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This is a story about birth. And food.

This is not a story about eating your placenta.  If you’re disappointed that I’m not going to discuss that in detail, I urge you to hop on over to this link. And by the way, does that make Kim Kardashian a cannibal? I love Hollywood trends. They make me feel so grounded.

I’ve never been good at giving birth.  Pregnancy, no problem, but birth, not my forte. After 3 pregnancies and 3 healthy kids, I’ve thrown in the towel because I don’t think I could take another delivery.

Lauren was my first, her due date in early December. But the date soon passed, then a full week, then two. Finally, a few days before Christmas, my water broke in the most dramatic fashion.  Think Niagara Falls but with slightly more water. 24 hours later, Lauren was delivered by C-section as I lay in bed, feverish, developing a case of pneumonia that would keep me in the hospital for 8 days.  But we made the best of it. Rodney and my family hauled the whole Christmas setup into my hospital room – the lights, the gifts, the “Baby’s first Christmas” PJs, the holiday tunes. There was barbeque delivery and champagne in plastic glasses. Although not our finest Christmas, it was easily the most memorable.

Sam’s birth 22 months later was a little easier.  A scheduled C-section, seamless, quick, except for the mounting anxiety that I’d be able to feel the surgery taking place.

“Do you feel this?” the doctor asked, poking around with a pointy instrument.


(Ten minutes went by as they continued to prep me)

“Do you feel this now?”


“OK, we’re going to give you a little more medicine.”

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