Surprise! Ruby Josephine Rogers decided that she wanted to meet mom, dad, and Homer a month early... and there was nothing we could do about it! Ruby came into this world on Tuesday, May 20th at 4:59 p.m., weighing 6 lbs., 13 oz., and measuring a Daddy-esque 19 3/4 inches. She's happy, healthy and loves a good snuggle! Here's her story...


 On Monday morning I got up just like any other morning at 7:30 and headed off to the bathroom. Before I got there I felt something drip down my leg and land in a slow trickle at my feet. "Grant... I think my water just broke." I walked to the toilet to sit down and on the way more slow trickle happened. This time it was on the white bathroom tile and I could see that I hadn't suddenly become incontinent and, yes, I had just gone into labor.

Looking back, I was surprisingly calm. I was surprisingly calm throughout the entire process actually. About 85 percent of the time Grant is the calm and steady one, blazing a clear path forward while I flail around spastically. When my water broke, Grant was freaking out and I kept it together. We called the midwife, who told us that we should head to the hospital and wait for her at labor and delivery. Typically, women's sacs don't rupture before they go into labor, so I was an anomaly. Hospitals also don't typically admit women in labor until they are well into their first phase. However, I was a high-risk patient due to my marginal umbilical insertion, so I had to go right away.

Side note: I have never been happier to be a Type-A planner. Ruby came a whole month early--a month when most women are still preparing for the baby. When we got the surprise of our lifetimes we had the go bag completely ready to go and the nursery fully decked out. It was so amazing not to have to worry about that in the midst of everything else happening.

Still, my midwife let me put off Pitocin for a couple more hours in the hope that my instincts were right and I was right on the cusp of something. Within the hour, the pain ramped up. Steadier and steadier contractions that grew longer in length and closer together. I still couldn't stop standing for fear of halting my progress for a walked and leaned and stood and wondered whether the idea of doing this whole thing without pain meds. Because my water had been broken for more than 24 hours, checking my progress wasn't something that we could do over and over, so this last try was the last chance we had to assess what our next steps would be. At this point I was 7 centimeters--a number that everyone in the room seemed overjoyed about, and that was utterly depressing to me. Even though they told me that the next three centimeters would go quickly, I felt like a third of my labor left to go was too much for me to handle. Was I still in active labor? Transitional? How much longer would this pain last?

Honestly, I wanted to give up. I felt like every labor pain was ripping my body in half, and if I had hours more of it I don't know that I could have done it. The only thing that got me through this portion of labor was the fact that my midwife let me labor in the shower. I spent the next hour in there, going through transitional labor pains that made me feel like dying. Grant was there the whole time, being encouraging and telling me that I could do it despite my doubts. If he hadn't told me over and over that I was stronger than I believed, and if my midwife hadn't told me that I was handling the pain really well*, I don't think I could have made it through. After that hour in the shower, I could feel things were changing. I think because I was being so polite between the pains (apparently midwestern manners prevail even in the darkest of times since my midwife remarked on how "clear-headed I was between contractions" around the eighth time I thanked Grant for bringing me water), my midwife didn't realize how close I was... but I did. Exhausted from standing on my feet through hours and hours of labor (most of it while squatting, something that would help move the baby down) I tried laboring on all fours in the bed. That. Was. Excruciating. That was also when I felt the baby's head move down. See, when the head moves down it feels like you're pooping. I thought that I had and that was a signal to my midwife that I was ready to start pushing.

I switched over to my back and waited for a contraction to help me with the pushing. I can honestly say that pushing was much easier than transitional labor. That said, I had a relatively short push time--29 minutes, which is really especially quick for a first pregnancy. I think the push time was so short because my midwives and nurses made getting her out sound really urgent and I was afraid that something would go wrong if I didn't. I was being yelled at by everyone... Push harder, don't stop, you're taking too long to breathe, pull your legs back, push your elbows out, push even harder, hold it longer. It was pretty frustrating. I had been in labor for 34 hours, most of it on my feet and had gotten an hour of sleep. When they told me to push harder, I genuinely meant it when I said that I didn't think that I could. Somehow, after feeling her head crown, I found an extra reserve of strength and made it happen. She crowned for three different contractions--a time that felt like forever--and when her body came out it was the only time that I felt out of control in all of the 34 hours. I let out a primal scream (seriously, the poor women being admitted to start labor who walked by my room must have been scarred for life) and there she was, screaming her little head off.


The nurses handed her to me and it all felt so surreal. I'm the kind of person who cries at any commercial with dogs in it, but I didn't cry. I think I was so pumped up on adrenaline that I wasn't quite aware of what was happening, but I was so, so happy to have her in my arms at last. A few tests for Ruby and a few stitches for me (her arm was covering her face when she came out so I had an even bigger circumference to push out), and she was officially ours!


Because she was premature, more tests were required than a full-term baby. Her blood sugar was low, something that is fairly common for preemies, and since my colostrum and her latch were not cooperating, we gave her a supplementary bottle to try and get her levels to normal. Less than an hour later we were cleared for a private room (something Grant and I decided early on was worth springing the extra money for, as recovering from birth with another family in the room sounded god awful), and we got to take her with us.


After we got there, I got dosed up with Pitocin to facilitate my uterus contracting and shrinking back down to size, and the nurses took Ruby to check her blood sugar levels and run a few more tests. Grant went with her and I took a much-needed nap. Every time they needed to take her away (running tests or giving her a bath) Grant went with her and they got in some awesome daddy-Ruby bonding time.

This Tuesday Ruby and I passed the 25 week mark. She's steadily kicking and about the size of a rutabaga (whatever the hell that means), and I'm, for lack of a better word, ballooning.

I assumed going into this pregnancy that I would gain a lot of weight. My family traditionally gets big while pregnant and I have a lifelong history with trying to keep my weight healthy. I have a history of obesity in my family that has been passed along to me. I've never been obese, and when I've been medically "overweight" (in high school and pre-pregnancy), it's been based on a ridiculous BMI system that's reflective of nothing that actually has to do with health. In fact, the only times in my life that I've ever been what most people would call "thin", I was incredibly active at my job (waiting tables 60 hours a week is hard work), didn't have a car (walking everywhere burns calories), and eating probably less than I should have (I was just too busy to stop and sit down for meals).

Left: Around 120-125 pounds while I was working as a waitress in college Right: The day I got married. Around 140-145 pounds and medically "overweight"

In short, if I eat healthfully and am moderately active, I will be on the cusp of being overweight. If do all of that but I'm stressed out and have a few desserts a week, I get yelled at by my doctors to lose weight. As a result of all of this--and the ridiculous importance and emphasis our society places on women's bodies as objects to be judged by others--I've spent years worrying about it and beating myself up. My relationships with both food and my body have never been healthy.

So when I found out I was pregnant, something that Grant and I were SO excited about and have waited SO long to happen, I knew that the body I had beaten myself up about being too big and too soft and too round was about to get bigger and softer and rounder. But this time it was different. Maybe the overwhelming happiness of the news that we were going to be parents silenced any concerns. Probably. Maybe the fact that I was growing a child changed my perspective on what my body's purpose was--no longer a source of objectification to be poked and prodded and judged by anyone who so felt inclined, but a perfectly crafted machine capable of producing and fostering life itself. Probably. And even though I knew I was going to get bigger (most likely a lot bigger), I wasn't concerned about it.

Unlike most women, my first trimester went by swimmingly without a bit of morning sickness. Not having to ralph up food every two seconds meant that I was able to ensure that the baby and I got every bit of nutrition we needed. But just because I didn't have to see the food twice didn't mean that I wanted to see it once. I had a lot of food aversions for about the first 5 months of pregnancy. Most of the time they weren't if-you-put-that-food-in-front-of-my-face-I'll-vom aversions, it was just a general disinterest in food. I could usually finish the meals and snacks I needed to hit the calories and vitamins myself and the baby needed, but I didn't enjoy eating the way I always have. And the weirdest thing happened. For the first time since I can remember (like, for the past 20 years), I wasn't thinking about food constantly. If you've had a disordered relationship with food, you know what I mean. If you haven't, please let me explain. When I wake up, I think about what I want to eat. When I see a picture of food, I get fixated on it. My early afternoons are consumed by what I'm going to eat for lunch. My late afternoons are consumed by what I'm going to eat for dinner. My evenings are consumed by either thinking about a dessert I wish I could have or feeling guilty about a dessert I just ate. The compulsion to eat more or eat things that aren't healthy are ever-present. And that's the cycle: obsession-guilt-obsession-guilt. The cycle constantly plays in my head for the majority of my waking hours. And it's been like that for as long as I can remember.

So when that suddenly all went away, it was astounding. For the first time in my life I got to experience what it's like to have a "normal" relationship with food. Not thinking about it all the time was incredibly freeing. Lunch time rolled around and I knew I needed to eat to fuel by body, not quiet my mind. Making healthy choices were SO MUCH easier because there wasn't a nagging background track of eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, clouding my judgment. And when I wanted a brownie or an extra dinner roll I didn't feel guilty about it. I started this pregnancy heavier than I've ever been, but for those first months, I felt emotionally lighter than I've ever felt. Throughout my first trimester I only gained around 10 pounds, which was shocking to someone who assumed that I would just steadily gain more and more weight throughout.

18 weeks into my pregnancy and I was basically all bump

Between my fourth and fifth month, I gradually got my appetite back. Food wasn't just something to keep Ruby and I going, I liked eating again. Poached egg and avocado? Amazing. A few of Grant's french fries? Wow. Donuts? The best thing I've ever eaten. But just because I wanted to eat didn't mean that I threw health out the window. I still diligently kept track of my food intake to ensure that I got the right amount of calories, but now it was about making sure I didn't have too much instead of ensuring that I had enough. The main difference in my eating was that I wanted dessert. Throughout the first months I barely wanted meals, let alone extras, so I had no dessert at all. Now I had what I think most people call cravings. Except I'd felt those my entire life so I didn't notice them as much. Thinking about donuts all day long and crying upon learning that you can't have a donut? Sounds like a Tuesday. So aside from eating really healthfully and hitting my caloric mark for the day, I also had a brownie or ice cream a couple times a week. Pretty standard practice for a pregnant lady.

Then I went to my last midwife appointment. At my midwives' office my first order of business while I wait for my appointment is to conduct a urine test and weigh myself. They have a scientific scale where I have to move the scales manually. This time I put the large weight on 100 pounds, just like I have since 5th grade. Then I begrudgingly put the next large weight at 50 pounds. This was my starting weight (151) for my pregnancy. Thirty-five pounds heavier than my lightest. Twenty-five more pounds than my working weight in college. Twenty pounds heavier than when I moved to New York. Ten more pounds than I weighed in high school or at my wedding. Then I ticked the smallest weight over to 160...165 (wait, what?) then 170... 171... (this is impossible)...172... 173... and finally landed at 175. I had gained 12 pounds in the past month. I was no longer just a belly. I wasn't even out of the second trimester and I'd already gained all of the weight that I was "supposed" to for the whole pregnancy. Turns out I hadn't dodged that gain-half-my-weight-during-pregnancy bullet.

Far left: Homecoming senior year of high school. I wore a size 8-10 and was medically "overweight" Middle left: During college, while I was working too much and not eating enough. Middle right: Around a year after moving to New York and having a desk job, my doctors start telling me to watch my weight shortly after this. Far right: Weighing 140-145 pounds on my wedding day. I am medically "overweight" and have been told many times by doctors that I need to lose weight.

But that feeling on the scale, which was bad enough, was nothing compared with how I felt after I left my appointment. After the usual "How are you feeling?" and "Have you have any bleeding or leakage?," my midwife asked me how my urinalysis and weigh-in had gone. I tentatively told her the number on the scale. And then it came. She raised her eyebrows and looked up at me over her glasses, taking in the whole picture of what appeared to be an Orca whale looking slightly scared on her couch. The conversation we had was as pleasant as it could have been. There are other concerns with your pregnancy, so we want to prevent as many health risks as possible. (But are there health risks? My blood pressure is still perfect. My resting heart rate is great. I have no difficulty moving or exercising.) I would recommend you visit a dietician. (But I keep track of everything I eat, want to see? I KNOW that I eat well. I also know that my family has a history of gaining lots of weight with pregnancies.)

Almost like a bag of bricks, it came back. That nagging, constant cycle: obsession-guilt-obsession-guilt.   Throughout the first few months of my pregnancy I'd wondered if, after Ruby was born, my relationship with food would go back to how it had always been. I guess I was always prepared for that, but once you've finally felt what it feels like to be normal, to not have that nagging voice, its presence seems louder and more aggressive when it comes back. The week after that appointment was awful. Lots of crying. Lots of beating myself up. Lots of looking at my body in ways that I hadn't looked at it in months--ways that were fair to neither myself nor my child.

23 weeks along and I had gained 12 more pounds.

All that fretting and crying and cycling was stressful. Pregnancy up until that point had been the happiest time in my adult life and I didn't like feeling bad about myself and, by association, my daughter. I talked to my friends. I talked to my sister. I talked to my husband. A lot. He has been so supportive, even trying to get me to repeat the mantra, "I am not fat. I am growing a baby." And I came to the conclusion that stressing out about how I looked or what number I saw on the scale was counterproductive to providing a positive and healthy vessel for my child. I may be growing (wider and bigger and lumpier than I ever wanted or envisioned), but the important thing is that I'm growing a child. My body, however visually imperfect it is in society's eyes, is capable of producing and fostering life. That makes me feel more powerful than I ever have before, because creating a human being? That's pretty fucking powerful. That's bigger than any number on any scale that I will ever produce.

I'm not saying that I had some kind of epiphanic realization that brought me automatic inner peace. I still look in the mirror and notice "flaws": I have bra rolls from back fat I've never had before, my thighs rub together when I walk down the hall, my double chin is in full effect. But when I see those things, and that feeling of inadequacy starts to bubble up, I look at my belly. My huge, only-gonna-get-bigger-and-get-stretch-marks-and-stretch-to-the-point-that-my-skin-will-never-recover belly. And then maybe I feel a little kick from what's underneath that belly. A baby... my baby. My daughter, who is strong and healthy and who I hope to raise into the kind of woman who knows that her body is so much more powerful than a number on a scale or whether it measures up to some silly standard of beauty. And most of the time that's enough to quiet the cycle and make me feel powerful all over again.

I had every intention of taking a picture every single week... but you know, life gets in the way. The past month has been one of expansion. Just look at the size of that bump! I'm only 5-foot-5, but I have disproportionately long legs for my height, so my torso is about as short as someone between 5-foot and 5-foot-2. Have you ever seen someone that short pregnant? No space to grow but out! It's so exciting for me to watch my body grow and change--to be honest with you I never realize how big the bump is until I see it in pictures. This is the best relationship I've ever had with my body, and I can't thank this baby enough for the joy that (s)he has brought us in so many ways.


Eating has gotten a little better! I no longer detest most foods... I'm just indifferent about eating. It's made making healthy choices when I'm constantly hungry a whole lot easier. The big news this week is that we went to our 18-week appointment and found out the sex of the baby! We're keeping it a secret until my baby shower (which my sister and very best friends have graciously volunteered to throw for me), so it can be a surprise for everyone. This way I can get the nursery ready and we can still have the surprise element we wanted in the beginning. The other big relief this week is that Grant and I toured St. Luke's-Roosevelt hospital, my dream hospital, and it was everything I'd hoped it would be. We've been dealing with major insurance issues that are too detailed to describe here (Grant is my hero and the best dad for spending at least 70 hours on the phone with insurance companies through this whole process), and it's been stressing us out a lot. At one point we didn't think St. Luke's would be an option and toured a different hospital... it was awful and made me really nervous about the whole birth process. At St. Luke's (so long as it's medically viable) I'll get to deliver in a birthing suite and enjoy a very low degree of intervention. We have nothing but positive things to say about the infrastructure, staff, philosophy and set-up of the hospital after our tour.