Credit taken where credit is not due

Sara at the airport waiting for her first plane ride

Ohio to Boise is a long, long time on small, cramped airplanes.  So I was nervous about flying with a baby on my lap.  (I could remember what it was like last time.  The trip included Mary's major meltdown.)  But I had no need to fret.  This was Sara!

I shouldn't have been surprised to find that Sara was easy to fly with.  (This is a baby who entertained herself by gently holding--but not bending--the flight safety card for over an hour)  She was nervous during our first flight, so she snuggled close and whimpered quietly.  But once I reassured her, she became her bright, sweet, pleasant, happy self.  She was full of smiles for all, but never demanded attention from anyone.  She brought joy to all those around us.

The thing about flying alone with a baby is that you get to hold your baby for hours and hours on end.  This is bad because you cannot accept the in flight beverage, pee, or, if it's a Canadian Regional Jet, stand up.  But there are few other times when you get to hold your baby close for so long.  It's kind of great, actually.  Especially if your baby is not screaming his or her head off.

(I remember flying from Turkey to Salt Lake City alone with a six-month-old David.  The journey is over 24-hours, and, in order to negotiate customs alone in Istanbul on the way back, I did not bring a stroller.  So I literally held my baby for over a day a straight, twice.  I felt so bonded to him after that, and we were pretty bonded before.  But the other thing I have to say is:  How did I do that??!!  Flying alone across the Atlantic with a super high maintenance baby?!!  Crazy, crazy.)

Since Sara was so pleasant, I frequently heard these types of comments:  "Oh, she is so good.  You are such a good mom!"  "Your baby did so well on the flight.  You must really know what you're doing."  "I don't know how you do it, but you have one very well-behaved baby."

My first thought is, "It's not me!  It's her!!  Yes, she is the best baby ever and it has nothing to do with me!"  Because this is true.

Now, spare me the whole oh she's your third child and now you know what you're doing and you're all relaxed and that makes her good.  That is a bunch of crap.  First of all, I am not an idiot.  I am the mom.  I can see if my kids have different personalities and temperaments, especially now, by the third one.   If anything, I'm even more sure that David especially and even Mary were difficult babies.  I don't look back and say, "Gee, I really did everything wrong."  Now that I have a normal baby I look back and say, "Gee, I had some challenging babies.  It's a relief to know it wasn't me with the problem."  I maybe didn't have it all together, but do you really really think I MADE David be the kind of baby he was?  You're going to be that cruel and imply that I brought it on myself?  Second of all, I take issue with your assumption that I am more relaxed now.  Please ask my husband, who happens to be married to a woman who is currently in a near constant state of panic, worry, and anxiety.  If my level of relaxedness directly correlates to my baby's health, happiness, and sleep patterns, then Sara would be a sickly, grouchy baby who sleeps exactly 37 minutes in a 24 hour period.

Yes, I will concede that experience definitely helps.  There are things about having a baby that I feel confident about now, and that has come with having had two others.  But, over all, Sara has been a pleasant, "by the book" kind of baby because she came that way.  (By the way, if you ever made a comment to me about Sara being easy because she's number 3, I promise I cannot remember it because I can't--and I did not get offended in the least.  Or if I did, I can't remember it and I still love you with all my heart. I imagine I was mostly just trilled you were acknowledging the sweetness of my baby.  No worries.)

So, when all those lovely, well-meaning people praised my mothering skills instead of my baby's innate contented, peaceful personality, what did I do?

I smiled and took the credit.

Heavy weight?

Monday was Sara's six-month well-baby appointment.  She weighs 14 pounds 10 ounces.  Hooray!  This puts her in the 20th percentile.  Hooray, hooray!  (David and Mary have lived their lives on the 20th percentile weight curve.  Now Sara has joined them as a 20th percentiler too.)

 

Sweet Sara is a dream baby.  I owe that girl a thousand posts about what a sweet, mellow, content, easy-going, normal baby she is.  But right now I am instead going to briefly mention one of the few challenges we've had.

Due to a number of factors, by the time she was about three months old Sara was not gaining weight like she should.  Normally I wouldn't worry myself about a silly growth chart.  But this time I knew deep in my heart, with my "mother's intuition," that she wasn't getting all the calories she needed.  I spent a month pumping to try to increase my milk supply, giving her lots of extra feedings, and trying to supplement with bottles of breast milk and formula.  It was stressful adding the feedings and finding time to pump, and it was all made even more difficult because Sara could not figure out the bottle.  (Sara is such a normal baby in so many ways.  I guess her quirk is being like "What the heck is this???" anytime we tried any kind of bottle.)  But she was gaining weight a little faster with all that effort.  But it seemed like a lot of stress and work ...

Finally, when she was five months old I packed up the pump and the bottles and we started cereal.  I definitely think solids are overrated, and age five months was early for me to take on that endeavor.  (I loved Mary--she refused to eat anything she couldn't feed herself.  So we skipped the whole pureed baby food stage.  She just had breast milk until she was nine or ten months old.  It was awesome.)  But it felt like the right thing to do, feeding Sara solids.  (I believe strongly in "mother's intuition.")  So with reluctance, I fed her cereal and formula.  And she LOVED it.  She's gaining weight like a champ now.

So that's the story of our sweet, super normal Sara--who is not so normal, after all.  (She can't handle a bottle--too complicated?--but she's a champ with the spoon.)  Oh, Sara, we love you.


(These pictures were taken on Monday, the day of her appointment.)

Good looking

Nearly all school year David was squinting.  Everyone mentioned it to me:  his dad, his teacher, his grandparents.  Did I take him in for an eye exam?

Of course not.  That's what a responsible parent would do.  Instead, I told everyone it was just a weird habit he'd picked up.  I insisted it was just a weird habit.  I thought maybe he was doing it for attention or something.

(Why was I in denial??!  I absolutely refused to accept the possibility David might possibly need glasses.  Why??  I'll save that psychoanalysis for another day, because I seriously do not know what my problem was.  But I suspect it was simply that I just could not deal with one more ounce of stress these past months.)

Anyway, long story short:  Finally, David's DAD takes David to the eye doctor and whaddaya know the kid needs glasses.  No one was surprised by this news.  (Not even me.)

Isn't he good looking in his new frames?

P.S.  I read this on Deanna's blog the day David went to the eye doctor.  Very timely.  I love Deanna.

P.P.S.  Last summer when the Thompsons were here, Gina mentioned Zenni Optical in case anyone in our family should ever need glasses.  Whaddaya know, that nugget of information became very useful exactly a year later.  They are good quality lenses and frames straight from China--which means they are very very affordable.  For David's first pair, we went ahead and bought them from a brick and mortar store.  We wanted them that very day, and it was good for David to have the whole experience of trying on frames and getting good measurements.  But you pay (A LOT) for that.  So his backup glasses (and soon his backup backup glasses) are in the mail from Zenni Optical.  (Seriously, check out how inexpensive it is!!  And, thank you, Gina, for the tip!)

Big sister love

Mary continues to adore her baby sister.  Though, sometimes she treats Sara more like a doll than a little person, which makes me (and Sara) a bit nervous.  But what continues to impress us is how helpful Mary is with Sara.  

Mary loving on Baby Sara back in February.

A few weeks ago the girls and I drove to Ohio to look at a Montessori school.  Driving 500 miles each way for a one hour visit to a school seemed like a perfectly normal thing to do.  Looking back, I realize I was a little bit crazy.  The point is that I could not have done it without Mary!  She was amazing.  She sat right next to Sara in the car and took care of her, wiping her spit-up and giving her a pacifier.  Mary was incredibly patient when I had to stop to nurse Sara.  And she was mature and understanding when I had to drag us all to the bathroom for the umpteenth time to change Sara or when buying her lunch was delayed even more while I calmed a hysterical baby or when I insisted we eat our food on the go in the car so we wouldn't lose more time or when I needed her to carefully hold Sara because I didn't have enough hands.  Sara and I literally could not have traveled to Ohio without Mary.  Of course, Mary needed to go--it was her future school we were visiting after all.  But I came home with an even deeper appreciation for Mary.  It's kind of a strange feeling--to really truly need the help of one of your children.  It's kind of a neat feeling.

How I love my girls.  Aren't they beautiful?

Mary and Sara on Easter Sunday.  Mary at age 5 and a half and Sara at almost 3 months.

Final installment of a hospital story

Now that I'm home and said home is perfectly clean (seriously--look in my closets, investigate behind the toilets, it's all spic and span) and Sara is now THREE MONTHS old, it's time to finish up the birth story  Which isn't much of a birth story, except for the very best part--the birth of our sweet little Sara!

Let's see.  So I covered the good thing about being awake when Sara was born.  And the bad thing about her super high bilirubin levels.  And now one more fun detail about my experience in the hospital--I had a skin reaction to the iodine solution they used in surgery.  If we're talking about complications from surgery, this is minor in terms of danger or affecting my health or whatever.  But very very very (very!) uncomfortable.    Actually, it was plain painful.  My skin was ON FIRE!  Oh my, how it hurt to even move.  Oh my, oh my.  It was much worse than the incision pain even.  Ugh.

I admit, I've done plenty of whining and complaining about getting this baby here.  From woes during pregnancy to stress after the birth.  Yet I never expected your pity. But now I do.  About this.  Because it really sucked.  (Just what you need when you're recovering from a C-section and trying to juggle a newborn--the skin on your tummy chemically burned.)

But it got better...after a series of almost comical minor complications in my recovery.  I feel like I was at the doctor every other day for a month!  I wasn't--but it felt that way.  But I found myself there often enough that it did start feeling ridiculous.  A friend finally suggested that perhaps I just ought to live in a bubble.  I agreed.

In sum, January was an uncomfortable month.  I was uncomfortable in my body.  My skin was uncomfortable, my insides were uncomfortable.  (I remember how getting dressed in regular clothes--and staying in them for more than three minutes--for Sara's blessing seemed a near impossible task.)  I felt overwhelmed by my body--I just wanted to feel normal.

Fortunately, most things have resolved themselves.  (Hooray!  No more writing about my aches and pains!  You can breath a sigh of relief.)  And I guess I have to say I feel pretty normal now?  Well, I feel much more normal than I did in January anyway.

Here's the thing about January though.  All the discomfort aside, I believe it was the happiest month of my life.  I shut out everything except for loving my family.  What a blessing that my circumstances (help from family, friends, and an amazing husband) allowed me to focus on what is most precious to me, my children.  And I was able to spend the month holding my newest precious child close to me without distractions.  Sara's birth marked the beginning of a peaceful, sacred month.  A time I will always treasure in my heart.

Pajama Day

On Wednesday Mary asked me when her school was going to have Pajama Day.  David had Pajama Day last week.  I broke the news to Mary that her school did not have Pajama Day.  (But one of the many reasons I like her school.)  Her face turned ashen and her jaw dropped.  She was not going to have a Pajama Day!  And she was devastated.

What's a mom to say?  Well, I told her she should ask Anna if she could wear her pajamas to school.  If Anna said yes, then she could invite all the girls in her Extended Day class to wear pajamas too.  And then she had to ask everybody's mom if it was okay, and every single mom had to agree.  Mary said okay, and I put the whole thing out of my mind, assuming it would never happen.

On Thursday--one day later--I picked Mary up from school, and guess what.  She had organized the entire Pajama Day already!  She had talked to Anna, all the girls in her class, and their moms!  Pajama Day was to be the very next day.

On Friday Mary wore her pajamas to school.  As I've mentioned before, when this girl wants something to happen, she gets it done.



P.S.  In the above picture Mary is holding her baby Katie.  Lately Mary has requested that I teach her how to be a mom.  She watches me closely with Sara and wants to help so that she will know what to do when she has her babies.  The last few days, at Mary's request, we have been going through the baby care book we got from the hospital together, and Mary has been practicing on Katie--everything from swaddling, diaper changes, and nail trimming to bathing, nursing holds, and burping.  Mary pointed out that she will probably be a better mom than me.  I told her she definitely would.

A hospital story, part 1: Something good

Now that I have clearly established that I am capable of blogging only about Sara, and now that she has been here for over a month (five weeks!), I am way overdue for ... The Birth Story!

It goes something like this:  Once upon a time, I scheduled an appointment.  Greg and I went to the hospital at the appointed time.  The doctor cut me open, pulled out Sara, and sewed me up.  The end.

Hmmm.  Not much of a story.

But, if you don't mind, I have to tell something!

I admit:  I love to hear women share their birth experiences.  (And don't you love to hear your own mom share about your birth?)  Okay, so maybe there is a tiny element of whatever it is that causes us humans to slow down to stare at a car wreck.  But mostly it is because birth is so beautiful/messy/frightening/painful/joyous/dramatic/mysterious/simple.  There is something about wanting to share in the joy and empathize with the pain.  And there is always, always drama, hence, a story.  A brand new human being comes into the world!  How could there not be drama?  Every birth is exciting and special.

In Sara's case, most of the drama (what there was of it) came after she was born.  So it seems like more of a "hospital story."  As cold and institutional as that sounds, that's what I'm going to call it--"a hospital story."  I have a million details I want to remember, but for now I will set aside 999,997 of them and focus on three things.  (I love the rule of three's.)  I will share something good, something bad, and something ugly.  (No worries--no pictures of the latter!)

First ...

Something Good.  Namely:  I Got to Be Awake.

When David, my first, was born, I had a spinal block with no problem.  When I was in labor with Mary two years later, I requested an epidural.  The anesthesiologist, however, was not able to get it in, meaning she couldn't find any spinal fluid in which to insert the catheter.  She just kept hitting bone.  The doctor tried the epidural three times, and then she attempted a spinal block (which I believe requires a smaller needle?) twice.  She was mystified (and clearly troubled) because she couldn't see any reason why it wouldn't work.  Needless to say, that story ends with my giving birth without pain medication.  But the point is that the next morning the hospital's head anesthesiologist came to see me, and she gave me strict instructions to inform future doctors of what had happened should I ever need another epidural or spinal block.

(By the way, feel free to use me as an example!  Be super annoying and say to your friend who is flippant about her upcoming birth because she plans to get an epidural, "Well, one of my friends totally planned to get an epidural and then it totally wouldn't work and then she had to push for like four hours without any pain relief and she was completely freaking out, so you might want to consider preparing yourself mentally at least a little bit."  Then be even more annoying and hand her the book Birthing from Within, which I truly recommend.  Incidentally, Mary's birth was the worst ... but it made me a believer in "natural" childbirth.  Says the woman who scheduled a C-section for her next birth.  Sigh.)

So when we went to the hospital that morning, all of the nurses, my doctor, and the anesthesiologist (and, most importantly, ME) were well aware that I may have to be put under general anesthesia for this birth.

Here is what happened.  (Oh, and remember this was the only drama involved in the birth, so savor it.)  The anesthesiologist, whom I will henceforth refer to as Dr. K because I will lose my mind if I type " the anesthesiologist" one more time, came marching into the OR in that self-important way doctors have.  (This guy was dripping ego out of his ears.)  He confirmed with me that the last time this had been tried, it had been unsuccessful.

"That didn't happen here at St. Mary's, did it?" he asked.

No, I explained, it had been at a military hospital in Ohio.

"Hmph," he snorted.  "Figures. Well, don't worry. We're better than they are."

(I guess it's nice to know your current anesthesiologist feels competitive with your previous one?)

Precariously balanced on the edge of the cold metal operating table, I curled into an uncomfortable ball, and Dr. K got right to work.

Within half a second, he said, "Ooooh...I see..." with new found understanding.  He could see that those fools in Ohio weren't completely incompetent. There really was something wrong with my spine.  Great.

By this time I was completely resigned to being unconscious during the birth of this baby.  Months earlier I had been terrified of this.  I was scared of being unconscious, and my heart broke when I thought of not meeting my Sara right away.   But slowly, over time, I had adjusted to the possibility.  I reminded myself that gazillions of people survive general anesthesia.  It would be okay if I didn't see Sara the instant she was born.  Greg and I had talked about it, and I knew he would hold her tight and keep her safe.  So by that morning I was completely at peace with not being awake for Sara's birth.

Dr. K, however, was not at peace with that.  Not at all.

He tried and tried and tried again.  I lost count how often he tried.  Maybe six or seven times?  Let's remember that for each attempt there are two needle pokes--one for the local anesthesia and one for the actual spinal block.  So that's a dozen needles in your back.  It is FREAKY.  And this time I didn't have labor pains to distract me from the freaky-ness.

It was tense in the OR as everyone anxiously waited and I strained to stay calm and hunched over.

Eventually, I squeaked out, "Um, how many more times are we trying?"

"Oh, he's just getting started," my doctor assured me.  My heart sank.  Remember, I saw general anesthesia as the inevitable outcome, and, by then, I just wanted to get the show on the road.  But everyone was very committed to this spinal block.

Then Dr. K announced, "I have one more trick up my sleeve."  I wasn't sure how I felt about someone performing tricks on my spinal column ...

And then it worked!

Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief.  I was laid down, Greg was rushed into the room, the curtain put up, and Dr. K--now my superhero complete with ego, confidence, experience, and sleeve full of tricks--marched out of the room.  I was in shock.  I was going to be awake for Sara's birth.

I was going to be AWAKE for Sara's birth!!

And I was!

One week home

It's been one week since we came home from the hospital.  I have a few pictures to share of that event.

Mary insisted that Sara wear home the same outfit she, Mary, wore home from the hospital.  Fortunately, Sara was small enough to wear it.  (Though we were fully prepared to squeeze her into it no matter her size.)

Sara had been almost completely naked almost our entire stay ... so it was almost shocking to see her in clothes.  She looked a little goofy to us--we couldn't help but chuckle.  (And I'm sure it doesn't help that pretty much all newborns look pretty goofy in clothes.)

Here is our goofy little Buddha baby in her car seat, strapped in and ready to go.

David gave Sara the hat he got in the hospital when he was born.  It says "Delivered with Love at Kent General Hospital."  It probably does not lessen the goofiness.  But it is oh so sweet!  Something from each of my kids, for the new kid on the block.

Finally, a picture of the happy parents.

The hospital stay was tiring and a little more intense than expected.  As things turned out, I ended up needing someone with me and Sara the whole time.  And that someone was usually Greg.  The man spent four consecutive nights on a chair!  (Can I hear some cheers for this guy?)  Greg and I hadn't spent so much one-on-one time together in years.  (Seven and a half years, to be precise.)  I suggested the time might have been better spent in Europe or the Caribbean instead of a hospital room.  Ah, but much better to get our sweet Sara out of the deal.  Sara is definitely worth everything a million gazillion times over.

We are so happy to be home, together as a family.  This is such a sweet, special time for all of us.  In fact, this past week has been one of the happiest of my life, despite the fact I'm still recovering.  I have been able to shut out much of the chaos of the outside world.  Sure, the kids still have school and activities and birthday parties to attend.  And I still have the occasional email that must be answered.  But life has stopped as much as is possible, and I am enjoying the peaceful time with my newborn.  Greg is back to working on his dissertation.  But he has moved his operation up from the basement to the kitchen table so he can be closer to Sara and me.  My mom is here to ease our burdens, allowing us to cherish this precious time.  And David and Mary adore Sara, and have embraced her as part of our family with enthusiasm and unconditional love.  Despite the near constant bickering over who gets to hold Sara, there is peace in our home.  I love the unhurried pace of my days.  How I can hold my newborn close, her head nestled under my chin, for hours on end.  I know this won't last forever.  That's what makes these early weeks of Sara's life that much sweeter.  What a blessing this time is for us.  For me, for my soul.  What a blessing Sara is.  She is truly a gift from God.

38.5 weeks

"Official" pictures to mark 38.5 weeks pregnant:

I can now have this baby because ...

1. I got a midwinter pedicure.  (A huge thank you to Shawna for coming along!  So good to have a little relaxing girl talk time before Baby's arrival.  And now our husbands know it takes five hours to get a pedicure and go to lunch.  A huge thank you to our husbands too.)
2. I updated the Science Fair registration forms (in English--and in as much Spanish as I could manage).
3. I cleaned out the refrigerator.  Everything else in my house might be in chaos (an apology to my mom and mother-in-law who will be coming to help in said chaos), but my fridge is clean, by golly!  (At least for the next five seconds until it's not ... again.)

Happy New Year's Eve!  I don't know about you, but I'm going to bed early.

Christmas pics 2012

It was a joyful Christmas!  We feel very blessed and very loved.  Our hearts were full of gratitude.

The big reveal!

A very pleased (and amazed) little girl!

A very pleased little boy!

Mary loved the contents of her stocking.  Meanwhile, David was ecstatic to learn that Santa had left him something on the computer:  Minecraft!

David and Mary rush around to take it all in.  (Greg looks pleased to see his children looking pleased.  Being a parent at Christmastime is awesome!)

David and Mary discuss something--probably who got the better present from Santa.  Sigh.

Mary can read this year.  So she got to read the gift tags and distribute the presents accordingly.  

Lots of happiness opening toys.

Yes, lots of happy faces.

David made an awesome calendar for his dad.  Here he shows Daddy every picture he drew. 

Not surprisingly, there was lots of Lego building.  This year, Greg had an additional building buddy--Mary!

Mary is a super Lego builder--she is meticulous and follows directions.   (By the way, thumbs up for the Lego Friends series.  Very well-designed.)

David is getting much better at building.  He built a Harry Potter set all by himself, and he built several pieces of this huge mining set.  Way to go, David!

Our new baby wasn't left out!  

Mary shows off a beautiful blanket and a precious quilt made by her grandmothers for our sweet baby girl.

It was a great day.  In the morning Mary asked what she was supposed to do that day.  I told her that kids have two important jobs on Christmas Day:  1) Let their parents take a nap, and 2) Play.  David and Mary both fulfilled their Christmas Day responsibilities wonderfully!

Later that day we ate nachos and watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  We laughed about how David used to be so scared of the Abominable Snow Monster that the mere sight of it would bring little David to tears.  We also played board games and read books and sang a final round of Christmas carols.

I love Christmas Day because I think it's truly the one day a year when I don't do anything.  I just be with my family. (Why is that so hard?)  I play with my kids or simply lay on the couch and watch them play.  I love my sweet family.

I am very blessed.

Merry Christmas!

Christmas dreams do come true

It is so fun being on the parent side at Christmastime.  I love staying up with Greg on Christmas Eve stuffing stockings, wrapping presents, and assembling Santa's gifts.  I love going to bed with everything just so under the tree.  There is a magical, quiet anticipation in the air, shared between parents who have been conspiring together for weeks to bring surprise and joy to their children's faces.

This year, however, we had a bit of a Christmas Eve crisis.  I spent ages picking out the perfect Santa gift for Mary.  It was of good quality, cute, pink, understated but fun, and the perfect size--big enough to be exciting on Christmas morning but small enough to fit in her room.  In fact, a few weeks ago I even rearranged Mary's room in anticipation of this gift.  We ordered the present weeks ago, noted that it had come, then hid it in the basement.

On Christmas Eve we pulled it all the way out of the box--and realized we'd accidentally ordered the wrong thing!  We had ordered the BOY version.

So I did what any mom would do, and I completely FREAKED OUT!  PANICKED!!! DECLARED IT THE END OF THE WORLD!!  But it was for good reason:  We were both sitting there staring at Mary's ruined Christmas.

Now, I'd like to say there is no reason why Mary could not and should not be perfectly happy with the boy version of a very cool toy.  Before I knew and loved Mary, I would have thought, "My daughter can stand to play with one thing that is not pink.  And she will like it!  Whether she wants to or not!!"  In fact, I would have purposely NOT ordered the pink version.  But the thing is that now I do know Mary, and I love her, and I respect her.  Mary sees the world in black and white, and sometimes that means she sees the world in pink and blue.

I knew exactly how she would respond.  She would immediately recognize the gift as something for a boy.  She would be confused, thinking Santa had accidentally brought David two gifts.  Upon hearing it was for her, and upon hearing our desperate explanations of how cool it was, she would be polite and put on a good face.  But I knew, deep down, she would hate it.  She would resent it.  She would probably play with it--but every time she did, she would wish it were pink.  She would wonder why she is the one girl in the world who got stuck with a boy's toy for Christmas.  She would know it would be wrong to express displeasure, so she would internalize it all, suffering in silence.

It was the worst year for this to happen!  A couple of years ago, we could have just given her a balloon and she would have been happy.  Or, a couple of years from now, we could just explain the situation on Christmas morning and promise that the right thing was coming in the mail in a day or two.  Sure, it would be anti-climatic and a little disappointing.  But not devastating.

As it was this year, Greg and I were sitting there staring into that big Amazon box--and we were looking at Mary's broken heart.

Greg, fortunately, is a man of action.  And his guilt (it was technically he who had ordered the wrong thing) prompted him to action.  But what can you do at 9:45 at night on Christmas Eve??  (This is why I was writhing in despair.)  Well, Greg called ToysRUs to see if they were still open.  They said they were supposed to be open until 10:00, but it was so slow they were thinking of closing right then.  Greg told them he was on his way and please stay open!

What does a dad do with 5 minutes in a picked over super commercial toy store?  A dad who feels guilty, a dad who loves his daughter with all of his heart and wants to spare her any disappointment and only wants to bring her a little happiness on Christmas morning?

He comes home with the biggest, brightest (did I mention BIGGEST) Barbie dollhouse the world has seen.  And then he stays up until one in the morning assembling it.

Really, I pretty much hate it.  Except that I pretty much love it.  It reminds me of her father's love, her dad who jumped into the car late Christmas Eve determined to spare his daughter's heart.  The magic of it all is that it's exactly what Mary would have really wanted.  Not some tasteful, high-quality, wood-crafted toy her practical mother picked out.  Whether I like it or not, Mary really likes to play with Barbies and princesses.  She has been lamenting that they have no place to live (which is why they have been living in the Christmas tree).  I told her they could live in a box under her bed.  (Since there's no way I'd ever buy her a Barbie dollhouse!!)  It's almost as if Santa Claus is real--and he made sure Mary would get something she REALLY wanted.  That her Christmas dreams would come true.

Fear and faith

Yesterday we stopped by the hospital where I will deliver so the kids could see it.  Mary has been feeling nervous about the prospect of coming to visit me there, and we wanted her to feel a little more comfortable.  Well, Mary left feeling at ease.  But not me!

I don't know what happened.  But suddenly I was filled with dread and fear.  Paralyzed with anxiety.  Hospitals don't normally freak me out.  And compared to the hospitals where David and Mary were born, this one is the Ritz-Carlton.  I guess the realization just hit me that THIS IS REALLY GOING TO HAPPEN.  I am going to have a baby. Which scares me, because, in my opinion, there is no good way to get a baby out.  And then once the baby is out, one way or another, there it is.  You have a baby ... and all that goes with that.

Fear.  It filled my soul.  I feared every little thing that will happen in the hospital.  I feared potential complications.  I feared that dang incision.  I feared pain and discomfort.  I feared mean nurses.  I feared how big this baby will be.  I feared her learning curve with nursing.  I feared missing David and Mary.  I feared how they will hold up while I am in the hospital so long. I feared not being able to meet their emotional needs.  For a long time.  I feared how drugged up I will be.  For a long time.  I feared not being able to let go of control while I am recovering.  I feared caring about the laundry and the kitchen counters and teeth getting brushed and what my kids wear to school and lunches and dinner and screen time.  Things I should not care about for a while.  I feared David and Mary will feel sad.  I feared they will not be able to settle into their normal routines.  I feared they will remember this as a stressful, dark time for our family  I feared I will lose my temper in moments when they most need tenderness.  I feared Greg might break under all the additional responsibility.  I feared being too hard on myself.

Some of the fear I could not even articulate.  It was simply a dark feeling.  A feeling of dread.  Definitely not a feeling from God.  (Does anybody else end up in a dark place at the end of pregnancy?  I sure do.)

I didn't sleep last night.  (I broke out in hives everywhere!!  What the heck?!  Needless to say, it was a miserable night.)  I didn't think I would be able to get myself to church this morning.  But I so wanted to go.  I needed to feel something to counteract the darkness I felt inside.  I was a little delirious and itchy, but I made it.  And I'm so glad I did.

I loved singing the Christmas hymns.  The messages that were shared were insightful and inspiring.  David and Mary sang with the Primary children, and it was so sweet.  I adore my children.  Absolutely adore them.  And I remembered what an act of faith it had been to bring them into the world.

For me, there is no greater act of faith than that of bringing a child into our family.

Anytime we act in great faith, there is the possibility, even the inevitability, of great fear.  But I do not want to feel the fear.  I want to be filled with the hope and love that are intertwined with acts of faith.

"For God hath not given us a spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind."  --2 Timothy 1:7

I may feel fear, but God has given me power.  And love.  And a sound mind.

"Behold, I am Jesus Christ, the Son of God ... I am the light which shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not."  --D&C 6:21 (John 1:5)

I choose the light that will chase away the darkness and the fear.  Sure, I still worry (about many of the things I listed above).  But the peace I felt today chased away the darkness that comes from fear.  Instead, I feel empowered with the Lord on my side as we take this step of faith.

Of course, the whole bringing another human being into the world is kind of scary.  Any act of faith is.  But it will be okay.  And even if it's not okay, because of the Saviors' Atonement, it will still be okay.

I have felt this fear before.  I have taken the leap of faith.  I have experienced the blessings.

And they are blessings beyond measure.

January 4

Three more weeks.  Not that I'm counting ...

So I'm scheduled for a C-section on January 4.  With Mary I had a VBAC, which I highly recommend.  Get this:  After you have your baby, you can get up and take care of your baby!  It's amazing.  And even more amazing?  You can eat a giant burrito.  Right after!

Not like I was saying "I want a burrito" right after Mary was born.  I wasn't even saying, "I want my baby!" What I was saying was more along the lines of "I want morphine!"  (Hey, it had been something of a fiasco of a delivery and I was in a lot of pain.)  But I like the idea that I could have eaten a giant burrito if I'd wanted.  I did, after a wonderful morphine-induced nap, get up out of bed and pick up my baby.  On my own.  And eat a burrito.  AMAZING!

Yeah, yeah.  And here I go choosing clear liquids and soup over a giant burrito.  Oh, and the fact that I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO TAKE CARE OF MY BABY.  That seriously stinks.  (There's nothing quite like laying there on your back completely immobilized with a stitched up gut listening to your baby cry in the bassinet next to you.  And there's NOTHING you can do but press the nurse call button and/or hope your husband, who has gone for a bite to eat--a giant burrito, of course--comes back soon.)  Sigh.  Who goes from a C-section to a VBAC to another C-section?  (Me ... ) Life is weird sometimes, I guess.

All summer long, as I lay in bed groaning with nausea pangs, I debated with myself about whether or not to do another VBAC.  Which would seem the obvious, normal thing to do.  But Mary's delivery had caused some unusual (and really miserable) nerve damage.  It took four months to heal, which was an eternity.  But at least it wasn't really an eternity.  It did heal.  Nerve damage doesn't always heal.  The thought of going through that again ... well, it was something I didn't want to face.  And what if it didn't heal?  It would seriously mess up the rest of my life, and I'm not kidding.

BUT not recovering from major abdominal surgery is pretty great.  Being able to get out of bed and pick up your baby ... and eat that giant burrito!  I had a really hard time letting go of the burrito.  But I did.

I really, really felt like I should do a C-section.  And Greg did too.  If there's one thing that I learned from each of my children's births, it's that you follow the Spirit.  In David's case, it saved his life.  And in Mary's case, it led me to the darkest place I have ever been and through an experience so sacred and profound that I might be able to say it saved my life in a way.  So if I'm feeling heavenly hints that I should schedule a C-section, I'm going to do it, by golly.

So I did.  Like in August.  So it's been on the books for a while.  My doctor was definitely supportive of my having another VBAC.  But she was also relieved when I chose to have a C-section.  She was worried about a repeat of the nerve damage thing.  And now that I have this whole gestational diabetes thing and am having a big baby--she's already, today, the size that David and Mary were when they were born--my doctor and I are even more relieved I'm having a C-section.

My whole point is that I know I have exactly three weeks.  January 4th is the day.  That's already one week before my due date.  So unless this baby decides to come really early (really early by my standards), I already know her birthday.  (And I have since August.)

January 4th!  Ready or not, here we come ...


P.S.  I had an ultrasound to check on the baby's size.  And while it's hard to really see much when the baby is this far along, I did see her lips sucking on her hand.  It was so sweet.  She's my pal, hanging out, doing her thing, sucking, kicking, sleeping, kicking really hard.  As much as I have complained about my pregnancy woes, I have loved being pregnant.  LOVED.  Does that even make sense?!  How has this been so crummy ... but so great too?  

Post script to my previous post

P.S.  When I said that this time around I have no fear ... well, I lied.  Confession:  I do have a fear.  Can our home handle more PERSONALITY?  I don't worry about having enough love or affection--one thing you learn pretty quickly as a parent is your heart's infinite capacity for love.  So we have lots of room for love.  But do we have room for another personality?  David and Mary both have pretty high-maintenance personalities--and they are complete opposites.  Between the two of them, I feel like we've covered every personality quirk and challenge (and joy!) on the spectrum.  What else is there?!  I guess we'll find out ...

The wait

One month.

That's how much longer the wait is to meet this baby girl of ours.  Although, right now it doesn't feel like waiting.  It feels more like a mad rush to get ready for both the holidays and a new little member of the family.

(Fortunately, we're in the swing of things for Christmas.  Greg, despite a nasty cold, got up the Christmas decorations over Thanksgiving weekend.  The house is appropriately festive.  We're enjoying the advent calendar--with its song, scripture, and chocolates--each evening with the kids.  Christmas music is being played and Christmas books are being read.  While we have simplified some things and cut back on a few other things this year, it's definitely Christmastime in the H household!  Hooray!

Less fortunate is our readiness for this baby.  As you may recall, I reorganized the house, purposely leaving no room for a baby.  Obviously, babies don't take up much room.  But their stuff sure does.  Not that we have any of that stuff.  It's still packed away in the basement or waiting to be purchased.  One month, people.  I've got one month.)

Just one month!  After all this time, it is just one month.

It was almost exactly four years ago that I had a miscarriage.  It was very early in the pregnancy, but  devastating nonetheless (something that somewhat surprised me).  Despite the disappointment, it seemed as if it would be but a small set-back.  A "small set-back" that turned into four years.  Life got in the way.

We realized Greg would be deploying for a year.  Then he did.  Then life continued to be complicated.  We knew (or thought we knew) it was time for another baby, but it didn't feel right--which was baffling and confusing and unexpected.  Fits and starts.  Hoping and wondering, doubting and questioning.  Begging to know the future. Pleading to know why.

Finally, there was a feeling of "Yes, it's time to be serious about having a baby."  Soon thereafter, Greg and I were able to visit the temple together.  And in the quiet peace of the temple, this thought came into my head:  "Your baby's name will be ..."  It was a girl's name.  We were going to have a girl!  And I even knew her name.  It was so precious, so sacred, that I didn't even tell Greg.  It was knowledge for my heart alone.

Of course, I assumed I would get pregnant immediately.  That very month!  But I didn't.  Or the next month. Or the next. Or the next.  Month after month passed.  The confusion returned. And the doubt and the begging and pleading to know.  I hated, resented, the calendar and the thermometer.  I wondered about other measures.  There had been a lot of unsuccessful months, almost a year.  And if I counted all of the other unsuccessful, but nonconsecutive months, it amounted to more like two years.  Was that a lot?  Was I justified in my frustration and disappointment?  Where was my patience?  What was wrong with me?  What was God trying to teach me?  Because I was obviously failing!  I was obviously unworthy in some way.  Such were my unhappy thoughts.

One day I had a regular old check-up with my doctor.  I mentioned the trying to get pregnant and not.  I sounded wishy-washy on my desire to have a baby.  My doctor immediately set me straight:  "Alisa, you will be 35 this year.  It is only going to get harder to get pregnant.  If you want to have a baby, you need to accept that and DO IT NOW.  I'm giving you two months, and then I'm referring you to a fertility clinic.  The sooner you do this, the more likely success will be.  NOW is the time."  Generally, I do not like to be bossed around.  (I prefer to do the bossing.)  But I needed to hear her blunt words.  It was time to make a decision.  I wasn't even quite sure what the question was, but I felt like there was an answer out there.

Soon it became clear in my heart what the decision was.  We were not going to pursue any fertility treatments.  The decision was surprising.  But it brought me peace.  In fact, I found great peace.  I was able to let all the confusion and doubt and resentment go.  I was able to let go of my expectations.  Meaning, I came to peace with not having a baby.  I came to peace with not being pregnant again, with not giving birth again, with not nursing again.  I mourned.  I cried.  But I found a sense of peace.  Even though it didn't necessarily make sense, I found an answer.  We would not pursue fertility treatments, and I happily trashed the calendar and thermometer.

Yet we knew our family wasn't complete.  Here is where there narrative makes an inexplicable tangent.  Insert two intense of months of researching and pursuing adoption.  This is not the time and post to go into great detail.  Because this is about waiting for the baby girl in my womb.  But it is true that near the end of the waiting, we talked adoption.  And decided. I spent hours and hours every day researching options.  Together Greg and I narrowed down potential agencies and started figuring out the finances.

I'm sure you can see where this is going--it's so cliche.  Once I let go of my hopes and dreams of getting pregnant, and once we started pursuing adoption, I ... drum roll ... got pregnant!  (Seriously, you can roll your eyes.  I know it's cliche ... but it's also what really happened.)

I was late.  But I'd been late before.  That's the worst--when you go through half a dozen pregnancy tests convinced you must be pregnant because you're still late.  I wasn't playing that game again.  I was NOT pregnant, and I wasn't going to harbor any hope.  Besides, I was up to my ears in adoption stuff.  I was arranging to meet with a mom up the street who had adopted.  I had figured out who should do our home study.  We were registered for a seminar with the state.  And I was on the verge of arranging a meeting with an agency in Chicago.

I woke up one day, and I knew the first thing on my list was calling the agency in Chicago.  I was pretty sure this would be the one.  And arranging to go meet with them was not something I took lightly.  I realized I just needed to know for sure, that morning, that I wasn't pregnant.  I didn't think I was.  But I needed to know for sure.  There were no pregnancy tests in the house.  So I sent Greg to Walgreen's at six in the morning.

I took the test.  It was positive.  I couldn't believe it.  I just stared.  And stared.  Then I rushed out into the hallway.  Everyone was busy getting ready for the day.  The kids were jumping up on Greg needing this and that.  I caught his eye.  "It's positive.  I'm pregnant," I mouthed, in wonder.  Greg smiled.  It was the sweetest, most genuine, spontaneous, straight from the heart smile.  I will never forget it.  And then he took the kids to school.  I stared at the test and thought of his smile.  That's how I felt too.

In case you're wondering, we did continue the adoption route for a while longer.  There was the fear of miscarrying, of course.  Also, we weren't quite ready to abandon the whole idea.  The process takes so long, after all, and we were already quite invested emotionally.  But once I got quite sick, I was ready to let go.  It was time to focus on this particular precious child who was coming to our family.  (I have no idea if adoption if something we would consider again.  Right now, if I were to guess, I would say no.  But I trust that the Lord will let us know.)

So here we are.  Near the end of (what seemed to me) a long wait.  I will admit, the wait has made the experience even sweeter.  I am overwhelmed with the feeling that this child is a blessing.  There is something about being just a little bit older and having had to wait a little bit longer that makes the gratitude in my heart more poignant.  With my first, fear was co-mingled with excitement.  He was my first!  With my second, again fear was co-mingled with the anticipation.  Could I handle two??  But this time, I feel happiness.  No fear.  Just gratitude.  And joy.

One more month!

Soccer

Greg took David to a Wisconsin soccer game.  They both carefully observed how the players played their positions.  Also, the Badgers won!  Woo hoo!

I said I would post the good, the bad, and ugly from October.  I've posted some good (like here), as well as some bad (like here).  And now I will tell you about the ugly ... soccer.

Since we moved here, David has been playing recreational fall and spring soccer, and it's been a good experience.  (Especially last spring!!)  Now that he's in second grade this year, I was a little nervous about it.  In our town they combine second graders and third graders.  There can be a huge difference between a young second grader and an older third grader, and David happens to be a young second grader.  I was worried about him playing with and against kids a lot bigger, stronger, and more coordinated than he.  David is sensitive, and it seemed like a potential recipe for disaster.  But he wanted to play, and Greg agreed to coach.  I knew Greg would watch out for David and the little ones and do everything he could to keep the experience positive for everyone.

Then, due to the well-known ineptitude and extremely poor judgment of the city rec director, the 2-3 grade teams were combined with the 4-5 grade teams.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Second graders would be playing with and against 5th graders!!  I assume you are freaking out because you should be.  It's insane.  INSANE!  Well, I completely freaked out.  It was totally obvious this was the worst idea ever--it would be unfair, unfun, and UNSAFE.  I wanted my family (and especially my sweet little boy) to have no part in something so obviously ... stupid.

Unfortunately, we found out about this just days before the season was to begin.  And Greg had already been assigned a team and they were short on coaches.  I still protested.  But Greg felt bad about backing out and David was looking forward to playing.  Greg discussed some of his concerns with said inept rec director, who reassured him that they'd done it in the past and it had been fine.  I continued to protest ... and Greg agreed that we could pull David out at any time ... so I swallowed my worry.  And we sent our sweet, sensitive little seven-year-old to play soccer against eleven-year-olds.

If you are not judging me right now, well, you should.  If ever there was a time to read a blog and say, "Oh my gosh!!  I cannot believe she did that.  I would never be such a terrible mom!"--now is that time.

Well, folks, it was ugly.  Despite some efforts having been made to create evenly matched teams, Greg's team, with only two fourth graders and nary a fifth grader, was clearly the youngest and least-skilled.  The other teams had more older kids, and some of the older kids were very good.  (One time we showed up for a game, and I was sure we were in the wrong place.  The field was filled with teenage girls.  Turns out that team consisted primarily of very tall, very long-legged post-pubescent fifth grade girls ... who would be playing against our seven-year-olds.)  Our poor little team didn't have a chance, against any team.

The first few games were a disaster.  The score was something like a gazillion to zero ... game after game.  It was discouraging to say the least.  David cried--bawled!--after every game.  Which is what I felt like doing too.  And it turns out, pulling your kid off a team is easier said than done--David felt a commitment to the team and a desire to keep trying.  So what could I do, other than trudge to every game, wincing as the other team scored their umpteenth goal?

Well, one thing I could do is pray.  Pray I did.  For a while it was looking like they would go the whole season without scoring a single goal.  So I prayed they could score a goal.  Just one goal!  I believe I have never prayed so hard and earnestly for a single, very specific thing in my life.  ("Please, God, just one goal!")  Seriously.  But if you had seen how hard those kids were working, how hard they tried, never giving up--and your kid was one of them--you would have prayed your heart out too.

Guess what.  A miracle happened!  No, they never won a game.  But they did start scoring goals.  And stopping them!  Greg adjusted his coaching, as it became more apparent where (and with what kind of instruction) certain kids excelled on the field.  The real miracle was how much the kids loved playing--and how much they improved. It was AMAZING!

Because there was no dominating fifth grader hogging the ball, everyone on the team had a lot of contact with the ball.  I noticed that on the other teams, the little second-graders rarely touched the ball.  With so many older kids dominating, it was almost like they weren't even team members.  They were lucky to get to throw it in.  Not so on our little team.  Every single player was super important.  The more they played together, the more each child realized how important he or she was.  No one could stand around and wait for somebody else on the team to swoop in.  Each player had to be aggressive, focus, and work hard.  And they all did!  Every single player improved dramatically, due in large part to the absence of a team super star, and, even more importantly, they worked together.

In the end, it was a positive experience.  A miracle!  Again, I can't express how amazed I am by how much the team improved.  Although they never won a game, they became a force to be reckoned with, losing by just a point or two (rather than a dozen or two).  I am so proud of them!  (And so proud of Greg for his thoughtful hard work.)  All of the kids genuinely enjoyed being a team, and they were sad to see the season end.  I think they are a remarkable group of kids.

Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of the team.  But I have a few pictures of my sweet boy.

David played fullback most of the season.  David, fullback friend Brooke, and fellow second-grader goalie Isaac formed a nearly impenetrable wall of defense.  They were awesome! 

Even with the Great Soccer Miracle of 2012, my kids will only be participating in team sports with KIDS THEIR OWN AGES.  Perhaps the greatest miracle of all is that no one got hurt.  It was scary to see 11-year-olds plow over little kids.  I know we aren't the only parents who expressed our concerns to city officials, so hopefully this won't happen again.

One more thing.  As discouraging as the games were to watch, I did love going ... to chat with the other moms.  I've been lucky to make such good friends here.  And I loved having the chance to hang out with some of them a couple times a week.  I miss those crisp fall evenings, sitting on the sidelines, cheering on our kids, and talking matters of the heart.

The rest ...

Because there's nothing quite like a blog post about your aches and pains and whining and complaining ...

So.

Not only did the Eternal Chest Cold of Doom mess up my ribs and leave me sapped of energy, it also triggered my long-latent asthma.  I barely have asthma.  I had a few minor exercise-induced asthma attacks when I was a teenager, and in college a nasty cold could trigger some wheezing spells.  So, out of habit, to this day I still dutifully carry around an inhaler (probably several years expired).  But I've used it just a handful of times (if that many) in the last decade.  Asthma might technically show up on my medical records, but it's certainly not something I worry about.  Or even think about.

Until Greg went out of town (because if anything is going to go more wrong than usual it will be when Greg is gone).  All of October I had felt congested and uncomfortable in my lungs, but then one afternoon I suddenly realized I could hardly breathe.  Seriously??!!  I took a long, hot shower and dug out my old inhaler (probably several years expired, remember).  Nothing.  I practically felt like I was gasping for air.  Seriously??!!  This was something I could not ignore.  I picked up cupcakes for a (soon-to-be-cancelled) soccer game, got drenched by a downpour in the parking lot, picked up my kids at their two different schools, fed them, found a place for them to go (Thank you, Tara!!), and drove myself to the urgent care, ribs aching (as I was well over my 15-minute threshold, grrr).

For the first time in my pregnancy, I was worried.  Up until then everything I had whined and complained about had been mere inconvenience.  This was a little scary.  I wasn't panicked--my coloring was okay, no blue-hued lips or anything.  But I was genuinely worried that if I felt like I wasn't able to breathe, then maybe I really wasn't getting enough oxygen ... which would mean the baby wasn't either.  (Of course, Greg was on an airplane at that exact moment so I couldn't even call and freak out to him, but maybe it was better that way.)

At the clinic they checked my oxygen saturation right away.  It was fine.  I was fine.  Baby was fine.  I didn't feel fine--I felt like I couldn't breathe!  But I was fine, and baby was fine, regardless of how I felt.  Phew.  I was relieved to transition from being worried and scared to just being seriously irritated about one more stupid discomfort.  (It is really is uncomfortable when you're wheezing and your chest is so tight that you feel like you can hardly breathe.)  I did a breathing treatment to open up my lungs.  The doctor and I discussed a treatment that would be most helpful in helping me heal ... but which he wouldn't dare prescribe a pregnant woman (a sentiment shared by my OB).  Sigh.  I would just have to tough it out.  But I did get a prescription for a new, UNEXPIRED inhaler.

So I spent the rest of the month feeling dragged down by a cold virus, plagued by pain in my rib cage, AND wheezing and gasping for breath.  Aaargh!  Again, nothing serious.  But seriously annoying!  Things I should enjoy--like planning my daughter's birthday party or meeting with my kids' teachers--felt like burdens.  Simple tasks like writing a thoughtful email or making dinner seemed as challenging and insurmountable as climbing Mount Everest.

I cried a lot in October.  I am not very flexible.  I don't bend in the wind; I break.  It was hard for me to adapt, to adjust to the fact that during this beautiful lively month, I felt miserable.  And it got bad enough I had to start missing out on things.  Boo.

Oh well.  The month is over.  And I am definitely starting to feel better.  (Which serves to make me realize how terrible I really felt every single day in October.)  The progression of this pregnancy has caught me a little off-guard.  I'm by no means a glowing, energetic pregnant woman.  But I didn't expect to spend quite so much time in bed!  (How do women truly on bed rest not go crazy??)  Certainly, I am thankful that all I've experienced is mere discomfort (okay, sometimes real pain) and inconvenience.  Except for that one single evening at the urgent care, I have had no worries or scares this pregnancy.  I am not oblivious to that tremendous blessing.  Much, much better to be uncomfortable than to have reason to worry.  

I sense I should be learning something from all of this.  Patience?  Humility?  Faith?  Compassion?  Flexibility? Gratitude?   Well, I'm probably failing.  But I'd rather daydream about my baby girl--who's no longer a dream!--than reflect on grand life lessons.

And so.  The moral of the story remains:  We're having a baby!!

***

Wait!  I promised you an October bonus.  One more thing I get to complain about, and this one is a doozy, if I do say so myself.  Towards the end of the month I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes.  Nevermind the fact that I really do have something to worry about now--a huge, hypoglycemic baby in the NICU.  And nevermind the fact that I hate, hate, hate pricking my fingers four times a day--there is a reason I chose not to pursue a career in medicine.  Here's the reason for my pity-party:  No sugar, very few carbs, and no splurges, cheating, or special occasions ... but it's the holidays, folks!  No stealing Almond Joys from my kids' Halloween stashes.  No stuffing myself with stuffing.  No mint M&Ms, pumpkin bread, candy canes, hot cocoa, fudge, cookies, gingerbread, and so on and so forth.  No hot, gooey cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning.  No pie on Thanksgiving.  NO PIE ON THANKSGIVING!!  If that's not a reason for a pity-party, I don't know what is.

To be fair, I'm glad I know about the gestational diabetes.  Obviously, the baby will be much healthier now.  And it's not only the baby--I feel so much better now!  I feel better now that I've got my blood sugar under control.  (So, trust me, even though I feel a little sorry for myself, I have every motivation in the world to pass on that pie.)  I look back at October, and I'm positive I was having problems with it all month--I just didn't know what it was yet.  One other way I was messed up and feeling crappy in October.

But enough of all this.  Let's move on to the good times and the cute pictures!

The "bad" ... well, part of it anyway

Before I show you all the cute pictures and happy moments from October, let's get the whining and self-pitying out of the way first.  So, first, the bad.

Wait.  First, a bit of the good.  Back in September, when I was looking ahead, I could see that October's calendar was packed.  With good things: soccer games, PTO meeting, parent-teacher conferences, Mary's birthday, Scout camp out, a fabulous friend's baby shower, doctor's appointments, Montessori parent education, Halloween and all that, Greg's conference in Phoenix, Lego Club, a visit from Aunt Marie, and so forth.  All good things that I value!  (Except for Greg's Scout camp out.  Let's be honest, I would not put that in my personal "good" column.)  As the month progressed, more good things came up.  Like informal meetings with my kids' teachers and volunteering in their classrooms.  Also, Greg and I realized that a couple of big issues with David had come up that needed to be addressed--both requiring thoughtfulness, care, time, and emotional energy.  Life definitely felt even more busy than usual.  But it was a good busy, the kind that makes your life richer and fulfilling.

Except that I was miserable.  MISERABLE! Cue the pity party ...

 At the end of September I caught a little cold.  No big deal, except that it became the Eternal Chest Cold of Doom.  I just never got better.  Very fortunately, it never turned into pneumonia or bronchitis or anything serious.  The virus and my immune system were simply at a stalemate, having dug themselves in for some violent but unproductive trench warfare, the battle ground being my lungs.  (My excuse for the imagery is David's continued interest in World War I.)  You know how a cold doesn't stop you dead in your tracks:  You can pretty much carry on, just sapped of your normal strength.  That's how I was.  Not bed-ridden or feverish.  Just plagued with a nasty chronic cough, never-ending congestion, and lower energy.  And it went on week after week (after week!) with no change.  (Finally, the Battle of Amiens--I'm just now, six weeks later, starting to feel like I'm recovering.)  What a drag.

Meanwhile, I started feeling discomfort in the back of my rib cage at the beginning of October.  Within a few days, the discomfort turned to pain.  And soon enough the pain became excruciating.  The short of it is that I couldn't sit for more than 15 minutes without being in real pain, and after not much longer, the pain would become excruciating.  Excruciating, as in "I better pull over the car because I'm going to vomit the pain is so bad."  Being on my feet wasn't as bad--I could go half and hour or more without feeling anything.  But sitting became nearly impossible.

Okay.  Let's think about this for a second.  How do I spend my day?  Driving my kids around--in particular, Mary, whose school's new location entails a 60-minute round trip drive twice a day.  And the other way I spend my time? Sitting at the computer--blogging, answering emails, reading, shopping, whatever.  So, yes, it suddenly became very apparent that most of my life is spent with my rear end parked behind the steering wheel or in front of the computer because I could no longer do those things!  Darn mystery pain!  I knew I (or the baby) wasn't in any real danger health-wise.  But it sure was INCONVENIENT.

My doctor sent me to a physical therapist, who pointed out the obvious (to everyone but me) that the pain was from the coughing.  Curse you, Eternal Chest Cold of Doom!  I had injured the muscles and ligaments between my ribs, and everything was all inflamed. The PT not so helpfully pointed out that if I weren't pregnant I could take ibuprofen and it would probably heal in no time.  She seemed skeptical that I could fully heal without taking fist fulls of Motrin, but she, again not so helpfully, pointed out that I could take all the ibuprofen I wanted after I had the baby.  In three months.  Three months!!!  Was this going to last for three months?!  Possibly, she shrugged.  She also pointed out that it would probably heal faster if I stopped coughing. And sitting.  (To be fair, I really liked the physical therapist.  We got along quite well.  And, hey, she solved the mystery.  It's not her fault I'm banned from Advil.)

To be honest, I probably can't overstate what a problem the stupid rib pain was.  (Or how painful it could be.)

How to get Mary to school and back?   I would have to pull the car over partway and walk around, hoping that would ease the pain a bit.  So I became the crazy pregnant lady who would stop at the Mobil gas station and pace the three short aisles of the mini-mart several times a day.  So pathetic, it's embarrassing.  One afternoon when I thought I would DIE if I had to make that drive (or kill someone else--I am not oblivious to the fact that it can't be safe to operate a motor vehicle while blinded by pain), my friend Becca saved the day and made the drive for me.  Fortunately (for me and the friends I would have been forced to impose upon), Greg was able to shift his schedule around so that he could make the hour-long trek twice a day.  Which was no small sacrifice.  Two full hours lost each day put his already tight research schedule in even more jeopardy.  (As usual, it is Greg who bears the burden of my problems.  As usual, Greg is the hero.  But let's just say October brought this hero a few more gray hairs.)

My life became full of ridiculous calculations.

Can David go to that birthday party?  Who might be able to give him a ride?  If not, how far away is it?  How long will I be in the car?  Will I have enough time between dropping him off and picking him up to recover from the pain?

Can I go to the soccer game?  If I start out completely pain-free, I can probably survive it.  So how long do I have to lie down in bed right before the soccer game in order to start out pain-free?  Will I have enough time?

Church?  Out of the question.

Baby shower?  Cancel.  (And shed some tears.)

Commitments at David's school?  Okay.  The school is close, a very short drive.  I'll try to stand as much as possible rather than sit once I'm there.

Commitments at Mary's school?  Grin and bear it.  Or cancel.

Doctor's appointments?  Painful but necessary.

Blogging?  No way.

Email?  Be fast.  Aim for every other day.

Eating with the family at the dinner table?  Sit on a pillow and eat fast.

Mary's birthday?  Grin and bear it.  Grin and bear it.

I knew I needed to just take a couple weeks off from life and HEAL.  But it was a busy month full of busy things.  Good things!  There were too many times when I said, "Okay, I just have to tough it out today.  And tomorrow.  And the day after that.  In three days I'll rest.  Or wait, make it four.  I'll rest in four days.  Or next week."  Because, you know what, that's what you do as a mom.  You tough it out.  Right?

Right?


Anyway, I still have one more oh so exciting development in the Eternal Chest Cold of Doom saga.  Plus a bonus surprise to top off the "bad" of October.  But I have been sitting at this computer way too long, and my ribs are calling out for a heating pad and some T.V. on the couch.  So I'll publish what I have, and we'll call it a night.



P.S.  Yes, I am deeply embarrassed that the majority of the writing I've managed on my blog the last few months has consisted primarily of what's wrong with my body.  So pathetic.  But life is what it is, I guess.  And now you'll appreciate the cute pictures so much more once I finally get to them!!