little black journal

Our little girl is one week old today. It seems impossible that eight days ago, we had yet to find out who she was, what she would be like, what we would be like as parents – eight days ago, we were just beginning the labor that would bring her into our arms.

I awoke early on the morning of Friday the 13th with light contractions. We started timing them were certain by mid-morning that I was in the midst of early labor. Finally! This baby was ready to say hello! I saw the doctor that afternoon, who confirmed that things we’re progressing – I was dilated 3 cm and was having contractions every 9-10 minutes. She sent us home, telling us that she (or one of her colleagues) expected to see us again soon. I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening bouncing on our balance ball, breathing through the increasingly frequent, increasingly painful contractions. Nancy came over at 7:00 and stepped into her role as birth doula, offering us her encouragement and advice, and helping us make the call at 9:00 pm that it was indeed time to lay down a towel on the passenger seat of the car and head to the hospital (it would be a shame to add “clean up amniotic fluid” to our post-baby to-do’s, should my water break in the car). I waddled my way into the hospital, stopping in the garage and then the elevator lobby to breathe through a couple of contractions, and was given a small room in triage, where they checked my vitals and assessed my progress. Cervical exams are never pleasant, but I set aside any qualms about the discomfort and looked forward to seeing how far I’d come – after all the laboring I had done since our doctor appointment earlier that day, I was hopeful that I’d be well on my way to that ultimate goal of full dilation at 10 cm. My spirits fell when the nurse said that I was at 3, maybe 4 cm and told us to go walk around for a couple of hours to move things along. The thought of enduring several more hours of labor was daunting, but I summoned what energy I had left and we set out to wander the hospital’s deserted hallways while baby Schnell packed his or her bags. Shane and Nancy naturally fell into their roles as my perfect support team, Nance keeping me focused as she counted through each contraction and Shane offering physical encouragement as he rubbed my back or allowed me to lean into him. By the time we returned to triage around 1 am, I was exhausted and quickly climbing the pain scale – 18 hours of contractions, now coming just every three minutes, had taken a hefty toll on me, physically and emotionally. The nurse checked me again and said I had progressed only 1-2 cm, which sealed the deal: I wanted an epidural, stat. They moved us into our birthing suite and after a painfully long hour of watching our kind-but-sloooooow nurse fumble around the room to get supplies ready and place my IV, the anesthesiologist swooped in to offer me that sweet, blessed, magic medicine. I collapsed into the hospital bed as the pain subsided, thanking God for rest and relief. I fell asleep around 3 am and awoke a couple hours later to a leaking sensation – my water had broken! A sign of substantial progress! The doctor came in to check me shortly thereafter and surprised us all when she said I was fully dilated and ready to push. I asked for a little time to psych myself up, and at 7:30 I started in on the final stage of labor. After just a couple of pushes, the head was visible and the nurse excitedly remarked over our baby’s full head of hair. Hair? Our baby had hair? As in, there’s a real person in there ready to come out and meet us? Shane and I looked at each other and both started to cry – this was the moment our child’s imminent arrival became undeniably real. Our questions were about to be answered, our greatest longing fulfilled. The wait was nearly over – I wiped my tears and pushed like hell.

And then, at 9:03 am, our baby was born. The doctor held her in front of Shane for a brief moment and placed that slimy, wiggly, wailing little thing on my chest as Shane cried, “It’s Juliette, buhb, it’s Juliette!” Oh, that moment. It is sealed in my memory as one of the greatest joys of my life. I mean, I have cried tears of happiness before, but I laid in that bed and I outright sobbed, with relief, with gratitude, with the fullness of this brand new love. She was so beautiful, with her rosy skin and matted brown hair. Her cries were so strong but so vulnerable, like she was telling us, “Don’t worry, I’m ok, but I still really need mama right now.”

(Thank you, Nance for the photos!)

We spent the next 30 hours in our post-partum room, in a hazy blur of feeding (our girl is an eater!), dozing, and getting poked and prodded by nurses and doctors. By Sunday afternoon, we were ready to get out of there. The hospital’s photographer snapped a few shots of our family of three before we left. Three. Two was pretty damn great, but three is amazing.

(Photos by Bella Baby)

As we packed up our things and tucked Juliette into her car seat, we both started crying yet again (nothing like birthing a child to clear out those tear ducts!). I had dreamt of this moment for so long, this assertion of our status as capable parents, striking out to blaze our trail as the newly expanded Schnell family. Shane was overwhelmed by the thought that her care was being entrusted to us – his chin quivered as he squeezed his eyes shut, in that Shane way of crying that so rarely comes out, and he muttered, “I just really, really want to be a good dad…”. God had given us this precious gift, and we wanted nothing so badly as to do right by her.

We toasted to Juliette’s one-week birthday this morning with champagne and donuts, and I was reminded that our family is in fact much larger than just three. There are people from coast to coast that love her and want to share in the journey of seeing her grow. Grandma and Grandpa Schnell oohed and ahhed over every little half-smile and wrinkle of her nose when we video chatted with them on Tuesday. Yesterday we received a card from Great Grandaddy Jarrell with thoughtful congratulations and the beginning of Juliette’s college fund. And these people, our Seattle family, are already lavishing her with affection and gifts (thanks, Jordan and Bees, for unexpectedly scavenging that hideous diaper cake on your latest Craigslist run – the nursery needed a touch of pink).

What a crazy, wonderful, blessed week.  Life will never be the same again.

Our hospital bag is packed. The car seat is in the car. I have scrubbed the insides of our kitchen cabinets, dusted the mini-blinds, washed and folded our stack of baby blankets.  C’mon, baby!  It’s time to get this show on the road!

Or not. We saw the doctor yesterday morning, and it seems that little Schnell is, in the words of La Verne, “still clinging to the sides of my womb” (Jack and La Verne know a thing or two about stubbornly late babies).  The past couple of weeks, I’ve met these progress reports (and I use the word “progress” lightly) with a mixture of disappointment and relief, relief being the dominant emotion – I wasn’t quite ready, the house wasn’t in perfect order, I wanted a little more time to myself.  But yesterday, upon hearing that my cervix isn’t looking labor-ready, impatience began to take hold of me.  My checklist is complete.  It’s been borderline hot in Seattle.  The bowling ball strapped to my front side is making it hard for me to walk/sit/lay comfortably.  And more than anything, I really really really want to meet this kid.  I’m tired of trying to picture baby Schnell and coming up with only vague, fuzzy images of what our child might be like.  Will he or she have hair?  Will he or she like to be rocked, or bounced, or taken for long car rides?  And for Pete’s sake, is it a he or a she?  I’d really love to narrow this down to a single pronoun.  Even in my dreams, the details elude me.  Last week I dreamt that I gave birth to a stuffed teddy bear – I reached out to pick it up and was completely crestfallen by its glassy-eyed gaze.  A couple of nights ago, I dreamt that my doctor pulled the baby out during my regular check-up.  Thankfully, the baby was human and healthy, but I was so surprised by the whole thing that I rushed home and spent the entire day calling family members and marveling over my newly flat stomach – it wasn’t until late that evening that I realized I had left our child at the doctors office, without having asked whether it was a boy or a girl.

Nance suggested that we pack a couple of comfort items in our hospital bag to help me cope with labor – tokens of support or encouragement for when the going gets tough.  So tucked in my duffel bag, next to the camera and the baby clothes, is a snapshot from my 6-week ultrasound, the appointment where we discovered with overwhelming relief that our little embryo had a heartbeat.  I look at this miniature pea-sized blur and am flooded with gratitude for how the baby has grown over the past eight months.  I’m reminded of all the waiting and hoping and praying that has led us here – it’s been a long, winding road, but finally, we’re on the verge of parenthood.  So what do you say, kid?  Shall we put an end to all this crazy anticipation and meet face-to-face?  I vote yes.

A notification popped up on my phone first thing this morning:  “Showtime!”.  Shane put this “reminder”  on our Google calendar months ago (as if we haven’t been counting down to this day since January).  40 weeks into this journey.  Due day.  No baby in sight. And no signs that this kid is in any rush to make an appearance.  He or she may have inherited mom’s tendency toward tardiness. Dad is not so pleased.

But for now, I’m alright with hanging tight.  It was a pretty great weekend – dinner with ladies on Friday night, followed by cupcakes at Chez Rust to celebrate baby Chen’s hundred-day birthday, pedicures with Nance yesterday, a visit to Kedai Makan last night with Jack and La Verne, and some last-minute check-listing today (they’re starting to know our faces at the Goodwill drop-off station).  These last few days have been full of rest, full of laughter with our dearest friends, full of quiet moments at home, laying on the couch with Shane as he rests his hands on my belly in his best effort to high-five our little one.  A part of me is eager to move past the waiting and get this show on the road; another part of me is soaking up every last drop of this peaceful contentedness, reveling in this time when I’m able to meet our child’s every need without even thinking about it.

We snapped what will probably be our last baby bump pictures today (I’ll spare you the ginormous belly shots if I’m still pregnant at 41 weeks).  Like I said, I don’t mind if the baby wants to hang out in utero for a few more days…as long as he or she temporarily stops growing.  If I run into you this week, please spare me your stories about past-due 10-pound babies.  I don’t wanna hear it.

See you on the flip side, kiddo…

I cleared my inbox, turned on my out-of-office message, and said “peace out” to my co-workers yesterday.  Today marks day 1 of my six-month maternity leave!  I have been eagerly anticipating this break for awhile – I hit my 8-year anniversary with my firm in August, and while I take a lot of pride in what I do, I was feeling ready for a change of pace.  A hiatus from Revit and building permits and too many emails.  I’m wanting new challenges and opportunities and forms of communication (remember when I talked about dancing around with a bowl on my head?  not likely to go over so well in my workplace).  But when I shut down my computer and walked out the door last night, rather than throwing my arms out in overwhelming relief, I felt surprisingly anxious.  The frustrating-but-true fact is that no matter how much I look forward to something new, whether it’s a vacation or an art class or motherhood itself, when the rubber hits the road, I freak out a little bit.  Whenever we go on a big trip, I spend the entire ride to the airport thinking about work deadlines and our unmade bed and that extra sweater I should have packed.  Yeah, the day-in, day-out can wear on me, but I also find comfort in it.  I like stability.  I like knowing what to expect and knowing what’s expected of me.  Same old, safe old.

As I was getting into bed last night, I realized that I don’t have to set my alarm clock for the next six months (let’s temporarily forget about the fact that I’ll be waking to an alarm without a snooze button once the baby is here).  And this morning, I lingered in bed until 8:00.  I made myself breakfast and ate it slowly while I watched the rain fall outside and checked my favorite blogs.  I took a shower and blow-dried my hair without once looking at the clock to see how much time I had left to get ready.  I went out to lunch with La Verne and satisfied my persistent shaved ice craving.  That nagging pain I’ve been feeling in my right shoulder didn’t bother me a bit today.  I watched a movie this afternoon, and then dozed/read/dozed/read on the couch for awhile.  I had the time and energy to do a little yardwork while Shane cooked dinner on the grill.  I’m capping off the day with Project Runway, kicking back while my belly rocks and rolls (baby loooooved that shaved ice!).  So all that stuff I said about maternity leave anxiety?  Nevermind.  Day 1 was kind of amazing.  And watching La V cradle baby N in her arms over lunch, I realized the best is yet to come.

Pregnancy has been full of little perks I didn’t think I’d embrace with such fervor: the comfy elastic-waisted jeans, the strange-but-amazing little kicks and pokes in my belly, the out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new game of nesting – I’m liking this pre-mama thing. But the very best part of it all? Watching Shane eagerly anticipate the arrival of the baby has filled me with such incredible joy and gratitude. From the very moment I saw that faint pink line that meant pregnant back in December, he’s been super-dad, scouring the Internet for the best OB, then registering us for birth classes and infant safety lessons and a hospital tour, spending hours reading online reviews to determine the right stroller for little Schnell. He checks his BabyBump app daily and fills me in on how the baby is developing, what kinds of changes are on the horizon, when I can expect my ankles to swell and my belly button to pop out. He’s a little stricter than I’d like when it comes to me taking (little) bites of poached egg and I can’t stand that disapproving look he gives me when I sneak a (tiny) sip of his wine, but I try not to begrudge his desire that I follow the rules. I know those raised eyebrows are rooted in love and concern. Daily I’m seeing him care for me in new and thoughtful ways, as his way of caring for the baby inside of me. I love the fact that he still remembers to slow down at that stomach-dropping portion of downhill road near Jason and Nancy’s, after my first-trimester moan that I could no longer handle his speedy driving. I cherish the nights he curls up to me on the couch to gently put his hands on my belly while we watch baseball. On those days when I feel especially big and uncomfortable in this rapidly expanding body of mine, he kisses me and reminds me that I’m beautiful, that this extra weight is part of a wonderful miracle.

There’s a scene in Juno (a Schnell fave) where Jennifer Garner’s character talks about how a woman begins to feel like a mother during pregnancy, but a man doesn’t identify with fatherhood until the actual birth of the baby. Not so, Jen, not so. This dear man already has dad written all over his proud, grinning face.

Dear Buhb,

Happy Anniversary!  It’s been quite a ride thus far, full of laughter and beauty and adventure.  Like that night on our Costa Rican honeymoon when the obnoxiouly loud chorus of tree frogs kept us from getting any sleep, or that perfect sunset we caught in Bruges in 2011.  That afternoon we spent talking and drinking champagne on the deck of our Whidbey Island rental last year is forever sealed in my mind as one of the best days ever.  I’m so grateful for your selflessness and support, for the all-nighter you pulled with me to rig a display stand for my thesis project, for the times you dragged me out of a funk with your stellar dance moves, for the way you have always walked alongside me, even when it was down a path you had tried to steer me clear of.  Looking forward our next big adventure (so excited to hit Kauai with you!), and our even grander journey come September.  You make my life better, richer, happier every single day.

I haven’t made much progress on that stack of birth and parenting-related books that sits on our end table.  Partly, it’s that the arrival of the baby still feels so far away – September lies in the unfathomable future.  But beyond that, I am perhaps a little over-confident in our ability to figure out the parent thing on-the-fly.  I want to believe we’ve got it covered.  We have spent the past couple of years building up our love bank for this baby.  And children adore Shane (he’s known as the “baby whisperer” among our friends), so there’s no reason that our kid shouldn’t be head-over-heels for his or her dad.  All you need is love.  Right?  Right?

Maybe I’m being just a wee bit naive.  I was on my way to work via Lightrail a couple of weeks ago when a woman got on with her adorable 2-year old daughter.  The little girl sat in her mama’s lap and babbled sweet nothings while mom stroked her pretty brown curls.  I could so easily picture myself in their shoes, commuting downtown with our perfect babe, soaking in those last few minutes of time together before work and daycare begin.  Precious moments.  But then that little girl started to get squirmy.  And then she started to whine.  And by the time we’d rolled into SoDo (still three stops from downtown), she was shrieking bloody murder on an otherwise silent train, flailing those chubby arms and refusing to be held. Poor mom did her best to restrain her daughter with one hand while she dug around in her bag for a distraction.  She pulled out an iPad and I figured the crisis would soon be averted.  But it took several minutes before the little girl was presented with a satisfactory video and a seat of her liking, and by that time, we had rolled into University Station and it was time for the woman to put away the iPad and pack up her bag.  More wailing and tears ensued, more sympathetic glances were cast mom’s way as she grabbed her daughter and hurried off the train.  And I was left wondering how I would have handled such a meltdown.  Would I stick to Shane’s and my resolution to strictly limit “screen time” for our kid?  Or would I concede that desperate times call for desperate measures and use whatever means possible to get the child to quiet down?  Would I rock her, walk her, coo to her, attempt to reason with her?  I don’t think the “right” answer can be found in any book, and I don’t know that any amount of preparation will eliminate tantrums, but I was slapped with healthy dose of reality that morning.  I was reminded that parenting will sometimes be really, really hard.  It will be full of sky-high joys and depths of unimaginable love, but it will also be riddled with moments of frustration, confusion, and insecurity.

And it will require sacrifice.  I catch myself believing that I won’t really be too tired, that we’ll still have room for spontaneity and freedom, that my maternity leave will be like vacation, full of “bonus time” to rest, to read, to work on my art.  As we sat around a table at Spinasse for dinner last night with Jack, La Verne, Jason, and Nance to revel in what may be our last meal out together for awhile (baby Chen due in just 8 days!), I was struck with how times are changing.  Baby-sitters and feeding schedules will soon require some adjustment in the make-up of our Friday nights. We’re not resigning ourselves to a hermit-like life, but 4-hour multi-course meals might be on hold for awhile.  Shoot!

It’s absolutely a good thing to anticipate our baby’s arrival with hope and glee, but I also want to embark on this journey with the acknowledgement that it will stretch me in ways I’ve never been stretched.  Things won’t go as expected sometimes, and I’ll need to learn to roll with the punches.  I might not have the “ideal birth”, breast-feeding might bear unforeseen challenges, there might be times when I need to choose rest over having a clean house or a home-cooked meal.  I’ll need lots of help, and I’ll have to put aside my pride to ask for it.  That doesn’t mean I’ve failed.  It just means I need to loosen my tight-fisted grip on complete control and pray for flexibility, for patience, for heaping helpings of grace.  And for the ability to stop and soak in the goodness of those pre-meltdown precious moments.  Because the feeling of wrapping my arms around our child is guaranteed to exceed my wildest dreams.

Although I murmured a disappointed sigh when I had to pull my coat out of the closet now that we’re back in Seattle, it still feels really, really good to be home.  This weekend was full of all those little things I missed while we were away:

• Our Seattle peeps.  There were so many moments in Texas when we turned to each other and wished our friends were sitting at the bar with us, pigging out on brisket with us, hanging at the park with us.  We got together with the gang yesterday for Jon and Adrienne’s baby shower, and it felt good to be back in the fold, to know how exactly what Nance meant when she said it seemed like we were gone for such a long time.
• Watching the Giants on TV.  Dang, it feels good to veg out in my sweats on a Sunday afternoon.  Even if our boys did get swept by the Padres.  Hmmmph.
• Fresh produce.  I did manage to squeeze in a salad or two between the tacos and the barbecue, but I really missed our fruit bowl while we were traveling.  Don’t get me wrong – ice cream and cheese puffs are still high my list when I get the afternoon snack attack, but that juicy mango I had at lunchtime hit the spot like nothing else.
• Our house.  Our comfortable bed, our large bathroom (his and hers sinks have saved us many a marital conflict), our Japanese maple which brought forth bright new leaves while we were gone.  An afternoon nap on our cozy couch with my favorite blanket was nearly as satisfying as the aforementioned mango.

Like I said, it’s good to be back.  If I could figure out a way to come home each day to clean towels and a fresh-made bed, we might just book our next vacation in Seattle…

Today marks 20 weeks, which means we have officially hit the half-way point – in 20 more weeks (give or take), we’ll be holding a baby in our arms, hearing its cries, looking into it’s barely open eyes, navigating the entirely new experience of being completely responsible for the sustenance and well-being of another person. Ooof. That sounds scary. And amazing.

We had our 2nd trimester ultrasound on Wednesday, where parents can find out gender if they so choose, and we’re having a healthy, bouncing…TBD! As hard as it was not to peek when the ultrasound tech told us to divert our eyes because she was in the “gender region”, we stayed true to our decision to keep baby Schnell’s sex a surprise. I know, we’ve waited and waited and waited for this kid, and now we’ve put ourselves back in the waiting game, but this time the suspense is full of excitement and fun. I have this really silly 50’s-esque image in my head of Shane passing around cigars wrapped in pink or blue foil with “It’s a Boy!” or “It’s a Girl!” printed on the wrapper while his buddies give him congratulatory pats on the back (he’s also wearing a snazzy suit and has a martini in his hand – have we been watching too much Mad Men?). While this probably isn’t how the announcement will go down (okay, knowing Shane, there may be martinis involved), the anticipation and prediction-making shared among us and our friends has been a joy.

When we weren’t “diverting our eyes” at the ultrasound, we were soaking in every other detail that showed on the screen. It’s incredible to see that what was was a miniature jelly bean 14 weeks ago is now a miniature human with fingers and toes and a mouth that opened and closed in what looked like cute little yawns. Watching this development take place is mind-boggling. Shane can’t believe that I have the ability to grow something as solid and strong as human bones inside of me; I’m overwhelmed by the complex detail of it all – functioning organs and little toes and a brain (does the baby have thoughts yet?). I’m simultaneously super proud (I’m growing that, inside of me!) and very much humbled (clearly I’m not the one making this magic happen). It’s all so wonderfully confusing and surreal. So while we don’t know yet if it’s a little boy or a little girl, we do know it’s a big, big miracle.

Since my New Year’s resolution to Sabbath more intentionally, I’ve been mulling over what this looks like for me.  I want Sabbath to be special and distinct from the rest of the week, a day set apart from the hustle and bustle of the daily grind.  Sunday used to be my last-ditch chance to cross as much as possible off my to-do list before returning to the busy-ness of work on Monday, but I’m making an effort to change that, to wrap up errands and chores and running around on Saturday, so that I can truly spend Sunday as a day set apart.  A day for pause and rest and reflection. And although it’s tempting to find this rest in the form of a lazy chick flick marathon, I’m digging deeper.  Today, Sabbath was a long walk along the waterfront, during which I prayed for dozens of friends and family members and coworkers as their names were laid upon my heart.  It was an hour spent warming up at a neighborhood cafe, reveling in the joy of coffee and books and free time.  It was a phone call to my parents to see how their week was.  It was quality time with Shane, cooking and eating and napping together (Lord knows, it just wouldn’t be Sabbath without a nap).  And in the midst of all these good, life-giving things, I’m striving for a spirit of reverence and gratitude.  That’s the crux, because in the end, Sabbath really isn’t about being rested and refreshed – it’s about handing ourselves over to God and giving Him our undivided attention.  And when I slow down to open my eyes wider and seek Him out, He can be found around every corner.