I don’t back down from challenges.

In fact, I often bring them on myself, and I have a legit problem with feeling like if someone else can do something, I should be able to do it too.

And I often do.

Running is my thing.  In fact, 10 years ago today (24 March 2019), I ran my first official race. I was a new mom of a beautiful little boy, had just moved, and was preparing for my first half marathon. This race was a 10k, I had never in my life run more than 5 miles in one stretch, and I was terrified.

As I registered the morning of my first race, I sat down to pin my number on my shirt and attach my chip to my shoe, contemplating whether or not I could actually run 6.2 whole miles. 

I recall a couple of women chatting happily nearby, and as they talked, a short but very fit man walked up to them and started asking how they were.  Clearly they already knew each other, because they jokingly asked, “How far did you run to get here?” Without missing a beat, the man replied, “10 miles.”

The math computed quickly in my head: 10 miles here + 6.2 mile race + 10 miles home = a WHOLE marathon, just for fun.

My mind was reeling. HOW could someone get to that point in their fitness that it was literally NO BIG DEAL to just casually run 26+ miles in a single morning?

I ran the race, struggled in parts, and finally completed the course in just over 77 minutes. Afterward, I was wrecked. I gave it everything I had, and I was exhausted. But also addicted.

Fast forward ten years and dozens of races, and yesterday, I attempted my first trail ultramarathon.

To give you some perspective, I have experienced 4 unmedicated childbirths (2 of them medically induced) and endured decades of chronic illness, and yesterday was absolutely the most difficult physical and mental test I can recall. 

When my longtime friend and “sister” Ashley asked if I would run a 50 mile race with her, I kinda laughed (because HELLO, that’s completely nuts!), but also was intrigued. Could I do it? Would I die? Would I finish? Would it be worth it? I had no idea, but it felt like a challenge (refer to the opening sentence).

We looked and looked for several weeks to see what race would fit the bill, and finally settled on the Behind the Rocks Ultramarathon (50 Mile distance) in Moab.  It was perfect, because it gave us several months to train, and brought us back to our mutual favorite place (and location that we met), gave us time to enjoy the location with our families. There was no down side. 

Right??

Several weeks after registering, and two weeks prior to running a marathon I had trained my heart out for, I fell hard on a training run and screwed up my back. Tears, prayers, emergency chiropractic care, priesthood blessings, and lots of worry miraculously led me to the best race day I’d ever experienced. No back pain, a huge PR, and only 2 minutes shy of qualifying for the Boston Marathon (sights set for next time!). I was so excited to continue my training and shift my goals to trail ultrarunning. 

Unfortunately, the prior injury reared its ugly two-faced head shortly afterward, this time in the form of a nasty hamstring/back injury. No amount of stretching, massage, rest, ice, etc. even made a dent. I could barely walk some days, couldn’t sit upright, couldn’t tie my own shoes without excruciating pain, and had no idea where to turn for relief.

To my dismay, my training suffered horribly. I was often left with the tricky decision whether to rest my hamstring and hope for healing, or to strain it, not be able to walk for days, and keep training as best I could. I never knew what the right decision was, so I cross-trained as much as possible, and kept up with the treatments I could do.

Did I mention that February of 2019 was the wettest/coldest/snowiest/iciest February in decades where I live? Because it was, so that was a fun wrinkle. 

Toward the end of February, I started to feel like I could finally put some mileage under my feet, and attempted to do so. I ran outside as much as possible, but found when I needed my treadmill most, it died. I literally had run my treadmill to death. Is that even a thing? I had never heard of it before. We ordered parts, and waited for what felt like an eternity to receive them. As soon as they arrived, we put it to work, and I felt like a million bucks as I threw several hours and lots of miles under my feet again.

The morning of March 14, we started our trek down to Moab and I knew I had given it everything I had to give. Looking back, I still don’t know what more I could have done in this situation.

We pulled in to town on Friday, March 15, and headed to packet pickup for the Canyonlands Half Marathon. We had registered for this race as well, knowing we would be there anyway, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I had to remind myself the whole “race” that it was a training run, but found it to be surprisingly fun to hang out at the back of the pack and chat with one of my favorite people for a couple hours.

After the race, I strapped my toddler on my back, hiked the 3.5 mile Delicate Arch trail with both families, and had a blast.  I felt like there was no way I would fail in the coming race a week later! I was getting nervous, but was so excited.

The morning of the Behind the Rocks Ultra, I hadn’t slept much, and was wide awake by 2am. WHY?! Ugh. It was fine, I just got ready, did my thing, and my awesome dad picked us up to head to the start line.  

As we pulled off the main road and took the trail to the start, he drove like a literal bat out of hell in his pickup to get us there on time. It made for a some good laughs.

We got there, used the facilities (no lines, wut?), prayed together, and were soon on our way. I felt AWESOME. It was ridiculously beautiful, the weather was incredible, and aside from an annoyingly loud chip bag in my pack, I couldn’t imagine anything more exciting.

First light slowly came about, we watched the moonset, the desert came to life, and my heart soared. A couple miles in, I felt a slight twinge in my right knee, but ignored it, assuming that it would soon work itself out and all would be well in Zion…er…Moab…again.

We pulled in to Aid Station 1, and I couldn’t believe we had already hit the first stop. We stopped only a minute, teased a few other runners, and were back on our way. My knee still hurt, but I wasn’t concerned. 

In the 10 miles between the first two aid stations, the terrain changed from rolling, uphill, sandy Jeep trails, to rocky river washes with an overall downhill slope. Every few minutes, I’d do a quick visual sweep of the ridiculously beautiful terrain I loved so much, mentally reminding myself to enjoy it as we went. 

The more downhill, rocky washes we hit, the more my knee hurt.  I took each rocky drop a little more gently than I would normally have done, trying to remember that we had a LOT of trail to go, and I wanted to be sure they’d hold up. Other than that, I felt amazing. We narrowly averted a wrong turn, thanks to a Good Samaritan just behind us, and got luckier than several others who added bonus miles to their course.

The wide jeep trails and washes I described above were nearly nonexistent after about 10 miles, as we worked our way to the cliff’s edge. The next 6 miles was insanely high single-track trail with a rock wall on our right and a several-hundred-foot cliff only a sneeze away. For perspective, please google photos of Hunter Canyon Rim Trail (this vid works: check 3:08-4:05). Try not to pee.

By this point, the front runners of the 50k were passing us, and we excitedly cheered them on. These people were incredibly fast, and it was so fun to see them go. The aid station at the bottom of this trail was their turnaround point, so we started to see them come around again, and soon the trail became so full of traffic, coming, going, etc, that it was a wonder no one fell off the cliff’s edge.

Station 2 was our first time cutoff, and we made it there with plenty of time. Everything felt pretty good even though my knee still hurt, I wasn’t letting it stop me. Ashley had lent me her trekking poles to lessen the impact, and after a bit, started to feel proficient in the use of them. We hit the trail again, this time uphill.

We passed a few walkers, and dropped down onto the Cliffhanger Jeep trail, hit our first unavoidable water crossing (hello, Willy Wonka’s chocolate river!) where my knees felt so much sweet relief in that few seconds of icy runoff, and worked our way onto Hymasa bike trail. The next several miles were a lot of rolling rocky trails, and my knees screamed at me to stop. By this point, they were both stabbing, but I wasn’t about to give up. We were forced to walk more than I wanted, but we were still making decent time, still planning to hit Aid Station 6 by the final cutoff.

About a mile from Aid 3, we turned from a flat portion to downhill slickrock, and I screamed in pain. Tears running down my face, I asked Ashley to stop and pray with me. Without any hesitation, she grabbed me around the torso, held me as I sobbed, and prayed that we would have the strength to continue on. I gritted my teeth, focused hard, and kept moving. 

Aid station 3 was the top of Hell…I mean Jacob’s Ladder. Just for funsies, find that baby on Youtube. It’s a good time. The aid station had no first aid supplies, but they DID have apple cider, which I gladly partook of. As we made the descent, I relied heavily on the trekking poles, and eventually made it down with minimal swearing.

Want to see what it looks like going up? Here, I’ll save you the time.

Be sure to watch the whole thing, and remember that we had to go DOWN this at mile 21, and back UP it at mile 26. 

From the bottom of the cliff, we had a 5+ mile run on a sandy/rocky jeep trail around Jackson Hole and back up the ladder, and I was still moving. Slowly, for sure, but still moving. I knew I was going to miss the cutoff at Aid Station 6, but I wasn’t leaving the course until they kicked me off it. Ashley was a godsend as she did her best to keep me focused on ANYTHING other than the pain. We talked about so many random things, and I laugh/cried with nearly every step. We weren’t even half way.

Down in the Hole, we saw two other runners. One, a female, who passed us, looking strong, but I couldn’t help but wonder what had taken her so long get to there, and the other, a kind 40-something runner, who was also moving injured.

We kept on keeping on, and were nearly around the bluff ready to head up the trail when the course sweeper caught us. 

I was angry. So so so angry. I did NOT want to leave the course, and I did NOT want to be done.  But I hurt so badly, I could barely move forward. I overheard him talking to the man behind us who casually asked what our choices were. He said he’d let us know what they were as we reached the top of the Ladder and to Aid Station 4. 

We got to #4 about the time we had hoped to be at #5, so we knew family was already waiting for us, and the cutoff for Aid Station 6 was eminent. I knew my race was over.

The Course Sweep told us that there was no way we could continue on, but in that remote location, he couldn’t get us off the course. We had to either continue on with him cleaning up the trail behind us, or we could take a shortcut to the next aid station, shave several miles off, and be swept at #5. 

By that point, we had 80 minutes until the 3:10 cutoff, and over 8 miles to get there. Ashley asked them if it would be possible with the upcoming terrain to make it, and they said it might be, but was pretty technical. With hope in her eyes, she looked at me and asked if I thought she could do it. I told her, “GO!” She dropped off with me all her excess gear, and took off. I spent the remainder of the time praying for her to get there in time.  I knew that after 27 miles of hellacious terrain it was unlikely, but she had to give it her best. I didn’t want her to miss the finish because of me, though I was pretty sure I had already ruined that.

She took off, and I kept moving.  I passed the turnoff for the shortcut, because there was no way in hell or any other way that I was going to leave the course of my own accord. Six more miles in my currently painful state seemed like an eternity, but I had to do it. Every single step was excruciating. I made small talk with the other runner for a few minutes, and then told him I had to just move…I didn’t want to talk, and I didn’t want to go his pace. I put my head down and trudged ahead. 

I spent the next several hours processing. I spanned the range of emotions, screaming in anger, sobbing, body-racking tears, frustration, and small moments of peace knowing that I had done everything right, even though I wasn’t hitting my goal. I was so angry that knee injury was the one thing I hadn’t even considered worrying about. Literally everything else still felt SO good by this point, I know I would have been able to finish the complete 50 miles without this injury.

This final 6 mile push was easier in the sense that I had lifted the burden of feeling guilty that I was holding Ashley back, but every step was a mental struggle. I had made the decision to complete this course many months prior, but getting to my family at the next aid station felt like it would never happen. I couldn’t reach them to communicate because they sat deep within a rocky canyon with no cellular service, and I hoped that Ashley would be able to pass on to them that I was still moving, and that everything would work out.

As I rounded the cliff’s edge, I could see the aid station from about 4 miles out. It was torture. I knew my husband and family were there, but I couldn’t contact them, and they had no idea where to find me. I later found out that even the course Marshalls didn’t know where I was (WUT??), and had no information for them. The slick rock Rock Stacker trail was wet/slick in several places, the breeze was cold, and I hurt so much. The pain and emotions cycled continuously. I was alone. The other runner and Course Sweep were nowhere to be seen/heard, not even in echoes on the canyon walls. I found myself being tearfully grateful each time I saw a blue course flag and passed it, knowing that they would eventually lead me to the end of this.

The course turned into the treacherous Jackson’s Trail, and I leapfrogged the single track cliff with a group of mountain bikers. I didn’t even have the wherewithal to ask them to pass on information, but found myself willing them to go quickly so that my crew would stop worrying. 

These guys give a good idea of what those trails were like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WHUiHKU0-c and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SxfDlCtB0Mo 

It was a couple of hours of pure torture. I could see the station the whole time, but was literally one slight stumble on a rock from falling a thousand feet to my death, and my legs were not responding appropriately. I kept hoping someone had a pair of binoculars, see my pink pack against the rock, and come for me. No one did.

I knew that I had one final water crossing just about 200 meters before the aid station, and was looking so forward to the icy water on my achy legs. As I finally dropped the last portion of the trail to the bottom of the parking lot, I could see the water just ahead. The blue flag was just ahead, and I knew I was there. I got to the edge of the water, and it was several feet deep with small rapids.  I knew there was no way I had the strength to cross without getting washed away, so I looked upstream for an alternative crossing. The blue flags beckoned me on the other way. I continued on for almost another ungodly ¼ mile, where my dad finally saw me and called to me.

I started sobbing and my oldest two children and my dad cheered me on. The kids went down to the water, and warned me that it was deep enough to hit Addie’s waist (whoops!). There was no zero-depth entry. It was the end of the trail, a 10” drop to the top of the water, and then straight to my hips in one shot. When my feet hit the ground, for a split second I didn’t think I could keep afloat, the pain shot straight through me. By some miracle, I was able to keep upright, cross the muddy water, and climb out the other side of the chocolate river, and hug my two big kids. 

My daughter said, “I’m so glad you’re our mommy! You’re the best mom!” And I looooost it. 

I took the last 30 meter uphill climb at a snail’s pace, and made it to the top just moments before Robbie made his way back on the Razor with Isla (who conveniently needed a bathroom) to my sobbing, exhausted, filthy self.

I had completed 50+ kilometers of the most ridiculous running trail I had ever experienced, and I literally gave it my all. 

I’m still processing, but it occurred to me on the drive home that I am that person. The one who people wonder how you can casually run crazy distances and happily do it on a whim. I am that guy.

I can’t wait until it no longer hurts to stand up, because I want a re-do without knee pain.

Sometime in October of 2016 I took a pregnancy test.  I didn’t actually think I was pregnant, I just took one.  I WAS pregnant.  Whoops.  Turns out a faint pink line is still a pink line.  😉

I had been in the best running shape of my life and was about 5ish weeks from the end of a marathon training schedule (that I had been working toward for what feels like forever), and I wouldn’t fathom postponing it AGAIN.

Turns out that finding a full marathon anywhere near Tri-Cities in October/November/December is nearly impossible (there’s one in February, and I was mostly shooting toward that one and just working on speed since my base was built so well)…so when I found a super teeny one (30-40 total marathoners) in Tukwila, WA (near Seattle) the first week of November, I immediately signed up.

About a week prior to the race, I noticed some spotting and immediately thought I was losing the baby.  We contacted the midwife and scheduled an ultrasound to check for the heartbeat, and were so relieved when her heartbeat was strong and solid.  However, I was a little angry when they told me that instead of 8+ weeks gestation, I was measuring at about 6.  Knowing that I was already likely to carry longer than 40 weeks, I was pretty frustrated by that news.  However, it did widen the window where insurance would be ok with a home birth, so we went forward with the later due date on all the paperwork.  This pushed her expected 40 week mark from June 17 to June 25.

When we asked Marcile (the midwife) about whether or not it was safe to run the race, she said, “Oh!  Absolutely!  Go ahead and run it.  Have fun!”

I will forever be amazed at what the change in hormones/energy can do to a person when an embryo/fetus is the size of a bean.  It was a hard 26 miles…but I did it.

And the baby was not a fan of me running/working out from then on.  😉

Time went on, and the pregnancy was about as normal as I imagine most women’s pregnancies are, but was easily my easiest.  I didn’t vomit a single time, and aside from your regular exhaustion and aches and pains and heartburn and restless legs and migraines and nausea and swelling, things progressed beautifully.

13 weeks

16 weeks

22 weeks

40 weeks

The typical months-before-birth regular contractions hit at about 31 weeks (based on the later due date).  From there until the day she was born, I experienced prodromal labor (regular contractions every 5-10 minutes), and was just plain tired.  Again…normal.  I just began to wonder if my body would actually go into labor on its own, or if (like with Isla) I would just beg my midwife to break my water because I couldn’t take it anymore.

The early due date came and went (not surprisingly), and other people’s babies were born all over the place…and I was still pregnant.  😉

My mama came in to town on June 22, and we spent that day and the next cleaning and playing.  Contractions had picked up a notch, but never got steadily more intense.  We took walks, did all the things they say to do…and nothing.  Saturday morning (after a solid 36+ hours of exhausting contractions that led to nothing), they stopped cold.  After 9+ weeks of steady contractions, there was NOTHING.  I was so frustrated.  We were approaching due date #2, and there didn’t appear to be an end in sight.  So we did what anyone would do…we went with PaMa, Adelyn, and Isla, and got pedicures.

Later that day, I took a couple of small doses of castor oil (far preferable to one heavy dose, btw 😉 ), had been doing pressure points, stimulation, ordered spicy food for dinner, did the contraction “lift and tuck” to help her head to engage, did the Miles circuit to make sure that she was positioned properly, had been listening to the Hypnobabies “Come Out, Baby!” track nonstop for days/weeks, prayed like crazy, and whatever else we could think of to get her to come.  Daxson had been at Cub Scout Day Camp that week, and we needed to pick him up from the church that afternoon, so Robbie and I walked over to and around the church (in 100 degrees) while we waited for him to return.  I remember smiling so big when I finally felt the pressure waves (Hypnobabies term for contractions) return, but they weren’t any more intense than they had been the day before.

After dinner, we started to get the kids headed to bed and clean up our take-out Thai food, and I stood talking to my mom in the kitchen, swaying back and forth and WHAM! a powerful pressure wave hit.  Then another, and another.  I said, “If this keeps up, I’ll start timing them in a little bit.” It was 7:15pm.  At 7:43 I logged my first timed wave.  One minute long, two minutes between that and the next.  And again, and again.

I called Marcile to give her a heads-up that I may be calling her later on.  She said, “Oh honey, I can hear that you are in labor.  I’ll be there in a few.”

The next thing I knew, I was laying on my bed listening to the birth tub being filled by my fabulous husband, and I was snuggling my toddler (who seemed strangely tiny) whilst the Hypnobabies labor tracks played through my headphones.

Yes, that’s a bra. Isla is obsessed.

Marcile and BettyGrace (her assistant) showed up just before 8:30pm, and I told Robbie to notify Lyndee, our photographer, to come over at about 9:30.  I knew I was in labor, but I didn’t want her to have to wait around forever, as I anticipated Aubrie being born around or after midnight.  It didn’t make sense for her to come too early.

My angel mother helped the kids get to bed (after a significant dose of Melatonin for each of them), and I climbed into the birth tub.  It felt fantastic.

After laboring in the tub for a few minutes, I went to use the restroom, and returned to Marcile asking if I wanted her to break my water.  I wasn’t sure if I was deep enough in hypnosis for that yet, so I was hesitant, knowing that though the waves were surely intensifying, they would come like a freight train the second the water broke.  I told her to wait just a bit.

A few minutes later, at the end of a stronger pressure wave, Marcile asked if I could feel her head.  That seemed strange as it was only about 9:00.  Surely we weren’t that far progressed?

There was a head.

What.

I hadn’t even been in labor for 2 hours!

There was no way.

Still thinking we had at least a couple hours to go, I focused on my positioning and breathing.  Robbie climbed into the tub and applied counter pressure to my back, and I have a vague recollection of my mom smoothing my hair and saying nice things.  😉

At some point (I later learned it was 9:32pm), Lyndee showed up with her camera and began setting up.  But we were pushing.  The baby was coming!

Isla had been asleep for less than 30 minutes, and I kept thinking that surely one of the kids was going to wake up, but they never did.

Aubrie Eva Allred entered this world at 9:41 pm on June 24, roughly 2.5 hours after active labor kicked in.Marcile expertly removed the cord from her neck (wrapped three times) before the rest of her body was delivered.

Her tiny warm body was so perfect, it didn’t even occur to me that she hadn’t cried yet.  Marcile instructed me to place my mouth over her tiny nose and mouth and give her a little puff of air.  It worked.  She started crying, and all was right with the world!

She was so perfect. And warm.  And clean.  There was almost zero vernix on her skin, and Marcile concluded that with that, and all the other checks she did, that the original due date was the most accurate.  Aubrie was 41 weeks gestation exactly.  Just like Isla.

Once the cord stopped pulsing, it was clamped, and Robbie cut an umbilical cord for the fourth time in our lives.

There was no tearing, no hemorrhaging, no extra birth trauma that had occurred with all the other babies.  I was so so grateful to have her here!

She weighed 8 lbs 14 oz and measured 22.5″ long.

We love this tiny human to pieces, and we are so grateful she has joined our family Earthside.

Even Dax was smitten, and he and Addie each got their turns to hold her in the middle of the night.

The next morning, Isla climbed into bed with me, stopped as she climbed over my legs, looked back and noticed the baby.  Her eyes grew wide with excitement and she exclaimed, “Baby Aubrie!” with a huge smile on her face.  She hasn’t stopped loving on her since.

I need to write this.

We welcomed a third child into our home (literally) about nine days ago.  Our life for the past 10 months or so has been insanely crazy.

Mid-May of 2014, Robbie gave me my favorite Mother’s Day gift I’ve ever had.  He ran with me (and the rest of our team) in the Red Rock Relay Moab.  It was amazing.  And I loved it, and him, and am so grateful for his willingness to run one race with me!  He’s the greatest.

During the race I struggled a bit.  My body felt “off” and I didn’t seem to feel able to handle some of the challenges of the course, though I was plenty trained and prepared to do so.  I had also gained 5-10 lbs in the weeks prior.  It seemed strange.

One week after returning home to New Mexico from Moab, on a whim I took a pregnancy test.  It showed a faint positive, but I didn’t think it was accurate and literally left the test on the counter planning to take another later.

Robbie found the test and asked me about it.  I told him I didn’t think it was accurate and that I planned to try again later…whenever I managed to make it to the store (which I didn’t plan to do for at least another day or two).  And we left it at that.

But I found some tests of another brand somewhere in my toiletries.  So I took the tests.  Yes, tests.  And they were both positive.  I began to freak out a bit.

We had been trying to conceive for nearly 2 years at this point and had even been discussing adoption.  I could not believe it.  We were having a baby!  I had very mixed feelings about it all.  I had mentally been prepping for adoption, and as my prior pregnancies were so difficult, it seemed preferable.

Two weeks later some nausea begin to settle in, but we were heading to Idaho Falls, Idaho to be with Robbie as he had a 2-week business trip.  We drove from White Rock, NM to Idaho Falls, ID.  It was terrible.  And I broke my 6-months of sugar-free-ness to suck on candy so my nausea would be slightly alleviated.  It helped, and we got to see some good friends (Samantha Mortimer and family and Genessa Phillips and family) while we were there.

Sometime during the week, one of Robbie’s superiors asked him if he would be “open to the possibility of” relocating to Richland, Washington to help out the Engineering office there.  I wasn’t super excited about the prospect of moving, but felt like we would make the right decision IF the time ever came.  We told them not to count us out.

We made it only through one week in Idaho instead of the planned two so Robbie could help drive me home.  We made the 16-hour drive in one day, and I was at the end of my first trimester.  Possibly the most miserable day in recent memory.

We had one week of being home before I headed to girls camp.  While I love my calling, it was a rough week, and by Thursday, my body had had it. Thursday also happened to be the day Robbie called to tell me that the relocation to Washington was ours if we wanted it, and to plan to visit the site the next week.  I struggled through the last few days and returned home exhausted.

My wonderful friend Trisha Conlin took Daxson and Adelyn for two nights so Robbie and I could fly to Washington and see if it was something we wanted/needed to do.  The flights were rough with delays and layovers.  And, as per usual, I had a hard time finding palatable gluten-free food in the airports.  We arrived in the Tri-Cities several hours later than anticipated, and as we pulled into the hotel hungry and tired, we found they had overbooked the hotel making it so we had no room.  We called hotel after hotel after hotel, and finally found space at the Hilton Garden Inn due to a cancellation just prior to our call.  Paying over $200 per night was worth it to rest my tired, pregnant body.

We had been told that the Tri-Cities was arid, and that rain was rare.  The next morning, as we got our first good look of the area, it was drizzling and most things I could see looked lush and green.  I was skeptical of the sunshine promised, particularly in comparison to our sunny New Mexico skies.

We met with two men who would be working with Robbie and found that the job was far different than we had been told.  Already, we saw red flags.  But we were here for an “interview” of sorts and decided to let things play out.  While Robbie went with them and toured the office and sites, I drove around trying to familiarize myself with the area and get an idea of where we would want to live should we decide to move.

The next day we flew home with mixed feelings.  We didn’t know if we really wanted to move (I definitely didn’t), but for some reason, we felt a bit of a pull to go.  We prayed and fasted and visited the temple, and ultimately decided to take the plunge.  The next several weeks were spent frantically finishing projects on our house in preparation to sell, and getting our house on the market.  It was incredibly stressful, but we felt so much love and support from our friends and ward family as they selflessly served our family.  I feel very confident in saying that we would not have done it if not for the help of so many others.

In mid-August, we packed our Subaru full of things we would need to survive the two months of temporary housing and headed north.  We were certain our home would sell quickly as we had been fasting and praying, and had had many showings in a short amount of time.  We were wrong.

Our home did not sell.  We had done all that could physically be done, and relied on the Lord for the rest.  And we did not see the blessings right away.  We tightened the purse-strings beyond what we thought we could do.  And then we tightened them further.  Our time in the temporary housing was coming to an end.  We had no where to live, and could not afford to pay our mortgage AND rent in even anything slightly larger than we were in.  And we definitely could not fit items from our 3000 square foot home into a poorly-designed 900 square foot apartment.  We felt stuck and suffocated.

We felt blessed to find an open unit in the same complex that would be available the same week we needed to be out of our temporary apartment.  The bonus?  It was on the ground floor and had a garage.  We jumped on it!

I headed (at 27 weeks) back to New Mexico by myself to get the movers to load our things.  It was so wonderful to see my dear friends and those I’d grown to love in White Rock, and I felt blessed to be served by them all yet again as they helped me scrub and scour and paint and touch-up, everything one can do to prep a home for vacancy and sale.  They were fabulous and served me more than they will ever know.

The movers are another story entirely, but suffice it to say I was grateful when they finally finished, and even more grateful to find people to purchase items the movers could not fit in the moving truck.  I flew back to my family in Washington feeling a mixture of dread, stress, exhaustion, and relief all rolled up into one confusing ball of emotion.

The next week we moved into the new apartment and were reunited with a portion of our belongings, and the rest somehow were able to fit in our storage unit/garage.  The stress and physical exertion of the move caused a bit of pre-term labor (at 28-29 weeks), so I had to force myself to take things very easy.  I needed our little Isla Grace to stay in much longer.  There were definitely tender mercies all along the way, but I began to fall into a depression with all the stress of everything and the fear that it was never going to get better.

Through a series of events that can only be attributed to the hand of God, we were blessed to find tenants for our home.  A portion of the financial stress was suddenly relieved, and we felt so grateful that someone would be taking over the responsibility of our mortgage for us.  We felt so grateful that prayer was answered.

Two weeks after our new tenants moved in, we received news my Grandfather Robert Simonsen had finally passed away.  He had suffered with Parkinson’s disease for a decade.  We drove from Richland, Washington to Salt Lake City for his funeral over Thanksgiving weekend.  Though the drive at 34 weeks was not fun, we felt blessed to be able to visit family and attend my grandfather’s funeral.

Just after returning home, Robbie and I were given new callings in our ward.  Robbie was called to teach the adult Gospel Doctrine class, and I was asked to teach the 14-year-olds in Sunday School.  We accepted and planned to teach the upcoming Sunday.  But I didn’t.  For the next 3 weeks, we battled influenza and sinus infections, which I would not recommend to anyone nearing the end of pregnancy.  We prayed and prayed that our home would be free of illness when Isla was born.  I was able to teach my class two times prior to her birth, out of a possibility of seven or eight.  I felt so frustrated and stressed that I was unable to do what I had been asked to do.

As Isla’s due date of January 10 neared, my mom flew up to be here with the new babe and help me.  We felt like January 8 would be a safe date for her to come, even expecting Isla to join us prior to her flight landing in Washington.  She came, but Isla remained where she was.  My mom’s first night in Washington, we even called the midwife over because I had been having consistent pressure waves every 5-7 minutes for many hours.  They were consistent and strong, and I felt confident that the baby was coming.

After Ginger (the midwife) had come and set up her items, I wanted to get in the tub.  She asked if she could check my cervix prior to that, and though I didn’t want her to, I consented.  She checked, and found that I was barely dilated, and said, “Yeah, you’re not in active labor” packed up, and left.

I was devastated.  And so so angry.  I felt betrayed by my midwife, my body, and felt so frustrated that Heavenly Father wasn’t answering my heartfelt pleas to allow her to be born.  There were so many levels I felt betrayed on psychologically, that it became a muddled mess of frustration.  I was depressed.  And the sun seemed to never come out.  It felt miserable.

After the embarrassment a few nights prior, I refused to go to the scheduled appointment the next Monday.  I couldn’t face her.  I was so angry.  And my body had not stopped labor, but it sure wasn’t progressing.  I felt I was broken.

Thursday night, seven full days into my mother’s ten-day trip, I swelled like a water balloon.  This whole pregnancy I had only gained 30 lbs, and somehow that day, I managed to swell up so much I was terrified I would be reliving my pre-eclampsia like I did with Daxson.  The next morning, I headed to my chiropractor/therapy appointment as scheduled (Justice Family Chiropractic is incredible!), and then went straight into the midwife to see what her take on the swelling was.  She didn’t seem overly concerned, but said to keep an eye on it, and I allowed her to check my cervix and sweep my membranes.  She said at this point, I was now at a 3, and things should be moving forward.  She had already planned to come by the house to check on me the following day, where she said she would sweep the membranes again if I desired.

Labor had officially really begun.  I dealt with pressure waves about every 7 minutes for the next 24 hours, and I was terrified they would stop before Ginger showed up at the house.  They began to lighten, and all the fear and dread from the week prior started to build up all over again.

On Saturday, January 17, 2015 (at 41 weeks gestation), after a slight freak-out, followed by a wonderful blessing from my husband, I felt at peace and assured that Heavenly Father really DID want me to have this baby and that she would, in fact, come.  There were truly moments where I had wondered.  Depression is real.

Ginger showed up, said I was at a 4, and told me she’d check again in a bit, and if I was at a 5, she would break my water.  The catch was that she didn’t want me to lay down, as that seemed to make Isla’s head disengage and stop dilation.  I did the best I could, but never fully got into hypnosis.  The first pressure wave following my water breaking began transition.  And it came hard and fast.  Pressure waves were coming so intensely that I couldn’t fully relax.  I headed to the birthing tub, hoping for some pressure relief.  It helped, but the time in between was too short to be in the positions I wanted.  I needed to push.  I fell over in the tub, I pushed and pushed, and felt her little head start to crown.  There was no way, I felt, that her head was fitting out of that hole!  Particularly lying down.  But I couldn’t get up.  I pushed and pushed and tried to stretch that skin down over her head.  Finally, my wonderful husband (who was in the tub working his tail off to help me) was able to pull me up to lean on him for support.  A few minutes later (at 7:37pm), all 9 lbs 4 oz and 21.5″ of our little Isla came bursting out, even hitting Robbie in the leg!

I picked up my beautiful, chubby, hairy, vernix-covered baby in shock and awe.  She was gorgeous.  And I was so grateful she was there!

The next few hours were filled with clean-up, a well-deserved shower, Robbie taking his knife to the birthing tub, and stitches to repair the tear Isla’s head had caused on her way out.  And she had been born in time for PaMa to be there!

Our precious Isla Grace.  We love her so.

As we laid down in bed that night, Robbie said, “Please don’t hit me for saying this, but birth is hard work!” He’s right.  He worked his tail off too.  And our little family is awesome.