The Tale of Adeline, Part V

If you have just stumbled across my blog and don't know what the heck I'm writing about: I started to tell my daughter Adeline's birth story and it ended up that I had waaaaay more to write than I had previously thought. I decided to present it as several consecutive posts which you can find here: Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV. Thank you to anyone who took the time to read my story. I'm so happy I finally got around to telling it. xo, Ariel

So...the home-birth with Addie didn’t work out the way I thought it would. The complete OPPOSITE way in fact. I struggled with that for a long time—probably the first five or six months of her life. By then there was so much more time I'd experienced the real Addie--not some abstract baby I could barely picture during my nine months of pregnancy, nor the comparatively short thirty-five hours I was in labor with her. The insane, no-sleep newborn months were behind us; and Addie was now laughing, sitting up, eating solid food and sleeping through the night. I think it was by that point that I realized I was no longer depressed.

It bothered me a little when I would share my birth story and (totally well-meaning) people would say, “Well, all that mattered was that you and the baby came out healthy.”

Yeah, that is all that mattered in the grand scheme of things. Six months down the line with a little perspective in my pocket, I would whole-heartedly agree with that statement. I was very grateful that she was healthy, but sometimes it felt like my sadness was disqualified or inappropriate. I know in hindsight that I had post-partum depression which no doubt amplified my feelings toward the traumatic labor and birth. I didn’t talk about my depression with my midwife or a therapist (which I regret), but the daily heaviness I felt bearing down on me gradually faded away. So many women experience PPD though, and now I always encourage anyone to see a doctor immediately rather than waiting for it to go away like I did.

6 months old

********

Addie’s birth gave me two incredible gifts: herself (certainly!), and for the first time in my life, acutely instilled in me the fact that I cannot control certain circumstances in my life. Shit happens, even when we don't want it to. I could have told you this before she was born, but I didn’t really accept it myself. In the case of my pregnancy and labor, I did EVERYTHING in my power to make sure it went a certain way (even turning my baby around by force when she was so obviously comfortable in breech position) and then it went the polar opposite direction anyways. I used to beat myself up for the way things turned out--crying, agonizing over what I could have done differently, apologizing in long letters I wrote to Addie.

Then for whatever unknown reason (enough time?), it became clear to me: it wasn’t my fault.

If I could not control it, I certainly could not have caused it.

I hear this statement All. The. Time. in meetings but I never really applied it to myself. I had always believed that if I worked hard and exerted my will strongly enough, I would get my desired results. That it took me twenty-four years to learn this was simply not the case was...well...I guess I'm a slow learner.

The two most important lessons I've learned directly from Adeline's birth that have helped me to live a happier life:

-the only part of life I can control are my own actions and reactions

-accept life on life's terms

her first birthday

I know this post may read as super-cheesy but what can I say? Becoming a first-time mother profoundly changed my outlook on life. I'm still learning new things about myself every day I spend with her, and for that, I'm so happy there is no ending to this tale. :)

The Tale of Adeline, Part IV

(For Part I, click here. For Part II, click here. For Part III, click here.)

I came to in the recovery room and it felt like I had been hit by a car.** Every part of my body ached. My midwife's face appeared and she began to slip slivers of ice into my mouth. I wasn't thinking about my new baby, I was thinking about how this was the worst pain I had ever been in. I would pass out, wake up, eat some ice, pass out, wake up, eat more ice. I woke up and my bed was being moved to the room I would stay in for the next three nights. The fog began to clear in my head and the need to see and hold Addie became overwhelmingly sharp.

As we entered my room, I saw Zach standing there holding a large bundle of blankets. He was beaming. Once they transferred me to my new bed, my midwife unraveled the blankets and placed her onto my chest. I remember everyone watching my reaction, witnessing our first proper meeting, and wishing that Addie and I could be alone. I pored over her, taking in her littleness. Pink hands. Bright heather eyes. A slight shock of soft black hair. She wanted to nurse immediately so I obliged, feeling weird that I was sitting there half-naked with people all around me. It was an out-of-body experience for the next hour while family, nurses, doctors, and lactation consultants cycled in and out of the room. Zach left for supplies at the nearest grocery store. My mother and sister said good-bye. One minute there were ten satellites orbiting around our bed, and then in the next, we were alone in the Universe.

"Hi. I'm your mom," I whispered to her.

It was then, as we lay there body against body, skin to skin, that I began to experience the first inkling of motherly love. It was still hard to believe she was mine, that she was what I carried around as a part of me for nine months. She was too beautiful and perfect for what seemed like such a turbulent way to enter this world. I softly cried as she nursed, apologizing over and over for letting this happen.

I thought I could protect you.

*******

The next three nights we spent at the hospital were rocky. Besides recovering from the surgery, I felt a perpetual undercurrent of anxiety running through me...a combination of post-partum hormones, pain medication, and sleep deprivation. We were completely unprepared for a hospital stay. I didn't have any of the creature comforts I had for Louie's birth--no computer, no personal pillow or pajamas, not even my toothbrush. I was such a nervous wreck that I stayed in the same hospital gown for three days straight without showering or even brushing my teeth. When the doctor signed an early discharge form after I asked the nurses whether I could leave for the 6,784th time, we didn't have a "coming home outfit" for Addie--just an old, oversized boys onesie and sleeper. I wore the same stinky sweatpants and mens t-shirt I arrived in during my labor.

It's safe to say we were a hot mess when we walked out of the hospital on that wintery gray morning, December 31st. We rang in the New Year that night lying in bed with Adeline in our arms. And somewhere deep within me, I knew that everything would be okay.

**Edited 11/2--I forgot to mention why I blacked out at the end of the last post. I was put under general anesthesia for emergency because I was bleeding excessively and saying that I could feel pain which was NOT good. I didn't know they were going to put me under. I woke up incredibly groggy and feeling sick from both the surgery and the meds. The doctor told me that my muscles were almost "watery" from being in labor and working for so long, so when they tried to stitch up my uterus the thread was coming out of the muscle. Yikes. Anyways, yeah, that's it.

The Tale of Adeline, Part III: Blackout

Warning: There are some graphic photos in this post. I want to to tell my story with honesty and not feel the need to hide or edit what happened, because I believe that Addie's birth was as beautiful and important as any other. I also want to share my experience with women who may share similar birth stories. For Part I, click here. For Part II, click here.

**********

"I think we're going to the hospital, dear," my midwife told me.

It was four o'clock in the morning. I had been in active labor for more than 24 hours. I agreed.

This was where my months of meticulous planning had ended. I had not researched hospitals, not even CONSIDERED where we might go if things went wrong. Because I'd believed that if I'd planned for it, then it would happen. In hindsight, this was foolish. The hospital we ended up going to was the closest one to our apartment, and my midwife had worked there as an RN years ago so she had pull with all the doctors and nurses. It was also known as the "ghetto hospital" by many, since it was primarily for low-income, Medi-Cal families. I actually had Medi-Cal by some miraculous circumstance of applying right when I found out I was pregnant, and it ended up covering the entire cost of my stay. So I don't have any right to complain or criticize this place because they took care of me and the doctors were amazing.

The drive to the hospital was awful. I thing my body was in shock, or maybe I was going through "transition" (where you feel sick right before you're about to push the baby out), because I was hot and cold, and gasping through my contractions, back pain, and the urge to push. Luckily, the roads were clear and the Labor and Delivery part of hospital seemed quiet and empty.

The nurses immediately hooked me up to an IV while the midwife discussed my situation with the doctor. My levels of amniotic fluid were still surprisingly high and I was plenty hydrated from all the labor-ade I was forced to drink. It was decided that all I would need was a little pitocin to restart the contractions and then I could have my baby. No problem!

Except pitocin is paaaaainful. Pitocin makes your contractions come on like a freight train, ramming into you over and over with little break in between. I felt like hell resisted as long as could, but after a few more contractions, I begged for the epidural. I felt like a failure in the eyes of my midwife, who has extolled the evils of medicated births the previous nine months, drilling into my head that narcotics and epidurals robbed women of the natural high they received after pushing the baby out. Oh well, I thought, I'm at the hospital now anyways.

My midwife and Zach were completely supportive of my decision for the epidural and 45 minutes later, the anesthesiologist walked in with a golden halo hovering over this head. After he was finished, my legs suddenly went numb and felt like massive tree trunks. The pain of the contractions faded away but my body was so tense from the labor and adrenaline that my back was seizing up and H. had to continuously massage me to help me relax and sleep a little.

Hours passed as I drifted in and out of consciousness. By 12:30 pm, my contractions had been showing strong and steady on the monitor for long enough. 10 centimeters, here I come! The nurse checked my cervix and looked up at me with a sad, worried expression on her face.

"4 or 5 centimeters," she said, "I think the baby is in a posterior position, and the head is tilted the wrong way so it's bashing up against your cervix and you're very swollen now."

After all the pain, all that time, all the preparation and visualizing of my perfect birth, it came down to this: an emergency c-section. I was too tired to fight this nightmare. I nodded my consent as tears started to fall down my face. A part of me was relieved that it would just be over soon, the other part of me wept for whatever dream I had that was now gone. My mother and sister walked into the room, trying to smile through their worried expressions. We took this photo right before I was wheeled into the Operating Room:

It was a little after one o'clock in the afternoon and a new anesthesiologist pumped me full of pain medication, testing my reflexes to make sure I was thoroughly numb from the waist down. I kept feeling his fingers and this scared me. I really didn't want to feel myself being sliced open. Surgeons and nurses flurried around the room, my midwife madly clicked away on the camera, and Zach sat next to me stroking my face and whispering sweet things into my ear. He wore an operating room hat and mask so all I could see were his eyes. I remember how they were full of concern, but also of strength and love. I don't think I've ever loved anyone so much as him at that exact moment.

The doctors began the surgery. There was a large blue vertical curtain placed below my chest so I couldn't see anything. I heard murmuring and the beeping of machines. Anytime they referred to the baby, they would say, "he", and, "his", which felt so anti-climactic after we waited nine months to find out the sex.

"I guess we have a Jack," I whispered to Zach.

It sounded like they were having some difficulty pulling our son out. A doctor angrily yelled at my midwife to get back behind the curtain since she had our camera right over their shoulders during the surgery. I felt a tugging that was getting stronger and stronger, and then a surprising shock of pain starting to spread throughout my body. I felt nauseous from all the drugs and began to shake violently.

"Oh my God, it's a girl!"

Cheers burst out through the room and suddenly there she was, covered in bloody goo, face to face with me. I kissed her forehead. I felt a deep sadness that the first time I met her I was feeling so sick and weak. I didn't want my first memories of her to be associated with numbness, pain, and confusion. It was hard to feel any tenderness or love because I felt like I was spinning, falling down a deep spiral, and then all too abruptly...blackout.

to be continued...

Go to Part IV

Twenty-Two, and Part II

Today my little girl, my first-born, a person who has changed my life for the infinitely better, turns 22 months old. That number may seem weird to celebrate since she’s two months shy of her second birthday, but it feels momentous to me. Month 21 passed in the blink of an eye. Her language skills have suddenly developed up so much so that she ran into our bedroom this morning with her toy pot and ladle and exclaimed, “Mama, I make soup!” She’s like a little tornado of EMOTION, which she expresses to maximum effect. When she’s joyful, you can’t help but laugh and twirl and march alongside her. When she’s angry, a dark cloud looms over all of us. What a curious, wonder-filled adventure it’s been thus far with our little imp:

Happy 22 months, Addie...

And now, for the next installment of:

The Tale of Adeline, Part II: Nature’s Revenge

(for Part I, click here)

I was eight days late. No, not my period this time. My due-date. Not that due-dates are ever accurate. I think it’s something like a 10% chance of actually having your kid be born on the due date your doctor gives you, but still. By the last month of your pregnancy, you are HONED in on that day. That glorious day when you will be released from the shackles of an alien life-form that’s hijacked your body (I actually loved everything about being pregnant until a week before she was born and then it was like OUT, VILE CREATURE, OUT!)

By the time the whole breech baby-it’s-the-end-of-Ariel’s-world-as-she-knows-it fiasco was over, it was already December, and my due date was the 20^th. Well, the 20^th came and went. I think I went about my day tip-toeing around, hugging Zoe a lot, expecting my waters to break and drown us all at any moment. And then it was the night before Christmas, and I was praying that this poor kid wouldn’t have to share a birthday with Jesus Christ. And then Christmas came and went and we played a lot of Nintendo Wii, ate homemade fried chicken and spaghetti puttanesca, and walked around the neighborhood loop thirty million times to kick-start my labor. I even took some Labor Tincture my midwife gave me but it only gave me a few mild contractions that faded away through nighttime.

The next evening (the 26th) I began to feel contractions again, but figured they would go away like before so I knocked back a little more Labor Tincture and proceeded to kick everyone's ass at Super Mario Cart. They kept coming though, and by 10:00pm, I was on the phone with my midwife. 10 minutes apart, for 30-60 seconds long. Labor, schmabor!, I thought. Hoo-boy, what an idiot I was.

My sister and Zach went to bed, leaving me to suffer in my own private hell. It's not like they could tell how I felt. I would be fine one minute, and then the next, face down in the carpet, butt up in the air, breathing hoo, hoo, HOOOOO. By 2:00am, I'd had enough alone time and started harassing my midwife again on the phone. She could tell I needed support by that time and sent her assistant, H., to our apartment. H. was a GODSEND. Patient, amazing, calming angel of a woman. By the time she arrived at 5:00am, it became clear that the baby was in a posterior position (head facing the wrong way) by the intense lower back pain I felt each time I had a contraction. She and Zach would literally put all of their weight into their clenched fists against my lower back for relief--I had bruises to prove it.

Zach and H. are having some random discussion while I look like I'm praying at the altar of Michael Pollan. Did I seriously think I was going to be in the mood to read about grass-fed cattle in between contractions?

Apparently, yes.

I don't think I have ever consumed as much liquid as I did while laboring at home. They tell you not to drink or eat anything at the hospital; well, these people shoveled homemade "labor-ade", bananas, and peanut-butter toast down my throat at every given chance. I never want to taste the combination of lemon juice, water, honey, salt, and ground-up calcium magnesium tablets again. GAG. They did, however, do a great job of keeping my energy up because my labor kept going. and going. and going. In the late morning (around 10:00 am), H. checked my progress and said I was at 4 cm. Whoo-hoo!

By this time, I was in my own deep, animalistic private-world. All modesty and sense of decorum was thrown out the window. I didn't care that my sister was taking photos of me half-naked, in full squat-position, moo-ing as loudly as possible from the very deepest pit of my stomach. I look at those photos now and blush HARD. But nobody said child-birthin' was purdy!

As the young folks say, shit was getting real. My water broke at 12:37 (thanks, note-takers), and there on the bathroom floor, was a bright red, heart-shaped puddle (the bloody show!). Really! I have a photo, but I don't think you want to see my mucus plug, even if it looked pretty in that i-make-art-with-my-bodily-fluids kind of way. This was past the twelve-hour mark and I was hit with a second-wind, encouraged by my water breaking and progressing another centimeter. I cried, completely overwhelmed with the level of support and love I felt toward and from the people around me.

Here I am right after my water broke, smiling. Because I thought it would be over soon.

Time ceased to exist. Hours flew by without my notice since all I could focus on was getting through each mind-numbingly painful contraction and then relaxing during the few-minute reprieve. I spent most of the time in our bathroom, jumping in and out of the shower, rolling against an exercise ball, and sitting on a medieval-looking "birthing stool" that was invented by a Danish midwife so you could have your baby without straining your thigh muscles while you squatted. Now there is a pretty picture for you to go along with the words! Oh, and I was bellowing like a p.o.'d moose at the same time. I'm sure our neighbors were equally too embarrassed and terrified to do anything like call the police.

Sitting on the "birthing stool"...maybe I'm imagining my spirit animal?

It was night again, and everyone besides myself ate dinner. By 10:00pm , a full night and day later, my spirits began to flag. I was beyond exhausted. I was falling asleep while still standing with my head resting on the bathroom counter.

zzzzzzzzzzz...wake me up when the baby is here

I told my midwife I didn't think I could do it anymore. She checked me again and said I was eight, almost nine, centimeters.

"Well, it's time to shit or get off the pot," she said.

"What!?", I thought, and became very pissed off at her all of a sudden. What the hell had I been doing the past 24 hours?

The next five or six hours were a blur. I tried to focus every molecule of my being into dilating that last centimeter. I meditated. Zach and I took a bath together. I begged to whatever higher power existed in the Universe to please help out a tiny bit and get me through this.

Suddenly, I felt my insides bearing down very hard and it felt different than the usual contraction. Am I pushing this baby out?, I thought, as amniotic fluid gushed out. It was like my body had a mind of it's own and it got sick of waiting around--it was time to push. My midwife checked me again and said that I was still at 9 cm but she hoped these stronger contractions would help bring the baby's head down and push me to 10.

The odd pushing contractions kept coming, I kept losing amniotic fluid, and I felt like death may be a more viable option than continuing as I was. I was feeling so disheartened every time the midwife checked me and I was still stuck at 9.5 cm. My normal contractions were petering out, getting weaker and weaker, and in a total panic over failing, I ran up and down the apartment stairs outside in the freezing weather at three o'clock in the morning to make them stronger. I was a maniac.

By 4:00 am, talk of hospital transfer began...

to be continued...

Go to Part III

The Tale of Adeline

With Addie turning 22 months old tomorrow and her second birthday rapidly approaching, I'm feeling inspired and (most of all) ready to talk about my pregnancy and birth story with her. Since I am completely unable to summarize the entire story in one post, I'll tell it in a several parts...praying that I actually finish the story with where she is now. Brevity is not my forte, folks.

Also, I officially give warning to the squeamish. There will be talk of vaginas. And midwives sticking hands up said vaginas. And many hours of excruciating stabby-knife contractions. And mucus plugs which are sometimes called BLOODY SHOW. And moo-ing and swearing and some crazy-ass primal shit. So if you can't handle aaaallll of this (::waving hands::), then stop. reading. right. now.

Ok. Take a deep breath. And on with the (bloody) show!

Part I: 23 And Pregnant

I've always been terrible about taking the Pill. After some time, I finally switched to the Nuva Ring to accommodate my laziness/forgetfulness and called it good. Except I forgot to pick up some more from Planned Parenthood when I ran out. Because birth control still works when you're thinking of getting some more, right?

I was in the middle of a Bikram yoga class when during an inverse position where your legs are sticking straight up into the air, the teacher calls out, "Those of you who are pregnant or menstruating, do NOT attempt this position."

And I thought, "Hmm. Wouldn't that be funny if I was pregnant or menstruating and I'm doing it anyways? Wait a minute, should I be menstruating? When was my last period? What if I was pregnant, hahah!"

The class ended and a very sweaty me ran into Nob Hill on the way home to pick up some pregnancy tests. As soon as I picked out a box from the aisle, I swore that EVERYBODY was looking at me (paranoid much?). And then I started to get a little nervous.

Of course, it was positive. As soon as I saw the two pink lines, the world seemed different. I, the dysfunctional, newly sober, child-wary young woman, was with child! Oh, and I hated when people used that phrase. But I wasn't upset. I wasn't worried. I felt a swell of excitement, like tiny fizzy bubbles were running through my nervous system.

Zach came home that night, and I stood against the wall with the test behind my back.

"Guess what?"

"You're pregnant."

"Hey, how did you know?"

"Because whenever anyone says, 'Guess what', they're pregnant."

"Oh, ok. Well, I'm pregnant!"

He was happy, of course. And then, I subsequently lost my mind. I delved head-first at high-speed into the perilous world of first-time pregnant woman. These people will spend ten hours straight researching any and more of the following subjects: co-sleeping, epidurals, SIDS, car seat safety, infant stimulation exercises, amniocentesis, birth stories, swaddling, bassinet vs co-sleeper vs pack n' plays vs cribs vs oh-my-God-what happened to the brain that used to read Kafka and discuss Fauvism?!!!!!

The next nine months were like this.

A week after we found out I was knocked up, we watched the documentary, The Business of Being Born. It can basically be summarized as: HOSPITALS ARE PURE EVIL. Your body will be hijacked by menacing doctors who will pump you full of narcotics and epidurals and then it will snowball into a terrifying series of INTERVENTIONS which will inevitably lead to the dreaded C-word. Cesarean.

Another week later, we signed a contract agreement with a well-respected, home-birth midwife. No law-suits if I die, blah, blah, blah. And then I delved even deeper into the underground culture of...home-birth women. This sub-culture followed many ideas that were new to me: exclusively breast-feeding, attachment parenting, co-sleeping, baby-wearing (in slings), cloth-diapering, raw-milk-feeding, home-schooling, nature-lovin' DIRTY HIPPIES! Sorry, I had to go there. I kid. It was actually very fun to learn all about this new religion through my mid-wife and like-minded folk. But I was so very blissfully ignorant.

I skated through the pregnancy with no morning sickness, zero annoying pregnancy symptoms, and a perfectly engineered plan of how Addie's birth would play out. I maintained my yoga and hiking regimen. I kept my weight down for the first two trimesters until my body simply demanded that I eat a carton of Ben & Jerry's every single night for the last three months.

When you're pregnant, the fetus is the only subject people are interested in discussing with you. How's the baby? How are you feeling? Are you finding out the sex? How far along are you? What vegetable is Baby Center comparing it to now? A rutabaga, you say? Your stomach becomes public property and people become emboldened to criticize the items in your grocery basket. Baristas proffer advice on how you should not be consuming caffeine because her sister didn't drink it when she was pregnant and it's bad for you, you know?

24 weeks

I openly shared with anyone who asked that I was planning a natural (drug-free) home-birth.

"Yes, we live in a one-bedroom apartment."

"Why yes, it IS on the third floor of the apartment building."

"No, I'm not afraid things will go wrong because I'm actualizing my perfect birth, you see. I meditate and send positive thoughts out to the Universe. IT CAN'T GO WRONG."

As the due date drew near, we began to prepare. We bought a waterproof mattress pad and home-birth supplies. I borrowed baby-items and hand-me-down clothes from the only friend I knew that had a baby. I read books by the revered natural-hippie-home-birth-advocate, Ina May Gaskin. I meditated and put headphones to my stomach, blasting everything from Pink Martini to Daft Punk to Beethoven.

Zach, preparing for the baby and looking

utterly confounded by the baby carrier

My midwife held a "birth-preparation" class, which I imagine was quite different from the normal Labor and Birth classes given at hospitals. It pretty much consisted of watching video after video of indigenous women from various South American countries breathing serenely and then popping out a baby on their front porch. Another video showed a woman who was having her second home-birth WITH TWINS, laboring on the toilet while her three-year old suckled at her teat (yes, Zach and I felt a leetle uncomfortable at that point). Her midwife was apparently stuck in traffic so she delivered them by herself, the second one being in a breech position (head up=kinda dangerous), and she literally reaches into her vag, grabs the baby's foot, and pulls it out of her like it's no big thang.

"Grab a shoelace so I can tie off the cord, honey!"

Oh, I can SO do this, I thought.

At my baby shower, about 6 weeks before I was due

At my 37-week appointment, my midwife was smooshing my stomach around to feel for the baby's position and she frowned.

"I think this little bugger may be breech. Go see my friend at the ultrasound office and check."

Sure enough, the "little bugger" was head up, butt down, with her feet up against her face. Like a pike position (called a frank breech). This meant that: a) I could try to find an old-school doctor who was open to trying a breech delivery in a hospital, b) Sign ANOTHER super-strict agreement with my midwife that if we attempted a breech birth at home and things went wrong, we couldn't sue her blah, blah, blah, and c) I could do everything in my power to make the baby turn to the proper position before I went into labor. I chose c).

I did everything, I mean EVERYTHING, to get Addie to turn around. Not only did I do the acupuncture, Chinese moxa stick, chiropractor, handstands in the pool, laying on an ironing board with my feet up on the couch, yoga positions, and squatting, but I meditated, talked, begged, pleaded to my baby, "Please, baby, please. Please turn around. You are messing with MY PLAN. Here, follow this flashlight I'm annoying you with." Nothing worked. And I was 38 weeks along.

We finally tried one last resort: the external version. This is when a highly skilled doctor handles the baby from the outside and physically turns it around. It's normally done from weeks 32-34, when there is still plenty of amniotic fluid and space in the womb. Not at week 38. I know, I know. In hindsight, I was a little insane. But I would not give up the idea of having a home-birth. My child DESERVED to be born in a calm, loving home where she wouldn't be suctioned and poked and prodded right away. It was my duty to protect her, I thought.

The version worked. And it hurt like a motherfucker. It feels like someone is jabbing and twisting you in your vital organs as hard as they possibly can. I think it was almost worse than labor contractions. I have a high pain threshold and I was listening to meditations on my ipod and there were tears streaming down my face. It took 25 minutes, and just as the doctor was going to throw in the towel, she turned around. God, she was stubborn from the very beginning.

We were back on track, and I was incredibly happy and relieved. Now, she just had to STAY in that position and the rest would be easy-peasy.

Or so I thought...

...to be continued...

Go to Part II