Conception
The dream begins the same way every time.
“Ticket for one” I tell the usher. He’s wearing an old-fashioned uniform with gold epaulets. He points down the hall to a dark theater. I enter and take my seat. The cushions squeak, their tarnished blue-green velvet crunching against my thighs.
It’s a movie theater, old Hollywood, an art deco proscenium speaks to a bygone era of in-person preview announcements. More velvet, a dark red curtain hides the screen. I’m waiting for something, someone.
Just as I stand to leave, a small boy in an ill-fitting wizard’s robe appears stage left. His face is cherubic, with black eyes shining beneath the ill-fitting pointed cap. He balances on tip-toe to pull the curtain’s heavy golden cord, his strength belying his stature.
The curtain swings open to reveal a spinning, glowing, yellow orb.
Winter, 2018
I sit bolt upright on my platform bed, surveying the small studio apartment with a practiced eye. My clothes from the night before lay in a crumpled heap, next to them my keys and purse.
My hand fumbles next for my phone, which is easy to find, the chimes of my alarm are ringing their third round. Three glasses of wine the night before, three stabs at the snooze icon. And there’s my laptop computer, propped open on a chair pulled to the side of my queen size bed. The screen is frozen, I’ve fallen asleep watching Sex and the City season two, yet again.
The dream of the little sorcerer boy must have been strong this time because those three glasses of wine? They were more like five.
“Good morning, Andrew! I’ll take the noon Hatha. Slow flow feels like the right speed for me today.” In 2018 I was averaging five sweat sessions a week at Urban Yoga Spa, enough to balance out my twelve-hour work day; rehearsing in the afternoon, performing all night and then drinking to unwind. Yoga gave me structured space to think about the dream I was having with increasing frequency.
“Arch your back, open your heart” I move into camel pose on the hottest side of the spacious studio. Wine and stress drip out of my pores as I think about the dream. I know the sorcerer boy is my child. I know the golden orb is the egg, waiting in my body. This deep knowledge is the same feeling that made me go off of my hormonal birth control the year before. I’d been on the pill since I was 18. It was a quiet decision. There was no conversation, no opinions, no one to judge me when I signed up for the Natural Cycles app to track my ovulation. I sleepwalked through the decision to ready my body to conceive.
I would practice safe sex, but deep down I knew that there was a child in my future.
“Come out of the pose and sit with that feeling. Hands palm down on your thighs” Why hadn’t I shared my decision with my close friends, or even my Sister? If I’m honest, I feared judgement. I was a working actor, dating a few people, nothing special. I was the furthest thing from child-ready. I didn’t want to talk about it.
The moment Christian and I decided we wanted to try for a baby, that was when the talking really started. But it all began with that little boy from my dreams who magicked himself into being in the most human way possible.
June 8th, 2020
“Black lives matter! Thank you, health care workers!” I let the bellows of my accordion exhale and click the snap shut, hefting the twenty-pound instrument onto our bed. I leave the window open. It’s a warm summer day and small fan propped between the panes blows the twilight air into our studio apartment.
I started taking accordion lessons the week before the Covid-19 pandemic forced us into quarantine. Now, my lessons are on a Zoom video call. The silver lining of no theater, no restaurants and fear sequestering us in our 500 square foot apartment is that there is more time to practice. If you’ve ever played accordion, you know they multiply quickly! I have two and I’m teaching Christian a few beginner songs. His fingers, trained with a chef knife, are nimble and a quick study.
Our repertoire is up to three songs. A little waltz called ‘Skating’, ‘La Vie en Rose’ and we’ve recently added ‘For they are jolly good fellows’. This nightly concert is in response to the citywide Make A Joyful Noise campaign, encouraging we citizens to throw open our windows at 8pm to honor the essential workers who do not have the luxury of shelter-in-place, rather taking the front lines against the virus.
“I biffed the chord change to Dminor, but it’s feeling more memorized!”
I cross past our bed into the ships galley style kitchen to pop us both keylime LeCroixs. Christian puts his hands on my hips as I return, spinning me towards him. I lean into the hug and run my hand down his shoulder to the small of his back, relishing the embrace.
We’ve spent every day of the lockdown together, going on sixty now, but it’s hardly a honeymoon. The stress and fear of the pandemic has depressed us both. Spontaneous affection is rarer than you’d think, and treasured.
More shouting and car honking breaks us apart. A man without shoes, matted curls streaming behind him, is leading a group holding signs down Pine Street. I recognize him, he’s been camped out in the doorway of the congregational church that neighbors our 1920’s apartment building. Around 2pm, he’ll yell strangled profanities at the sky. Tonight, his eyes are bright, his words easy to understand as the crowd chants with him.
“Defund the Police! George Floyd! Say his name!” The ritual of the evening protest since the Black Lives Matter movement exploded after the murder of George Floyd has its own somber metronome.
“I still can’t believe it when I see so many people together. In masks.”
Christian is shirtless, holding the remote. We’ve ran out and joined the protests a few times, but the fear of the virus has frozen us both. It’s not a good feeling. We’re not alone. We notice our neighbors across Bellevue avenue, also observing.
In Seattle, the sky at 8:30pm in June is a handsome pink. The abandoned skyscrapers shine like a Ridley Scott feature film. I finish my Le Croix and open another. Our small fridge is stacked with veggies, sparkling water, four different kinds of cheese, ice cream and grapes fill out the freezer. Even though our jobs have been frozen, we’ve made an unspoken pact not to scrimp on groceries. It’s the small comforts that really count these days.
The opening credits of “Do the Right Thing” are paused, as Christian follows me into the walk-in closet as I clear the freshly folded laundry from our loveseat. I know there’s something on his mind. He touches my back again as I organize my summer dresses to the front of the closet. The rod sags with the weight of both our wardrobes. We never meant to stay in such a small space after moving in together last fall. It was supposed to be a trial run, to see how we fit together, and to save a little money.
“My love, are you ovulating this week?”I look up into his blue eyes, that wasn’t what I expected!
“My LH test was negative today, but it should happen in the next few days, yes.”
“I was thinking that we should just go for it. It’s been two months now. Things don’t seem to be getting any better out there” he nods to the open window “but how long are we going to put our dreams on hold?”
I think of the little sorcerer boy in my dream, and then of the tidal wave of rushing color that swept me off my feet when Christian and I fell in love in the cold beginnings of 2019.
He had put his hand on my knee as I sat on the table after a late rehearsal at the dinner theater where we both worked, waiting for my car ride home alone.“I want you to know I think you are amazing. I see how hard you work. You are so special”
Part of what makes me an Artist Mama is seeing art in every aspect of my life. This has led to some questionable behavior in the name of drama! That said, I pride myself on trusting my instinct. When Christian locked onto me and said exactly what I needed to hear, I could feel it, my dream coming true. And though the romance moved quickly, it was a conscious choice. We worked together, after all.
The tidal wave of color that consumed me was also water under the bridge. From messy exes to demanding careers, Christian and I had a lot in common.
April 2019
“There’s something we need to talk about”I fiddled with the rock collection Christian kept on the passenger dashboard of his well loved Scion. Queen played on the radio as we idled outside Uwajimaya in Seattle’s International District.
“I know you want to have children. I knew that going into this. I think you should know that I’ve dreamed of having a child, and I would be open to trying with you. If it’s meant to happen, it will.”
Christian’s heart was in his eyes as he leaned across the console to kiss me.
“It’s like I’m finally hearing everything I’ve wanted to hear. In all my other relationships it’s been so hard. I would tell myself, things might change, I would wait. But with you, it’s so easy. I love you.”
When we tell this story, Christian relishes pointing out that I was “shwastey”, having downed two gin martinis before beginning this conversation. Perhaps that explains what I said next!
“I do want to get started soon, if we are going to try. I wish I had met you ten years ago. I’ve never been pregnant before and a doctor once told me I have a tilted cervix and it might be difficult to conceive. I want to be honest, because if kids are a deal breaker for you…”
“Opal, I want you. You saying this makes me love you even more. If it’s between you and a baby, I choose you.”
We shopped for wild skate and fresh noodles and promptly left the store forgetting the grocery bag on the checkout stand, so eager and in love, and excited for our future.
But for an actor the idea of pregnancy was a scheduling nightmare. In 2019 I performed in Bohemia, Jitterbug Perfume, The Champagne Widow and Violet’s Attic – thirty weeks of 4-5 shows a week onstage. I was also planning a European tour for Bohemia in 2020. Yes, I dreamed of having a child, but these dreams were important too!
So when I looked at my Natural Cycles app and tried to predict which ovulation would begin the conception roulette, it felt like a thousand cards were precariously stacked on this one lovely act.
Like so many things in life, I learned what to expect from my friends.Wanda always wanted children. A Montessori teacher, she and her husband tried 13 times before they conceived their son, Jerome, shortly after her 28th birthday.
Kelsey had three children between her 18th and 35th years. Hoping for a fourth, she became pregnant on the second try, but suffered a false pregnancy, an unviable fetus that miscarried early, but failed to exit her womb, requiring surgery in her third month.
My best friend from high school, with much handwringing, agreed to her husband’s wish to try for a baby before she turned 35. She got pregnant the first time, mere days after flushing her trusty ortho-tri-cyclen.
So I was mentally preparing myself for the whole spectrum of emotional outcomes. Pregnant first go? This show canceled, that one – the costume would support a big belly (assuming I wasn’t horribly sick). Miscarriage…I tried to be realistic, it seemed like every other woman I knew had had at least one. How do you prepare yourself for that horror?
June 2019
“The likelihood that we’ll conceive the first time we try is very low, so we should try a lot, but it’s anxiety provoking!”
“If it’s not something you really want, just tell me. I want you. I’m happy.”
Christian pulled my foot out from under the black Egyptian cotton comforter and playfully caressed his cheek with my toes. I sighed, rolling my shoulders.
“Let’s make the first time we try special. July, after I finish performances for The Champagne Widow, let’s go to Mexico. You can practice your Spanish, and we can relax, without the stress of the show schedule. I’ll be ovulating that week.”
Christian fished my phone out from under the pillow and held it to my face, to unlock the combination, before opening my calendar app.
“I’m not sure how relaxing that will be for me. I’ll only be able to take off four days, and I should be working on the new menu for 7th and Jackson.”
My Libra won out over his Virgo this round! With a few clicks through Expedia and Airbnb and we were checking in to an oversized condo in off-season Cabo for four fertile days.
Christian wrapped his arms around me on the white sand beach, as we watched the waves crash against the coral, talking about our deepest fears.
“If you were to guess the reason our love would die, what would it be?” “I’m scared I will ruin everything that is good in my life.”Later that month, alone in my bathroom, before telling him the pregnancy test is negative, I look at myself in the mirror above the sink and check my heart: Ambivalence. Relief? It’s one thing to dream, another to live the dream.
We try again in August, and September. Negative. Negative. We take a break over the holiday season because of my show schedule. That fall I ask Christian to move in with me.
“I’m month to month on the studio, we can see how we like living together before signing a lease on something bigger.”
Yes, it did occur to me that I had more trepidation about signing a lease than trying to conceive a child. But if I had any doubts, they were easily overshadowed by Christian.
“I love you, I want to be with you. I trust you.”Christian. As we cheer In 2020, with every passing day he’s more interesting to me, more fun. Even the mundane task of choosing a film to watch is turned into a game. And he looks so hopeful when I tell him I’m ovulating. We decide to try again in February, as my fertile window falls over Valentine’s Day.
We both work through terrible colds, me preparing for a show tour abroad, he during the holiday season at his downtown Seattle restaurant – his job change prompted by a considerable pay jump from the dinner theater. “It’s the responsible thing, if we’re going to start a family.”
Despite the fevers and congestion, we book a suite at The Edgewater the Monday after Valentine’s Day. Propped up on a stack of King size pillows, I flick through the channels.
“There’s a Godfather marathon”
“The Godfather, again?”
“It’s good background sound”
“I see. Come here.”
We selfie wearing monogrammed bathrobes with towels on our heads and joke that this might be the photo we remember forever, if we conceived a child.
A week later, murmurs of a killer virus shutting down travel to Italy and Asia make their way to Seattle. When my test result shows negative again, my face in the mirror is fearful, drained of color. I feel the little sorcerer boy fading away, a silly dream there is no point in believing. I’m distracted by a text alert on my phone, another actor is breaking contract on our European tour, convinced that this oddly named “coronavirus” is something actually serious.
“No baby. I was disappointed this time.” I fall into Christian’s arms, he’s been waiting for me, on our bed. It’s morning, so he’s wearing his chef’s whites and I’m careful not to hug his sharp creases too tight.
A month later, the whites are hanging in the closet and we’re both unemployed.“I always wished we would have more time together. I didn’t mean to cause a pandemic” Christian jokes, as we lay together on the cozy section of carpet between the bed skirts and the back of the couch. He begins kissing my shoulders and there’s a pause, the kind that could go on forever, for two people in love. I break it.
“I want to stop trying for a baby. For a little bit. I’m sad. We’re not working. The world is on fire. Is this anything to bring a child into?”
Christian holds me as we grieve our imagined future.
60 days and 2 cycles later
“If we got pregnant now, we’d have to be very, very careful. Doesn’t the virus transfer to a fetus? And what If Trump is reelected?”
“I think we should try. We’re not going to go back to normal this year, maybe not even next year. And then - ”
“I’ll be forty.”
I cover my eyes and pace out of the closet, into the small bathroom. My fancy thong underwear is hanging from the doorknob to dry, the laundry chore forgotten.
Christian follows me. His shirtless abs sport a tattoo, in Olde English “Live Life. No Regrets” I look from him, to the mirror. Instead of my reflection, my eyes catch a pink post-it note. “I choose to see love instead of fear” is scrawled in my handwriting.
Could my decision be more obvious?
“Let’s do it!”We kiss, we cry, and three weeks later in the same bathroom I hold my breath and let go at the same time. The double blue lines on the error proof test are so strong. I jump up and down. I look into the mirror and see a mother’s love blinking back at me.
The dream begins the same way every time. The old Hollywood theater, the sorcerer boy controlling what I see on the screen. That young woman waking blind, but listening to a voice she could barely hear, reading fortunes on post-it notes and trusting faithfully. I’m so grateful for her.
Christian and I with our accordions for “Make a Joyful Noise” in May 2020
A Note:
Let’s go back to that pink post it note, when the path to my son Hero became crystal clear. That was the final stepping stone before conceiving, but it was quite the journey and I felt like I was fumbling through most of it. Here’s some contact tracing for you!
“I choose to see love instead of fear” is one of the daily mantras that are a part of spiritual guru Gabby Bernstein’s “May Cause Miracles” course (a 21stcentury riff on the fusty metaphysical tome, “A Course in Miracles”).
After watching Covid-19 splinter the most successful year of my artistic life, I was in need of a spiritual reset. I downloaded Gabby’s book from Audible and started her daily 10 minute meditations, reciting mantras and searching for a path back to hope and faith.
It’s no accident that I found this particular book. “May Cause Miracles” was vociferously recommended by Holly Whitikar on the Home Podcast. I binge listened to the some hundred episodes in January of 2020 after Christian and I set Valentine’s Day as our Make-A-Baby goal.
In the winter of 2019 I took a long, hard look at my life and turned up the volume on the voice that said my nightly glass (or five) of wine wasn’t going to help my baby dreams come true.
“The drinking can go. Make space for the little sorcerer boy.” The voice said. So, I listened. I followed the sparks of advice, the murmurs that said, “If you want to be a mother, become the mother you want to be.”
I did a Dry January with Georgia from My Favorite Murder, which led me to a book she recommended “This Naked Mind”. I then scrolled down, perusing the other “quit-lit” available. I found the Home Podcast - two gals in their late thirties who spoke about having a “sobriety toolbox”, and parenting that made sense to me.
When the pandemic rolled in, I had new coping mechanisms besides my wine glass. I wasn’t as afraid to slow down and listen to my body and spirit. This curiosity was inspired by spiritual activists like Sah D’Simone who managed to find joy despite the gloom and Sara Clark who practiced yoga with a sober curious lens.
Seeing this path gives me faith. Faith and listening are both skills I call upon daily, as an artist and as a mother. I call them skills because I had to learn them, and I’m hardly a natural. Does this feel like it rings a bell to you? I hope the mechanics of my education may serve, if so.
Ending on a sober note? Not really. I don’t identify as Sober, but I don’t drink in the same way I once did and the conception of my son is absolutely why. This path I’ve devised is simply what worked for me.
This is/was me! Love her. Baby was just a glimmer in the eye at this point. A dreamy future.
Street art by Kreau in our neighborhood, June 2020
And here is some of the on-site reporting (through comics) I followed from my friend and artist/activist Tessa Hulls that beautifully and simply explains what the Seattle Capitol Hill Occupied Protest (CHOP) was all about.
This photo was taken around the time I proposed a baby.
The Show Mama
“I love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” I murmur sing the lullaby as I press my belly into the side of the crib to lift my whimpering son without waking him further. It’s been ten weeks and three days since his birth at 5:42am and here we are, same time, same Opal and Hero, but in a whole new world.
“Nyuhgahhh…wah!!” His arms flail, he’s busted out of his swaddle and the new power of his punching fists is my guess as to what woke him. I marvel at his strength despite the wave of frustration that fills my throat. As I lift him, his arms make their way around my neck and the hot anxiety dissolves into a surge of love so strong I know we’re both going to be okay.
This is wake number five since 10pm, but the grey light peeking through his nursery blinds tells me it’s officially morning. Today marks my first performance since his birth, and since my vaccination against Covid-19. It’s a big day but as of now, I’m wondering how in the hell we’re going to pull it off.
9:30pm the night before
“Is this normal?” my Sweetie is fiddling with the heating vents in our 2015 Rav-4 as we cross the ship canal bridge. Hot wind blows in our faces, even though it’s an unseasonably warm May night for Seattle, in the seventies. My teeth are chattering so loud I’m wondering if it will wake Hero. Not likely, Christian and I had laughed as we strapped him into his car seat, his nightgown pulled up so we could get to his little legs, limp with sleep. I sip air and focus on the pain radiating from the hardening milk duct in my right breast.
“Fever is a symptom. Thank god for my Mommy group, otherwise I’d be scared. Two other women have had mastitis already.”
“Should I take the night feedings so you can rest?”
“I only pulled milk for one bottle, you could take the first one? But if he sleeps longer I’ll have to pump anyway so I might as well nurse. And you have work tomorrow.”
“My Heart, you have a SHOW tomorrow.”
We pull into the parking space behind our apartment building. I go up first, with diaper bag and leftovers from the day spent with Christian’s family, visiting Seattle from North Carolina. Each strained step brings me closer to soaking Hero’s sore food source in the tub and then collapsing into bed.
After putting our sweet boy in his nursery crib, Christian is parked on the couch with the monitor, warmed bottle, and America’s Test Kitchen on low volume. I play a meditation for sleep off of the Yoga Glo app on my phone and run the bath water, knocking down the anxious thoughts like whack-a-mole. Will my breast become infected? Will I be able to feed him? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?
Notice there is no stress about my upcoming performance. I have found this to be the happy side-effect of new motherhood plus my artistic career. Stage fright ain’t got nothing on mommy guilt.
This concert is perfect, actually. I’m the guest singer, with four songs in the line-up. There’s one Nancy Sinatra cover, but the rest are originals that have all been performed before, crowd pleasers. It’s an outdoor venue, which appeases the current guidelines that mandate no singing in enclosed spaces for fear of spreading the virus, even if you are vaccinated. Which I am, but that security is all so recent, as newborn as my Hero.
It’s a sold out show, but tickets didn’t sell till the very last minute. Was it because of pandemic fears, or the weather forecast? In Seattle, it’s a solid bet both! The producer, my longtime performing partner, Mark Siano, was willing to risk it for the chance to get back in business after this devastating year.
6 months earlier
“I have to admit, I’m scared you’ll change. I’ve seen it happen before.”
Mark is sitting on my piano bench, holding the photo of our 2nd ultrasound. You can already see that Hero has my nose. I’ve just told him I’ve got big news, and right away he quips “You’re getting married, or pregnant or both.” He does the pandemic elbow tap in lieu of a hug, and does seem genuinely excited for Christian and I. But, as partners in show who’ve planned tours and raised hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay our artists and make award winning cabarets, I’d rather cut to the chase and get talking about the real thoughts that come up when a performing artist says she’s going to become a mother.
Will she be able to commit to night rehearsals? Will she put effort into the social networking required? Will she keep it tight?
“I’m still me, Mark. You know me. So, let’s keep up the work.”
I’m hoping to god Past Peachey is right when Mark calls me up and, in a haze of sleep deprivation I pencil the May concert dates into my calendar and move the sequined costume dresses out from the back of the closet.
6:00am, day of the show
“Gloog!”
I grin down at my baby. He is impossibly cute in his transitional swaddle. At two months old and around 15 pounds Hero is inching his way out of the newborn sausage casing wrapper and into this big boy nightgown that covers his hands but lets his elbows free, like a cartoon chick. He still hasn’t quite figured out his hands while sleeping, and this keeps him from scratching his face and waking himself up while he tries to self-sooth by sucking his fingers.
*Are you, or a friend, expecting? Add this item to the registry. None of these were on any of the Top 10 lists that I saw. And – believe me, when you start obsessing about infant sleep you’ll be suddenly surrounded by five different brands of $20-$60 nighties that are NOT getting you laid. Actually, I take that back. The better your baby sleeps, the more sex you will have. Design a swaddle, Victoria Secret.
“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…” I switch my lullaby to tried and true Disney and pet his head, willing his eyes to close from the touch to his eyebrows, a hack I learned surfing the mommy blogs on Instagram during the precious few moments to myself.
If you’ve read my birthing story you know I had a damn near perfect pregnancy and a birth experience that felt successful in many ways.
But since he’s been born I feel like those anxious thoughts that were suspiciously absent the past nine months have all ganged up to nibble on this new Mama, like so many invisible germs:
There’s the pink crawly one that surrounds my nipples – is he getting enough? Why didn’t I read the back of my vitamin bottles before nursing?! Why is my left breast so lazy? WHERE IS THE LET DOWN?
The slowly growing black spot of resentment – Why am I working so hard? Why can’t I just go with the flow? Why do I do everything wrong the first time?
And the sparkly one, inhaled and exhaled with every breath –What if I can’t do it? This whole Artist Mama thing?
8:30pm the night before the show
“Can you turn down the volume? At least during the fight scenes?” Christian hisses across the couch.
“Why don’t you control the remote, my Love?” I interject, an unwanted opinion, but Christian’s mother looks a little lost in the dark of the flickering screen. Hero is camped out in the bassinet his Poppie set up for him so we could hangout together as much as possible during their visit from North Carolina.
Christian grabs the controller with a huge sigh that might seem over-dramatic if you didn’t know he Chef’d a 10 hour day on three hours of sleep.
The volume on the big screen is so low we might as well move to closes captions. Hero snoozes away. When he was firstborn he would sleep anywhere through anything but at 2 months we are watching him whip his little head around when we close his closet door or lean too hard on the edge of his crib. He’s growing so fast.
I made arrangements with my best friend for Christian’s family to stay in her spacious loft while they were in town, she graciously spending the week with her mother in Redmond, so they could be close to our 2 bedroom apartment, but have their own space.
Earlier that afternoon:
“We want to fit him into our life, don’t we, not the other way around?” I step out of the loft to call Christian, fresh off of work, before our (unintended!) silent movie watching.
This was the debate – To spend time doing the things we want, versus rushing home to get our tiny son to bed in his wake window, keeping his routine. We wanted to use this last full day with his folks to the nth degree, and to take advantage of my friend’s 8 foot projection screen! So we chose to put Hero to sleep in the open studio and hope he could make it through the film for us. He did fine, despite the fight scenes. But as we all strained to hear the dialogue, my right breast started throbbing.
3:00am, day of the show
“I’m so tired! I need my mom! I’m trying to perform today and between the baby, mastitis, and in-laws in town, it’s kind of a joke.” I insert the face-palm emoji, then pause and add a squinty smiley face so my mother won’t read the text and panic.
Needing my mom feels good, is it okay to say that? As a member of the 35+ new mommy club, I did not expect to need my mother, I was in charge of myself and my life, thank you very much. But surprise, surprise, Past Peachey! Out popped my Hero and there she was, morphing from Momma to Grammie in a single bound.
Grammie packed her baby blue Prius to the brim with groceries, violently refusing our offers of payment and stayed a week after his birth to fetch my water bottle, change diapers and sing the many nursery songs in her repertoire after 12 years as a music teacher.
“I always told myself if either you or your sister had a baby, I would be there for you. I feel like I treated you girls as accessories to my ambition. So now I’m here to help.”
I sit in silence as she tells me this, newborn Hero nuzzling my breast. My mother was a single mom through most of my childhood. She is a musician, an artist mama. Like I hope to be. I will defend her choices, despite her guilt. But I am also a watchful defender of my son’s future. Will I see him the same way as she sees me?
But, I said yes to the concert gig. And here we are. Grammie driving the two hours from Shelton to babysit while I put on my makeup for the show.
1:00pm, 2 hours before the show
Concealer. Base. 3 layers of eyeshadow, brown, cream and pink. A midnight cat eye and charcoal brow. Dip the tweezers in eyelash glue and with a flick of the wrist I’m my old self again. I bring my liner, lipstick, powder and glitter in a small pouch to apply at the show. I’ll be wearing a mask, and I’ve learned this past pandemic year to be satisfied with a half face, most of the time.
“Lah! Lah lah!!”
In the bathroom, I turn up the volume of my true crime podcast and will my eyes not to water at his tears, ruining the painstakingly applied liner. “Everything will be okay” I recite, he’s in his nursery with his Grammie who loves him and I must be on time for soundcheck.
The silver sequin minidress ripples and winks as I slid it over my milk engorged breasts and corset (I’m sporting a healthy extra ten pounds of baby weight these days). It looks good. I feel good. Hero makes googly eyes at the shiny dress and gives me a toothless grin as I kiss his powder soft head goodbye. I’m glad I waited on that lipstick.
2:30pm, Saturday
“Every man is just a bump in the road or a stepping stone..” I sing full voice, using the fifteen minute commute to warm up and switch gears into performance mode. My hands in their white satin gloves are shaking with the effort it takes to focus on the present, rather than wondering how Hero will react to my absence. As I carefully accelerate up over Beacon Hill and onto Spokane street, the sun streams over the Olympics. It’s a beautiful day.
“Where you at. Green Room tent in the back” Mark’s text appears on my phone screen just as I park, marveling at the towering stage meant to mimic an outdoor church revival tent. The lot is filled with cars, turned inside out and laced with coolers and makeshift barbecue grills. Seattleites cluster in small groups, eyeing the stage where the band warms ups. I imagine for many, like myself, this is the first time to a music event since the quarantine began in 2020.
I exchange my slip-on Vans for black velvet stiletto heels and remove my mask, applying red lipstick, then a layer of ruby glitter. I look at the band, doing soundcheck on the stage. Maskless. Reminding myself that the CDC has deemed it safe to drop your mask if you are outdoors and fully vaccinated, I loop the ear straps of my black mask around my wrist and stride across the lot to the stage. Opal Peachey, performer, is back in full effect.
“This girl is leaving you behind…” I growl sing into the microphone and gyrate to the bass guitar and cow-bell. This Nancy Sinatra cover always brings a crowd to the dance floor and as the vaccines have become widespread in Washington, this concert is no exception. For the first time in over a year, I witness an audience dancing as I sing. It is a powerful feeling. Together, we are aware of what we lost in 2020. This tune from the swinging sixties resonates in a new way, for us all.
Tensing my abdomen to support my breath through the next verse, I feel the separation caused when I birthed my son. It’s not healed, and I’m thinking the space will always be there. That’s fine by me. I love anything that reminds me of what I have to come home to, after the last bars of the song come to a close.
Our Hero’s Journey
Our Hero’s Journey.
I gave birth to my son Hero, with his father Christian Rosso, on March 10th, 2021. This is his birth story.
8:30am
I woke the morning of Tuesday, March 9th four days overdue. It was just after 8am, but I felt like I had slept in. I did a scan of my body, as the sun blinked in through the venetian blinds. Good mood! There was a special feeling, waiting for labor to begin: a sparkling rainbow of emotions. Yesterday had also been good, but the weekend before I’d struggled with racing thoughts and anxiety – This birth story would happen soon, but how would it begin?
Rolling over (massive effort!) Christian and I snuggled. He had the day off work. We checked in together. He’d also slept well, over eight hours – unusual for my Honey.
“If I give birth today, at least we’ll be well rested!” I joked.
Yet more snuggles ensued, and we made plans for the day. I usually work from home for Nordo and have an accordion lesson on Tuesdays. But this week I had taken my maternity leave on my due date, and after 40 weeks, my baby belly had finally outgrown my beloved accordion and I had canceled the lesson.
“Why don’t you come with me? It’s the first day of TSB softball league. Practice starts at 11.”
Christian plays in a pick-up softball league for restaurant industry folk. You can imagine, after 2020 he was curious to see who would be there, what stories they would have to tell. Before you ask, yes – outdoors and distanced for safety from the virus.
I can go watch Christian play! I jump out of bed and pull on a cozy, huge sweatshirt. Best part of the third trimester fashion, if you ask me. No pants needed. I lope down our apartment’s long hallway to the kitchen and make us coffee. Christian follows, and as I add the cream and sugar we hear a splish splash as drops of liquid hit the floor between my legs. “So much pee!!” I laugh. I’m four days overdue, it’s hard to control!!! So. Much. Peeing. My Chef kneels and checks out the liquid.
“Not even half a teaspoon. But it’s not mucus. Are you sure it’s pee?” He looks up at me with his blue eyes. He’s been to every doctor’s appointment with me, and he’s as excited and eager as I am.
“We have an appointment with Dr. Sonja at four anyway, we’ll let her know. I feel great. No swirlies. It’s probably pee.”
Swirlies
Swirlies are what my Sister named the light contractions I’d been having off and on for over a week. I had told her about my preference for an unmedicated birth, and that part of my pain management was re-framing the word “contraction” which I associated with something painful, with a less loaded word, like surge, or rush.*
*Thank you, Regan Hesse, for introducing me to Ina May’s natural child birthing canon.
“Are you having a…” Sister struggles to remember my chosen words “a…swirly?” she asked on my due date, her hand on my belly, eyes above her green mask filled with wonder to match my own.
“Swirly!” another belly laugh, joyful tightening and baby kicks, “That’s what I’ll call them!!”
No, I was not having any swirlies on the morning of March 9th. But Baby Peachey Rosso was moving and grooving and I was resolved to relax and let my body do its thing.
11am
And that was sit in a sunny Loyal Heights ballpark and watch Christian hit the first home run of the season!
He was also the first person to go shirtless. I love my man.
I left the practice early as I had what I hoped would be my last prenatal craniosacral massage scheduled*
*Thank you to Melissa McClintock and her magic hands for guiding my body through a delightful healthy pregnancy.
If you’re not familiar with craniosacral bodywork, it’s a gentle approach with intense results. My masseuse, Melissa lays her hands on me and lightly balances and adjusts my fascia. My experience as a client is very mentally active – I’m visualizing my chakras opening and paying attention to specific images and symbols that come up.
Often I will go into a semi-conscious zone while receiving my massage but during that hour I started feeling swirlies! Was this finally labor? There had been so many false starts this past week.
As we checked out, Melissa commented on what she found during the session, “I was getting a lot of fantasy images, like a fairy tale world. Also, there’s obviously a lot going on in your pelvis. We spent time there so hopefully this will help you progress!”
Christian picked me up from Melissa’s home studio in Wallingford and we drove to the clinic for our appointment.
“I’ve been feeling swirlies, but I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“Well, they are doing the fetal monitoring at our appointment. Let’s see what Dr. Sonja says.”
He brought me post-massage snacks, sweet man. Pretzels and hummus, cheese sticks and two bottles of ‘moosejuice’.
“Moose??!!”
This was one of our nicknames for Peachey Rosso in utero. Since we chose to wait until Baby’s birth for first names and gender reveal, I liked calling my child Moose – the animal that represents his primal zodiac: his year of birth, the Ox,, and his Pisces sun sign. So, this green juice with a ginger kick and sweet apple finish was a perfect find from Christian to get our baby moving for the fetal monitoring we had scheduled!
4:00pm
“Are you having a contraction?”
Alison, our OB nurse, looked over her glasses at me intently. The printer spit out graphs that proved yes, I was in gentle, early labors. Still irregular, 7-10 minutes apart, and more like a tight squeeze to my belly button than the dull back ache I had been promised. Alison assured us that our child’s heartbeat was strong and did not dip during my “swirlies”, a positive sign.
“Any bleeding, fluid, or cramps?”
For our last three weekly appointments, Dr. Sonja and her student observer Brianna always had the same list of questions. But, at four days overdue, there were strong recommendations as well. “If you haven’t begun active labor by Friday, we will induce.” Seeing my blanched expression, Dr. Sonja smiled reassuringly. “My first baby was the same. You’re already 3 centimeters dilated and almost fully effaced. It’s likely your baby just needs the nudge.”
A tight deadline! This artist understood that, and I bet my unborn child did too, I thought, ruefully.
“Is it possible to break my waters to induce, before using Pitocin?”
Pitocin
If you don’t already know, Pitocin is a synthetic hormone made to mimic the big doozy birthing hormone, oxytocin. Baby Oxy gets the show on the road! And, as a first time Mama in the 35+ club, the risks to me and my baby outweighed the benefits of staying pregnant over 41 weeks and beginning labor naturally. No one would force me, but induction in the tech medical hospital world is very common, and they use Pitocin.
I’m not trying to get high fives for going natural. Like every birthing parent, I want what is best for my baby and my body. But I was afraid of this particular artificial hormone. Why? Because every scary birthing story I had heard involved Pitocin, from my mother, to multiple friends who received it to speed labor, and said that ‘the chemical nudge’ did not make a long labor short, but that the painful contractions were made even more so because the artificial hormone did its job – it rushed them!
My swirlies felt like a strong menstrual cramp at the most. I didn’t know what to expect from the promised pain. But I did know I wanted an unmedicated birth for the benefits to my baby, and my own body and spirit. And I knew I was less likely to ask for an epidural without a chemical induction. I was afraid Pitocin would take the wheel and hit the gas before I was ready.
But if what was best for Baby Peachey Rosso was a lowered risk of complications, I would take the Pitocin.
Christian and exchanged looks and nodded to Dr.Sonja, willing my labors to pick up naturally before Friday.
“Do you want to tell her about the fluid this morning?”
Oh, right.
It’s 5pm on Tuesday the 9thand now is when the tempo picks up. When we told Dr. Sonja about the tiny splish splash over coffee she asked if I wanted her to check to see if my water bag had sprung a leak when she did my cervical check.
Cervical Check
It’s as fun as it sounds. My OB inserts two fingers into my birth canal and uses her fingers to measure how many centimeters my cervix has opened. I was at 3cm, and yes, she did see fluid. Her warm eyes crinkled with an unseen smile over her mask.
“Opal and Christian, you are going to have your baby today.”
Because my waters had broken before the active labor stage she was sending us to Swedish tonight for an immediate induction with Pitocin.
“What happens if I chose to wait for active labor to start naturally? You said the monitor showed I was in the early stages already.”
“There is a risk that labor would move slowly and the amniotic fluid would drain out before you were ready to push. This could cause a septic infection for you, and for the baby.”
Sepsis
In 2017 I suffered a septic infection that was very serious. I obviously survived! But I knew first-hand how quickly an infection can spread, even with minor symptoms. Bring on the Pitocin! What I wanted, a vaginal delivery with no epidural, was still possible. But I would need the help of a few key players in this birth story. Hero’s avengers, if you will.
“We’ve called in your induction to the hospital, but it’s not like in the movies. You don’t need to rush, you still have some time. Go home, have something to eat, grab your bag and get excited! It’s time.”
Stunned, wobbly and a lot giddy, Christian drove us the 10 minutes home. While my Chef made us open faced sandwiches with leftover carnitas, homemade mole and avocado, I lovingly packed my last items and did a final sweep of the nursery. We’d be coming home with a baby? The swirlies gently squeezed my belly, and the baby’svigorous kicks said YES!
When I joined Christian, he had set our dinner out in front of the TV.
“Hey! Here I am, checking you out!”
Eurovision: The Legend of Fire Saga was playing <3
I planted a big one on my man! This was my one request for the birthing environment. If you haven’t seen Eurovision, it’s Will Ferrell’s magnum opus about the European song contest. It’s hilarious, sweet, the score is fantastic, and the female lead played by Rachel McAdams is capital A -Adorable. Christian and I spent the pandemic and my pregnancy watching, singing along and re-watching this film. It makes us so happy. No matter what. I knew I would need that feeling as I let my body split in two.
We ended up playing the movie three times throughout the labor and birth. So, if you haven’t seen it, what are you doing reading this birth story?! Go watch it. It’s on Netflix.
Purple suitcase, car seat, double back packs, check! Christian drove us the fifteen minutes to the hospital. Emotions were high, but I felt pretty chill. Honestly, I was preparing myself for them to send us back home to wait it out. This feeling grew stronger when we checked into OB triage and the nurse frankly told us they didn’t have a birthing suite available. We should expect a wait. We were escorted to a little pod for triage patients, separated from the nurses station by a screen door. It was 8pm. We were both getting tired. Christian, from playing his first softball in 6 months, and for me, the swirlies were moving faster. I could still talk through them but I needed to move: downward dogs and hip circles in a 6 x 6 pod room, blocked by an awkward hospital bed.
“You look like you’re not in a lot of pain, but sometimes it’s hard to tell?” Dr. Emily, the attending physician, checked in on us and apologized for the wait. She’d just come from a birth. A birth! We assured her we were feeling good. After she left, Christian flopped onto the cot.
“If you’re not going to lay down, I will.”
“Watch, my Honey, we’ll be admitted and you’ll be the one asking for meds for pain. I’ll sneeze and the baby will just fall out.”
Oh, Past Peachey. So cocky. You had no idea.
Christian took my sarcasm in stride, but as the minutes ticked by, we started to feel a little sorry about the situation.
The doors to triage banged open. There was the sound of rushing footsteps at the nurse’s station, and the loud crackle of a speaker output, Chinese to English translation.
We froze and melted, as the woman explained to the triage nurses through the translator that she was bleeding, a lot of blood.
“Am I going to have my baby today?”
“No, we’re going to try to keep you pregnant. Everything will be okay.”
The output crackled,
“Please, one speaker at a time, I can’t understand her”
I met Christian’s blue eyes. It was a glass of cold water to my face. We were and are so grateful for my healthy pregnancy.
Dr. Emily returned to confirm our room was almost ready. We assured her there was no rush. She felt my belly for the next contraction and said they did seem to be progressing. I had resigned myself to Pitocin at this point, I just wanted our baby born safely. It’s why I chose Swedish First Hill for my birth. Just in case. There wasn’t much besides the language barrier that separated me from the mother on the other side of the screen.
The door banged again. “Oh god, oh god, oh god!! Wow! That was a big one!”
The next arrival we overheard was straight out of every TV sitcom. Christian and I exchanged smiles, on my due date we’d watched the silly 2012 rom com “What to Expect when you’re Expecting” and we imagined this gal was a ringer for Elizabeth’s Banks’ character.
“The loud ones always get moved ahead in the line” one of the nurses remarked with a smile, , but our suite was ready. Christian was piled with our suitcase, his backpack and the car seat.
“Are you sure you’re okay with your backpack, Babe?”
“Absolutely!” I was raring to go and slung my pack over my shoulder as I had for the last week. Did I want a wheelchair? No!
That’s when the swirly became a breaker. As I started walking down the hall, I felt those same OMG’s raising in my throat. WOW! That was some PAIN! I somehow made it to the room without yelping. My active labor had begun.
Active Labor
Labor nurses are just so cool. Nurse Emily (yes, two Emily’s at my birth) she’s calmly taking my vitals, following me as I pace, semi-frantically trying to remember months of birth training. What was supposed to feel good? Hands on the bed, cat cow pose, low moans like in acting school vocal class.
Christian is following me too, wide eyed. I see him processing everything I am not, the machines, the nurse’s station, the view, facing east towards the telephone towers on Madison. My beloved Cap Hill hometown.
I’m putting all my effort into candle breathing when I realize Nurse Emily is explaining I will need an IV, yes the whole time, attached to an awkward 6 foot tall stand on wheels, dripping the low dose of Pitocin into my left forearm. She tells me in 2-3 hours I’ll have another cervical check.
Once she has placed the fetal monitors on my belly – also on the entire time as I have graduated into the high risk category. My Baby needs close monitoring.
“But you can still sit in the tub with them on.”
Sitting? Oh, hell no. But kneeling and waving my butt in the air like a feral animal sounds good. I can’t wait to take off my street clothes. I’m always cold but suddenly feel bathed in sweat. I turn down the hospital gown in favor of a soft, red smock made by my friend Cassy. I wanted to wear it for the birth, hoping it would give me strength.
As Nurse Emily turns back to her computer, I feel another urge…not a surge, but in the same family as a swirly.
Poop and pregnancy
I did not grow up in an open bathroom door house. I do my best to pass gas politely. I prefer blue humor to toilet jokes. Are you the same? If so, you might want to move along, because poo is a big part of this birth story. It’s funny, stinky as hell, and even romantic.
Everyone poops. And a butthole and a cervix are not so very different.
My Doula told me, “In the days prior to active labor, you’ll have loose stools”. “Really? Is that a promise?” I have a shy bottom. If I travel, or if I am stressed out, it will clamp tight shut, no matter my fiber intake. Now you know why I do so much yoga!
Birth is stressful. Happy stressful, sure. But my point is, despite the doula’s promise, I was a couple days behind schedule for a #2.
I’m setting the scene for romance, can’t you tell?
Me and the IV waddled towards the bathroom as fast as we could. I tried to gracefully shut the door, but Christian was there, holding my hand the whole time.
“I’ve got you, my Honey. Keep breathing.” As the Pitocin sped up the process, the back door swung open. I sat down hard.
“I’m so sorry, it smells so bad, I’m so sorry, Christian.”
“Don’t be sorry. I love you. I’ll take it in like a bong rip.”
I know!!!! Cringeworthy! And yet, so romantic. Afterwards, Christian told me that I visited the toilet at least 15 times, back and forth from swaying with a yoga ball balanced on the hospital bed, to yet more poo.
“It smelled…very specific. Like the hog farms back home in Jacksonville.” He slays me, my sweetheart, southern farm boy. I’m going to marry that man.
After the hog farm experience, I decided I wanted to squat in the tub. Even in labor, the thought of jacuzzi jets was very appealing! Nurse Emily drew the bath and tried to wrap plastic around the Pitocin IV as Christian struggled to remove my beautiful birthing gown, tangled in my IV dance partner. It felt like an old school comedy routine: How many hands does it take to get a laboring woman into the tub?
This is the point where my memory changes. My birthing research called it “ a focused state”. Okay. For me, I could not keep my head up. Christian told me, “It had been a long time since I’ve seen you shwastey, but that’s what it was like, your eyes were rolling around, you couldn’t look at me straight.”
The clock ticked 3:00am as I moved towards Transition, the third stage of labor. The nurse suggested we call my doula, Anna.
Transition
At this time, something happened. The Inner Opal began to make her voice heard. I make this distinction because Inside Opal felt very different than Outer Opal, who was in charge of my body. Outer Opal had a little girl voice moaning “owie owie owie!” Inner Opal knew that good birthing positions were necessary. Inner Opal wasn’t in pain at all, and she was ready to run the show.
Unfortunately by 3am, all of me was exhausted. The only thing that seemed to make the contractions bearable was the bed/yoga ball dance. Christian urged me to find a position where I could get off my feet. My legs were starting to shake and I was having trouble managing the pain with my breath – I was tensing up, making it worse.
“Bring me the Captain, I would like some fentanyl please.” My code word. The Captain is in reference to a Davey Wong oil painting that hangs above my side of the bed. A brutish caricature of an ape dressed as a sea captain, with a gruesome bloody hook. The Captain would protect me from myself. I was serious about the fentanyl. No epidural yet, but in the wee hours with the intense Transition labor barking at the door, I needed a boost to give me some rest. I also knew the effects of this opiate would wear off relatively quickly, before my child drew breath. I was going to break and take the drug.
My opinion? It helped. I felt high, basically, and my muscles relaxed enough to allow me to kneel on the bed instead of standing. Oh, I still felt the contractions! The drug lasted under an hour, another 10 crashing waves of my Baby moving closer to the earth. Eurovision was playing through again, and I tried to singalong, but my throat was bleeding and hoarse by this point.
Christian had called Doula Anna, he was getting tired too. I could tell from his voice that he was worried about me, that it pained him to see me in pain, and this was almost as distressing as the Transition.
“I think I would like an epidural now please. Would you forgive me? I’d like one now.”
My sweetheart said exactly the right thing.
“Anna is almost here. Can you hold out until then? I bet she will have some ideas on how to help you.”
The Captain stayed at the door with his bloody hook as my Doula rushed in like a fairy godmother with bags of birthing magic.
“Anna, I can’t do this.”
My head was roiling with pain. I was aware more women had entered the room, but I couldn’t focus on them. It was time for my second cervical check to see how far I had dilated over the past five hours.
“Eight centimeters!!”
The positive energy that flowed from everyone present, I kid you not, worked better than the Fentanyl! Doula Anna came down to my level, I was doing my cat cow pose on the side of the bed.
“Opal. Do you think you can do squats? If you can, your baby will be born before dawn.”
Hell yes, I can do squats! This yogi was ready. With Anna seated on a short stool behind me and Christian leaning over the bed to grab my hands when I stood, I rode the waves of pain, squatting as low as I could and falling back into Anna’s arms as they passed. Then, back up to my love. 90 seconds between each crashing wave.
I went from 8 centimeters to fully dilated and ready to push in an hour. The Captain was not needed. I had my Hero saving me, though I didn’t yet know his name.
Now, Transition was more painful, but it wasn’t confusing to me, I had trained to do it. Pushing was another story. The Pushing stage of labor gives the birthing person a rest. Contractions become further apart and longer, as our Baby moved through the cervix, under my pubic bone and down the birth canal into Christian’s waiting hands.
Yes, my love was going to be the first hands on our child.
It is the original home stretch.
In the hospital, you must deliver your baby on a bed, for insurance purposes. But my position was up to me, and my baby. My mother told me I would love the Pushing stage. She said it was easier. The books I had read said the pain was less intense. This was not my experience. I pushed for over an hour. On my side, on all fours, I couldn’t bear to lay on my back.
During the breaks, Outer Opal was drooling and whimpering and so very tired. Inner Opal was getting frustrated. The contractions felt so different than they had in Transition. I was having trouble pinpointing the all-important “urge to push”. So, I performed. I “pushed”! THAT HURT! The voices in the room started to fade out. I could feel Christian’s hands on my rear, supporting me as I strained. At one point during a break, he massaged my feet.
“Christian, Christian!! That feels so good!” He said I surprised everyone because I popped up from my comatose resting state, loving the rubs.
More pained pushing. Then, a piece of a story came to Inner Opal, from my dear friend Caitlin, telling me about witnessing her sister birth her nephew.
“She was intent that no one tell her to push. She would push when she was ready. Then, Chris was born in two minutes.”
So, I let the voices go. I just waited. This is when Inner Opal took centerstage.
I was sitting in a dark room, like a film noir interrogation, a spotlight bright on my face. Across from my chair, I could make out the silhouette of a man standing in front of a door, golden light streaming through the cracks from the other side. Once he saw me see him, he turned, opened the door and walked through, closing it gently behind him.
It was that easy.
Outer Opal was moaning, “I can’t do this! Is the baby okay?” Inner Opal said, “Walk through that door.”
Dr. Sonja had arrived. When? She asked if I wanted to feel my baby’s head crowning. I reached between my legs. There was a living crystal ball, creamy and warm. The final torch song of Eurovision soared
“My hometown, my hometown…” Christian told me later that the doctors on our team would step out from my labors to watch choice scenes while he and Anna talked me through the pushing. It’s a great flick!
I moved onto my back, happy baby pose. Doula Anna was cheering me on “That’s right! Your body knows what to do! There will be a big surge soon, don’t run away from it, go towards the pain”
I could hear movement. Christian told me they were laying down the plastic sheet to catch the birth fluids and prepare him to deliver. There was cheering and applause. Dr. Sonja telling me my baby would be here before sunrise. Was I alright with her stretching me to help move things along? I heard Inner Opal speak, “Let me try one more round of pushing before you stretch me.” No Baby. “Stretch away.”
I pushed so hard I felt the blood vessels bursting in my face, my eyes, my throat, like fireworks.
Then, the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.
“Nah! Nah nah! Nah nah Nah!“
And Christian crying
“It’s a little baaaaby!“
Our child came out singing! Not a cry, but a strong, articulate Nah Nah, a perfect mimic of the beloved vocal warmup I have done before every performance for the past decade.
My face and eyes were so swollen I could only make out the shadow of Christian placing our son gently on my silky soft, emptied belly. I strained to open my eyes, but my ears could hear all I needed. His song, and Christian’s joyous, joyful tears.
Our Hero was born.
Afterbirth:
Our son spent his first hour of life watching the sun rise over Capitol Hill on a clear as a bell late winter day, rosy light streaming over the mountains into our birthing suite.
Christian enfolded me in his arms and we admired our little one as Hero impressed the birthing team by lifting his head to scoot towards my left breast and voraciously latch on to my nipple.
My body went into shock and began shaking like a leaf (thanks to another friend for sharing this odd yet normal side effect with me, so I was prepared). I held our Hero to my chest as Christian wheeled me into our postpartum room to begin life on the other side of my golden door, as the Peachey Rosso 3.
