The day we met

Day 1 

It was raining outside as I stepped out of the dorm room. I wasn’t a college student yet, just a visitor. But it felt fun to play this role for the week I was visiting my high school best friend at her Florida college. We were going to meet a group of guys and play in the rain. I think the consented game was football. I’m always game for a raucous adventure and the rain has always been a favorite of mine, so it seemed like the perfect way to spend the afternoon.

Green eyes framed by dripping wet perfect ringlet curls looked at me as I stepped out of the door into the drizzle. This small statured young man caught my attention as the group of girls converged with the group of guys headed to an empty field for what was sure to be a messy time. His smile and attention was obvious, but I was only there for a week of fun. So I focused on the task at hand, which was football. The rain mixed with dirt felt soothing on my freshly sunburned legs from the beach day earlier that week. We all laughed and ran through mud. And I found out his name. Craig.

A friend grabbed my camera and snapped a picture of our muddied and smiling group. In the picture, you can see he’s smitten and I’m beaming.

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Day 2 

After flying across the world, adjusting to a new time zone, checking into my dorm and attending orientation for the wierdos who started college in January, I sought out my high school best friend. This had been the college I wanted to attend since I was 14 and just because my best friend had made it her’s first did not deter me. She graciously shared the place she called her intellectual home and gave me a tour.

On our trek around campus we stopped at the gym. Inside the noisy building I spied familiar bouncing curls dribbling athletically down the court and taking a shot. He spied my friend and came over. “Oh, are you visiting again.” “No.” I said, “I go here now.”

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Day 3 

We met to play checkers in the campus café. Instead of playing the game, we spent the evening trying to contort our faces into the silliest expressions. We were laughing, flirting and memorizing every inch of the other’s face without ever touching. It was the innocent sweetness that comes with first getting to know one another. The smiling eyes, flushed cheeks and excitement of the introduction to another soul.

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Day 4 

We just had to read the book. Our lives were missing out on a vital cultural phenomenon. That’s what she told us as we settled into the common room loveseats we had pushed together to make our “couch cocoon.” And page-by-page, we began to read out loud the very first Harry Potter book with Craig, myself and Karen snuggled up. At the chapters end we switched the reader. Hours and hours we spent on those couches reading book after book. Craig ended up doing the best Dobby voice and he was always passed the book when Dobby had something to say. He and I sat next to one another as we read. The light brush of our hands sent chills through my body. Just being besides someone felt electric and tantalizing. There was such electricity in the air as we sat and read.

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Day 5 

Valentine’s day on my first semester in college came with an unexpected surprise. Waiting in my mailbox was a small gift that spoke, “I am known.” It was the largest bottle of Hidden Valley ranch I had ever seen, accompanied by a card with two dogs on the front that read, “I like you so much, I’m surprised my tail doesn’t go flying off my butt.” Signed, Craig.  This platonic gift and card looked ridiculous to everyone else in the mailroom, but to me it looked like an invitation to pursue something more.

Stay tuned for more of the story!

p.s. photo by Emily Rose Portraits and she has great pricing for everyone starting at just $100.

A letter to my 50-year-old self

Dear 50 Year Old Karissa,


Congratulations! You made it to being an empty nester!!! That is quite the accomplishment and 30-year-old Karissa thought you would never get there. But you did, so it is time to celebrate!

You might feel a little nostalgic and sentimental about the years that have passed and all of the memories you have made with your four kids over the years. And a part of you might be missing your sons and daughter and the fun they brought to your daily life when they were preschoolers. It is alright to have those feelings, but I am writing to tell you to KEEP IT TO YOURSELF. Don't share those feelings with the woman walking through the grocery store with a baby strapped to her back, a toddler in the cart and the kindergartener opening a box of cereal onto the aisle floor. Her life is hard, very hard right now. She doesn't need a word from you telling her that she should cherish these times because you are feeling sad that Simon is now in college. She doesn't care. That mom of preschoolers needs a break! So just keep your well-intentioned thoughts to yourself and keep walking.

Here is a reminder of what it is like being a mother of four very small children:

Your days are long. The weekends are short. And you have no time to yourself. None. Not even when everyone is sleeping because that is the only time to get done the laundry/dishes/cleaning/sanity-time for the next day. You say the same things over and over and over again to all of your kids and you are constantly wiping nose/hands/bottoms. A bathroom break for you becomes an anatomy lesson on what makes you a girl and a talk on modesty. Every 15 minutes you are a referee for a fight you didn't see because you were trying to prepare food/crafts/lesson for your crew. There are never enough diapers/ wipes/pretzels/puzzles/books/turns to satisfy your kids and you are constantly navigating between being a life coach and protector.

There are good times. Truly there are. But the physically grueling nature of having preschoolers does not allow you a moment to remember if you showered today let alone think about how short this time will be. Reflection usually comes after something is over, not right in the middle of it.

Many kind, well-meaning 50-year-old women have told me to cherish these times, that they go by so fast, and that I'll miss them. I'm sure that is the case, but for now, it is HURTFUL TO HEAR. It is hurtful, because time has allowed these women to forget what daily life is actually like for me. They just recall the snapshots, the photo album fun and highlight reel of these years. But as I face the day-in, day-out marathon I run and the patience, grace and AMAZING huband that God has given me for this time, I do not need any sentimental statements telling me something I already know.

Fifty-year-old Karissa, HELP THEM. Don't tell them things, DO things for those mothers.

You have more free time that you know what to do with since all of your kids are out of the house. Use some of it to soothe a baby, take a toddler to story time or go for a nature walk with a kindergartener. Listen to the 30 year old mother who needs adult conversation. Don't lecture. Say, "I know," to her when she complains. Give her tips and ideas that you found invaluable WHEN SHE ASKS. Make her dinner and drop it off on a regular basis. Check out books for her kids from the library and drop them off unexpectedly. Bring her coffee during nap time and chat for 30 minutes. She won't ask for help, so go out of your way to do it.

She needs you to tell her she is doing a great job. That is what she needs: someone who has made it to the other side and can be her cheerleader. Be that, not the sentimental one who doles out cherishing advice.

NOW is your time to love on those young moms.


Sincerely,
30 Year Old Karissa

Picking up old men on the side of the road

After dropping off some borrowed items at a friend's house, little droplets of water started to pelt my windshield. I turned on the wipers and noticed an elderly gentleman hurry to find cover under a tree at the intersection. The clouds were ominous, threatening their usual Florida summer storm. I looked in my side view mirror to see what this gentleman's course of action was going to be with the looming downpour inching closer and closer. He had none, so I threw my car in reverse, rolled down my window and asked if I could give him a ride. His hesitation was palpable, but I looked pretty harmless and the rain was coming down hard, so with some cajoling, he got in the car.

Let me say now, that I am not in the habit of picking up strangers. And when I am alone, I am even less prone to stop and help a man I don't know, thanks to all of my health and safety classes from middle school. As a woman in today's society, it is a big no-no to allow an unknown figure into your vehicle, regardless of the time of day or the location that you found them. Knowing all of these things and weighing them all, I knew I had to give him a ride. There was a check in my spirit that I couldn't shake, so I said yes.

Long story, but I was able to get in contact with his daughter through a wonderful thing called Google and get him back to where he belonged. He was lost, not entirely sure where he lived or where he was going, but he was so grateful that I had insisted he get into my car. And his daughter was also grateful and confused as to why a stranger would help her father.

What struck me the most about the whole experience was this 84 year old's comment right before his daughter came to pick him up.

He said, 

"There aren't many people like you left anymore."

I want to change that. 

Can I challenge you to stop this week and look around to see who might need an act of kindness? You never know how your little gesture of love, in the name of Jesus, can make an impact in the lives of others. I didn't invite him in to my car to receive accolades or for a good blog post or anything like that. I saw a man who needed God's love, and my little car, shelter from the rain is the way I could show that for 30 minutes. And it brightened my day to love someone else the way God loves me: with no conditions. 

Show others that love this week. Let's make more people remark about how un-like everyone else we are. Isn't that our purpose?

My encounter with a Ugandan toilet.

While traveling in Uganda to the town of Kabale, which is just twenty minutes north of the Rwandan border, I had an interesting encounter with a toilet. We were in this little town to see where Simon is from and meet some of the people who helped him along the way to being a part of our family. The visit itself was full of emotion that I haven't quite processed yet. But there is one story that stands out among them all, because it involves a commode, a pair of Crocs and me.

We met the head of the village in one of the hotels in the area for lunch before we set off to explore the town. There was a little language barrier there, but our hands were full enough with two squirmy one year olds that it was easy enough to overlook. I glanced over and noticed that the only food available was buffet style, so I handing Andrew over to Craig and slipped away to the bathroom before we dove into the Ugandan feast.

As always, I was armed with my Go-Girl, roll of toilet paper and hand sanitizer, never knowing what I might find behind the door of a Ugandan bathroom. I opened the door to the hotel bathroom and noticed that water covered the floor. This should have tipped me off that there would be trouble ahead, but I ignored this sign and headed into the stall. It was dirty, but no worse then any other American gas station bathroom, so I proceeded to relieve myself. After I finished, I turned around to flush the toilet. This was a simple enough act since everything else had gone pretty smoothly. My index finger reached up to the lever and gently pushed down. And then it happened.

Slow motion began the moment my finger touched that shinny silver lever. Time slowed to a crawl as the pressure of my hand flushing the toilet caused the entire tank to leave the wall and plummet to the ground. The white porcelain tank of water that appeared to be fastened to the wall shifted to the left and then fell to the cement, shattering into pieces as the water contained with in gushed everywhere. To my horror, all of that water started to flow towards me!

I quickly opened the stall door and hastened my retreat, all the while surveying the toilet I had just been using broken in pieces and soaking wet. How was it possible that the basic act of flushing a toilet would cause it to disassemble? For a moment, I freaked out at the thought of this unsanitary water that now came up to my ankles was rendering my shoes as trash fodder. And then I remembered that I had on my Crocs. Oh, the gratefulness of the Crocs!

I have been given some flack my some of my closest friends about how unfashionable this rubber footwear is and they would be right. Stealing from the SNL skit "Mom Jeans," my friend (who shall remain nameless) has said, "These shoes say, 'I'm not a woman, I'm a mom,'" These mary jane style crocs are not the most fashion forward things I have doned on my feet, but they have been judged harshly. The only reason I bought them was for my trip to Africa and after this incident, I am very, very thankful that I purchased them! These shoes have a special place in my heart since they were easily sanitized and worn every day after that for the rest of my month in country.

After leaving the stall, I quickly high-tailed it out of there, re-entering the hotel dining area. I looked around to see if anyone had heard the huge crash of the tank hitting the cement floor, but everyone seemed to not notice. I approached Craig and said, "Look at my feet." Everywhere I stepped, I left a puddle of toilet water. I walked past him, to the station to wash my hands and then on to the buffet, all the while leaving Croc foot prints. After we both had our food and during a lull in conversation with our Ugandan hosts, I quickly told Craig the story and asked if he heard anything. To my amazement, we hadn't!

I decided to not tell the staff of the hotel that the toilet had breathed it's last breath, for fear they would demand that I pay for it. There is a myth that is widely believed in Uganda that all muzungus are very wealthy. I, a muzungu married to a teacher, do not feel any obligation to pay for a toilet that was hanging on by some putty to the wall that happened to break when I grazed it. So I kept my mouth shut. Ate my food. And left the Highland Hotel with nary a backwards glance. 

This story will make me forever grateful for the toilets I find in most establishments here in the western world and the Crocs that walked with me through toilet water.

Just an ordinary October 1st...

Yesterday was like any other day in my sunny Florida home.

Cleaning.

Cooking. 

Wiping runny noses.

And it was like any other October 1st.

October Dress Project started.

Lakeland ODP friends did a photo shoot.

We were at Lake Mirror to take a few shots.

And then it happened.

We were finished the shoot with a final shot actually in the water of Lake Mirror and we were gingerly stepping out of the "cleanest lake in Lakeland." As I took the final step out, a sharp pain shot from the arch of my foot up and I realized I had done something. I calmly, without screaming, crying or whinning, stepped back and hobbled out of the water.

I said, "My foot is bleeding." 

But no one heard. I said it again, but all eleven of the women there were busy chatting and laughing, something I had just been doing previously. As I took my foot of out of the water, blood started pouring onto the pavement and I was leaving puddles.

I tried again, "I think I cut myself."

Slowly all of my fellow ODP partners started to notice something was wrong. Sitting on the ground, I looked at my foot and thought that the cut wasn't too bad. But then I opened it and someone said, "You are going to need stitches." My world stopped for a moment. This was an emergency and I needed someone to step in and help. Everything slowed and I sat there, stunned, applying pressure to my foot with a MacGyver bandage whipped up by my handy mom friends of a panty liner and a hairband. One of the girls decided they needed to carry me to a car.

As I was in a bucket hold between Stephanie and Kim, two small framed girls, I knew they couldn't carry me as far as we needed to go. I was using my upper body strength to hold myself up, but I could hear their breathing become more strained and their steps more arduous. These ladies are strong, but to carry a 140 pound girl for a quarter of a mile is no small task. I told them to put me down on the stairs because I could feel that I wasn't going to make it. Then Stephanie, a stranger until last night, sat behind me to support me.

I said, "My natural response to pain is to pass out. 

I am going to pass out." 

And that was what started to happen as I laid my head back on Stephanie's lap. As I was fading out of consciousness, I heard comments like, "Karissa, you look green." "She doesn't have any color in her face." "How do you text on your phone?" "Have you heard from your husband yet?" "Good think you have shorts on under your October Dress!" "What do you want us to do?" I was shocked they were asking me! How was I suppose to know what to do? My body was in shock, I was bleeding everywhere and I couldn't walk! Thankfully, my friend Cathy went around the lake to the fire department to get some help. After leaving my husband a half-conscious message, I finally knew what to do.

"Call 911," I sputtered as I felt myself drift away.

A granola bar and an apple juice were being offered and I took them as a way to try to revive my stunned body. The next part was a blur as I was fading in and out of coherence. People were asking me questions, Sabes was talking to the 911 operator, Kim was fanning me with a church bulletin, Rachel was wiping off my running mascara to make sure I looked good in the ER. Finally the fire department showed up with flashing lights,sirens and I was feeling better. It had probably been about 15-20 minutes since I had first cut my foot at this point. I had stopped the bleeding and was starting to feel like a person again. And that is when the jokes started to come. I am a diffuser and distractor. When a situation is tough, use a little humor and a distraction to make the circumstance into something different.

Something palatable.

Something better.

Something memorable.

Even though I was the crisis, I just fell into my normal role when I am in a group. The firemen asked me what I wanted to do, and I knew I couldn't walk. So after taking my vitals, re-bandaging my foot and getting all of my information, they were going to carry me up the stairs. As they picked me up, one of them commented with surprise that I had done that before.

I calmly said, "Yes, I have. I'm an actress."

Cathy took this pictures of the firemen carrying me up the first portion of stairs.

I'm not sure how that was suppose to explain why I knew how to be carried in a bucket hold, but I'll blame it on the trauma my body was going through. The jokes continued as the firemen had to put me down half the way up. These stairs are no joke and carrying me up them was a workout. I told them that this could be their workout for the day and one of them responded that they had already worked out, making this a little grueling. We all had a good laugh. One of the firemen even suggested that I request an ice cream after my stitches, as he believed that was normal protocol for kids in the ER. He then hinted that firemen were also rewarded with ice cream after heroic deeds.

"Am I suppose to get you an ice cream," I laughed?

He said it would be nice and proceeded to get me up in their arms again to take me to Sabes' car. Sabes was going to take me to the ER, forgoing the pricey ambulance trip that awaited and had pulled her van up behind the the fire truck. As the stairs narrowed and the firemen struggled to fit us all through, I made a snippy remark.

"I don't think  you should get an ice cream after this. 

How are you suppose to help someone else in need if you can't fit through here?"

The older firefighter ask what was I implying and we all laughed. It really was comical to try to fit three adults, two of them being very strong, muscular men through this small staircase. Once in the van, I signed papers for the firemen and we headed to Lakeland Regional Medical Center. The eight-month pregnant Sabes got a wheelchair and wheeled me into the ER. All six of the women standing behind the desk doing nothing looked right past me as if I wasn't there for an emergency. Then finally one of them said, "Oh. Are you here to check in?"

I wanted to say, "Nope. I just thought it would be fun to come visit such 

a fine, efficient establishment on 7:30 in the evening. 

Do you offer complimentary mints?"

The bandage the firemen did. Here is my foot in Sabes' car in the ER valet service.

One thing I have learned about myself through this situation is that for someone who is in the theatre, I really am not dramatic at all when it comes to real life situations. No one would have known I was hurt at all by any of my reactions, besides the passing out. That being said, maybe I should be a little more theatrical the next time something of an emergency nature comes up. That might assist in a more speedy response of all involved. Cue the screaming...

So I was admitted, yada-yada, x-ray, yada-yada, signing paperwork, yada-yada, Sabes, Cathy and I were cracking jokes and taking pictures, yada-yada and then  my wonderful RN, Robert informed me that I would need one stitch.

"Well, that is anti-climactic, isn't it? 

Couldn't you just put an extra one or two in there for a better story?" I asked.

Cathy, me and Sabes in the ER

 Now it was time for the stitches. I have only had two sprains in my life and the only stitches I have ever received were from c-sections. This was a whole new experience for me and I was not looking forward to the huge shot they were going to give me to numb the area. Sabes asked me about "Little's" upcoming birthday and I, you guessed it, calmly answered her as the PA shoved the needle into my wound to numb the area. Sabes has marks on her hands from my squeezing, poor thing. Then the fascinating part. The PA irrigated my wound and all three of us watched in awe. I wish we had taken a picture of the car wash, space-age shield over a syringe filled with iodine and then saline solution that she used to wash out the wound. After it was thoroughly cleaned and dried, it was time for my one stitch. I didn't watch as she inserted the green thread, but could feel the tug of the tying, pain free of course.

"You are the best patient I have ever have. 

You didn't flinch, scream or even make a noise. 

Usually people scream because it is so painful," stated my very serious PA. 

They did such a good job, you can't tell where the cut is.

Score for me! I'm one hard-core mom! Robert came back in to tell me about post-op care, bandaging my wound and supplied me with a very fashionable, fair trade organically sources post-op bootie. Cathy, Sabes and I were laughing, giggling and enjoying this new fashion accessory I have for the October Dress Project. It was pretty funny. Unfortunately, we had neglected to bring my shoes (which are very cute nude wedges that I had taken off before we stepped into the cleanest lake in Lakeland) into the ER, so I ended walking barefoot on my left foot and my adorable post-op bootie on the right. My brother, Ben came to give me a ride home and I said goodnight and thank you to Sabes and Cathy for their support, company and companionship in the ER.

Cathy, Robert the RN and me having my foot bandaged again

In Cathy's words: "Robert explaining to K that there is just NO way to make the post-op shoe look cute.
As you can see, she is trying hard to understand."

The fun did not end there, as I had to move my car from it's downtown two hour parking spot to my church. Unbeknownst to me and not told to me by the Lakeland Regional Medical staff (I just love that hospital. Can you hear the sarcasm? If not, read my post about the last time I was at this hospital here), I should not have been operating my vehicle since they had put me on narcotics to numb the pain. After my car was safely in my church parking lot, I looked through my paperwork and read the words "No driving."

Ben said, "We made it safely, didn't we?"

Ben drove us through Gelati Joe's for a treat after the traumatic experience. My little brother dropped me home and Craig took over my care. I'm not suppose to walk on it for several days and then my one lonely stitch comes out in fourteen days. The high-fashion bootie is staying on my foot since my children now have a strange magnet pull to my hurt foot and have hit it several times this morning. Craig took off for the day, which has offered me the luxury to write this detailed blog post. It was such an interesting story, I just wanted to record it for me. Thanks for reading the saga of October 1st in the life of Karissa, The Acting Mom!

What a start to the October Dress Project this year! Thankfully my dress hid any blood that might have stained a different color dress. The firefighters remarked, after we told them why we were doing a photo shoot in the water, that at the ER they would give me a different type of dress to wear that I could use for next year's ODP. Thankfully, I get to choose my dress next year and I am pretty sure I will choose one that has a back to it.


P.S. Want to see the rest of the October Dress Project outfits?

I have the wrong wedding date.

A very funny thing happened Monday as I was finishing up our homestudy paperwork and sending in my passport for renewal. I discovered that all these years, I have been celebrating the wrong wedding date. I know that this might seem odd to a lot of you. A girl should know when she got married, right? Apparently, I do not.

Let me explain myself. I thought that I got married to my best friend and fabulous husband, Craig on July 23, 2004. It was a Friday evening wedding in the hottest hot of the summer. Sometimes I think we were married on the 24th of July, because we did debate back and forth about a Friday wedding versus a Saturday wedding. But this is not the issue I discovered today.

Our wedding video was made by a good friend of ours, Christian. {SIDE NOTE: Christian is doing an awesome series on YouTube called "Street Food" about local food in China and you should totally check it out.} When he gave us our video, he let us know that he put the wrong year on it. It would have been a HUGE pain to go back and switch it, since he had already rendered everything and spent HOURS watching the documentary style footage we had filmed for weeks leading up to the big day. The date on the wedding video states we were married July 23, 2003. That would be 1 year earlier then the actual date. But this is also not the issue I discovered today about my wedding date.

The thing I discovered to today was a new tidbit I did not know about my own wedding date. Are you ready for it? I discovered that I actually DIDN'T get married on July 23, 2004. It was pretty shocking, let me tell you. As I was about to stuff the certified copy of my marriage license into the envelop to mail away with my passport, I happened to look down at the date I got married. It stated that I was married on June 23, 2004. June? What? I was not a June bride? The Office of Vital Statistics got it wrong. I pick up the phone and called. No answer. I try again, this time retrieving my original marriage license. I read over it and discover something.

My pastor wrote down the wrong date! And my maid of honor and Craig's best man signed it, with the wrong date! And the notary public notarized it, with the wrong date! And forever and ever amen, we legally were married on the wrong date! This is craziness!!!!

After 7 years of marriage, I have just discovered that while I thought I was married on July 23, 2004, according to the state of Florida, I was actually married in June 23, 2004. Wow. It was a little shocking to realize this mistake that has been in writing for 7 years. I laughed and laughed when I saw it, after I got over my shock. What can you do? Enjoy life and laugh about the little bumps along the way.

So, I guess Craig and I can now start celebrating two anniversaries each year!

The Business of Being Born

We have two beautiful homegrown kids. We conceived normally with both and were excited to begin the journey of parenting. As most American women, I called a random OBGYN office and informed them I needed a doctor's appointment, because I had a positive pregnancy test. Everything seemed to go well with both of my pregnancies. I was healthy, the baby was healthy and there were no problems. None. Nada. Zilch. But I was ill-informed about birth and ended up with two unnecessary cesarean sections.

Before I ever got pregnant, I wish I had watched a documentary entitled "The Business of Being Born." You might have your doubts about it because it was produced by Ricki Lake, but the information I found was startling. I might have made some other choices about both of my births if I had viewed this film before I had children.

Not knowing any better, I scheduled an induction with my first pregnancy, for no other reason then to have the baby when it would be convenient for my family. Both sides of the family had flown in from out of state for the due date and my husband was going back to work the next week. Didn't it make sense to go ahead and begin labor? My kind and trusted OBGYN had offered it to me as a healthy option. I had no signs of labor starting, I wasn't past my due date and I had no complications that make it necessary to induce labor. It just seemed like a convenience I could take advantage of to ensure my first was born when everyone was there. And did I mention that I struggle with patience? I even asked my OBGYN about the link between induction and c-sections and he told me it was incidental and unlikely to occur in my case.

31 weeks pregnant with my first

If I had known the statistics I know about how induction leads to a Cesarean section, and that Lakeland Regional Medical Hospital had a 33% c-section rate, I would have thought long and hard about what I was doing.The induction was slow, painful (I elected to refuse the epidural, not knowing that an induced labor is MUCH worse then regular labor), and unsuccessful. Around 8PM the evening after my induction began, the doctor began to use terms like, "what is best for the baby." He was talking about a c-section. He presented it as an option, but to us it seemed like we had no other alternatives. The language he used implied we would be bad parents if we didn't proceed with this procedure. That was it: c-section or our son would be hurt.

First time I got to see my first child

My son in the nursery while I was recovering from the c-section.

Headed home from the hospital to recover from my c-section.

I was in the operating room at 9PM. Nervous. Scared. And no one was telling me anything. They were talking about all kinds of things, but none of them seemed to be about me or my son, that was supposedly in imminent danger. They took their time. My son was born at 10:11PM that night. Over an hour after I had been brought to the operating room and over two hours after my doctor told me either we do this invasive procedure or your son might suffer. He was born perfect, with no complication and he received a 10 on the Apgar test. He spent no time in intensive care or extended study or anything. Usually children who NEED to be delivered by c-section, I believe that this is a necessary and lifesaving procedure when done correctly, are in pretty bad shape. Not my son. We praise the Lord for a healthy boy and I recovered painfully and slowly.

33 weeks pregnant with my second

Nine months later, we found out we were pregnant again. And things were healthy and normal. This time, I was more educated and refused any intervention. I went back to the same OBGYN, still in shock that I was pregnant again. He was in favor of a VBAC, which was great. I went into labor naturally, and headed to the hospital when I was told. They strapped me down with baby monitors and IVs and the like, not allowing me to move around and labor how I was comfortable. It was frustrating and devastating. My labor promptly slowed and I knew I was headed towards another c-section.

My daughter did not descend, which seems perfectly normal to me now knowing what I know, since I was lying in a bed instead of walking to allow my hips to widen and the baby to drop. The pain of lying in a bed, unable to cope with my labor pains became too much, so I asked for an epidural. Labor slowed even more. The doctor on call told me around 8pm that  it was my fault I got an epidural and slowed my labor and that my only choice was a c-section. I asked her to leave and promptly cried. All my dreams died and we prepared for another c-section.

Several of our requests were met: I got to see them take my daughter out of my belly and she was brought to be during recovery to breastfeed. She also received a 10 on the Apgar score and spent no time in intensive care or extended observation. She was perfectly healthy.

I actually got to see them take my second out of my belly, which was my request.

Kissing my daughter for the first time.

She wasn't very happy to be out and away from Mommy.

Going home after another painful c-section.

We were now a family of four, and I had to take care of two kids while recovering from major surgery

Why do I share my story with you and what does it have to do with the documentary or Barber Basics?  I share because I hope it will change at least one person's mind about blindly following the American system for labor and delivery. I hope others will educate themselves about this huge business of delivering babies. Cesarean sections are a wonderful medical procedure that have saved many lives, but in my case, they were forced upon me. You can watch the documentary and think about the American hospital system for yourself. We can see the links in our birth stories to two unnecessary c-sections and how this has become another Barber Basic for us. We have made the decision to not have any more biological children because of the risk it would put on my body, but we encourage those around us to further investigate what choices are out there for pregnant mothers-to-be.

Very interesting information can be found in the documentary, "The Business of Being Born," like the rise in c-section rates in correspondence with doctor shift changes, the physics of what the female body actually does during labor, (something I never learned in labor classes or from my OBGYN) and the assembly-line process of labor in modern hospitals. It is well worth the watch if you ever hope to have kids or are pregnant now. It is never too late to demand the kind of labor and delivery you deserve for yourself or your wife.

Have you seen it? Let me know your thoughts!


UPDATE

Here is another great blog post a friend shared with me about the same topic, only from the perspective of a homebirth midwife. Click here to read it. This is my favorite quote from her blog post:

"As a parent, you will care for your child through many knee scrapes and head bumps…through fevers and coughs. Each issue you will ask yourself, “is this normal? If not, can I care for it or do we need to go to a doctor?” They fall off of their bike – do you wash their knee and put a bandage on it and send them back out? Or do you need to take them in for stitches? You know what is normal and what is not, what you are comfortable treating and when you need to go to the doctor. You don’t, however, have them ride their bikes in the parking lot of the pediatricians ‘just in case’. You use them when you have a problem that you feel is too big to handle on your own."