Photos!

Okay, so ideally I would get off my rear end and write a blog post and stuff here, but instead I'm just going to put in the link to the fun photos my friend Meghan took of me and the kids a couple weeks back. We've been dying to have pics with our beautiful cherry tree, and finally it happened! Yay!

So here you go.

The Birth Story, Part IV: In Which There Is Pushing. And Also a Baby

By the end of this blog post,
he will finally have arrived!

Note: You can find part I here, part II here, and part III here.

Finally, the pushing! Ah, sigh. Pushing. It just feels so lovely after all of those other contractions. Doing something! Progress! The end in sight! After the first unmistakable need to push, I turned to Brice calmly (it felt calm, anyway; I have no idea how I actually sounded) and said, “If the girls are going to be here for the birth, you’d better go get them.”

They were awfully enchanted with him.

I may have forgotten to mention it, but the girls were there the whole day—watching movies, playing, talking with and entertaining all our guests. Oh, I suppose the guests entertained them too, especially Meghan with the giant muffins and donuts she brought. Also, she brought a gift for the baby—a little bouncy seat that they all put together in the living room while I was off in my room doing the actual, you know, work.

So Brice got them from wherever they were, and the pushing continued. When you take those birthing classes, they always talk about the “ring of fire”—“Oh, I felt that ring of fire, and I just wanted to die! It was the worst!” and “There will be a terrible burning sensation!” After two other births and no noticeable “ring of fire,” I was a little puzzled about what was the big deal.

And then I felt it, and my detached, clinical brain said, “Oh, so that’s what it feels like. I see. Yes, that is rather unpleasant. Hmmm . . . I wonder how long it will last.” Meanwhile, my body was saying something more like, “Egad!” And then my brain said, “Well, it’s gonna have to last through at least one more push because I am not about to shove this baby out before he’s ready and tear things up down there.” So, when the contraction stopped, I stopped pushing. I must say, I am rather pleased and proud of myself for this bit. Even in that moment I was feeling pretty cool. Look at me, I thought, just sitting here calm as you please, waiting for the next urge to push, while my nether regions are totally aflame.

It must be stated that Meghan agreed. In one of several awkward post-game wrap-ups that we had in the weeks after the fact, she said something like, “Well, this is weird, but I was really impressed with the way you pushed.” Thank you, thank you, take a bow.*

Addra told me just today, "I didn't want
to touch him because of all that white
stuff." Then I got to teach her about
how awesome vernix is.

Then he was out, sounding like a newborn (actually, I have no idea if he squealed or not), looking like a newborn with all that lovely mushroom-colored, white-goo-covered skin. And he was on my chest and I was staring at him—this amazing, beautiful creature who came out of me. I made him! He is mine. I pulled him up to me and stared and stared and stared. He was gorgeous. Gorgeous and—

Egad!

Neither of us looks particularly happy at the moment.

If you look at the pictures of us together right after he was born, I do not look pleased to see him. I’m sorry to say that I think only one of those pictures finds me with anything other than a major league grimace on my face. And I have one word to explain this: afterpains. It is such a rude awakening to be sitting there, gazing in a mommy haze of adoration at this new life, thinking it’s over. You have gained the prize. And then the contractions start again and you remember you still have to birth the placenta. And your uterus has to shrink. And there’s all the blood and whatnot to expel. And and and . . . You’re definitely not done yet.

So while I may be grimacing in these photos, I’m also drinking him in—this creature I have sacrificed and suffered for, who I will continue to change and stretch and grow for. Inside I’m utterly and infinitely in love with this little messy, gloppy, floppy creature I hold in my arms.

And in truth, I still am.

P.S. But wait! There’s more! If you still haven’t had enough, I’ve got a post-game wrap-up post coming soon. Just to answer all those exciting questions you’re wondering about, like, “What good is hydrogen peroxide?” and “Were your kids traumatized for life?” and “How do you feel about old lady panties?”**

* I love the number of conversations we have that start with, “Well, this is weird, but . . . ” That’s some serious friendship going on. 
** Just kidding, I have no opinions to offer you on old lady panties. At least not in public.

Mother's Day Talk

Here's my talk from Mother's Day yesterday. Mom, I love you! Jeanna, I love you! Happy Mother's Day! Most of the talk is quotes from general authorities, although I haven't spent the time to do all of the quote attribution for online - if you have any questions, I'll find the links for you.

------

God's plan is for us to come to earth, receive bodies, learn to overcome temptation, and return to him through the atonement of Jesus Christ. So we need God, a mother and father, people to nurture and teach us, and our Savior. Mothers are an essential part of God's plan. To all current and future mothers, thank you. To all who nurture and teach, thank you. To God and our Savior, we thank thee!
Mothers: your children will follow your example. Teach them to find joy in nurturing children, to avoid gossip and judging, to respect themselves and God through modesty and chastity.  Teach them these things by your example, during family home evening, and during meal times. The youth will be more likely to make and keep covenants if they learn how to recognize the presence of and the voice of the spirit. Spend time doing spiritual things with your children. When you feel overwhelmed, will you call on God for assistance? "The most important work you will ever do will be within the walls of your own homes." 

Some women can't or don't have marriage or children now. The atonement will compensate. E. Christophersen said: "No one is predestined to receive less than all the father has for his children". Sister Oscarson said "Not all women are experiencing what the proclamation [on the family] describes. It is still important to understand and teach the Lord's pattern and strive for the realization of that pattern the best we can. ... Heavenly Father is aware of our righteous desires and will honor His promises that nothing will be withheld from those who faithfully keep their covenants." When you are frustrated in your desires, will you fix your hope on the Savior?
God has many ways all of us can help. "All of us—women, men, youth, and children, single or married—can work at being homemakers. We should “make our homes” places of order, refuge, holiness, and safety. Our homes should be places where the Spirit of the Lord is felt in rich abundance and where the scriptures and the gospel are studied, taught, and lived." Will you bring the spirit into your homes?

Sister Stephens told this story: "I recently had the opportunity to visit with Sister Yazzie of the Chinle Arizona Stake in her hogan. When she welcomed me into her home, the first thing I noticed was the variety of framed family and missionary photos on her walls and tables. So I asked, “Sister Yazzie, how many grandchildren do you have?”

Surprised by my question, she shrugged her shoulders. Confused by her response, I looked at her daughter, Sister Yellowhair, who answered, “She doesn’t know how many grandchildren she has. We don’t count. All children call her Grandmother—she is Grandmother to everyone.”
Sister Yazzie doesn’t limit her love and influence to her biological family. She understands what it means to expand her sphere of influence as she goes about doing good, blessing, nurturing, and defending the family of God. She understands that “whenever a woman strengthens the faith of a child, she contributes to the strength of a family—now and in the future." Will you nurture and strengthen everyone around you?

God commanded: "Honor they father and they mother." (Ex. 20:12). We should honor the mothers and fathers that are our ancestors. We should be grateful tot he fathers and mothers who provided our earthly bodies. We should honor our heavenly parents. How do we honor them? By keeping the commandments." Will you live righteously so you bring honor to all of your fathers and mothers?
The prophets teach us about families in the The Family - a proclamation to the world. "Each of us is a beloved spirit son or daughter of heavenly parents, and as such, each has a divine nature and destiny." God loves us and has a plan for each of us. President Joseph F. Smith taught about God's plan for women. "“It is not for you to be led by the women of the world; it is for you to lead the … women of the world, in everything that is praise-worthy, everything that is God-like, everything that is uplifting and … purifying to the children of men." Will you lead the world with your goodness?

Elder Ballard said: "Sisters, we, your brethren, cannot do what you were divinely designated to do from before the foundation of the world. We may try, but we cannot ever hope to replicate your unique gifts. There is nothing in this world as personal, as nurturing, or as life changing as the influence of a righteous woman." Will you use your gifts to bless others? If you don't feel like you have those gifts, will you pray to God that He will give you those gifts?

Sister Oscarson tells this story: "I recently read the story of Marie Madeline Cardon, who, with her family, received the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ from the first missionaries called to serve in Italy in 1850. She was a young woman of 17 or 18 years of age when they were baptized. One Sunday, while the family was holding a worship service in their home high in the Alps of northern Italy, an angry mob of men, including some of the local ministers, gathered around the house and began shouting, yelling, and calling for the missionaries to be brought outside. I don’t think they were anxious to be taught the gospel—they intended bodily harm. It was young Marie who marched out of the house to confront the mob.

They continued their vicious yells and demands for the missionaries to be brought out. Marie raised her Bible up in her hand and commanded them to depart. She told them that the elders were under her protection and that they could not harm one hair of their heads. Listen to her own words: “All stood aghast. … God was with me. He placed those words in my mouth, or I could not have spoken them. All was calm, instantly. That strong ferocious body of men stood helpless before a weak, trembling, yet fearless girl.” The ministers asked the mob to leave, which they did quietly in shame, fear, and remorse. The small flock completed their meeting in peace.

Can’t you just picture that brave young woman, the same age as many of you, standing up to a mob and defending her newly found beliefs with courage and conviction?" Will you stand up for families and motherhood?

One mother named Abby did a presentation in her children's school about her job of being a mother. "In her very fun presentation to the children, Abby taught them, among other things, that as a mother she needed to be somewhat of an expert in medicine, psychology, religion, teaching, music, literature, art, finance, decorating, hair styling, chauffeuring, sports, culinary arts, and so much more. The children were impressed. She finished by having the children remember their mothers by writing thank-you notes expressing gratitude for the many loving acts of service they received daily. Abby felt that the children saw their mothers in a whole new light and that being a mother or father was something of great worth." S. Oscarson. Will you thank those who care for you for all they do for you?
---

"The first commandment that God gave to Adam and Eve pertained to their potential for parenthood as husband and wife. We declare that God’s commandment for His children to multiply and replenish the earth remains in force. We further declare that God has commanded that the sacred powers of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife.
 Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children. “Children are an heritage of the Lord” (Psalm 127:3). Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, and to teach them to love and serve one another, observe the commandments of God, and be law-abiding citizens wherever they live. Husbands and wives—mothers and fathers—will be held accountable before God for the discharge of these obligations.

 The family is ordained of God. Marriage between man and woman is essential to His eternal plan. Children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother who honor marital vows with complete fidelity. Happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ. Successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities. By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children. In these sacred responsibilities, fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners. Disability, death, or other circumstances may necessitate individual adaptation. Extended families should lend support when needed.

We warn that individuals who violate covenants of chastity, who abuse spouse or offspring, or who fail to fulfill family responsibilities will one day stand accountable before God." Family Proclamation.

E. Ballard: "Young women, your mothers adore you. They see in you the promise of future generations. Everything you accomplish, every challenge you overcome brings them pure joy. And likewise your worries and heartaches are their worries and heartaches.

And so, my dear young women, with all my heart I urge you not to look to contemporary culture for your role models and mentors. Please look to your faithful mothers for a pattern to follow. Model yourselves after them, not after celebrities whose standards are not the Lord’s standards and whose values may not reflect an eternal perspective. Look to your mother. Learn from her strengths, her courage, and her faithfulness. Listen to her. She may not be a whiz at texting; she may not even have a Facebook page. But when it comes to matters of the heart and the things of the Lord, she has a wealth of knowledge. As you approach the time for marriage and young motherhood, she will be your greatest source of wisdom. No other person on earth loves you in the same way or is willing to sacrifice as much to encourage you and help you find happiness—in this life and forever.

Love your mother, my young sisters. Respect her. Listen to her. Trust her. She has your best interests at heart. She cares about your eternal safety and happiness. So be kind to her. Be patient with her imperfections, for she has them. We all do."

The Birth Story, Part III: Picking Up Steam

Note: You can find part I here and part II here.

Further note: If you are inclined to be judgey about the decision to forgo pain meds, feel free to skip part III. Here is where I tell you how much it hurt and also that I am not a warrior about pain. But I am not really interested in being an example you can point to and say, “See! Not getting an epidural is crazy!” Plus, despite the pain, I would still choose this again.

Further further note: You may have noticed that Brice doesn’t feature prominently in this narrative. This is because, for the most part, Brice was just doing what he does best: quietly going about doing good. He was just there, you know, present with me, without getting in the way.* You can tell from the pictures how much he was a part of labor, but there are very few specific things I can point to and say, “Brice did this.” Mostly he just was. Which is exactly what I needed.

 

Finally, around 4 p.m., things went from sunny to doomy. Ahem, I mean that labor picked up. By which I really mean that I started whimpering and crying and saying, “No, no, no” repeatedly and despairingly. I mean really. I have distance from the whole experience now, which is why I can look at it and laugh, but in those moments it felt like my whole soul was saying, “No.” It felt like my whole world had narrowed down to just one unending contraction. It felt like this would never stop.

You want to know how desperate I was? When Susan suggested that she could check and see if I had a cervical lip in the way of pushing, I said okay. So here’s a bit of information about me: I do not—DO NOT—like cervical checks. When I’m asked what was the worst part of labor with Coriel, I can say without a nanosecond of hesitation, “Cervical checks.” (And that’s saying something, because labor with Coriel was pretty darn hard.) I didn’t get a single check with Addra, and that was bliss.

I am definitely not feeling good.

After I said okay, I also said, “But if you check and I’m only dilated to, like, a six, just lie to me.”

Here’s what she said after she checked: “Well, you’re not quite ready to push yet.” (I asked her later, in a postpartum checkup; she said I was dilated to about seven.)

You’re probably wondering about now why I would choose to do all of this stuff when there are awesome things like epidurals in the world. Well, that’s a complicated question with many answers. The short one: I think it’s better for me and for the baby.** Also, pain isn’t the end of the world, not even bad bad pain.

Speaking of pain, though, I never hopped in the shower! Ridiculous me. Showering was the epic relief that made Addra’s birth pretty much a cakewalk. (Which is only slightly overstating the case.) I remember that Laurie suggested it once or twice (her recollection: “I kept telling you to get in the shower”). And I remember that all I could think was how hard it would be to get in the shower. And how hard it would be to get back out. All that stepping over bathtub ledges as if they were the Great Wall of China or something. You can’t be asking me to do that sort of crazy hurdling when I’m in labor! And for what? Any minute now, I would feel the need to push. So instead I dithered around, forgetting that contractions do stop occasionally (no, not really in this case; I swear I was in transition—unending waves of contractions—for endless hours). Forgetting that the feeling of water beating down on my back might be lovely. That if I couldn’t pick my leg up to get over the ledge, someone would do it for me (because labor isn’t really weird enough without other people picking up your body parts for you). So, um, no shower.

And really, while I was in it, that time did seem to last forever—wave upon wave of contraction, with not even a long enough break in between to properly use the bathroom. (Come on, I would say, sitting on the toilet. Really? You couldn’t just wait for thirty seconds?) Now, outside of those moments, I realize it was only about three hours, maybe four at the outside, of really intense labor. But such is the nature of reality—it isn’t always helpful when you’re in it.

Scootching off the pillow again.

Eventually I was in sheer misery mode, whimpering “no” in a pathetic voice over and over again (no strong, Amazonian roars for me!), and I was lying in my bed. I repeat: I was lying in my bed. On my back! The horror! I used to see the occasional birth photos of other women lying on their backs straining and pushing, and I would think sanctimoniously, “Well, if you’d just get off your back, everything would be much easier. I had Addra kneeling beside my bed, and it was awesome. I would never give birth lying on my back.” Ha! As I lay on the bed, everyone kept trying to prop me up with pillows or suggest different positions. I would pretend I didn’t hear them and then slowly scootch myself sideways off the pillows until I was sort of leaning sideways but definitely on my back. It was the only thing that was even vaguely comfortable (emphasis on “vaguely”). So much for the virtues of gravity in labor, that’s all I have to say.

Stay tuned for part IV, in which things get even more hairy.

* Well, except for one or two contractions where he misjudged that I needed a massage or a hand on my abdomen when what I really wanted was not to be touched—and also to rip his head off and throw it out the window. But hey, no one’s perfect, not even Brice.

** Again, please remember I’m not judging you or anyone else for doing something different. NO JUDGEY!

The Birth Story, Part II: Donuts and Music and Scarfy Things, Oh My!

Note: You can find part I and its associated warnings here.

So now we’ll start to fast forward through some of this day, hitting just the “good parts.” (And yet still in excruciating, four-part detail!)

* Around 9 a.m., I realized I had never put together a playlist of music to listen to while in labor. So I tossed about seven songs into a group and put it on repeat. Because I had exactly enough brain power to come up with about seven songs. Actually, I had less brain power than that because I had actually come up with most of them in my head previously and had just never done anything about it. These songs were on repeat for many hours of the day, but I barely noticed them. I was probably the only one. At one point, Meghan (who I assume was going crazy from having to listen to “A Thousand Years” or “Little Wonders” for the seven thousandth time) casually asked, “So, do you just have this playlist on repeat?” Um, yes. Yes, I did. (I think I turned it off after that, thereby saving my birth team from the edge of madness.)

* I brought in the whole crew around 10 a.m. Susan, our wonderful midwife. Laurie, the birth assistant. Meghan, friend, photographer, and bring of donuts. There was the checking of the heartbeat (but the absolutely-not-on-your-life-no-checking of the dilation). There was some friendly chitchat, and everyone settled in to my living room to give me some space to sleep or whatever I wanted in my room.

* I was still laughing, still totally relaxed, still capable of carrying on conversations. If you’ve gone through the Bradley method of training for birth, you’re thinking, “Oh, Jeanna, you’re not even close to ready to give birth.” And you’re right. This was early labor, folks. Really early labor.

See? Still totally in early labor.

* I spent inordinate amounts of time worrying about the people in my household. They were all there, waiting on me. Waiting on me. Egad, the nerves. The performance anxiety. Laurie had a test to study for—I was keeping her from it. (I really wasn’t; she studied at my house.) Meghan had her very own newborn—I was keeping her from him. (I really was, but she was terribly gracious about it, and she left to take care of him a time or two.) In retrospect, the best plan would have been to send them all home. I could have called them back again when things picked up. But the paranoia, remember—this baby could pop, right? That’s what everyone was always saying about third babies. “They just pop out!” “Shorter and shorter labors!” (And since my second labor was really only active for about four hours, I felt justifiably concerned.)

We must be ready!

* Brice read to me for a while from some excessively cheesy romance novel I had on my kindle at the moment. That was embarrassing, largely because it involved cringing at the plotline. (I think there may have been time travel involved. Or past lives? Or both? I don’t remember; I think I blocked it.)

Apparently the scarf is called a rebozo.
Also, I think I spent about twenty minutes
total on that ball. But at least it was fun
for the girls to play with!

* At one point in the meltingly hot afternoon, I tossed a t-shirt over my tank top and headed outside to walk (waddle) up and down our street. While I did this . . . not a single contraction. Not one. I came back from the walk and stated casually, when asked, that I didn’t think the walk had helped much. I was lying, desperately trying to pretend that things were further along than they were.

* Laurie suggested some sort of homeopathic hoo-ha to try to nudge labor along (“See! I knew they were getting impatient,” I thought to myself), and I said, “Why not?” I have no idea if it worked, but let’s just say it did. Laurie also suggested, when the contractions finally started picking up, a neato scarfy-wrappy thingie around my belly. It helped for some contractions, and I wanted to rip it off and burn it to oblivion for others. Ah, labor.

Still, over the hours it slowly became obviously that labor was finally picking up.

Stay tuned for part III, in which things get hairy.

Update: A friend asked me about the purpose of a rebozo. Here's how I saw it: You know how when you're pregnant and you sneeze, you think your whole abdomen is about to explode into fiery shreds of what used to be muscles and ligaments and such? So when you feel a sneeze coming, you bend over and wrap your arms around your belly? To me, the rebozo was kind of like that. However, if you ask the internet, they don't talk about that. Instead it's about positioning and relaxing and whatnot. Sooo . . . I hope you feel enlightened now.

The Birth Story, Part I: In the Beginning...

Yes! I have finally started writing this down and posting it here. Please do not die of shock.

Be ye hereby warned: There are details in here, people. Potentially gross and/or awkward details. Because childbirth is awesome . . . and also filled with blood, goo, and lots of skin. So enter at your own risk.

Be ye hereby also warned: This is only part I of the exceptionally long, unedited version. If you want the shorter, less exciting, and significantly less snarky version, wait for the summary instead.

It began with a pop and a gush of hot fluid. It was a bit past midnight and I’d been sleeping when my amniotic sac decided it had had enough. I’d often wondered what water breaking felt like, since I hadn’t even noticed it happening with either of my other two children’s births. The answer: it feels like Weird.

My words to Brice: “I think my water just broke.” (Brilliant observation, yes?)

Probably the cleanest this room has ever been.

Excitement pulsed through me as I hobbled quickly to the bathroom, trying not to leave a river in my wake. Here’s what Brice had done by the time I came back: Sat up. Stared at his phone.

Clearly the rush of adrenaline I felt had not extended to him.

So we called Susan, our midwife, just to let her know. I was trying not to squeal in happiness that finally pregnancy would be over! But there was definitely a little bit of internal celebration going on. Susan said to try to rest and let her know if I started having contractions. Just the thought of not having contractions for a while was daunting, but I realized it was a possibility. So I took a deep breath and tried to sleep.

Ho hum, nothing to see here. Just a woman pretending
she's farther along in labor than she really is.

Let me state for the record that trying to sleep while you’re also trying to record your contractions—this is not a good formula for getting much rest.

Five hours later, it was clear that I was in labor but not by much. (If you want to be all boring and technical about it, I will tell you that contractions were about a minute long and ten minutes apart.) I was happy and antsy, crazily nervous that this labor would be so speedy that no one would show up on time (midwife, birth assistant, or birth photographer). While I was pretty sure I could do this without any helpers if I had to, I didn’t really want to. When Addra was born, I had no idea I was as far progressed through labor as I was—right up until the very contraction that was obviously a push. (At which point I observed, “That was a push!” I am apparently brilliant and witty while in labor.) Susan was only at our house for about half an hour before Addra was born. The birth assistant didn’t arrive until after the fact.* So this time around I was understandably paranoid that people weren’t going to make it on time. Far too paranoid, it turns out.

I'm so glad I have this picture. The painting hanging on
the wall is one given to us by Brice's mom. The one on the shelf
was a card my mom wrote to us for our wedding. She died
about four months before we got married, so receiving it and
the afghan she'd crocheted for us was a beautiful gift from her.
Anyway, it was nice to have that reminder there. (Also, you can't
see it, but the painting is of a woman holding up her child
to the sky. Mom and I saw it together many moons ago, and
she saved it for years to give it to me on the right occasion,
which just ended up being my wedding. I kind of love it a lot.)

We kept in touch with both Susan and my friend and birth photographer, Meghan. Time passed. Boredom interlaced with nerves interlaced with intermittent ouchiness. There should have been a point in here when I realized that labor was going to be slow. Every time I got up to move around, contractions slowed. When I sat, they sped up. This is not the usual way of things. It’s funny that the thing that served me so well in labor with Addra—religiously timing contractions—became a bit of a problem here. It made me hyperaware when I should have just taken a deep breath and quit freaking out. Hind sight is brilliant, yes?

Stay tuned for part II, in which donuts are eaten.

* Please note: This is not an argument against birthing at home. Had I been planning to go to the hospital, I still would have stayed home most of the time, since I misjudged how far along I was. The difference is that I would probably have been on the road to the hospital when suddenly I realized my body was ready to push!**

** Please also note: This is not an argument against birthing at the hospital. This post is completely argument-less. Even though I do think homebirth is awesome. 

These kids of ours were excellent at entertaining themselves.

Meat, a Reprise (OR: Histrionics Will Get You What You Want)

A while ago, someone in this household had a mild fit ofhistrionics. Now, I’m not naming names or anything, but I will say that she’s the only female in the household of voting age. Anyway, magically within days of this episode, a major gift card to Fogo de Chao appeared in our mailbox. The note with it said just, “Merry Christmas!” Wow, I felt so loved. Plus, meat!

So that was several months ago. And finally this past week, we went! (The reason it took so long was both slackerliness and the effort to coordinate schedules and have me not freaking out about leaving a baby at home with someone else.) It was so lovely to go out to lunch with my delightful hubby and leave all the kids behind. We dressed up a little, we talked about whatever we felt like, and we could focus on just a single conversation instead of three or four (which always feels like such a luxury).

There was guarana (a Brazilian soda), Antartica brand (the best). There were cheesebreads (essential at a churrasceria). There were sticks and sticks full of meat. Meat. MEAT! (I promise, by the way, that I am not always this obsessed with meat.) There was filet mignon wrapped in bacon. Filet mignon wrapped in bacon. Did you know that filet mignon does, in fact, have a different, softer, more fabulous texture than regular chunks of meat? I did not.

So the food was lovely, and the only real drawback was that they did not have sticks of caramelized pineapple that they carried around (sigh, Braza Grill, sigh). Fortunately, they did have caramelized pineapple on the dessert menu, so even though we were both stuffed and bursting at the seams, we still ordered dessert. After we ate, we pretty much had to waddle back to the car (at least a block’s walk--sheer gastric agony).

We really enjoyed our Fogo de Chao meal. Truthfully, we probably won’t go back except maybe for a rare occasion. It’s just not in our usual price range. But that’s the fun of trying something new and extravagant--it’s an experience to savor for its novelty and fun.

When the server came to show us the dessert menu, he asked if we were there celebrating anything special. Brice said something about an early Valentine’s Day, and I kind of mumbled something about not having our kids with us. But after he left, we realized this is how the conversation really should have gone:

Server: Are you celebrating anything special?

Me: Meat.

Brice: And also . . . meat.

So, to the anonymous benefactor who sent the gift card: We thank you! We celebrate your thoughtfulness. And also . . . meat.

This used to be fun.

It’s been almost four years since I started writing on our blog. I don’t remember exactly the process of deciding to share my now-infamous Mother’s Day thoughts here, but I do remember how wonderful it felt to write it all down and hit that “Publish” button. It didn’t matter that maybe only one or two siblings would read it. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t pretty. All that mattered was that I’d thought of something and wanted to put it here, as a record, almost a public journal.

It continued to be that way for a long time. I would write sporadically, whenever I came up with something that I thought was funny or silly or thought provoking or interesting. Confessional: That time I admitted that I’ve used my babies as napkins. Frustrated: That conversation with my hair stylist about motherhood. Assorted: The animal antics, the sartorial experiments, the food! And, honestly, who could forget the six geese-a-laying?*

But somewhere along the way, I started thinking about numbers. And pictures and readability. And making sure every post mattered somehow and was totally representative of the important things in our lives. And was complete. Was worth posting on Facebook. Deep, meaningful, worth advertising to friends and family. Blah blah blah.

I got so concerned with curating the blog perfectly, making it just so. So now every time I think about blogging, I think about all of this stuff.

And it’s just not fun anymore.

And because it’s not fun, I’ve missed out on sharing things I really wanted to share—big things like Coriel’s epic Muddy Buddy obstacle course race that we held in our yard last year, little things like the time I broke out into uncontrollable laughter when Koa peed on his own face.

So ptui! on all of that. I want this to be fun again. So, from here on out:

~ I may or may not notify the world of Facebook that I’ve written something here. Sometimes yes, sometimes no, depending wholly on my own whims. If you actually want to read my posts, you’ll just have to figure out how to follow me from the blog. Or figure out how to get carrier pigeons to bring you notifications.

~ There may or may not be pictures.

~ I will make little-to-no attempt to present a complete picture of my life here. For my foo who live far away, sorry. I’d love to say that I’ll try harder to keep you up to date on our lives, but that would be a bald-faced lie.**

~ I will continue to write sporadically—I mean, really sporadically—but I will no longer feel guilty about it. If you want to hear from me more, I write equally sporadically at Callooh Callay Callay and fortnightly-ish at MMW (and here’s a handy link to just my posts).

~ I will not apologize for occasionally being badly edited or long-winded or whatever. Because it just takes too much time sometimes, and I get all perfectionist-y, upon which I spit!***

And I think that covers it. If I sound cranky, it might be because I slightly am. I don’t like that I have let blogging turn into drudgery. I want it to be fun again!

On that note, I will leave you with this: (It is most amusing if you flip quickly back and forth between the two pictures.)

* The answer to that question, I am well-aware, is everyone on the planet except for me.

** Is that the right expression? Bald-faced? Because that seems ridiculous to me.

*** Okay, if we’re being honest, I will undoubtedly continue to apologize for ridiculous things like missing smart quotes and badly used semicolons, but that’s just how I roll.