Birth Story

Typically, I don’t like to share birth stories. To me they are deeply personal and I don’t really like to talk about it. We have had scary complications with other deliveries, but this is the only one I feel compelled to tell because there are clearly so many tender mercies. It is a miracle that this baby survived and I want people to see how closely Heavenly Father works in the lives of His children because He loves us so much.

The paper on the table rustled as I sat up after my 39-week exam.

“You’re a centimeter dilated and about 50% effaced,” the doctor said.

“Ok,” I replied. The information met my expectations. This was my fourth pregnancy and I never dilated until I had been in labor for quite a while. Typically, I dilated to a three on my own and then needed an epidural to progress any further.

“Are you interested in scheduling an induction? I can get you in quick. I just scheduled my previous patient for tomorrow morning.”

“No,” I answered. “I’d like to give my body as much time as possible to go into labor on its own. If I haven’t had him by my due date, then I’ll schedule an induction for 42 weeks.”

The doctor studied me for a moment. “You know, we are currently participating in a major study which has found that NICU admittance for newborns increases drastically after 40 weeks gestation. There’s no point in waiting.”

“I’d really rather not schedule yet,” I insisted.

“Well, let’s not worry about it until your 40-week appointment,” he said, letting the issue drop. “Do you have any other questions or concerns for me?”

“No.”

“Then we’ll see you in a week.” He shook my hand and left the room.

As I dressed and gathered my belongings, I felt slightly irritated by the pressure to induce and resolved to insist on a 42-week induction at my next appointment. It would be with a different doctor and I knew that some were not as adamant as others about how things should be done. My previous baby had been induced at 12 days overdue by an OB/GYN with the same practice.

Three days later my Saturday due date came and went. It wasn’t surprising, but knowing I would be overdue because I always had been didn’t make it any easier to endure. On Monday I learned that a woman due a week after me had already had her baby, which made every passing minute with no sign of labor even more difficult and frustrating.

I attended my Tuesday evening cub scout meeting with reluctance, wishing I’d had my baby so I could miss it. After the meeting I walked home and helped my husband put our three boys to bed. Then we settled on the couch for our evening ritual, a show and some ice cream.

During the show I began having regular contractions. They were about seven minutes apart and strong enough that I wondered if I should skip the gigantic banana split my husband had served up for me. I ate it anyway. By the end of the show, my contractions were about five minutes apart but not painful or close enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. Before going to bed I texted my mom to let her know I might need her during the night to babysit.

The contractions continued all night, very gradually getting stronger but not any closer together. I didn’t sleep much, too focused on timing contractions and analyzing my pain levels and cleaning the house so it wouldn’t be filthy when my mom came over. At 6 AM as my husband got ready for work, I wondered if I should just have him stay home, but I still didn’t feel ready to go to the hospital. Instead, I sent him to work and told him to keep his phone on so I could call him home when it was time, expecting that he would only be able to teach one class before he had to return. Sometime later, he texted me to let me know he had taken the next two days of work off and requested a substitute to cover his classes.

As I got my kids ready and drove them to school, my pain was bad enough to make me feel shaky and nauseated, but the contractions were still only 5 minutes apart. When I got home, I called my mom and asked her to come take my third boy to his speech therapy class as I didn’t think I would be able to concentrate enough to help him through the therapy.

When my mom and youngest boy returned from the therapy class, we proceeded to try to make my labor progress. I did household chores and we went for a walk around the neighborhood. By lunch time it was clear that my labor had stalled. My contractions had spaced out to 10 minutes apart and the pain was much more manageable.

Fortunately, my 40-week appointment was scheduled for that afternoon at three. I went to it feeling very frustrated. I was four days past my due date. There was no reason I should be having Braxton-Hicks contractions now. It should be the real thing.

The nurse sat me down and took my blood pressure. It was 156/90, unusually high. Throughout my entire pregnancy my blood pressure had always been around 120.

“I’m going to need a urine sample,” she said and handed me a cup.

After I provided the sample, the nurse put me in an exam room.

When the doctor entered he asked, “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been contracting for about 15 hours,” I explained. “They were five minutes apart all night and most of this morning, but now they’ve slowed down quite a bit.”

“Five minutes apart all night and you didn’t go to the hospital?” he asked, surprised. “You’re certainly not an alarmist.”

“No,” I agreed with an amused smile.

“Let’s check and see if all that work has done anything.” As he examined me he said, “You’re three centimeters dilated and 90% effaced. I’m going to strip your membranes to see if we can get you going again. The more aggressive I am, the more effective it will be.”

“Ok,” I said.

Once the procedure was completed, he helped me sit up. “I expect we’ll see you in the hospital in an hour or two, but if not, just err on the side of caution and come in even if you’re not sure if you need to.”

“What about my blood pressure?” I asked. “The nurse said it was high.”

“There’s no protein in your urine so it’s not preeclampsia and it was just the systolic that was high, not the diastolic. I’m not worried about it. But when you go into the hospital, tell them that it was high.”

“Ok,” I repeated.

“Why don’t we go ahead and schedule an induction for tomorrow morning just in case nothing happens?” he asked.

Just a week before I had been insisting on an induction two weeks past my due date. But knowing that my husband had already requested a substitute and taken the next two days off and remembering the previous doctor’s comment that NICU visits increased so dramatically, I agreed to the induction. That way my husband wouldn’t have to miss Thursday and Friday and then even more days two weeks later. The doctor called the hospital and scheduled me to be induced the next morning at 6:30 AM.

Back at home my mom and I waited to see if having my membranes stripped had helped my labor progress. The contractions were harder and more painful but they were still hovering around seven to ten minutes apart. My husband returned from work and we proceeded to prepare dinner.

“I should go home,” my mom said. “My family will be hungry too, but I can stay if you want me to.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just not sure if this is going to go anywhere.”

“Well, it’s up to you,” she said. “If I leave and then have to turn right around and come back, that’s fine.”

We debated whether to send my mom home or to have her stay and never really came to a conclusion, but she ended up eating dinner with us. After dinner the discussion continued. Should my mom stay with us or go home?

“I just don’t know if it’s the real thing!” I complained. “I don’t know if we should go to the hospital or not.”

“It’s real,” my mom reassured me. “Just go in.”

With her advice and remembering the doctor’s orders to “err on the side of caution”, I finally decided to go to the hospital. At the very least they could check my cervix and see if I had made any more progress.

I grabbed the bag I had prepacked, my husband quickly packed a few things, and we headed off in the car. During the drive I waited anxiously for a contraction, wondering if my labor had stopped completely. One contraction occurred during the trip and another occurred while we were walking up to the hospital that was so painful it was difficult to walk through. But they were so far apart that I was certain we would be sent home.

After signing the paperwork, we were taken to a room on the labor and delivery floor. I took off my street clothes and put on a hospital gown and then climbed onto the bed. The nurse wrapped two elastic belts around my belly with devices to monitor the baby’s heartbeat and my contractions. The baby’s heartbeat was steady but my contractions were irregular with rough peaks and plateaus.

“I’m supposed to tell you that my blood pressure was high at my appointment this afternoon,” I said. “The sist-, the sista-…” I couldn’t remember what it was called.

“The systolic?”

“Yeah. That. Also, I have an induction scheduled for 6:30 in the morning.”

“Ok,” the nurse said. She attached a blood pressure cuff to my arm. “It’s still high,” she announced after the cuff gave my arm a tight squeeze. “Let’s check your cervix.”

When she informed me that I was dilated to a three, my heart sank. I hadn’t made any progress since my appointment. Having my membranes stripped hadn’t done anything. She was going to try to send me home, I knew it.

Sure enough, she said, “We are really busy this evening. Most likely we’ll have to send you home, but your doctor is here. Let me go talk to him since your blood pressure is high.”

As soon as she left the room, I turned to my husband. “Will you give me a blessing? I really, really don’t want to go home.”

“I don’t have any oil with me,” he said.

“That’s ok. I’m not sick.”

“All right.”

I don’t really remember exactly what he said, but basically he blessed me that I would be able to stay in the hospital and have a safe and healthy birth.

About five minutes after he concluded, the nurse returned. “Good news! The doctor said we should keep you. Since you are four days overdue and your blood pressure is high, he thinks we should just get that baby out.”

I smiled in relief but was cheering internally.

“Do you think you’ll want an epidural?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Ok. The anesthesiologist is assisting with a couple of C-sections right now. I’ll have him come here as soon as he’s finished.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

Around an hour later the anesthesiologist arrived and administered the epidural. Within minutes my contractions became four minutes apart and were much stronger with perfect, tall bell curves.

“Now that’s better,” the nurse observed.

“It has always been that way,” I said. “My labor progresses much better once my epidural is in. Why is that?”

“Sometimes your body can produce hormones that actually fight labor. The epidural allows you to relax so your body can work the way it needs to.”

“Weird.”

“Do you want to do skin-to-skin?” she asked.

“Yes, please.”

“And do you want to cut the cord, Dad?”

“Sure,” said my husband.

She wrote the information on the white board.

Soon after the epidural was in, the doctor chose to give me a dose of Pitocin to help my labor progress even more. Things went along smoothly after that. Occasionally the heart monitor would slip on my abdomen and lose the baby’s heartbeat, but I just had to slide it back into the right spot to pick it up again. At least, that’s what I assumed was happening. Now I wonder if his heartbeat was actually faltering already.

Watching the screen, I was so grateful that I could no longer feel the contractions, which were knife-sharp peaks so high that their tops were off the chart. The epidural was working perfectly. My body was comfortable and pain free, but I could still move my legs easily.

At 11:30 PM, the doctor came in to check me. “You’re dilated to a five and completely effaced. I’m going to break your water now.”

“Ok.”

He inserted the hook and then commented. “There’s not much in there.” He made another attempt. “I still didn’t get much, but that should help things move along. There is some meconium in the amniotic fluid so we’re going to have some respiratory therapists here to help with his breathing. Let us know if you start to feel any pressure.”

It seemed he had hardly left when I began to feel pressure. I waited through two contractions to be sure and then paged the nurse. “I’m feeling pressure,” I announced when she answered her phone.

“Ok. I’ll be right there.”

As soon as I hung up, I noticed that the baby’s heartbeat was no longer showing up on the computer screen. I attempted to slide the monitor back into place but couldn’t get it to pick up anything. Several people rushed into the room simultaneously with the doctor right on their heels. The nurses surrounded my bed while the doctor began dressing to catch the baby.

One of the nurses grabbed the monitor out of my hand and slapped it to my belly. Nothing.

She tried again. Still nothing. Again. Nothing. Slap. Slap. Slap. Nothing.

Her aggression and extra force when pressing the monitor on my belly made me realize that something more could be wrong. Had the baby’s heart stopped?

Nervously I asked, “Should I try rolling onto my side?”

“Yes, try that,” she said.

I turned onto my left side and again she pressed the monitor down several times with no results. The baby’s heart had stopped beating.

The tension in the room mounted significantly though the doctor and nurses continued to speak calmly. Someone started lowering the bed to its flat position. Someone else put up the left stirrup and helped me put my leg in it.

The doctor said, “Let’s get this other stirrup up please.” Then to me, “Push.”

I pushed as hard and as long as I could while the nurses raised the right stirrup and got my leg into it. I felt the baby’s head begin to emerge, but as I ran out of gas, it slipped back a bit. I was dismayed. My last baby had come out with literally half a push and I had expected this one to be easy too.

“Push,” the doctor said.

Again, I pushed. There was no waiting to time the pushes with contractions as was normal. The baby had to come out immediately. Again his head started to emerge and then slipped back when I lost the strength to continue pushing. The emotional pressure was intense. It was all on me to get him out fast enough to have a chance of saving him. Later the nurses teased me about how he “shot out like a rocket” but in the moment when it was critical that he come out NOW, more than one push was excruciatingly too many.

The doctor looked at me. “Do you stretch or tear?”

“Tear.”

“I’m going to give you an episiotomy,” he said.

“Fine.”

He made the cut and then said, “Push.”

The baby’s head finally emerged. “Look here, guys,” the doctor said to the support staff. “He has two loops around his neck and a true-knot in the umbilical cord.” As he spoke, he worked quickly to pull the loops of cord off the baby’s neck.

As he pulled the baby into his lap, I saw my son for the first time. His face was not scrunched up against the brightness of the lights and the trauma of birth. There were no gurgling first cries. His eyes and mouth were closed, his face as still as if he were sleeping, disturbingly composed. Tranquil. Serene. His arms and legs dangled limply. He did not startle as the doctor moved him. He did not clutch tiny fists to his chest. His skin remained gray. His peacefulness was so very, very wrong.

My eyes strained to see the minuscule twitch of a finger or hear the faintest sigh. The room was so quiet. He just wasn’t there.

“Come on, baby! Come on, baby!” I pleaded.

The doctor grabbed the scissors and cut the cord. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get him under the warmer.” He lifted my baby with two hands and handed him to a second group of people waiting anxiously to resuscitate him.

During the brief second that he lay in the hands of almost everyone in the room, he finally gave a tiny, almost inaudible cough. It was so small that I immediately wondered if I had actually heard it, but the fear washed away and I knew he would be ok. I covered my mouth with my hand and collapsed back onto the bed.

“That was so scary!” I whispered and looked to my husband. He clutched my hand tightly, his eyes full of tears. We stayed there for a time, holding hands, silent, overcome with emotion.

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you cut the cord,” the doctor said. “I needed to get him under the warmer.”

“That’s fine,” my husband replied. How could we be upset? He had been saving our baby’s life. It would be stupid to be mad that our birth plan didn’t go as we wanted.

“Look at this.” The doctor held up a piece of the umbilical cord for us to see. It was a dark red color and right in the middle was a perfect knot, just as if a boy scout had tied it. A Google search of “umbilical cord true knot” will show images of what it looked like, but some of them are disturbing because the knots are in the umbilical cords still attached to obviously dead babies.

I glanced at it but was distracted, listening for any sound from my baby, but unable to see him because so many people surrounded him.

“You had an induction scheduled for the morning, right?” the doctor asked.

We nodded.

“Your baby probably wouldn’t be here if you had waited another twelve hours and come in for your induction. It’s a good thing you came in when you did. In fact, if he had been born anywhere else, in a third world country, I mean, then he wouldn’t have made it. They just don’t have the training to save a baby like that.”

Our nurse said, “Yeah. When I first started working here, we had this exact same situation. A woman came in and we were really busy. She was only dilated to a three so we sent her home. When she came back in the morning to be induced…” She trailed off, perhaps sensing that it was not the best time to share such a story.

“The baby didn’t make it?” the doctor asked.

“No,” she said.

The doctor changed the subject. “What was his first Apgar score?” he asked the nurses who worked on my baby.

“One,” said a nurse, although later I saw it was recorded as a four.

“What was the 10-minute score?”

“Eight.”

Finally, I said to my husband, “Will you go check on him?”

With all our other births, my husband always followed the baby, abandoning me and hovering nearby while the nurses washed and measured him. I wanted him to be with this baby too. He left my side and crossed the room to stand near the circle of nurses surrounding our son.

The doctor said, “They are suppressing his cries so he doesn’t inhale the meconium.”

I nodded, wordlessly. He was trying to comfort me, but I wasn’t afraid.

While the doctor delivered the placenta and sewed me up, I relaxed, waiting patiently for the moment I would get to hold my baby.

Finally, a nurse brought him to me and placed him in my arms. He was wrapped tightly in a blanket and wore a little hat. All I could see of him was his small face. His lips were pursed and his eyes barely opened as he squinted into the light of the room. His lashes were coated with vernix.

“Hi, sweetheart!” I said, cuddling him to my chest. “You scared mommy! What were you thinking doing all those loop-de-loops in there? That’s not safe!”

The nurse laughed.

“Are you going to be another crazy kid like your brother? Are you going to make me tear my hair out?” I paused as I contemplated the other possibilities, how close he had come to not being here. “It’s ok. Go ahead and make me crazy. I don’t mind. I love you.” I kissed his forehead and handed him back to the nurse so she could take him to the NICU for further care because of the meconium. He was back only 30 minutes later, having completed his time on the CPAP machine like a champ. He didn’t need any further special care.

We have been blessed in so many ways both seen and unseen to be able to take home a healthy, normal baby. I’m guessing his heart was only stopped between 3-5 minutes, not long enough for permanent damage. I am so grateful for the power of the priesthood and for all the heavenly intervention that arranged everything to get my baby here safely: the doctor who pressured me to induce, the doctor who told me to “err on the side of caution” and go in even if I wasn’t sure I needed to, my mom for reassuring me that the labor was real and that I should go to the hospital, for the doctor who chose to keep me in the hospital and who safely delivered my son. Modern medicine, doctors, and hospitals are a tremendous blessing! I believe that my blood pressure was not randomly high, but that it was a tender mercy granted by Heavenly Father to keep me in the hospital when I would otherwise have been sent home. It went away again soon after I delivered. I don’t really feel like I was personally inspired by the Spirit in my actions or choices. I was just going with the flow. But I’m certain that the Spirit inspired the doctors and others to give the right advice and to make specific choices that would save my son. We have been incredibly blessed with this little miracle baby.

I Must Have Subconsciously Wanted to Wear Blue

After another late night out in a long string of late nights, I woke up feeling groggy. Washing my face and brushing my teeth in the bathroom did little to dispel my exhaustion. And no matter what time morning happens to come, I am not a morning person. The supreme desire of my heart is always to roll back into bed and go to sleep again. But it was Tuesday and I had to get JayJay to school. His school does not have a bus system, so I have to drive him to school every morning. Ugh.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled on some jeans and then headed toward the closet to pick out a shirt. As I approached, I saw a top I hadn't worn for a while and decided to wear it. The shirt was magenta, short-sleeved, with a scooped neckline.  Beneath the magenta shirt was sewn in a white, long-sleeved, scoop-necked shirt with thin, curly-cued magenta lines all over it. Together they made a pretty cute layered look.

After making my choice, I reached the closet, tugged the shirt off the hangar, and slipped it on over my head. As I pulled the hem down to my hips, I glanced down to check my attire.

I was wearing a turquoise blue, short-sleeved, v-neck shirt.

Shock jolted through me. What the heck?!

Somehow, between choosing what shirt to wear and actually getting the shirt on, my brain completely blanked out, as thoroughly as if I had gone back to sleep. I have no memory of doing anything between choosing the shirt I wanted to wear and actually having a shirt on.

I think I better start getting a little more sleep.

No Sisters Allowed

We were waiting to see the doctor for Max's five-year-old well-child check up. For some reason, going to the doctor makes Max ultra-hyper. But in the midst of jumping up and down on the exam table, Max suddenly paused and said, "I wish we had another baby."

My youngest is not yet two, so my man and I haven't really considered whether or not we are going to have another kid. Max's comment took me by surprise. "Why do you want another baby?"

"Because Third is tall now," he explained. Apparently, someone in the family must always be shorter than 33 inches.

"Do you want a sister this time or another brother?" I asked. Personally, my feelings on this subject are a bit mixed. I have always wanted a daughter to help me bear the burden of testosterone overload in this house. However, I have become very accustomed to all males and the thought of a child who wants to wear make-up, be fashionable, and carry around a purse is kind of unappealing. I would not call myself a tomboy, but I have never been interested in all that nonsense.

"I hate sisters," said Max.

I laughed. "You don't even have one. How do you know you hate sisters?"

"Because," he said. "Once I was at somebody's house and there was a sister and she kissed me."

Well, that settles that.

How Much Cheese Can My Husband Eat?

This Christmas I made cheese logs to give away to family and friends. A double batch made 20 cheese logs. We gave them all away and didn't have enough, so I had to make some gingerbread men and handmade Christmas tree ornaments for some people I missed. Actually, the gingerbread men were exclusively for me, but I decided to share a few.

Anyway, my man has been grumbling the past few days because we didn't keep any of the cheese logs for us to eat. So I caved in today and decided to make another batch for ourselves. I sent him to the grocery store with a very specific list: 1 lb. sharp shredded cheddar cheese, 1 lb. Velveeta, and 1 lb. cream cheese.

When he returned, I took the bag from him and began emptying it on the table. The first thing I see is a two-pound block of sharp cheddar cheese and immediately begin to dread shredding a pound of it by hand.

"I asked for shredded," I said.

"You did? I didn't see that." He checked the list. Yep, it says shredded.

"Well, you have to shred it," I said.

I continue emptying the bag and pull out four 8 oz. boxes of cream cheese and a two-pound box of Velveeta.

"You got two pounds of everything! I only asked for one!"

"I thought we could double it," he said.

"Double it?! Do you know how many cheese logs I can get out of a double batch? TWENTY!!!"

"Oh," he said. "Sorry."

"Honey! That's SIX POUNDS of cheese! Do you think you can eat six pounds of cheese?!!"

He just laughed. Of course he thinks he can. Ugh.

Turning Gray on Black Friday

On the morning of Black Friday, we decided to visit Shopko to pick up a couple of items on sale. We took the entire family with us, which turned out to be a mistake. Inside the store, Max found a tyrannosaurus rex figurine that he just had to have. It was made of hard plastic, but the mouth was hinged so that it could open and close. It was $25. There was no way we were going to spend that much money on a plastic dinosaur. We told Max to put it back on the shelf.

Instead, he ran.

My man left to search for him while I took the other boys to the register to check out. I had to wait in line for quite a while as the cashier slowly scanned a pile of clothing and removed the hangars before putting them in bags for the customer in front of me. While I waited, I continually looked around, hoping to spot Max so that I could grab him. I became more and more stressed when I didn't see him. I began to wonder if someone had taken him or if he was getting into trouble without my supervision.

Finally, while the cashier was scanning my items, I saw my man leading Max by the hand towards the customer service counter. We exchanged a look.

"He stole it," my man mouthed to me. Yep, Max had run completely out of the store with the dinosaur toy.

I watched as my man made Max return the dinosaur to the customer service representative and apologize. Then he took him and the other two boys out to the car. When I caught up, Max was looking teary-eyed in his carseat.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Max," I said. "Stealing is very wrong. You are grounded for the rest of the day. That means no video games, no movies, no iPad." Max wailed appropriately.

We thought that would be the end of our Max fiascoes for the day.

Later, we took Max and JayJay to the doctor for an illness they both had that was lingering too long. After examining them both, the doctor sent us over to the hospital to have a test done on Max. I told my man to wait in the car with JayJay and Third while I accompanied Max. Bad idea. We always need both parents when it comes to supervising that crazy kid.

I walked into the hospital and sat down at the admitting counter to get Max registered. He sat with me for a time, interested by the masks that sick people have to wear. The lady helping us asked him how old he was and was surprised that he is only four. She thought he was six. Gradually, Max lost interest and began to wander away, exploring the waiting area and the long, wide corridor where admitting was located. He slowly got farther and farther away.

I kept thinking that I should get up and bring him back to me, but I figured he was fine as long as I could see him. The registration process was taking quite a while between paperwork and confirming our information. During that process, Max kept going until he eventually disappeared around a bend in the corridor.

By this time, the receptionist had left her desk to get some papers from a back office. I sat frozen, unsure what to do. If I left to get Max, what would happen if she returned to find me gone? Surely, Max wouldn't wander much farther. Ugh. I'm such a dumb parent. After being his mom for four years, I should know better.

Feeling flustered, I called my man. "Can you come in here? I'm stuck doing paperwork and Max has disappeared. I need you to get him."

My man agreed, but I still felt stressed and torn about my decision to wait at the admitting desk. Then the respiratory therapist who was to conduct the test on Max came to fetch him. Embarrassed that he wasn't with me, I explained, "He went that way. Could you go find him?"

"Sure," she said and headed in the direction I pointed.

"He's wearing a black shirt and khaki pants."

"Are you looking for that little boy?" someone asked who was approaching down the hall and had overheard our conversation.

"Yes," said the therapist.

"He's down there, all alone."

Another approaching person said, "Yes, I saw him going up the stairs."

The therapist followed their directions.

The registration process took another five minutes, during which I did not see my man or my missing son. Finally released, I jumped up and charged down the hall to look for Max. The corridor turned out to be much longer than I thought it would be. He was nowhere in sight. I hurried through an atrium with benches and statues and to the very far end where some glass doors led into the parking garage. There I finally saw my man coming in with Third and JayJay in tow. But no Max and no therapist. Surely he wouldn't have gone outside, and if he had, he should have run into my man. I turned and hurried back the way I had come, looking for Max, hoping the therapist had found him and would be waiting for me near the admitting desk. No one was there. Perhaps she had found him and taken him somewhere to do the test, assuming we knew where to go and would follow. I spun again and went to my man.

"I can't find him anywhere!" I wailed.

A nurse approached and said to my man, "Are you the guy missing a little boy?"

"Yes," said my man.

"He's wearing a black shirt?"

"Yes," he said.

"Ok," she said, but she didn't know where he was.

Then I saw a door with a sign next to it indicating it gave access to a stairway. Perhaps they were the stairs that person had seen him climbing. I charged through and ran up four flights of stairs, shouting for Max and trying every door on every level, which were all locked. Max was not in the stairwell. I ran back down the stairs and out into the corridor. My man was gone now. I headed down to search the other end of the hospital even though I had seen Max go in the opposite direction. I met my man coming back. No Max.

I was beginning to be really scared. The hospital was a huge building to search and someone could have easily taken off with him.

As we were heading back towards admitting, we finally saw the respiratory therapist approaching down the hall.

"Did you find him?" I asked, but she was alone.

However, she said, "Yes," and paused and turned slightly and then Max appeared, trailing along behind her down the hallway.

Relief flooded through me. "Where did you find him?"

"On the roof, watching the helicopter take off."

WHAT????

My baby was on the ROOF of the hospital?! How the heck did he get up there?!

"How did you know where to look?" I asked, completely flabbergasted.

"I just figured he went up the stairs," she said.

Sheesh! Was there even a wall of any sort around the edge of the hospital roof? "MAX!" I shrieked. "I'm going to beat you black and blue!!!" Then he reached me and I hugged him tightly. "You scared Mommy!"

We went and got the test done and on our way out, I asked Max to show me exactly where he had gone.

He pointed at the floor of the hospital, which was paved with shiny white tiles. However, a ribbon of dark gray tiles curved back and forth across the hall.

"I saw this trail," Max explained, "and I wanted to follow it." He began again to follow the path of dark tiles. He led us to the atrium with the benches and statues. "Then I saw these statues and I was like 'Woah!' and I tried to be a statue like them." He stiffened as if trying to become a statue again. "Then I kept going." He continued past the statues and we reached the doors where my man had come in. To the left of them was a staircase I had not noticed in my frantic search. Max continued, "Then I saw these stairs and went up them to the roof. The helicopter was taking off. It was awesome!"

So I got a few more gray hairs on Black Friday, courtesy of Max and his shenanigans. Luckily, the therapist found him when she did. Otherwise, he might have ended up on the helicopter.

Max and Third Are Heavy!

This post will have a slightly different tone than the rest of my posts on this blog. However, the incident I'm telling you about definitely contributed a grin to the awesomeness of my life. So I'm going to include it.

This summer my family did a lot of hiking. We love escaping the city and getting out into nature and we tried to do at least one hike per week. One of the hikes we did was a trail that followed a creek up to some hot springs. It was 2.5 miles in and we started a bit late so that we ended up hiking during our boys' nap time. JayJay is six and can handle missing a nap. Max is four and he thinks he can handle missing a nap, but when he does, the world better watch out.

My sister #4 and her boyfriend came with us. The hike in was very enjoyable. The terrain was mostly level and the scenery absolutely stunning. Parts of the trail were a bit nerve-racking because of sharp drop-offs where the creek was eroding bits of the trail away. I had to steer my Max around those bits when he was inclined to climb the piddly fences separating hikers from a fall or throw rocks off the edges. By the last quarter of the hike in, Max needed a lot of coaxing and some carrying to make it all the way to the hot springs.

When we arrived, we ate a picnic lunch, waded in the pools, and explored the trails and waterfalls surrounding the main spring. Remarkably, the algae that grew on the rocks in the water was naturally color-coded depending on the temperature of the water: gray for warm, black for hot, and red for scalding. Nature is so cool! And again, the area was gorgeous!

After exploring and wading for several hours, we decided we better head back down the trail so that we could get home and eat dinner at a decent hour. We persuaded the boys to put shoes and socks back on and start the hike. My man started off with JayJay and Max while I waited for Sis4 and her boyfriend who were delayed with getting their shoes and socks on and gathering their belongings.

Before they finished getting their things together, Max returned alone. Something had upset him and he didn't want to hike with daddy and JayJay. I knew we had a problem. He sat in the middle of the trail with his arms folded in a huff and a scowl on his face. When Sis4 and her boyfriend were ready to go, we had a difficult time convincing Max to come with us. We finally managed to get him on his feet and began to walk at a snail's pace. After going a few yards, Max would sit down and refuse to budge. Sometimes we could lure him to walk again. Sometimes I would carry him for a short distance, but it was difficult and exhausting because I already had Third on my back. He wanted me to carry him constantly, but I had to refuse. Sis4 and her boyfriend both offered to carry Max instead, but he spurned their help. Sometimes when he sat down in the middle of the trail, we just had to keep going until we rounded a bend and he couldn't see us anymore. Then, after a few minutes, he would decide that he didn't want to be alone and would follow along. Slowly. This went on until we just couldn't get him to move anymore. We hadn't made it very far on the trail. At all.

I decided that the best solution would be to take Third out of the backpack and have Sis4 carry him. Then I would put Max in the backpack and we would be able to hike at a decent pace. So we proceeded with this plan.

Unfortunately, neither boy agreed that this was the best idea. Max was adamant that he did not want to be carried in the backpack like a baby. Third was adamant that he did not want Sis4 to carry him. And they both objected loudly, bawling at the top of their lungs as if we were torturing them by cutting their sandwiches in the wrong shapes. But I didn't have any other way so I ignored their protests.

They bawled FOREVER! And the trail suddenly wasn't only 2.5 miles. It was 30 miles and we would never reach the end. We trudged along with two boys bawling and bawling and bawling. Every person that we passed looked at us sideways, trying to figure out what such horrible people had done to those poor, dear, sweet little children to make them so upset. We tried to distract them by pointing out flowers and plants and insects. We offered them sticks and rocks to carry or throw. Nothing worked. They cried and cried, not even the whimpering, quiet crying. They roared. FOREVER!!!

And Max was so heavy!

Eventually, Max cried himself to sleep, draped over my shoulder in a position that made me have to tilt my head at an awkward angle. Third, on the other hand, was determined to keep going. He wouldn't let Sis4 cradle him or lay him on her shoulder. He was stiff as a board and sobbing. Finally, I couldn't stand to have to the poor kid cry another minute, so I took him from Sis4 and carried him myself. But since Max was sleeping, we couldn't transfer him to someone else's back. I had to carry both kids. Third promptly fell asleep in my arms. (We discovered later that Third had a poopy diaper and bad diaper rash, but we couldn't smell it because of the sulfur smell from the hot springs, so I didn't know he needed changed.) So there I was, carrying two sleeping, heavy kids (an additional 65 pounds!), hiking a 2.5 mile trail. For a hardcore outdoor enthusiast, this would be no problem. But while I am fit, I am definitely not used to carrying that much weight. My man was far ahead with JayJay, unaware that I needed help, and I was scared to transfer Third back to Sis4 because I didn't want to wake him up and traumatize him even more.

I tried to endure. I don't know how far I walked that way. It felt like 30 miles. They were so heavy! I had no idea how much farther we had to go. My legs and arms burned. My shoulders and neck ached and I couldn't adjust the straps of the backpack to relieve the pressure. My once wonderful afternoon hike had become quite miserable.

Finally, I didn't feel like I could endure another minute. So I prayed.

"Heavenly Father, please bless me with the strength to bear this burden. Help me endure to the end...."

I didn't even get to finish my prayer.

Sis4 turned around and said, "Do you want me to take Third now?"

For a nanosecond, my pride demanded that I refuse. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to prove my awesomeness by carrying both kids the rest of the way. I wanted to be blessed with the strength to continue.

But then I realized that her offer to take Third was the answer to my prayer. I had asked for help and Heavenly Father immediately provided it! I could not refuse such an obvious blessing.

So I said, "Yes."

She came and we carefully transferred Third. Miraculously, he stayed asleep. But the answer to my prayer continued. Without even communicating with either of us, Sis4's boyfriend came and walked beside me so that he could hold onto the backpack and lift some of Max's weight off my shoulders.

I marveled at how cool Heavenly Father is and how cool it was that both Sis4 and her boyfriend were able to feel the promptings of the Spirit to help me when I desperately needed help, even though they didn't realize they were receiving promptings.

We finished the rest of the hike that way. It wasn't very much farther.  I probably could have made it without help, miserably. But Heavenly Father didn't want me to be miserable. He wanted me to be happy, so he provided the help I needed immediately when I asked for it. When we saw the end, I took Third from Sis4 so that my man would think I carried both kids the whole way and be impressed with my superpowers (That didn't work. "So? I do that all the time.").

Answers to prayers are so amazing and special. Sometimes, Heavenly Father will give us the strength to endure our trials to the end. Sometimes, he will remove the burden entirely. Sometimes, he will send people to help us bear the burden. No matter how the answer comes, Heavenly Father will always give us help when we ask for it!

Dream

I think raising three rambunctious boys is beginning to stress me out. Last night I dreamed that they got out of control and launched a rocket that hit the sun and changed the color of sunlight to a salmon pink. So I yelled at them, "You didn't just mess up a room! You ruined our ecosystem! You destroyed our whole freaking planet!!!"