A Child Is Born

Every seven seconds in the United States. Eight every minute, four hundred and eighty every hour. Four every single second in the world. I thought about that this weekend, as we experienced the birth of our fourth child. It's such a common thing, the birth of a baby, not notable, really, in the great scheme of this world. And still, one of the biggest moments of your life, when it's yours.

So many stories playing out simultaneously, so much joy, grief, drama, relief, happiness. The story of one single child's moment of entry, one more drop in the ocean, doesn't seem all that important.

Except that this one is ours. Unique and miraculous.

I started having serious contractions shortly after my sister arrived on Saturday night and I stayed up most of the night, thinking about stars and snowflakes and other unique beauties and trying not to get too stressed out about the likely pain of the next day. We took a walk early in the morning. She drove me the five minutes down the hill to the hospital at 7:00, so that we could see if enough had changed and I could be admitted without implementing our entire, carefully delineated, nine-point child care plan.

(Bye-bye baby tummy.)

The hospital was church quiet, coated in a sticky feeling of cleanliness and anticipation like a house in the final moments before the guests arrive for a party. I had dilated to six centimeters overnight and the triage nurse handed us our tickets to the main event and showed me to my room, while Dianna drove home to collect Matt and my things and call in our reinforcements.

I loved this birth. It went exactly as I had hoped, right up until the actual pushing. My sister and my darling friend, Elise, Matt and I hung out, chatted and laughed and told stories. It felt a little weird, at first, to be sitting in that huge (hotel suite huge, this hospital has a brand new labor and delivery wing with all the bells and whistles) sterile, sunny room, on a hospital bed in a windy little gown, discussing politics and life and trying to ignore the contractions and the building anticipation and, for me, more than a little fear about the stages to come.

Matt went to McDonalds to get my traditional milkshake and buy everyone else breakfast (and because Matt likes any excuse to leave the room and have something active and, did I mention outside the room, to do). After two hours, the nurse did a quick check and declared me still a six, which plunged me into the depths of well-shit-I've-got-all-these-people-sitting-around-here-for-nothing despair, but about fifteen minutes later, my midwife arrived and I was an eight. We are going with the fact that I dilated to eight in those two hours because I just like the story better that way.

Sara said we could break my water if I was ready, and I was, except that I knew things would get hellishly painful and transitiony as soon as she did it. I tried not to panic and bolt. No, that wasn't so much an option either, considering that then I had a strong chance of breaking my own water and not conveniently sitting on their freakishly absorbent pad. I gave the green light and she let the floods loose and I don't really know for a while. We still joked a little, in between contractions, but it was quiet. The contractions were hard and I was focused on breathing and not hurting anyone.

I have to say the first three hours were pretty zen, on a scale of zen to out of control screaming. I just asked Dianna and she agrees. I have good memories. A little before noon, Sara said, "you're starting to look pushy when you breathe, you shouldn't be breathing through the urge to push." I know I was a little because pushing hurts kind of like...it hurts kind of like being split in half at your vagina to push a baby into the world. With a little nausea. And an uncontrollable urge to keep pushing as hard as you can even though it hurts like being split in half at your vagina.

Brace yourselves, this is where zen flew out the window and I screamed like a pig dipped in honey being chased by a swarm of angry bees. Those killer Texas bees that immigrated from South America, not regular old honey bees.

I pushed and started out just crying because I told myself I wouldn't scream inane things this time. That I would continue to be zen and calm and controlled. By the second set of contractions, I was sobbing that it hurt, that I couldn't do it, that it hurt. I think it took about five contractions? Thirty minutes? Twenty pushes, maybe?

I screamed that I was dying. That was nurse Laurie's favorite.
When the head started to show, Sara told me to reach down, to look, to touch his hair. I screamed, "NO LOOKING, NO TOUCHING, JUST GET IT OUT." That was Elise's favorite.
I screamed, "why is this taking so long." That was my doula's favorite.
I screamed, "someone help me," which, you know, hello? Duh? Matt, Dianna, Elise, the doula, the midwife and three nurses were helping me.

Elise was the most incredible friend. She was right there, holding my leg, telling me that she could see his beautiful hair. Dianna, my amazing sister, hid a little farther back towards my head, but she took peeks and took amazing pictures and cried at exactly the right time. They made the day extra specially beautiful. They also allowed Matt, my six foot three inch, strong as a rock lump of quivering jelly, to hide by my head, whispering that he loved me and resting his ashen head on the bed so that he didn't keel over and require medical care.

Right at the end, I screamed that I didn't think he was moving, that he was stuck. That actually turned out to be true, one of his huge football linebacker shoulders was stuck under my pelvis somewhere. Sara was amazing, she reached up there like on those slightly horrifying veterinarian shows and turned him a little so that I could push him out the rest of the way.

And then, there he was, our one in almost seven billion. Perfect. Huge, but perfect.



Matt managed to say that it was a boy. Our third boy. Nathaniel Patrick. Baby Nate. His story in this world started at 12:25 p.m. on Sunday, June 28, 2009. I can write that he was 9 lbs 3 oz, 22 inches, that he was a little shocked and bruised from being stuck and it took him a moment to breathe, that he nursed right away like a little pro, that we loved him instantly, beyond thought, and will always. He'll have to take it from there.



**********************************************
There's more to my story of the day. A little drama. I hemorrhaged severely about a half an hour after the birth. By the time we realized what was happening and got a handle on the situation, I had lost two liters of blood that had to be birthed itself as a frighteningly large blood clot. It was a long, horrible afternoon that ended with a blood transfusion. It ended well though, I was fine, Nate was fine. We are all home, adjusting, learning, loving the addition of Nate to our family. Or, as Quinn likes to call him, "Dat new one."

Thank you so much for all of your love and well wishes. Having your comments and tweets and emails to read as I recovered lighted up the whole day.

Bloggity Boppity Boo

BlogHer
Chicago

That's how it feels in my mind. Lighted. Flashing. Exciting. Frightening. Can't wait. Except when I kind of don't want to go because oh my, remember how you can be shy and kind of awkward and, um, sometimes not so good at making conversation? Fun! Or torture. One of the two.

Well, whatever, I am going because I want to meet so many people even if I have nothing to say because I'm a bit socially inept like that.

What am I most worried about? Nothing, really. Everything. I think I'm probably just like you? (Don't answer that.) I'd really like it if people liked me. You know, me, me, not I-had-five-hours-to-edit-this me. I'd really like it if I didn't blab on at some session and embarrass myself. I'd really like it if I didn't sit in a corner in silence at some party and embarrass myself.

Hang on, that's not all. I have far more specific angst.

1) I hope I'm close to amusing enough to entertain my roommate, even marginally. Actually, I lie. I want her to amuse me with her fabulous one-liners, all weekend. Pressure reversal. Genius. Oh, and I want her to love me. In return, I promise not to hug her. She hates that.

2) I'm very concerned about my total lack of mobile communication capabilities. Brace yourselves. I have a prepaid cell phone for emergencies. That's it. In this day, I know, shocking. I'm afraid that because no one will be able to tweet/DM/IM/text and/or beam me up Scottie, I won't know where to go or be able to meet with anyone to go. I'll feel left out and read a book in my room. Because, ahem, I enjoy reading books and I do not enjoy pulling on my big girl panties and walking into big gatherings A-L-O-N-E. Gulp.

3) Rest at peace, ladies and gentlemen, no one will covet my clothes/bag/computer/shoes/hairstyle or poor complexion. I will be approximately three weeks post partum. Yes, those are my maternity jeans. You might covet my boobs, but only because they will be so full of milk that I won't be able to breathe. Don't worry, those beautiful girls have a very limited lifespan, in eight months, it's back to a flat board with nipples that could poke through steel.

4) I'm afraid someone will judge me for ditching my three-week-old baby to attend. The timing was bad, but I really wanted to make it, without squalling boob attachment. I do breastfeed, and yes, it will be hard. I will absolutely regret it, forever, if I lose my milk or baby refuses to nurse after the conference. But, don't worry about the wee one. I've bought a really good crate and one of those huge hamster water dispensers, which I plan to fill with breast milk before I leave. I jest. I'm leaving all four kids with their father and my mother. Both have successfully cared for children without significant incident in the past. (Which won't preclude me from shedding tears when my mom calls to tell me that my baby hasn't eaten in two days.)

I feel some pressure toward additional disclosure. No illusions for the big weekend. Should we hit the big issues now and get them out of the way?

Hugging: Willing. I often go to the wrong side and cause an awkward cheek bump. Fair warning.

Remembering names: Not a chance. My mind is like a steel sieve. I suck. Please call me AnyMommy so that I can squeal CUTIE BOOTY CAKES or MOMMYTIME or VODKAMOM or NORWINDIANS without feeling like a complete idiot.

Pillows: Two, very fluffy, not flat.

Arms or abs: Preferably both, but if I have to choose... Arms. Biceps. Yum.

Leonardo: Not cute, too skinny, too scruffy.

Josh Lucas: Drool.

Spanking: I prefer the term, swatting, ahem, bottoms only.

Obama: So not going there.

Single Payer Plan: Aha. Not there either.

Circumcision: Twice. Watched. Not that traumatic. Am evil, swatting, child abuser.

Drinking: Yes, almost any time.

Dancing: Only after above and it's not pretty.

Trash TV: Hello! My favorite topic of conversation.

Jon and Kate: Early stuff is hilarious; recent developments are sad; hoopla over water and butt swat are ridiculous.

Miscarriages: Three.

Children: Nearly four, names involve the alphabet, no need to know my kids if I am allowed to be reminded eight times about yours.

Gay marriage: Absolutely.

California S.C. ruling: Correct on the law. (Before you yell at me, I READ that 200 page bad boy. If you haven't done the same, I respectfully ain't all that interested in being bashed.) Some of the extreme outrage demonstrates rampant misunderstanding of our, actually brilliant and fairly well functioning, legal system.

Constitutions that can be flippantly amended to reduce/limit fundamental rights: Abhorrent. Come on, California.

Breastfeeding: Love it. Convenient carry along packaging, no refrigeration needed.

Tandem/Cross/Shared/Co-breastfeeding: Sure. Anyone have a baby I can borrow? I hate pumping. Never mind. I'll be drinking.

Bloggers I'd like to meet, but fear they won't have time: Maggie, Dammit, Her Bad Mother, Black Hockey Jesus, Velveteen Mind, Room 704 women, Renee and her Cutie Booty, Flotsam, MamaSpohr, Playgroupie.

Bloggers I plan to accost because I feel like I know them but I really don't and they will be frightened and run: Sweet Life, Growing Up Mo, Maura, Issa, MommyTime, Vodka Mom, Marinka, AMomTwoBoys, MommyGeekology, Norwindians, Heart at Preschool, Backpacking Dad, Just Another Mommy Blog, Ann's Rants, Carolyn Online, Manic Mommy, Headless Mom, Amy in Ohio, Smart Ass Mom, OHMommy, Bernthis, Amazing Greis. There are more, but I have to stop because I'm scaring myself.

Lawyers: Are for sucks. (Takes one to know one.)

Attachment parenting: Lovely, in theory.

Coke or Pepsi: Pepsi, there's no contest, Neil. The whole point is the sugar.

SAHM/WAHM/WOHM/CABM*: Though it makes me nervous, I love meeting woman and other moms. I hate acronyms.

*Crazy Ass Blogging Moms

Good Mom/Bad Mom: Sit. Stay. Roll over. Blech. Love your kids? Me too. Make mistakes? Me too.

Favorite fast food: No thanks, I love to eat out, the more local and wonderful the restaurant, the better. I've only passed through Chicago. Anyone?

Coffee: Well, some form of caffeine, yes please, every day. Early. Preferably, SB chai tea.

Are you going? Say hi to me. I'm scared too.

You Are My Sunshine

First, I purchased the sun. Soon after, I began contemplating disposing of bodies.

The sun is a nightlight. It's actually a sun/moon nightlight invented by a brilliant dad. It has a little alarm clock like timer on the back that you set so that the moon is on at night, glowing with a soft blue glow, and then, at whatever time you deem appropriate for wake up, or get out of bed, or commence noise pollution operations, you set the clock so that the bright yellow sun comes on.

Simple. Beautiful. Easily explained to two toddlers (Ess and Gee) who think that the entire world, which does emphatically include their mother, should get up whenever their little eyeballs pop open in the morning. And, you know, they rise with the sun, which has an irritating habit of making an earlier and earlier appearance throughout the summer.

We reviewed the new rules with care. I showed them the moon and the sun. I carefully explained that when the moon glowed blue, it was quiet time, and when the sun turned yellow (at 7:00 a.m.), they could talk, yell, read books. Morning.

I plugged the thing in the first night and the pretty blue moon glowed softly. Or terrifyingly. Whatever. Gee moaned for fifteen minutes before I caved. "No moon. No scary moon. No blue moon. No moon face."

For the love. But, I have advanced degrees. I solved this problem. I set the moon to come on at 6:00 a.m., before they usually wake, and the sun to follow at 7:00 a.m. Brilliance.

It worked perfectly for about three days. Since then, for the last three months, mornings go something like this.

Gee: (somewhere between 5:00 a.m. and 6:30 a.m., creeping into our door) I have to pee-pee.
Matt and I: Go.
Me: And then back in your bed until the sun comes on. Quietly.

I believe I've mentioned that he's the slowest functioning organism currently alive on the planet. He drags his feet, he knocks around in the bathroom, he pees, he stands there and screws with the curtains.

Quiet. He's still in there. I'm wide awake.

Me: Gee?
Gee: Yes, Momma?
Me: Go back to bed until the sun comes on.
Gee: Okay.

FLUSH! Patter, patter, patter.

I roll over, rearrange my seventeen pillows, lay my weary head down. Sleep creeps back over me, slowly.

ABCs. I hear the ABCs. Soft, but gaining volume.

Me: Ess, IS THE SUN ON?
Ess: No.
Me: Then, it's quiet time, no talking, no singing, quiet time until the sun comes on.
Ess: Okay.

Quiet. Sleep coming.

Gee: Ess? Ess! I'm the kangaroo and you're the tigger!!
Me: Gee, IS THE SUN ON?
Gee: No.
Me: Then It Is Quiet Time.

Cue: Gareh - sun on? No! No, Gareh!

Matt's shoulders are shaking.

Me: What?
Matt: You're kind of obsessed with the sun. Just a little.
Me: Your point?
Matt: It's not like you're sleeping, you're just all worked up about them being quiet. You could just relax, they are in their rooms.
Me: Are you applying logic to this situation? Because, I could hurt you right now.
Gee: Momma? Can we sing?
Me: Is the sun on?
Gee: No.
Me: Then, Quiet! Time!

Me: (yell/whispering to Matt) I want to sleep. Just until 7:00 a.m. It's not that hard. It's a toddler level concept. Moon - NO TALKY. Sun - TALKY. They get it. They are baiting me.
Matt: You're foaming at the mouth a little.
Me: (to Matt) All they have to do is be quiet until the sun turns yellow. They can get this... (yelled to my now chattering kids)... OMIGOD, IF I HEAR ANOTHER SOUND BEFORE THAT SUN COMES ON NEITHER OF YOU WILL EAT A COOKIE UNTIL YOU ARE FORTY... (to Matt) I don't want to get up in the sixes. I want sevens. It's not that much to ask. I'm not saying they have to sleep until ten. They don't have to sleep at all, they just have to lay quietly in their beds for thirty minutes.

I flop down and roll over, pull the blankets up over my ears. For two minutes, it is blissfully quiet. I drift a little, start to sink, to dream.

A cacophony of noise erupts from all sides, in stereo.

Ess: (blaring, like a fog horn of wakefulness) MOMMATHESUNISONMOMMATHESUNISON. THE SUN IS ON! THE SUN IS ON! (She will not be quiet again for twelve hours.)

Simultaneously, Gee patters to our door and throws it open. MOMMA! DADDY! THE SUN IS ON! IT'S TIME TO GETUP!!!

He is so joyful. It's both amusing and horrifying.

Cue: SUN ON! SUN ON, MOMMA. UP! Up! Up! UP!

Matt convulses with mirth. "Um, darling, sunshine, light of my life? I think the sun might be on."

Justifiable familiocide? Oh, I think so.

I will miss this time, I will miss this time, I will miss this time, I will miss this time...

*****************************************
The non-labor labor continues. I had an appointment this afternoon. The good news is, I am now 4 1/2 centimeters dilated with 'bulging waters.' I have no idea either, although I picture a huge water balloon with a baby's hand in it waving around, protruding from...yeah, I know, we don't want to go there do we?

The crazy news is, there is no news. My midwife stripped the ever loving heck out of my membranes, which means she rooted around a bit and tried to separate the amniotic sack from the cervix. She was thorough, I think she might have given the baby a pat on the ass while she was in there. It's not a breech baby. That was hours ago now and there is not a lot happening. It appears AnyBaby is in there for the long haul.

So, on that note, it's late. Good night all. I don't want to hear a single word out of any of you until the SUN COMES ON. Am I clear?

You Might Be 38 Weeks Pregnant When...

...your family is annoying the crap out of you.

***

Notes on non-labor:

I'm three and a half centimeters dilated and 50% effaced. Nothing is happening. At 1 1/2 centimeters per week with no contractions, this baby will arrive somewhere around July 14th by simply falling out of my body when I stand up.

I asked Matt to time contractions for me last night. He started his stop watch function. He then left to get something, went out the back door, played with his latest concrete wall project, picked his nose, I don't know what else, but I had commented on like twelve blogs and run an entire twitter conversation.

He meandered back into the living room with concrete drying on his shirt and a beer in his hand.

"Any more?"
"Um, yeah, a few."
"How many?"

Evil eye.

"What difference does it make? You've been gone like two hours."

He checked his running stop watch. "Only eighteen minutes, actually."

Eviler eye.

"How many? I can divide. Two? Three?"
"Two," I grunted.
"Nine minutes."

Annoyingly accurate. Apparently, Matt is not taking my ten-day labor seriously. Does anyone now understand why I want my friend at my delivery?

***

Three things about my kids that would be driving me to drink, if I could drink, in no particular order:

Garrett is slow.

Not relaxed, not unhurried, not adorably on his own schedule. Painfully, intentionally, please forces of the universe give me the strength not to rip out my hair while I waaaaiiiiiittttttt and waiiiiitttttt for him to decide, finally, after dawdling and sixteen distractions and seventy billion questions to pleeeeassseeeee dooooooooo whatever it is I have asked him to do.

Not like, achieve world peace, like put your shoes on. Toddler appropriate tasks.

It might kill me. I am not slow. I am crisp. Efficient. I have a running list in my head all the time and I accomplish, accomplish, accomplish until it's done and then I sit down and write a list for tomorrow. He has been sent to temper me, to make me patient, and it's not working.

It starts first thing in the morning. We pick out clothes and I leave Ess and Gee to get dressed while I change Cue and get him dressed. See how efficient that is? When I get back from the nursery, they are dressed and we can go down for breakfast.

Ess always is dressed. Gee is in some half-assed state of pajama removal and he is picking lint from between his toes, or reading a book, or some other pointless morning pursuit.

After several cleansing breaths, "Gee," I say, with studied calm, "we are going down stairs, come down when you're dressed, okay?"
"I can't find my underwear."
"Hmmmmm. When you're dressed..."
"Oh, here they are."

He puts them on an arm, sits on the floor and discovers a fascinating fuzz in the carpet.
I try not to hyperventilate. "When you're dressed, come down."

Ten minutes later he calls me to the top of the stairs. He's still naked. HE'S STILL NAKED! I walk away. He screams for me for fifteen minutes. Eventually, he snail trails down the stairs. His clothes are on his body, many of them are backwards, but they are on.

Glaciers have melted. Molasses has poured. The universe has spun off of it's access and gone hurtling into a massive black hole, but the child is dressed for breakfast.

Ess never shuts up.

I mean that the way I wrote it. I don't mean she's never quiet or she talks too much or aha, how cute, my adorable daughter always has something to say. I mean she never-ever-ever-stops-making-noise-oh-my-god-can-you-have-that-operation-done-that-takes-away-a-dog's-bark-on-a-child. Probably not.

She sings in the car. She orders the boys around when they play. She makes up elaborate games during quiet time and narrates them to herself at the top of her lungs. She hums at dinner, or babbles, or talks to her plate.

It is never, never, ever, ever quiet. Ahahahaha. I'm not losing it at all.

Quinn will not watch TV.

Not any TV. Not even half an hour. At 4:30, every day, I put in a movie. I need that movie. I need it. Ess is quiet. Gee does not need to accomplish forward motion. Cue...will not watch TV. Why? The rest of us are quite happy to be plugged in and have our minds numbed and erased by the digital age we live in. Why not Cue?

He stands at the gate and calls for me like the most annoying talking baby doll in the history of the world. "Momma, momma, momma, momma." It's on endless repeat. I've tried to ignore him, I've tried to pretend. But if he sees me, catches my eye, if I check on him or initiate contact of any sort, there it is...he holds out his little hand and cocks his head to one side.

"Momma, play? Momma sit? Momma cars? Momma trains? Momma read it?"

And I have to do it. I have to "waste" my precious, precious making dinner while playing on the computer hour playing with him. Now you probably think I'm going to say, but I love it, it's worth it, it's only a short time, they are only little for this brief, beautiful moment.

NO! I play with him all damn day. The entire time I am pretending to eat plastic pizza, I am screaming in my head OH MY GOD PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, could you just learn to watch a little TV???!!!

***

I'm done. I feel better.

Maybe Baby

It's been a whole week since I last posted. I don't know where it went either. Time enough to have three babies, but I have nothing exciting to report. Last Tuesday, I was already two centimeters dilated. Thursday and Friday, I had almost forty-eight hours of steady contractions and we got excited and made elaborate plans for ditching our kids to go to the hospital.

Then, nothing. I fell asleep Friday night and woke up pregnant and non-contracting and basically facing a long, routine weekend.

The brief excitement did spur me to pack a bag and do a little shopping and schedule my pre-registration at the hospital.. I needed a small fire lit under me. Actually, I need a large fire because I have made no progress on changing the sleeping arrangements around here. I have time, right? Little bit will probably be late.

We'll see. I'll be checked again tomorrow and I'm hoping to score a three or even a four. Our midwife told me at my last appointment that she once had a mom get to seven without going into active labor. My competitive bone immediately kicked in. Maybe little fizbit and I could go to an eight. We'd be the winners...of nothing...except possibly a frightening, incredibly messy birth on our bathroom floor. So, um, maybe not.

Tomorrow, I also find out if I am "strep B positive" or not. Which is a big deal to no one except me because I hate needles of all kinds and I plan to refuse the routine heplock for this birth. Unless, I'm step B positive. In that event, they get very pushy with you about IV antibiotics in labor. I haven't decided if I will fight that battle (refusing the antibiotics) or bite the heplock and suck it up. I've done a lot of reading and still have mixed feelings about the risks. Anyone have a (gently stated, I am 37 weeks and I cry easily) opinion on this?

My current opinion is that it would have been nice if the events of yesterday had occurred before my strep B test. Nothing could have lived through that wipe down. Sometimes, multi-tasking is not a good idea.

I was in the bathroom helping Gee get redressed and since I always have to pee these days, I figured, let's kill a few birds with one stone here.

I sat and directed his hand washing activities from afar. He can't reach the sink to wash his hands, so I had him pull down the huge bottle of hand sanitizer in our bathroom. It's so big, he couldn't hold it and squirt it with one hand and he ended up with hand washing goo all down the front of his sweatshirt. I called him over and helped him get it on his hands and then cleaned up his shirt with toilet paper and sent him on his way.

Can you guess what I did next?

Yeah, that shit hurts.

Moral of this story: Do not try that at home, no matter what you think is growing down there.

An Admission of Happiness

I wrote this post last week and then I had a hard time hitting publish. Weird, because I don't struggle with that toooo much any more. Megan from Velveteen Mind wrote this and I thought it was fabulous and it gave me a little shot of courage to post on the same topic from a different perspective.

Go and get your rotten eggs and tomatoes. I'll wait.

The last two months of pregnancy are almost pure joy for me. (Ouch, underhand throws, please.)

In some ways, it is harder to type that than it is to write about the sad times, miscarriage, fear and heartache.

Most people I meet these days open conversations with commiseration. You're almost there. You must be so uncomfortable. I hated the end, couldn't wait for it to be over.

I nod. Of course, I can nod, I can identify. It's harder to sleep, I always have to pee, a weird pain shoots down my inner thigh and causes my leg to collapse a little every time the baby moves its head.

There's a certain level of bonding that goes on around the difficulty of pregnancy. It's not hard to write about that. Feeling uncomfortable, hating the changes in your body, disconnecting with your partner, nervousness or worry, downright terror. What if I don't love as much? What if something goes wrong and I get sent plunging down that crashing waterfall of grief into the churning, life-changing, drowning waters at the bottom. We all understandably flock to these admissions to comfort and support, to provide the strength of solidarity.

Often, the joy is gently mocked. As in, I could choke that rosy, gently-glowing, perfectly pregnant bitch. Or, anyone who says they love this is lying.



It feels unaccountably awkward and almost wrong - gauche, insensitive - to say the opposite, which is telling you the truth.

I love the end of pregnancy. (Was that a rotten tomato?) The first three months are pure hell, but the last two months are my favorite time. I love how I feel. I love how I look. (Ducking!) I have so much energy and I am so happy and easy and purposeful, so full of life, mentally and literally.

I'm not all that uncomfortable. It's straight up genetics and luck, but there it is, I don't gain a lot of weight. My long torso allows the baby to grow without squashing my lungs overly much. I sleep, for the most part, when I'm not stressing over something ridiculous, which is honestly common for me, pregnant or not. I adore the way my body fills out my maternity shirts at the end, how they all fit tightly over my full moon figure.

People make sympathetic faces and cluck about the heat and being so large in the summer. I am never hot. Nothing makes me happier than when our unairconditioned upstairs is 77 degrees and all the windows are open and the ceiling fans are on and I take a cool shower just before bed so that my drying hair will cool me as I lay there, barely dressed and uncovered. Those are my favorite nights.

Matt and I giggle. He likes my body this way. We have fun. A lot of fun. Too circumspect? (Close your eyes, Dad, turn away, Uncle Ryan.) It's the best damn sex I've ever had and we make like rabbits the last two months. If that is actually true about rabbits? We'll go with it here for example purposes. I think it's nature's compensation because by thirty-eight weeks I usually have a soft, ripe cervix and a couple of centimeters dilation, which, they say (although they are probably all male) can be a side effect of sex.

It makes me blush and duck my head (not the sex, loving pregnancy) because in my late twenties and early thirties I was THAT one. The one that never wanted kids. The one that couldn't do that to my body, wouldn't give up my freedom and my career and my choices.

What can I say? And why can't I say it? Part of me is embarrassed by my personal about face, part of me doesn't want to hurt someone else, unknowingly, ever. I don't want someone to visit here interested in adoption, or transracial families, or who just had a miscarriage, or had a terrifying pregnancy that consisted of bed rest and prayers and think that I caused them pain.

I know it can be hard. I know it can be frightening. I know it can be the furthest thing in the world from fun.

For me, in the final countdown, it is joyful anticipation. I want to say that aloud. I want this baby and my other babies to know how I felt, how I rejoiced in them in me. I am sad only to know that this is the final time. It is. I realize we have contributed adequately to the world's explosive population and I can not, under any circumstances, move up to a full conversion van. I have my pride and no sex is that good.

I think that ought to be all right to say; it shouldn't belittle or lessen the words or experiences of anyone who struggles in this time or faces grief. There is room for many stories in this world and I think that people can identify with all of the various threads in this common experience.

So, the truth is, if I didn't want to meet this little love so badly, I might wish to go full term just to prolong the happiness and live it a little longer.

(It's all right, I'm done gushing, you can all stop gagging now.)

Hold on, as long as I'm being all gushy. You're funny, mom.

Really funny.


See ya.

Nesting, Nesting, One, Two, Three

I don't feel ready, exactly, for our fourth child, but I do feel oddly zen with my non-readiness.

I'm checking things off my list. We - (By "we" I mean the three kids and I and our regular babysitter. Matt hates photo sessions and firmly feels that my obsession with the painfully expensive but mind-blowingly fabulous photographer in our area qualifies me for mental health care.) - "we" had a maternity photo session on Thursday morning. Except that "we" ended up being me because the smaller "we's" were completely nonhelpful and noncute and nonanything you would want for taking pictures, nonstill, noncooperative, nonsmiling.

Ess and Gee were fairly good, they sat by me. It's just that they've hit, at not quite four, who knew it happened so young, that awkward, self-conscious phase that ruins every picture until your maternity pictures at 36. They either smile with horrendous fake grimaces or stare stonily at the camera. My cuddly, mamma's little angel, Cue, sprouted a forked tongue and morphed into demon baby with a repelling magnet installed. He wouldn't come anywhere near me. He screamed "NO MOMMA" when I picked him up. I wanted a shot with my belly and Cue cuddling on my shoulder the way he does every thirty seconds throughout the day. A porcupine being eaten by stinging scorpions would have been more cuddly.

I tried not to sweat because I paid to have my hair done for this photo shoot and damn it all to hell and back but I was going to look good. It's all about me anyway. If I look terrible in the pictures I'll hate them all and if I like the way I look, I'll pretend I think their horrendous grimaces and the flash of Cue's disappearing leg in one corner are adorable.

Anyway, the important thing is belly pictures - check.
We met with our doula and our birth plan is ready - check.
I've asked a friend (and hopefully my sister if timing works) to be with me for the birth because I decided, when Matt waved weakly at me from behind his oxygen mask just after Cue's birth, that while he is the love of my life and he should be there for the birth of his final child, he is somewhat useless and I want more woman in the room to pet me and tell me I'm not sweaty or exuding noxious substances from an embarrassing location. (They'll lie.) - check, check.

The baby may now exit my body.

Despite the fact that we haven't bought a single thing, not even an adorable, gender neutral homecoming outfit, I feel ready. It's funny, you don't expect your fourth baby to be "celebrated" the way a first baby is celebrated. It's a little sad, but true. It's kind of par for the course, you have all the stuff, it's not all new, you've read the books and been the cute (but actually somewhat overwhelmed, someone help!) new mom, everyone's busy, etc.

I thought I didn't need it and I don't. But, the truth is, a little celebration is always welcome. A lovely joint shower for the four (!) pregnant moms in Cue's class and the willingness of everyone reading along here to play guessing games with me and share my excitement, has made this pregnancy feel new and special. Oh, yeah, and real. Like a real baby is coming. The kind that cries and nurses and keeps me up all night. Deep breath.

It's down to sleeping arrangements and my nesting wheels are spinning madly but there's absolutely no forward progress.

If you've read very much around here, or you know me in real life, you're probably aware that I'm a bit type A. (I heard that loud snort, okay, a lot type A.)

Our house is neat. Spare. There's not much clutter. Clutter drives me insane. With the exception of the office, which makes me nauseous and which I plan to purge with merciless efficiency in the next few weeks, nothing sits around, the closets are organized, things have places or they get thrown away. I am notorious for throwing things away. Toys. Important papers. Dirty clothes. Anything that annoys me by not having someplace to go.

I'm not bragging here - I didn't say I kept the house clean, I hate to clean. No amount of dirt on the floors or mold in a shower will motivate me. Nothing motivates me to clean but house guests. It is neat. Compulsively neat. Organized.

The kids' bedrooms are simple, very simple. Like books and beds simple. I love them. I love the paint, the curtains, the pictures on the walls, the lack of crap. Love them.

The point here? I have two insane nesting urges. The office. It must be stopped. The sleeping arrangements must be changed. Ess and Gee currently share one room and Cue sleeps in the nursery. The plan is to move Cue in with the older two and keep my beloved nursery for the baby.

I want the nursery exactly as it is. Which means, Cue needs the crib that his brother is sleeping in as a toddler bed. Which means, Gee needs a new bed. We have perfect honey-stained beds that I planned to put in this room someday and Matt has one of them all ready to move into the house.

[Insert wailing and gnashing of teeth here.] It doesn't fit. It doesn't fit with the other two cribs. Matt wants to cram it into the nursery so that my mom can sleep on it when she's here. It doesn't fit there either. It will look crowded and claustrophobic and I will hate it and it keeps me up at night worrying about it. (Also, [whispering], I hate change, I love those rooms, it all looks so nice, I can't do it, they can't grow, they can't sleep in real beds, lalalalalalalalalala.)

I know. C-R-A-Z-Y. I am already crazy about this stuff. Thirty-six weeks pregnant on top of my usual crazy is a rare brand of crazy.

Just in case you doubt the depths of my controlling, anal retentive neurosis, this picture shows my children eating the second popsicles they have ever eaten in their lives. Their first popsicles were consumed last week in the same location. I consider this the only acceptable place to hand them horrendous sticks of drippy stickiness. They consider this normal adult behavior.


I am their model for normal adult behavior. Shudder. Grimace for the camera, darlings.

The Pediatrician's Office, Take 200

I hate going to the pediatrician. I hate it. It makes me feel small and stupid and uselessly overprotective. It's always the same and I never learn. I wrote this exact same post last year, only it was longer, because I had more energy for bitching at that time.

One of the kids has an issue of some kind. For days. At first, I'm all, kids, fevers, issues. Blech. Don't give it to me you small, adorable germ-spreading machine.

And then, one of the two adults involved cracks. (Ahem. MATT!!) Do you think it's serious? NO. What if? Googling happens. It's all down hill. I end up in a small not-as-sterile-as-I'd-like-to-think examining room being patronized by the very people who assured me on the phone, less than two hours ago, that yes, dumbass, your child should be seen by a doctor! today! at 11:00! drop everything!

I do! Because I love my kids and I feel slightly responsible for their well being. Thankfully, there's never a damn thing wrong with them except that they are kids and they are gross and they put their germy hands on everything and then into their mouths on a regular basis. Which I knew. But I can not resist the siren call to sit in that office and stare at the sad fish and be told what I freaking dumbass I am.

I'm not bitter. I just blame Matt.

About a month ago, Cue broke out in a horrendous rash all over his itsy bitty little baby body. It was red and horrible and everywhere. He was on amoxicillin at the time for an ear infection that I had ABSOLUTELY no idea he had. I sent him off with his father to his eighteen month well baby check thinking, well, mostly that he was an incredibly well baby. Whoops.

On rash night, I felt calm because he wasn't swelling or having any trouble breathing. I gave him a bath and Benadryl and went to bed figuring he'd be fine in the morning. In the morning, he was covered in the same rash only redder and possibly more comprehensive.

But, still breathing normally and non-swelly and all that good stuff. I have to admit, I expected the rash to be gone. Matt told me to call the nurse at the pediatrician's office and see what they thought. I didn't want to do it. Because, um, because the nurse ALWAYS says we have to bring whatever kid I'm calling about to the doctor and it's always nothing and the doctor is always nice but patronizing and it's a big huge colossal waste of my time and germ exposure and a $30.00 co-pay besides.

That's a lot of chai tea lattes to be told that your kid is fine and why are you here again you crazy woman? OH YEAH! Because your NURSE told me to come.

I especially did not want to call for the rash because I fed Cue shrimp for dinner the night before and I had little recollection (absolutely none) of whether the rash started before or after the shrimp dinner. It also may not have been the first time he had shrimp and yes he's only like 20 months old and oh my god I totally followed that food allergy rule about only one new food a month until they are eighteen (or maybe three, whatever) with Gee, but now I have a million kids and it's hard and he eats peanut butter, so what's a little shellfish, really?

I called. He's little and he was all rashy. As usual, the nurse freaked me out and said I needed to bring him in because he could have an! amoxicillin! allergy! I pointed out on the phone that I had observed carefully and he was breathing fine. Tongue normal size, etc.

We went and we sat and it sucked. The doctor took one look at him and kind of pushed on him a little and told me that so long as the rash turns white when you push on it, they don't worry about it all that much. That's called blanching, apparently. If a rash blanches, it's just a non-worrying all over your baby's body rash. So yeah. Thanks for that. Good to know. YESTERDAY.

Oh and there's no way to know if it's the amoxicillin or the shrimp or something else, but why are you feeding him shrimp again?

For kicks? Hoping to set off some kind of allergic chain reaction in my twenty-month-old? I'm dumb? No. Because that's what I had in my fridge. And I wanted it. And he wants what I eat and he's had it before and so I...

Whatever. The doctor rolled her eyes and said not to feed him shrimp and that she would note a possible amoxicillin reaction, but not an allergy because that would be a huge pain if he ever needs antibiotics in the future. Oh and as far as rashes go, no biggie, but if he ever has trouble breathing after eating shrimp or taking any medicine, go to an ER.

Thank you for that. I might have called your nurse.

Yesterday was the fourth day that Gee ran a fever with no other symptoms at all. I kept waiting for puking or snot or something, but nothing. I stood firm against Matt's call the nurse crap for a while because I have been down this road numerous times and I know where it leads. The nurse will tell me to bring him in IMMEDIATELY. The doctor will look at me like I'm insane and god I hate it so freaking much. NO. Also, thirty bucks.

Matt. Voice of parenting reason. Mr. rational. Mr. "it's worth thirty dollars to know he's okay."
Oh yeah? Mr. reasonable. Is it worth my pride? Is it?

He only pretends to be so zen, in actuality, he googled recurring fever with slight headache and got Kawasaki's syndrome and he was secretly losing his shit. Not so much that he was going to the pediatrician to be snorted at, though. That's my lot in life.

I called. Reluctantly. The nurse said I had to bring him in. Of course. There's not a damn thing wrong with him. Of course.

He was lethargic and feverish for FOUR days and damn it all if he didn't bounce into that office like he was a candidate for the healthiest kid in the world competition. Normal temperature. The universe has some kind of grudge against me. She asked me if he'd been eating.

"No, not really, he's been pretty off," I explained.
"I'd like eggs," chirped Gee, "and cookies."

Over my dead body. Would it kill you to look a little lethargic, just for a few more minutes? Please.

"I don't know," she said helpfully, "but in general, if the fever stays under 102 or so, we don't run additional tests, unless there's some other indication of a problem. If it spikes above that in the next few days, give us a call."

Sigh. Yet another delightful nugget of information that it would be oh-so-helpful to receive over the phone. There's been not one sign of a fever since that moment. Not one.

And yes, I would rather look like an idiot than have something actually be wrong with my child, but I can still bitch about it. Repeatedly, every six months or so. Thanks for listening.

*****************************************
Hey, also, (blush) thank you for playing the guessing game about the baby with me. It just made my pregnancy that so many of you were willing to get excited with me and play along. Special thanks to all of you who predicted a birthday before my due date, you know the way to an eight-month-pregnant girl's heart. I wish I could give you all hand-made blankets.