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By Alyssa, January 30, 2011 10:11 pm

Part one of the story is here.

If you are squeamish, don’t like babies, or plain just don’t care about this birth junkie’s birth stories then turn away now.

At the end of one contraction, I felt like a freight train had just pushed it’s way down and out of my rear end. Sorry to be graphic, but it was crazy.  I looked in the water to make sure I hadn’t had an accident and said, “Oh man, I think I need to push.”  Immediately getting me out of the tub, the doula made a quick exterior exam and asked Haus if we would like to call the fire department or head to the closest hospital.  It was 9:30 p.m.

Haus’ eyes got wide as he blurted, “HOSPITAL!” A few minutes later we all piled into our brand new Toyota Tundra.  P.S. This was not how we thought this was going to go.  An average labor for a first-time momma is at least twelve hours and I was headed to the hospital squeezing my butt cheeks to keep from pushing baby out on the floor of our new truck after only 3 1/2 hours of contractions.  Our doula gave Haus directions and she held my face as I tried to blow softly through the biggest urges to push I’d ever felt in my life.  Squeezed in between the back seat, our new car seat, and me, she calmly told Haus after five minutes of driving that he might want to speed.  Blowing through stoplights, we arrived at 10 p.m. at a hospital we had never set foot in (Our midwife at Fort Carson was over 45 minutes away and there was no way I was making it there).

Running a wheel chair up into the elevator, we met two labor and delivery nurses who asked me with sugary voices, “Soooo, how far along are you?”  At the time I was “Whoooo, whooo, whooo”-ing my way through each contraction to resist the grunt-push feeling and didn’t answer.  Haus tersely said 40 weeks before pushing his way through them to a delivery room.  I don’t remember it but Haus said as soon as he pulled the wheelchair up to the room, I dropped my bathrobe in the hallway revealing my birthday suit, and walked calmly towards the hospital bed.  Plopping myself down, I begged for someone to check me.  When someone finally did, the nurse yelled, “SHE’S COMPLETE!” and the room went from one to about twenty scrubbed peeps.

Finally able to push I spent a few minutes reversing my mind as for the past hour all I’d been telling myself was DON’T PUSH.  Exasperated I turned to my doula, and said, “But you told me not to push!”  I also yelled at an anesthesiologist “I DON’T WANT DRUGS!” even though he was just hooking up an IV, and almost kicked the OB I’d never met that was telling me “Just push my hands out” as I thought, GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF THERE!  I was a little out of it.

Finally with a gush of effort, Bubba was born at 10:21 p.m., all nine pounds of him!  His hair was dark and curly and his sweet right cheek had a huge dimple as he opened his mouth.  I was in love.  We’d only been at the hospital for twenty minutes.  We didn’t have a camera, we didn’t have a phone, or the video camera.  We laughed and cried and embraced our sweet little boy, not really caring about anything else.

Special thanks to Lou Ann, our amazing doula and friend!

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By Alyssa, June 30, 2010 8:02 pm

I lost it Monday afternoon.  Lost it.  Fell back on my bed, rubbed my eyes and temples to ease a ferocious headache, and tried to convince myself that I was a good mom as both of my boys cried on timeout in their rooms.

Earlier that day my almost-two year old cried and screamed his way, out of the library, from the park playground to the car, and from the grocery checkout to the parking lot to our house.  Why?  He wanted and I didn’t want.  When he didn’t get what he wanted, his entire body crumpled limp to the floor, pavement, sidewalk forcing me to drag or football carry him to our next destination.

To add to the mayhem, my 4 and 1/2 year old decided moments before each of his brother’s tantrums to ask me every possible question he’d saved during our past two weeks (or maybe his whole life) apart.  ”Why is my car seat on this part of the seat, Mom?” “When do I turn 5?” “Why are we going here?” “Why?” “Where?” “When?”

I love my kids.  I love my 24-hour job staying at home with them.  I would be lying if I said that I love every single minute though.  I find when it gets really tough, I have to take one day at a time.  One hour sometimes.  Ask anyone about this concept on day one of a military deployment.  One day at a time.  Motherhood difficulties aren’t exactly on the same scale as deployment difficulties but the required patience applies to both.

Lying on my bed Monday afternoon I reminded myself that it would take a few days for the kids to calm from their “grandparent mania”.  I also reminded myself that it would take me a few days to adjust from my full-time Army routine.  I took a couple deep breaths, gathered them from their rooms, and apologized that mom lost her patience.  As they giggled a few minutes later sharing snacks, I sighed and thought, one day at a time.

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By Alyssa, October 6, 2009 3:37 pm

Lately, I love when people ask me what I do.  I know it sounds crazy, but I love talking about being at home with the boys.  When I was in the Army full time, it broke my heart to count the number of hours I was away from Bubba.  I remember staring at my work computer screen while I reasoned that 24 hours in a day minus night-time sleep, minus the morning nap, and minus the afternoon nap… I was only missing a few hours of mom-time, right?  It was hard for me to tell other moms that I was only able to spend a few hours a day with my kiddo.

Now I can’t wait to tell people about it.  When someone asks, “What do you do?” I’m so excited to share my story. I really loved the Army and still do once a month in the National Guard, but leaving it was the best decision I’ve made so far.  Imagine my surprise when I realized some stay-home-mamas feel self-conscious, guilty, even embarrassed that they are “just moms.” I’ve listened to women give excuses why they aren’t working outside of the home as if working as a mom isn’t a real job.

I was recently offered a job to go back to the full time Army again.  I didn’t hesitate in my answer.  ”No, thanks.  I have a full time job now.”  Sure, I don’t get a check every week for the number of dirty diapers I’ve changed or a progress report on my ability to weather toddler tantrums.  Instead I’m paid in kisses and really sticky hugs.  My progress report is my collection of honest statements from Bubba (“You’re my best friend, Mommy” or “Take a nap? You’re not my best friend, Mommy”).

My job as a mom definitely isn’t as publicly recognized as being an Army soldier, but I think it is just as important.  Maybe I should start telling every mom I see, “Thanks for your service” as I would a soldier in uniform.  I’ve learned so much this year, including the fact that my boys need me much more than the Army ever did.  I’ve been called to stay at home with my sons.  I’m just a mom and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.