Tag Archives: Phil and Rach

The Nursery Reveal!

Creating a nursery for twins is a unique challenge made even trickier when the babies are opposite sexes.  We waited until we found out the babies were a girl and a boy before designing their nursery, and we quickly nixed the idea of trying to make the room half pink and half blue.  It sounded like some sort of mish-mash nightmare.

After a little time on Pinterest, I decided the best approach would be a really clean, modern nursery, because of the need for two cribs (and double the clothes) and the fact that the room was fairly small.

Here is a picture of the room when it was a rarely used guest bedroom:

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The furniture, thanks to my in-loves, was gorgeous, but oversized for the space, and the color on the walls was a garish Seahawks green.  Incredibly, this room was used as a nursery for twin boys by the previous tenants, which is the only reason we can assume it was painted such a color (the photo doesn’t capture the brightness adequately).

I am not a designer by any means, and am often paralyzed when it comes to decorating, but I put my heart into making a room for the babies that conveys my love for them.  It really was a joy to create.

I enlisted the help of my friend Meredith, who works as an interior designer, to map out a floor plan that would allow for two cribs, one changing table, and a rocking chair.  I sent her the measurements of the room and the furniture we thought we were going to purchase and she created a floor plan to make it fit.

Then we got to work.  When I say we, I mean Mike.

We purchased the paint (no VOC for baby breathing safety) and he painted the entire room white, including the ceiling, because we needed a fresh canvas.  Then he, our dear friend Greg, and my father-in-love taped the walls with precision to ensure our stripes were going to be crisp and perfectly even.  They did a fabulous job.

Our color scheme was yellow, gray and white.  Gender neutral, baby friendly, and just happy.  I wanted a really happy room for the babies, and I think we nailed it.

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We chose simple, modern cribs in a soft gray color to contrast the bright wall and yellow and white chevron rug.  They are from Wal-Mart, if you can believe it, and are highly rated and made from sustainable, non-toxic pine wood.  After hours of searching, they were the best cribs at the best price — and they look exactly how I’d hoped.

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After an extensive search, I found the rocking chair from a company called NurseryWorks, as it was the only rocking chair I could find that wasn’t frumpy, old-fashioned, or incredibly 90’s (think gliders with bad fabric).  I could see using this chair in other areas of our home after we no longer need a nursery (but let’s not get ahead of ourselves as the thought of that makes this pregnant woman want to cry already).

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The curtains were generously handmade by Meredith, who is phenomenally talented at sewing.  She even added a layer of blackout fabric to the curtains so I can get the room as dark as possible for naps.  She brought several gray swatches and we chose a shade that matched the cribs, but had lots of white detail to keep the room from becoming too dark.

The little pouf is from Restoration Hardware Baby and Child and is one of my favorite parts of the room.  It’s both whimsical and highly practical as a footrest while sitting in the rocker.

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My mom gave us these adorable switch plates for the outlets that she found on Etsy; it’s hard to see here, but they have giraffes and elephants on them.

And there’s a Jonathan Adler ceramic giraffe nightlight: to die for.

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We found the changing table on Craigslist, and I’d still like to swap out the knobs on the doors for something a little more substantial.  We’ll see if I get to that in the next couple of days before the babies arrive.  If not, I don’t think they’ll mind.

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I loved organizing the changing table supplies — little bins with diapers lined up, a bin with diaper cream, ointment, etc, and tons of wipes.  The cabinet underneath has all the backup supplies and refills.  It also has a healthy stock of something I’m super excited about: cloth diapers.  YES — I am going to try to cloth diaper the babies.  A fellow twin mom from EMOMs gave me hers which is why I have the confidence to go for it; she did it without a problem, and she saved me about $600 by giving me hers (they’re $25 a piece).  Proof I’m not insane: we are not starting the cloth diapers until after at least a month (Mike maintains he’s not doing it at all, but we’ll see who wins that battle of the wills).

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I love the giraffe changing pad cover.  Giraffes are my animal association, meaning they’re the animal I most resemble.  I also happen to like them more than any other animal, which helps.

Please note the space-age camera mounted to the wall.  This takes baby monitoring to an entirely obsessive level, but it’s a level this new mom needs.  We can watch the babies sleep on our iPad and can move the camera by touching the screen.  It’s super Jetsons, and we owe Rach and Phil for the idea — they’ve been using theirs for over a year with Lillian.

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My sister, Sam, graciously made the framed artwork of animals from an idea she found on Pinterest.  Each animal is made up of the letters that spell its name.  My in-loves gave us the beautiful gray piece of art that uses the alphabet to make a little poem about how much we love the babies.


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You may be wondering where all of their clothes are hiding since we don’t have a dresser.  That was intentional, due to the size of the room.  Instead, I bought a unit with pink and blue drawers to keep inside the closet to organize all of their clothes.  There’s a drawer each for jammies, sleepsacks, socks, hats, onesies, etc., and open cubbies for swaddle blankets and burp cloths.

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The hanging storage on top keeps their day-to-day outfits, since I think it’s impractical to fold or hang tiny baby clothes when I’ll be doing laundry so frequently.  This way I can just tuck them into their cubbies (based on size of clothes) and grab what I need.

The two bins on the shelf hold all of their carriers (Mobys, Ergos, Baby Bjorns) and the Boppy is stored up there as well.

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The other side of the closet has their hamper and a few hanging outfits, as well as hanging storage for clothes that are six months and beyond.  Up top, it also has the enormous My Breast Friend for Twins.

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Confession: I often sit in the rocking chair and picture what it will be like when the babies are in their cribs, or in my arms.  It’s such a delightful room, so full of the hope and anticipation of babies on the way.

Now there’s only two things the room is missing:  the babies!

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Waiting for Lillian – Part 3

For Part 1, click here.  For Part 2, click here.

~~

With the sound of Rhianna pulsing from the room, we gathered in the hallway to listen for a sign that the baby had arrived.  We perked up at each voice encouraging Rachel to push, we leaned closer with each pause in sound, and we jostled for position closest to the door opening.  But after a mere five minutes with no baby, we realized our patience had diminished to that of a toddler awaiting Christmas morning.

We walked back to the waiting room because we were sure this was it, but we were also sure that we’d been sure before.  We were jaded.  We felt like we were too smart to be tricked again into believing we’d be meeting a new family member at any moment.  It was the most intense case of crying wolf any of us had experienced.

Chloe was the exception.  At nine years of age, Cami and Erik’s daughter didn’t have the cynical attitude of her adult peers.  She was darting between the waiting room and the delivery room as nervous as if she was the father.

That sort of energy tends to be contagious, and soon I was running into the waiting room with non-announcements like, “I can hear Phil talking!” and “There’s still music playing!”

Amidst all of the madness, Cami managed to compose a song about waiting for the baby to be born.  We were in awe that her creativity was not bound by her exhaustion, as she scribbled lyrics and hummed a melody while the rest of us could barely string thoughts together.  Later, she shared a song titled Worth the Waiting that beautifully captures the emotion of anticipating Baby Goodman.

Half an hour later the suspense got the best of us and we all gathered around the delivery room door again.  This time it was much more exciting, as Phil led Wendy and the nurses in counting to ten as Rachel pushed.  This had the effect of leading us to think that every time they said “Ten!” the baby would burst forth crying, so we’d clench up as they counted and then deflate when nothing happened after they hit double-digits.

Mike was past the point of fatigue since he’d been studying for finals throughout Rachel’s labor.  He turned to walk back to the waiting room, saying, “This is not happening.  I know this is another false hope.  I’ll be reading.  Come get me when it’s really happening.”  I tried to convince him to stay but the weariness in his eyes told me it was a lost cause.

Twenty minutes later seven nurses came rushing down the hall and into Rachel’s room.  This was new.  This was alarming, and this was a sure sign to all of us that the baby was finally, truly going to be born.

I ran down the hall and into the waiting room to tell Mike that this was actually it, and I promised the baby would be here in minutes and he did not want to miss this.  His eyes lit up just as I knew they would and we ran back to the room together.

Usher suddenly burst into song and I said this is the perfect song for the baby to be born to; “Without You” was playing and we started dancing in the hallways, wailing about how we couldn’t live without baby Goodman.

“One, two, three, four, five…” Phil was counting and yelling, “You can do it!  Come on, baby!”  Colleen started recording the sound on her iPhone and we pushed the door open a little further so we could hear every sound.

At 9:25PM the song changed to “Good Feeling” by Flo Rida and Phil counted one more time.  Suddenly they all stopped yelling at once and we heard the tiniest, faintest cry, and the world stopped turning for what seemed like hours and we all grabbed each other as tears filled our eyes.  We heard Phil say “she” and we started saying “Did he say She? It’s a girl, isn’t it!?  It’s a girl!” and then Wendy opened the door and exclaimed, “It’s a girl!” and we all hollered and yelled “Lillian!  Lillian is here!  It’s a GIRL!” until we couldn’t think.

“And her CHEEKS!  You should see her cheeks, oh my gosh wait til you see them!” she added.  Then she went back in the room to take pictures.  “Clair de Lune” began playing in the room, and we all sighed at what a perfect choice it was.  Phil and Rachel had selected it to be played immediately after the birth so that throughout their lives when they heard that song they’d be transported back to that room, and that moment.

Phil later told me he was so emotional and swept up in Lillian’s birth that he didn’t even hear the song until a nurse commented on what a nice song it was.  Then he heard it and began to sob.

Colleen, Mike, Cami and I were texting furiously, updating everyone who had been with us on this journey.  I reported to Lindsay at 9:40PM that she was 8lbs 13oz, and at 9:43 she asked how Rach was but I said we hadn’t been let in yet.  Looking back now, I can’t believe that we stood outside that room for twenty minutes waiting to see Lillian.  It felt like two minutes.

Finally the seven nurses finished cleaning and left the room, and we were welcomed in.  Mike and I walked toward the heating lamp that Lillian was laying under, and we saw Phil standing beside her.  When we got closer we realized that she was clasping his finger in her hand, holding on with every ounce of her strength.  She was staring right at Phil, never once looking away, and he had tears streaming down his face.  We leaned over her and said, “Hello Lillian, hello baby girl.  We love you so much, we love you already.  Phil, she is beautiful!  She is gorgeous!  And she can’t take her eyes off of you!  She knows your voice!”  It was one of the most profound interactions I have ever seen; a man and his first-born child, so connected in her first moments of life that it appeared they were being reunited rather than introduced.

Rachel looked happy and relieved, and took Lillian in her arms and said, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She’s so beautiful,” and then looked at her and said, “You are good” in the softest voice, and I bit my lip to keep from crying.

Mike popped the champagne and passed out cups, and we raised our glasses to our newest family member, our lil Lil.  We thanked God for her and chatted, happily, about the shock we were all feeling that she really was here.  We told Rachel that she was a warrior, a mighty woman we all admired and of whom were so, so proud.

After that, the room was full.  It was full of joy, of family, of relief, of love, of love of Lillian.

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Waiting for Lillian — Part 2

To read part 1, click here.

~~

We all knew that going to the hospital was the death of a dream for Phil and Rach, but we also took comfort knowing the health of their baby was their number one priority.  The midwives told us to gather our things and prepare to caravan to the University of Washington Medical Center, because the hospital next door was full.  To further complicate the situation, the 520 bridge across Lake Washington was closed for the weekend, so we had to go around the north side of the lake.  At 1AM, this was certainly discouraging and frightening for those of us in attendance, but we honored their decision and prepared for the 30 minute drive.  We were sure that the baby would be coming soon, so we kept our chins up and got behind the wheel.

I drove without anyone in my car, so I used the time to call Lindsay, my sister-in-love, to give her a proper update.  I had been faithfully texting her every time there was news, but this was too much to explain in a text, and honestly I needed to talk it out with someone not directly involved in the situation.  I shared with her both the facts of what was occurring and the emotions that everyone was experiencing.  She offered her unwavering support; despite being in San Diego, she had “showered and dressed” as if she had to go to the hospital with us, and was committed to being up as late as I was.  It was a stellar effort, I must say.

Although my waning energy was nothing compared to what Rach was feeling, I couldn’t help but feel worn down wondering how long the journey ahead could possibly be.  Without meaning to, my brain kept reminding me that the following day was a Monday, and Mike and I had to go to work in just eight hours.  Those thoughts did nothing but further my weariness, so I pushed those realities from my mind and focused on this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

We arrived at the hospital and dropped Phil and Rach at the emergency entrance to prevent Rach from having to walk from the parking garage (again, the baby was not in imminent danger).  We went up to the maternity ward and gathered in the small waiting area, complete with fish tank.  The doula and midwife informed us that Rachel was being examined by the doctor and they would have an update shortly, so we settled in to wait.

Champions that they are, Cami and Erik voluntarily missed the last ferry to their home on Vashon Island and came with us to the hospital.  They were now committed until at least the first ferry at 4:30AM.  We had been together in this marathon for ten hours, so we tried to find the silver lining by saying things like “Think of it this way: when was the last time we had ten uninterrupted hours together?  We should do this more often!”  The truth of the matter is that having a great mix of people – Cami, Erik, Wendy, Colleen and us – made the ordeal so much more fun than it would have been otherwise.  We spent most of the time telling jokes and laughing about every absurdity until we were delirious.  For instance, at one point Mike stated, to no one in particular, “It’d be so much cooler if there were like seven options, instead of just boy or girl.”  We heard the birth stories of Cami’s four children, Wendy’s three children, and Colleen’s four children; we discussed the relative horrors of the birth experience; we placed bets on birth time, all of us calling it about 22 hours too early.

Eventually we ran out of conversation topics, or perhaps just energy.  We succumbed to exhaustion at about 3AM, curling up in tiny, rock-hard hospital couches to try to sleep.   I quickly remembered Lindsay patiently waiting up with all of us and shot her a text that said, “They say it will likely be hours if you want to nap — we’re trying to sleep on horrible couch.”  She replied, “Ah, yes, hospitals, so inhospitable…” and agreed to crash with us.

At 4AM, the doula told us that Rach had received an epidural and was trying to rest — there would be no laboring tonight.  She advised us to go home and get some sleep. Mike and I didn’t need to be told twice — we said goodbye and went home to crawl into bed at 5AM…setting the alarm for 8AM.

The next morning we each went to work, aware that we’d need to be able to leave early should the baby’s birth become imminent.  Mike left work around 1PM to go back to the hospital and told me to join around 3:30PM. 

When I arrived, Wendy was still there (after moving her flight for the fourth time) and Cami had returned with her daughter Chloe (Erik had to work).  Colleen had stayed the night with Phil and Rach, and gave me an update on the current status.  Rachel’s labor had not progressed and the doctors thought she had an infection — she had a fever and the baby’s heart rate had increased to over 200 bpm.  Rachel’s cervix was still swollen and had not dilated at all in the last two hours, even with high levels of pitocin in her system.  Her water had been broken for almost 18 hours, and considering the fact that it took 30 hours for her to dilate to 8cm in the first place, they weren’t confident she would dilate more quickly now.  The longer the wait, the higher the risk of the infection having potentially serious consequences for Rachel and the baby.  Given all of that information, they suggested a c-section, but told Rach and Phil they had an hour to talk it over before they had to decide. 

This was probably the most stressful hour for those of us in the waiting room.  We didn’t understand all that we were being told, we knew things weren’t going well, and we knew Rach and Phil only wanted a c-section as a last resort.  We were all becoming emotional about the uncertainty involved, and we disagreed about how best to process the information (knowing that ultimately, our opinion mattered not at all).   We couldn’t understand why these serious symptoms wouldn’t automatically lead to a c-section, we didn’t know how Rach and Phil were feeling about it, we felt helpless standing around a waiting room — so we decided to pray. 

We prayed for wisdom for Phil and Rach making this important decision, we prayed for guidance for the medical team involved, we prayed for patience for ourselves in this frustrating circumstance, and we prayed for the health of baby Goodman and Rachel, most of all.

Around 4:45PM, Rach and Phil asked us to join them in their room.  They announced that they had decided a c-section was the safest option, and they were very sad about it, but resolved that the baby’s health was the number one priority.  They shared that they were crushed that all the pieces of their carefully planned birth were being lost one by one over the last two days.  It was certainly not the birth they expected to have. 

True to her good nature, Rachel made a joke about getting two extra weeks off of work due to her insurance policy on c-sections.  We told them we supported them and thought they were making the right decision.  We comforted them and tried to encourage them as we left the room.

Rachel later shared with me that as soon as the c-section decision was made, she moved on from the heartache and realized she was thrilled to meet her baby in just minutes rather than hours. 

Of course, there would be a wait, but none of us were surprised at that point.  They told us Rachel would be prepped and admitted in the next hour and a half, so Mike, Wendy, Cami, Chloe and I walked downstairs to the cafeteria to eat dinner.  We were all exhausted from three or fewer hours of sleep the night before, and the array of overpriced fried food in a dimly lit room did little to boost our morale.  We sat down at the table with our trays and agreed that any topic was acceptable except for anything relating to babies, birth, or any person involved in this saga.  We held out for about five minutes, naturally, but quickly corrected and tried to talk about life outside the hospital.  Anyone passing our table would have thought we’d been there for 30 weeks instead of 30 hours.

After rejoining the group upstairs, we learned that the plan had changed.  At 5:30PM another woman needed an emergency c-section, so Rachel had been bumped back a spot in line.  She had literally been rolling down the hall toward surgery when they told her to return to her room.   We were first concerned, but then slightly hopeful, because this clearly meant Rachel’s operation was not emergency if they were comfortable pushing it back. 

Colleen went in to see Rachel after they announced that her surgery was now scheduled for about 7PM, roughly 30 minutes from the current time.  While visiting with her, Rachel said she felt like she really had to go to the bathroom.  Colleen paused, considered what Rachel had just said, and then replied, “I don’t think you need to go to the bathroom, I think the baby’s coming.”  Unsure, they called for the doctor to check things out and told Colleen they’d let her know.

At 7:30PM, the doula walked into the waiting room and marched straight up to Colleen.  She knelt down in front of her and Colleen braced herself for the newest information. 

“Grandma,” the doula started.  “She’s at 10cm.  She’s going to start pushing.  You’re going to be a grandma very soon!  This baby is on its way!” 

We all jumped out of our seats, exclaiming various questions, “What?!”  “Why?”  “How is that even possible?!”  “I thought she was getting a c-section in an hour!”

The doula said she had to get back to prepare to help Rachel push, and welcomed us to join her to see them.  When we walked into the room, it was a completely different place than before:  the lights were up, Rachel was sitting up and looked more refreshed than seemed humanly possible, the bed was adjusted into a chair and the whole room was buzzing with excitement over this development. 

Someone pointed out that we’d just been praying, and God had worked a miracle — if the other woman hadn’t needed a c-section, Rachel would never have had the chance to realize she was dilating and ready to deliver.  On top of that, it was a miracle that after being taken off pitocin (to prepare for the c-section) Rachel’s cervix dilated on its own and the baby dropped.  Even the nurses were saying this never, ever happened.

I didn’t know it then, but when Rachel first realized she would be pushing, she freaked out. 

“I had conceded to the fact that I would see my baby soon and wouldn’t have to do any ‘work’ — they were just gonna cut me open and pop her out!  Easy peesy,” she explained to me recently.  “All of a sudden we were changing gears AGAIN.  I was not mentally or physically prepared to push.  It could take anywhere from an hour to four hours – I was completely mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted.  Pushing, at that point, was the furthest thing from my mind.  The epidural didn’t help since it made me pretty sleepy.  The idea of a c-section sounded much more appealing — no work for me!”

After a pep-talk from Phil and her doula, she found the strength to rally.  Phil grabbed one of Lindsay’s dance mix CD’s and turned up the volume.  A rockin’ sound blasted through the room, and we all burst out laughing realizing that Baby Goodman would be born to Rhianna.

Suddenly Rachel threw her hair into a high pony-tail, strapped on a headband to keep the sweat in check, and grabbed the railings on the bed frame to show she meant business. 

“I’m ready!” she exclaimed, and boy, did she look it.  Phil was smiling so wide it looked like he had just shotgunned a Redbull/5-Hour-Energy mixer.

We all looked at each other and knew this was it.  Wendy was asked to stay in the room for the birth, and the rest of us went outside the door to listen for the sound we’d waited three days for. 

And this time, we didn’t have long to wait.

~~

The final installment, Waiting for Lillian – Part 3, coming soon!

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Waiting for Lillian — Part 1

Though I have discussed nieces and nephews on this blog before, I think we can all safely agree that I have never written about the birth of nieces, nephews, or any other baby.

Until last week, I had never attended a birth, either.  Now that I’ve attended one, I think it’s time to write about one.  And who better to write about then my new darling niece, Lillian Ann Goodman?

Being a week old, Lillian isn’t really prepared to be interviewed about her introduction into the world, so I will be working with her parents to ensure their story is honored here, as they remember it.  I am telling it from my perspective, but there are things I couldn’t see or hear and parts of the story I missed, so I will be filling it in with the details they provide.  Many thanks to Phil and Rach for participating in the telling of this story.

~~

Saturday, March 10

At around 9AM Saturday, Mike and I were in our pajamas, pouring hot tea and coffee for ourselves.  Mike looked up from his phone and told me, “Rach wants to know if we want to have breakfast at George’s this morning — her contractions have started and she needs a distraction.”

I never turn down the Goodmans, or breakfast, so we got dressed and walked down the street to our favorite Saturday spot.  Miraculously, there was no line, so we got a booth in the back and settled in to wait for Rach and Phil.

When they arrived, Phil slid into the booth after making a joke about Rach being unable to fit — and it wasn’t far from the truth; her due date was the day before, so she was 40 weeks pregnant.

We chatted about how she was feeling, if they were packed and ready, how they were sleeping.  We couldn’t believe the enormity of how their lives were going to change and we talked about how excited we were to know the sex of the baby.

Suddenly, Rachel stopped mid-sentence and held her stomach; she closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment.  We all stopped and stared without meaning to.

“Was that a contraction?” I asked.  “How often are you having them?”

“Not that often,” she replied.  “Every 15 minutes or so.  It started last night so I haven’t slept.”  It hit all of us that we were munching on toast while  one of us at the table was in the first stages of labor — it was totally bizarre and kind of awesome.

I asked Rach if she thought I had enough time to go to a glassblowing class in La Conner that afternoon, because it was a five-hour trip and I knew she wanted us at the birth.  She said the baby wouldn’t be coming for many more hours, so it was perfectly fine to continue with our plans.

And she was right.  It wasn’t until 9:45PM that night that we got a text that said, “Things are progressing.  We’ll likely be at the birth center in the middle of the night or morning.  We’ll let you know.”  An hour later, Rach and Phil called their doula to come to their house to help them through labor.

Sunday, March 11

After waking up Sunday at 8AM, I immediately checked my phone to see if there was any progress update from Rach and Phil.  I saw a text from 5:06AM, “We’re headed to the birth center, but wait to come over til we get settled and checked out.  It could still be quite early.”  Before I could get excited and alert Mike, I saw another text after that at 6:13AM, “Going back home.  100% effaced but only 4cm dilated.  Heading home to rest.  Please pray for rest.  Sooo tired.”

We felt deflated by the false alarm, but we couldn’t imagine how much more discouraged they must have been; we were sure they’d been up most of the night — for the second night in a row.

Wendy, Rachel’s sister, had arrived the day before to support Rachel through labor, and she and Colleen (Rachel’s mom, my mother-in-love) went to their house Sunday morning to help with whatever needed doing.  They worked with Phil and the doula to coach Rach through contractions, did some cleaning and prep work for the house, and generally offered moral support.  They also acted as communication directors, fielding calls and texts from the family who needed updates.

At 2:56PM, Wendy texted us, “We’ll be heading to center shortly.  Contractions back to back.”   In late February, Phil and Rach had sent us an email with their birth plan, which included having the baby at a local birth center rather than a hospital.  They wanted a natural birth without an epidural or any medically unnecessary intervention.  They had told us many times that they wanted Mike, me, Colleen, Glenn and Wendy at the birth, so as we got close to the due date we knew to make ourselves available.

An hour later, when Wendy said to come on over, we were ready.

I know I’m not the only one who has never been to a birth center, so allow me to describe the scene:  the building is within a business park, just blocks from a major hospital, which I’ll admit was a significant comfort to those in attendance from the family.  When we walked in, there was a small reception area, and down the hall was one birthing room, with a waiting room at the other end of the hall, about fifteen feet away.  Mike and I went straight to the waiting room, where we found Colleen, Wendy and our friends Erik and Cami, who are two of Rach and Phil’s best friends.

Shortly after we arrived, Rach asked for us to come say hello.  This was the moment when I basically lost my cool.  I don’t know how to describe it, but I had no idea what was on the other side of that birthing room door, and I felt that it was hallowed and frightening and far too personal for me to enter it.  So what did I do?  I followed Mike in there and then stood like a mannequin, unable to speak.  I looked at Rachel, squatted on the floor in a tank top and yoga pants, totally fine and in the moment.  For some reason I just smiled and tried to breathe, because I didn’t have a single thing to say.  Mike was just as flummoxed, standing beside me.  The midwives were gathered around, smiling enormously and waiting for us to stop acting like idiots.  Needless to say, they waited awhile.

Finally we managed to ask how Rach was doing, how she was feeling, but mostly I was staring at the room, picturing all that was about to go down in there.  I saw a main living area with couches and chairs, a queen size bed with lots of blankets, and a huge sunken bathtub in the corner with candles lit around it, and music playing.  It reminded me more of a place to make a baby than to birth one, and then I realized, maybe that’s a good thing.

A couple of hours later, those of us in the waiting room were a little bored, and we knew that boredom leads to hunger, so we went to Trader Joe’s and stocked up on snacks.  Mike and Erik took the opportunity to visit a bar down the street, having a beer in honor of the impending little one.

When the doula recommended that Rachel take a walk outside to get things moving, we all joined her.  I was flat-out gobsmacked when I saw her doing lunges up a staircase, over and over again.  It was 40 degrees outside, she was in labor, and she was taking steps two at a time up and down the stairs.  If ever there was a moment to feel completely pathetic, this was it.  We all made jokes about our physical inadequacies in front of this hero of a woman working out in front of us.  Helpfully, I took photos.

Later on, the waiting room truly lived up to its name.  We had been at the center six hours, and there was no sign that the baby would be coming any time soon.  The six of us had a good time telling stories and making jokes, checking out the crazy names of the birth announcements on the walls, and generally trying to pass the time.  Wendy had a flight to catch back to Spokane at 9PM, but hours earlier had made the decision to move the flight to 11PM so she would not miss the birth.  At 9PM, when there was still no baby, she moved the flight again to the next morning.

Easily the most heart-stopping moment came when we were all sitting in the waiting room and heard the faintest little sound.  We stopped talking for a second and heard it again, this time with total clarity: the sound of a newborn crying.  You would have thought a hurricane came through the room by the speed with which we all fell over ourselves racing out the door and down the hall.  The second we turned the corner, we smacked into Erik, holding his iPhone with the sound of a baby crying coming out of it.  The cacophony of profanity and accusation that hurled toward him in our rage was priceless.  Erik was the master prankster, and it took all of us about twenty minutes to calm down after the false alarm.  It will be many millenia, however, before we forgive him.

At around 10:30PM, the doula came into our room to tell us that Rachel’s water had been broken by the midwife, in order to help move labor forward.  Rachel knew that this would mean she’d be transitioning soon, so she asked for the women to come into the room and pray for her.

This was the most sacred moment of the day — Rachel’s mom, sister, sister-in-love and close friend gathered around her, laying hands on her and praying in the dark and quiet room.  She sat in a chair and cried as we knelt beside her, offering up prayers of thanksgiving, prayers for strength, prayers for comfort, prayers for health, prayers for life.  The midwives stayed in the room while we prayed, and one of them told us afterward that she couldn’t believe what she’d seen, and how it had helped Rachel.

Monday, March 12

An hour later, the doula told us that Rachel’s labor had stopped progressing, and was actually regressing.  She had made it to 8cm, but was now back at 6cm due to a swollen cervix.  They had to decide whether to continue laboring for an unbearable length of time (and potentially risk needing a c-section), or to transfer to a hospital for desperately needed rest (read: epidural).   It was nearly midnight, so Rach and Phil were headed into their third night without sleep.  Rachel was physically exhausted and said the idea of laboring for several more hours until her cervix dilated was unthinkable.   They made their decision.

And with that, we prepared for the transfer to the hospital.

~~

Waiting for Lillian — Part 2 coming soon!

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Filed under UpWORD (Beauty)

Snow Daze

A funny thing happens when it snows in Seattle like it has in the last week:  everything stops.

Plans, commitments, meetings, driving, working (except for me).  This sounds terribly inconvenient, but in fact, it is glorious.

Nothing excites me more than normal life coming to an absolute halt.  Do I have appointments that I wish I could have kept?  Of course.  But do I love that we all have to hunker down and do nothing more than be at home?  Absolutely.

In the last five days it has snowed off and on, accumulating to about four inches in Kirkland, two in Seattle, and many more further north and south of us.  That is not a significant amount of snow.  But when you live in a city that operates approximately three snow plows and sits on more hills than I can count, there is a lockdown situation.

And I couldn’t be happier.

I have the privilege of wielding a double-edged sword called “I Get to Work from Home.”  I am grateful that I get paid to sit at home with my laptop, but I am a little bummed that a “snow day” for me doesn’t mean I can frolic outside for six hours.

And I am fully aware of how obnoxious that attitude is for those who can’t work from home and have to take a vacation day or who just won’t get paid.  Three cheers for whining about blessings!

One of the funniest parts of witnessing a Seattle snowstorm is watching the residents’ reactions.  For those of you who inhabit a colder climate than ours, you would find yourself wishing you could bottle Seattleites’ hollers of terror and drink them later for a nice buzz.

Facebook is always the first thing to explode. 

“Weatherman says 2 – 4 inches!  OMG how am I going to get to work!?!?”

“I just stocked up on enough food and water for a year!!”

“I purchased tire chains and can’t freaking figure out how to put them on!”

“I just drove home from the store and it was the CRAZIEST SCARIEST ride of my life!!!  Don’t do it!!”

And then the one jaded Northeast native always chimes in, “Seriously?  You call this snow?”

Listen, I am a Northeast native, and despite the snows of my childhood being measured in feet rather than inches, I can honestly say that my feelings for Seattle snow run deep.  I love that any amount of snow in Seattle means that my days will stretch from one relaxing evening to the next.  I love that when I go to the store, half the aisles are empty because people are planning for the apocalypse.  I love that no one so much as questions your inability to get anywhere.  I love that people take to the streets like gold is floating down from the sky instead of snowflakes.

I also love it because of what it forces us to do — slow down.  Mike’s classes were canceled for the week, I work from home every day, and every afternoon we take a walk to enjoy the winter wonderland.  We stay home at night, we eat in, we have silly meals to celebrate a special week (last night: a Parisian picnic in the living room, with cheese, a baguette, olives, salami and wine).  We both look at each other like “Why do we ever make mid-week plans?”

Snow in Seattle also easily shaves about fifteen years off your life.  Immediately you’re throwing on hats, gloves, heavy boots that are used once a year (and usually then it’s at a local ski slope), and heading out the door to smile at every person you see as you all converge to marvel at the transformed landscape. 

That and make snow angels like it’s your job. 

Mike and Phil decided that the pristine layer of snow on our building’s second story patio needed their impressions.  Shortly after that, they spotted a friend of ours on his deck in the condo building across from us, and a snowball fight ensued — from building to building.

Seattle snow days — yes, I’m all for Seattle snow days.

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Filed under One WORD (Current Events)

Happy New Year!

In the words of Death Cab for Cutie: So this is the new year.

Wednesday evening, as the sun went down, I couldn’t help but hear the holiday-themed hum in the back of my mind.  Sure, it’s not January 1; it’s September 8, but on the Jewish calendar it’s the High Holy Day of Rash Hashana — the first day of the year.

I’ve mentioned before that I married into a family who celebrates all the major Jewish holidays.  We observe whatever holidays Christ observed while on Earth.

Who wouldn’t want more holidays in their year?  Who would say, no, thank you, I have enough feasting and togetherness in my life?

In my limited years of celebrating I have learned that many of the Holy Days are, how should I say…somber.  Yes, there is always eating and togetherness, but there is also internal reflection, sacrifice, and repentance.

Rosh Hashana, however, is a hope-filled, joyful entry into fall.  It’s a celebration; apples are dipped in honey to remind us of God’s sweetness.  I can’t think of a happier autumn act.

“Shanah Tova” is Hebrew for “a good year”.  I always feel like a bit of a fraud when I say it, as though Jews around the world are cringing as it comes out of my Christian mouth.  This is why I tend to stick with “Happy New Year,” lest I offend.

This Holy Day, also known as the Day of Remembrance, is about remembering the Lord’s kindness before embarking on a ten-day journey of repentance ending on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

I asked my father-in-love to break this down for me — what’s involved in ten days of repentance?  He explained that you not only repent to God, but you fix all of your broken relationships on Earth.  You make amends with everyone before Yom Kippur.

And there’s a bonus:  you tithe generously to immediate family members.  Of course he had no sooner said this then we around the table started looking at him like he was about to whip out the checkbook.   Unfortunately, he did not.  Apparently it’s not just parents to kids; I think  I stopped listening when I realized it might be me that has to tithe.   (Judge all you want, but like you would have jumped in, eager pay your sibling 10% of your income?  Right.)

Traditionally during this dinner we would blow the shofar (ram’s horn), which is supposed to be blown each morning as a reminder that we are in a period of reflection and repentance.

We don’t blow it each morning, however.  We live in a condo building.  I’m not sure what we would say to the neighbor knocking on our door at 7AM, angry at the noise.  “Oh that?  That’s just our ram horn.”

What’s most incredible about gathering with the Rephs for these holidays is that the ritual and regard serves to move us all into a different state of mind.  Around that table, it’s as if we have pressed the elevator button for “Penthouse” because we move so much higher than our normal head space.  From that height we press our heads against the glass windows of the room and look down at the things of our lives: the decisions, the hurts, the exclamations, the minutia.  It’s much easier, from that standpoint, to examine with our binoculars what is worth focusing on.

I am mesmerized by my in-loves perspectives on faith and life.  My father-in-love can explain his thoughts on the Lord using scripture passages from memory, but he does so in an approachable way, not a scholarly snooze-fest.  My mother-in-love has such a grasp on faith in its truest sense; on what it is to wait for God’s direction.

All of our talks are peppered with Rachel’s and my persistent questions that force the theology to be tangible.  Neither of us is really satisfied by platitudes (not that any are necessarily offered at the table) and we insist on being taken seriously.  Lucky for us, everyone else around the table allows for this.  We always walk away with more to think about then when we began the meal.

And the meal is central, no doubt.  I don’t think there would be the conversation if it weren’t for the plentiful steaming dishes being passed between us.

I am overwhelmed by this heartfelt exchange with each passing Holy Day.  Though it is an apt reminder of God’s kindness, I find that it specifically reminds me of His kindness in providing this family for me, even though I already had a fantastic family.  Some of my girlfriends have married into less-than-ideal in-law situations, and each breaking of bread in the Reph clan reminds me that they are second to none.

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Filed under The WORD (Faith)

Barely There

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if you want some decent people watching, look no further than the Seattle Symphony.

Last Sunday my in-loves took us to Benaroya Hall to celebrate my sister-in-love’s birthday.  Shortly after arriving, I was absent-mindedly sipping my champagne while silently eyeballing every outfit in the room.  Outfit?  That’s too generous a term; some of these women were in capris and Tevas.

I saw two young women (the only other people under 30, we noticed) in super-short dresses, bare legs and high heels.  I immediately recoiled at the display of flesh.  It’s 2PM, I thought; where are their nylons?

I was in a gray sweater dress with brown boots to the knee, and had worn nude nylons so I wouldn’t be flashing my thighs to the over-60 crowd on a Sunday afternoon.  I didn’t even think twice about it.  So as soon as I saw these women sans-pantyhose, I expressed my surprise.

The birthday girl quickly pointed out to me that not everybody wears pantyhose; in fact, she confirmed that she didn’t think she even owned any. 

This nonchalance provoked the obvious question:  are nylons necessary?  Is it just my East Coast upbringing that forces me into such propriety?

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t think of many times I had seen people my age in nylons.  The recent exception being last fall’s trend of dark black tights with any type of boot, bootie, or pump.  Aside from that, who wears them?  Am I being modest, or just 150 years old?

Before Rachel and I could discuss further, her husband interrupted us to tell us to stop saying “hose.”  “It sounds like you’re saying ho’s,” he said, looking around the room, “and you shouldn’t say ho’s at the symphony.”

Fair point — after all, the vast number of words for this sheer, leg-hugging fabric is mind-boggling.  Nylons/pantyhose/stockings/tights/leggings…and I’m sure they’re not interchangeable at all, but we toss them around like the underwear they are, regardless of accurate terminology.

As far back as I can remember, my mom insisted on tights for every occasion, for something as regular as church to formal family holidays.  They were always uncomfortable, always protested by me, and always required by her.  “Don’t you want to dress like a lady?” she’d ask.

Even when I was a teenager living on the West Coast, she would stare, horrified, as I left for the Homecoming dance in an above-the-knee dress without stockings.  But no one in Seattle ever wore nylons, so why would I? 

And yet here I am at 26-years-old pulling on my nylons to go to the symphony.  Apparently the stodgy East Coast formality stuck.

But midway through the show I got a run.  A huge run.  I leaned over to Rachel and informed her that my nylons were running so fast they could win a race.

Suddenly it occurred to me that getting a run takes all of the modesty and tastefulness I associate with nylons and rips them in two faster than the fabric itself.  Could anything look less classy? 

The run started at mid-thigh but by intermission was straight through my knee and headed for my ankle.  Mike looked at me like, seriously?  Don’t you carry a spare?

No.  No, I do not.  Instead I stood like a child preventing an accident:  one leg tucked behind the other out of desperation.

As soon as the performance concluded and we had been seated at The Brooklyn for happy hour, I dashed to the ladies room (the irony!) and dumped my nylons in the garbage. 

I am totally convinced that God had a hearty laugh at my expense as the woman who judged naked legs at Benaroya ended up sitting at a bar with bare thighs at The Brooklyn.

Update 7/26/11:  I rest my case.  Hosiery is back.

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Filed under Good WORD (Etiquette)