then one day it disappears again. And because I don't really expect it to work, it has become a pleasant little suprise, an omen of a good day. Oh look, the light is back on, I say to myself as I get into the shower. And I am cheered by the unaccustomed brightness until it goes away again.
I have tried to connect the light's moods to various factors -- the temperature, whether we've been walking around in the attic -- but have never found a predictable pattern. And my response to this intermittent electrical mystery has gotten me thinking about seasons.
We have seasons, of course. Times when the weather is different and we need some rearrangements in our wardrobes to move in comfort from our climate-controlled homes to our climate-controlled cars to our climate-controlled offices. But modern life has pretty much been engineered to obliterate seasonality. We can buy pineapples and mangos at the supermarket all year long. If the bed is chilly in mid-winter we don't have to light a fire or add another quilt, we simply punch "up" on the thermostat. Sweat is an embarrassment to be avoided. Drafts are just indications that it's time to buy new storm windows. We feel entitled to all of life's comforts, delivered in thirty minutes or less, all the time.
But the truth is that life's biggest joys are for the most part seasonal. The tomatos I buy next month at the supermarket just won't taste like the ones I got at the farmer's market in the heat of July. Next week those beautiful fall leaves on the drive home will have disappeared. Christmas comes but once a year. Family traditions change. Friends move away. Our children will not be babies forever, our bodies will not be young and pretty-much-healthy forever, our parents and grandparents will not be around to share our lives forever.
We all resist change. When we find something good, we want to hold on. But I am learning that life has seasons, and that pineapple in January and a life in which "good things" are frozen and preserved so that no new good things can fit into my tightly controlled universe, may blunt the joy of encountering the new and the unexpected, the uncontrollable blessing. And I wonder, as I shower in a warm glow, whether God might be using my bathroom light as a reminder to bask in the season, while it lasts.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2012
To The Mountains! Said Fred
That's a line that only those who have read "Big Dog, Little Dog" far too many times can really appreciate, but we did look a bit like Ted and Fred as we piled into the car for our recent trip to the mountains of southern Virginia. Wonderful friends, lots of time to relax together, and a rare chance to get out on the trail with all four boys -- what could be better!
Enjoy some photos of our mountain weekend:
Virginia Highlands Photos
Enjoy some photos of our mountain weekend:
Virginia Highlands Photos
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Go Heels: Tater Tot's Birth Story
Background: I've been slow to post P's birth story, in honor of his turning six months old today, here it is.
I have never made it to 40 weeks gestation, and labor with my third child was three hours and eight minutes long. So when the Tater Tot came along, I didn't think patience would be a big part of the equation. In fact I figured my biggest problem would be not delivering on the side of the road. Maybe we should have a plastic sheet and some towels around just in case, I said. Forget that, we're headed for the hospital as soon as we're sure it's on, my husband said. I hope we have time to take pictures, I said.
Fast forward to 38 weeks. My shortest pregnancy lasted 38 weeks, 3 days. My longest was 39 weeks, 2 days. So with family members coming in to town at 38 weeks and staying through 40, we figured we should have it covered.
Thirty eight and six. Mark and I planned a last date night while my sister heroically babysat all three nephews. During dinner, contractions began. Four minutes apart. One minute long. Thai food does it every time, he said. Maybe we should skip the movie, I said. We strolled outside the restaurant. I think this is really it, I said. We stopped for dessert. Contractions spaced out, then stopped. Should have gone to the movie, we said.
Thirty nine and three. My regular midwife appointment. The Tater Tot now holds the family record for gestating time. I've always been a cervix agnostic. I think it's better not to know what's going on down there til it becomes obvious. But with four days of child care coverage left I'm getting a bit jumpy. Would you like me to check? she says. I cave. You're dilated to about 2, she says. Would you like me to strip your membranes? I cave again.
4:30 pm. I wake up from a lovely nap, walk into the bathroom and get a whopper sink-clutching contraction. Hmmm, could be something. Or not. I am no longer confident in my predictive abilities.
5:30 pm. We have run out of "I'm sure I'll still be pregnant by then" groceries, so we all go out for pizza. Steady contractions five or six minutes apart do not deter me from eating a few slices. You never know when you're going to need that carbohydrate load.
7:00 pm. Contractions continue to come, and it's now time for a serious strategy session. At 9pm the Duke/Carolina game, perhaps the biggest rivalry in college basketball, tips off in the stadium next door to our hospital. For weeks I have been sternly instructing this baby that the one time it CANNOT be born is during the Duke/Carolina game. Ah, labor irony. I think it's going pretty slow, I say. I think I can make it til halftime. Earlier we asked the midwife how we should get to the hospital during game night traffic and she said, "Call an ambulance". No kidding. I put the other kiddos to bed. It's nice to know they're all settled.
10:00 pm. The golden hour--halftime. We jump in the car, our timing determined not by how far apart the contractions are, but how long til the final buzzer. It's eerily silent as we approach the campus. Every living, breathing thing in Chapel Hill is either at the Dean Dome or at home in front of the television.
10:30 pm. Meg, one of my favorite midwives, is on call and I'm dilated to 5. It's really quiet around here tonight, the nurse says. (Apparently even babies in utero don't want to be disturbed during the big game.) Do you want me to get the tub ready? My previous trips to this hospital have all involved brief but lively stops in triage and pushing out a baby the instant I get into a real room. What do you know, they have tubs.
11:00 pm. We all keep a vague eye on the game on TV. I sit on the birth ball, get a back massage, and drink some Gatorade. If those guys need it, I definitely do. They only have to play for sixty minutes.
12:00 am. I live in the tub for about an hour and it is indeed all it's cracked up to be. My oh-so-nice nurse Jennydoes does heart rate checks with a little waterproof thingie. Meg hangs out by the tub and chats between contractions from time to time. The game is over. Carolina lost. We hope it's not an omen.
12:50 am. Contractions kick up a notch, so I get out. The tubs aren't set up to allow a water birth, and I really don't want to crawl out dripping wet and cold during transition. Some of the Gatorade and pizza make a reappearance. Based on prior experience I'm confident that vomiting usually marks the final leg of this journey. We'll be all done in an hour.
2:30 am. Really? Weren't we supposed to have a baby already? I have a nice rhythm going marching up and down the black and white squares on the floor, three or four lengths of the room for each contraction. I know I can do this, I'm just starting to wonder how long I can do it. Every contraction I think surely my water will break and just wash the baby out, but no such luck. I'm starting to feel a little pushy, but wonder if it's wishful thinking because I am so ready to move on to the pushing stage. We finally decide to check progress. 9 cm. We debate whether we should break the water to move things along a bit. I've always liked to wait for the old natural "pop" but...I am not enthralled by the idea of delivering an 8 pound baby in an intact bag of waters.
Meg breaks my water and everyone is very impressed by the volume of amniotic fluid. Nice to know all that weight and girth wasn't just excess fat! Tater Tot immediately moves down and I'm at 9.5 cm with just a lip left. Meg helps move it over baby's head. I have heard horror stories about this lip-pushing business, but it doesn't seem so bad.
The pushing stage takes more work than with babies #2 and #3. I think the Tater Tot just started off higher, so had more distance to travel. I feel like I'm not making a lot of progress, but then my cheerleaders (Mark, Jenny and Meg made a great team covering the upper, mid and lower zones respectively) start to report sightings of a hairy little head. I'm very very happy to be pushing instead of pacing.
3:58 am. Tater Tot makes his way into the world in a slow and (relatively) dignified manner with Meg's gentle assistance. Midwives rock! His gender was a "suprise", but I think after three boys we were sort of expecting another. We love boys! I say. Throughout the pregnancy I wondered if I had a secret, unconscious desire for a girl, but at this moment I know that I'm really excited to be a family of four boys.
He comes to me immediately for a skin-to-skin snuggle and feed, all warm and damp and fresh baby smelling. We cut the cord pretty quickly because we want to donate cord blood.
We nurse and the placenta is delivered without much fanfare. Tater Tot has a weigh in: 21 1/4 inches, 8lbs 1 oz. Almost the same measurements as his oldest big brother
Daddy takes a well-earned post game nap on the foldout sofa while P and I snuggle and have our respective snacks. We talk about our plans for the day: warm showers and baths, meeting all the big brothers and Grandma, a big plate of eggs and bacon from the hospital cafeteria. I am so excited to get to know this new little person. He has arrived in a big, loving family where he will never be lonely. But I'm glad we got to be alone to watch the sun come up that first day, just Mommy and Tater Tot.
Epilogue: I will insert a promo here for my star team of hospital-based midwives at UNC Hospitals. We had a wonderful, warm birth experience in which we felt completely supported in our desire for a natural childbirth and cared for as a family, with a team who was prepared and experienced for low-intervention birth. I wish more women across the country had access to this brand of great care.
I have never made it to 40 weeks gestation, and labor with my third child was three hours and eight minutes long. So when the Tater Tot came along, I didn't think patience would be a big part of the equation. In fact I figured my biggest problem would be not delivering on the side of the road. Maybe we should have a plastic sheet and some towels around just in case, I said. Forget that, we're headed for the hospital as soon as we're sure it's on, my husband said. I hope we have time to take pictures, I said.
Fast forward to 38 weeks. My shortest pregnancy lasted 38 weeks, 3 days. My longest was 39 weeks, 2 days. So with family members coming in to town at 38 weeks and staying through 40, we figured we should have it covered.
Thirty eight and six. Mark and I planned a last date night while my sister heroically babysat all three nephews. During dinner, contractions began. Four minutes apart. One minute long. Thai food does it every time, he said. Maybe we should skip the movie, I said. We strolled outside the restaurant. I think this is really it, I said. We stopped for dessert. Contractions spaced out, then stopped. Should have gone to the movie, we said.
Thirty nine and three. My regular midwife appointment. The Tater Tot now holds the family record for gestating time. I've always been a cervix agnostic. I think it's better not to know what's going on down there til it becomes obvious. But with four days of child care coverage left I'm getting a bit jumpy. Would you like me to check? she says. I cave. You're dilated to about 2, she says. Would you like me to strip your membranes? I cave again.
4:30 pm. I wake up from a lovely nap, walk into the bathroom and get a whopper sink-clutching contraction. Hmmm, could be something. Or not. I am no longer confident in my predictive abilities.
5:30 pm. We have run out of "I'm sure I'll still be pregnant by then" groceries, so we all go out for pizza. Steady contractions five or six minutes apart do not deter me from eating a few slices. You never know when you're going to need that carbohydrate load.
7:00 pm. Contractions continue to come, and it's now time for a serious strategy session. At 9pm the Duke/Carolina game, perhaps the biggest rivalry in college basketball, tips off in the stadium next door to our hospital. For weeks I have been sternly instructing this baby that the one time it CANNOT be born is during the Duke/Carolina game. Ah, labor irony. I think it's going pretty slow, I say. I think I can make it til halftime. Earlier we asked the midwife how we should get to the hospital during game night traffic and she said, "Call an ambulance". No kidding. I put the other kiddos to bed. It's nice to know they're all settled.
10:00 pm. The golden hour--halftime. We jump in the car, our timing determined not by how far apart the contractions are, but how long til the final buzzer. It's eerily silent as we approach the campus. Every living, breathing thing in Chapel Hill is either at the Dean Dome or at home in front of the television.
10:30 pm. Meg, one of my favorite midwives, is on call and I'm dilated to 5. It's really quiet around here tonight, the nurse says. (Apparently even babies in utero don't want to be disturbed during the big game.) Do you want me to get the tub ready? My previous trips to this hospital have all involved brief but lively stops in triage and pushing out a baby the instant I get into a real room. What do you know, they have tubs.
11:00 pm. We all keep a vague eye on the game on TV. I sit on the birth ball, get a back massage, and drink some Gatorade. If those guys need it, I definitely do. They only have to play for sixty minutes.
12:00 am. I live in the tub for about an hour and it is indeed all it's cracked up to be. My oh-so-nice nurse Jennydoes does heart rate checks with a little waterproof thingie. Meg hangs out by the tub and chats between contractions from time to time. The game is over. Carolina lost. We hope it's not an omen.
12:50 am. Contractions kick up a notch, so I get out. The tubs aren't set up to allow a water birth, and I really don't want to crawl out dripping wet and cold during transition. Some of the Gatorade and pizza make a reappearance. Based on prior experience I'm confident that vomiting usually marks the final leg of this journey. We'll be all done in an hour.
2:30 am. Really? Weren't we supposed to have a baby already? I have a nice rhythm going marching up and down the black and white squares on the floor, three or four lengths of the room for each contraction. I know I can do this, I'm just starting to wonder how long I can do it. Every contraction I think surely my water will break and just wash the baby out, but no such luck. I'm starting to feel a little pushy, but wonder if it's wishful thinking because I am so ready to move on to the pushing stage. We finally decide to check progress. 9 cm. We debate whether we should break the water to move things along a bit. I've always liked to wait for the old natural "pop" but...I am not enthralled by the idea of delivering an 8 pound baby in an intact bag of waters.
Meg breaks my water and everyone is very impressed by the volume of amniotic fluid. Nice to know all that weight and girth wasn't just excess fat! Tater Tot immediately moves down and I'm at 9.5 cm with just a lip left. Meg helps move it over baby's head. I have heard horror stories about this lip-pushing business, but it doesn't seem so bad.
The pushing stage takes more work than with babies #2 and #3. I think the Tater Tot just started off higher, so had more distance to travel. I feel like I'm not making a lot of progress, but then my cheerleaders (Mark, Jenny and Meg made a great team covering the upper, mid and lower zones respectively) start to report sightings of a hairy little head. I'm very very happy to be pushing instead of pacing.
3:58 am. Tater Tot makes his way into the world in a slow and (relatively) dignified manner with Meg's gentle assistance. Midwives rock! His gender was a "suprise", but I think after three boys we were sort of expecting another. We love boys! I say. Throughout the pregnancy I wondered if I had a secret, unconscious desire for a girl, but at this moment I know that I'm really excited to be a family of four boys.
He comes to me immediately for a skin-to-skin snuggle and feed, all warm and damp and fresh baby smelling. We cut the cord pretty quickly because we want to donate cord blood.
We nurse and the placenta is delivered without much fanfare. Tater Tot has a weigh in: 21 1/4 inches, 8lbs 1 oz. Almost the same measurements as his oldest big brother
Daddy takes a well-earned post game nap on the foldout sofa while P and I snuggle and have our respective snacks. We talk about our plans for the day: warm showers and baths, meeting all the big brothers and Grandma, a big plate of eggs and bacon from the hospital cafeteria. I am so excited to get to know this new little person. He has arrived in a big, loving family where he will never be lonely. But I'm glad we got to be alone to watch the sun come up that first day, just Mommy and Tater Tot.
Epilogue: I will insert a promo here for my star team of hospital-based midwives at UNC Hospitals. We had a wonderful, warm birth experience in which we felt completely supported in our desire for a natural childbirth and cared for as a family, with a team who was prepared and experienced for low-intervention birth. I wish more women across the country had access to this brand of great care.
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