5 Tips for Dealing with Negativity When You're Pregnant Again

Every now and then, I get an email or Facebook message from a mom who's pregnant for the 4th, 5th, or 6th time. It usually goes something like "I'm really excited for this baby but I'm dreading the negativity when I tell my family/friends/coworkers/total strangers that I'm pregnant again. Any advice?"

I know how that feels, because it describes me exactly when I was pregnant with Baby #5. I thought of 4 kids as "above average but still normal," and I envisioned everyone freaking out once we told them we'd crossed over to the dark side and were having a fifth.

Which some did.

I don't know why some people get so bent out of shape about how many children you have (or when you have them, or how close together in age they are) when it doesn't directly affect them. But their negative reactions can really take the wind out of your sails.

Eventually I stopped feeling sheepish about my many pregnancies and announced proudly to the world when we were expecting again with Baby #6, and here are some things that helped me get over it.

1. Tell people who will be happy for you first.

It might feel weird not to tell your mom or your best friend you're pregnant before anyone else, but if you're dreading negativity from them then tell someone who you know will be supportive. Hearing someone say "congratulations!" instead of "not again! what are you thinking?" will boost your confidence and remind you that babies are blessings. It will also soften the blow when others aren't excited to hear your news.

2. Announce it in writing to the Negative Nancies.

If you know certain friends or family members will flip out, do yourself (and them) a favor by telling them about your pregnancy over email, Facebook, or in your Christmas letter. That way they can do their shock-and-disgust routine, process their feelings, and hopefully be more pleasant about it to your face later on. We all say things when surprised that we regret; people who are going to have a hard time hearing about this pregnancy might actually like having some time to compose themselves before having to respond to the news.

3. Don't tell anyone you don't have to.

When I was dreading so much negativity with my fifth, I told my close friends and family but that was it. I didn't announce it to people at church, my mailman, or the other moms from my kids' school. After a while I got so visibly pregnant that everyone just knew. For some reason people feel less license to say something rude when you're obviously enormously pregnant (possibly because they're afraid you'll eat them,) and that was fine by me.

4. Find a support system of big families.

The antidote for feeling like the only weirdo on the planet with a big family is finding the thousands of other people for whom it's just regular, everyday life. If you don't know any in person, the Internet is great for this. Join a big family Facebook group or follow a big family blog I personally like So-So Mom and Hands Full and Loving It.

There are also a lot of big family moms on the Unremarkable Files Facebook page. A while back I asked my Facebook fans for recommendations on vehicles for families of 8+ and it was refreshing to get a ton of helpful answers instead of gasping face emojis and stern directives regarding birth control. The point is, there are plenty of other people who get it. You just need to find them.

5. Remember their reaction says more about them than it does about you. 

It's discouraging when you say "I'm pregnant" and they say "%$@&!" but try to remember that their shock and dismay doesn't necessarily mean they believe you personally are going to be a failure as a parent and your family will be a disaster. Maybe they grew up with many siblings and had a bad experience, or maybe they don't know any big families and can't wrap their heads around how one would work. In any case, their opinion about your family doesn't matter nearly as much as YOUR opinion about it.

The truth is, there's always going to be someone who responds badly to your pregnancy announcement, whether it's because they think you have too many kids or they're too close together or you're too young or too old.

To those people I say: whatever.

Hearing people be critical about your pregnancy is hard, but these tips can help. And after all is said and done and your child is born, you'd be surprised at how the naysayers soften up and agree that there's nothing quite as wonderful as a baby.

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6 Hilariously Real Valentines for Pregnant Women

Being pregnant isn't just normal life with the addition of a baby bump. It's miraculous, life-changing, and (let's be honest) a little weird.

So guys, these 6 Valentines will are guaranteed to make your pregnant wife laugh. Or cry. Or probably both, because pregnancy does that.

1. It's not easy walking around on those things all day.

2. Maybe you should stick some Tums in the envelope.

3. Sometimes pregnancy food cravings get a little bizarre.

4. Wishing you a Valentine's Day that's larger than life.

5. For the woman who really knows how to rock an outie.

6. When the worst smell in the world is whatever anyone else is eating.

Happy Valentine's Day, and don't forget to share your favorites with the mother-to-be in your life!

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My Complete Placenta Previa Story

When I got my 20-week ultrasound with my fifth baby, I walked into the office completely clueless that what I saw there was drastically going to change the next year for us.

Funnily enough, I almost didn't even have that ultrasound.

Because of traffic and my chronic lateness, I missed my appointment. The receptionist wanted to reschedule and I debated just skipping it entirely.

After all, I'd had 4 perfectly healthy babies already. In my mind the only reason to even do the 20-week ultrasound was to find out the sex of the baby, which we wanted to remain a surprise, so what was the point?

Houston, We Have a Problem (Actually, Two Problems)

Well, I did reschedule, and to my surprise we actually did find two weird things during the ultrasound: a single umbilical artery and a complete placenta previa.

My odds of developing each were respectively 0.5% and 1%, so the fact that I'd managed to do both simultaneously was actually kind of impressive.

The single umbilical artery meant a 25% chance of some serious defects, a 75% chance that everything was fine, and a 100% chance of freaking out while Googling it late at night. In our case, though, it turned out to be absolutely fine.

But then there was the placenta previa.

"Previa" is a Latin word meaning "right in the freaking way of everything." Placentas are supposed to attach up at the top of the uterus, out of the way and nicely protected, but mine was at the bottom directly over my cervix.

So from now until I had the baby, there was a possibility of me hemorrhaging.

They put me on "pelvic rest" effective immediately, which is like bed rest lite. You can still walk around, but there's no exercise, (yay!) no sex, (boo!) and no heavy lifting (okay, I completely ignored that part because toddlers.)

The other thing about a complete placenta previa is that going into labor on your own isn't even an option. The baby would be trapped and the mom would bleed out if you tried it.

It means automatic C-section.

In Which I Freak Out about Having a C-Section

My midwife was quick to point out that my placenta could move out of the way as things shifted and expanded, so we'd have to wait and see over the next few months.

Meanwhile, even the idea of a Cesarean was really hard for me to digest.

I'd never had a C-section and never wanted one. This whole time I'd been envisioning a drug-free labor and delivery. I couldn't believe it. I was mad and most of all, scared.

I talked to everyone I knew who'd had a C-section. Most said theirs was okay, but when they described the surgery I thought it sounded terrifying, and when they told me about their recovery I thought it sounded absolutely awful.

When I mentioned that to my friend Jill, who had experienced both Cesarean and vaginal births, she said, "Have these women had only C-sections before?"

I nodded.

"It's going to be okay if you have a C-section," Jill said quickly. "But I'm not going to lie to you: it's worse."

I spent the next 4 months alternately crying over C-section related Google searches and avoiding thinking about my impending fate. I was in complete denial, with periodic lucid moments where I wanted to run away screaming "They're going to CUT OPEN MY UTERUS!!!"

Meanwhile, my follow-up ultrasounds weren't looking promising. At my final ultrasound, the maternal fetal medicine specialist took one look at the print-out and snorted "Well, that placenta doesn't even want to move one way or the other!"

My placenta had firmly, stubbornly, and irrevocably hunkered down in the worst possible place, and there was no question I'd be getting a C-section.

The surgery was scheduled for the day I hit 37 weeks, which sounded crazy early to take a baby out, but there was nothing I could do about it. Except worry, which I did with exceptional skill and stamina.

33 Weeks: First Bleeding Episode

Other than the pelvic rest and worrying about the baby and freaking out about the C-section, the pregnancy was totally normal until 33 weeks.

Phillip was home for the day and planning to take our two oldest kids to the art museum and bring a picnic lunch, but in typical Evans fashion we couldn't get our act together and at noon they hadn't even left yet.

The two of us were at the kitchen counter making sandwiches when I felt suddenly, for lack of a better comparison, like I was laying an egg.

My first thought was "Oh crap, I'm peeing my pants!" and you shouldn't judge because if you've ever been pregnant you know stuff like that just happens to pregnant people sometimes.

So I ran to the bathroom, where I quickly learned that I was not peeing my pants. It looked like I dropped a pitcher of red Kool-Aid on the floor.

Not to be graphic, but later that night Phillip was cleaning up blood that had splashed halfway up the bathroom door.

I knew majorly bleeding during this pregnancy was a possibility so I wasn't panicked, but I was really glad Phillip hadn't left hours ago like we'd planned. For once, our inability to function like normal people was working in our favor!

I called my midwife's office and they said to just go straight to labor and delivery (actually, they first told me to come into the office and I was like, "No, you don't understand, this is a lot of blood.")

The bleeding slowed down and even stopped by the time we were en route to the hospital, which was a good thing because in the back of my mind I'd been wondering how to get in the car without destroying the upholstery.

Hop on Board the Emotional Rollercoaster

I honestly thought the hospital was just going to keep me for a few hours, maybe overnight, and then send me home.

The nurses said I'd bled a lot, but I didn't need a transfusion or anything. They strapped a fetal monitor to my belly and gave me a few painful steroid shots in the bum to beef up the baby's lungs, just in case they had to do the C-section now.

Then they gave me an IV and introduced me to the bedpan. (I received numerous compliments, by the way, on how quickly I was able to pee in a bedpan. Apparently it takes most people forever to relax and just go. But since I had 4 kids at home and had been peeing with an audience for ten years already, I had an edge on the competition.)

Then we waited and watched.

Eventually Phillip went home to collect the kids and start his 3-week stint as a single father, although we didn't know then that it would be so long.

They kept me hooked up to the fetal monitor all night and strapped huge sweaty compression boots on my legs to prevent blood clots. The IV dug into my arm whenever I moved and I woke up every time the boots started loudly inflating. I did not sleep well.

For the next week, everyone I saw told me something different. A nurse told me I'd be here on bed rest for a good long while, then the next day the doctor said I might go home in a few days. A midwife doing her rounds the following morning somberly predicted a C-section within the week. I was a complete basketcase stressing over whatever they told me, and it changed every day.

Eventually it was recommended that I stay in the hospital for the rest of my pregnancy, but if I really, really wanted to do bed rest at home, then I could.

It was an agonizing decision to make. I wanted to go home so badly, but I knew that bed rest just wasn't going to happen at home with 4 little kids.

So I stayed. It was hard because I wasn't (and still am not) convinced that the bed rest served any real purpose. There aren't any scientific studies on whether bed rest is actually effective for placenta previa, and there may never be because what mom is going to gamble with her baby's life just to see?

Bed rest sucks, and maybe I was doing it all for nothing, but at the very least I was in the hospital where I was close to blood transfusions and the O.R. if I should need it, and I guess that was some comfort.

Starts with 'B' and Ends with 'edrest'

With the decision made, they moved me to the postpartum ward, so I was the only one on the floor still pregnant. Brahm's Lullaby played over the speakers every time a baby was born.

I was eventually given "bathroom privileges" (including a quick shower) and even permission to walk down the hall and back once a day.

Bed rest is so bizarre, especially the hospital kind. You have all the time in the world, but you can't concentrate long enough to read a book. I know, I tried.

Instead, I watched a lot of Big Bang Theory reruns. I knitted a shawl for my mom. I, who haven't played a video game since 1998, became an expert at Drop 7 (free from the app store!)

My life revolved around mealtime, since that was pretty much the only thing of consequence that happened all day. Phillip maintains the food was terrible, but he's a food snob. I didn't have to make it so I thought it was great.

Taken just a few days before the baby made his grand entrance.

People think the boredom is the worst part of bed rest, but for me it was seeing its impact on my family. 

I knew Phillip was practically killing himself trying to do both his job and mine, and there wasn't anything I could do besides call in favors for childcare or meals to everyone I knew.

The kids looked like a ragged, unbrushed band of pirates wearing winter boots with no socks when they came to see me at the hospital, yet I knew he was doing his absolute best just to get them there at all.

And I missed them. On hospital bed rest, you never get to be alone with your husband, and when you do see each other it's just for a temporary visit. As a stay-at-home mom, I went from knowing everything about my kids' day to feeling like their lives were going on without me.

It is no exaggeration to say that hospital bed rest was one of the most emotionally draining things I've ever done.

36 Weeks: Second Bleeding Episode

One day at 36 weeks, just a few days before my scheduled section, I was lying in bed (ha ha, what else would I be doing) when I had another bleed. Nothing like the first, but enough for the nurses to revoke my bathroom privileges and put me back on the fetal monitor.

Sigh.

The OB on call wanted to do the C-section immediately, but I pleaded with her to just wait and see.

I already felt like taking the baby out at 37 weeks was too early; I wanted to give him every extra day I could.

They agreed to watch me overnight, but unfortunately it didn't seem to be stopping and as morning approached I was maybe even bleeding a little more than before.

I'd tried as hard as I could do put it off, but having a C-section now was inevitable.

Even though my Cesarean wasn't exactly a dire emergency, they unfortunately don't have a designation for "slightly urgent, should be done sooner rather than later." There are two kinds of C-sections: scheduled and emergency. And since mine wasn't scheduled, they flipped into emergency mode and everything after that happened very fast.

You can read the details about the C-section here if you're interested (spoiler alert: I hated it.) My baby had to go to the NICU after he was taken out, but I think that was a function of him being early rather than anything having to do with the placenta previa, per se.

(And in case you're wondering whether it's possible to have a VBAC after a complete placenta previa, the answer is yes!)

My experience with complete placenta previa taught me a lot. 

It taught me not to skip the 20-week ultrasound.

It taught me childbirth isn't totally under my control.

It taught me patience as I waited on bed rest for what seemed like forever.

And most of all, it taught me never to underestimate the power of a rogue placenta.

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Thanks, Pregnancy: 6 Unusual Things I've Cried Over Lately

Nothing makes a grown woman more irrational and weepy than a 15-year-old girl than pregnancy hormones, and Chaun from Hiccups and Pastries knows it all too well. I can really relate to her guest post today in far too many ways... can you?


I'm a little envious of Jenny right now that she gets to be on her maternity leave, because I still have 6 months of pregnancy to go before I can get to that point.

Even so, I'm feeling especially pregnant right now, because all this crying that's been going on lately. (I thought this stage ended when I moved out for college, leaving my three teenage sisters at home.)

With my first baby, I was frustrated with most things that had a face, especially my husband. This time around, I'm just literally crying over stuff like this.

1. Freaking delicious sushi.

You wouldn't expect glorious sushi rolls in Utah, but then again, we are a state of many delectable surprises.

Take funeral potatoes, for example. Like Utah sushi, it doesn't sound like something that's appropriate to go nuts on at a party. Or, uh, a funeral. But Utah natives know how to make any occasion a good celebration of food.

When I found out I was pregnant, I knew that I would need to celebrate with some salmon and eel sauce sushi. Just the thought of it brings happy tears to my eyes.

2. My OB-GYN.

She told me I could eat basically whatever, just not sushi.

SUSHI.

"What if it's the deep fried kind?" my husband asked the doctor. He could see the beginning crumbles of my internal infrastructure.

"No. Deep fried is not cooked." The OB doc paused, and then said, "I just hate all sushi and think it shouldn't ever be eaten."

Sooo, is sushi actually bad for me, or am I just a victim of her personal rage?

3. This letter from a teacher to her 3rd grade students.

I heard this letter  read over the K-LOVE station a few weeks ago, and I couldn't keep from tearing up and driving away ambiguously into the sunset as I listened along.

"The scores you will get from these tests will tell you something, but they will not tell you everything. These tests do not define you. There are many ways of being smart. YOU are smart! You are enough! You are the light that brightens my day and the reason I am happy to come to work each day. So, in the midst of all of these tests, remember that there is no way to “test” all of the amazing and awesome things that make you, YOU."

Reading back on it again, I think it's super sweet (and accurate!) but I'm not feeling the mushy-gushy tears I felt before. What about you?

4. Burritos.

My sister texted me a picture of her and her boyfriend eating a burrito. She said something like, "We had a great date night!" but all I could see was "We have burritos. You don't. Also, we hate you."

I whimpered and moaned at my misfortune. Burritos! I needed a burrito. All my self-worth was in that burrito.

Taylor, in an effort to make turn that frown upside down, but to avoid a midnight run at Del Taco, brought me a glass of milk and some graham crackers.

I guess my milk did taste a little like a burrito, once my tears were well mixed into it.

5. Speaking of Taylor, his stomach made me cry once.

I didn't understand that this was pregnancy hormones until it was over. It was traumatic. (Or is it dramatic? I never figured out the difference between the two from my teenager years.)

Taylor and I were at a family barbecue, with plans to go to my sister's birthday dinner right after. We made plans not to eat too much at the first event, so we'd have room to enjoy the next party. That was the agreement: do not overeat.

As I watched my husband pack down his plate of chicken, and then chips, and finally a couple of rolls, tears began filling my eyes. I allowed myself to explore all the heartbreaking outcomes of his meal decision. What if we drove all the way to my sister's party and he wasn't able to eat anything? What if he sat around being sad while we binged on cake around him? What if this turned out to be a miserable experience on a big milestone in my sister's life?!

A man who can't enjoy his dinner is enough to make a grown woman cry. A pregnant one, that is.

6. The garbage bins.

I can see you nodding in agreement. Yes, the garbage bins are something to cry over, aren't they?

Well, honestly, this is perhaps the most embarrassing thing that's happened so far. I heard a strange, rumbling sound from outside my house. I didn't dare venture out in the daylight to figure out what it was, though. Pregnancy has made me into a grumpy, frumpy hermit. It's a good thing, since it keeps me from showcasing my everyday PJ attire to my neighbors.

As the rumbling grew closer, it occurred to me that it was Friday morning. Friday morning is important. It's when the garbage man comes.

I needed that garbage man to take out this trash because I had forgotten last week's trash. Judging by the sound of the truck engine, I knew I probably had enough time to run the 5 feet that is my driveway and present my overfilled can to the curb.

But rather than yanking up my big girl panties in courage, I laid on the couch instead. And felt pathetic as I pondered my new life as a hermit living in a home built from milk cartons and Wheat Thin crumbs.

Pregnancy hormones do weird, weird things to us ladies. (Especially revolving around food.)

Now that I've laid out my emotional dirt on the Internet, it's your turn! What's the most unusual thing you've cried over?

About the Author:

Chaun Jacobs is a pastries-eating enthusiast, writer, and usually has her camera bag by her side. You can usually find her over at the Hiccups and Pastries blog. If she's not there, then she's definitely in the pantry, fishing for snacks. Chaun currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah with her family and imaginary cats. Find her on Facebook here.

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My Natural Hospital VBAC after Placenta Previa

This post contains affiliate links to the books on childbirth I found most helpful in prepping for this labor. If you buy anything through these links, the cost stays the same to you but I get a small commission which I will definitely use to buy diapers.

From the moment my fifth child was born via C-section due to placenta previa, I knew that if we had a sixth child I wanted to try for a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean.)

But when I Googled "VBAC after placenta previa" I didn't find much. Mostly message boards where someone had asked "Anyone here have a VBAC after placenta previa?" and got crickets in response.

I wanted to put my story out there to let others know that a successful VBAC after complete placenta previa does happen! Here's my story.

Why I Wanted a VBAC

Comparing my C-section to my four previous vaginal births, the Cesarean was harder and recovery was much worse. I realize some women liked their C-sections, but mine had been very scary and I definitely didn't want to repeat the experience if I didn't have to.

Luckily my midwife practice was supportive of VBACs, and they said I was a good candidate for one. My placenta wasn't in the way this time, I'd birthed babies vaginally before, and the baby was head-down and ready to go by the end of the pregnancy.

They wanted me to come in early and do most of my laboring in the hospital rather than at home, continuously use the fetal monitor, and place an IV port just in case I should need an emergency C-section. But everything looked promising for a VBAC.

Why I Didn't Want an Epidural

I have nothing against using pain meds in labor. In fact, with the births of my first, second, third, and fourth babies, I waddled into labor and delivery yelling at every nurse, resident, and janitor in sight to get me my epidural yesterday.

And I got them, they just never worked well.

After one that barely took the edge off, one that only worked on one side, and one that gave me so much medication I went numb up to my neck and felt completely loopy, I started to believe that my body just didn't like epidurals. For me, they seemed to cause more problems than they solved.

But there was another reason, too.

The biggest risk of VBAC (although it's still small, about 0.5%) is uterine rupture, and with an epidural my body couldn't give us any feedback on how my uterus was holding up during labor. I wouldn't feel it if my uterus did rupture. We'd only have the fetal monitor to tell us, and I knew from personal experience that disconcerting dips and decelerations happen in totally normal labors all the time. I didn't want to be rushed into an emergency C-section because of it.

"I've Put In Your Request With The Fetus"

My mom flew in to stay with us the day before my due date, and I have to admit I was a little bit of a basket case at that point.

What if I developed pre-eclampsia right at the end? What if I didn't go into labor on my own? What if there was a problem in labor? And could I really have a baby without an epidural? I started to doubt myself more every day.

I asked my daughter to take this picture and she cut off Phillip's head. Like I keep saying, he's too tall.

Phillip joked before we went to bed on my due date, "I told you that I want a daytime delivery this time, right?"

I laughed, knowing the middle-of-the-night deliveries we always seem to have are rough on him, and said, "Yes, and I've put in your request with The Fetus."

It didn't seem to help, though, because at 2 AM I woke up with Braxton-Hicks that turned out to be the real thing. I waited until about 4:45 to wake Phillip up, though, so at least that was something.

The Opposite of a Fashion Show At the Hospital

I arrived at the hospital at 6 AM wearing the ugliest pajamas you've ever seen. They are also the comfiest and, to be honest, one of the only things that still fit me during the last 2 weeks of being pregnant.

Sittin' pretty in Labor & Delivery. Gentlemen, please attempt to control your thoughts.

Phillip hates these pants. After it was over and we moved to a postpartum recovery room, Phillip tried to "forget" them in Labor & Delivery so they'd be lost forever.

I made him go back and get them.

At the hospital they hooked me up to the fetal monitor and then tried to insert my precautionary IV port. I say "tried" because they kept blowing my veins, which sounds so gruesome I don't even want to know what that means. My arms looked like they'd been run over by a truck for weeks afterward.

When the midwife checked me at 6:30 I was shocked to be informed I was 8 cm dilated. My contractions were mostly 5 minutes apart (although some were clustered closer together,) and they definitely didn't hurt that bad yet.

Maybe I could do this, after all.

For the next few hours, I exhaled through contractions while I leaned on a chair and Phillip pushed on my lower back. As they got stronger it also helped to moan and lunge side to side, which I'm aware probably looked pretty silly in my open-backed gown with my rear end pointed straight at the door and whoever happened to walk through it. You just don't really care about that kind of thing when it comes down to brass tacks.

As the contractions intensified and I got more tired, I preferred to sit up in the bed and just lean forward during contractions.

It was a perfectly textbook labor. All my worry had been over nothing. There were no problems, nothing on the fetal monitor that caused us concern.

My midwife told me it was going so great I could eat and drink whatever I wanted (which was good, because I'd been having Phillip sneak me pieces of a granola bar when everyone was out of the room for the last half-hour.)

Let's Have a Baby

My midwife was in the next room delivering another baby, so they pulled in an OB from the practice to catch mine.

Up until now, I'd felt pretty well in control, but when it was time to push I sort of felt like I was drowning. I just couldn't get my bearing and get on top of the contractions in time.

I'd read a lot about giving birth squatting and how it was supposed to open up your pelvis more than any other position. So I wanted to like squatting, I really did.

I asked for the squat bar on the bed, but after one push it was clear that I hated it. I was too tired to support my weight, and by the looks of the fetal monitor, the baby hated it, too.

So I abandoned that plan and delivered the traditional way, with a nurse and Phillip each holding a leg.

Now, I know how to push a baby out. You're supposed to take a deep breath, hold it, and bear down. The thing is, I was no longer in charge. Instead of staying in my lungs like it was supposed to, my breath erupted in a scream longer, louder, and higher than any human has ever made before.

You probably think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. When Phillip later commented on the baby's healthy cry the doctor chuckled to himself and said, "Well, if he has a set of lungs anything like his mother's..." and trailed off. (To be honest, I'm a little embarrassed to see the man again at my 6-week postpartum checkup, but such is life.)

I'm not actually sure what happened, but I know that two pushes and the baby was out, so whatever I did must have worked. At 8:21, we were holding an 8 lb. 10 oz. baby boy.

So What Was a Drug-Free Labor Like?

I read a lot in preparation for this birth. The book that was the most helpful was Natural Childbirth: The Bradley Way. I'd also recommend parts of Birthing from Within and Hypnobirthing: The Mongan Method. Phillip liked The Birth Partner.

Basically, the message I pulled from all of them was: Relax. You can do this. Don't fight the contractions, just go with the flow. Remember to breathe.

Since I'm not naturally a relaxed person and I really am a baby about physical discomfort, I wasn't sure at all I could do this. I thought I'd lose it, rely completely on Phillip to talk me through it, or break and ask for an epidural.

Instead, I surprised myself with how strong I was. Letting the contractions wash over me with the least possible resistance made labor so much more bearable. I thought it was really hard work, but I don't know that I would describe it as painful.

The funny part is, the four epidural labors I'd had before had definitely been painful. I gritted my teeth and tensed up during contractions and that made them feel like they were going to crush me. Instead of resting between contractions I lay panicking in my hospital bed stressing out about the next contraction and how awful it was going to be and where were they with my epidural already?!

This time, I experienced contractions as an intense cramping that ebbed and flowed, and then a few moments of a lot of pressure toward the end (okay, so that was pretty painful) as the baby descended.

I think the difference was my mindset.

Between contractions I felt calm. I felt strong, like I could do anything. I was in the zone. I never hit that "I can't do it!" wall I expected to (although I did have the thought that I didn't want to.)

The worst part of the whole thing was the afterbirth and repair. That's the part I wished I would've had an epidural for! I had a second-degree tear, and let's just say I mashed the crap out of Phillip's hand while the OB massaged my stomach and numbed me up for stitches. 

The Final Verdict

All in all, I'm 100% happy that I tried for a VBAC. It went better than I could have hoped for, and while I wish I hadn't torn at the end, recovery was still great. Physically, I felt fantastic. Baby was healthy and strong.

My final impression of going drug-free wasn't as black-and-white as I thought it would be. The last ten minutes was quite overwhelming, almost to the point where I could barely focus on the baby right after his birth. Overall, though, I think I'd still do it that way again.

But no matter what, don't these little baby feet make it all worthwhile?

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Why You Are Different and Everything Else Is the Same After Baby #4

If you have a big family or are just morbidly curious about people who do, you're going to love Crystal from So-So Mom. As the mom of  seven, she knows what she's talking about, and her guest post today about having a large family is hilariously accurate, in every way.

Have you ever heard the saying "Once you have four, you might as well have more?" I'm a firm believer that it's true.

For me, having a first, second, and third child were all unique events with different accompanying challenges that changed me in a variety of ways. After that, the fourth through seventh babies came along with relatively little fanfare.

I got to wondering why and here's what I came up with to explain why I became such a different mom after number four and everything stayed the same from there on out.

You Are Different Because:

You no longer equate your child's natural development with your personal success. You've experienced wildly differing paces at which your first few children learned to crawl, walk, talk, and defecate in the appropriate place. You are now fully aware that your hard work in these areas is completely irrelevant to the child's mastery of them. This realization has helped you triumph over massive amounts of mommy-guilt if they did not do these things according to the milestone charts or massive amounts of hubris if your eldest was 'advanced.'

You now realize that some kids are drastically more difficult than others. Odds are that your discipline style has produced at least one calm, quiet angel and at least one tantrum-throwing maniac by number four. When your kid misbehaves in public, you can confidently look a disapproving stranger in the eye and say, "It's not me, it's him! I have seen what I'm doing here turn out very well in the past." This has helped you overcome worrying about what other people think and blaming yourself for your child's every flaw. You also no longer believe that the woman who is raising the child that hit yours at playgroup a few years back is the worst mother on Earth.

You've witnessed anecdotal evidence refuting scientific study after scientific study on a myriad of parenting issues. Maybe the child who watched the least TV has the most difficulty with attention issues or that breastfed baby has a ridiculous number of ear infections compared to the bottle-fed one. And everyone has seen that stuffing a baby with fruits and veggies for two years does not make them immune from preferring junk food from the moment they get the first taste. This has given you more confidence to just raise your kids the way you want and not fret about what is supposedly best for them according to science at the moment.

You have seen a number of monumental concerns turn out perfectly fine. That horribly naughty preschooler did not end up in military school and you would truly enjoy just one moment of silence from that very late-talker turned tween. Your brain is busy with the new big kid issues that are coming up as the older children grow, so dealing with the little kid stuff feels comfortable and easy — comparatively. For example, you know that the two-year-old ought to be saying more words by now, but it is pretty low on the list of concerns most days when you have two teens headed off to prom for the first time. This has helped you not sweat the small stuff, the medium stuff, or even the big stuff, just the 'new territory' stuff.

Everything Is the Same Because:

The older children begin to notice a pattern. A new baby is no longer a monumental, rare event in their eyes. It's just something that happens every couple of years, like the Olympics. Once a baby turns two, you will likely hear, "So, when are we getting a new baby? This one is getting old."

Your idea of 'good mothering' no longer changes. Your standards gradually decline with each of the first three children. After the fourth child, your standards flatline for subsequent children. There is simply nowhere else to go.

Your older children are now in school which creates a monotonous routine. You have no choice but to fit a new baby into that routine, rather than alter the routine for the new baby. The arrival of a number five or six has a negligible impact on your daily life compared to the tumultuous events surrounding the births of your first, second, or third child.

They wear and use all the same stuff. You have most likely experienced at least one child of each gender by the time you get to number four, so you have hand-me-downs at the ready for either gender and little money available to get new things.

The years begin to bleed together in your mind. It is easy to remember specifics about two or three children, but once there are more, stories you tell about your kids have lost their individuality. You no longer specify a name and just begin with, "One of mine,..." because you aren't 100% sure which one the story is about.


If this post has convinced you that you should go ahead and just have ten kids now, I must warn you 'everything' was an overstatement.

Two things keep changing like the size of a snowball rolling down a hill: laundry and expenses. These two items seem to increase exponentially each time a new baby is added to the family!

About the Author:

Crystal Foose mothers seven kids, ranging in age from 2-17, and lives out in the middle of nowhere Colorado. She is a conservative Christian who aims to hone the craft of giving advice without pretending to have this whole mom thing figured out on her blog So-So Mom. She can also be found on her So-So Mom Facebook page.

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