That Time I Almost Gave Birth in a Mini Van...[PART 2]

DISCLAIMER: Birth story ahead. And I'm keeping it real. Because I've lost all sense of shame. You've been warned.

And now, the dramatic conclusion...

So here I am. 41 weeks pregnant. Being 41 weeks pregnant in today's day and age is the equivalent of being like a modern day leper. People look at you like they're terrified you may actually explode at any moment. As if they can catch pregnancy from you. I can't even tell you the number of times I heard, "I can't believe they haven't induced you yet!" Here's the deal: when you're a VBAC, most doctors will not induce you or augment your labor because it increases your risk of uterine rupture (you're welcome...store that one away for later). Which is totally fine by me because I wanted to go into labor on my own anyway. I got so many phone calls and texts that week asking if I was in labor that is was ridiculous. It probably didn't help that I alarmed everyone at the beginning of the week thinking I was in labor. Fact: Braxton hicks contractions are not the same as real ones. At. ALLLLLL. 

So again, here I was, 41 weeks pregnant and pretty convinced that I would in fact be pregnant forever. And ever. Amen. Here's the deal: my OB was giving me until 41 weeks before we talked about the possibility of another csection. So my options were either: go into labor on your own in the appropriate amount of time or have major surgery. No pressure. I met with her the day before I went into labor (Thursday) and we had tentatively put in the books that if MA didn't come by Monday, she was scheduling a section for Tuesday. I felt like such a failure. I mean, obviously I knew that my body was preparing for labor. I had been having contractions on and off all week, walking every dang day, drinking red raspberry tea like it was my job, and doing any other activity that is believed to induce labor...whatever that may be... ;). So she checks me, I'm 2 cm, 60% effaced and she strips my membranes, you know, for good measure. 

So cut to Friday, August 8th. It's around 3 am and I start having contractions. Real, honest to goodness contractions. I've never been so pumped to be in pain in all my life! I had prepared myself that this labor would probably be a while because VBACs typically are, so I tried to go back to sleep until it was time to go to the hospital. Well, that didn't really happen. They were coming about every 10 minutes and lasting around a minute or so. That went on until about 430-5 am. At that point they went to 4-5 minutes apart, still lasting the same amount of time.  And did I mention that they sucked?! Because they did. I had been in touch with my doula (who by the way had a VBAC of her own and had assisted on several herself), who was talking us through things, but really at this point it was best to keep waiting. I felt like we might be going sooner than later, though, so I told Ben to get the rest of his stuff together. Ya know, just in case. Laying down wasn't comfortable at that point so I decided to get up and move around. Well that sent my contractions to about 2-3 minutes apart, BUT they got shorter (only lasting 30-45 seconds) which is not ideal. The doula had mentioned this might happen--with having a scar on my uterus, it was somewhat aggrivated so I needed to calm it (and myself, hellllllo) down, so she suggest getting a shower. Which I did. Which did not help. So I got out. It was around 630-700 at this point. Meanwhile, my sweet mother is in Mobile FREAKING out because I haven't gone to the hospital yet. Relax, I tell her. This is your second baby, she reminds me. They come faster, she scolds. I'm not a typical second baby haver, Mom. You know nothing, I say arrogantly. (Disclaimer: Your mother is always right)

So contractions are still 2-3 minutes apart, unbelievably intense, but still super short. We have all our stuff in the car and ready, and in my head I'm thinking heeeey, we should probably go, but I didn't want to have to be hooked up to monitors all day long and feel like a failure when thing a weren't progressing as they should, so we decided to wait just a little bit longer.  I was miserable, but I basically decided that I am weak and can't actually handle labor because I was probably nowhere close to being able to deliver.  So I decide to lay back down. It is now around 7:25. This slowed my contractions back down to 4-5 minutes and made them longer again. I was having some pretty intense back labor so I decided to get on my hands and knees to relieve the pressure when IT GOT REAL. I hear a pop. A gush of fluid. My. Water. BROKE. I run to the bathroom. So much water, so much blood. It was time to GO. Ben calls his sweet sister Kellee to come watch Oliver (who by God's grace was STILL sleeping), while I stand in the bathroom leaking all the things and screaming like a banshee. He got everything sorted, made sure car seats were in the appropriate place, and basically was the portrait of the calm and patient husband. 

So Kellee gets there and I am trying to not let her see me because she herself is about to have a baby in a couple of months and I didn't want to traumatize her with the yelling and screaming and crying that I was doing, so I go out into my carport and wait by the van for my husband. It is now around 7:45-7:55. There is an intermediate school behind our house. CHILDREN and their parents are walking to school, meanwhile I am hanging on to the door frame of my van screaming and traumatizing them all for life. I owe them all counseling. Oy. 

So Ben comes out with the keys ready to go. I am crying saying that I CANNOT sit down, there is no way, so he says to just get on my knees and ride backwards in the front seat. Safe. So I do. He calls the doula, the hospital, and my mother to let them all know we are on our way. Meanwhile, I am screaming in the background, so much so that my mother thought I had actually given birth in the car and had a full on meltdown in front of one of her faculty members, because OH YEAH did I mention it was the second day of school and we were leaving during school hours. Brilliant. 

So the drive there was insanity. I didn't actually see any of it as I was riding backwards and acting like a crazy woman (I was not the portrait of the calm laboring mother...bless), but I felt it. We live about 20 minutes from the hospital. Ben made it in 10. He was driving on the wrong side of the road, honking his horn, flashing his lights, running lights, going 70 miles an hour at some points through Mountain Brook all the whole reassuring me I was doing a great job. AND STAYING SO RIDICULOUSLY CALM. Seriously, he deserves a medal. If he had a go pro camera, our ride would definitely have put that Texas woman's ride to shame. It was complete organized chaos. All the while I am feeling the urge to push something FIERCE and repeatedly told my husband that, "I am going to poop! I am going to poop all over this van, oh my gaaaaaah!" He told me go ahead, we'll get the van detailed later. God. Bless. Us. Everyone.

We arrive at the hospital around 8:15. Ben runs out of the car, leaving the doors open and it running, telling that he needs a wheelchair. No one was really rushing to his aid, so he yells, "No, seriously, my wife is about to have a baby like now. I need a wheelchair!" I tell whoever had the wheelchair that I physically cannot sit down and I'm going to have to ride on this thing backwards. She says I can't do that. I said I'll hold on tight. I wish I could paint a picture for you all how not myself I was. It was almost like I had turned into some kind of crazy animal.  They rush me in the room and everything after that was a blur. They threw me on a bed, changed my clothes for me (oh the shame), checked me and told me I was complete and ready to go. There was no time for medication. That ship had sailed. **Side note: I had not fully committed to whether or not I wanted an epidural. I knew I wanted to wait as long as I could without one, but I suppose The Lord was giving me what He thought was best.** Ben asked the nurses if he could go move the van really quick. They said if you run. YIKES. He and the doula get back in at about the same time. There are needles flying everywhere, I am pushing, everyone is seeing my everything, and then all of a sudden my sweet girl is out and on my chest, beautiful and healthy and crying. Four pushes and she was here. At 8:30 am. Sweet goodness. 

It was the most intense moment of my life. Ever. We had been praying so hard for a quick labor with minimal intervention and that is exactly what The Lord gave us. We saw the power of prayer truly at work. So many people were covering us in prayer and it was evident. God's hand was there guiding every single step of the way. It was scary and awesome and wonderful all at the same time. I felt so alive. I had just gone through something so emotionally and physically draining, and I felt like I could run a marathon right then and there. It was such a rush and such a high. 

So that was it. Five and a half hours of labor and a 28 hour hospital stay and we were home with our sweet baby girl. Come to find out I am not a typical VBAC case. I guess since my body had experience labor already it kind of already knew what it was doing and was ready to go. My mother has finally decided to forgive me for "making her embarrass herself in front of God and everyone" and we are all adjusting nicely to our new little family of four. My recovery was been so much easier than last time. Insanely easy. I mean, I was still in pain, but it beats the heck out of having your stomach cut open.  Our sweet girl has only been here with us four short weeks, but I can't even imagine our family now without her. We are blessed.  We thank God everyday for two healthy and beautiful babies. 

That Time I Almost Gave Birth in a Mini Van...[PART 1]

Alright. It's actually, literally, truly official: I am the world's worst blogger. In the time since I last posted I got pregnant, had an anniversary, my oldest turned two, and I had another baby. The wooooorst. But I got busy entertaining a toddler everyday. And I got pregnant. And tired. And decided to take up my new hobby which are afternoon naps (PS they're delightful...if you haven't tried them out lately you should. You'll thank me later). At any rate, I have had several requests to share the story of my sweet newest bundle of love's birth story. And believe me when I say it. is. GOOD. So here I am. With a sleeping baby on my chest in between feedings (with a belly full of cookie dough Oreos and milk...don't judge me) ready to share the magic and mystery of birth with you. 

DISCLAIMER: you are going to read a birth story. Walk away now if you don't want to hear it. Go on...leave. Get outta here.

Now, most of you remember the story of Oliver's birth; a long, tedious, nearly 24 hour labor that resulted in an emergency c-section and a looped out mama and baby with a nearly four day hospital stay. Hear me when I say this story is literally the exact opposite of that. 

Ben and I knew a few months after having Oliver that if the Lord were to bless us with more children, we wanted to try for a VBAC. We knew we wanted more children and the idea of having four and five major surgeries just didn't sound appealing to anyone involved (yes, you can pick your jaw up off the floor...I want lots of babies). For those who don't know, a VBAC is a Vaginal Birth After Cesarean. Sounds simple enough, right? WRONG. The road to a VBAC is truly an uphill battle. You feel like you're fighting against everyone. "Well, there are several risks involved..." "Wouldn't it be easier to just schedule another cesarean?" "Is this really the safest thing for you and your baby?" But I didn't care. I had done my research (which basically makes me a licensed physician now) and the risks of a repeat cesarean were GREATER than attempting a VBAC. So that's where we were. Thankfully my doctor was supportive of our decision. Cautious, but still supportive. The other doctors in the practice were as well, even with their comments of, "Well I don't normally recommend them, but you seem like a good candidate." Reassuring, no? 

So we were prepared. We weren't entering into this birth blindly. We knew what to expect. I knew that labor would be hard. I knew it would probably be long. Heck, we even hired a DOULA that's how hipped out we were. I worked out, maintained a healthy weight, tried to stay away from high hormone foods, whatever I could do to help ensure that this birth went differently than the last. We were fully trusting that God was going to give us the desires of our hearts.  We knew there was nothing we could do to change what he had already predestined this birth to be, and that freed us up so much to just enjoy this pregnancy and realize that whatever happens, God would still receive the glory. 

At the risk of this being the LONGEST. POST. EVER. I am going to turn it into a two part. Stay tuned for the gripping conclusion tomorrow...

Keepin' it Real Monday

It's time for another installment of "Keepin' it Real whatever-day-of-the-week-I-decide-to-keep-it-real-on". These are my confessions, people.

First to bat...

1. Christmas is AFTER Thanksgiving. The end.

Now, if you know me, you know I L-O-V-E Christmas and all it's wonderful, magical glory. You can ask my husband and my family, I honestly lament the end of Christmas every. Single. Year. It's like I go into some sort of post-partum seasonal depression. Now, that being said, WHY ON EARTH ARE PEOPLE ALREADY DECORATING FOR CHRISTMAS??? Did Thanksgiving already come and I missed it or something? That's right, I'm calling many of my friends out, and I don't even care. This is what keepin it real is about, y'all. In my Christmas loving mind, it has always been this unspoken rule that the holiday season doesn't begin until Black Friday, and then, you can do whatever you want! Put on the Pandora holiday station, set up that tree, pull out the tacky sweaters, put Elf on repeat, deck the halls in whatever you want, BECOME Clark Griswald, but not before Thanksgiving! I swear, I feel like it gets earlier and earlier every year. Before we know it, Halloween will be known as Pre-Christmas and Thanksgiving will be legally changed to Almost Christmas. I am no Scrooge. Just a stickler for dates and order of events. #RuleFollower #ItsNotChristmasYet

Which brings me to my next topic...

2. I love a #hashtag.

Whether used in various forms of social media, a blogpost, or a simple text with a friend, I love a hashtag. I know I'm like two years late on this trend (I live in Alabama...that's usually the way it goes), but I don't care. They make me laugh and I love it. The more ironic and inappropriately used, the better the hashtag. However, there are rules in my book one what makes a good hashtag a good hashtag. I hate a serious hashtag. Like one that's deep and passive aggressive. Ain't nobody got time for that! Hashtags are all about the laughs, folks! And the #overuse #of #hastags #is #so #incredibly #stupid. Is there a need to compartmentalize every word that you've ever typed in the history of the internet? Seriously, what's the point? In conclusions, hashtags are for laughing and not making people want to #punch you in your #face.

Now, this next one is one I have only ever confessed to my husband, and I gotta say, I'm a little nervous confessing it here, buuuut...

3. I don't actually like U2.

Like, at all. In fact, I kinda think Bono is d-bag. Oh my gaaaaaash, I can't believe I said that. I can literally feel some of you screaming at me through your screen. I know, I'm the worst! But really, I think they're the worst. I know as a Christian (and someone with good musical taste) I'm supposed to like them because Bono loves Jesus and all, but they just don't do it for me. All their songs sound the same to me and they're just boring. I feel like I'm committing mortal musical sin by thinking this. I have TRIED and really wanted to like them, BUT I just don't. My apologies to all U2 and Bono lovers everywhere. I'm going to quit before you guys come and burn my house down. 

And BONUS! I can't stop watching this Vine video. All my teachers will love this one.

Seasons of LOOOOOVE

It is Fall. I have developed a fond appreciation for this season. The nip in the air, scarves, the changing leaves (my personal favorite), boots, the pumpkin flavored EVERYTHING, babies in adorable costumes, college football (though, let's be honest, I don't know any of the rules, I am mildly apathetic towards it, but I love the ambiance of it all. Truth bomb). It's really just a great time of year. Growing up along Alabama's coastal shores, we didn't have much of a Fall. Or seasons, really, for that matter. In Mobile, it's mostly just summer, end of summer, Christmas, and almost summer. Yep. It's funny 'cause it's true.

Which brings me to my point. Seasons. Whether we are talking about the literal four seasons or the seasons of life, seasons always bring about change. Warm summer nights end and falling leaves take their place. Late nights of chatting and drinking wine with your besties are replaced with late night feedings and chats with, well, yourself (because ain't nobody keeping you company at 2 am, friend). Whatever changes have taken place in your life, most of us can say that where we are right now and is not where we were five years ago. You are in a different "season of life."

That phrase once drove me crazy. Like, it truly got on my nerves. I thought to myself, "Seasons of life, how laaaaame." I'm not sure why I felt this way, until I realized just how applicable it is to, well, life. We are in seasons. Some seasons are so much more fun and exciting than others (hello, summer and all your sweet summertime glory) while others are bitter and cold and bring about new change and growth ("Always winter, never Christmas"). Like being a newlywed, for instance. For me, it was kind of a combination of summer and winter all rolled into one. I was so excited to FINALLY be able to live with my husband and do all the other wifely new and exciting things that come along with that (keep ya heads out of the gutter, people). And then you quickly realize that hey, boys are messy no matter how clean they say they are and sometimes they get on your nerves and do they ALWAYS snore and why are there socks everywhere and close the shower curtain back and on and on and on. My. Sinful. Heart. Was. Ex. POSED. I quickly realized how selfish I was. So I worked on that. This was a very sanctifying season in life. And I thought to myself, "Well, I must be done growing and surely I am the most selfless version of myself I can be. Look how great I am. The Lord has done wonders." And then I had a baby.

Two of my most precious, dearest, and oldest friends have recently been thrown head first into the dark, deep-end of motherhood. Their sweet baby boys are both around a month old, and, it has to be said, God made newborns adorable because sometimes, you don't really like them all that much. A friend in my bible study described those first six weeks as "such a dark season" and while she was joking and we all laughed, IT IS SO TRUE. It is. I'm watching my sweet friends struggle and battle with some of the very same things I dealt with and I just want to rescue them and help them, but that's not my job. It's no ones job. This is their story. This is their dark season. I encourage them often that it will get better (and it does, it really does), but that you can't wish to be in a season you're not. You can't skip winter and go straight to spring. You have to trudge through the snow to get to the green grass (or some winter-to-spring analogy). THE POINT IS, the Lord has designed our lives in such a way that we can look back to see the growth. 

As I watch my friends become wonderful, caring, nurturing mothers, I am reminded of where The Lord has brought me in only a years time. I am in a different season. And a year from now I'm sure I'll be somewhere completely different, as will they. And we will look back on these times and laugh (God willing), but until then, we must learn to embrace the season that we are in and remember, there's always summer. ;)

Ain't No Shame

I'd like to start a "Frankly Friday" segment. Or "Shameless Saturday". Or "Keepin' it Real <fill in the day of the week>" as I've heard on other blogs out there. This would be a time where I share things that I should consider embarrassing, but I just can't help but confess. Let the judgement begin.

1. Sometimes I want to put Oliver on a back pack leash.

No, I do not know that kid. And yes, I did google images for kids in back pack leashes. This is one of those things, that, until you're a parent, you just don't understand why they are invented. "Children are not dogs," they say. Oh yeah? Why do they run away like one then? How about you chase your 14 month old around downtown Birmingham on a Friday night because he refuses to stay in his stroller and doesn't want you to hold him and you might be singing a different tune. That's the moment you realize "Hey, a plush teddy bear harness leash would sure be awesome right now." Fear of the judgment from the childless gets the best of you and so you tuck that desire away...until your next outting. Say what you will, but those things were made for a reason. And hey, at least they're cute??

2. I still watch Glee. And I cried at last night's episode.

Some of you will say, "Katie, why are you embarrassed of this? That's not so bad." But then you must remember I'm a 28, almost 29 year old adult woman who is still watching a teen dramedy. And I don't even actually like it anymore. That's the embarrassing part. But for some reason I can't stop watching it.  I pretty much dislike most of the storylines now, they've gotten far too agenda-y for my taste, the new characters are kinda lame, the songs aren't as good (bring back the show tunes!), and HEY IT'S FOR 14 YEAR OLDS. It's like I'm afraid I'm going to miss something if I stop watching it. A TV show. That I don't even like. Insanity. And then I go and watch last night's episode, The Quarterback. An episode in which everyone bid farewell to the late Cory Monteith (aka Finn Hudson) and I wept like a small child. And need I repeat, I DON'T EVEN LIKE THE SHOW ANYMORE. Didn't stop me from watching it and crying like the pathetic little tween girl I am. Lame-o. Though I do have to admit, if you didn't cry at some point during that episode, your heart must be made of stone. Talk about a tear jerker. #andthatsnotthefirsttimeicriedwatchingglee #movingon

3. If I could, I would eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch everyday of my life.

Or any other delicious, sugary cereal. I love cereal. I practically lived off of it for a good portion of my childhood. However, I never buy it now as a responsible wife/mother/adult and do you know why? BECAUSE ALL I WANT IS THE TERRIBLE STUFF. Lucky Charms? Count Chocula? Cap'n Crunch? Yes please. Kashi-Go-Lean-I-Taste-Like-Cardboard-Crunch? PAAAAAAAAAASS. I do, however, like Raisin Bran, but I'm sure it has to be terrible for you in some way because rarely do I like something that isn't. So instead I just stick with my half a bagel (which isn't that great...I just love carbs...more on that later) and a banana for breakfast. Bor-ing, but at least the dia-beetus isn't calling my name...yet.

That's all for this week. Tune in next week when I'll probably forget to post more embarrassing shameless things. Forgive me in advance. 

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

Im an infrequent blogger. Sue me. I just tend to write when I feel compelled to do so. I have a couple of ideas floating about in my cranium for some posts, so bare (or is it bear...I digress) with me as you might get a blog overload here soon. 

Becoming a mom changes you. It changes you mentally (mom brain is real, people), emotionally (I can cry much easier now...boo), spiritually (Oh, let me count the ways), and last, but not least physically. This last one has probably been the hardest for me to grasp. 

You'll recall in an earlier post I lamented about my new body and the shame and embarrassment I felt over it. Feeling embarrassed to go to events with my husband because I was ashamed of the new body God had given me. Lies, lies, lies. I am here today to tell you that the old saying, "It gets better" is actually true.  

Just the other day I was feeling bummed because I LITERALLY had no jeans in our home that I could wear. None. That weren't maternity (and we are not there yet, folks). I had no clothes that fit last fall/winter (which is basically the same season in Alabama), especially jeans. I was far too depressed to purchase any in the size the stores SAID I wore (liars) so I protested and refused to buy any. Mature, I know. But I decided to suck it up and go look for some dang pants.  Worse case, I would leave depressed and I could go get some yogurt after (because it helps. Trust me.). None of that was needed, friends. I found not one, but TWO pairs of jeans that fit great AND were in a size I could deal with. Were they the same size I used to wear? Um, doubtful. But they fit, and fit well.

**On a complete side note, the more I shop for jeans, the more I realize I literally cannot wear cheap denim. Call me a denim snob, but I end up wasting my money at Old Navy or Target only to have a diaper butt or muffin top after about 5 minutes. However, my love and desire for expensive denim is hindered by my wicked tight budget. BUT FEAR NOT! For that is what Nordstrom Rack is for. Designer jeans at half the price? Yes, please. I could write an entire post about jeans...don't get me started.**

Let me back up and state that I have been taking care of myself in order to find these magic traveling pants of wonder. I work out 4-5 days a week (and in mom world, that's a lot, people) and I've set up a routine so that I HAVE to go. And the truth is, I enjoy it. O gets a break from me and gets a chance to develop some social skills and I get to burn some calories. It's a win/win. It's a nice, and welcomed, break in the day. I don't say all this to make myself look awesome. Im not at all. I'm simply saying that me being comfortable and confident with me has taken work. I still have the pallet of a five year old when it comes to the foods I love, but I'm working on it. And truth is I have to eat better because I'm forcing my child to eat well. Talk about accountability. 

I know everyone who has seen me for the past year has thought, "Hey she has a cute kid and husband, but she looks borderline homeless most of the time." I'm working my way out of homeless status, friends. I have come to grips with the fact that no matter how hard I work, my body may never be the same as it was BC (before children ;) ). My hips are wider, things aren't quite as perky as they once were, but that's ok. I know my worth does not rest in physical appearance, but The Lord does call us to take care of ourselves. That's a fact, Jack. Will I ever get rid of my pre-Ollie jeans? Probably not. I like to hold on to the ghost because, hey, ya never know...

Meanwhile...how cute is he?

End of an Era

It's no secret to anyone who knows me (or has read this blog) that I am a bit of a lactivist. For the past year, I have subscribed to the notion "breast is best" even when it was not what I wanted to do. When I had Oliver, I set a goal for myself that I was going to nurse him for a whole year. I HAD to do it because 1.-it was what was best and healthiest for my child (even if I do eat cookies with my lunch...there are vitamins in chocolate chips, right?) and 2.-we literally couldn't afford for me not to do it. Those are the cold hard facts. Well, I am here to say that 14 months later, I did it. I met my goal. ::cue wild applause here::

It seems slightly unreal. I. Did. It. Me. The person who sometimes stops mid-workout because "I'm tired," and "It's really hard." Without a doubt, nursing is the hardest thing I have ever done. In fact, during those workouts where I want to quit, I remind myself, "Well, you didn't quit nursing even when you hated life and everyone else, so finish you big sissy." But seriously, it was so hard. My motto to anyone is, if you can make it past the first 6 weeks then you can do it. Those 6 weeks seem like an eternity. I can remember hearing other moms say that to me and at the time thinking, well yeah but their baby can't be as lazy/sleepy/terrible an eater/"underweight"/tiny/fill in the blank of horribleness as MY baby. But now I know. They're all terrible in the beginning. Now, there are those rare exceptions who come out of the womb, eating like a boss and sleeping like a champ. Mine did the second thing REALLY well. Too well. All he wanted to do was sleep. And sleep. And sleep. Don't know if you know this, but you can't really eat well if you're asleep. Brand new information, I know. And not to mention I had not the FAINTEST idea what I was doing. I dove head first into a world full of words like nipple shield, engorgement, lansinoh, let-down, clogged ducts, flax seed, fenugreek, and on and on and on. I thought it would be simple. You have the baby, you put them to your boob, they eat, they poop, you change them, they sleep, you're done. Eventually, yes, this happens. But in between several of those steps insert crying hysterically, from mom or baby and hey, sometimes BOTH. Because that is reality. 

I don't write this to make mothers who didn't nurse, or couldn't nurse, for whatever reason, feel bad. There are so many odds stacked against us. Supply issues, latch issues, pumping, returning to work, medication, adoption, the list goes on and on. You did what was best for your baby, mama, and don't let anyone take that away from you. It's not for everyone and thankfully we live in age where you don't have to find a wet nurse from the village down the lane to feed your baby. There is formula. Thank the Lord. I write this, however, to encourage new mamas or mamas to be that you can make it. You can do it. I didn't have super debilitating issues, but I still had issues. It's so hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the rainbow in the midst of the storm, but it's there, waiting for you! Ready to shine its glorious light upon you! Remember this: It. Will. Get. Better.

I did it. I made it through those 6 weeks. And then I made it to 3 months. Then 6 months. Then 9. And now all of a sudden I have a one year old who drinks almond milk (he's a snob, what can I say) and doesn't need me the same way anymore. It's bittersweet. Weaning Oliver has been a lot more of an emotional experience than I thought it would be. Let's be real, its been like two days since I last nursed him, so the emotions are a little fresh. I mean, for over a year now, my body has not been my own. I have had my life and schedule revolve around when this little boy needs to eat and I was the only one who could meet that need and comfort him in that way. I was needed. I know I still am, but it's not the same. Those sweet tender moments are some of my favorite. I'll never get them back, but I'll treasure them always. 

So hang in there, new mama. Rest is just around the corner. And if not, that's why God invented the breast pump...and the daddy. ;)