She's Here

Magnolia Grace

7 lbs 6 oz

21 inches

May 13, 2015

Our seventh baby, fourth daughter surprised us by showing up a little bit early.  She is absolutely perfect in every way and a more adored baby I'm not sure ever existed. 

Birth is, always, intense, magical, brutal and miraculous. I learn something new every time. This time, how suffering and sanctity is always held together, and when you have that knowledge - fear flees. Looking up into my husband's face and telling him "I'm afraid" right there before the end, yet taking that deep breath and doing the hard thing - that lays the groundwork for all of life that comes after. There is never anything to fear. Victory is ours before that very first step.

I was grateful to have the most hands-off hospital experience possible. Besides the few things that are simply how things are there, I can't imagine it going much differently here at home. We were there for three hours before she appeared. It was perfect.

After a tiring 24 hours in the hospital, I'm so thankful to be home. I know it may seem odd that our little house with seven kids is more restful than a solitary hospital room, but it is!  The constant waking and checks that hospital protocol necessitates is so disruptive to those precious first few hours, I was desperate to get back home. 

So here we are. My kids drift in and out to hold and marvel at our little one. J has two whole weeks off work, and is doing an amazing job at keeping our busy family life afloat while I sleep and mend and nurse nonstop. 

I have nothing but gratitude and amazement that a life this full of all the good things could possibly be mine. 

Like Grace, something I could never deserve or earn, but a gift straight from Heaven.

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Seven

On a recent trip to Ikea, we were approached three times by strangers, asking about our family. "Are they all yours?" "How old are you?" "One, two three...how many?" People coming up because they just had to ask, just had to see, just had to know.

"Six," I say. And then, "Well, for now. Seven in May."

Seven. Some days even I can't believe it.

Our little house is packed with six already but seven? I feel like Maria in Sound of Music, sputtering it in disbelief. "Yes, but...seven?!"

Still, this disbelief doesn't come from the same place that sends sarcastic comments on what causes that or the horrified whispered counting as my kids hop out of our super sized van. Seven?!

This disbelief comes from a place of awe.

Seven.

It's called the luckiest number and I know why - because seven is miraculous. Seven is so much more than I could have ever dreamed of.

I grew up a part of seven. I woke up a part of seven, played a part of seven, learned a part of seven, thrived a part of seven. Being one of seven is a strong part of my identity. I see the world through the lens of one of seven, a person with six other people who have influenced me in that unique way that siblings do.

As an adult, I live as a part of seven. In group texts with my three sisters. Pushing my brother's kids on the swings in my back yard. Praying for them all, by name, with my own children - every day.  Seven kids born to my Mom and Dad have shaped my life and my heart in a thousand ways. Now seven of my own do the same.

It's easy to forget, at times, that this is several times over what is considered normal, because it is normal to me. While seven kids worth of laundry will never be my favorite, nor how long an illness takes to pass through a family this size, seven feels familiar. Comfortable. It feels like family to me, because, for me, it's how family has always been.

A friend asks how we are preparing to meet the new baby and how I think the kids will do. Everyone seems concerned that adding a seventh will somehow negatively impact the kids we have. Push them further away from their established place in the family, make it harder for them to get attention or love. As a middle child in a family of seven, I might be just the one to ask. I think back on that June day when we all rushed in to see our Mom cradling her seventh, and the only thing I can remember is joy.

I know on some days it will be more than I can handle. Some days it may feel like more than my heart can hold. It is sure to showcase my shortcomings on a daily basis. It will drive me to my knees more often than not.

But that's how blessings work. They teach us, time and again, that gratitude, struggle, thankfulness, humility and reliance on the Maker of all things - all these things are pure joy. Not because they are easy, or don't change us.

But because, incredibly, they do.

We've got ten weeks to go and she wakes me gently each morning, sleepily turning over inside. My beautiful, wonderful, amazing number seven.


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Tuning In, Giving Up

Third trimester hits and I'm slowing down. It's evidenced in ways little and big. Rolling to my side before sitting up in bed each morning, easing my way through those first few uncertain steps as my body pops back into place and remembers how to move.

Self care is always a tricky subject for me because I feel like it's one of those areas where it's easy to cross the line, from meeting actual needs to self important pampering. I stand my ground with my "life is service, service is work, work is good" mantra most days, but these later weeks of pregnancy pose a challenge to me each time. I become acutely aware that, in the coming weeks, the person who may need my compassion and attention is - myself.

Sometimes the hardest person for me to extend compassion to is my own self. These mercies are not difficult for me to show others. When I see other Mamas struggling through various seasons, I'm the first to tell them to slow it down, take care of themselves, let others love on them. Why, then, do I resist it so much?

Pregnancy puts me in a place of needing to be on the receiving end of acts of mercy and service, an it sends any puffed up pride of mine tumbling.  That protestant work ethic is hard to shake at a time like this, and the dread of laziness holds me fast. It's a humbling thing for a "doer" like me to reluctantly hand the reins over to someone else for a time, even when intellectually I know it is the right thing for now. It reminds me that I am not the sum worth of what chores I accomplished today. I am more than a series of check marks down a list of to-dos. I am more than what I do or fail to do.

I know this. I believe this. Yet somehow that sinful pride of needing to earn worth keeps cropping up. Seven babies in and it's still a lesson I'm learning. A fight to the death of the pride that keeps me down. Isn't that the way of it? Pride feels like it lifts you in importance, when really? It binds you in chains, making you a slave of your own works, struggling to measure up to an impossible standard.

So, I tune in to what I need, fiercely guarded against any guilt that may fall across my path. I go to bed early and sleep as much as I possibly can following long showers to relax my tired and aching body. I swallow my reluctance and ask for help and feel the glow of gratitude when the people around me rush to my aid. I let myself be loved and cared for. I sit with my dependence and recognize that there is much to learn from this season of life.

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Communing

It starts slowly, a little twinge here, a sharp shooting pain there as I go about my day. The days go on and with the increasing heaviness of pregnancy comes the increased discomfort.

On Sunday there is no break in the pain. I wake up several times that night to it. I sit with it in church. I struggle with it up and down the stairs dragging laundry baskets. I soak in a tub for a few minutes relief and then slip it back on while baking for family dinner.

Sometimes love is pain. Far from pink candy hearts and sweeping romantic gestures, love is often hard. Grating, bone on bone. Picking up each day's hardship and wearing it like a mantle, walking the next 24 hours before setting it down again.

With Lent drawing nearer, I do my usual contemplating on what to give up, or do differently during the 40 days leading up to Easter. This year, I'm pregnant. I've been pregnant during Lent 7 times. My Catholic friends tell me that, according to their practices, pregnant women are exempt from fasting during Holy days.

It's funny, because far from being exempt - being pregnant feels like it draws me closer to Christ's suffering than giving up chocolate ever could. Each day, it's front and center. The physical struggle at my changing form, the emotional impact of a cocktail of hormonal chemicals, the mental forbearance required to calculate risk and reward and yet set it aside because there are no guarantees. It is a whole-self experience.

Pregnancy is a wonderful gift. It's a beautiful blessing and something that I am awed by each and every time. It is also complex, and that means that it can be equal parts joy and pain. Equal parts excitement and fear. From a clinical standpoint, I'm not high risk for anything abnormal, but uncertainties always remain. Something as incredible and important as ferrying a soul earth-side could never be trite or simple. It requires physical and emotional strength. Bravery and compassion. Selflessness.

These things are not innate in me. It seems at every turn I struggle, and yet - with the opportunity of struggle comes the opportunity of change. I get stronger fighting off my human impulse to find the easy way out. In my struggle, He sanctifies.

In pregnancy, I become acquainted with surrender. With the acceptance that comes from sitting with uncertainty. In pregnancy and later on, delivery - I am forced to acknowledge that we all walk a narrow line between life and death. Something that is easy to stick in the back of my mind during the rush of regular life, in Lent and in pregnancy - I face it.

Love requires opening yourself up to being broken. 12 years and 7 pregnancies and I still learn this over and over again. The entire transition of growing a child inside you makes you think that, somehow, at the end - it will belong to you. For good. But my work here is transient. Fleeting. From the very start, the end begins.

There are days when it all feels like too much. Too much for any one person to take. There are days when I'd wish myself a thousand miles away if I could. Instead, I open myself up to brokenness and commune with God. Because being broken for love is something that takes supernatural grace and strength, faith and courage. It requires more than anything I could drum up on my own.

My body, broken for little you.
My heart, broken for you.
My world, shattered for you.
My everything, for you.

Love like that is more than a human heart can hold. So I hand it over to Him, take up the hard parts and call it all Holy. In and with me, He leads me on.


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My Minimal Baby Must Haves {And A Few Sweet Splurges}

The more children I have, the less baby gear I want or use.

With the first we were so well loved by family and friends and given a wonderful baby shower. We dutifully went to our nearby big box baby store and registered for all the "essentials." The travel system (car seat and stroller combo). Swing, bouncer, pack n play, play mat, toys, hooded towels, on and on. Each item incredible specific. Each item with a potential usefulness lifespan of just a few months at best.

Of course every baby and circumstance is different, but my list of must haves has changed quite a bit over the years, evolving with my parenting style and our circumstances. My bare bones list is a car seat, a carrier, diapers, clothes, maybe a bouncer.

With our large family-in-a-small-home lifestyle, things have to truly earn their keep to be kept, and items that can be used for more than one task are more likely to fit the bill. So plain prefolds that can be used as burp cloths or diapers are a mainstay. A nice thick baby quilt can double as a floor mat. A regular towel works just fine. Beyond the newborn stage, holding onto things that are not getting used is just not an option with limited space, so the multiple use item is a better bet for us all the way around.

That all being said, I'm not exempt from oohing and ahhing over some truly sweet baby gear. Beyond knitting sweaters and leggings and booties, I rounded up a few things that I just love. What would you add to my list?

A nice baby carrier. We have a Beco and Ergo for when the baby gets bigger, but I'm dreaming of a Didymos Indio this time around. I love wrapping, but especially wrapping a newborn. In the carrier department, going with a more expensive option is usually your best bet. The nice thing is, resale values on carriers is very high and you can usually find nice ones used.

These leggings by Whole Parenting Goods. She has the best fabrics and they have enough stretch to make it over a cloth diaper.

Pilot caps. These ones from Lil Nells are so adorable!

I'm not a big bib girl, but these bibs from Wee Whimsicals are so cute, I make an exception.

Stretchy gauze swaddle blankets are a nice size, light enough weight for summer.

I've never used a baby hammock before but I love the idea.

Burt's Bees baby line makes your baby smell delicious, which is always a good thing.

There's truly not much you actually need for baby. Keeping them warm and fed and changed is pretty simple in most american homes. Everything else is truly gravy. And in a home like ours, with many siblings anxiously awaiting to hold and play with our newest addition, most of the gear would go unused anyway.



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Making Peace With Change

I'm 13 weeks pregnant with my 7th baby. The nurse taking my information at the first appointment pauses when she sees it, that word on my file like a scarlet letter. "I see here you'd had a few, um, homebirths. Is that your plan this time?"

Time seems to stand still as I spiral down memory lane. That first one, Jonah, our only baby that we didn't know the gender until birth, surprising us two weeks early in a wild three hour labor, born still in the amniotic sack. The next one, our Peter, born while the kids were all away on various summer trips, a whopper at 9lbs 9oz and my very favorite birth. Then Rosemary, born after a night of laughing through labor with my closest friends while J brought everyone coffee - more of a girls night than a birth day.

Yes, I answer. Three.

And this time? Her pen pauses and she looks up. Where are you planning to deliver?

The hospital, I say. And I feel it, that unanswered cry deep inside me to I hush to deal with later. Not here, not now.

I'm thirteen weeks pregnant with baby number seven and I need to make peace. But first, I need to grieve.

Ever since our pregnancy announcement, we've been asked why we have chosen the hospital this time. The reasons are varied and complicated, but the short answer is this.

1) Our wonderful midwife who gave us the gift of her time and care during those three pregnancies has moved on from her practice. For my own reasons, she is the only local midwife I would be comfortable birthing with. I completely respect and support her reasons for leaving baby catching behind her. The days we had with her were a blessing and I'm full of nothing but gratitude for the tender way she cared for our family.

2) There is nothing unhealthy or strange or unnatural about a healthy young woman having seven babies, but certain risk factors do go up after a certain number of deliveries. I am in excellent health and there are no concerns about my ability, but that factor, held with my midwife's departure, lead us to our current choice.

The local hospital.

Permission to grieve freely.

"It'll be fine." Friends assure me. "You're older now and have had more babies than the last time you were there. They will respect your wishes more." I smile and nod and bite back any retort, swallow back that lump in my throat. I birthed three children in that hospital. I know it's not hell on earth, nor the employees there some kind of awful people intent on ruining my birth experience. In fact I truly do believe that I will have a fine experience there. I'm not afraid. Despite wondering if I'll be able to manage the mental peace required for me to make it through a natural birth in an unnatural space, I'm not overly worried. But then, what is this?

There it is again, deep in my heart. That little plaintive cry. The one that is wrapped up in all the warm memories of the past three deliveries that no hospital can replicate through no fault of their own.

Again come the reassurances. "You can make it as much like home as you want. You can wear your own clothes, bring your own pillow, play your music, invite your friends. It'll be almost the same."

Yes, and no. How can you explain to those who haven't experienced it? No clipboard questions or triage beds. No "just because" heplocks, digging around for veins while labor. Not a soul you didn't handpick to walk that path with you, no strange nurses or aids you've never met who don't know you. No bands around your belly to "get a strip" before you're allowed to move. No eye drops or injections in your baby when they are fresh out of the womb and want only your arms. No mandatory 24 hour stay before you can take yourself and your little one home to where everything feels right.

Homebirth has been a beautiful gift in my life. A warm cocoon with which to usher in new life in quiet peace and familiarity, away from the rush of the outside world. A space and a place so intimate and personal that I can hardly verbalize it.

There's nothing wrong with hospital birth. I know I'll leave there bursting with gratitude at the lovely nurses and doctors we work with, holding my newest love all wrapped up in my arms. It will be fine. It might even be nice.

But tonight, tonight I'm giving myself permission to grieve. To sit with the hurt that comes from knowing a door to something you love is firmly closed. To think back on and relish the beautiful experiences I've been given. And to prepare my heart for what comes next.

I'm linking up with Transparent Tuesday.


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Not Just Another Boy

I remember it quite clearly, stopped on a walk with my 2 toddlers, chatting with a Mama friend I hadn't seen in awhile. She was pregnant with her third after two girls in a row and I asked her what she must have heard a million times: "So, is it another girl?" I'll never forget her response, that brilliant friend of mine. She smiled and said, "oh, no. Not another girl. It's a different one."

With that comment that I'll never forget, my sweet friend nailed it - what large families everywhere know. There's no such thing as "another girl" or "another boy." Because every boy and girl is different. Even in a family with plenty of each, every new arrival is something new.

Today is Peter's third birthday, my 3rd son - and goodness, is he not just "another" boy - but a very different one. Peter came along and the world has seemed a little bit sweeter ever since.

I don't remember a great deal of his pregnancy - which is probably a good thing. It was mostly business as usual until those last few hot and humid months. I remember it now, when our air conditioners struggle to do battle with the steamy air and do a lackluster job of it. I remember the long walks I'd take with Jonah, my toddler at the time, through the neighborhood.  The fierceness of the heat second only to my fierce ambition to walk that baby right on out. Of course, Peter had his own plans and came at the perfect time, 5 days "late." 

Peter's birth was my favorite so far - an empowering yet incredibly gentle birth for my biggest baby yet, a whopping 9 lbs 9 oz. Peter as an infant well into toddlerhood was mild and sweet, quiet and observant yet so precious and loving. He spoke very little until he was two years old, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself. He's my boy who stayed a baby the very longest and goodness but I've cherished his babyhood, nursing him along side his baby sister for quite a while.

Peter, 3rd boy and 5th born, is an indispensable part of our family. His sweet heart, curious spirit and infectious joy refresh those around him and bless the world. Not "just" another boy for me. A different one. And one I'm so very thankful to have been blessed to have.

Happy Birthday to Peter Matthias. My darling boy.

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To My Rosemary at 6 months

Oh, my little.

You are 6 months old now.  You smile and you laugh and you shriek.  You are endlessly adored by 3 older brothers and 2 older sisters.  You are Mama's heart and Daddy's little lady.  You are joy.

Although you are my 6th, you've taught me more about babies than the last 5 combined.  A wildcard who forced me to toss out any and all wisdom and know-how I thought I had.  You had me holding on by the skin of my teeth, drove me to my knees in humility.  These days are easier, but you are still my paradox.

You pulled my hair and scratched my chest and screamed in my face, but you wanted me.  Me.  If I threw up my hands and set you in the bed and walked away, your cry changed.  You wanted me, even when you couldn't stop crying. You sleep ever and only in my arms, sometimes with your hand clasped tightly around my finger.

It has been hard to enjoy it.  To gather up these moments and treasure them, one by one.  These past 6 months have flown, not because they have been fun and easy but because each day was hard fought and hard won.

But now, now you are 6 months.  Always my favorite age for a baby.  You sit up on your own and play with toys.  You lunge at food and shriek for more.  Still no teeth, still no mobility, but you're getting more independent...little by little.

The older kids adore you.  They sneak into our room in the morning just to be the first one to cuddle you into the new day.  They show me what love looks like - the unconditional kind.  Their spirits aren't bruised when you cry in their arms.  They'll spend hours coaxing a laugh out of you, singing songs and kissing your toes.

Peter is less than 2 years older, but he is so gentle with you.  He "reads" you stories and comes right up close to inhale your downy little head.  He savors you, even at two.

I never knew that joy and love could look like this until you came along.  I never knew a high needs baby could be so maddeningly sweet.  I never knew I could love this way.  That pure joy can come, blindingly bright, at the end of a dark tunnel.

Happy 6 months to my precious baby girl.  Mama loves her little Rosebud.

(I knit Rosemary a sweater-coat using the Tiered baby jacket pattern and {gifted} eco wool in the 12-18 month size.  Hopefully it will keep her toasty warm all winter - and possibly into next year, too!)

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Something About Babies {Mindful Mothering Mondays}

She's stretched out on the couch, four months old at four o' clock in the afternoon.  Still not quite old enough for those regularly scheduled naps, she falls deeply asleep at a whim, wherever she chances to be at the time.

There's just something about it.  A sleeping baby.  Something distinctly other-worldly that makes us bend nearer for another look.  Some say it is the angelic expression on their resting faces.  For me, with Rosemary, it's these still, quiet moments that allow me to study the incredible artwork of her features, the featherdown of her lashes, the perfect pin point dimples on the top of her hand.

Growing babies is an odd thing.  It is completely biologically normal.  Babies make sense.  They are the raison d'etre of the entire world.  Life itself is the making and raising of babies, because without babies - life stops.  It's all over.

And yet, we still marvel.  Steal glances at the rounded abdomen of that woman in the grocery store, wondering when she's due.  Tell our birth stories again and again, just as if every human on earth wasn't once a baby, arriving in much the same way.  Growing babies is an odd thing because, while it is normal and natural and makes so much sense, even the most logical of us all cannot escape the feeling that there's a bit of magic there.  I feel it when I hug a friend, due any day, and her stomach gently butts up against mine.  I know, intellectually, that we are not alone in this embrace, that someone else is right there.  Yet I'm still absolutely amazed when, days later, I see the person who was there with us, silently and invisibly included in our moment together.  The same person, just now visible.

I've grown a bumper crop of babies in my 29 years. 6 stair steps.  6 unique individuals that would not exist without my "yes."  6 souls grown right up under my heart, in that quiet and safe place before bursting on the scene and beginning the work of severing themselves from me.  Babies are magic because they touch us and move on.  We think it is about us, our decision to welcome them, our birth experience when they arrive - but it's not.  It is never about us.  It's never about the color of the nursery decor, or if she looks more like her daddy or me.  It is my story, but then again, it's not.

It's about the birth of a brand spankin' new soul.  A person who has never before existed and never will again.  A person who will live on this earth and touch lives and speak words and make a mark.  Her mark.  Not because she's mine, but because she is herself.  She's looking about the world with her own eyes, her own opinions, her own heart.  And while I am her guardian during these first tender years, ultimately it is her life.  And I am just here to witness, encourage, and love her through.

But, for now, she is four months.  And she is sleeping, on a grey couch on a summer afternoon.  Like a wildlife photographer, I move as silently as I can, trying to capture the triumph that is a perfectly unique human - knowing that billions of parents take billions of photographs and these will mean little to anyone but me. She stirs a bit, those lips pucker slightly and I freeze - wait for her to calm back down, and she does.  A little sigh.  Her eyes move under heavy lids.  What do babies dream of?  I'll never know.  Just another little thing about my girl that is not mine.

As Mamas do for generations before, and will for generations after, I'll love this girl with everything that I am.  And, as true a love a human can muster, it will not be about what I get from it - but what I give.

Her arms are flung wide, fearless in their emphatic trust.  I'm here, watching.  Once again, opened up to the letting go.  I wouldn't want it any other way.

{It's Mindful Mothering Mondays, a day to take a deep breath and write out your mothering journey, whatever form it takes. A day to link up for encouragement from others who are in this same phase of life. A day of writing out the trials and triumphs and what you're learning right where you are, right now. You might post recent struggles or thoughts. Maybe just a picture or a quote. Or maybe you'll just come here and read the links that others post. Whatever form your participation takes, this is a day for you. We are all in this, together. Together, we can encourage and build one another up, be honest with our shortcomings and strengthened by community to keep fighting the good fight.
I chose Mondays because what Mama doesn't need a little encouragement on a Monday? As such, I'll have the link up ready to go on Sunday night for you to begin submitting your links.

I hope you'll meet with me each Monday! Here's what to do ~

Link up your post below. Remember to put the link to the exact post you want to link, and not just your blog url. Include in your post a link back here so others who want to join in can find us! And visit some other Mamas who have linked up.

Post the community graphic within your post, so people who are reading your Mindful Mothering post can come back here and find the rest of us!

Invite the writers of your favorite blogs to join in!

Share this meme with others on facebook and twitter. This community is for all moms, and the more that participate, the more we will be able to enjoy!!}

Grab the graphic here:

<center> <a href=”http://smalltownsimplicity.blogspot.com/“><img border=”0″ src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33nGWFb2YqBvZ2ZS-TaTwYSjYhNzQ5TsyXZbHO49CfTNnySLTZOjvSMRm6W3UVvixj_M5Aw9t17wSLFFAts22_rNk_9q4xVEQQ2GUcjevwiaR2i0wM5QN4BbX-4mcMEgI7jlHcruJtv3E/s1600/MMgraphic.png"/></a></center>
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Room for Two {A Tandem Nursing Story}

I've had a lot of "I'll never"'s as a parent.  I remember when I had two babies, saying "Well, I'll breastfeed and wear my babies, but I'll never cloth diaper."  I cloth diapered our next baby and each one since, in some capacity.  With the third I said "Well, I'll breastfeed, wear my baby and cloth diaper, but I would never birth at home."  The fourth, fifth and sixth babies have been welcomed here in my own bedroom, yes, intentionally.    With my fifth I said "Well, I'll breastfeed, wear my babies, cloth diaper and homebirth, but I will never nurse two babies."

Well, guess what?

Things change.

I wanted 6 children, a lovely, even number.  After Peter, I never once said "we're done," because I've been at this mothering thing long enough to know that sometimes planning out your life can mean missing out on some of the best gifts life has to offer.  That being said, I was not ready when we found out about our little Rosemary when Peter was just one year old, meaning that they would be under two years apart.  As close as my first two were, yes, but then my parenting style has changed quite a bit since then.

I aim to nurse my babies until around their second birthday, as recommended by the World Health Organization.  Our number 6 baby arriving when Peter was 20 months old meant I would either have to abandon that thought, or I would have to nurse two - tandem nursing.  I wanted to savor Peter's time as a baby, yes, even when a new little one came along, so I began to look into tandem nursing for the first time.

Ask anyone who has tandem nursed about their experiences, and you'll get a mixed bag of sentiments.  From "It was the worst decision I ever made!" to "I loved it and treasured that time together," it seems to me that everyone has a slightly different take on it.  As I had never juggled a newborn and a toddler nursing before, the thought made me more than a little nervous.  I decided to wait to decide and see nursing went during my pregnancy.

The night Rosemary was born, Peter woke up shortly after.  Jason brought him into my room and in the wee hours of the morning, I introduced him to his new sister.  He kissed her and patted her and smiled so big - and was then ready to nurse.  For him, the comfort of our nursing relationship eased him through these first few weeks of big brotherhood.  His gentle and happy nature has held strong and he has welcomed Rosie into  the family.  When we nurse all together, he strokes her hair or holds her hand (and yes, my Mama's heart catches at the sight!).  When we have our separate moments together, we are reveling in our own unique and precious relationship with each other.

For us, tandem nursing has been a blessing, has allowed me to continue to "baby" my little Peter and has smoothed out our journey from a family of 7 to a family of 8.

I don't know when Peter will wean, but I'm not worried.  For now we are taking it one day at a time and it is working out better than I could have anticipated.  For me, the benefits have been marvelous - not only close, precious moments with my two littlest, but no engorgement or tenderness.  I feel great and nursing a newborn has never been more simple.  My biggest concern was Rosemary gaining enough weight, but a trip to the doctor has shown that she is certainly getting enough, growing very well.

So add this to my list of "I'll Never"'s that I've left behind.  And remind me? Not to say "I'll Never" ever again!


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