The other day I was doing my weekly (yes, weekly) shopping trip to Target. I was getting groceries, craft stuff... the works. Since we go to Target so frequently, we basically know some of the all the cashiers. So when I got a new guy that I'd only met once before, I was kind of looking forward to the chit-chat. Mainly because men don't typically ask the same old baby questions that the women do unless they're older. And maybe that's not true for everyone, but it tends to be for me.

But not this time.

This time I was checking out and he asked if we enjoyed the Minion movie (which I was surprised he remembered), and then went on to ask about Levi (who was nestled in the sling). How old was he now, is he bigger than Michael used to be, do I like having two boys, does he ever stay in his carseat, am I always going to wear him....


Then we got to the questions that kind of get under my skin. And when I say kind of, I mean really get under my skin. More than asking about my baby-wearing preference.

"Is he a good baby?"

I waited to see if he would elaborate, so when he didn't, I asked what he meant.

"Does he sleep at night?" he smiled.

Realizing this is a stereotypical question, I took a deep breath, swallowed my rant, and answered him, "He'll sleep for a good six hours, which is pretty amazing for a two-month-old."

I started staring at my wallet, even though I had my Red Card at the ready in my hand.

"Well, I guess that's nice. Does he sleep in the crib?" He stopped scanning groceries as though he was just waiting for my answer before he could commence work.

I guess I had finally had it. Complete strangers asking me what our sleeping arrangements were, or if I breastfeed, or if we are planning to do this, that, or the other. I was so over people thinking it was their business as to how I'm raising my children.

And while all this is going on, Michael's sitting in the cart chatting away to anyone who passed, showing them his space Goldfish. I smiled at him, like somehow I was defending our family, and turned back to the cashier.

"No, we cosleep. It's so much easier. I can just roll over and give him the boob whenever he's hungry."

You know that emoji with the WIDE EYES and pinched mouth? That's the face he made. If you don't. It's something like this: o_O.

Thinking that was the end of it, I started putting bags in the cart. Part of me was ashamed, talking to a stranger like that... and the other part of me was proud. Proud that I had finally told someone just how I felt about the ridiculous questions into my personal parenting life.

But it wasn't the end of it.

"So, are you all in the bed?"

I couldn't even look at him. I was sure fire would burst from my eyes in an inexplicable manner that had never happened before. Instead, I looked at Michael.

"Hey, Goose? Who sleeps in our bed?"

He grinned, like he was over-the-moon that he knew the answer. "Mama, Michael, Levi, and Dada."

The cashier looked horrified. This time I looked at him and smiled. "It's a king sized bed. The more the merrier, right?"

He didn't say anything after that.

I checked out as quickly as I could and left with a smile, but I had mixed feelings about what I'd done.


Don't get me wrong. There are most many nights that I wish Michael was in his own bed by now. And just as many that I wish we could put Levi in his crib. But that's not who I am as a mother, and not how we work as a family.

If you ask me if I have a good baby, or if my baby is a good sleeper, than usually my answer is simple: yes. Because my baby cries when he needs me, eats when he's hungry, and sleeps as long as he can. If a complete stranger expects to be given the inside scoop, have me complain that my almost four-year-old smacked me in the face the previous night or my co-sleeping baby leaked on our sheets and I just put a towel down because I didn't want to wake the whole family to strip the bed-- then that stranger is out of his/her mind.

Why?


Because, yes, those things happen. But I still love our decision-- and that's what it is. It's our decision, my husband's and mine, as parents. And calling our baby a "good baby" is ridiculous. Because he isn't "good" to me-- he's perfect, whether he sleeps through the night or not.

Whenever I think of women going into labor, I think of FATHER OF FHE BRIDE II.

Have you seen that movie? If not, it's classic.

The younger pregnant woman is always saying it's time to go to the hospital, and of course her false alarms are in the middle of the night and have everyone jumping up like, "THE BRITISH ARE COMING!" only to show her returning in the morning because it was just gas, or not real contractions.

This is what I think of. I don't think of my first labor, which was like the typical fairy-tale pregnancy story of, "oh, my water broke."

With my second pregnancy I was seriously praying and hoping it would be like my first when it came time for labor... but I had a feeling it wouldn't be. Because, like everyone says, every labor is different.

But I was petrified of false alarms.

Why?

Maybe because I don't like to be embarrassed or wrong (did I just put that in writing?).

Or maybe because I thought that since I wasn't a first time mom, there was no excuse.

So when I started having what I thought were real contractions (did I mention I got drugged almost right away after my water broke the first time?) and my husband was away for work, I started to panic.

"If this is the real thing, I need to tell him to start driving because he's two hours away. But if I'm wrong, what then?"

I told him to come home. And when he was about fifteen minutes from our house, the contractions ceased.

But then the following morning, the contractions were there again. I mean, I wasn't doubled over in pain, but I had this idea in my head that I have a high pain tolerance.

I timed them, called the doc, and was told to head to the hospital. So, we did. But when I was checked, I was only 2cm...and according to them, I wasn't really having any contractions. After an hour of walking around the birthing floor, and the "contractions" stopping again, we were sent home.

False alarm #1.
Then the next night, the contractions were stronger and came in full force quickly. My mom said she could tell something was different, and she thought we should go to the hospital straight away. Well, I wanted to wait. We walked around the block a few times, I laid down on the couch... and still the contractions didn't go away. However, they weren't timing consistently. They'd range from 2 to 7 minutes apart... and I was so confused. But, under my mom's advice, we went in.

We went through the same routine as we did the first time at the hospital, and I was still only 2cm.


False alarm #2.
Now I was afraid. And embarrassed.

I was afraid of being wrong again, and embarrassed that this was my second pregnancy and yet I had gone to the hospital not once... but twice and been sent home.

I was determined that I wouldn't go in again unless my water broke, as it had with Michael. I was not going to risk being sent home again and alerting the masses of my inability to recognize true labor.

So, I waited.

I had my 39 week appointment and my doctor talked about what would happen if I was still pregnant in a week. She checked me and told me I was further along than I had been (between 2-3 cm), but to expect some cramping and contractions because she checked me.

I went home, and that night when the pain started I assumed that it was just false labor again.

So, I waited.

But the pain wasn't going away, and it started getting worse. It was to the point I was getting angry at everyone. I just wanted to lie down, go to bed...make it stop.

But it wouldn't. I started timing them.

This time my husband thought it was the real deal because of how I was acting, as did everyone else. My poor three-year-old was so worried because of the way I was acting, but we assured him that this time when he went to sleep, he'd wake up a big brother.

After an hour of contractions at home, we went to the hospital. I was 7-8cm, and they admitted me right away. It wasn't long before my water broke, and instead of getting the drugs I thought I had wanted, I demanded it was time to push.

My contractions started around 9pm. We left for the hospital around 10:15pm. Levi was born at 11:41pm. He didn't even make it to midnight. By that point, he was ready.

Levi James: 7 lbs, 13 oz; 19.5 inches
And oh, so were we.