Jackson will be 16 months old soon, and I haven’t said much about him in awhile, so I want to talk about him a bit.  Jack and I started things out a bit rocky.  I wanted to get pregnant, and I was so excited when I got pregnant…for about 2 months.  Then, drowning in nausea, buried in fatigue, and smothered with fear about how our lives would change, I suddenly changed my mind.  I didn’t want to be pregnant anymore.  I sunk into a masqued depression for the next 7 months.  I smiled.  I talked to my baby.  I ate healthy foods.  I practiced relaxation to help me accomplish a drug-free delivery.  I exercised.  I decorated a nursery.  I folded tiny baby boy clothes.  I named him.

I also cried.  A lot.  I felt guilty, alone, scared, and angry.  I didn’t understand why I felt the way that I did.  I ached to feel connected to this baby that was growing inside of me.  I longed to feel excited.  I prayed for grace and mercy and love.  But I didn’t feel it.

Finally one evening, I felt a contraction.  Then another.  And then another.  I warned Matt.  I chatted with my doula.  I took a bath.  I read some Anne Lamott.  I packed my bags.  I paced.  I breathed.  I paced and breathed some more.  I woke Matt up.  We woke Amélie up.  We drove to the hospital.  I breathed.  And breathed.  And breathed. The contractions strengthened and lengthened.  I fought some fear and a lot of pain with determination and with the encouragement and support of my husband and my doula.

One intense and overwhelming and powerful hour later, at 5:14 in the morning, I delivered my baby boy.

He wasn’t a pretty newborn, actually.  I called him, affectionately, my little gnome.  And even though he wasn’t pretty, I instantly fell in love with him.  Fiercely.  Madly.  Deeply.  With his natural birth my brain flooded my body with a miraculous cocktail of love hormones that released within me a swelling climax of empowerment, peace, joy, and love.  Love.  Love.  Love.

Amélie’s middle name is Grace.  She is my gift of grace, and when I wrap my arms around her my heart squeezes tight with so much love it hurts.

And while Amélie was my gift of grace, Jack was my gift of mercy.

Each night, when I put my kids to bed (unless, of course, they fight bedtime) I think to myself, “How did I manage to score the most precious two kids on the planet?”  Sappy?  Sure.  But I mean it with all my heart.

Matt ‘n Jill ‘n Amélie ‘n Jack.  What a great little family.  I love them all.  Fiercely.  Madly.  Deeply.

5 thoughts on “little jack

  1. Jill says:

    I think I should also add that I did go through a period of postpartum depression after Jack was born, and I don’t mean to downplay that time, b/c it was very real and very dark. However, even in that darkness I continued to feel a fierce connection with and love for Jack. Maybe my next blog entry will be processing that period of time.
    I’m going to 3 days of birth doula training this weekend, so I think that’s why all this stuff is coming up.

  2. lindsey says:

    You’ve just about got me convinced to go `a naturale, girl! That was beautiful. Thank you for sharing with me.

  3. Mel says:

    Sweet story, so glad it’s real for many of us.

    I just thought those exact thoughts of love about my kids today. I’m home sick with the flu—and C got up all by herself and packed both of the kids’ lunches at 6am. She then gave me several hugs and got on the bus at 6:30. M ate breakfast in the tub, dressed and packed his backpack together all by himself. I walked him to the end of the driveway after which he stopped and turned and waved a few times.

    I will miss them today.

    If you can stand it, listen to Abba’s “slipping through my fingers” or read the lyrics. They keep me in check when I don’t want to wake up in the mornings.

  4. Patrick says:


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