Kristen Howerton, my friend and editor at ShePosts, posted a similar message on her personal blog, Rage Against the Minivan, with the following sentiment:

There is a rally to restore unity movement going around social media circles. Where the Daily Show’s rally sought to bring it down a notch for America, some of us are trying to bring it down a notch for the Lord. This is my submission.

I LOVE this idea! So I’m jumping on the “minivan” with my contribution:

Being PRO-LIFE means supporting all life.

*this means the poor, the elderly,the sick, the disabled, brown,

black, & white, religious + non, you, me, and everyone else on this planet.*

I had no clue “push presents” existed until I visited a friend and her new baby. Instead of offering me a chance to cuddle her new little bundle, she shoved a sparkly pair of diamond earrings in my face.

“For meeeee,” I joked.

“No, for ME,” she corrected. “Hubby gave them to me in the delivery room right after the baby was born. Aren’t they GORGOUS? Isn’t my husband UH-MA-ZING? Didn’t I marry the best and most thoughtful husband in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD?” [a dramatization based on real events]

The first question that came to mind was, “Isn’t the baby the gift… for both of you?” But I kept that to myself…

In spite of its many of names- “push presents”, “push prizes”, “baby baubles”, “slice of life” (for c-sections)- each more tacky than the last, giving a new mother a gift after enduing months of emotions and morning sickness, giving up her body, and hours of labor is actually a very lovely gesture. It just seems so quaint and old-fashioned, a remnant of the days when husbands were in the waiting room smoking a cigar instead of  in the delivery room holding your hand.

It’s as if presenting your partner with an object is the only way to be involved in the birth of a person. In modern times, men participate in every aspect of pregnancy and childbirth, short of actually having to endure it, of course. Couples baby showers, classes, blogs, and books geared to new dads, hours of crib/excersaucer/stroller assembly…  Maybe the men should get a gift too.

A Netflix subscription for the late nights spent rocking the baby back to sleep?  A top-of-the-line cappuccino maker to ward off sleep-deprivation? A manly diaper bag?

Apparently not. Every since my friend first flashed her new “twins”,  I have been fascinated with “push presents”. They’re becoming more popular these days, although they have been a long-standing tradition in other countries. In England, men give their partners a diamond ring. In India, new mothers are given gold jewelry.

Over the year, I’ve asked tons of friends about this new and strange custom. Jewelry seems to be the most popular, go-to item, particularly if it’s something that can eventually be passed down to the child. Just as often it’s designer diaper bags, an item of clothing, and expensive strollers being given. Along with push presents, I’ve also heard a lot more about “babymoons”, the final getaway before the sleepless nights begin.

As if it isn’t already obvious, I did not get  either of these things before or after the birth of either of my babies, but I never expected them either.

My husband admits to being a terrible gift giver. He has the best intentions, but his follow-through is somewhat… well, it blows. I think he’s too hard on himself because I couldn’t care less about that kind of stuff.

Being married to a man who got up with the children’s cries, hunted for loveys, washed and dried blankets and burp rags, stayed up to keep me company during the night feedings, and rocked the baby back to sleep after is all the “push present” I need.

Isn’t my husband UH-MA-ZING? Didn’t I marry the best and most thoughtful husband in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD?

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This post was written for “All About the Bump Month”, where eight other bloggers and I will be discussing all things mommy and baby. We have some terrific sponsors, fantastic prizes, and an amazing giveaway valued at $1,000!

On July 29th, 2009, I woke up early, kissed my first born on the head…

…and left for the hospital with Mike and my mom– sans make up, sans breakfast, and VERY pregnant.

Once we arrived, I was shown to a room where I sat and waited, fixating on my impending c-section for about three solid hours. It was scheduled for noon. By noon-fifteen, I was supposed to have a baby. On paper, it sounded so simple, so easy.

I’ve been through this before (and survived). So, why was I so terrified?

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My first c-section was an emergency. I had been in labor for several hours and pushing for two when my son’s heart rate began to drop. His umbilical cord was pinched beneath his shoulder and the risk of going on was too great.

I wasn’t so hell bent on getting my way that I was willing to risk my child’s life. So when my doctor gently suggested the c-section, I agreed. I was so exhausted and so hungry that the experience just washed over me.

It was my first experience with childbirth. Yeah, I had watched countless episodes of A Baby Story on TLC and heard so many birth stories, first hand. Oh so many stories.

What is it that compels friends and strangers alike to spew every detail of their labor and delivery at them mere sight of a bump?

Yet, when it came right down to it, I had no preconceived notions of how labor should (or should not) happen. It just did.

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This time, I knew exactly what to expect and spent the entire morning fretting over it. The thought of the incision. Knowing I would be fully conscious as it was happening this time. The play by play the doctor and nurses were sure to give me. Having to tell them to “please, stop talking to me”…

My doctor was running late. “Another woman went into labor this morning and he’s just finishing up,” the nurse informed me. From then on, every time the door opened and a new person came in, I would sit up and ask, “Is it time yet? Is it time?”

*****************

My son was born at 7:59 pm CST. He let out three abrupt cries, then looked around the room as if to serenely say, “Okay, so this is where I am now. All righty then.”

I cried tears of joy and relief.  I was a mommy!

My son was whisked off to the nursery with my husband trailing behind, while I was being sewn up.  I think I dozed off. I woke up an hour later in the recovery room, in pain but in bliss.

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At 12:43 pm PST, my daughter took her first breaths along with a primal scream, as if to say, “PUT. ME. BACK.” Or perhaps it was healthy roar to say, “Ready or not, here I am.”

I cried too- mostly out of joy, but also out of fear. This time, I sent my mom to trail after her to the nursery and begged my husband stay behind and hold my hand. I was having a bad reaction to the epidural and my little baby was so mad.

What if I had made a mistake?

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“You’re supposed to love her. You’re supposed to love her.” I kept reminding myself throughout the rest of our hospital stay.

Of course, I loved her, but there was a nagging doubt about being able to love her as much as my son. How could I possible have enough love and patience in my heart for two when I could barely contain the love and patience I have for one?

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My daughter was born my brown eyes, my nose, my lips, and my dark hair, and a brow didn’t unfurrow until she was three days old.  Just in time to leave the hospital.

Then, we brought her home to her big brother and it furrowed again. It remained that way for another three days, which is when her wild discontent…

… finally mellowed to mild concern.

… and eventually, a Mona Lisa smile.

*****************

It’s not entirely accurate to say that I was forced to schedule a second c-section. It was more like I had no other choice.

We had just moved to the Bay Area six months prior. I had a college roommate who lived nearby and relatives an hour away, but certainly no one who could drop everything in the event that I needed an extra week to recover or just need a break.

I was lucky to have help from my parents and Mike’s mom, but only for a set period of time and flights across the country had to booked in advance. Knowing that I would need the most help after my daughter’s birth, my delivery would have to be scheduled too.

Some new acquaintances had suggested a vbac and natural childbirth. My doctor wasn’t exactly against the idea, he just had never seen one go well… I trusted my doctor’s judgement and if he wasn’t comfortable with the idea then I wasn’t comfortable with it either.

Ultimately, I knew a c-section was the best option for me, but what if my due date was set wrong? Since I spent my first trimester in the UK and we were in the middle of moving, all of my dates were just a rough guess, at best.

She was just so tiny- just 6 pounds- and so upset. I wondered if I had made the right decision in scheduling a second c-section.

Maybe I should have kept her in longer. Maybe she really wasn’t ready to be born. Did I really make the best decision?

*****************

I thought having had a first child qualified me to have a second. What could this beautiful soul throw at me that I didn’t already know how to handle?

In a word… Everything.

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I don’t know if my decision was wrong or right, and frankly, it doesn’t matter…

…because if I had it to do over, I wouldn’t change a thing.

My babies are perfect just the way they are, and I love them both the same, which is to say infinitely!

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My daughter’s birth story was written to kick off “All About the Bump Month”, where eight other bloggers and I will be discussing all things mommy and baby. We have some terrific sponsors, fantastic prizes, and an amazing giveaway valued at $1,000! So, stay tuned!

Read other “All About the Bump” Month birth stories from the Splash Creative Media team on our blogs:

• Alison Ray from Sassy Moms in the City @sassymomchicago
• Andrea Fellman from Savvy Sassy Moms @savvysassymoms
• Jessica Rosenberg from It’s My Life @kikarose
• Julie Meyers Pron from Just Precious @justprecious
• Kelly Whalen from The Centsible Life @centsiblelife
• Laurie Cooper from Guessing all the Way @clueless_mama
• Leticia Barr from Tech Savvy Mama @TechSavvyMama
• Whitney Wingerd from Mommies with Style @WhitneyMWS

Since becoming a stay-at-home mom four years ago, I am often asked what I do all day. Sometimes I have no words to fully describe the experience. After all, anyone  absurd enough to ask such a question couldn’t comprehend the answer anyway. (News flash. Parenthood. It’s tough.)

Other days I have approximately three hundred and eleven. Today was one of the latter.

For the past three days, Lou has been begging to wear her Halloween costume. Because I’m such a lazy amazing mom, this morning I finally gave in.

Come on, isn’t she adorable?! I love this girl!

The kids didn’t want to leave the house (hidden blessing) or do much of anything today. Instead, they happily played beside me while I worked. As I glance up from my computer, I noticed Lou, still in her flower costume, sunning herself in a warm shaft of light coming in through the window. It was so beautiful and perfect that I nearly cried.

“This is the moment…” I thought. “This is the moment when being home with my children—witnessing their daily joys and discoveries, indulging their whims and fancies because… well, why not? The day is ours!”

Being a stay-at-home mom can be the most gratifying, heart-bursting, sublime joy I think I could ever experience. Even though I made the switch to work-at-home mom late last year, I still get to have the little moments. The best of both worlds, right?

Lou caught my gaze and ran into my arms. As I picked her up, I felt a wet spot on her leg. I assumed the kids had just been splashing water or spilled some juice somewhere in the house until I noticed a trail of “dewdrops” leading to the spot where Lou was sitting… and then a puddle.

She had apparently Houdini-ed her way out of her diaper while still zipped IN her costume…

I whipped her out of her costume and into the bath, because yes, I’ve done this drill several times before… Meanwhile I told Scout to just stay in one place until I could clean up the mess.

When I returned from drying and redressing Lou, I found Scout perched on top of my desk. I proceeded to mop the floor as he literally oversaw the process, commenting on all the places I had “missed”…

My life is a fairytale, but some times it feels more like Cinderella before the ball than the happy ending. Not that I ever get to finish reading anything…

Today, Scout have a huge fit because the DVR wasn’t recording “The Cat in the Hat” fast enough. I was so aggravated that busted out with, “When I was your age, we had to watch what was on TV when it was on TV. And if we missed a show, it was NO. BIG. DEAL.”

This outburst was met with bewildered stares.

It is an immutable fact that each generation is progressively more spoiled than the last. It was also an immutable fact that the current generation will lack the basis for realizing this and just think you’re crazy.