Today I stood in the middle of a bridge overlooking the Delaware River. On one side was New York; on the other, Pennsylvania. I was literally in between two states. I laughed because my mental and emotional self is also in between two states of being: 1) “I’m depressed and hopeless” and 2) “I’m grateful and have hope”. This in-between space on the bridge felt like the perfect place to linger and laugh and feel and cry and take a million photos, as I tend to do. So I did.

Up until the other day, I was solidly in a depressed state of being. I guess this new feeling of gratitude and maybe-hope creeping in is because I got what I needed. About a week ago, maybe more, I hit a wall and wound up a hot, sobby mess. The good thing about this hot, sobby mess is that I couldn’t hide it. Sometimes I’m good for a quiet, low-key, controlled weep, but this was uncontrollable, physical, very much out in the open, and so my family saw what I didn’t have the words to say. Until I did. And then all the words spilled out and all the feelings and allll the sobs.

It turns out, lurking under all those sobs and all that depression was/is an identity crisis. When the pandemic hit, I lost the tangible parts of my identity outside of “mom”. I have worked hard over the past six years of being a stay-at-home / homeschool parent to maintain my own individual identity and my own sense of meaning and purpose outside of the grind of motherhood. Don’t get me wrong, being with my kids is, by far, the most meaningful part of my life, but like any human, I am multi-dimensional and have diverse interests and goals. I’ve strived to honor those other parts of myself through various pursuits, like building my trip planning business, Gimme Trip. Trips aren’t exactly in high demand these days, at least not the kind I help plan, so that’s temporarily gone. We also shuttered our airbnb, which was essentially my part-time job. While I was ready to end the airbnb chapter, I was just as eager to use that time to start a new volunteer role. Womp. So now I’m mom and only mom 24/7. And the thing is, I don’t need much. I’m happy being mom most of the time. But without those other parts of my identity having an outlet and an anchor, I am restless and discontent.

So that night, as all of this is pouring out of me, Jay listened and acknowledged my words and validated my feelings and then said those five magic words: “You should take a trip“, and then he added a sixth magical word: “Alone“. These are extra-magical words right now because he’s working on a time sensitive project and for me to step away for a few days meant that he had to take time off work at an inconvenient time. But he saw my crisis and knowing me as he does, he knew I needed an escape.

And so I did. I booked an incredible airbnb in Damascus, PA where I’ve spent the past few days in quiet solitude reflecting on it all. And for the first time in a while, I feel clear-headed and calm and extremely grateful. I came here feeling overwhelmed and numb. I didn’t have a therapist or a plan or a sense of how to feel better. I leave here tomorrow feeling rested, clear in my needs, grounded, and with fresh ideas for how to feed the various parts of my identity. Oh, and not only did I find a therapist, but our first appointment is scheduled. BAM!

So yeah, I’m in between states. These glorious days of stillness have not cured me, they have offered me an escape and an opportunity to feel and hear my own self and reset. The “real world”, the world full of noise and chaos and contagions and racism awaits, but I feel like I have a path and a plan. It’s a start. Fingers crossed. Mostly though, I leave here feeling deeply grateful for the restorative power of rest, nature, and a good book. Also deeply grateful for a husband who knows what I need (before I do) and when I need it.

I’ll leave you with some pics from the airbnb property. So perfect for what I was seeking. And these don’t even show my ensuite unit or private deck! This place was a gem. I’ll be back, for sure.

Growing up in an Irish Catholic family up, St. Patrick’s Day was a big deal. I remember lots of green and shamrocks and leprechauns, endless bagpipes and “Oh Danny Boy” renditions, and dinners of corned beef & cabbage and Irish Soda Bread. I don’t remember learning too much about the why, all I knew was we were Irish and for whatever reason this was a day to celebrate that. Good enough! My grandparents immigrated from Ireland so I figured it was a celebration of their culture and it seemed to be a big deal here in the states, so celebrate we did.

As I grew older and eventually left my parents’ Irish Catholic nest (and influence), St. Patrick’s Day kind of lost its luster. I was in a new city and I began to see St. Paddy’s Day less as a cultural celebration and more as a day that people just got sloppy drunk and did stupid stuff while wearing green.  It didn’t resonate with me, at all, and I slowly grew indifferent to my Irish heritage and especially to the American version of St. Patrick’s Day. And while my interest in my Irish roots waned, almost everyone in my family seemed to become more and more Irish with each passing year. I am definitely the odd woman out in this regard.

But then, I had a baby. And guess when that baby decided to be born? March 17th – St. Patrick’s Day. He was not due until April 6th, but our little leprechaun had other plans. I remember calling my mom to tell her that I had the baby and her response was “Today??!! On St. Patrick’s Day???!!!!!!!” I think she was more excited about the baby’s birthdate than the actual baby. And then she came over to meet him, all decked out in green and shamrocks, and proceeded to fall in love with her new little Irishman fittingly named Finnian.

Finn’s birth gave me a new reason to celebrate March 17th but it also gave me a new opportunity to understand why we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Finn is now four and is curious why so many people celebrate on his birthday. He wants to know about this St. Patrick character and why we wear green and what it means to be Irish. These are all good questions worthy of some thoughtful reflection on my behalf. His curiosity has made me aware of my own ignorance that I am just now starting to unpack.

I am just now learning more about the resistance and resilience of the Irish people and am developing more of an appreciation for my heritage. But like much of history, it’s complicated, for the Irish story is one that involves the conflicting experiences of being an oppressed people but also participating in the oppression of African Americans here in the states as a means of “becoming white” and climbing the social ladder.  In order to celebrate what it means to be Irish, we must understand the whole history and the culture from which it’s borne, not just the feel-good snippets and leprechauns. This article is a good start: This St. Patrick’s Day, Have a Pint—But Celebrate Irish Resistance, Too

So that’s where I am; I’m learning about my family’s heritage and the history of the Emerald Isle all thanks to my sweet little St. Patrick’s Day baby who dared ask “but why?”. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all who celebrate and happy 4th Birthday to my sweet Finnian!

 

We have always made family dinner a priority. Always. Even when Finn was a newborn, we put him in a little vibrating chair and pulled him next to the table so he could sit with us while we ate. And now that we have two kids, our little family of four fits properly and perfectly around our dining room table, one person per side. There’s a good bit of research out there showing the positive impact that regular family dinner has on kids’ health and development, but what I did not anticipate was the positive impact it would have on ME.

The past few weeks have been rough. Between the cold and wet winter, the near-constant illnesses, the chronic sleep deprivation that comes with babyhood, and Jay’s work schedule, we’ve all been feeling pretty wrecked. Like any parent, we did what we could to get by. Some nights, it felt impossible to make food that could pass as “dinner”, let alone get everyone seated around the table at the same time. At one point, during the height of pneumonia round #2 and Jay’s insane schedule, we would not have been fed at all if it weren’t for the pizza delivery person. And eating on the couch in front of the tv. You do what you have to do.

And while those pizza/couch nights felt easier in the moment and got us through a rough stretch, I recognize that they also made things more difficult because we felt disconnected from our usual rhythm and from each other. Now that things are settling down a bit (not the sleep deprivation, thank you baby) and we’re getting back to our normal dinner groove, I feel a profound respect for the restorative power of gathering around the table with my family.

There is something so grounding about the rituals involved in a family meal. I love the swirl of activity leading up to dinner and how the the words “dinner’s ready!” brings everyone to the table… eventually. Part of our dinner tradition is that we start with a prayer to give thanks and pray for those in need. Finn has totally embraced this tradition and every night declares: “how about we all pray!”, instead of one person leading the prayer, so now we go around the table and everyone says their bit.

After prayer, we dig in and break bread together. We talk about how our day went: what we did, who we saw, what we learned, where we went, how we feel, what was good, what was challenging and whatever else is on our minds. Sometimes there is music on in the background, sometimes Kids Corner, sometimes it’s just our voices, or our silence as we chow down. Some nights getting the kids to eat is easy and some nights there are battles (Eat your broccoli! Drink your water!). Some nights the conversation flows with ease and other nights there is lots of interrupting or whining or general “life with kids” chaos. Every night, though, there is laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. And just a general sense of belonging to a family, no matter how crazy life gets. This 20-30 minutes around the table is the core of our family life. Eventually the kids wrap up, clear their dishes, and begin their post-dinner play session. Jay and I usually linger around the table, finish our meal, and try to have a few more minutes of uninterrupted adult conversation before we begin the final push of the nightly routine.

No matter how difficult my day has been, family dinner always bolsters my mood and helps to shift my perspective. It is a time to slow down, develop traditions, engage in meaningful conversation, laugh, vent, eat delicious food, and connect with those I love. In a world obsessed with busyness and multi-tasking, sometimes the act of stopping, truly stopping, for family dinner feels like an act of rebellion. As our kids grow and life gets naturally busier, I know family dinner won’t be possible every single night, and that’s okay, it’s not the absolute I’m after, but rather the habit. My hope is that by habitually making the time and effort for this tradition and the rituals involved, just as our parents did for us, our family will always have this one constant, this one place of safe refuge and belonging no matter what life brings, just like we had as kids.

As my non-Italian father used to say each night as we sat down to eat (after we prayed, of course): Mangia! (eat!).

I’ve seen this excellent reminder from The Minimalist Mom floating around the interwebs recently and wow does it speak to me:

Holidays are a time of great joy, but they can also be stressful, overwhelming, expensive, and demanding of our limited and precious time. In recent years, as our family has grown and dynamics changed, I have felt especially squeezed and pretty depleted by December 26th. There are so many events to attend, gifts to buy, traditions to keep up, peoples’ expectations to meet, and so on. It’s easy to get pulled into the fray of it all and do things simply because we feel we should, not because it’s truly meaningful to us. I sometimes find it hard to keep sight of my values, my True North, in this season of busyness.

As we begin another holiday season, I want to be sure that we’re creating and honoring traditions that reflect our values as a family. In general, that means less stuff and more experiences, together. Less time buying and more time baking. Less consumerism, more caroling. These are formative years for our kids where they are learning what the holidays are all about. I want them to know the story of Christmas, the joy of giving (gifts, or cookies, or songs), the magic of believing, and the value of spending quality time with those we love. I don’t want them to think that Christmas is all about receiving piles of toys, eating endless amounts of sugar, and having stressed out parents. I want Polar Express, ice skating, making cookies, going caroling, lights in the windows, taking the train into the city, Christmas Eve Mass, and spending time with family. This is what matters to me; this is my True North (Pole)

So consider this your invitation to discard what no longer serves you. You are under no obligation to keep participating in traditions that drain you or leave you unfulfilled. It’s okay to opt out, to say no, to be protective over your time and energy, and to cultivate traditions that speak to your True North (Pole).

Wishing you a warm holiday season filled with wonder, joy, love, and peace. xoxo

A wave of worry has been building for a little over a week now. About a month ago, I had an ultrasound for a fairly routine, non-worrisome reason. I was even joking with the technician that this was my favorite ultrasound ever because my others – all fertility and pregnancy (or miscarriage) related – were so nerve-wracking and sometimes devastating. But this one was cake. It gave me an hour of solitude and it was all just part of a non-urgent workup my doctor was doing. Bliss.

But then, in my follow up appointment, I learned that something had been detected in my left kidney. A mass. A solid. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there was, in fact, there. They tell you these things rather matter-of-factly and even a bit nonchalantly, like, “you can hang your coat on that hook and you have a mass on your kidney, btw”. I don’t think I reacted much, matching my doctor’s coolness. She talked about me needing a CT scan so they could determine if it’s truly a mass or if it could be scarring. Another day at the office for her, but this was a first for me. I think I nodded, looked at some pamphlets, agreed to get a CT scan, and walked home kind of in a haze.

It wasn’t until I got home and read the ultrasound report that I began to feel very un-cool about all this.

“Findings concerning for possible renal mass”

I started googling “renal mass” and quickly learned that 80% of renal masses are malignant, aka cancer. And then words like “metastasize” and “life span” and “chemo” and “surgery” flooded my eyes and brain. And with that, all of the trauma and pain and worry from my dad’s cancer journey came screaming back, except this time for me, so really, for my kids.

Once you’ve been on a cancer journey with a loved one and lost said loved one, cancer fear is just seared into your DNA. Headache? Must be brain cancer. Persistent cough? Probably lung cancer. Paper cut? Paper cut cancer. It’s this ever present fear that it’ll strike me (or a loved one) next.

So when I learned about my potential mass, my mind went right to kidney cancer. And then it went where my dad’s journey went: stage 4 metastatic cancer > every intervention under the sun > death. So I put that scenario in the context of my own life as a mother to two young children and the possibility of it all just broke me wide open. I can deal with my own fate, my own mortality, but the thought of leaving my kids in my wake? That was simply too much to bear.

But during these days of waiting and wondering and worrying, that fear dominated my mind. I mean, we as humans live with the possibility of dying every day just by existing on this wild spinning orb, but like so much else, we take our lives for granted and just automatically expect a series of tomorrows. I automatically expect to be here every day to raise my babies. This was the first time that expectation had been been interrupted, challenged. I tried to not give those fearful thoughts too much energy, but, you know how it goes: you give fear an inch and it takes a foot.

So I spent these past nine days cycling through a wide range of possible outcomes of this potential mass on my kidney, which I was blissfully unaware of just a few days prior. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss. I tried my best to stay present and grounded in the facts, which were that:

• I was not a likely candidate for this type of cancer, and
• Scarring can occur from infection, which I’ve had

The odds were in my favor, but still, I could not escape the possibility of a much worse outcome. It haunted me all week. I was shook.

Yesterday, after nine torturously long days of waiting, my phone finally rang, my fate on the other line. I was in Costco, in the shampoo aisle, of all places. (Of course I was in Costco. Why does so much of my life happen at Costco?). I answered my phone, grabbed Jay’s hand, and leaned into a post, bracing myself.

“Hi Jennifer, your CT scan results showed some scarring and a small stone, no renal mass”

SCARRING! SCAR TISSUE!

I repeated the words back to my doctor’s assistant (“so it’s not a mass? NOT A MASS, just scarring, right? And a stone. Not a mass”), exhaled all the stress of the week, and sobbed tears of relief and gratitude. At Costco. Thank you, God.

Now that I’m on the other side of this health scare, I am thankful for it. Nothing crystalizes what’s most important in life than a health scare. Nothing shakes us alive again like the threat of illness, or death. So here I sit, freshly shaken and woke from nine days on the edge of an almost crisis, full of gratitude and zest and a fresh perspective on my life.

So just in case you need the reminder, or want the benefits of being shook without the scare, here’s what I re-learned in the process: our time here is fleeting and nothing is a given. It can all change or go away so quickly. Don’t take your life or the people in it for granted. Spend your time wisely. The currency of time is more valuable than the currency of money. Take care of your health and be grateful for all that your body allows you to do. Each day comes to us filled with possibility and opportunity. You get to choose how to live your life and what thoughts to hold in your mind. What a gift. Truly.

I’ll end by sharing a poem by Mary Oliver, whose words always resonate with and haunt me in the best ways, particularly now. Thanks for reading.

The Summer Day

 Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

~ Mary Oliver

 

 

This is the story of how our Jesse came into the world and burst into our hearts. Like his brother, he was born at home, but that’s where the similarities end. Rather than come in the quiet of night, he chose a bright, sunny morning to make his grand entrance, which is fitting, now that we’ve had time to get to know him. But let me back up to where it all began.

This was a doozy of a pregnancy for me. I experienced lots of anxiety thanks to prior pregnancy losses and had some chronic health issues that I just couldn’t shake. Jay took on a massive side work project that spanned a few months and had him working 7 days a week, so I was doing my best to hold down the fort at home while chasing after a toddler and trying to take care of myself. We were all so deeply exhausted by the time the project wrapped, which I think was mid-to-late February. We could have used a month-long nap, but right as his hours returned to normal, life got busy with, ya know, life.

One other noteworthy similarity between Jesse and Finn is that they were both conceived right around the same time in July and their due dates were only two days apart: Finn was due 4/6, Jesse was due 4/8. Since Finn arrived three weeks early on 3/17 (under the full moon, in the snow), I was totally convinced that this baby would likely arrive sometime in mid-March, too. So that only left us with a few crazy weeks to prepare for the birth, throw Finn a birthday party, celebrate my 40th birthday, and take a breath before life got even busier.

We spent those weeks gathering all the supplies you need for a homebirth, batch cooking a month’s worth of meals, cleaning, organizing baby gear, throwing parties, and racing against some invisible clock. There was a full moon on 3/12 and a major snowstorm in the forecast, so I was worried that this baby would come then, before we were truly ready. Finn’s birthday on 3/17 was the last thing on the calendar that we had to get through before I could feel truly ready for baby. I remember feeling like we rushed, rushed, rushed to get to that point and then it came and went and there was this eerie calm on the other side. We were like, “what do we do now?, why isn’t baby here yet?”. Even though I was only 37/38 weeks, I felt overdue and was very antsy. We were in the “hurry up and wait” phase. The only thing left to do was wait, and then wait some more, and try to keep the house clean, and keep fresh flowers in bloom. I was obsessed with the need to have fresh flowers (preferably orange or pink ranunculus) on the window sill and organic strawberries in the fridge. I could not go into labor if either of those things were not in place. It makes me laugh now, but I was very serious about my flowers and berries.

The days of waiting wore on and on and on, or so it felt. Every morning that I woke up still pregnant was a shock. By 39 weeks, I felt like I was 43 weeks. I was very large and uncomfortable and beyond ready to meet this baby. I did my best to carry on with normal life and just flow with what was happening, or, not happening. And then, just when I thought I might be pregnant forever, things started happening.

In the late afternoon of Tuesday, April 4th, I started having semi-regular contractions that caught my attention, so I put a call in to my midwives and doula just an fyi. My midwife, Kate, said to keep going about my day but to call if they got stronger, longer, and more intense. She also recommended going out for a walk to see if that encouraged things along. I carried on with the rest of the day, made dinner, and then headed out for an evening walk under a beautiful, enchanted sky. It was a mild night, warm for early April. There was magic in the air and it felt like a perfect night for a birth. I was excited.

I headed home and started timing the contractions, which had ramped up a bit and were 5-7 minutes apart. We chose not to tell Finn anything and just let him fall asleep like normal. Putting him to bed that night broke my heart a little. All throughout this pregnancy, I had slowly been mourning the end of days as just the three of us. Adding another child to the family is obviously a joyful event, but it also marks the end of an era.  As prepared as he was for the birth and for the baby (as much as a 3yo can be), he really had no idea what was about to happen and how that would change his life. As I hugged him good night, part of me was also hugging him, only-child-him, goodbye. I closed his door, came downstairs, and wept. The emotional labor is just as necessary as the physical labor. This was just something I had to mourn in the moment in order to move on. And so I did.

Meanwhile, Jay started setting up the birth pool (in the dining room) so that it would be ready when things really picked up, which I thought for sure would’ve been within an hour or two, but baby had other plans. Instead of ramping up, the contractions slowed, and my midwife encouraged me to go to sleep. So I did. I slept for maybe three hours and then woke when the contractions grew stronger again, around 3:30am or so. I came downstairs, lit a candle, put on some mellow music, and swayed/rocked/rolled through the surges on my big blue birth ball. I did this for about an hour and then called my birth team to alert them that contractions were every 5 minutes lasting for a minute, and had been this way for about an hour. I also woke Jay up and told him it was time. This was the day!

Our birth team got to our apartment in what felt like the blink of an eye, although it was probably more like 40 minutes. One worry that I had going into this birth was that it would happen quickly and our birth team wouldn’t make it in time. So when they did make it, with plenty of time to spare, I was so relieved and relaxed that my labor stalled out. Also, I think adding people and energy into the environment impacted my groove, despite how much I wanted them there and how unintrusive they were. My body was affected by the change. 

Once again, my midwife Kate suggested that I head out for a walk to try to get things going again, so Jay and I and our awesome doula, Lacey, walked around the neighborhood in the pre-dawn light. It felt great to get out and move and to laugh and to breathe in some fresh air. It was also quite surreal to be walking around my neighborhood, stopping to have contractions against telephone poles and such.

Towards the end of the walk, I looked up and realized, to my dismay, that it had become morning. Noooooo! This was not part of the plan. In all of my birth visualizations, it was always nighttime. According to my plan (I know, I know… plans), it was supposed to be dark, quiet, the light of the moon, candles. I never once considered a daytime birth. But here we were, daytime. It was bright and buzzing with the energy of the start of a weekday morning commute. Not very birthy, if you ask me. 

The walk helped my contractions pick back up, but I’d be lying if I said the daytime realization didn’t put a damper on things. All I wanted to do once we returned home was check in with my midwives and then go within, find my own internal nighttime, and get back into a steady groove. But then, right as I wanted to go and hide and be alone, Finn woke up and came downstairs. And just like that, my labor stalled out again.

He was so cute. He came down, saw our midwives and doula and asked, “Is this the birth?” He was excited to see some friends over but also unsure about things. I had a contraction in front of him and when I was done, he looked at me and said “that’s enough, mommy”. That’s when I knew that he had to go. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to progress and do the work of hard labor with him present, and I knew that it would be too much for him. So I slipped away into the bathroom to be alone and to think about this decision before making it official. Lacey must have slipped into the bathroom with me, ninja style, and helped me work through my feelings about Finn leaving. Once I made the decision, she alerted Jay, he called his sister, Andrea, and the wheels were in motion.

That’s when things really started to pick up and when I could begin to let go. Everything I could control for, I did, and the things I couldn’t control for (damn daytime!), I let go. I labored while draped over my birth ball and loved the grounded feeling it provided. I was aware of all the motion swirling around me, all the noise from outside as the Avenue came alive, and the bright light pouring into the room, but I was able to focus and get in the zone. Lacey was with me the whole time and made me feel incredibly supported while also giving me enough space.

By now, Finn had adapted to the sounds and scenes of labor, and he no longer seemed put off by the contractions. We watched so many birth videos throughout the pregnancy, so he knew this was all natural and normal stuff, but obviously, it’s different watching your own mommy go through it. But once he saw the pattern and understood that I was always okay after a contraction, he felt safe. And I’m so very glad that he was there for some of the labor and we got to share some incredibly sweet moments. These were among my favorite moments of labor.

I think it was around 9:15 or 9:30 that Andrea came and took Finn for us. This is when things got real intense. As soon as Finn was gone, my body was like “LET’S DO THIS!”. I had a few more long, strong contractions while draped over the ball. Then, I got up to pee, had another contraction while on the toilet and felt totally ungrounded and mildly panicked. My birth ball, my refuge, was 1 million miles away and there was no way I could get back to it before the next contraction hit. I was determined not to have another contraction on the move or on the toilet. I was hot, sweaty, and crawling out of my skin. I was desperate for relief. In retrospect, I was hitting transition: the hardest part of labor.

I felt like the birth ball groove I had been in was over. I couldn’t go back. I needed a new refuge. I looked up from the toilet (commode) and saw the birth pool glimmering in the bright morning light, just waiting for me. It was as if I was seeing it for the first time, like, “Ohh, right, there’s a pool here just for me! I can get in!”. So I ripped off my dress and got in. It felt good, but it didn’t offer the relief I was looking for (probably because there was still a person trying to come out of my body). Rather than grounded, I felt slippery and like I couldn’t find my footing. I didn’t know what to do with my body. I felt like I was hitting a wall. I was desperate and looking for any kind of relief. And I was so very hot.

During this time, I felt a shift in the room. I was aware that my midwives had come into the room and had brought Jay back in (he was outside helping Andrea put Finn’s car seat in her car). This awareness brought some relief, as I figured the end must be near. While I was in the pool, I began to feel immense pressure and a little pushy. During Finn’s birth, I had those feelings and then he came out, but that wasn’t the way with this baby. I just wasn’t relaxed in the pool and couldn’t find a groove; it wasn’t working for me. Those minutes I spent in the water were, by far, the most difficult part of this birth.

So, after maybe 15-20 minutes, Kate asked if I wanted to try the birth stool. I was up for anything to try to get this baby out. I sat on the birth stool and began pushing with contractions, but as it turns out, I had no idea how to push since I didn’t have to do it last time. I was expending what little energy I had left in all the wrong ways and I was frustrated, exhausted, and at the end of my rope. Up until this point, my body knew exactly what to do, but here, I felt like I had no idea how to birth this baby. Kate, seeing my exhaustion, asked if I wanted to lay down on the floor and push. She was confident that I could push the baby out in this final position. All I heard was “lay down” and I was sold. I just wanted to lay down.

And she was right. With some coaching, and with some physical support from Jay and Lacey, I finally understood how to push in an effective way and baby came barreling out at 10:13am. I may have been too effective at pushing or went at it too fast, as I wound up with a tear, but alas, our baby was here!!!!! That moment of birth is like no other. There is the immense and instant relief from the physical and emotional intensity of labor, plus an incredible endorphin and adrenaline rush, PLUS, you get to meet one of the great loves of your life, all in an instant. There is no other experience available to human beings, that I’m aware of, that compares. It is truly EPIC. You go from the depths of hell to the most blissful high in an instant. Whew!

I heard the baby cry right away followed by Jay’s words: “It’s a BOY!”. Kate handed me our baby and in that moment, I knew he was my Jesse. We didn’t officially name him for three days, but in my heart, I knew he was Jesse. Holding him felt like coming home; it felt like a reunion. He kept nuzzling into my neck and it felt like a missing puzzle piece had been found. I couldn’t believe he was here. I think I kept saying “my baby! oh, my baby! hi baby! oh my God, we had a baby! hi baby! NEVER AGAIN, OH MY GAWD, THAT WAS SOOO INTENSE. look at this baby! It’s our baby!”

Because he barreled out and didn’t get a proper squeeze in the birth canal, he had a bit of fluid in his lungs and had “wet” respirations. My highly skilled midwives knew just what to do to help him clear his fluids and adjust to life on the outside. While I held him, my midwife Tyler listened to his lungs and pat his back to help get the fluid out. After that, midwife Kate administered a few puffs of air to help get the rest out and then he was back in my arms. The whole thing was very calm and quick and all I remember was the sheer relief of him being here and labor being over.

Once Jesse’s lungs were clear, Kate helped Jay cut the cord and then she sutured me up. After a few more snuggles with the baby, they helped me up off the floor and into the shower. This is such a tender memory for me. There I was, in my shower, alone in my skin for the first time in 9 months, alone with my thoughts, reeling in every direction from the exhaustion and adrenaline and joy of giving birth. My midwife Tyler was standing on the other side of the curtain, simultaneously worlds away and in my soul with me, quietly supporting me, bearing witness, and physically helping me when needed. She helped me dry off, got me into my pjs and walked me out to the living room where they had made me a little nest on the couch. Our bedroom is upstairs and I needed to not climb stairs right away, so couch nest it was. Lacey made me breakfast (quiche, strawberries, and a yogurt) and I was just about to settle in…

…but then things got weird.

Kate had just done the newborn exam and dressed Jesse when all of a sudden, we heard someone enter our apartment and start walking up the stairs, saying, “what’s going on in here?, what’s going on up here?”. It was our landlord, Carmen. He works in the shop downstairs and was alarmed when he saw a hose hanging out our dining room window (the pool was draining). Rather than call or knock, he entered our home – our fresh, raw birth space. It felt like the twilight zone. I was in that post-birth haze and didn’t really connect the dots of what was happening. Tyler stood at the top of the steps, held up her rubber gloved hands and basically said “hi, everything’s fine, everything’s fine, nothing to see here, thanks, bye!” and he turned around and started to leave. But he must have thought “wait, who the hell was that? Because he turned around again and came right up to our main living floor, right where I had just given birth. Kate was in the living room with us, one room over, and kept yelling “don’t come in here! Make sure he doesn’t come in here! Don’t come in here!!”. Mind you, I was half naked at this point and my placenta was splayed out on the living room floor. Tyler was doing her best to keep him from entering the room and Kate kept saying “don’t come in here!”

Finally, Jay went out to where he was and I heard Carmen say “what’s going on, what’s with the hose?” and Jay was like “um… Jen just had a baby, like, just now, right here”. Carmen was stunned. He couldn’t believe it. He went from confrontational to joyful in an instant. He literally couldn’t believe it, so Jay showed him the baby and he congratulated us and awkwardly left. The whole thing was hysterical. If it had ended any differently, it wouldn’t have been funny, but really, all we could do was laugh and shake our heads. I was so grateful to Kate and Tyler for fiercely defending my space and privacy. That was not something I anticipated needing at a homebirth. 

After the Carmen incident, Kate, Tyler, and Lacey helped us settle in, went over what to expect both with Jesse and with my own healing, cleaned up, and left us to begin our bonding with our baby. This is one of the best parts of homebirth: you’re already home! Home in your own pjs, on your own couch, like it’s an ordinary Wednesday morning, except it’s extraordinary in every way.

As soon as everyone left, I realized I wanted Finn back as soon as possible. I missed him and wanted him to be part of this family bonding. Jay made the call and he was home within 45 minutes. Introducing Finn to Jesse was such a joyful moment. He was genuinely excited about his baby brother and was gentle and loving. Seeing his happiness put my mama heart at ease, as I was worried he would be resentful or jealous, or even indifferent. But seeing his big-brother joy made my heart swell. 

And with that, I exhaled all the stress and anxiety of pregnancy and felt a wave of gratitude rise up in its place; gratitude for our amazing midwives and doula, for this healthy and perfect baby, for Jay and for Finn, and for the brilliant, dazzling, golden sunshine that, as it turned out, was the perfect backdrop for the birth of our own little son-shine.

So that’s the story of how our Jesse came into the world and how our little family of three became a four-pack. He is pure effervescent joy who puts the exclamation point on our family story (or maybe, just maybe, a very cheerful comma…).

His homebirth would not have been possible without the wisdom, knowledge, compassion, and skills of our birth team. Special thank you to Kate Aseron and Tyler Wilson-Gorfti of Rising Moon Midwifery  and Lacey Morgan of King of Prussia Doulas. Not only did they rock their respective roles as midwives and doula, but they also managed to snap several wonderful photos for us, many of which are featured above. We are so grateful for it all, K, T, & L!

Thanks for reading and following along on the journey! 

A thin layer of skin, some amniotic fluid, and a handful of hours or days is all that separates me from the next great love of my life and the next great adventure of my life. To feel this close and yet to have all the particulars be so shrouded in mystery is both beautiful and totally maddening. When will it happen? Which day? Morning, noon, or night? Are you a boy or a girl? Will you be born at home? Do we have enough food (WE HAVE SO MUCH FOOD)? Will my water break at home, or at Costco? How will Finn react? All this waiting, this carrying on with ordinary life, all the while knowing that the extraordinary miracle of birth and family transformation is about to begin any day now- it’s such a bizarre moment in time.

Logically, when faced with so much uncertainty and feeling borderline out of control, my instinct is to grasp on tighter and try to control as much as possible. This usually means making lists and spending time in front of my big, color-coded dry erase calendar, organizing life into neat little orange, pink, green and purple blocks. This is typically how I create a sense of order out of chaos. But birth does not work that way. In every sense, birth, in all its mysterious glory, requires the total opposite of tight control. It requires total and complete surrender, which is appropriate given how much of parenthood is all about confronting the illusion of control we think we have over our kids’ lives.

So that’s where I am right now: I’m letting go. I’ve done all I can do to prepare. We have all the supplies, all the newborn gear, the house is clean, the freezers are stocked with food (SO MUCH FOOD), there are fresh flowers in bloom throughout the house, our 3 year old is as prepared as he can be, I’ve consumed tons of positive birth stories and Ina May insights, found my affirmations, taken my prenatals and supplements, hired the best birth team and have controlled for as much of this sacred event as possible. That was the easy part, planning the logistics. Now it’s time for the impossibly hard but critically important spiritual part of just letting it all go and waiting for this life changing moment to begin, wherever, whenever, however. No biggie.

And so I wait, and I trust, and I wonder who you are, sweet baby. I suspect that once I see you and get to know you, that enormous, soul crushing, life giving, overwhelming LOVE will flood my heart and I will not know how I lived without you all these years. But until then, I will wait as patiently as I can for you. I will step away from the lists and the calendar and will step into the mystery of the great unknown with heart wide open. I will savor the feeling of your squirms and hiccups from within. I will marvel at the expansive fullness of us. And I will joyfully await the moment you decide it’s time.

In photography, the term “golden hour” refers to the hour after sunrise and the hour before sunset. It’s that wondrous time when the sun is low and everything is aglow with warm, soft, yellow-y orange light. It’s the original Instagram filter. I don’t know what it is, but life just feels somewhat different in these golden hours.

In the morning, just after the sun rises, but before the noise of the day truly begins, the sun and her soft light welcomes me to a brand new day. It reminds me that indeed, this is a brand new day, and invites me to let go of yesterday, to exhale, to forgive, to be here now. It’s hard to feel angry, or anxious, or to carry yesterday’s disappointments or tomorrow’s fears when everything looks so incredibly beautiful in her delicate, fresh light. This light awakens the dreamer in me, encouraging me to look up and out from my little world to see a bigger, wider world with boundless opportunities. It’s a time when I can hear my own voice and the truth of my own heart the clearest. And most importantly, the reflection that the morning golden hour elicits often leads to a place of pure gratitude. Not a bad way to begin the day.

But then the sun climbs higher and the light she casts is brighter, harsher. The day unfolds and all the usual players (joy, chaos, frustration, productivity) perform their roles in varying intensities. There is a subtle hurried pace underlying almost everything while the ever-present tick-tock of time marches on.

And then the sun graces us once again with her enchanting, low golden light before yielding to the dark, dropping dollops of honey on the landscape before she goes. Time slows, chaos mellows, nature beckons. We typically head outside during this time, either to the park or to the playground, and marvel at the beauty of the light flitting through the trees and the ease of it all. Like the morning golden hour, there’s something about this light and the pace of life under it, that evokes a sense of calm, a bit of perspective and reflection, and deep gratitude. It is the perfect way to end the day.

I’ve always loved golden hours (in case that’s not clear) and consider them a special time when the veil between the physical and spiritual worlds is the most translucent. They are moments of alchemy and awe in otherwise “ordinary” days. The more I thought about these sacred hours and what they meant to me, the more I began to see them in the context of a lifespan rather than a single day. Maybe the golden hour of our lives is ten years (87,600 hours, to be exact), or twenty (175,200 hours), or two (17,520 hours). We likely have several golden “hours” in our lifetime, just as we have many dark periods, too.

As I consider my own life, especially this current phase, I know that I’m in the golden hours right now. I know that I’ll look back in my old age and remember these days as among the best of my life. These are the hours when our kid(s) are young and our parents are healthy; these are hours of witnessing the wide-eyed wonder and discoveries of a child; these are the hours of possibility, where we’ve made enough adult moves to feel solid but not enough to feel chained to our choices. These are moments of alchemy and awe in an otherwise “ordinary” life. And it is not lost on me.

So, I welcome you to my blog about these golden hours. I’ll be using this space to write about and process the wild ride of life, and in doing so, I hope to make meaning of it all. Sometimes it’ll be deep, sometimes it’ll be light, sometimes I’ll swear, but I promise you this: it’ll always be real, it’ll always be me. Thanks for being here and sharing this space with me.