Remember that time you were pregnant, for your fourth time, and you felt pretty tuckered?
And remember when it only took 14? 15? 16? (how many weeks am I again? does anyone even count the 4th time?) to grow out of your brand new wardrobe that you finally splurged on after weaning the last baby?
I remember. Because I'm currently wearing Stuart's pajama pants and laying in bed watching Edwardian Farm. And it's 7:33 p.m.
It seems to be a new nightly ritual… even after the super sluggishness and nausea of the first trimester passed, it was soon replaced by the 6:30 sleepies. The kind of sleepies that make me wash my face, slither into the nearest pair of pajama pants, put on my nightly sleepy essential oils, and tuck into bed where I lay. And knit. And watch old farm shows. And lay some more. Before, naturally, falling asleep at an hour that would make even the elderly feel better about themselves.
Thank God for my husband. Who can perfectly manage entertaining the littles, working on his Masters, and handling bath/bedtime without a hitch. Good Lord, I love that man.
I've been planning for us to eat dinner at about 4:45. Yes, I know that's ridiculously early. But considering Will goes to bed at 6:00, and I'm not too far after him, it allows us enough time to sit down, enjoy a hot and homemade supper (hello, meal plans!), and clean up the mess before I crash.
The kitchen isn't cleaned as thoroughly as it used to be. And the house usually goes to sleep a bit on the messy side – toys litter the floor, dirty diapers and clothes are often left next to a bathtub of cold, old water, last minute dishes and crumbs sprinkle the table, toothbrushes are strewn about the house, and the pot of peppermint tea is always sitting on the counter next to a few rings left from the mugs.
But God is good and I awake at 5:00 am, energized, feeling refreshed, and ready to handle the hurricane of life that is our home. At least until 6:30 pm, that is.
In all seriousness, I'm very thankful for this pregnancy. Even though I've already lost my waist. Goodbye, waist. Nice to see you for five seconds.
As many of you know, I have a uterine abnormality called uterine didelphys. This means I have two complete, full size uteruses. This baby has decided to call the right uterus their home – which makes the total count 3 pregnancies in the right, 1 in the left. And yes – you can tell. Go on, laugh it up. Though it might not be totally visible to the untrained eye, it's very obviously off centered to the right. Ya know. As if being pregnant wasn't awkward enough.
Nope! That's not a tumor. That's my baby. Hanging out lopsided on my hip. Ain't it pretty? Aww.
For us, uterine didelphys means that the chance of having the natural childbirth we've been dreaming of since our first pregnancy will most certainly not happen. Midwives are out of the question for us – though we've been able to see them for our prenatal care for all three babies, we're always transferred over to an OB about halfway through because of our “high risk” label. We were thankful to get to experience a VBAC with the hobbit, but that was in a different state and with an old cowboy of a doctor who was willing to “go to the mattresses” for us. Now that we're back in Washington, an OB won't touch a VBAC like ours with a 10 foot pole.
Come on, people. It's just a baby. Coming from one of two uteruses. Am-I-right?
Though, I will say, our VBAC was anything but picturesque. It was far from the organic, natural experience one envisions. It was a blood bath, quite literally, as the septum that separated the two birth canals coming from each cervix (yes, there are two of those too) was ripped out as Owen came through the canal. And when I say ripped, I mean, like, literally. Shredded. The internal stitches that were needed after the doctor surgically removed the remaining shredded pieces of tissue caused pain for months and months and months. And let's just not even mention how I passed out on the toilet from blood loss and nearly caused my husband to have a heart attack. Ina May, I'm sorry, but apparently there really are “lemons” amongst us – and I am one of them.
Now, as a a fourth time mother, I actually feel at peace with it all. I've done it. I've been through it. I've cried about it. I've accepted it. I've prayed about it. I've recovered from it. And I'll do it again, if I have to.
Which I do. Because, let's be honest, this baby is comin' out one way or another.
And did I mention it's coming the same week we're supposed to start lambing? Perfect. Maybe I'll just set up shop in the coral with Eleanor, Rosie, Fawn, and Noel and we can do our business together. A little mutual encouragement. Ha! Now there's a thought. If only it were as easy as fresh water, clean bedding, and a draft-free shelter.
Sign me up.
I'm not sure how long the 6:30 sleepies will remain. I suppose if they are to come, now is as good of a time as any. The days are already incredibly short and are only getting shorter. There's not much to be done outside after supper and now that we've ripped out the remaining gardens, are pushing through the last bit of preserving, and the first trimester nausea caused me to totally miss Fall garden planting, the farm is getting ready to rest up for the winter ahead.
I'm thankful for my neighbors who grow the most delicious, organic produce and sell me baskets so I can still eat someone's Fall goodies.
And I'm thankful for the cleaning ladies who are coming to help me scrub toilets, showers, and bathtubs.
And I'm thankful for a job that allows me to work while sitting in Stu's pajama pants, sipping Peppermint tea, and talking about my uteruses. Uteri? Uterusi? Uh. Whatever.