Incoherently Yours

                I love birth stories. I love to hear other women’s stories, and I love telling and re-telling my own. Usually, I’ve written out the birth story in the first week, but we are over 3 weeks now (ahem… he’s over a month now…), and I’m just now sitting down, hoping I haven’t already forgotten any little detail.                 I’m glad I wrote out my other birth stories. It’s amazing how quickly the mind glazes over things, or lumps details all together. I’d be visiting with a friend and we’d be talking about birth and I’d be wracking my brain trying to remember if a certain situation had happened during which birth. I like that I have a written record.                 My pregnancy with Silas was my first ever “normal” pregnancy. I only went to emergency once in the early months, as I had some light bleeding (on Rory’s birthday, of course). That was my only emergency ultrasound and obviously, everything turned out fine. I very nearly made it the whole pregnancy without

I haven’t posted in a long while. I’ve had lots of thoughts rolling around in my head, but never made the time or felt like I had any creative juices to put pen to paper (metaphorically). Now, here we are, three weeks postpartum with my third son, Silas. There’s such joy in NOT BEING PREGNANT. I love babies. Love, love, love babies. Being pregnant, however, even with a “normal” pregnancy, is so not my cup of tea. But that and Silas’ birth story is for another blogpost. Today is Valentine’s Day. Yes, yes, an over-rated, over-priced, made up holiday to make single people feel bad and couples either fight because of unmet expectations or drive everyone else crazy with their audacity to be in love and happy on this, a most controversial day of the year. (Holy run on sentence, batman.) I have never had high expectations for Valentine’s Day. Why? Because I married a farmer. And not just any farmer, a cattle farmer. An Albertan cattle farmer who calves during the winter. Although, to be