We leave tomorrow for our Uruguay + Argentina vacation.
I can't wait until we're actually there, all in one piece in Montevideo. It's going to be a LONG trip made up of 3 plane rides with our active and opinionated one-year-old followed by a wedding just a few hours after we arrive. Yep.
Right now I'm dreaming of the days we're going to spend at the beach, walking the streets of Buenos Aires, and breathing in the mist of Iguazu Falls.
Happy Holidays, have a smashing New Years, and see you in 2012!
Shopping
for a swimsuit in December is an odd thing. On Friday night I realized
that I needed a new swimsuit (or 2) in preparation for our trip to South
America this coming week. We'll be spending 5 days at the
beach in Uruguay, and the bikini I wore in Mexico a few months ago was
feeling a little big then. Swimsuits are something you kind of need to
try on, but as no store anywhere near where I live carries them at this time of year I had to go online. I settled on these simple Volcom suits.
Fingers crossed...
I don't have any tattoos. It's really an issue with commitment. Don't get me wrong, some tattoos I like on some people. But I just don't know if I could ever commit to getting something inked on my body. For Ever.
I
get that people look at their tattoos and think back to who they were
at that pivotal time. Why they chose that thing or word or symbol or
whatever they chose. But I look back at pictures of myself from 15 years
ago and think what was I thinking about my outfits and my hair. Thankfully
outfit choices from the late 90's don't last forever and hair grows out.
Stella and her friend Else are twinners. They've got the same navy blue vest, the same red pants, the same white downy hooded jacket, the same faux-fur-lined booties... and this week I took it to the next level by getting Stella a pair of the Bobux moccasins that Else has been sporting for a few months. They're too adorbs.
I'm "home" for a few days, at my parents' home, in the canyon where I grew up. Being home always brings back memories...coming home from school
on the bus to the smell of cookies and my mom sitting at her big wooden writing desk, the long drive out of the winding canyon, the sound of frogs in
the creek behind the house, my dad with a big long beard, the smell of trees and earth,
the night noises. I can't listen to Jackson Browne or The Eagles or Joni
Mitchell or Joan Baez without thinking of this canyon and of growing up.
In that spirit, here's Joni Mitchell's Ladies of the Canyon.
When I started having contractions a year ago I thought it
was indigestion. It was 9pm on December 5th and I was in such denial
that when J got home from dropping some friends in the city I told him that I
thought I’d eaten something off, that I had a stomachache. He raised his eyebrows in that “are you
kidding me” kind of way, and said as I was almost a week past my due date I was
probably having contractions. When he called my parents at 10 pm to tell them that
I had gone into labor, I’m sure they heard me in the background telling him
that maybe I actually wasn’t in labor. Because a (big) part of me didn’t want
to be in labor. As uncomfortable as the
end of the pregnancy was, labor was going to be even more uncomfortable. And I
wasn’t sure I was ready to go through it yet. We decided to go to bed and try
to get some rest.
I was up every 10 minutes at first. The only place I wanted
to be was squatting on the yoga ball in the door jam of our bedroom. With each
contraction I pressed my forehead into the wood of the doorframe and practiced
the deep breathing exercises I’d learned in prenatal yoga. In through my nose,
out through my mouth, over and over until the contraction eased up and I could
get back into bed. Jordan got up with me most of the night. He timed each
contraction and rubbed my back and stroked my hair.
My parents drove through the night and arrived around 5:30
on the morning of the 6th. I had held it together up until their
arrival, but when I heard my mom walking up the stairs I started to cry. I
cried to think that she had gone through this to have me. I cried because I
didn’t want her to see me in pain, but, in pain, I wanted her to comfort me. I
cried because I realized that I couldn’t concentrate through contractions with
her near me. I didn’t want anyone talking or asking me questions. I wanted
silence and Jordan rubbing my back.
At around 7am my contractions were coming every 3-4 minutes
so we decided to head to the hospital. The car ride only lasted about 8 minutes
but was one of the longest car rides ever. I had two intense contractions and
sitting in the car felt like the least comfortable place to be in the world. We
arrived and were sent into triage, the holding area of pregnant women where the
staff determines whether you’re dilated enough to be admitted.
So we sat there. And we sat there. They didn’t seem to be
too concerned about me. I was managing the pain okay. I wasn’t screaming. I
wasn’t moaning loudly. I wasn’t causing problems like the two other pregnant
women who were also in triage. One wasn’t even in labor; she was at 37 weeks
and demanding that the hospital take the baby out via c-section, that she was
“done” with being pregnant. The other woman was actually in labor. That was
clear by the screaming. She was a teenager, in triage with her mother who kept
demanding that the nurses give her daughter drugs for the pain. When the doctor
came in to check her she was only dilated 2 centimeters. Hearing that girl
screaming for two hours was not only distracting but also frightening. If I was
managing the pain and I wasn’t screaming did that mean I was only 1 centimeter
dilated? Would I be sent home? Was that screaming pain in my future?
When the nurse finally got around to checking on me it
turned out I was already 6 cm dilated. I was moved into a birthing room fairly
quickly after that.
For the next few hours I sat perched on the edge of the bed,
breathing deeply through contraction after contraction. To focus the intensity
I visualized openings: flowers opening, doors opening. I ate fruit popsicles.
I had hoped to have my parents in the room with me, but it
turns out all I wanted was J and silence.
At around 1pm they checked me again and I was dilated to 8
cm but my bag of waters still hadn’t broken. Stella was low in the birth canal,
the nurse could feel her head when she examined me. The nurse gave me a choice.
She could break my bag of waters and the birth would hopefully progress quickly
after that, as no doubt I would dilate to 10cm and have to start pushing. The
other option was that we could wait for the sac to break on its own and
continue at a slower pace. I chose the first option.
Having my water broken was a strange sensation. It wasn’t
painful, but it felt like being pushed over a precipice, like a loss of control.
I felt a sudden shift in the center of my body and the urge to push soon
overwhelmed me.
The two hours I spent pushing were the hardest thing I’ve
ever done. In between contractions I wept. I wanted to fall asleep. I wanted it
to be over. I told J I was tired, I was scared, that I didn’t want to do it
anymore. He reassured me again and again. He told me I could do it. He gave me
juice to drink and he wet my brow and hair with a towel. The nurses told me I
was having a great labor. A fast labor. I was doing it without drugs and I was
a champ. They told me not to worry about tearing, that when the next
contraction came to push down, that she was coming. The space in between
contractions was almost harder than the pushing itself. There was no forward movement,
nothing to do but rest and feel my body splitting open, feel that loss of
control. But the two hours went quickly. I have to idea how many times I pushed
or how I suddenly found the strength to push harder than before. But all the
sudden she was there, on my chest. Our screaming, wet, pink little Stella.
A year later I am emotional just thinking about that moment.
The first moment I got to see the curve of her ears and the color of her eyes
and the expression on her face. How I was excited to examine her tiny nails
feel her breathing steadily on my chest. In the periphery of that moment, my
belly is being pressed to expel the placenta. And as I try to guide Stella’s mouth to my breast for the first time, I am being stitched up.
The memory is still so vivid, at once terrifying and amazing. But mostly amazing. Happy
Birthday to my girl.
I'm stuck on Zara's multitude of ankle-length colored jeans. I've taken up a collection. Red, light gray, faded denim, forest green, electric blue, and now camel. I know, I know. Color jeans are all the rage right now. But these Zara ones are flattering in a way that most "skinny jeans" just aren't on me. And they've got gold ankle zippers for heaven's sake.
