Creature Bug

The Moment I Loved Her: Birth Story part 2

Even though yesterday I compared delivery day to a marathon, now that I think about it, it was really less of a marathon and more of finally spotting the finish line. Going into labor was pure joy for me. And my come-to-Jesus moment earlier in the morning when I discovered that I really did want to have this sweet baby was just icing on the cake. I suppose that's one upside to having prenatal depression: labor and delivery is a relief. Finally! I thought, I don't have to be pregnant anymore!

But just to prove that I wasn't smiling the whole time, I give you a picture of me going through a contraction.

See? I wasn't a cheerleader the whole time...just most of the time. (And notice my fingers on my arm? That's me distracting myself from the pain.)

At 11:15 am I called my dad. Get the girls ready, I told him.

And then we all geared up to meet Adelynn.

Adding a little bit of "excitement" to the event was that my nurse was concerned about meconium aspiration syndrome, which can cause respiratory problems in the baby. Nurse Galina called in a team of doctors who lined the wall as I did my deep breathing, waiting for Addie's arrival. It did unnerve me a little bit because I felt like I needed to get the job done so the doctors could be on their way. What a crazy thing to worry about.

About 11:25 I decided to make an effort to get Addie from being in my tummy to being in my arms. Because I had a serious laceration during Sydney's delivery, then my policy for Jules and Addie was to practice laboring down rather than work too hard at pushing. This definitely doesn't make the delivery go faster, but it seems to really work for me and my post-labor recovery. Also, it isn't so exhausting.

Thirty-five minutes of deep breathing (I don't hold my breath for pushing...it's counter-intuitive to how I breathe), and then there she was.

Our Adelynn. Born at high noon.

She was perfect, although quiet. The doctors didn't quite want to leave until they heard her give a nice bellow, but the most she could muster out was a squeak. It was good enough, and in the end we didn't need the team of doctors. We didn't need anything except our sweet baby.

 

I wanted to immediately start nursing her. I wanted to hold her forever. I wanted to tell her that we'd had a rough go of it for the last few months, but we were okay now. Instead, I just smiled at her, kissed her forehead, and told her I loved her. Then I was persuaded to let the doctors weigh and measure her.

I love Jason's face in this picture. It's exactly what we were all feeling. Love and wonder, people. Love and wonder.

And next to Jason, my personal hero of the day was Megan.

She was amazing. (She eventually left for the afternoon to go back to her family, but when she came back to the hospital, she brought us dinner from Olive Garden. Including, by special request, TIRAMISU! I got TWO pieces of TIRAMISU! Seriously. Megan's the bestest.)

Eventually we got our sweet baby back.

And after I filled her tummy with milk, and her ears with words of love and sweetness, she made the rounds.

And my mom called my dad (who was still at the church picnic) and gave him the news. Sarah captured that moment.

 

*

I can't quiet describe that moment where my heart was transformed to being overflowing with love for this little person. All I can tell you is that I had a really hard pregnancy, where I couldn't imagine myself loving this new baby. And then in the blink of an eye, on September 12, my heart grew and embraced her with more love than I have words for.

Of course it would be that way. Of course I would love her. And I shouldn't have been surprised, except...I was.

It's no wonder I'm smiling in all my labor and delivery pictures.

I'm someone who went through hell and couldn't wait to finally look on a face from God.

 

It wasn't easy, Baby, but you were worth it. You were so totally worth it.

*

Tomorrow? Photos of the big sisters meeting the little sister.

The Moment I Loved Her: Birth Story part 1

One month ago this sweet face entered the world.

 

The story of her arrival is just as wonderful and special as any ordinary birth story. I've decided not to be brief, nor overly eloquent, but just to tell the story that I want to tell. It's Tuesday, my one-month old baby is sleeping quietly next to me, and I'm feeling sassy that way.

*

I couldn't go to sleep the night of the 11th. I stayed up, reading fascinating articles on Slate and hoping that I really was going into labor. About midnight I determined that my contractions were close enough together so I ought to pack a bag. As I packed my bag, Jason woke up and asked what I was doing.

"I think I better pack my bag," I said.

"Oh boy," he said and then went back to sleep (he will tell you that he didn't really go back to sleep...he was just resting his eyes on account of it being the middle of the night and all).

For the record, Jason had asked me to pack my bag two weeks earlier, but I was stubborn and refused. He brought the suitcase up from the basement, and there it sat, in our room, where Jason would occasionally glance meaningfully at it. The last time I packed early for something was when I was 16 on my way to summer camp, and there was no sense in breaking my 18-year streak just because I was going to be giving birth.

After all, a person needs something to do to distract from all those contractions.

Not that I really needed distracting. No sirree. I was excited and no small amount of pain was going to keep me from laughing at midnight.

Around 2:30 am, I called my parents and told my dad he'd need to walk over and watch the girls while we went to the hospital.

"Well, all right," he said.

I thought this would be a good opportunity to take a nice hot shower knowing that I probably wouldn't get one for the rest of the day. As I took a shower, I practiced my hypnobirthing techniques. I wasn't going all out on the hypnobirthing, but I have some practice at focusing my mind on something other than pain. Years of migraines have taught me that. So there I stood, our hot water tank shortly about to be empty, and realized that the pressure of the water on my face was the perfect distraction. If I could focus on that slight pressure on my skin, I could easily get through the contractions.

An hour later, Jason and I were on our way to the hospital, and my excited jitters compensated for Jason's exhaustion. Poor guy. He was tired, and I was just gearing up for a marathon. All I needed was some Black Eyed Peas playing over the radio, and it would have been a regular party.

We checked in at the hospital about 4 am, and after signing some paperwork (fortunately I had pre-registered, so not too much paperwork), I was marched off to triage. I filled out more paperwork, answered some questions about whatever, and got hooked up. I was dilated to 5 cm, which was thrilling because that meant they wouldn't send me home. As each contraction washed over me, I had Jason rub my arm (imitating the feeling of the water from the shower) while I counted dots on the ceiling. Not just regular counting, mind you. Alternately counting by 3's and 5's. I don't know. It just seemed like the thing to do. And it worked.

The first contraction that measured on the machine showed a sharp decrease in Baby's heartbeat.

"Well, that's not great," said the nurse. "Baby's not quite cooperating here."

I felt a moment of panic. I had not planned for any drama, not expected anything other than just what I had experienced with the other two. When I heard the nurse's words, I felt fear.

And in that moment I realized: I loved this baby. I wanted this baby. For all the months of apathy and depression, I had never particularly felt anything toward the baby. But in that moment, where her tiny heart slowed way down, I knew I would do anything to protect her.

A twinge of fear, and then...the heartbeat resumed. The nurse said, "It might have been nothing." It did turn out to be nothing, but that instant of nothing helped me turn the corner and see the light at the end of the tunnel.

At 4:10 am, I fell in love with Adelynn. I was having a baby. My baby. Our baby. This baby. Such joy.

*

I waited until 4:30 to call my BFF Megan. No answer. She was, obviously, sleeping. I called again. Jason dozed off in the chair as I hung out in triage. I texted Megan. Eventually, I decided that I better call Megan's home phone even though I was afraid it might wake up her daughter.

Thankfully, that phone call didn't wake up Amelia. But it did wake up Megan. We squealed on the phone, and I was relieved that my friend would be here for Baby's birth. (As a sidenote to Megan's story: Sunday turned out to be the perfect day for her to be at Adelynn's birth because her whole day was free, unlike the Saturday before or the Monday next. Hooray for serendipitous births).

Around 5 or 6 am, I moved into my hospital room (one of the few remaining, they said. Lots of babies born the day before), and decided that I would get an epidural.

I had always planned on getting the epidural, but since I was doing so well managing contractions then I briefly considered not getting one. I might have been fine without one, but I didn't want to chance getting panicked by the pain, so I got one.

Well, I got one in my left leg. In a lovely twist of medical fate, my right side was epidural free. Call me crazy, but I thought it was sort of cool that I got to experience half the contractions. The doctor said they could readjust my epidural, but I wanted it the way it was. It humored me.

*

Megan showed up around 7, and the photodocumenting began.

 

There are no less than half a dozen photos of Megan and me posing for the camera, because really, it was a party. We were giddy with exhaustion and hopped up on excitement. Crazy kids.

 

Poor Jason was so tired. He slept through part of the party. But he was there for me when I needed him.

Having babies makes me feel like a rockstar. It's so exhilarating.

Nurse Galina showed up and she was lovely. There was a brief moment of introduction where I was afraid she might be too chatty, but then I was quickly won over by her charm. Lovely lovely lady. Jason's mom showed up, then my mom showed up, and then we all just hung out for a few hours waiting for Addie to arrive.

I called my dad at 11:15 and told him that Addie would be here in about 30 minutes, so would he please bring the big sisters in a couple hours. He and the girls were having a good time at a church picnic, and just as soon as they were done with the face painting they'd take a trip to the hospital.

At 11:15 I'd said 30 minutes.

I wasn't too far off.

And since I hear my little one-month rustling around, that part of the story will need to wait until tomorrow.

Before the Birth Story

Every time I start to write the story of Adelynn's arrival, I remember that very few people know the story of the months leading up to her birth. It's a story I kept myself from writing because I couldn't think of a good way to tell it. Even now, I'm not sure that I'll tell it well, and wouldn't tell it at all except that it helps put today and tomorrow and the past 19 days in perspective.

*

When I found out back in January that I was pregnant, my first emotion was overwhelming relief. Relief that we were finally going to finishing up our family, and relief that all those boxes of baby stuff would finally be making their way out of our house. I was woven from the same cloth as my grandma: I love getting rid of stuff. It makes me happy. And, yes, having a baby was exciting too.

I was nervous, though, about being pregnant again. Even though all pregnant women experience some kind of emotional surge when they're pregnant, my emotions don't so much surge as they engulf me like a hundred foot wave. When I saw the positive pregnancy test, I knew the wave was coming, I just didn't know how big the wave would be.

It was, in fact, bigger than anything I had ever experienced.

I knew it was going to be rough before I even got pregnant. For one thing, I would be starting out already emotionally depleted. Jason was unemployed. We were not building our house. In anticipation of being pregnant, I had stopped taking anti-depressants. I had suddenly lost both my grandmas only weeks before. And the sun had disappeared into the gray skies not to be seen for months. I'm not speaking metaphorically here. We had an unbelievable amount of gray skies this year.

Despite terrible morning sickness and exhaustion the first trimester, it wasn't until the end of March that I started feeling really low. I came back from my road trip to Colorado, and almost overnight I fell apart.

*

People love to quote platitudes about how you are as happy as you make up your mind to be, and depression is only an unwillingness to be content, but I can tell you--as a usually glass-half-full kind of girl--it's not so easy to fix as making up your mind to be happy. In the best of times, I get through depression by knowing that this too shall pass. I know there is a light at the end of the tunnel even if I can't see it, and that's enough to carry me through.

This time was different, though. I was sure there wasn't a light at the end of the tunnel. I cried. Endlessly. I spent hours laying in bed (made possible by Jason's open work schedule). I had to cancel one of my classes because I couldn't make the 70-mile drive. I was short-tempered with Jason and the girls, and every night I looked into my future of parenting 3 children and saw myself sleep deprived, exhausted, and failing.

How could I possibly handle 3 kids when I couldn't even take care of two? Why on Earth had I allowed myself to be talked into have another baby? No baby is worth this misery, I said to Jason. If I had known what I know now then I never would have gotten pregnant again.

Somewhere, deep deep inside me, I thought it might get better. I knew the baby would come and I would love her and it would be okay and the pre-natal depression would go away. But no matter how much I told myself that, I never could feel hopeful.

I felt like I couldn't talk to anyone about what I was feeling, particularly because I wasn't going along with the traditional pregnancy narrative. I stopped writing. I deleted my Twitter account. I considered deleting my blog and my Facebook account, but knew I would regret it. Jules would ask me every day, "Are you feeling better today, Mom?" Not yet, I told her. "I'll keep praying for you," she said. And my heart broke.

It's a hard road to travel when you wake up every day feeling hopeless. It's hard on you, and it's hard on your family.

*

A few friends recommended getting a Verilux HappyLight, which did help some but not enough. I started taking extra Vitamin D. Extra iron. Extra B-12. Extra Omega-3. I ate blueberries. I spent time praying and breathing deeply. I made an effort to go out to lunch with friends, got pedicures, spent time in the sun, read a good book, planned a fabulous birthday party for Sydney.

I did everything you're supposed to do when you're feeling depressed: eat better, sleep better, do things you enjoy doing, spend time with friends.

And yet two days after Sydney's birthday party, I was--according to Jason--the worst I'd ever been.

So I emailed my doctor, and she referred me to a therapist as well as wrote me a prescription for an anti-depressant.

I did not want to take anti-depressants. I would happily take them as soon as the baby was born, but not while I was pregnant. I did my research, though, and it turns out that experiencing severe pre-natal depression is more toxic for your baby than the medication that can help fix it. Ideally, I wouldn't have to take medication. But I was way past "ideally."

My therapist helped put it in perspective for me. "If you had high blood pressure, we would treat it with medication. If you had diabetes, we would treat it with medication. If you had any number of medical problems, we would treat it with medication. Depression is harder to quantify than high blood pressure or diabetes, but it appears to me that you've gone past the point of being able to manage your depression."

The day I started the third trimester, I started taking anti-depressants.

Two weeks later, I got through an entire day without crying. I woke up one morning and thought, "It's going to get better. I'm going to be okay."

*

"A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love." --Henri B. Stendhal

On this side of pregnancy, I can tell you that it did get better. The best part of the story is one I still have to write. But in order to get to that story, I had to tell this story, the one about being in the worst emotional place possible and wishing I wasn't pregnant.

I made the choice that I didn't think I would make. I got help, and getting help got me better. And getting better got me to where I am today: holding the sweetest little baby in the world, listening to her contented little hums as she nurses. She and I went through quite a storm.

But we made it out, and today the skies are blue, the breeze is warm, and Hope is steering the course.

Sweet Adelynn

I had a feeling I should post those pregnancy pictures on Saturday before they became anti-climactic.

Sunday morning we went to the hospital.

Monday afternoon we walked out with a new baby.

Adelynn Harriet arrived at noon on Sunday, weighing 6 pounds 13 ounces, measuring 19 1/2 inches long.

She's gorgeous. If I do say so myself.

Her story of entering the world is coming soon.

My September Baby

My due date was originally going to be September 11, but my midwife changed it to September 12. "You don't want to have to tell people you're due on September 11," she said. I smiled and said truthfully, "I'm okay either way."

I firmly believe there are no dates on a calendar that are bad dates for a baby's birth. Even ones as infamous as September 11.

Today I wanted to stay focused on the positive, focused on breathing and relaxing and breathing and relaxing, so I intentionally avoided all the media coverage of 9/11. Some years I read the blog posts and watch the videos, some years I don't. Today was not a day I needed to be reminded of what happened nine years ago.

Except, of course, I'll always remember what happened on September 11. I just will.

But if Miss Baby had decided to arrive today I would have happily held her in my arms, breathed in her new baby smell, and been endlessly thankful. And no one would have said, "Too bad your baby was born today."

And should she arrive tomorrow, that will be wonderful too. Because the relentlessness of life is that even in the shadow of enormous tragedy and grief, there will always be beauty and reasons to celebrate. And no one will say, "Too bad your baby was born today."

It's true that my September baby will enter a different world than I entered.

It's also true that my September baby will enter the same world that I entered: surrounded by people and family who love and adore her.

There are no shadows long enough, no fear strong enough, nor any sorrows wide enough to hide the radiance a new baby brings into the world.

I'll always remember today. And it will remind me that a birthday is just around the corner.

Huge thanks to Sarah for taking these photos. She's so super amazing.

The Un-Labored Weekend

First things first: I did not have a baby this weekend. Even though Jason brought up the suitcase from the basement and told me to pack it, I refused. "I'm not packing it!" Miss Baby does not need any ideas that Jason's first week of school is a good time to come. Nope, she is now not allowed to come until after school on Friday. Hear that, Miss Baby? You have to wait until after school is done for the week.

It's all about the illusion of having control, right?

*

One thing I can control? The linen closet.

I have been on a huge home improvement kick this summer, and today I decided to tackle the linen closet. I had already gone through half of it--the part involving actual linens--but I needed to corral all our medicines/first aid/beauty supply stuff into mini-crates. Out went expired medicines; out went bubble bath stuff that I don't like the smell of; out went hair clips that no one uses. My organization reach extended to under the girls' bathroom sink, and at the end of day I felt good.

And when one of the girls got a little sassy with me today, instead of getting frustrated, I just opened up the linen closet and stared at it.

I love being organized. It makes me a nicer person.

My next project is figuring out a system of organizing the inevitable windfall of school papers that will soon be flying our way. That's on tomorrow's to-do list.

I really wanted to re-wallpaper the bathroom, but I think I might be pushing my luck on that one.

*

I have a theory that if I'm too busy to have a baby, then I won't actually have the baby. I'll let you know how it works out.

Saturday's Silly Survey: Baby's Growth Chart

When I said that I had everything ready for the nursery, I didn't mean I actually have everything ready for the nursery. There are a couple of blank walls that need some fun artwork, and I know what I'm putting on the walls, but they can't be completed until after Miss Baby arrives (for photography purposes, I think she'll be much cuter in person than on her ultrasound photo).

One thing I could pick out ahead of time is her growth chart. Before Sydney was born, Aunt Andrea got her this super adorable growth chart at some baby boutique in Truckee, California. It's sturdy; it has "Today I am 3" (or whatever age they are) stickers as well as blank stickers that can be used for various occasions; it looks nice hanging on the wall.

 
I loved it so much, that I found the company that sells them online (eeBoo) and got a similar one for Julianne.

  

Even though I grew up having just one growth chart for all four of us kids, and I know some people have treasured memories of marking height on the walls/doorjam, I decided to go for an individual growth chart for each kiddo.

Now, I need to pick one out for Miss Baby, and I just can't make up my mind.

I can't!

I've tried!

We've finally settled on a name for Baby, and that exhausted my decision making skills.

So, I'm putting it to a poll so you can help a mother out. Don't fail me now, people. (Click on images if you want to see them slightly larger.)

Option 1: Lilly Pad Pond

 
I like the frogs. After all, we have frogs here on the Family Farm.

Option 2: Sunflower

Sunflowers are fun and cheerful, and it does follow the theme of inches marked a plant (Sydney has a weed; Jules has a tree).

Option 3: Hot Pink Flower

I think this one must be new to eeBoo because I just saw it there today. It's also super cute, and follows the whole "mark the inches on a plant" idea. The fairies are the same, although the artwork style is different from the other girls' charts. Which is fine, but I'm just pointing it out. 

Three choices, and I can't say that I'm leaning one way or the other. Okay, maybe I'm leaning a little less away from the Hot Pink Flower because the style of artwork is different, but that's not necessarily a deal breaker for me. It's still a darn cute growth chart.

There you go! Vote away!

(PS: The poll probably won't show up in your feed reader, so you'll have to click over to vote.)

Baby's Not Stressed

Monday I went in for my 38 week check-up, and generally speaking all was well. Except for the tiny little fact that I'm measuring small. At my last two appointments my midwife has tried to convince me to get an ultrasound to check Baby's size, but I've politely declined. I have to pay 20% of those ultrasound fees, which comes in just under $400. So. No, thank you. No extra ultrasounds for me.

But then Monday my midwife was extra concerned because at my 36 week check-up I was measuring at 35 weeks, yet at my 38 week check-up I measured at 34 weeks. And I hadn't gained any weight. I wasn't worried. I'm small. Big deal. Or small deal. However you want to look at it.

I still look pregnant. Proof.

Friend Laura took this picture a few weeks ago, and you cannot deny the belly or the bust. They are present and accounted for. 

My smallness, however, was disconcerting for my midwife. She talked about fluid levels and deteriorating placentas (which is more of a concern for women over 35, but I'm missing that mark by 5 months), and would I pretty please come back in that afternoon just to get my fluid levels checked and do a nonstress test.

I envisioned the really nice diaper bag that I could get for the money I'd be spending on the test, but ultimately decided to come back. "I'd feel terrible if something was wrong," said my midwife. And, well, I'd feel terrible too.

I went back that afternoon and got to spend 30 minutes in a quiet, dim room, lying comfortably on my side. If only I could have requested aromatherapy and some quiet music, I could have easily imagined myself at a spa. A very fancy, expensive spa.

The news: my fluid levels were fine. I measured at 16, which is nothing to worry about. And Baby passed the nonstress test with flying colors. The only excitement was that I had contractions during the test, which the technician thought was a good sign. Baby is very low, and the word is she could come early. She might not, but she could. How's that for definitive?

*

So, yes. Here I am at 38 1/2 weeks, a mere 10 days away from my due date. I have no idea when Miss Baby might arrive, only that both Syd and Jules arrived the day before their due date. If we followed tradition then Baby would arrive on the 11th. However, a little known fact: my official due date was going to be September 11th, but because my midwife didn't want to burden me with a 9/11 due date then she moved it forward a day. I wouldn't have cared if I did have a 9/11 due date because the day will mean as much to Baby as Pearl Harbor Day means to me. Which is to say, not that much. Anyway, maybe that means Baby might arrive on the 10th. It's impossible to say since I doubt very much I'll be induced, and so Baby can pick her own dang birthday and I should stop worrying about it.

Because I do. Worry about it. Because Jason starts school next Wednesday, and I'd hate to have him miss the first days of school for Baby stuff. Of course, whatever happens happens, but I'll be laying low next week hoping that the contractions hold off until the weekend!

*

Yep, that's how things are moving in pregnancy-land. I'm feeling tired (a lot), and I can certainly tell that Baby has made herself (un)comfortably low in my belly. I've been trying to get everything in order before the big day: the nursery is done (I'll get around to posting pictures eventually), and today I treated myself to a pedicure and various waxing options (not necessarily for aesthetic reasons, but mostly because it makes post-baby life easier and more pleasant, just like coming home to a clean house after going on vacation). Tuesday I get a haircut.

All fascinating stuff isn't it?

*

If I could have one wish it would be that Baby is born this Saturday. Sydney is a Memorial Day weekend baby, Julianne is a Christmas vacation baby, and a Labor Day weekend baby would be just perfect.

We'll see. I'm not holding my breath.

(And I'll be thankful for whatever day she chooses to come!)

Me. 7 Months Pregnant. Etc.

Yesterday, in recognition of being officially two months from my due date, I sorted through seven boxes of baby clothes and washed all the ones that we'll need for the first three months. I sorted and re-labeled and matched up socks who had been separated from each other in boxes packed months apart.

I feel quite certain those socks rejoiced at the reunion. I know I was especially happy to match up a particular pair of socks that were something like $20 a pair. It must be because they're knit from the hair of organic free-range high-altitude bilingual alpacas that frolic among daisies and honeysuckle. They were a gift, and darn it all if they aren't really cute (the socks, and perhaps the alpacas as well).

If you happen to find yourself in the position of having to sort through baby clothes, it helps to have a 3 year old as a partner. Not because she will actually help that much--although she did an excellent job matching up the socks and shoes--but because every onesie, every sleeper, every teeny tiny skirt will be cause for loud exclamations of "THIS IS SO CUTE!" and "Oh Mama! MAMA! Look at this! LOOK AT THIS!" It's like taking a really supportive and enthusiastic girlfriend shopping. Everything is, ohmygosh, FAB-U-LOUS.

Seriously. The girl knows how to swoon over clothes.

Baby clothes are now washed. Blankets and bedding are at the ready (poor baby...won't get any new bedding because I still love the old stuff). Miss Baby's future wardrobe for the next three years has been put in appropriate bins, labeled by the season it should be opened. I kinda rock the whole organization thing.

After a grueling first and second trimester, I'm finally managing to perk up here in the home stretch. Someday I'll have to write about how this whole pregnancy thing has gone, but it's a discussion that's better saved for after baby is born. Suffice to say, there are reasons why I have blogged very little. My pregnancy narrative hasn't been the stuff of beauty or grace, but rather medication and therapy. What matters now, however, is that we're okay. We're going to make it.

Two months to go.

And because my belly has finally surpassed my bust in terms of outward mobility, I share a picture.

PS: Believe it or not, Miss Baby is on her way to growing to a good 8 pounds.

Looking at Photos

I may or may not have mentioned that one of my big projects for the summer is to get all our digital photos printed in photobooks. It sounds very nesty of me to do this, and it's true that one of the reasons I want to do this project is to attempt to get a handle on the gazillion photos we have before the still-unnamed Miss Baby arrives and triples the number of pictures we take.

This project started back in 2008, when I finished my first photobook with My Publisher. (I should add that I use My Publisher just because I like it, but there are lots of really good photobook publishing sites.) Until several weeks ago, that photobook I made in February 2008 was the only photobook I had.

It's a lovely book. 

I must be especially fond of July-December 2007 because for two years it was the only era for which there were printed photos. It made for showing off our family pictures really easy. "Hey. Would you like to glance through our family photo albums? There's only one. Take your time."

After organizing all my digital photos, I made it my mission to GET THOSE PICTURES IN BOOKS for Pete's sake. It really would be no big deal, except that it kind of is. Because I feel compelled to Photoshop every.single.picture.of.my.life then it takes me awhile to finish a book, but when they're done, oh the grand satisfaction.

My first project was to finish up 2007, so that I could at least have one complete year of photos. Ergo, I did January-June 2007 (the link opens up the entire book, if you are so inclined to glance through).

 
 
My second project was to do something more current, so I did July-December 2009.

 
 
And then for kicks and giggles, I decided to do January-June 2008.

 
 
 

No, I'm not working chronologically because that would totally make sense. And I'm pregnant. And nothing I do makes sense except to take naps in the middle of the day. That makes perfect sense.

Sometime next week I'm going to start on July-December 2008, also so that I have another complete year. It will be a symbol of commitment or cohesion. Or something.

Other than the relief and joy I get from having the pictures in books, I've stumbled across a little side bonus of working with old pictures.

Hello, sweetness.
 

Oh mercy. The bunny ears on the hood.

Just today, Sydneykins, you were making this exact same face blowing bubbles.

Oh, if only you would both still fit in a box for photo ops.

The images could go on and on, but I'll interrupt myself with what working with all these pictures made me feel: happy.

Because I'm not so much a baby/toddler person, I sometimes forget the joy of those years when the girls were younger. The opposite of being nostalgic, I've been almost dreading having another baby because I think, Oh my gosh the diapers, the sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the complete and total dependency of another person on me. It is, of course, a lot of hard work having a baby, particularly a baby that you aren't totally convinced you're ready to have anyway.

But it's also amazing.

 

And beautiful.

 

My days might now be filled with negotiations and making snacks, and kids who can dress themselves, and kids who fight with each other, and kids who can get their own drink out of the fridge, but before all that, even in the middle of an exhausting night, I remember: I loved my babies.

And in two months, I'll won't have to look at pictures to remember that feeling because I'll just have her, there in my arms.

The Three Amigas

I admit, we were surprised.

Even though I didn't have a feeling, a sense, a dream, a premonition, or any sort of strong belief one way or the other, I really thought we'd be having a boy. After all, I've been so sick. And we've had him named for the past six years.

I guess someone else can have the name because, baby, we're going to have THREE little girls in our house.

As my friend Laura said, we've decided to specialize in this particular field of parenting. Just like doctors specialize in a field of medicine, we will be specialists for parenting girls. Specifically, parenting curly haired girls being raised by Type-A parents, which might even be more complicated than becoming a neurosurgeon. Seriously. Imagine the hair drama in about 10 years. There's a reason why we designed the bathroom for our future house to be extra large.

The ultrasound revealed that Miss Baby is healthy and growing right on track. She had a full tummy and a full bladder, and managed to give us a little wave during her moment on camera. The placenta has attached at the front, which explains why I rarely feel her kicking around. I'm sure eventually she'll make her presence known, but so far I rarely feel her. I wouldn't guess that there was a baby in my tummy except that I feel plenty pregnant with all the other less amazing symptoms.

When we got the "it's a girl" news, Sydney was disappointed at first, but seems to be handling it just fine. Jules was happy but then later disappointed because she thought we were going to the doctors to get the baby. I'd be disappointed too if I had expected to bring home a tiny bundle and instead got a fuzzy black and white picture. Total rip-off.

At the end of the day, I don't mind having a houseful of girls, although it would have been nice to add a boy to the family. There is a teensy tiny bit of me that feels like I let the family down even though obviously my super powers were limited in that area. (I'm not quite sure where my super powers are unlimited....)

But as so many of you commented to me over at Facebook, three girls is fabulous. It's all good. Three girls. Like Little House on the Prairie.

Now all we need is a fiddle, an afternoon spent churning butter, and a good old bulldog Jack, and we'll be set.

Week 304: Wondering about that Y-Chromosome

This is the week that we find out--providing Baby and Ultrasound decide to be friends--if the girls get a brother or a sister, and I'm feeling a bit nervous about it.

Months and months ago, when Jason and I were talking about having another baby, I wasn't exactly sure if I was on board with Baby #3. Since becoming a parent six years ago, I have been quite determined about not overdoing it. Sure, I still did some theatre work. And, yes, I did get my master's degree. So, it's not like I wasn't doing anything extra. But I am easily overwhelmed, easily stressed out, and having a third baby seemed out of reach for anything I might actually be able to handle.

But I knew Jason wanted another one.

And my girls were sleeping through the night. And out of diapers. And choosing their own clothes and dressing themselves.

Honestly, parenting seems a little less overwhelming than it did a couple years ago.

My biggest worry, however, was that Jason would be disappointed if we didn't have a boy.

This is total crazy thinking, of course, because Jason is not the kind of dad who would be disappointed with any baby who joins our family. Jason is an amazing hands-on, over-the-moon, absolutely-in-love-with-his-kids dad. There is no disappointing him when it comes to our babies.

I confessed my worry to Jason, and he quickly reminded me that I was being crazy (in a much nicer way than actually saying, "You're crazy."). Whatever we have--boy or girl--would be just fine with him. And knowing that he had always kinda wanted three kids, I put my worry aside and, well, you know, the story ends with, "I'm pregnant."

Nevertheless, as the Big Day looms nearer, I'm feeling nervous. And excited. And nervous.

Some of the nerves come from the fact that at this point there are no prospects for the family name continuing on beyond this baby. That's not to say that the other two men who carry the family name won't have kids, only that it there is nothing in the near future for that happening. It would mean a lot to Jason's family if Baby is Mr. Baby. The name would go on, and we'll be heroes.

Also? Just like moms so often congratulate each other on daughters, I'd like Jason to experience the "way to go" if we have a boy. I know people are happy either way, but there does seem to be some special in having a smaller version of yourself. I say this as someone who was relieved to find out that our first born was a girl. If I was going to enter parenthood, I wanted a daughter.

My nerves have definitely gotten the best of me whenever the topic comes up around family. I think they would all agree that any questions of "How's our baby boy doing?" has not been met with humor or grace on my part. Now they mostly talk quietly amongst themselves about the topic since I'm quick to snap some snippy remark. Pregnancy doesn't suit me; pregnancy with expectations--real or imagined--really doesn't suit me.

The thing is, it's totally out of my control. Sure, we followed some advice from Mr. Shettles, but that's no guarantee. I put a fair amount of faith in how biology works, but in the end, I'm a firm believer that God gives you the baby that belongs in your family.

However it turns out, I won't be disappointed either way because I have zero expectations. Though people naturally assume that we're hoping for a boy, we're really just hoping for a baby. Jules will be disappointed if we aren't having a girl, and Sydney will be disappointed if we aren't having a boy, but hopefully they'll get over it.

I admit, I'll feel a little bummed (which is different from disappointment) that Jason won't get a son, and that the family name won't continue with us. And I'll have some sympathy disappointment for the four grandparents who would really like to have a grandson, but even though the grandparents may have hopes, they're not unreasonable. They'll be happy with a baby.

*

Thinking about the whole thing makes me really thankful I live in an era and country in which the fate of a kingdom, the fate of a dynasty, the hope of a future doesn't rest of whether or not we have a boy. If the family name doesn't continue, it doesn't continue. If we have a girl, her future is not doomed if she doesn't marry. Life goes on. No hand-wringing required. This baby will be loved and adored and have a bright future no matter what Friday's outcome is.

And, really, what more could a parent ask for?

Still Flying

Unlike our robin friend here who saw a future stretching much farther than the end of his beak when he went flying into a window at my parents' house, nothing tragic has befallen me.

No mishaps, no scrapes (except zesting the skin off my knuckle the other day), no trips to the hospital. Just daily blah, and bleh, and boo hoo for kicks.

And while I may be sick, exhausted, and feeling so emotional that I'm starting to wonder if I'm clinically depressed, I'm hanging there. Fortunately, I mostly keep it together around people in public (a very good thing), but in private I'm not in any mood to scribble about my day. Hence, very little chirping in blogland.

We'll just call it a huge bummer and leave that as the perfectly good reason why I haven't been writing.

And not just here, by the way. I'm hardly writing anywhere--Facebook or Twitter or article submissions for the Journal of Craziness. Even Desmond's appearance on Lost (and he's the best character there is!) hardly cheered me up. Ugh. I'm open to non-drug suggestions about clearing away moodiness whilst pregnant. I admit, this picture of the deceased robin does cheer me up, but I'm not relying on it to provide any long-lasting cure.

Anyway. I'm still here, just quiet.

Five months left, and then relief...from the morning sickness anyway. A different kind of beautiful exhaustion awaits me, but one that I'm looking forward to.

Next Friday the 23rd is the gender ultrasound, so I'm destined to at least write something then...

Week 299: Being Outed by New Belgium

Our original plan was not to tell anybody about the pregnancy until somewhere around the 13 week mark, which, incidentally, was sometime last week. Early on I made a couple of exceptions. The day after the positive pregnancy test, I called my friend Megan. A couple days later I mentioned it in an email to Gina. But overall, we were mums the word.

We ended up announcing earlier because we had our annual Valentine's Day cards to send out, and it seemed kind of weird to be writing a letter to just about every single relative and not mentioning our pregnancy. Just a month after Valentine's Day, we'd have to go through the trouble of writing them again just to say what could have been said earlier. It was just too cumbersome. I hate cumbersome. Particularly when I'm puking my guts out. It's too much effort.

But before the announcement, my mom would politely inquire if Baby #3 was coming along or not--we had already suggested that 2010 would more than likely involve another baby. I evaded her questions nicely. Many years of practice, of course.

Even my blessed sis-in-law Sarah considered putting her sleuthing skills to use by offering me some wine for dinner one night just to see if I would accept or decline. But then, as she told me later, she knew that wouldn't suggest anything at all because I regularly don't drink wine. In fact, I almost always turn down wine. It gives me a headache.

My one exception to refusing alcohol is anytime I get together with my friends (Kathy! Justin! Gavin! Shane!) from grad-school days. About four of us (plus spouses and others) get together a couple times a year to catch up and have a grand ole' time. The hallmarks of our gathering consist of consuming inordinate amounts of meat, talking about English literature related stuff as well as the Green Bay Packers, and--because what's a bbq without tasty beverages--drinking beer. Not just any beer, mind you. Good beer. Guinness. 1554. Local micro-brews.

Because I am slight of frame, rarely drink alcohol, and work for a Christian college that doesn't really want its professors consuming alcohol, I don't drink that much. Maybe a pint. Maybe half that. But I always have something. It's tradition.

And so, early in January when Jason and I got together with my friends to watch the Green Bay Packers lose tragically to the Cardinals, I should have had a plan about avoiding beer. Well, I did have a plan. I would just say, No thanks.

That was my plan.

And initially when Gavin offered me a beer, I said no thanks. I hadn't eaten yet. No problem.

But then an hour passes and I've had quite a lot to eat. Some amazingly tasty ribs, and other bbq wonders had filled me up.

Jason took a phone call in the other room.

Gavin picked up a bottle of 1554 and meant to hand it to me. "Here you go," he said. "Have a drink."

I stuck with my plan.

"No thanks."

In hindsight, I should have taken the beer, opened it, used it as a prop in my hand to emphasize whatever it was that I was talking about. Eventually, I could have handed it off to Jason and he could drink it. That's what I should have done.

But I didn't. Because I had a momentary thought of Jason not wanting to drink it and then the beer would go to waste. 1554 should never go to waste, people. Never.

Conservative frugality and some notion of saving the world from wasted beer was my downfall. I said, "No thanks."

Gavin laughed and said (probably jokingly), "What? Are you pregnant?"

And years of theatrical training failed me in that moment, and I could feel the heat rising in my face, and the stammering non-answer that wasn't going to convince anyone. Of course, everyone just had to be in the room at that moment (except Jason).

"Um...uh..."

The room grew quiet, and I glanced nervously about, red faced, shaking my head, and giggling. Gibberish response, and then finally, "We weren't going to tell anyone yet, but um...oh good grief."

The next few seconds are a bit of blur but there was some mention of "What?!" and "Really?!" and me feeling so embarrassed I could hardly stand it. And then eventually the cheers, and the laughter, and the sudden realization that I had totally been outed.

I wasn't even a bit irritated or upset; I just felt silly because really, it was about the least classy way someone could announce they were expecting. Want a beer? No thanks. Are you pregnant? Um.

In the end, I had a very convincing reason for declining the beer, it just wasn't the reason I had been prepared to give.

So, as of January 10th, our little circle of people who knew I was pregnant grew exponentially, but that was okay. They weren't going to tell our family anyway. Sure, my little plan didn't work out so well, but given the tradition of these gatherings with my friends, it was quite fitting after all.

And for the record, I'll take that 1554 in mid-September.

Week 297: Sometimes

Sometimes the best you can do is make sure your children are fed and the house doesn't burn down.

That's what I did today.

And I made applesauce in the crockpot. And the tv hasn't been turned on (yet). So. That counts for something.

Week 296: Bleh...with a dash of blue and red lights

I have to feel better soon, right?

RIGHT?

My underwhelmingly named "morning sickness" has reached new levels of misery that my previous pregnancies never experienced. This pregnancy is similar to my others like a Rhodesian Ridgeback is similar to a Yorkshire Terrier: same kind of animal, just that one is small and sweet, and the other will tear apart your lion-sized plans for the day. And that's the last metaphor for the week, thankyouverymuch.

My remedy seems to be eating cereal for just about every meal, taking two-hour naps, and going to bed at 8:30 pm despite the fact that I love love love the Olympics and hate missing a single moment of them. But if I sleep for 12 hours, that only leaves me 12 hours of wake time...which works out to my advantage. I have turned a bit of a corner in that I'm now feeling okay in the mornings when my stomach is empty and my movements are slow. So, I'm sneaking in a quick write here while Jules watches Word World, and Sydney is at school.

First of all, I had my first visit to the doctor's office on Wednesday and got to see the little flutter of heartbeat. Only one heartbeat, much to Jules' dismay. I was relieved for the one heartbeat, on all counts.

Aside from that little milestone of the week, it's been a work week for me. Jason flew back to visit his brother in Mass., so I'm holding down the fort by myself. Whilst I spent the day cleaning the house, he was touring Fenway Park. I did laundry and dishes while he toured the Newport Mansions at Breakers. I was dusting and vacuuming as he walked through the Harry Potter exhibit at the Boston Museum of Science (his review: it was good, but rather expensive at $26 + the cost of admission...fortunately, he got a discount because of our OMSI membership).

I'm not bitter, though. Really. Jason has had to do just about everything--meals, chores, parenting--for the past month, and his vacation is well-deserved. The girls may not be getting the most nutritious meals, but cereal has a lot of vitamins in it, so. We're managing.

And until last night, I hadn't cried at all while Jason was gone. Actually, I haven't been much of a weeper for this pregnancy (excluding Olympic montages), which is sort of refreshing. My crying episode last night wasn't entirely my fault, however.

I was pulled over. By a cop. Because I was driving too slow in the left lane.

I was on my way to pick up Jules at Jason's parents' house, and I had just woken from a nap before I left. Still feeling tired, still feeling Not Great, I headed down the road...a road which unbeknownst to me follows the same rules at Interstates: the left lane is for passing only. I have driven SR-503 hundreds of thousands of times...it's just about the only way to get to our house. For the last several months, the right lane has been closed due to construction, so by habit I've started avoiding it.

Three miles down the road, the lights start flashing behind me, and so I pull over.

I knew I hadn't been speeding. We live down the street from a police station, so I'm always aware of the speed limit.

So, I wasn't feeling guilty, just confused. And because it was dark, I was also feeling alarmed because I don't like talking to strangers on a dark street no matter what uniform they have on.

He explains that I shouldn't have been driving in the left lane. Wasn't going to give me a ticket. Just wanted to let me know that the left lane was for passing only.

I'm nodding, confused, tired, feeling sick...and then I start crying. Of course. Because that's what I do when police officers scold me.

He immediately tried to calm me down. "Don't cry. You're not in trouble," and whatever else that I didn't hear because I was sobbing.

"Oh, I'm just emotional," I sobbed, "because I'm pregnant." A true statement, although I probably would have cried no matter what gestational state I was in.

He congratulated me, and inquired how far along I was and noticed that I have two children because of the two car seats. "Well, don't cry. I don't want to cause you any stress." He was actually very nice about it, although I couldn't stop crying.

And so with only a cursory glance at my drivers license, he walked away, leaving me to cry in the dark, alone on a dark street.

Fortunately, the crying, the dark, the being alone? Not a metaphor for anything I'm feeling. It was just something that happened that reminds me of nothing in particular.

Except that I probably shouldn't be driving at night when I'm sick and tired.

Oh, and congratulatory wishes from a police officer who pulled you over is still a nice feeling. Made better, of course, without a ticket to go along with them.

We're Going to Need A Bigger Car

It's amazing what can happen in two weeks. Facebook got overhauled. My students gave speeches. One student (presumably) dropped my class. I had a fabulous birthday lunch with my friend Megan. The East Coast got/continues to get pummeled by snow whilst we dodge our usual fat raindrops under a gray sky.

The city of Vancouver (Washington, not Canada) continues to make the World's Stupidest Decisions when it comes to road planning.

I sent out 60 Valentine's Day cards. Had a nice, meaningful conversation with my parents and my in-laws last weekend.

I got the oil changed on the car.

Yep, big things are happening.

By way of explanation, I haven't been blogging much the past several weeks because I haven't been feeling so great. I mentioned before that I was feeling angsty. Angst might not have been the best term for it. Fire-breathing dragon is probably a more accurate description. That was me for the month of January.

I'm not so fire-breathing these days. But I still feel ill. All the time. I cough, and then my coughing makes me gag, and then my gagging makes my dinner end up outside my body. That is, if I eat dinner. Which I haven't been recently. It's better that way.

Ill. Moody. And absolutely exhausted.

Turns out there's a diagnosis for what I'm feeling. It's called The First Trimester.

Yep. I have another creature bug swirling around in my tummy, and this bug will hopefully stay with me until the middle of September.

Gagging on toast has never been more exciting.

Week 198: Hypotheticals

Tonight we met with Todd (designer for our new house) to go over some changes in the plans. The big changes involved the master bedroom, the garage, and one particular wall in the dining room/living room. We had a good brainstorming session, and I feel good that Todd will come up with something that draws from our collective design sensibilities.

The other smaller change involved reconfiguring the upstairs bathroom--the one that the kids will use. Well, smaller change for him. But really the whole reconfiguration is based on one big hypothetical: having another child.

Which isn't to say that I am having another child, only that I might. And if that other child is a boy then I want the bathroom to function well as the siblings share the space. If we have a boy. Which we might not. If we have another child. Which is more probable than even having a boy.

It's a conversation I've been having with myself (and Jason) for the last couple months, and even though it's not something I lose sleep over (at least, not too much), it's something I toss around in my mind as I look at house plans and we wonder exactly how to divide up room space. The whole conversation with myself goes something along these lines. Are we having more kids? If we are, then when would be a good time to consider having this other child (though I realize, of course, that this isn't totally in my control, but hypothetically speaking...)? Should I get pregnant while we are assured of Jason's job and therefore awesome health insurance? How will this affect my teaching load? How will we afford a new car since we don't have one that could seat three carseats? How far apart do we ideally want the kids do be in age? Do I really want to be moving into a new house pregnant? Wouldn't it be easier to be pregnant next year so that Rebekah the Amazing Nanny can help out? Am I even suited to parent three children?

On the other hand, the conversation sometimes goes like this. Please dear Lord, we are not having any more kids. That easily answers all those other questions.

I realize that I am blessed to be even in the position to be having this conversation with myself, knowing that there are some people who would give the sun, moon, and stars to be in my spot. I also realize there is a lot that's not in my control regarding the whole thing. But still. It crosses my mind. More than occasionally.

It wouldn't really be a difficult choice if I was excited about the prospect of having another baby. Jason and I have always kind of thought we'd have three kids. It's a nice compromise between our two families. There were two kids in his family, and he always wished there were more. There were four kids in my family, and I always felt like my mom was on the verge of a nervous breakdown from the stress we caused her. Three is good. A nice prime number. I don't care about the middle child syndrome because I figure once you have more than two, there are always middle children. Maybe you have one middle kid, maybe you have two or three. As my sister says, "Tyler and I are the middle kids in our family," and she's right. Oldest, youngest, and middles. You deal with whatever you get, and you parent accordingly.

The idea of a three-child family is more more appealing to me than actually having three kids. I'm not even dreading being pregnant anymore, which was the bigger concern last time around. It's the fact that most days I feel like I'm just treading water, trying not to drown in a sea of sippy cups, tiny socks, and play-dough. The thought of adding another child to the mix? Really? Me? The one taking Zoloft every day just to keep my head together?

I don't know. My gut says, "Wait a few years. It'll make it easier." My significant other (who also has an important say in the whole thing) says, "I'd really like to be out of the baby stage in a couple years instead of starting it all over again."

Seriously. I don't know.

It's not a decision I have to make right now, at this instant. It's not even a decision I have to make in the next couple months. It might be a decision we have to make this summer, if we're factoring in health insurance. I'm just thinking aloud here, not really expecting some sort of revelation. The only one who really knows the answer to the question "Are we having any more kids?" is God and my ovaries. Whatever my decision ultimately is, it's still not completely up to me.

Last week Sydney said to me, "I want a baby brother."

I smirked. "Did Daddy tell you to say that?"

"No. I just want one. I have one baby sister, and I want one baby brother."

"We'll see," I say.

She looked at me, smiled, and agreed. "We'll see."

*****

Just for spite, I'm giving away the pregnancy book I reviewed last July, Body, Soul, and Baby. If you're interested in winning it, leave a comment at that old post, and I'll choose a randomly lucky winner Wednesday at 8 pm PST.

*****

(c) Creature Bug 2008. All rights reserved.

The rest of the story

No matter how hard I try to be succinct with this story, it still ends up being terribly long. What can I say? Brevity in writing is not one of my strengths. Plus, please remember that I'm writing out the story more so that I will have some record of it. Hence, some crazy non-important details. At least I included some pictures to make it mildly entertaining.

So, here's part 2 of the labor and delivery story.

Week 136: The Events of December 20-21

My youngest brother told me once that the human body has no memory of physical pain. That is, we cannot physically recall how something felt. We can remember the emotions of something, which is why remembering certain events can make us laugh or cry. But once we recover from physical pain, we can't "relive" that feeling again.

Naturally, this explains why women keep having children. Because here it is not even three weeks after giving birth and I'm thinking, "Well, that wasn't so bad."

However, lest I somehow forget the events of Julianne's birth I figured I better write them out. Even though I love hearing and reading about other women's birth experiences (although I do not enjoy watching them...ick), I fully understand why stories of this nature are not your cup of tea. Feel free to come back later this week when I will spend time complaining about how small our car has suddenly become.

The 4-1-1

The deal is that before we go to the hospital the contractions are supposed to be four minutes apart, lasting one minute, for a least one hour.

Check that off the list. In fact, check it off as of 4 AM this morning. I've managed to find at least one shiny object in every room to use as a focal point whenever a contraction hits. The bubbles on the soap dispenser. The lights on the Christmas tree. The glare of a light bulb. Give me something shiny, and I can make it through. I'm still miserable, but I'm making it through. Now we're just waiting and wishing for my water to break before heading off to the hospital. If that's all I get for Christmas, that would be perfect.

Well, that and an epidural.

Okay...the water breaking, the epidural, AND the baby. That's all I want. My needs are so few.

Oh, and dinner last night? It was good. Good to be with family, and as an added bonus I had creme brulee for dessert. It almost made my stalled labor worth it.

The suspense continues

I got nothing for you.

Contractions are still going on, but far less consistent then they were this morning. As Jason says, "This is what happens when you tell the world you're in labor." Yep. Silly me. I had just assumed that consistent contractions for 4 hours meant a baby was coming. What a tease.

I went for a 40-minute walk, in the rain, by myself, pondering the meaning of life.
Results: contractions stopped for 2 hours.

I bounced on my big blue bouncy ball, recalling the advice of many other laboring moms before me.
Results: contractions stopped for 2 hours.

I took a bath, remembering that this is what had resulted in my water breaking when I was in labor with Sydney.
Results: contractions stopped for 1 hour.

I tried to take a nap during pause in contractions.
Results: contractions started up again.

Yeah, I see how this is working.

Now my family is on their way down from Portland, where we will meet up at a restaurant here in town for dinner (conveniently only several blocks from the hospital). Maybe once my uterus hears I've made plans then it will be spurred on to action, forcing me to cancel my plans. Either way, I hardly suspect I'll enjoy dinner that much since I'm feeling mildly awful. Oh well. I certainly appreciate the support of my family.

On the upside, I've stalled out in the easiest part of labor rather than later when it gets more unbearable. And fortunately, I've been able to read all your good wishes and encouraging words. Thank you so much! I'll keep you posted.

The One that Woke Me Up

3:16 AM: *wake up to familiar crampy feeling*

3:26 AM: *look at clock and take a few seconds to realize that's what I felt 10 minutes ago*

3:32 AM: *ponder getting up*

3:42 AM: *hold Sydney's hand as she sleeps next to me*

3:50 AM: *get up*

4:00 AM: *start doing dishes*

4:08 AM: *realize that today I'll need to shave my legs*

Holding steady with contractions 8-10 minutes apart. I haven't packed yet, but I've showered. I'm thinking we might be having a baby today.

If things drag out here at home, then I'm sure I'll be posting again. If I'm not back here in a few days, then check my SIL for news (btw, the pictures she has posted of the beautiful pregnant woman are of her other SIL).

PS: Oh, and did you notice? It's not Christmas Day. Praise God.

Still

Losing Power

Yesterday morning I was pretty sure that my day could not possibly be as interesting as the Thursday my sister had. After all, her day involved watching a leashed cat eating dumplings in a Chinese restaurant. Hard to top that.

Nevertheless, my day wasn't without a bit of drama. We had a fierce windstorm here yesterday which resulted in us losing power. We were gone at the time of the power outage, believing whole heartedly that our (new) VCR was recording The Office and Scrubs for us. We got home--two hours after the power had gone out--to a dark home that had (1) no recorded TV shows waiting for us and (2) a cell phone and laptop computer with dead batteries.

Boo.

"What are we going to do NOW?" we wailed in unison since our main forms of entertainment had been taken away from us. But, of course, we didn't wail too long because the novelty of losing power is still kind of exciting to me. We, being candle burning folk, had the house glowy and bright in no time. I even brought out the candlesticks, which I never use because their uncontained flames always alarm me a bit. And when I say "never use" I mean the candlesticks we used last night are from our wedding. Nine and half years ago.

It was a nice change of pace to wander around the house with candlesticks, feeling just a little bit like old pioneers. Of course, the old pioneers wouldn't have had to disable their garage door opener in order to get the car in the garage. And the old pioneers wouldn't have rummaged through storage looking for a corded phone to replace the cordless phones. Nevertheless. We spent the evening around the fireplace playing cribbage and being thankful that Sydney was staying the night at my parents' house so that we didn't have to worry about her burning herself on the candles. Eventually we trotted off to bed, going to sleep with the smell of snuffed candles lingering around us.

And then we woke up this morning.

Still without power.

No heat. No toast. No hot apple cider. No long hot showers (although fortunately we did still both get hot showers since it had stayed hot in the tank). No hairdryer. No email. No Internet. And (possibly) no food still edible in the fridge.

No fun.

A full twelve hours without power, and already the adventure had worn off. As I headed off to my ultrasound appointment (at 7:00 in the morning!), I prayed that the power would be back on when I returned home.

Thankfully, it is. I needed some electricity to help boost my spirits since I'm not in the cheeriest of moods after my appointment. It appears to be that somebody has played a terribly mean practical joke on me because the ultrasound revealed that not only am I probably not at 40 weeks today (which they had estimated) I may in fact still be TWO weeks away from 40 weeks. Talk about a loss of power.

Ah well. Baby's heart was still beating strong, and that's the important part. So she comes later rather than sooner. So we get to have a Christmas with three instead of four. So this little wind storm of a Baby has knocked our parental power out. Even though it's not terribly convenient, we'll wait it out. I've got plenty of candles.

Nope

...there's no baby news to report.

But it's early anyways. I don't hit forty weeks until Friday.

Plus, I have determined that this week is all about me because next week *fingers crossed* it'll be all about someone else. So my plans?

Sunday: making a huge batch of wassail to drink all week long.
Monday: eye brows waxed.
Today: bikini wax (a first for me...Yes, I'm giving myself a little practice in pain management).
Wednesday: manicure and pedicure with my grandma.
Thursday: getting a haircut, giving my students a final and turning in grades!
Friday: hour long massage (to relieve my back, and perhaps encourage baby that a weekend arrival would be nice).
Saturday: we got a babysitter, and we're going out!

So yay for me for deciding that I deserve to be pampered this week.

I have a longer post I'm working on, I just thought I'd keep you "in the know" on the mommy/baby news!

A Party, some Rum, and Google Feeds

It's a very quiet house right now. Sydney is asleep; Jason is at a poker/birthday party; Daisy is snorting quietly in her bed. I could go to bed, but considering how miserable sleeping actually is these days (can I order a new back? like a whole new spine and everything? no? *sob*) I'm postponing my bedtime until later.

In other more interesting news, Jason had a holiday staff party/progressive dinner tonight, and I went along. We got a babysitter, I got dressed up, wore makeup, diamond earrings, HIGH HEELS, and did look rather sassy for being nine months pregnant if I do say so myself. It was a fun enough affair. I ate crab puffs even though I faintly recall reading something about how pregnant women should not eat crab, but maybe that's just my imagination. I traded a few birthing stories with other moms, and didn't worry about not mingling around too much since I had a good reason to be sitting (refer back to the nine months pregnant + high heels).

------

Jason made a double batch of gingerbread cookies today, so our house smells super yummy. The one smell that's missing? Irish Cream. Or rum. Or anything remotely of alcohol. I'm not a serious drinker (I'm not even a drink-a-month drinker), but I'm dying for some tasty holiday beverages. Only a few more days to go. I told Jason I was having a glass of Willamette Valley Riesling at the hospital as soon as baby was born, but he thought they'd frown on that. Crazies.

-----

I'm almost officially done teaching this semester. Last day of presentations was on Thursday, and next Thursday they have their final. Then...finished. It's been a very different semester of teaching than last year. Last spring, all my students had an easy time tracking with the syllabus, and they all passed the class. This term, more students have had grade troubles, and a few aren't going to make it. I think I'd be concerned about it (what could I have done differently? how could I have made things clearer?) except that the flunking students very obviously didn't care how they were doing (yes, showing up to class is always a good idea). So, then. That's the way it goes. Always quite bizarre, however, to see students apathetic about their education when tuition is nearly $20,000. Nevertheless, I have to say that I couldn't possibly encounter a nicer group of students than the ones that I teach. Genuine, caring, polite--some of them are even spending their Christmas vacation in New Orleans rebuilding a church. Good kids.

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I'm conducting a Google Reader experiment. For many moons now I have used Bloglines to keep me updated on who is posting. I know some of you may still keep track of your blog reading by using bookmarks, or links off your blog, or sticky notes with web addresses scrawled on them (and if this is you, please please please let me help you), but I had to give that up. I hardly have time to write on my own blog, let alone spend time clicking through all the blogs that I read trying to see who has updated. So Bloglines did all my clicky work for me, and the downside is that I comment less frequently (because I was too lazy to click through to the actual blog after reading the post) and I don't get to see if people change their designs. It's sad, but I make do.

But then, Bloglines and Blogger decided not to play nicely. Sometimes Bloglines won't update a Blogger feed for hours, or perhaps days. And other times Bloglines will just drop a Blogger feed altogether. I won't realize for weeks that I have been missing out on reading someone's blog. This makes me grumpy. Not as grumpy as pregnancy makes me, but a very close second. Oh, and quite often Bloglines won't post pictures, so if I want to see your adorable children/funny pets/amazing craft/beautiful sunset I have to click through to the blog. Harrumph.

Then, I happened upon this post at Kerflop (which is inspired by this post at Schnozzfest) espousing the virtues of Google Reader. Evidently, it's like Bloglines. Only better, see, because Google and Blogger obviously get along (since they are corporately connected) and because Google seems to have the corner on the market for getting info in such a speedy--if not somewhat stalkerish--way.

At first I was hesitant to try it out. I have mixed feelings about supporting Google ideas because they've become this huge entity that will probably one day rule the Internet, like Clear Channel or Time Warner rule the media. (Should I get on my "It's a bad thing that all the news is controlled by less than half a dozen corporations" soapbox? No? Okay.) Despite my non-affection for Google, I decided to try out Google Reader and see if it was better than Bloglines.

Okay. It's better.

It picks up the new feeds faster. It posts pictures. It's so organized, and somehow very clever. True, it's not very pretty and it doesn't seem to allow me to rearrange the feeds, but it does what it should do, and that makes me happy. And it was super duper easy to export my subscriptions from Bloglines to Google Reader. (In Bloglines there's a link at the bottom of the subscriptions which says "Export subscriptions." Save that file, and then in Google Reader under "Manage Subscriptions" you click on the "import" link. Voila!)

I haven't totally given up on Bloglines, but I'm close. Google may have won me over. Those rascals.

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And finally, now that I really am tired and ready to go to bed, I have to leave you with a snippet from the first post I read this morning. I was sitting at the computer, breathing in the lovely smell of gingerbread, drinking my very sober apple cider, and reading about Raehan's broken wrist. Then without warning, her post leads to this picture:

My apple cider didn't stand a chance.

Week 131: Good intentions

Well, in case you didn't notice, moms like to tell their labor and delivery stories. This was good news for me, since I needed to hear what you had to say. Thank you all for sharing! At this point I think I'm going to let it all just play out naturally, and see where it takes me. Maybe.

But if all this slicing and dicing talk makes you squirm, no worries. I'm going to table the pregnancy talk until the blessed event actually arrives because at this point I'm sick of being pregnant. I'm done. It's making me grumpy, and so I'll follow the "if you don't have something nice to say don't say anything at all" philosophy. Of course, I was never a Hallmark card away from saying anything lovey dovey about pregnancy, but now I can't even manage something mostly neutral. Unfortunately for Jason, silence in my writing results in more complaining at home. At least he's very forgiving.

Other things that make me grumpy? Going to the mall with a toddler. Suzanne knows what I'm talking about. And I bet a few more of you do too.

There is a reason why I limit all my shopping experiences to only those that involve a cart with a seatbelt. Sydney is contained. She knows she's contained. She happily passes her time in pseudo-imprisonment consuming bananas and apples and reminding me that I need to get cheese and crackers. If we go to Target--also a shopping cart friendly establishment--I have exactly the amount of time to shop as it takes her to eat a small bag of popcorn and drink some lemonade. (Thank you $1 Target value meal!)

But then, in a moment of irrational thinking which I will blame on hormones, I decided to take Sydney to the mall on Monday to get her pictures taken. They aren't holiday pictures--I just wanted to get one last nice picture of her before Baby comes along. Jason and I had gone on Sunday because I initially had the right idea in figuring it would take two adults to manage one child at the mall. On Sunday, we got to the mall a bit early, hoping to get into our appointment early, but discovered that not only would we not get in early, but we wouldn't even get in on time. We waited around for over an hour, but Sydney was fading, so I rescheduled the appointment for Monday morning and we headed home.

Thirty feet outside the store, in an unfortunate escalator incident, Sydney had a big grease stain on her tights and had ripped the front of her dress. Merry Christmas.

And instead of taking this as a sign that I should avoid the mall the next day, instead I spent Sunday afternoon repairing the damage. I got the grease stain out, and I mended the dress, and I washed the shirt that got caramel sauce on the elbow. Ho ho ho. I'd keep my holiday cheer no matter what.

I thought I was on the right track by making the appointment for 10 AM. Sydney would be in a good mood. All smiles for the camera. We'd have a million shots to choose from. However, as many parents will tell you, being in a good mood is not the same as being in a picture taking mood. Picture taking mood requires a certain something. A certain calmness, mellowness, sitting stillness, drugged on baby Tylenolness. Sydney was adorable enough, chatting with the camera girl, hugging the stuffed reindeer, insisting on cleaning the dirt off the floor. And if we got a good picture for every time someone said, "Look at those curls!" I would have been one happy mommy.

Forty minutes later, one exasperated mommy, one persistently cheerful yet moving toddler, and one very apologetic camera girl decided to call it a day. I waited around for an hour for the pictures, and sure enough, there wasn't a single one among the batch that was the perfect shot. We did get this one, which you might think is cute enough, but it wasn't what I wanted (which was a closer shot, a shot without glare on the glasses, and a shot in which she's actually looking towards the camera).

But mission was accomplished, and now we could go home.

"Let's go home!" I chirped to Sydney.

"No!" she smiled.

"Home again, home again," I instructed again.

"No!" she smiled. To prove her point she sprawled out on the floor in front of Lady Footlocker.

"Let's get moving," I said, still calm.

"No!" she said, and then...don't ask me why...she licked the floor.

Well, there would be no floor licking at the mall, so I had to bend my pregnant self over and pick Sydney up off the floor. What I got instead was a mass of dead weight, squirming for escape. In the end, I pinned her under my arm and hauled her out of there, dress over her head, kicking and screaming.

Two blocks beyond the mall, my back permanently out of whack, I finally had her strapped into her car seat. She started to whine in the car, but my parenting skills gave out and I said, "You have been very naughty, so I'm not listening to you, and I'm not talking to you until we get home." She got the message and it was a very quiet car ride home.

We aren't going back to the mall any time soon. Or, maybe, ever. In fact, I think this would be a good year to do all my holiday shopping online. Either that, or I'll just get groceries for everyone. There has to be someone who wants cheese and crackers for Christmas.

Presented with options

Okay, so I had a regular "see how baby is doing" appointment this morning (baby is fine, although I'm once again measuring small so back to the ultrasound technician for me) and a whole new concept has been presented to me.

My doctor and I were talking about my birth plan and how I wanted things to go this time around. My labor and delivery with Sydney was so very not traumatic. With her, my water broke at 5:30 AM, I checked in to the hospital at 10 AM, and she was born at 4:30 PM. All very manageable (thanks in part to the epidural, which I plan on getting again thank you very much) and making me perhaps a tad over-confident for labor and delivery this time. I am not even remotely freaked out or nervous or scared. Bring it on.

Oh, but then I casually mentioned that I had had a really long recovery time with Sydney. As in 4th degree tear. As in 12 weeks of no strenuous activity whatsoever. My midwife later assured me that an episiotomy would have made things worse, and that next time I'd probably fair better. Somehow my memory had kind of faded the difficulty of that experience, certainly because I had Jason home with me all summer long. And I was only taking care of one very small, non-running, non-coloring-on-walls, non-complicated baby.

When I mentioned this to my doctor she said, "A fourth degree tear is pretty serious. Maybe you should think about having a scheduled c-section. Sounds like the recovery time would be faster and less traumatic."

Wha????? I'm sure the world must have stopped for a moment when I heard this news.

Not once, not for a fleeting moment had I even considered scheduling a c-section. I mean, why would I? Me, the champion of that labor and delivery room.

I quickly said, "Oh, that's okay." And she said, "Okay. Just something to think about."

And so now, of course, I am. Because that's what I do. I think about things.

Even though there is a big part of me that says, Hey! You can do this! You've been looking forward to the labor and delivery part since you got pregnant! There's another part of me that says, Hey! Remember AFTER the labor and delivery! You'll have TWO kids to be looking after! And taking care of c-section stitches is easier than other stitches you might get.(My inner monologue doesn't hold back any punches.)

Throw in the added bonus of knowing when I would have this baby (I'd pick the 15th, which I just discovered is Sam's birthday!), and suddenly scheduling a c-section doesn't seem like the craziest thing I ever heard of.

I'm not saying I'm doing it. I'm just saying, I kind of forgot to take in account the whole healing process of delivering a baby. But really, as interesting and convenient and maybe even better for me as having a c-section sounds, the whole "surgery" aspect freaks me out more than a little bit. And I kind of don't like scars very much either.

No matter what I decide, I'm not going to feel guilty about it. I'm firmly in the camp of "whatever gets you from here to having a healthy baby" is okay. Drugs, no drugs. At home, in a hospital, in a birthing tub. You having a baby is something to be proud of, no matter what you did to get through it. (Sidenote: a colleague of Jason's was talking about how proud he was of his wife for having her baby at home without any drugs, and when I mentioned that was cool but I opted for a hospital and epidural he ROLLED HIS EYES AT ME. HIM! AT ME!! Oh, he did SO not want to go there. Jason quickly changed the subject to prevent me from physically assaulting the guy.) I'm just weighing my options, which mostly just consists of what's best for me, which ultimately leads to what's best for my family.

I don't know. Options are complicated. Any advice?

Thankful for a sense of humor

"Say, Stephanie, you looked like you've gained a lot more weight this pregnancy."

"Thanks. And Happy Thanksgiving to you too."

True, I didn't laugh when she said it. But I will.

In twenty years.

Week 129: Some holidays

Gosh, how I love these two. I don't need Thanksgiving Day to remind me to be thankful for them.

***

On Sunday, I complained to Jason that our neighbors put up their Christmas lights (complete with reindeer). "Too early!" I said.

And yet, today, as I drove into our driveway on returning home from class, Jason was on a ladder.

Putting up Christmas lights.

He also managed to convince me to let him go get our Christmas tree this weekend. In his defense, he is driving up to the mountains to slay our mighty tree and the snow levels are getting low enough to make driving difficult. So going early seems to be the better answer than waiting.

The discussion leading up to my agreeing consisted of me repeating the same phrase over and over:

J: Why don't you want me to go get the tree?
Me: Because it's too early for Christmas!
J: Is there a particular reason why it's too early?
Me: Because it's too early for Christmas!
J: Why don't you want the lights up?
Me: Because it's too early for Christmas!
J: Why can't I listen to Christmas music?
Me: That, you can do.

But after a bit of self-reflection, I realized that I no longer care too much when it comes to Christmas-y stuff. Before Thanksgiving, after Thanksgiving. Whatever. It's all part of Jason's favorite time of year, and if it makes him happy to start the festivities early then that's okay. My complaining had less to do with the arrival of Christmas, and more to do with the whole unknown time-table surrounding the holidays this year. I like to plan things. I like to put things on the calendar. When it comes to the holidays, I want to make sure that we're spending the right amount of time with each respective family, as well as getting in our own family traditions.

And frankly, having a baby "sometime between December 15 and December 30" makes my holiday planning guide quake in fear. When will we do Family Shopping Day? Where will we spend Christmas Eve?? What time will Jason's parents arrive on Christmas Day?! WHAT IF I DON'T GET MY SHOPPING DONE??! (Oh, who am I kidding...I'm glad to have a reason to procrastinate on the shopping.)

Four days before Thanksgiving, and I was having a melt-down about Christmas.

However, between then and sometime today I came to grips with reality: you can't plan everything. Even if you aren't having a baby, you can't plan everything. But since I am having a baby, then I really can't plan everything. I need to just let it go.

Let it go.

Let it go and let it snow. My mantra for the holidays.

This December will be different. Some traditions will go undone. Some gatherings missed. Some family events will go on without me. I give myself permission to feel sad about some of this stuff, but I also am trying to remember that some things are beyond my control. You might say that having a baby is more exciting than any of the other "somes" that happen, but still (and only weeks away now) I'm not in excited-about-baby mode. That's okay too.

The lights are up, and this weekend the tree will go up. I have no idea beyond those two things what will get accomplished, and *deep breath* that's okay.

I'm letting it go.

(and hoping for snow)

Belted Happiness

My back has been killing me during this pregnancy, considerably more than when I was pregnant with Sydney. I suspect that this is because a few months ago my abdominal muscles ripped in half, leaving my poor back with little support. When I told my doctor that I was having trouble with my back she suggested I get one of those maternity support belts. (If you are curious as to what these little contraptions look like, I'll link to a picture. But I'm warning you: it ain't pretty and there are some pictures we are all better off not looking at. Also, you must promise not to imagine me in the picture. If you're still curious, here you go.)

Anyway, it sounded like a good idea except for one little caveat: I'd have to go to the mall to get one. And the last time I was at the mall was last February to get Sydney's pictures taken. When I go to the mall I inevitably spend money, money which I do not have to spend. So.

I said as much to my SIL Sarah when we were chatting over the phone last week. She, like me, isn't particularly fond of malls, and yet she went out and got me a "seatbelt," as Sydney calls it. When Sarah and my nieces came for a visit yesterday, she gave me my little present (along with some chocolate, for good measure) and, oh my stars and heavens and goodness alive, my back instantly felt better. This is how I spell relief. Sure, it's a bit goofy looking, but no one sees it (except Sydney, who insists on constantly checking to make sure I have it on) and you'd never know that I'm wearing it, except that I just wrote about it. So, I guess, now everyone knows. But really, otherwise, you'd never know.

And while that was a huge highlight of my Friday, the real highlight was having Sarah, Clover and Toby come down and visit. It was so good to just hang out, even if it meant watching our nap-deprived daughters pick fights with each other. After naps, then all was much better and eventually we all warmed our tummies with tariyaki chicken and pork (except Syd, who ate Golden Grahams...*sigh*).

We were all extra hungry because Sarah and Jason worked hard on moving in...*drum roll*...OUR NEW COUCH! (Sarah, I promise I won't make you move furniture the next time you come visit!) It's only been two months since we ordered the couch, but it came yesterday and now is sitting comfortably in our living room. It's beautiful. It's fabulous. I will have pictures for tomorrow's Open House post.

So, Friday was good to me. A new seatbelt, an afternoon spent with family, a new couch, and a yummy dinner that I didn't cook. Fabulous.

Week 128: The Ninth Month

"Take all the emotions you've felt over the past eight months, intensify them, and you've got an idea of what you can expect emotionally during month nine.

You may be tired of being big, tired of being tired, and very ready to get the pregnancy over with.

Your preoccupation with the upcoming birth and change in your lifestyle can mean more emotional ups and downs, but the inevitability of what's ahead may make it easier for you to cope."  --The Pregnancy Book

Emotional? Yes.

Tired? Yes.

Coping? Not so much.

At least, not so much these past couple days. But I went grocery shopping today, and got myself some eggnog which I am now going to consume. Maybe even the whole carton. That's right. Because I can, because I'm pregnant, because I'm doing whatever helps me cope.

(And right about now I'm feeling like this "posting every day for the month of November" wasn't such a great idea. But I'm in it for the prizes now, so I'll be back tomorrow hopefully a little more chipper.)

Relief and Worry

"Making the decision to have a child--it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." --Elizabeth Stone

Tuesday I had an ultrasound to make sure that everything was moving along properly. I haven't been gaining weight as much as I should (although this week's candy splurge should remedy that), so the doctor wanted to see if baby was still measuring where she should be.

The good news is Baby is doing fine. The other good news is that I'm not low on amniotic fluid, which had been another concern. I've tried to be pretty even keeled about the whole thing, but of course there was a certain worrying doubt that tugged at my mind before I went it.

An ultrasound at 33 weeks isn't really as interesting as the ultrasound at 18 weeks. The first time, that first view...the image shows up and there! a baby! a whole entire, complete little baby. It's amazing.

The second time around, the image is a lot more crowded. I couldn't figure out what the heck the technician was measuring. Every once in awhile she'd sweep over Baby's face, and I'd think, "There! A baby!" but then she'd quickly move on to the next mystery shape. After she was all finished, we spent a few moments watching Baby's little mouth sucking (not on her thumb, just that reflex that babies have) and the technician printed off a couple pictures for me. I think Baby and Sydney may end up with the same nose (my nose), which probably means that the rest of her will look just like Jason. Maybe that means blue eyes.

So, one less thing to worry about. I haven't been all that worried about this pregnancy, but then again I haven't really been all that emotional about this pregnancy. There are certain emotions I do feel, but I'm waiting for them to resolve themselves before writing about them. Let's just say, I was quick to fall in love with Sydney before she was born; this time around, I'm not there yet.

Naturally, as quick as one worry is resolved, another pops up. Sydney's eyes have begun crossing again even when she's wearing glasses, so that means her vision is worsening. Since her doctor has assured us that there isn't any sort of muscular problem, then I suppose the most they'll do when we go in is give her a stronger prescription. It's not a huge deal, but when my tough-and-brave defenses are down I can't help wondering what the future looks like for Sydney when she is already experiencing deteriorated eyesight at two.

Some days it is hard to keep this external heart that has attached itself to our children from falling apart. This little piece of our heart is labeled "joy," this piece is "health," over here is "security." We want so much for them, and when one piece starts to crack a little bit we can't help but fear that all the other pieces will crack too. I don't want to be that mom whose life is plagued with worry, but oh how our emotions sometimes get the better of us despite our best intentions.

But, back to my toughness and braveness: I have no control over the future. My worrying won't improve her eyes, and my worst-case-scenarios will only drive me crazy. Tuesday's ultrasound got us through one hurdle; I'll wait until Sydnikin's appointment on December 4th to see how we'll get through the next one. Whatever it is, big or small, we'll get through it. Because, really, what other option do we have?

Pregnant With Scissors

My hair and I have a tenuous relationship at best. It's curly--or probably more accurate, mostly curly. Provided I give it all sorts of love in the form of curling sprays and diffused hairdrying, we get along. Mostly. There are the inevitable days that I wish for straight hair, the days that I fight against it and end up pulling it into a pony-tail, the days that I envy my sister's stick straight hair (though, as she will tell it, she doesn't always love her hair either).

The last couple weeks my hair and I have spent the mornings bickering. I try my best to stay level-headed, yet it throws all sorts of pregnancy induced rantings at me. I will admit my faults here and there. I haven't had it cut since June, so it's very complainy and particular. But my lack of getting a hair cut isn't totally my fault. It requires planning in advance for a morning that I don't have Sydney. It requires money. It requires I pick up the phone and call the salon. These are major responsibilities, and I'm growing a baby for crying out loud, can't my hair just give me a break??!

Evidently not.

So this morning, in a fit of pregnancy induced frustration, I took the scissors out of the junk drawer and cut my hair. Two inches (more or less). Snip.

What woman among us won't admit to once doing the same thing? Maybe it was back in junior high when we woke up one day thinking, "I would look good with bangs. Yeah. Lots of bangs." Nevertheless. We've been there. Right?

Well, I'm there.

*sigh*

And now I really do need to go get my hair cut.

A Free Day

We had a very busy week because Jason's brother was visiting from out of town, so I had many plans lined up for today--my day off from "parenting." With Sydney up in Washington with grandparents, then today would be my catch-up day. I had grading, cleaning, grocery shopping, and perhaps even a bit of reading on the agenda for today. Even Jason had half the day off, so perhaps we'd even go to a movie.

But first up: a doctor's appointment.

Generally my appointment with the doctor is rather unextraordinary. She asks me how I'm feeling; I say, "As good as can be expected"; she asks me if I'm taking prenatal vitamins; I waffle a bit and say "mostly"; she tells me to come back in four weeks. I have few pregnancy fears, and few questions to ask, so I suspect I'm one of the shorter pregnancy appointments she has during the day.

Today's appointment, however, added some drama to the day. Some blood results had come back, and my doctor reported that I was very anemic. I was anemic before, but now per her directions "have to take those prenatal vitamins and iron supplements even if they do make me sick." And then because I happened to mention that the results explained why I had been feeling light-headed, short of breath, and exhausted all the time, she doubled her previously prescribed amount of iron. Hooray for me. Really. What's not to love about pregnancy?

Then after some measuring and poking and pondering, she orders up an additional ultrasound in three weeks because I'm on the very low side of normal. "Just to make sure everything is okay and on track," she assures me. I still don't freak out too much because I figure that if it were a real emergency she would have marched me up to get an ultrasound today.

I'm still feeling energetic enough after the appointment to go grocery shopping where I stock up on iron-loaded foods: dried apricots, prune juice, bananas. I'm determined to boost my levels. And after all, perhaps this whole "iron makes me ill" is just in my head. It's all a matter of mind over matter, right?

So at 11 am, I begin the battle against anemia by sending in the iron-clad troops.  First, an iron pill. Then I promptly pour myself a glass of prune juice, tell myself that Dr. Pepper is mostly prune juice so it couldn't be too bad, and take a big swig. I resist the urge to spit the vile liquid from my mouth--"It's all for the baby"--and eventually finish the glass. I bought two gallons of prune juice today, thinking I'd be a good girl and get through them this week. Yeah. Might take me a little longer than that. It is seriously gross stuff, right on par with tomato juice, and I will have to do a bit of experimenting to see what the best method might be for consumption. Heating it up? Adding ginger ale? Cranberry juice? Whipped cream? We'll see.

And finally, rounding out the trifecta of reinforcements,  I consumed an entire bag of dried apricots. Take that, anemia.

That was about 11:30. I go to a meeting at school, and get some planning done.

I'm holding strong at 1. I go home to get more grading done.

Around 2, my body has sent in the cavalcade. I am forced to pause from my activities.

And by 3 o'clock, my body sent in the Navy Seals, the Army Rangers, and whatever other elite group it needed to knock me down. Literally.

So, I may have overdone it a bit on the iron. From the sounds coming from my stomach, a true war was waging and my mantra of "mind over matter" quickly raised the white flag of retreat. Too ill to grade. Too in pain to read. Too weak to think about cleaning. There went my free day. At least Sydney was gone so that I didn't have to worry about taking care of her.

Body: 1. Me: 0.

No matter. I'm taking that iron pill again tomorrow.

I might pass on the prune juice.

Week 119 & 120: Technical Difficulties

Technically, I have had time to blog. Somewhere in my schedule. At some point. I'm sure of it.

Truthfully, I am just a moody shmoody joe who would rather cry hormonal tears into Mr. Snoodle--my trusty pregnancy body pillow--than write it out. Writing may be therapy, but there comes a point when the whining just isn't funny anymore, and that's when the therapist tells you to suck it up and quit your bellyaching.

I'll be back. Promise. I may have to hype myself up on chocolate covered strawberries to get here, but at some point I have to not be moody anymore. Right? Good heavens, I have to level out eventually (preferably before baby comes and I'm attacked by PPD).

PS: In spite of all the moodiness, we are doing well. And I had the carpets cleaned today, so that's always happy times.

Week 118: Transitions

I'm here. Just trying to keep up with my new teaching schedule and Jason's new teaching schedule. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm exhausted, but I'm definitely back on my "I take naps when Sydney takes naps" schedule. We'll work out a system here eventually.

While I'm figuring out how to spend my 24-hours, I'll leave you with this conversation I overheard while I was looking through the maternity section at Old Navy:

Husband and wife walking through the maternity section on their way to the kid's section...

Him: Did you want to look at any of these clothes?
Her: These are maternity clothes.
Him: Well, I wondered why those pants looked big enough for me to go fishing in.
Me: (to myself) Hahahaha. I wish I had married such a classy man.

(at which point an army of pregnant women pounced on him from behind the racks, beating him over the head with cheap plastic hangers) (or not)

I'm no fan of maternity clothes, but I think the complaining should be left up to the women. Not the men. Just my opinion.

Speaking of maternity clothes, a quick glance through my previous collection revealed that I had almost nothing I would wear again. I'm so not a fan of the tent-like shirts that are considered maternity (and were more commonly found on racks a couple years ago than today), and have mostly abandoned a bit of modesty in wearing the fitted tank tops and shirts. The lack of modesty is a result of my upper half taking up WAY more attention than it deserves, but the girls have a mind of their own and I just can't work my wardrobe around them anymore. (Memo to my body: pregnancy is about belly expansion, so the rest of you can just calm down.)

Nevertheless, I had to find something to wear while teaching, so on my trip to Old Navy I convinced myself to splurge on getting a few outfits that might be considered semi-professional (still debating on whether or not I should try wearing capris to class...). And, joy of joys, a friend of mine gave me a HUGE bag of fab maternity clothes to wear. She worked in a professional office, and had a very nice collection of clothes that are cuter than anything I wore the first time I was pregnant (which isn't saying much since I lived in sweats the first time I was pregnant). Also, my SIL who is looking so fantastic after having a baby in July (and Sarah, after we saw you last weekend, even Jason commented on how great you looked) loaned me some jeans and shorts. All these clothes to wear...it just makes me and my closet so happy. It could quite possibly be said that I have cuter clothes now than I did before I was pregnant, but I'll still be pretty darn happy to get back to my regular clothes.

Week 116: The state of happiness

Abraham Lincoln said, "Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." I used to think that he must not have had much sympathy for emotional people, but after knowing quite a bit about President Lincoln's life, I realize that this must have been the little pep talk that he gave himself to get through it all--a nation at war, the death of a son, the distress of his wife, and a Presidential cabinet that hated each other. This last week is proof for me that you can believe in all the happiness you want and it sometimes you still fall apart.

I tried. I did. I gave an extremely valiant effort to stay cheery and peaceful and glass half full.

Like when my ab muscles ripped in half, I told myself that some things are worth sacrificing for pregnancy.

Or when I didn't get to catch up with my friends at our collegiate alumni soccer game, I remembered that earlier in the week I had been able to spend many hours with my friend Devon at a teahouse in Corvallis.

Or when Jason experienced severe pain and was diagnosed with a hernia, I remained thankful that it was diagnosed early and that our super duper awesome health insurance would cover the surgery (however, we found out today that--hallelujah--he doesn't have a hernia, only a strained ligament).

Or when Sydney came down with a serious case of the runs, resulting in not only one but two messy beds in 12 hours, I considered it a blessing that at least she wasn't throwing up. And I was thankful for our washing machine. Seven days later she still has seriously distraught diapers, but she remains in good spirits.

But by the time Friday came along, all my little pep talks were wearing thin. When my doctor's appointment on Friday was full of nothing but good news, I cried through the whole appointment. Cried because earlier in the week my brother's sister-in-law had a miscarriage. Cried because Sydney kept me up half the night. And cried because, vanity of vanities, I wasn't prepared to see the scale at the doctor's office reach that 130 mark. Yes, I know weight gain is part of pregnancy. Yes, I know that my doctor congratulated me on finally putting on some weight half way through the pregnancy. But I have to mentally prepare myself for every pound, and seeing that "3" on the scale was more than I was ready for at 10 in the morning.

Yet, I remembered: in a year I'll be back to normal. I crammed my mind with as much happiness as I could, praised God for all the blessings that I have, and whispered, "I make up my mind to be happy."

I make up my mind to be happy.

But, oh! Some of us have discovered that there are things stronger than our minds. Like the power of a toddler's total meltdown. Just yesterday, after a pleasant morning's walk to the park, after a handful of M&Ms, and after enjoying time together, the afternoon felt apart. Totally and completely. Naptime was met with hysteria and lunch was totally unacceptable. I held my sobbing child while listening to a peaceful piano rendition of "Amazing Grace" and said, "I make up my mind to be happy." Only--and here's the great lesson of the day--I couldn't get there. All I could think was, "I really wanted a tuna sandwich for lunch and now I won't get one."

I don't know how many people cry over tuna, but I will admit to being one of them. No matter how brightly the shone sun, how soundly my daughter eventually slept, how beautifully my new dining room light hung over the table--my mind wouldn't wasn't going to keep me from turning into a puddle of tears.

Sometimes, despite our best efforts to remain calm, breathe deeply, and consider how trivial some problems really are, there is no happy thought powerful enough to keep us from breaking down. Abraham Lincoln may have had good reasons behind his words of advice, but I bet he didn't have to try to get a toddler to take a nap or search his closet for a pair of shorts that still fit.

So don't mind me. I'm not unhappy. I'm not depressed or stressed or ill or miserable. I'm just pregnant and hormonal and a mom of a toddler. I've tried making up my mind to be happy, only sometimes I get peanut butter and jelly instead.

Week 113: Mister or Miss?

We went in for the ultrasound this morning. I've been quite anxious about the whole ordeal the past couple days because I was really afraid they'd get that little ultrasound wand on my tummy and discover that there wasn't actually a baby in there. You know, just something else that has a heartbeat and makes me feel queasy. I'm pregnant, so I allow myself to be a bit delusional at times.

But I looked up on the screen, and there flashed a little profile. A little baby profile. With two little arms and two little legs. Baby had a strong heartbeat and moved around plenty (and had a couple well placed kicks just a couple centimeters from my very full bladder!). Of course, while we are happy that everything looks good, what we were really interested in was if we were having a little boy or girl.

And the news for Sydney: she's getting a little sister.

A girl. Another girl. Who will get to live in her newly painted sage green and robin egg blue room. And will wear inordinate amounts of pink because we love pink more than is fashionable. I should have known we were having a girl because I asked Sydney the other day if she was getting a brother or sister and she said sister.

I'll be honest: we have to warm up to the idea a little bit. Not to say that we are very disappointed; I really want Sydney to have a sister. I just wanted this one to be a boy because then when/if we have another one there won't be any pressure to have one over the other (we're still sticking with our "three kids" plan). Plus, there aren't any grandsons on either side of our families, so a little boy would have been nifty.

But we're excited. Another girl. Two little girls. Sisters.