Gemma Alta Kirton- update with photos

We are a 3 kid family.

The transition hasn't been any harder than the others, but I measure the added workload in things I'm able to do for myself without being forced to openly neglect the needs of a child in my care. There is now nothing on that list. It is no longer a list. It is a long missed and sweetly remembered faris wheel of old timey silent movie reels where-in I artfully smooth on mascara and braid my long hair. [My hair didn't fall off because I had another kid- I paid a friend to cut it off because pregnant women always think that a haircut will make them feel hot again. I know this. People pay me to do this to them, yet... Well anyway.] I don't have as much time to do things like put on makeup, write a whole bog post in less than 3 sittings, or like- shower and shave my legs without paying for it. My kids are climbers, and flingers. Sheeya.

Gemma. Oh... my Gemma. She is the perfect baby.

I have pretty great pregnancies, but they are terrible for the last 6 weeks or so. I can't sleep and it makes everything harder, so I get anxious to deliver. I started looking up the symptoms of labor (again) to make sure I was watching for the signals. I called my midwife to ask for a couple of descriptions of these signals. They're all super gross and I can't handle them being discussed by name in regular conversation, so I'm purposefully being vague. You're welcome.

Signals began to present themselves and I looked up at Hyrum, relieved it was 10 days before my due date, and wishing I had known better what to watch for in previous labor situations. I said, "I'm most likely going into labor in the next 24 hours. Do you have any meetings tomorrow?" He looked at me curiously (like I was a magic wizard woman), and said that he did not.

I woke up at 11:50pm that night as my water broke. It was green, which meant meconium staining. I called the midwives, my mom, and my dear friend Jami to take pictures. The midwives came and they and Hyrum set up the tub, while I bounced on my "labor ball" just to try something different. But man, when I started disliking my contractions, I was in that tub and loving it.

The tub works so well for me that my mom was there for a while before I needed to hold her hand and she was feeling "pretty useless". Nonsense. She is never useless. I was holding Hyrum's hands and making jokes here and there until the tone of the contractions shifted.

I hadn't liked my laboring position last time as it left my chin sore, and remembering it, I'm really glad I wanted to be sitting bolt upright for quite a while. Later after maybe... 2 and half hours in the tub, I needed to lay back against the tub wall, and I held Hyrum's hand on my left, and mom's hand on my right- mom now felt that she was helping.

I remember thinking about my sister-in-law who delivered her second baby only 17 minutes after she realized she was in labor. I was hungrily thinking about the fact that, "If this were [her], I'd be done by now." I just wanted to be done. My angel midwife Melissa asked questions about where the contractions were, so we could gauge where we were in the process, and it looked like we were in for several more hours. Several more hours sounded terrible.

I couldn't remember why I keep choosing to do this. "Why do we do this?!" I said, not screaming, but urgently. Everybody looked at me sort-of bemused, like, "Well that's a little funny, but not a very nice thing to say." but they didn't actually reply. I said, "No really. I don't remember why I do this. Why???" Answers rang out. "You can do it at your own pace." "No needles or IVs." "You're at home when you're done." "No one's telling you what to do." That helped, but I still wanted to use my own pace to finish the heck up. I shouldn't complain. My labors aren't long. But, woof.

I was to the point the contractions were so intense that I had to redirect my attention during their height to get through them, and was scratching the edge of the tub with my overgrown acrylic toenails. (As I told my sister, "I wanted to fix my toes, but I couldn't reach them.") I felt like my mind was swimming- circling a drain that dropped to panic. I have a video of me demanding that my (other) angel Midwife Heidi wipe my hair off of my forehead, and there is no hair on my forehead. She says, "There are literally no hairs on your face." I could feel one little hair on my face and it was about to push me down the drain. But she got it.

I asked a few times if Laura (LOR-uh) was coming. Laura is a third angel midwife who was there for Russell's delivery, and she is a verbalizer. She loves birth, and moms and babies, and she talked me through Russell's delivery. It was beautiful. She is that midwife (forgive me Laura if you don't find this description flattering- I mean it more lovingly than I can express with words.) Ahem. She is that midwife with long wavy hair and a big understanding smile who says things like, "You were made for this" in the most soothing voice. "All of the mothers who have come before you are lifting you up now." "You are powerful, tiger mama." And, oh man, so I love all that good stuff.

The midwives take turns in twos staying up all night for births, and I already had Melissa and Heidi with me, so when I kept asking for Laura, Melissa said, "I can call her. She can come if you want her to." And I remember licking my lips and not opening my eyes, and panting a little as I said, "She says all the thingzzz..." Melissa (a little hurt, I could tell), said, "I can say the things!" And then she and Heidi and Hyrum and my mom and Jami, all began saying the things. "You have done this all before." "You're almost done." "You get to see your baby before the sun comes up today." "You can do this, babe. Nothing you haven't already done. You got this."

"The things" pulled me away from circling the drain to where I could think just enough to form a plan. My biggest fear is tearing, but I have never actually torn, and this was my third baby. My sister-in-law, Laura (LAW-ruh), called this to my attention. "If you haven't torn before, you probably won't this time." Shrewd. I also take precautions against tearing, and had "reached a 9" several previous nights without much effort. I also know that with Russell, he didn't feel like he was on his way out until he was a contraction and a half from being born. I know that emotionally when you're thinking "I can't do this anymore", you're almost done, and I knew, without a doubt, that I was done with this.

On the next contraction I let it get to where it would feel better to push, and I squeezed my mom and Hyrum's hands and hollered "Head!" and screeched enough for my dear dear friend and neighbor Jaime to hear me from across the street. And lo, and behold, there was a head indeed.

This surprised everyone but me, and there was a flurry of activity as tools and whatnot were put in place to assist with the next steps. Gemma was born at 3:40 am.

Gemma did not use her lungs to breathe, however, until 3:49 am. She was well, and being taken care of by the umbilical cord, but #obvi, honey needed to breathe on her own.

Interestingly, I feel like I completely missed those 9 minutes, because I had been prepared for this to happen. Mom's on antidepressants (lika me) sometimes experience this with their brand-newborns. The babies just don't open up their own lungs and use them for a little bit, and then they do, and they're fine. I had thought through it, and was prepared for it. I learned, though, that it is a MUCH more common side effect of meconium staining, which I could not have known would happen. I'm REEEEEALLY glad Melissa brought this up so I could be ready for my baby not to breathe, for whichever reason.

beautiful

She was born and I pulled her up onto me, and she was squishy and slimy and had big puffy lips like Georgia did. But she made no sound. I smiled and cooed at her and said, "Come on, honey. Talk to us, Gemmy-bear. Come on, Gemma. Breathe, Gemmy. Come on, Gemmy." The midwives positioned the [tiny, newborn, heartbreaking] resuscitator and got oxygen flowing to her. So, she was breathing, but not on her own. She was limp. Completely limp, and not breathing on her own, but here I was smiling and rubbing her and saying "We knew this was a possibility. La la la!" and "Oh she's so sweet!" while my baby was cradled on a cookie sheet instead of my arms, and her father was calling 911 and telling a dispatcher "Our baby was just born and she's not breathing. -Our house. -Yes, on purpose."

"La la la!"

A firetruck and siren came down the street with 2 police cars and 8 men and women who came thumping up the stairs to save a newborn baby. But finally, she squeaked. She dropped her tongue and her skinny little arms began to move. She resisted pressure on the bottoms of her feet, and she turned a beautiful shade of life-pink. I ache thinking about it, now. But then, I was smiling up at the paramedics and practically singing, "We're alright! She's beautiful! Today's a good day! But oh thank you so much for coming! Happy ending!" My friend Jaime from across the street who heard me scream and then heard the sirens come down the street came over and stuck her head in to make sure we were alright. She was really scared, and I don't really understand why I wasn't.

There was a moment- just a single moment- when I started to panic, but I said, "We knew this might happen." to myself and everyone else, and just never felt another worry. For 9 minutes! I feel guilty about it, honestly. I feel like I wasn't there. But she was so lovely. Skinny and tiny (6 lb 11oz) and bald on top like Russell. She's a sleeper and always has been, and she smiles like crazy. She's strong and pleasant and not demanding. She's patient and loves interaction, and lately, her fingers.

I shaved her head so she wouldn't look like an old man, and it helped. I thiink.