Announcing My New Baby, Hillary

 There are certain red flags that immediately identify hippie-freaks. 

“Oh, we don’t own a TV.”
“Waitress, are these ice cubes in my Diet Coke organic and locally sourced?” 
And finally...
“We’ve just loved homebirthing our eight children.” 

I had to ask myself some hard questions this weekend. 

If you are unfamiliar with the culture of the Craig family, let me explain. No. There is too much. Let me sum up. 

We use a midwife. 
We home birth. 

Apparently we are hippie-freaks. (Though we admittedly enjoy TV and the only thing we care about our ice is that it's pebble-ice.)

Not everyone wants to or should use a midwife. You may have health risks that prevent this opportunity - or bottom-line, it may not be what you’re comfortable with. And that’s fine. It is not everyone’s choice; but we are grateful that it can be ours. We have loved the experiences. 

This experience was different - in a few ways. 

1. I got The Call. Until this birth, I had never gotten that awesome call at work. “I’m in labor! Come home!” Wherein I then hastily throw out any papers on my desk, slam the computer, and flee the office while yelling to the front desk, “Hold my calls! My wife is in labor!” I finally got to do that! Though, just like all other media-versions of birth, that’s not exactly how it happened. But I’ll take it!

2. We had a new midwife. We’ve used the same midwife, in Las Vegas, for our last six children. It was not fun to realize she would not be here for this one. We found a new midwife here in Utah. Katie loved her because she is old, experienced, and holds the wisdom of an old, experienced midwife. I wasn’t so sure, but then, during Katie’s labor, when I was sitting behind Katie, holding her, and the two of us naturally had our hands on Katie’s tummy...and the midwife said, “Somebody please take a photo of those hands, I want it on the cover of my website. That is the photo of the century.” Well, when she said that, I thought, “You know, this midwife has something.  A certain eye for beauty and awesomeness. She really IS so very, very wise.” 

3. This baby was way overdue. We may never know how accurately overdue. You know they base the 40 week pregnancy cycle on the date of your last period. But since Katie has either been pregnant or nursing since 1997, she’s had, like, two periods. (My apologies to any men who... no. You know what? I don’t apologize. If you can’t talk about women’s periods, then you are no man. There I said, it. Now good day, sir.)

4. Ok, actually, I wasn’t done with my last point. I got going on my soapbox and forgot where I was. That’s right, Katie’s monthly menstrual periods. Anyway, so we really had no idea when her last period was, so we guessed. Well, we knew it was on the day we had used a gift-card to this bbq place in Orem, but there was no credit card record to confirm the date. And I think we guessed wrong. Because this baby was late, though not record-breaking late. 

5. We called the midwife early. We have traditionally called the midwife to come for the delivery at either the perfect time (baby born 15 min to an hour after the midwife arrives) or too late (Roxanna and Rebecca, who arrived before the midwife). This time...too early! I couldn’t believe it. That’s a rookie mistake, and this was our 8th baby. But Katie was tired and wanted to know how far along she was.  Midwife came at midnight on Friday, left at 2 a.m. and came back at 6:30 a.m. (Saturday morning), when we and the baby had stopped messing around. 

Katie’s contractions never got super-close together, but they got harder.  They got even worse whenever she got up to do something. So I had the brilliant/marriage-ending idea that Katie should just be up, moving around. I said it out loud. The midwife agreed (she is so, so wise, you guys). And Katie told us we were both fired.  

But that kicked things into high gear. Soon she was sitting on this awesome birth-chair that the midwife brought, and making these deep, bass-sounding noises that meant she was getting ready to push. More than the timing of contractions, more than any instruments, I know Katie’s status by the labor noises she makes. It’s more visceral, but it’s the best gauge I know. 

This is Katie, about 45 second before pushing out a head. I sat at her feet watching her. With all apologies to the women I know, plus my daughters and future daughter-in-laws, plus Pink (who I imagine to be pretty tough) - I told my children that their mom was the strongest woman they would ever know. 

I couldn’t believe we were finally at this point. I had had impressions this baby girl was coming a year ago, before Katie was ever pregnant. I’d had feelings she was a girl from the very beginning. I had been anxious to meet her. When I finally caught her, I felt gratitude beyond measure. She was here. She was healthy. Katie was healthy. The world stopped and for moments...it was perfect. What us hippies call “zen-tastic.” 

It is a unique challenge to write about miracles. Often, you can chronicle the framework of the occurrence. You can describe the specific circumstances. You might be able to articulate how it changes you. But there is some portion that eludes you. You can’t put words to it. It is sacred and otherworldly. And those divine moments generally involve people you love, with a power that cannot be manipulated. And you are simply grateful you got to be there. 

Hillary Craig
November 23, 2013
9 lbs 20.5” long

Rare Footage: Katie Doing Stand Up on "Pregnancy"

Last year, at a party for my 40th birthday, my wife, Katie, was about 8.5 months pregnant with our seventh child, Lucy. I always thought Katie made the most hilarious observations about being pregnant, and I suggested she do a 'stand up' routine about it. She had never done any stand up, but wrote this original material and performed it for my birthday.

For a while she asked me not to post it. But I think the statute of limitations on that have expired, and a friend of ours specifically asked me to post it. I hope you all enjoy it! 

Announcing Lucy

Once upon a time, in a uterus not so far away, there was a delightful baby girl named … Lucy.

Lucy refused to come out.

Her parents thought maybe it was because she had heard of the ridiculous “economic climate.”

Or the sadistic gas prices.  

They were also suspicious that she didn’t want to come to a world where Scarlett Johansson was romantically linked to Sean Penn.

Or a world with Sean Penn.

Or maybe she was worried that our society was ignorant enough to buy into the hype that food items which bragged about not having trans fats were somehow “healthy” or something.

And finally, they thought maybe she had some concerns about living up to the high standards of adorableness already set in place by her six siblings.

But then, one day, Lucy listened closely, and could hear her family talking about how much they already loved her. How much they wanted to hold her.

She heard her sister singing the Tangled soundtrack no less than 83 times a day. And she thought she just might like to sing with her.

She heard her dad say, “Life just makes sense when I'm holding a pint of this Haagen-Dazs Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream.” And she thought she just might like to experience the sensation of eating a pint of Haagen-Dazs.

She heard her brothers quoting Star Wars and thought maybe it would be cooler to see this movie, because the dialogue actually sounded kind of hokey.

And she could almost feel her mom's hands as they rubbed her swollen belly, and she sensed how much more lovely it would be to be cradled in those arms. She could hear her mom’s eager voice calling out to her, wondering when she would be able to kiss her face and smell that amazing baby-breath.

Finally, she couldn’t bear to not be with her family another day, and she decided it was time to move on. Time to make her debut.

So on April 19, 2011, at 10:50 p.m., weighing 10 lbs 14 oz, Lucy arrived on the scene. She was immediately loved by all, and overnight, the entire world improved by her presence.

The End 

The Beginning

Speaking of Babies

Nope. No baby yet. Yes, we are overdue. Way overdue. If this baby were a library book, it would be carrying a hefty fine.

But since we are on the subject of babies, I thought I would share something with you that will make you so stinkin’ jealous of me; you might find it extremely difficult for us to stay friends.

Ready?

In the arena of “song rhyming” (that’s what I call words that don’t really rhyme, but because they’re masked as lyrics, we kind of forgive them), “Katie” totally rhymes with “Baby.” What? It DOES TOO!

Listen, if Sting says that “cough” rhymes with “Nabokov,” then I’m pretty certain “Katie” rhymes with “baby.”

 

At least Sting was trying. Unlike some “artists” who actually “rhyme” a word with … itself.

“We were trying different things

And we were smoking funny things.”

Really? Mr. Kid Rock, please. You must have been smoking funny things if you thought we wouldn’t pick up on that slice of laziness.

Anynote, the reason you should be jealous of this musical serendipity in my life is this: You know how oftentimes, throughout the day, you will casually serenade your significant other? Right? You know, you pass in the hallways or on your way out the door or when he or she walks into the room – and there either isn’t enough time to have a thoughtful conversation or there are too many ears present at that moment or your mind is in the middle of some project – BUT you want to acknowledge them. You want them to feel that you are aware of them and you noticed them and think it’s pretty great that you get to be together and so you…sing to them…just a line…or two… Anybody else do this? Well, you should.

Well, that’s what I do. And I ask you, what is cooler than singing a song that has “baby” in it, but SWAPPING IT…with KATIE!? Answer: Nothing. Nothing is cooler than that. And you know it. And my gosh, I wish you could see how jealous you look right now!  

Many are the days I stroll into the bathroom while Katie is in the shower and I belt out SmashMouth’s “I Can’t Get Enough of You [Katie]!” Sometimes, to mix it up, I’ll sing The Foundation’s “[Katie]! Now that I found you, I can’t let you go. You’re in the shower and your head is sudsy-o!” I have to admit, that’s pretty fantastic rhyming.

Or if Katie is feeling hard on herself, she’ll be telling me about some way that she let herself down. That’s when I jump in with Chris Isaak’s “[Katie] Did a Bad, Bad Thing.” This has worked every time! If you’re trying to make me smile, that is. If you’re trying to make Katie smile, this has failed miserably. I usually rebound with “Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My [Katie].” That helps. It doesn’t really help her feel better, but it distracts her, because she hates that song. So we start talking about how lame that song is. And pretty soon, she’s forgotten about her disappointment.

My favorite is when Katie is leaving the house to go somewhere, because I have a cornucopia of Baby/Katie songs to choose from. Van Morrison’s “[Katie] Please Don’t Go” or Player’s “[Katie] Come Back” or even Franki Valli’s “Bye Bye [Katie], [Katie] Goodybe.”

I rarely go with Amy Grant’s “[Katie] [Katie],” because that’s just overkill. And I equally avoid America’s sweetheart, Justin Bieber, and her hit song “[Katie].”

Finally, when I’m trying to set the stage for romance, I croon with Bon Jovi’s “Born to Be My [Katie]” or Peter Frampton’s “[Katie] I Love Your Way.” Or, if I want to be sure that romance won’t visit my house for weeks, I have two options: Bread’s “[Katie] I’m-A Want You.” I only sing this if I’m-A want to get the cold shoulder for a fortnight or two. And trust me, I’m-A not-A fan of any such thing. Or finally, if I really want to be alone, I lead with Sir Mix A Lot’s “[Katie] Got Back.”  

Welp, I’m off to help my lovely wife cope with the fact that this baby isn’t in a hurry to get here. I’m planning to distract her with the following songs:

Ice Ice [Katie] - Vanilla Ice
Mammas Don't Let Your [Katies] Grow Up to Be Cowboys - Willie Nelson
[Katie] Don't Forget My Number - Milli Vanilli
[Katie]face - U2
Tell Me [Katie] - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Sweet [Katie] James - James Taylor
[Katie] I'm a Star - Prince
[Katie] It's Cold Outside – Dean Martin

Any other ideas? I’m-A needing suggestions. 

A Bun in the Oven

I was recently sitting on the couch with a good friend when she leaned over and almost whispered to me, “Aren’t you glad you had six children? What if there was no Becca?” I felt immediate and profound sadness at the thought of it. What if there was no Becca?

It happened more than a few times this last summer when we would all be sitting down to dinner, and I would look around the table just before praying over the food and say, “Wait, who’s missing?” Now, in my defense, there are EIGHT of us sitting around the table, in various shapes and sizes, and, for some inexplicable reason, oftentimes in various stages of undress. So you can see how I might be unsure of exact headcount accuracy. Also, it is rare that we all arrive at the table at the same time, as generally somebody is on the phone, somebody is reading a book and ignoring all life forms, somebody else is at Scouts, somebody else is on the computer, and somebody else is pooping in their diaper. (And usually, that’s Becca. And usually, she has wandered off to conduct such business alone, in the privacy of a closet.)

But this handful of times I am referring to was different, because on these occasions, there was precisely nobody missing. I would ask for the roll call and Abbie would start with her “One” and then Garren follows with “Two” and Connor with “Three” all the way down to Becca, who is technically “Six,” but oftentimes yells whatever suits her, including “Nine!” or “Threeve!”

Each time, when it appeared that everyone was there, I would look over at Katie, kind of confused with my impressions and wondering why I was “off.” Katie would be staring back at me knowingly, in complete silence, but with this soft, warm look on that beautiful mug, like she knew exactly why I was feeling like somebody was missing.  Somebody was. And that somebody will be arriving in April.

Unexpected Plans

(Author’s note: It is with Katie’s approval that I share this story with you, my closest readers.)

Last week Katie was three months pregnant for the seventh time.

This week she’s not.

It didn’t sneak up on us, but I’m not sure how you prepare for something like that. Katie knew something was wrong for a few weeks, and was grappling with the possibility of a miscarriage long before I considered it. And even though she told me when her concern started, I dismissed it. I didn’t discount that something might be wrong, or insist that it wasn’t a miscarriage. But I held on to the thought, or maybe hope, that it was something else. Something less definite. I don’t think I realized how much of that day for Katie was spent processing what was most likely happening or what could be happening or what she hoped wasn’t happening. As the husband, without the constant reminder that life is growing within me, I operated on the daily assumption that when Katie wasn’t telling me something, it meant that everything was fine; and when she did tell me something, I could take a moment to wish and hope it away.

I prayed often for Katie. More than morning and night. But I remember the palpable moment I realized that my prayers and supplications were subconsciously, or maybe intuitively, always for Katie, and not necessarily the baby. And I think that’s when I started to slowly, but not out loud, accept what was already impressing upon me in small waves.

This baby was not coming.

A few days later Katie asked me for a priesthood blessing. (For anybody reading who may not be familiar with a priesthood blessing, it is an ordinance in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints where a worthy man who has been ordained and set apart to an office in the Priesthood has the authority to anoint and bless an individual who asks in faith for such a blessing. See James 5:14-15, in the New Testament. In its purest form and intent, personal and spiritual revelation is received for the individual asking for the blessing.)

I had a close friend come over and help me minister to Katie. I love Katie more powerfully than I ever thought I could love anybody. And it hurt to feel her concern about this pregnancy. As I put my hands on her head to give her a blessing, I could feel how known and loved she was to her Father in Heaven. I felt impressed to promise her that this experience would draw her closer to Him. That whether a baby came or not at this time, she would be at peace in her heart and mind and in her soul.

The next morning Katie seemed remarkably calm. Not carefree, but peaceful. She said she knew this pregnancy would not develop into a child for us to raise. And she felt calm and comforted by the blessing. I could see that she was blessed with understanding and insight. I felt reassured by her confidence. I felt bonded to Katie. I thought I was fine and in step with her. I thought I was okay.

I jumped in my car to head off to work and was a few miles down the highway when I found myself not okay. With Katie feeling centered and confident, I found myself finally processing my own reaction to the reality that a child I was anxious to meet would not be arriving. I felt swallowed up in sadness. I wasn’t angry or resentful. I didn’t feel cheated or that life was unfair. I just felt sad. And I felt sad for a while.

We had an appointment with our midwife for an ultrasound. As we drove to the office, our conversation included speculations from one side of the spectrum to the other. From “Maybe I was never pregnant?” to “What if we’re completely off and everything is okay?” But when the ultrasound showed what we had already suspected, that a miscarriage was imminent, we weren’t startled. That sadness briefly stung my heart again, and I studied Katie’s face, searching for any detectable sorrow. I thought I could see it, but it was buried under a brave, accepting face, so I didn’t say a word to her. I felt like speaking would have pulled the foundational block out from under her pyramid of strength, and her calm exterior might have given way. And that just seemed unnecessary. So I simply squeezed her hand.

We drove home, somewhat oddly comforted in knowing for certain where we were at, physically. We didn’t say anything to anybody else, as we hadn’t told anybody yet, not even our parents. The next couple of days were just watching and waiting, but brought us closer. I felt conscious of Katie and what was going on inside her.

At the end of that week, my parents were set to arrive at our house for the weekend, and literally, as I heard my kids squealing that Grandma and Grandpa were here, Katie found me and told me that it had just happened. She cried a light, heartfelt sigh of relief, finally feeling that she had turned a page and felt closure from a long, uncertain experience. I hugged her so close I wasn’t sure if my hug was sustaining her or vice versa. She assured me she was okay, but I could see she was physically and emotionally tired.

I walked outside and met my parents at the car. I hugged them, helped grab their stuff, and then told them a little about what the last week had been like. I wanted to let them know so they could be sensitive to Katie.

My dad and I were taking my boys camping for the night, and Katie and my mom and the girls had planned to do a Girls’ Night at home. As Katie went into the kitchen to start their special dinner, my mom pulled Katie in to her and said, “Don’t you worry about dinner. We’re going out. Let’s take it easy tonight.” I watched Katie melt into my mom’s embrace, crying. It was more than the promise that she wouldn’t have to cook dinner. It was being understood, being cared for. It was the profound link between women, between mothers. It was an answer to prayer and the fulfillment of a blessing.  My mom had had a miscarriage between my two youngest brothers and so understood much more deeply than I, though I wanted to. And Katie felt that. I will always be grateful that my mom was there; that she is exactly who she is, with the instincts that she has, and the love she’s had for Katie since day one.

As I thought about that moment I realized how many people I know and love who have had miscarriages. But for how common they are, rarely are they discussed. I imagine it’s because the event may be common, but the experience is personal. It was for us. It seems like a very private grieving; mourning the loss of possibilities, of plans. It often happens before others even know it is a possibility and so is rarely shared until long after comforting arms are needed.  Yet, we’re grateful for the comfort and understanding that did come at the right time in the right quiet way; to be surrounded by people who love and support our little family, and who come running to our side when they are needed most.

(Author's Postscript: I've left the Comments button on. I know I don't usually do that...I suppose I just felt like this was a topic on which people might have something to say. And I thought I'd offer a place to say it. If anyone feels so inclined.) 

Announcing Rebecca

Ladies and gentlemen, do you have trouble with guests who have overstayed their welcome? Do you have company that just refuses to leave? Well, grab a pencil and jot this down. I have three little magic words that will clear your house faster than “I just tooted.” Ready? “My water broke.” (I learned yesterday, however, that this also works on guests that you are not trying to get rid of as well.)

If you’ve heard the birth story of our fourth child, Roxanna, this story is going to sound faintly familiar to you. The thought may even cross your mind that we must have wanted to do it this way on purpose. But then you might want to check your Crazy Pills prescription, because nobody would want to do it this way again on purpose. We even made a most concerted effort with our fifth child, Tanner, to make sure that it in fact didn’t happen that way again. Plus why would anybody consciously decide to pay for the loving care of a midwife, and then not invite them to come over for the love and care? And then why would you do that twice?! That’s like experiencing a very unique movie, and realizing it was certainly a once-in-an-odd-lifetime experience, and then finding out there is an unnecessary sequel. (Weekend at Bernie’s II, I’m looking in your direction.)

Well, it all started with a single contraction on Friday night. I was on my way to a "Weird Al" Yankovic concert with some of my other home-nerds, so you can imagine my relief when Katie said she was sure it was nothing and gave me the green light to rock on with Al and his accordion. (Speaking of once-in-a-lifetime odd experiences, I had seen Mr. Yankovic in concert in 1987 and had assumed that would be the only time. So I should have seen this as a sign. But I was too busy wondering how My Man Weird is able to do so many costume changes in one concert. The man is truly an artist, obviously dedicated to his craft.)

True to her word, Katie had no other contractions. Until Saturday morning. Yes, beginning around 6:30 a.m. Katie started having extremely mild and completely irregular contractions. This continued through the early afternoon, when some ol’ college friends of ours who were in town for the weekend brought lunch over.

Katie was feeling so great, she was able to be social and casual and showed no signs of ever being uncomfortable. She would still have the occasional contraction, but these were the most gentle and docile contractions ever recorded, according to Katie. The contractions weren’t getting any harder, they weren’t getting any closer, they didn’t seem to be progressing at all! I could have had these contractions, and I have a very low tolerance for pain. (I also have a low tolerance for large crowds of Weird Al fans, it turns out. But this isn’t about me. Or the fans.)

Around 2:30 p.m. Katie slipped into the downstairs bathroom just to tinkle. The rest of us were on the couches, chatting. Katie called for me and said, “Can you come in here for a second?”

I tried to open the door, but it was locked. “Can you unlock the door?" I asked.

“Nope,” she answered.

“Well, we’re going to get going,” said our college friends, leaping from the couch to gather their kids from upstairs, and, in the process, easily breaking the Olympic qualifying time for the track and field hurdles.

I picked the lock and opened the door to see my cute, sweet wife on the potty. “My water broke,” she said. “I need pads and dry clothes.”

I retrieved the goods from upstairs, but I was actually quite casual about it because while Katie seemed energized that things were finally moving, she didn’t seem overly anxious or concerned about the immediate moment we were in.

I walked back into the bathroom with her stuff and she said, “Why don’t we call the Midwife. I think we’re going to have this baby tonight.” Now, our standard go-to Midwife that we have used for our last four children is Margie. Margie is wonderful. Margie knows her stuff. Margie makes you feel comfortably at ease. Margie was on a cruise in the Bahamas. We had three back-up midwives to select from.

“Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll call one of the back up midwives. Did you want to say goodbye to the Muirs? They’re leaving now.”

“Uhm…no. If I get up, I just know I’ll have a contraction.”

I left the bathroom, said goodbye to the Muirs, and was walking over to the phone to call a midwife when I heard Katie yell for me again. This was a different yell. This was a familiar yell. This was a “For the love of heaven, get in here and catch this baby” yell.

I opened the bathroom door, this time to find Katie pushing out a baby. Katie’s head was down, her eyes closed, her arms stretched around her front with her hands holding the bottom of her stomach. She seemed remarkably peaceful. Focused. I have never known anybody to be able to understand their body like Katie. The room seemed entirely still and silent

She looked up at me and said, “Tell me it’s a head.” This was a legitimate concern, because if it was a bum, a leg, or anything but a head, we were up an afterbirth creek, without a paddle.

I dropped down on my knees and saw the head out, just above the eyes. “It’s a head,” I said. “Are you ready?”

Katie started pushing again and the head came out. She pushed some more. “Is it further out?” she asked.

“No. Still just the head.”

She pushed some more.

“I can see a shoulder, here it comes.”

And she slipped right into my arms. She was covered in vernix, and now I was too. I held her so close because I thought she was going to slip-slide right out of my hands. She wasn’t crying at all. I couldn’t believe I was holding her. We had waited so long for her.

It was 2:36 p.m., and all of our kids were peering from behind the bathroom door at this point, wanting to see what was going on. They came in to see her, and everybody oohed and aahed, except Tanner, the 2-year old, who had a very concerned look on his face. After he saw that Katie was okay, he seemed fine with the situation. And has fallen in love with the baby.

We called our friend and neighbor, Jonelle, who has been to a number of births. We knew she wouldn’t freak out at being up to her ankles in…stuff. With the baby in Katie’s arms, the placenta in a bucket, and Chux pads on the couch, Jonelle to came over and helped me help Katie make the move from the bathroom to the living room.

Katie sat down on the couch and started nursing the baby right away. We cut the chord and called the backup midwife, but she was with another woman who was laboring. We called the second backup, and she was in Boulder City with another woman who was laboring. (Which, honestly, how long does it take? If they are like Katie, we should have had a midwife arriving in about 15 minutes.) But she sent her apprentice over. She showed up about two hours after the birth. We sat there for two hours like it was the most normal, Saturday afternoon thing to do.

When the Apprentice arrived she weighed the baby. According to the scale, she was 16 pounds. According to the Apprentice, the scale must be broken. So we had Abbie stand on a normal scale, and then handed her the baby, and then figured the difference, which is about 10 lbs and … something ounces.

We’ve named her Rebecca. (We call her Becca). She is lovely. I adore the smell of her newborn head and sweet breath. I love her dark eyes and quiet nature. As always, I am absolutely and in every respect overcome with wonder at Katie. She is powerful, soft, and warm. She is beautiful, secure, and poised. I wonder if we should have named the baby after her incredible mother. Or we could have named her “Weird Al”berta Craig.

P.S. I am leaving the Comments on, if you would like to wish Katie congratulations!

...And one on the way.

When I’m at work I spend a good amount of time networking. Meaning that I am constantly trying to meet new people, even if it is only over lunch or chatting a few minutes at a social gathering. And inevitably, the subject of family will come up.

“So, do you have any kids, Ken?” some unsuspecting soul will ask.

“I do.”

“Oh, how many?”

“Five.”

“FIVE?!” they say incredulously, choking on their hot toddy, balsamic bruschetta, or whatever else they might have just popped in their mouth. (What, don’t they serve hot toddy at your networking functions?)

“Yep.”

“HOW OLD ARE YOU?” they ask in loud, bold lettering.

“Thirty-six.”

(And I believe this is the precise moment when they poop their pants.) “THIRTY-SIX?! How old are your kids?”

“10, 8, 6, 4 and 2.”

(And then they say the line that my wife hears every time she sets foot in a grocery store) “Wow, you must have your hands full.”

Indubitably. But while hearing about five children may raise eyebrows, you should see us in action. The visual is quite powerful. I’ve become somewhat adept at recognizing that “Oh, crap” look on the faces of waitresses, library workers, and people sitting behind us at the movies. But honestly, my kids are fairly serene, if not adorable, and we are even occasionally graced by an elderly woman or couple at Costco who’ll stop to tell us how well behaved our children are. And I always tell them, “Those aren’t my kids you’re talking to, that’s a cart of frozen chickens my wife’s pushing. Our children are here, in this cart that I’m pushing, and they are much noisier than those chickens, if we’re being honest.”

When Katie and I got married three years ago (wait, let me do that math again…2+4 mmhmhm 6, mhmhh plus 4 mhmhmmh carry the 2…) Sorry, when we got married over 12 years ago, we never had a discussion about how many children we would have, and where the cutoff would be. We both knew we wanted children, and most likely many. And now, what feels like only months later, we have a basketball team. For which I am grateful everyday.

A good portion of the public gives me incredulous looks when I pronounce that I love having a big family. And I can see why. After all, I have consciously selected a lifestyle where nothing I own looks nice for very long. Not the couches, not the carpet, not my dress shirts, not the CD sleeves, not our books, not the yard, not the computer keyboard, not the stair railing, and certainly not the car. My gosh, the car.

I suppose there is also a heightened level of inconvenience and hassle associated with having numerous children. I’ve had to, for the most part, surrender to any form of timing or rhythm in scheduling life. Bedtime is sometime after 8p.m. and before 10 p.m. Baseball games, church activities, piano lessons, Cub Scouts, and dinner are all strategically scheduled (by outside forces) to occur at the same time. And if you are supposed to be somewhere at 10:00 a.m., it doesn’t matter if you start getting ready to leave the Tuesday before, you will not make it before 10:12 a.m., as you will get halfway there before you have to turn around and go back because somebody is not wearing shoes, or socks, or pants. And you just pray it is one of the children and not you.

But the frenzied mayhem and borderline lawlessness of the wild frontier known as Parents of a Large Brood is truly inspiring to me. I remember sitting at a football game some years back, and there was a well-populated family sitting directly in front of me. The parents must have been in their early 50s, and they had somewhere in the neighborhood of seven kids. At this point, their youngest was probably just starting high school, and their older children married with young children of their own. And they were all sitting together at this football game. And I was completely enthralled, feeling like I was getting a glimpse of my life in 15 years, watching older siblings chatting with younger siblings, parents playing with grandchildren, nieces laughing with uncles, young cousins eating nachos together, brothers-in-laws teasing sisters-in-laws. I was mostly fixed on the parents, and thought about how wonderful it must have felt to be surrounded by some of your most favorite people in this lifetime, and to have them be your family.

I had about three children at that time, and I already knew I would have more. But it was a warm reminder of how great it would be. Nothing makes me as happy as my family. Nobody makes me laugh more. Nobody makes me feel more loved. I never feel more centered or inspired than when I am doing something for the emotional, spiritual, mental, or physical well-being of my family. And that’s why I’m excited for June, when we’ll be adding another one.

And Baby Makes Seven

Katie woke me up early Saturday morning to tell me that she was having contractions. Well, how do you go back to sleep after that?! (Pretty easily, it turns out.) Katie crawled back into bed and we went back to sleep for a few more hours.

When Katie actually did get out of bed, she ventured to the potty room and promptly lost her mucus plug. For those of you who know what a mucus plug is, you understand that this means things were progressing. For those of you who don’t know what a mucus plug is, I can only assume that it’s a conscious decision and you don’t want to know what it is; and far be it from me to put such images in your head. So just skip to the next paragraph.

By mid-morning the contractions weren’t any harder or more regular. This was frustrating for Katie, and a little boring for me. Then, all of a sudden, and without warning, they stopped completely. Katie took a nap, and I went to do some Christmas shopping at Wal-Mart. Don’t get me started. No, seriously. Do NOT get me started.

By late afternoon Katie was up and moving, and I, bloodied and war-torn from my Wal-Mart excursion, was wrapping Christmas presents while visions of shoppers being pelted by sugar plums (that I was throwing) filled my head. The contractions had picked back up, but were still irregular, and according to Katie, not all that painful. She could breathe through them as she kept busy with other things.

We had a meeting at the church building that night (adult session of Stake Conference, for you LDS folks), and Katie decided to go, feeling that maybe the distraction would help her to not sit on the couch and look at her watch and wait for the proverbial stork to show up. Throughout the two-hour meeting I would occasionally hear Katie breathing louder than usual, and I knew she was having a contraction. But that didn’t stop me from shushing her, because I am all about the reverence. At one point I thought she was making a gesture, but it turned out she was just telling me that the contraction was “one” minute long.

We got home from the meeting, got comfortable, and put on a movie. About an hour into it it became obvious that Katie was having more consistent contractions and also that Tom Hanks wasn’t leaving that Terminal anytime soon. Even though there were more contractions, they were not regular. Seven minutes apart, then four, then six, then five – and then the contractions were a minute long, then 30 seconds, then a minute-and-a-half. Weird. I mentioned to Katie that we should call Margie the Midwife. Even if we didn’t think she needed to come over immediately, it would be a good idea to let her know what the day had been like and see what her take on it was.

Her take on it was that she was coming over immediately. I can’t help but think that this was due (to a large degree) to how our last labor and delivery went. (For those of you just joining this saga, the last labor and delivery went without Margie the Midwife.)

Margie showed up around 11:45 p.m., and we all decided to adjourn to the Birthing Room (aka, our bedroom). Katie sprawled out on the bed and tried to get comfortable. The contractions were getting a little harder and no position on the bed was working for her. Margie suggested she check Katie and see how dilated she was. Ta-da! Katie was completely dilated to a 10!

“But…” said Margie… “I can’t feel a head.”

“Oh, GREAT!” I said. “No head!? The kids on the playground are going to be ruthless! But I suppose the upside is that our food bill will be about the same.”

My funnies fell on deaf ears.

Margie explained that the amniotic sack (or “water bag”) was in contact with the cervix, and the head was up and off to the side. At this point, you could literally see the shape of the baby – where its head was and the length of the body. The head was not engaged in the necessary location, and that was Margie’s concern.

“I can break the water and control the leak so it’s slow – that will allow me to guide the baby’s head into place.”

“Oh, good,” we said.

“Yes…and that should work. Even if the bum or feet come first, we’re okay.”

“Okay,” we nodded.

“…but if a hand comes out first, we’re in trouble. You would need to be rushed to the hospital, and you would most likely need a c-section.”

I nodded as I listened to Margie, recognizing her need to give us a Worse Case scenario, just in case we needed to jump into action and she wouldn’t have to explain as we went. But I completely trusted Margie. She had done this kind of thing hundreds, if not thousands, of times. One of them with one of our other children. And she explained it very calmly and matter-of-factly, indicating to me that she was not at all concerned about it happening.

But the timing was such that Katie was already feeling vulnerable. And all she was hearing was “Blah, blah blah – hand coming out first – blah, blah, blah – you’ll need a c-section – blah, blah, blah – Tom Hanks is never going to get out of that Terminal.”

I was kneeling on the side of the bed, holding Katie’s hand as she lay down. We were both listening to Margie, and I thought we were on the same page, when I felt Katie squeeze my hand. I looked over at her, and for the only moment through this entire experience, I saw concern in her eyes.

“You have to fix it.”

“What?”

“You have to fix it,” she pleaded.

It broke my heart to see this uncertainty in Katie’s eyes. This makes no sense to you, I’m sure, but having been around Katie for over 10 years now, and being deeply in love with her, I easily cracked her code. She just wanted to be reassured that there was no way a hand was going to come out first. And I reassured her that Margie was only giving us the “disclaimer” and that everything would be perfectly fine.

With that, Margie broke the water, and our baby fell right into place, head first, right on cue. I got up on the bed and helped Katie scoot to the side of the bed. I sat behind her and held her up under her arms, so she was in a squatting position. Margie laid out all the pads and cloths and assumed her position on the other end of Katie.

Katie began pushing – so consciously and by design – and after only a couple of pushes, the head was out. Another push, and Margie was holding a new baby. Our new baby. A baby boy. A 10 lbs. 4 oz. baby boy.

If you are just now regaining consciousness from reading that, I will now confirm what you’ve read is true. A 10 lbs. 4 oz baby boy…with a 15 ¾ inch head. And he is beautiful. He nursed immediately. And my favorite characteristic so far is that he sleeps through the night.

The name we finally decided on is Tanner Bruce Craig. Tanner is my mom’s maiden name, and rich in heritage, which I love. Bruce is Katie’s dad’s name, as well as New Jersey’s own Bruce Springsteen. (No relation, I just thought I’d point it out.) He was born at 12:18 a.m. on Sunday, December 4th. (Tanner, not Springsteen.)

Katie made this delivery look so graceful and smooth, it was like something we just did every Saturday night. I am always in awe of her abilities and the strength she exhibits at moments when I would certainly do some real damage to whoever else was in the room. Of course, I do exhibit my own kind of grace and restraint in the lines at Wal-Mart. You can’t take that away from me.

Allow Me to Introduce Roxanna

It was two years ago this morning that my youngest, Roxanna, was born. In her honor (but mostly in the honor of Katie) I wanted to post what I wrote that day about the experience. I sent this out to a few of you, so some of you may have read this previously.

***

Katie woke me up this morning at 4:45 a.m. My first thought was that Katie was waking me up for "That's Cat," but then I realized it was 2003. That stupid VH1's "I Love the 70s" episode from last night was messing with my mind. Katie told me she had been awake for about an hour with some contractions that weren't horrible, but were strong enough they had woken her up. We called Margie the Midwife. Margie asked if we wanted her to come over to our house immediately. I looked up and saw Katie walking around the room. She was casual and witty and not burdened by the contractions. We decided Margie didn't need to come yet, but we wanted to let her know that something was starting.

We crawled back into bed, and actually fell back asleep. And when I say "we," I totally mean "me." Katie feel asleep, then woke up to contractions, then went back to sleep, then woke up for contractions, then went back to sleep. You see the pattern. At about 7:00 a.m. we got out of bed. My mom was making breakfast for the kids, and we were hanging out in the bedroom, working through contractions with Katie breathing, and me holding her, or rubbing her back, or letting her hang on me. I was also breathing, by the way, but it was more just out of habit. It wasn't necessarily benefiting Katie.

We worked through the contractions for a while - I would help Katie work through one, then run to get something done, then come running back for the next one, then run to get something done. You see the pattern. I started to notice my time for getting things done grew shorter and shorter, until Katie was leaving me practically no time to do anything, which is extremely rude and I mean to bring this up to her later, once our routine is back to normal.

I decided I'd time Katie's contractions to see if they were as close as I was thinking. And they were. A minute and a half long, only two minutes apart. They were right on top of each other. This usually means the Transition Stage has arrived, and then you start pushing. (And by "you," I totally mean "the mother.") So I told Katie how long her contractions were. Her comment was, "That's impossible. Look at me - I'm too chipper. I'm happy, I'm fine, I'm even a little bit sassy." She had a point, to be sure. But I called Margie anyway. "Margie," says I, "Why don't you come on over for the party. Katie's contractions, though not really hard yet, are pretty close, and I'm sure we're on our way." "Okay," she said, "I'm going to throw some clothes on and I'll jump in the car." I appreciated knowing she would be dressed when she arrived.

Katie had decided to go to the bathroom, and then she would venture out for some breakfast. I hung up the phone to go check on Katie, and as I did, I heard, "Keeeeeennnnn!" This was a familiar sounding yell. I had heard it at least three times before, with the birth of each of our children. I went running in. Katie looked up at me and in full confidence said, "I have to push."

Ah, nuts. I called Margie back and said, "Katie needs to push." I suppose I was hoping that Margie had a "Back to the Future" type car and would be able to arrive immediately, if not five minutes ago. Margie shot back, "Oh, tell her not to push." Thanks, Margie. Katie's on the brink of delivering, and I'm going back in with "Margie says not to push."

"Margie says not to push," I told Katie. Katie looked up at me like she was wondering when I had started drinking in the mornings. Then there was a large gush of water. Her water had broken. The expression on Katie's face was telling me this was IT. I had seen it before and I knew this was it. I knelt down and had Katie scoot to the edge of the toilet and lean back. There was the baby's head. Not just a sliver of it, but the entire top of the head. At this point, it seemed it didn't matter if Katie pushed or not, the baby was coming out.

Katie seemed calm, and I think more than anything, that is what helped me be calm. I told Katie I was ready and that she could push when she was ready. She pushed once and the head came right out, no problem. I put my hand on it to guide it out, and waited for Katie to push again. Katie kind of panted and re-evaluated the situation. I told Katie that it seemed the baby's shoulders might be a bit stuck. Katie stood up and hunched over my shoulder, and pushed again. The baby came right out into my arms.

Katie's mom stepped in with a towel and we wrapped up the baby and handed it to Katie, still sitting on the potty. I peeked under the towel and announced, "It's a girl!" Katie echoed, "It's a girl!" smiling and sighing. Katie looked beautiful and powerful and kind. She looked incredible. I had the camera right there, so I took a photo of her. It may be my most favorite photo of Katie ever.

I handed the baby to Katie's mom and helped Katie over to the bed. I set out some pads on the bed and she sat down. Katie's mom cleaned off the baby, and brought her over to the bed. She nursed right away, perfectly.

Margie called from the road, stuck behind a car accident, and asked if everything was okay and when I said we were great, she told me to go ahead and cut the cord. I clamped it, an inch from the belly button, then cut it. We cleaned everything up, got Katie something to drink, and sat in complete amazement at what we had just done on our own.

Margie arrived. She weighed the baby and checked Katie to make sure she was okay. Everything was fine. To me, everything was more than fine.