Lenten Project: Seventh Fearless Friday (Good Friday)

One thing that missionary kids excell at is in reveling in their natural habitat. From swings to elaborate treehouses from which to launch on zip lines, we certainly created plenty of opportunities for thrills. 

Even when my family was on deputation, raising monetary support to go to Grenada, we had a nice wooden swing in the backyard of our house in Sharon, PA. There were some nice playgrounds in that area, too, and I have vague but fond memories of playing when I was a little girl. 

But it wasn't till we got to Grenada that our outdoor habitats got more awesome. At one house, an old plantation manor house with two and a half acres of land filled with tropical fruit trees, Dad built us girls a double decker treehouse.

This is one of the breathtaking views we had from that house.

We also had a little platform over some roots that was our hammock space. When Dad was putting up an even longer rope swing, he asked for a volunteer to test it with him. My sister Lizzy stepped forward, unafraid that Dad's knot tying might not hold. Sure enough, the rest of us girls had our doubts vindicated! On the backswing, the rope broke, and Dad and Lizzy fell to the ground, landing on some big above-ground roots. Dad landed on Lizzy, and Mom was certain he'd killed her or broken bones or caused internal bleeding. At first, Lizzy assured everybody she was fine, but when Mom continued to fuss and Dad kept acting so contrite, she began to ham it up, whimpering and letting her arms hang limply while she got carried with great fanfare into the house. She got to spend the rest of the day on a pile of cushions, eating the entire sent-from-America Tootsie Roll stash. With rewards like that, the rest of us girls felt sorry we hadn't volunteered after all!

At the next house we lived at in Grenada, we took it to the next level and had a four  storey treehouse, complete with super long rope swing. 

Come to think of it, we Schaefer girls haven't had much luck with rope swings, because Mary was swinging on this one once and ended up flipping over the nearby retaining wall to land on her back on some coconuts. Dad was so scared she'd broken her back that he drove the little red car down the hill to get her and drive her back up to the house so she wouldn't walk. But Mary was too good and honest to let our parents feed her all the American candy when she wasn't really injured.

Aside from rope swings and hammocks, the favourite contraption at MKs' houses was the zip line. A couple of our friends had great tree lines in their yards that were perfect for their zip line setups. We'd spend hours taking turns hurling our bodies from tops of makeshift ladders (slats nailed into coconut trees) while hanging on tightly to small metal pipes suspended from the zip line. Only be careful you don't slam into the tree into the other end!!

One missionary family lived right on the edge of the rainforest, so we'd go exploring and hiking whenever we visited them. There was a small quicksand pool that Darrell always told us we'd get sucked down into our deaths if we even stepped a toe in. Scared me spitless everytime he ominously warned us. If it was really that dangerous, I wonder at our parents for letting us go play around it! More likely he was just being his annoying self and teasing me (probably made all the sweeter for him since I swallowed it every single time!).

I grew up climbing mango trees and spending all day up there, reading. If I got hungry, I could always reach out a hand and pick a snack!

Growing up so close to nature is something I really appreciate about my childhood. While it's a miracle none of us ever got seriously injured, I wouldn't trade those experiences for anything.

Lenten Project: Sixth Fearless Friday

My sister Mary has always been my best friend out of everybody in the world, probably because she's the person who I've been closest to the longest (by virtue of the fact that we're only 15 months apart in age).  She's been my foil, my sidekick, my confidant, my confessor, and my challenger.

From the very beginning, Mary has made me a better person, a better sister.  Even though I'm the oldest, she was always the designated "girl in charge" when our parents went out and left us kids at home.  It's because she's the most responsible kid.  And she has the gift of peacemaking, which is a good for being in charge of the rest of us rabble-rousers.  She's taught me through example how to love my sisters and respect my parents, even when I don't agree with them.  She perfectly bridges the gap between being her own person and being loyal to others.

As kids, we shared a room (along with all the the other sisters, of course), and got along the best. I frequently fought with my other younger sisters, but Mare and I rarely squabbled.  Even though I was the bad kid and she the good kid, we evened each other out.  I've been daring and liked to push the limits with our parents, and she's been safe and liked to quietly conform.  We meet in the middle to compromise and it works really well in our sisterly partnership.

One time, though, we both agreed to be bad together, and it was glorious!  Here's the whole marvelous story, in her own words:

One night Hannah and I were aching for pickles. We were only allowed ½ a pickle on grilled-cheese-sandwich nights. We longed for more. After the house was quiet and we heard dad march up to his room, we sneaked down to the kitchen. Hannah was the first to take the glass pickle jar from its gleaming pedestal in the refrigerator door.

“Quick! You’re letting the light out!” I said.

She sat down on the floor with the jar between her feet and tried to turn the lid. It was too hard for her. I had always been known as the jar opener. Even Mom sometimes came to me for help with jars of jelly that were to tight for her. I was proud of my reputation. I took the jar from Hannah and tried to open it, but it still wouldn’t open. Finally I gave in to the old knife trick. Hannah handed me a butter-knife from the silverware drawer and I banged its butt against the lid. After two or three taps the lid gave and I pulled it off.

The next minute we were indulging in the wonders of pickled cucumbers. By the time we were satisfied, the jar was empty. Hannah said that no one would suspect us if we just put the jar back into the fridge leaving the pickle water in it. So that is what we did. And she was right. No one asked us if it was us . . . specifically. Dad did ask a few days later, “Okay! Who put the pickle jar back into the fridge EMPTY!?” He hates it when we do that.

When she joined me at Bob Jones University as a freshman in 2002, she became my roommate (along with two others in that tiny room).  We went to meals together, attended Artist Series programs together, reminded one another to brush our teeth and write to Mom.  Since, after Christmas break, classes often started on or around my birthday, she'd be the person who celebrated with me, who never forgot I was a older by another year.

She was a bridesmaid in my first wedding, and I've always been the tiniest bit offended that she didn't ask me to be in hers. I did have weird hair that year, though, so maybe that's why.  She's the only sister who RSVPed 'yes' to my sacramental marriage ceremony last year, the only sister who chose to come and celebrate my new marriage and new family.  Her van broke down on the way, but, dangit, she was actually trying hard to be there, and that counts so much in my eyes, since none of my other sisters even bothered to try (I don't count my youngest sister, who was there with my parents, because she's still a part of my parents' household, and when they changed their minds and decided to come to my wedding, she, by extension, was brought along).

Even though I'm the eldest Schaefer girl, she's the one we sisters all look to for leadership, the one who makes the wise decisions we can trust.  When Dad was busy and Mom was distracted by whichever new baby we had at the time, Mary stepped up and took the reins.  She's like a mini matriarch to us.  She's always been like that.  She's our mother hen.  Mother Mary.

Of course, now, she's all grown up, and she's a real mother.  Her husband and two sons are weeks away from flying away to Togo, West Africa, to minister on the mission field.  Second generation missionaries (both of them, since her husband, Andrew, is the son of missionaries, too), serving God and loving others.

Mary is the only sister who has intentionally set out to get to know my husband right from the start, to actively be a part of my life.  She's the one who has visited my family in DC, who has called, emailed, messaged, and texted when too long has passed between communication.  She's the only one out of my whole family who has met all my kids, who rejoices with me when new milestones are achieved, who drives for hours to come to birthday parties, who listens without judging when I whine about the tough parts of parenting.  She's the one who is willing to discuss theology with me, even though we don't agree on everything anymore.  

Mary is an encourager, a vibrant model of Christ.  She is compassion personified, a reconciler.  I'm going to miss her when she's gone, far away to Togo.  But I'm confident that doesn't mean she'll be out of my life, because she's the kind of friend who will never forsake, never abandon.  Mary is the one I want to be like when I grow up.

Join the conversation

Yesterday was National Siblings Day.  (I found that out after this post was planned, coincidentally.)  Tell me about your favourite sibling and why you look up to him or her.
If you're an only child, is there any one in your life who you wish was your sibling?

Lenten Project: Fifth Fearless Friday

The Schaefer family likes to travel and hike.  That's what we've done for years, together as a family, enjoying time together outdoors.

From the very beginning, in Grenada, we often went hiking together.  Grenada has some amazing mountains and trails, and even a few forts leftover from the colonial period.  We'd drive up to the old volcano-turned-crater-lake, Grand Etang, which the locals claimed was bottomless (it's only 20 feet deep).  If we were lucky, we'd see the remains of an animal sacrifice made by the Spiritual Baptists.  Some of our friends liked to tease us that a sea monster dwelled in the bottomless depths, but I never saw anything but fish, which we liked to catch in little nets we made.

Sometimes, Dad would organize country-wide church events, where all the other IFB churchgoers would be invited to go adventuring with us.  We went hiking up Mount Qua Qua and visited the Seven Sisters waterfalls, went mossy rock-hopping across rivers and streams (Mom always fell in), swung on the rope swing into the waterfall pools, ate off banana leaves, waved our arms to keep the monkeys from pulling our hair, and admired the beautiful, brightly coloured birds and flowers.

It was always so cold up the mountains--at least 70 degrees!
So we'd bundle up in sweatshirts every time.

Our love of hiking didn't end when we left the West Indies.  While on furlough in '98, we hiked all over the States' East coast, enjoying the Appalachians and Smokies.  We'd goof off and have fun together.  My sister Elizabeth liked to do "tour guide" voices and make things up as we trekked along, and she always had us in stitches, laughing as we hiked.

Hannah and Mary attempt to murder the tour guide

Singapore has a hill in the middle of it.  I say hill because, after Grenada's volcanic mountains, Singapore's little Bukit Timah is like a backyard stroll.  We still had fun hiking it, though.  We laughed at all the rules and restrictions--that's Singapore for you!

And even more recently, with so many of us girls grown and married, my parents would come back to the States every year and occasionally rent a cabin in the mountains of North Carolina or Georgia.  We'd go hiking in the Appalachians.  

Dad's antics have only gotten crazier over the years, and they've rubbed off on the rest of us. One time, in Grenada, Dad grabbed a snake from the bushes along the trail, and instead of slithering away in fright, like usual, the snake wrapped around his arm and wouldn't let go.  One of the church girls had to pry it off of his arm where it was constricting him.  That incident hasn't stopped him from snatching at snakes and critters on the trail, though.  He still does it!

Like that time he wore a dry cleaners bag as a poncho

Dad likes to be as embarrassing as possible when we pass other hikers on the trail, and it used to make us girls want to dive off a cliff.  Now we all join in and try to embarrass our spouses, or better yet, Mom.  Lizzy is still the master at "tour guide voice," though, and her husband is the perfect foil.  Since we grew up in Grenada before it was as heavily tourist-ised like it is now, we're used to trails with no signs and no rules.  Our only guidelines were: make it up as you go along, bring a compass so you don't get lost, and always respect the map reader in the group.  Also, stick close to the designated snack-carrier.

  

These more recent family get togethers provided time for catching up, family pictures, and relaxing.  We haven't been all together since a year or two before my divorce, though. Most of my family hasn't even met my husband, much less my stepson and new daughter. And now that my beloved sister Mary is moving to Togo with her family to serve on the mission field, a complete Schaefer family gathering will probably be put off till many years in the future.  Hopefully the next time we're all together won't be a funeral or something, but that's the reality we face, since our family is now scattered all over the world. Missionary problems!

   

 

My fanciful dream is that we can all forgive one another and leave behind past hurts in order to forge a new future of unconditional love and acceptance for those in our family, setting aside personal interpretations of the Bible and theological beliefs to really live out the Gospel to one another.  It would take a lot of humility, which is not a staple in Fundamentalism.  But someday, someday not too far away, I hope we can all go hiking together again, joking with one another again, listening to Lizzy's "tour guide voice" again. There is a whole generation of grandkids who haven't yet been embarrassed by their grandad on the trail, or heard their grandma freak out that they'd die if they climb that tall tree/eat that fruit/jump over that stream/touch that unidentified animal.  And before the chance is gone, I'd like my kids to experience that, along with their cousins they've never met.

Lenten Project: Fourth Fearless Friday

My family is a modern, blended family, and it is beautiful.

Divorce is never a wonderful thing.  It's brokenness embodied. But the fact that something lovely has grown out of something so tragic is amazing and should be celebrated.

When I got divorced in 2012, I honestly never dreamed I would be married again so soon. But the hand of Providence is so clearly evident in the forming (and reforming) of my family.  It's been a long time getting to where we are now, and grace and redemption have brought us to a level of restoration that wouldn't be possible without our faith.

When I remarried and moved from South Carolina to Washington, DC, my ex-husband moved back to his parents' house in North Carolina, taking our son with him. Originally, we'd agreed to have him stay in Greenville so our son could finish out the year in his school (I didn't want too much upheaval all at once for the little guy). That plan got changed suddenly when my ex informed me he was moving, barely a week before it happened.  I wasn't pleased at all, but we found a way to compromise temporarily.  Then, we started fighting over what the next years would bring, and it was not pretty. There were threats, a restraining order, lawyers, depositions, court dates, angry phone calls, and lots of tears and grief, until, finally, I quit fighting.  I was weary and getting more and more broken with every frustrated and blocked attempt of getting my way. And I knew that my child would look back someday to see the fights and the bitter feelings between his parents, and it would not make him feel more secure or loved.

If I truly believe in the sovereignty of God, I have to accept that, whatever the past mistakes that were made, this is where we're at now, and I need to find creative ways to nurture life, not speak death.  So I stopped fighting the status quo and instead looked forward, trying to love my son and make him confident of his security in his family, even though it is spread out and a little different than the norm.

It's not been easy, let me assure you.  I still fight with my ex sometimes (a hallmark of our tempestuous marriage, I'm sure!).  We're both saddled with astronomical debts to lawyers, and I honestly don't know we'll pay them.  I hope God will provide, somehow.  But we try to resolve things with our son in mind now.  It isn't a game to see which parent wins and who is the loser.  Because when fighting happens, our child is the loser.  And I don't want that.

Currently, my son lives with his dad in North Carolina, where he is close to graduating from Kindergarten.  Maybe he'll attend a great DC school in the future, but for now, I get him about every other weekend and on school holidays.  Sometimes he comes here, and other times we drive down to my in-laws' place in NC, a couple hours from where my ex and son now live, since we like to visit them a lot.  And there're always the Skype calls!

These have turned into Lego builds via Skype calls.  We line our computer screens up just right,
and we can watch each other make awesome things, giving suggestions, and telling stories while we do it.

My husband is also divorced, and has a son. He shares custody with an ex who lives just 20 minutes from us, and we get to have that son a lot more often.  I coordinate school pickups and dropoffs with my stepson's mother, and we all work hard to get along.  We're friendly to one another, and no, it was not always like that!

I still can hardly believe, when I think of the antagonism we've all lived in for so long, that we are actually friends now, all working together for the sake of our children.  It's hard to thrive when you're filled with resentment, someone told me recently, and it's so very true.

Being a stepmom is tough.  It's made even more difficult when the son I birthed is so far away in a different state most of the time.  Add in a new baby, and you'd think my affections would be varied for each of my kids, right?  But the miraculous reality is, I love all of my children an infinite amount.  It amazes me.  Sure, it can be tiring at times. I maintain the custody calendar to coordinate the rotation of two different boys between three separate sets of parents, in three states!  My son has pretty severe ADHD, my stepson is four (with all the struggles and hardships that come with being four), and I'm exclusively breastfeeding, babywearing, and cloth diapering a five month old daughter! But it's so worth it, because my kids know they are loved, and we, their parents, have worked hard to create a safe space in our family. We are Lutheran, Episcopal, and non-denom/Baptist, and all of us to are good parents to our kids, committed to raising them in the faith, even as our family grows.

Of course, with an unconventional family like mine, we don't grow in the usual ways!  My stepson's mom got remarried last year, so now there's a new stepdad (whose name is the same as my son's, so we tack "Big" in front of his name to differentiate), and they coincidentally had a baby girl same time as my daughter was born. The girls were born literally days apart.  So my stepson has two half-sisters!

My ex just got engaged to be married to a divorcee with four kids, so there will soon be lots of step-siblings for my son.  We've got step-siblings and half-siblings coming out our ears! But it's so beautiful.

This Christmas, we went to the National Zoo for ZooLights, and most of the family was there, minus my ex, who had to work.  On Christmas Day, my son's father came and celebrated with us together as a family.  Birthday parties have been combined family endeavours. I hope we can have lots more of these blended family events where we're all together.  Maybe it looks a little weird, but in the long run, I think it paints a beautiful picture of restoration and reconciliation.

One really great "side-effect" to sharing custody of our sons with their other parents is that we don't have them all the time.  Yup, that's right, I celebrate that fact!  It means I get to be a mother of three, yet still enjoy bonding with my husband, and, with my newborn, in a way that a newlywed and then first-time parent enjoys.  I get to go grocery shopping with only one kid to wrangle!  It is certainly a luxury I don't take for granted.

Join the conversation

In what ways have you seen relationships restored in an unusual or surprising way in your life?
Do you have broken relationships with people with whom you wish you could pursue peace?
If you aren't there yet (and that's okay--it takes time to heal; believe me, I know!), in what ways do you save the space for them, in hope of a reconciliation in the future?

I ask, because there are still people in my extended family who refuse to repair the broken gap, and I need encouragement to not give up on them.

Lenten Project: Third Fearless Friday

In late 2011, I left Sovereign Grace Church and started visiting different churches, sometimes two or three on a single Sunday.  I was thirsty, seeking...something. I just didn't know what.

I was depressed, discouraged, my marriage was all but over, but I knew there had to be something out there.  Something greater.  Something that wasn't just a rock concert at church, or a one-man show in the pulpit, or a guilt-fest in every sermon, or a legalistic show window.

Ann Schaefer with Hannah, 1983

My beloved grandmother had long reminded me to seek God first, and assured me everything else would become plainer with time.  But I didn't really know how to do that.  In my background of works, works, works, I didn't know how to let God speak for Himself.  I grew up trying to define God down to the very last characteristic, leaving nothing to Divine mystery.  My grandmother was always patient with me when we talked, answering question upon question about Lutheranism, different kinds of wine, and the best way to pack a suitcase.

With her encouragement, I decided to visit a Lutheran church near my house.  With that first visit, I knew I was home.

I posted to Facebook as soon as the service was over.

Everything was different, and yet so familiar, about the service.  I couldn't find the right page during the Kyrie or Sanctus, but I had several of the hymns memorised.  I didn't know when to cross myself, when to kneel, when to stand, when to say, "Amen."  But the Lord's Prayer was a comfort to me.  The Scripture reading confirmed what is true: the Gospel is preached in the Lutheran church.  There's no escaping it.

I didn't understand what the colours meant, or what the pastor's vestments signified, or why things were done in the order they were done.  I marveled at the Eucharist (I still marvel at the Eucharist, every. single. time.)  But I embraced it all.

I discovered new, and yet so old, Creeds.  Made me wonder why BJU had reinvented the wheel by creating a new one (which leaves important stuff out, too!).  I followed the lead of the woman in front of me and dipped my fingers in the water of the baptismal font on my way out.  Here was a physical reminder that I was always God's child, always held close, always beloved.

And that's the story of how I came home to Sacramental, liturgical Christianity.

What's your story?  How did you end up where you've ended up?  Is there someone who was a positive influence for you?

Lenten Project: Second Fearless Friday

In Grenada, my family's relationship with the other IFB missionaries was vital. There we found fellowship, abiding friendship, and support in our ministries. We kept each other sane through the hardships of missionary life.  For we MKs, that's were we found our best friends.

My sister Mary, MK friend Michelle, MK friend Miriam, me, MK friend-I-didn't-like-very-much Anna, sister Lizzy, and sister Lydia at my eighth birthday party

Before the KJV-Only split that caused a rift between our two families, one of my best friends was Miriam. She was the sole daughter in a family of seven kids. Her two older brothers, David and Darrell, delighted in tormenting us with teasing, which we bore with little grace. 

One particular time, I went for a sleepover at Miriam's house. All night we oohed and ahhed over dated Sears catalogs, ogling the male models and envying the female, as adolescent girls are prone to do.  They all looked so happy! And so white (living in a country with 100% black population made white people a curiosity--we Schaefer kids would frequently make fun of the white tourists who flocked from cruise ships in the harbour).

When we finally put the Sears catalogs away and fell asleep, my dreams were filled with worldly clothing and a licentious desire to be kissed by a boy that looked like one of the catalog models. 

1991 Sears catalog

At breakfast the next morning, David and Darrell came swaggering into the room with big mocking grins on their faces. Darrell was waving a tape in his hand, laughing like he had a hilarious secret. 

And boy, did he! Turns out, he and David had hatched a daring scheme to record us girls' conversation the night before. They'd bugged Miriam's room and had, from across the hall in their loft, been listening to our Sears catalog induced raptures. 

The boys bragged, to our utter shock and shame, that they'd heard every word, and now had recorded proof of our silliness. It was mortifying. 

My parents tried to tell me that boys tease girls they like. But I was skeptical. After all, I thought Darrell was a jerk. David I could get along with when there weren't other pesky siblings around to make fun of us while we tried to discuss books. But Darrell? Nope. Nothing but a meany-head. 

I survived the humiliation that day, and my dad later comforted me by saying he'd paid Darrell to destroy the tape. 

Looking back now, I kinda hope it was true. And I hope Darrell, now a dear friend with his own famous blog, made bank!

Friends now, but still awkwardly adhering to the six inch rule

Lenten Project: First Fearless Friday

Fearless Fridays during this Lenten project of mine mean I'll take a break from angsty or trigger-possible stories and instead tell a happy tale. The most recent time I felt truly fearless was during my Penelope's birth four months ago. This is that story.

[Warning: This birth story includes details!]

Labour is fantastic. No, really. It is. The experience is intense and exhilarating and sometimes overwhelming, and I enjoy it. That certainly doesn't mean I wish mine had been longer! But I recall it with positive feelings, remembering how powerful I felt, how in tune with myself I was.

In the weeks leading up to Penelope's birth, I experienced frequent contractions which were regular during the day, yet stopped when I went to sleep. Far from being “false,” these contractions moved my body further and further along the birth journey. A week before I gave birth, the baby had already dropped, and I was dilated to 3cm. The day before my Guess Date, November 20th, I chaperoned my (step)son Nicholas' class trip to the fire station. On my actual Guess Date, November 21st, I went along with his class to a pumpkin patch an hour from DC. I figured the one day I could be confident the baby wouldn't come would be the due date. What baby ever comes on the due date?! Riding the hayride was fun, but it wasn't as bumpy as the schoolbus ride!

That weekend, I walked all over the National Mall, helping my son Stephen show his visiting daddy his favourite museums. We went to Nicholas' mom's church's fall festival. We attended church and enjoyed seeing and hearing the famous Hereford Cathedral Choir during Mass and again at Evensong.

Halloween came, and I was still pregnant, so I threw together an appropriate costume, and ended up matching my boys quite well. We traipsed through the neighbourhood and scored tons of candy. And all the people who said, “Great costume! When are you due?” nearly died of shock when I answered, “Last week.” Nicholas' birthday came, and I made his requested pirate cupcakes, and helped host his wonderful party on the morning of November 2nd.

All the waiting was far from boring, as you can see. I kept pretty busy, with activities designed to aid labour, like walking a LOT. But the waiting was also excruciating, because my body was so ready to deliver. I had a nicely ripened cervix, was dilated to 3cm, had everything at home prepared, and was mentally ready. We'd been doing all the traditional natural labour starters for days. Eggplant Parmesian, bumpy hayrides, walking miles every day, relaxing, massage, etc. So, while setting up at Nicholas birthday party, I drank apple juice laced with a tablespoon of castor oil (NOT something I recommend unless you get clearance from your care provider). I'd expected to be confined to the toilet for the rest of the day, but nothing happened. (Seriously, I didn't even poop till the next morning, right as I was entering transition.) My husband, Ashley, and I took the kids home and spent time with my in-laws, who had come for the party.

Around 2pm, I started feeling contractions again, the same kind I'd been getting for the past week. I checked my cervix, and found I was dilated to 4. I wasn't sure if these contractions would quit, like all the other times, so I took some black cohosh and lay down for a while, turning my focus inward. I really, really wanted to have the baby before Stephen had to go back to North Carolina (and he was due to be picked up the next afternoon, on Sunday). My father-in-law left to go back to NC, since he had to preach the next day.

From 2 till 6, I had about ten contractions per hour. Then I took a break from counting. I leaned over the kitchen counter and my mother-in-law massaged my back, which was starting to ache. While bent over, I didn't feel any contractions at all, and I stayed in that position for a good half hour. I worried that the contractions had stopped, so I took some more black cohosh and lay down for a while. (The contractions hadn't stopped--I just wasn't experiencing the sensations in the same way because the massage was good counter pressure.)

At 8pm, I started bouncing on the birth ball and counting contractions. I had fifteen in that hour. At 10, my husband gave me one last perineal massage and checked my cervix. I was dilated to 5 or 6. Then I got into bed again. The boys were asleep, and my mother-in-law as well. Just as I was starting to drift off and dream, I felt a POP! and my water broke! Of course, this happened at 10:30, when Ashley had gone out into the hall to text and update people. So I was alone in the dark, with two kids and a mother-in-law sleeping in the same room, and I was high on adrenaline, laughing because I was so happy to know that I really was in labour and it wasn't going to stop, and cursing because I couldn't get up without letting more amniotic fluid gush everywhere. I'm pretty sure when I felt that POP, I said, really loudly, “Bloody Hell!” because I was so surprised.

Managing to get myself to the bathroom, I stayed in there a bit, till I stopped leaking quite so much. That's where Ashley found me (and then he and Mom cleaned up the bed and even ran the sheets down to the laundry room in the basement of the apartment complex). After that, the contractions changed in intensity. They got a lot stronger and more defined. I could easily tell when one started, the climb up, the crest of the wave, and falling down on the other side. In spite of the stronger intensity, it was easier for me to bear, because they were so obvious. I knew if I could make it to the top of the wave each time, I'd be fine. I focused on relaxing, and then relaxing INTO each contraction. I got pretty noisy.

From 11pm to around 2am, I lay on my side and slept in between each contraction. They were only a few minutes apart, but I felt like I was deeply asleep each time I woke up to be actively present in each contraction. Towards the end, my vocalisations were getting louder, and I was relying on the Hypnobabies-type peace programming more and more. (I'm sure my mother-in-law wondered why I kept moaning, “Blue, blue, blue!” over and over again. But, hey, it worked for me!) The kids slept through it all.

I got in the shower at 3:something. The hot water felt nice, but I felt like I had to DO something. So I cleared all the shampoo bottles from the towel rack inside the shower, and, holding on with both hands, I swung from the bar during the crest of each contraction. I checked my cervix one last time. I was very close to 10cm, and I thought I felt the baby's head.

After about 30 minutes, I got down on my knees and let the water fall on my lower back during contractions. Ashley came in and sat with me, got towels so I could kneel on something soft. I told him it was close, and that he should get receiving blankets ready.

I didn't get a very discernible Transition. Once my body was ready, it started pushing right away! At 4:40ish, I stood up after a strong, yell-a-bit-to-get-through-it contraction. I said I was ready to move to the bed. Ashley turned off the shower and started to help me get out of the tub, but another contraction started. I dropped back down to my knees and realised this contraction was different. My body was pushing! I gave in to my body's leading. With the next push, I joined in, and the baby's head come out into my waiting hand. With Ashley and his mom encouraging me keep pushing, I breathed and complained that I wanted to take a break. I honestly thought I would get the chance to get into a rhythm of pushing! But then my body took over again, and, chanting, “Breathe, breathe, breathe,” I pushed the baby the rest of the way out into Ashley's hands. Three pushes was all I got. (I still feel gypped and wish I'd gotten to have more!) The time was 4:58am on Sunday, November third. (Ashley called out to his mom to check the time on his phone so we'd have the correct minute.)

It felt glorious. I felt so strong and in control. I peeked between my knees and, as Ashley gently unwound the cord from the baby's neck (no easy task, because the baby kept wriggling!), I saw that I had a daughter.

Ashley passed her between my legs to me and helped me move to the bed, where her brothers crowded close. They'd woken when I'd been loudly moaning in the shower, and came into the bathroom as I was pushing. Both boys had watched homebirth videos on YouTube with me before the birth, and had been very excited. Now that their new baby was finally here, they couldn't get enough of her. They still like to pet her, and enjoy holding her and "teaching" her how to build cool things with Legos.

Sitting up on the bed, we left the cord intact while we waited for the delivery of the placenta. Our baby girl, who was cuddled on my bare chest, immediately army crawled to my breast and latched on. And, boy, the uterine contractions she triggered were strong! Much stronger and more intense than actual labour contractions. Those afterbirth pangs are the ones no one prepares you for! After 55 minutes, the placenta came out, and Nicholas helped Ashley cut the cord while Stephen supervised. We weighed her on a food scale, and found she weighed the same as Stephen when he was born: 7 pounds, 11 ounces. She was 20 inches long.

All told, everything went to plan, and we had a beautiful birthing time. I had intended to give birth in the side-lying position in bed, to help prevent tears, but this baby just came too fast, and I ended up delivering on all fours in the shower. (When I joke that she just fell out in the shower, I wasn't kidding--she really did, with only three pushes, and hardly any time in between!) I did sustain a second degree tear, but by the time we got it looked at by a midwife two days later, it had already healed to a first degree tear, so we just left it to heal up on its own.

Baby Penelope Olivia Ann is a breastfeeding champion, and my milk, which came in the next day, is more than plentiful. We've nursed on the Metro, in bed while sleeping, at Nicholas' school, while grocery shopping, in church, during walks, and even through diaper changes. She's a great sleeper, and I don't feel sleep deprived. She loved being swaddled, and likes the ring sling very much. She makes the most hilarious faces and keeps us laughing. We're so blessed.

In this picture, you can see the boys in the background. They got bored after fifteen minutes of waiting for the placenta, and they couldn't hold her till it was out, because the cord wasn't long enough, so they played 3DS games and hung out. They were angels.