Real Vs. Imagined

Five Weeks Old

May 4th of last year was a monumental day for me.  It was the day I found out I was pregnant with Daniel.

April 30 was also a big day.  It was the day we purchased non-refundable all-season ski passes for the entire family.  

I’m a little embarrassed to admit that one of my very first thoughts upon seeing the positive indicator on the pregnancy test was, “Blast!  I just spent all of that money on a ski pass that I’m now not going to be able to use!”  

While in my miserable and selfish state of woe, skiing during the winter was only one of the many freedoms I imagined would be lost once I had the baby.  

Continue losing weight?  No way.  I’m a total emotional eater during pregnancy.   Plus, exercise would be limited to having a babysitter around or using a gym daycare.  

Travel easily?  With a travel crib, stroller, diaper bag, blankets, bottles, pacifiers etc. etc. etc....going anywhere is a packing challenge.  Not to mention, any chance of “making good time,” one of my coping mechanisms for driving long distances with my boys, would be shot.  

Going to movies, lunching with friends, sleeping through the night, camping for fun and not just to say I did it, reading, writing, keeping the house clean, volunteering...showering more than three times a week...all activities my mind just made significantly more difficult to do.  

And it wasn’t just the many altered “to-do”s that had me thinking, it was the “what if”s as well.

What if something is wrong with the baby?

What if I get even more stretch marks?

What if delivery is complicated?

What if the baby cries a lot?

What if I don’t bond with him?  

You see, I’d done this before.  All of the things I imagined would happen were my very real existence for eleven years.  Eleven wonderful years with Seth, Sam and Henry as adorable little needy people, but eleven years nonetheless.  Mentally and emotionally, I had moved past that stage with Henry starting school.  Now, I was going back, at first unwillingly, and I was worried about how I would handle the inevitable changes.    

The boys have gone skiing with Jay on Saturdays for the past three weeks.  I’ve stayed home with Daniel.  

I went to lunch with my friend, Lori, yesterday. I was a half hour late because Daniel needed to eat again before I left and once at the restaurant, I had to rock him in his carseat with my foot most of the time to keep him from fussing.

I went mall walking, ONCE, with my sister while she was here.  As I pushed the stroller and tried to keep up with her pace, I thought I was going to die.  Then, she pushed the stroller and I still couldn’t keep up.  

I have more stretch marks.

Daniel cries.  Quite a bit.  

Most of the things I imagined are now my reality and you know what?  I don’t mind.  Any of it.  

I have a baby.  But, not just a baby, I have Daniel.  I love him.  It’s kind of crazy because I don’t really even know him.  I don’t know if he’ll prefer apple juice over milk or if he’ll have an easy time with math or even if eyes are brown or blue (I think they’re blue!).  I can only imagine what he’ll be like as he grows up.  

I’ve learned, however, that whether what I imagine becomes a reality, or not, I’m going to love him anyway.  

Turns out, I’m actually a better person and mother than I thought!  Imagine that:)

I took pictures for his birth announcement yesterday.
These are some of the shots that I didn’t use on his announcement but are too cute not to use!

Welcome, Daniel

Daniel


As much as I wish it wasn't so, birthing a baby is an unpredictable business.   In spite of my best laid plans, my pregnancy finished its course without any direction from me.  Here's how:

After a week of following most of the "how-to-go-into-labor" remedies I could find on the internet (I avoided ingesting oils and herbs that had any whiff of producing undesirable digestive complications), I sat on the couch on Sunday evening, lamenting to Jay how there was a good chance he'd miss the birth of our son should I go into natural labor the next day as he was scheduled to work at a hospital located an hour away.  Of course, I had been having Braxton Hicks contractions for months and didn't imagine the multiple painless contractions I'd been having all evening meant much because I'd been having similar sensations for months, although not as frequent or as pedictable.

Jay, with his keen eye, watched me as I'd put my hand over my enormous abdomen and look at the large mantle clock every so often.  He asked me if I was going into labor.  I assured him I was not as none of the contractions hurt, though I did admit they felt somewhat different than I was used to.  He suggested we go to bed in case labor was starting so I wouldn't be exhausted during the birth.  I scoffed but followed him to bed. This was a little after10:00 pm.

Mentally, I was quite apprehensive.  What if I was going into labor?  Sure, the contractions didn't hurt but maybe this was how my labors had started in the past and I had just missed or ignored the signals and, in the case of Henry's birth, left for the hospital too late?  I lay on my side in bed, listened to Jay's rhythmic sleepy breathing and picked up my phone to look at the time every time I felt my uterus tighten.  Every twelve minutes.  For an hour.  Then eight to ten.  For an hour.  When one followed the other a mere six minutes later, I got up, put my black stretchy maternity pants on for what I hoped was the last time, and woke Jay up.  It was just after 12:30.

We drove to the hospital and I don't think I had a single contraction, painless or otherwise.  I immediately doubted my instinct to get to the hospital and worried I would just be sent home.  At the birth center, I called the nurse's station through their telephone/intercom system and said, "I think I'm in labor."  They buzzed Jay and I through.

The hallways were dim and quiet.  Four nurses sat at the main desk and I explained how I'd been having regular but painless contractions but had a history of precipitous labor.  The assured me they'd thoroughly check me out and not send me home prematurely.  The nurse assigned to me seemed particularly kind and encouraged me by saying things like, "I'm sure you're going to have this baby soon."  I hoped so but still wondered.

Once in my ill fitting hospital gown (exposed backside, anyone?) I felt the familiar sensation of total nausea and lost my chili dinner.  The nurse took this as a very positive sign and kept saying how women in labor frequently vomit.  I was too tired to explain that I doubted it was so in my case.  After that nastiness was passed, she hooked me up to a fetal monitor and performed an internal check to gauge my labor progression. Wouldn't you know it, my contractions were irregular and I was only dilated to a three.  I felt foolish and frustrated, but she told me I wasn't going anywhere but that she wanted me to walk for at least an hour before she called the OB to get directions.  In my robe and very unattractive black socks and clogs, Jay and I took off for a middle-of-the-night exploration of the hospital.

In the deserted hallways, Jay quietly walked alongside me, stopping occasionally with me to look at a piece of art on the wall.  We didn't talk much.   It was too late and we were both too tired.  I kept worrying about what he was going to do about his work schedule and he kept telling me it wasn't a big deal and he'd take care of it.  I felt in a hurry to have this baby so he could at least call in and say, "I've just had a baby.  Won't be in." instead of driving over in a sleep-deprived state after his wife spent the night in false labor.  I had more contractions but nothing very encouraging so I wasn't surprised when our hour of walking did nothing to change the condition of my body.

Still, the nurse called the OB on call who happened to be my original doctor of choice.  Always one to avoid being annoying, I felt bad that the doctor had even been called and felt even worse when the nurse informed me that she was on her way to the hospital because she knew how fast I could go and didn't want to risk waiting too long.

Shortly after 3 am, the doctor arrived and checked me.  I was dilated to a five but not having regular contractions.  Very kindly, she asked me if I'd like her to break my water.  Tired and with a hint of tears, I responded with an eager, "yes!"

After a few more minutes of monitoring the baby, I decided to walk again.  This time, Jay and I stuck to the labor and delivery floor and did laps around the small wing.  My contractions changed dramatically and every time I rounded the north corner, I had to stop and do some major Zen breathing.  It hurt and I remembered the strength of contractions that sent me to the hospital before.  I knew the baby would be coming soon but still felt so impatient that I'd been in labor so long.  I know...I know.  But, for me, it had already been my longest labor ever.  I started thinking about it at 10 pm and by 4 am, felt like this baby was never going to come.  Sure that these hard contractions had made some serious cervical progress, I asked for another check and was blown away when the nurse declared me still at a five.  WTH????

My nausea has always been connected with how empty my stomach is so I wasn't surprised at all when I got sick again at 4.  Totally exhausted at this point, I complained about the pain and the nurse asked if I'd like some painkiller.  I had already turned down an epidural and felt like taking something would only slow me down more so I decided I could bear the pain.  After watching me wince and grip the side arms of the hospital bed each time a contraction came, my nurse suggested I labor in the bathtub.

As a disclaimer, I must admit that I have never been tempted to have a home birth or a water birth.  My reasons are long and logistical but one that is perhaps less admirable is I have never wanted to deal with or even see the mess that accompanies a birth.  I am quite an affectionado of the hot, soaking bath.  Nevertheless, the thought of sitting in the same water immediately following the birth and discharge of baby and placenta is completely unappealing to me.  I know.  I'm immature.  But, It's what I think about.  So, I hesitated.

Then, I acquiesced.  I told the nurse to make the water as hot as she legally could and was surprised when the water was, indeed, hot.  It was a nice, deep tub and it really was the perfect way to labor.  I could have been a Scientologist the way I was able to silently get through each contraction.  Jay fell asleep in the chair he moved to doorway of the bathroom of the birthing suite and I focused on the same little water droplet just above the faucet each time my uterus coaxed my baby to think about leaving his happy, warm home.  I think I surprised Jay when, after an hour, I said with panic, "Lots of pressure!  I need to push!"

He quickly helped me out of the tub, dried me off and led me to the bed, all the while encouraging me to hold off on the pushing quite yet.  My Scientology instincts went away and my dramatic side kicked it into high gear as pain and exhaustion both had their way with me.  I started to cry and didn't want to do it anymore.  None of it.  Baby could hang out inside me a bit longer, I reasoned.  I didn't want to push.  Didn't think I could.  The doctor came out of her call room and assured me I was ready and could push with my next contraction.

Wouldn't you know it, it was 6:00 am and the nurses had just changed shifts.  My nice, helpful nurse was suddenly gone and I got smoker's breath nurse instead.  She introduced herself to me and assured me I would be done in no time.  I turned my head each time she spoke to avoid the awful smell of nicotine.  With Jay on one side, stinky nurse on the other and my doctor encouraging baby's head out, I was able push him out with much weeping and wailing in about 15 minutes.  While he did stay head down, he added his own dramatic flair by being face up, which makes things harder.

As the OB brought his vernix covered body to my chest, she declared him to feel like a "brick."  Indeed, he weighed 8 lbs and 10 oz and measuring 20.75 inches long and was declared to be born at 6:17 am on Sunday, the 19th of December.  Yes, that is our anniversary but so be it.  He took to nursing right away and seems to get it in a way none of my other boys did without intervention from a lactation specialist.  He is sleepy and quite calm, except when he is fussy.  Sounds like a baby, eh?

It took us about a half a day to settle on the name of Daniel.  I left the ultimate decision up to Jay (which he never believed.  Guess he thinks I'm a control freak or something) and he looked at the baby and at me and said, "He's a Daniel."  It had been a contender for months but had dipped considerably in the name poll after Jay informed me of its annual popularity among boy names.  I let it bother me for a few weeks but, in the end, I thought, "I don't know anyone naming their babies Daniel."  So, while he is at risk for being one of fifty with the same name in a metropolitan phone book, his name stands.  It means "God's judgement" or "spiritual."

In what must be the most predictable statement of the year, I hereby declare my surprise pregnancy/nausea/weight gain/heartburn/emotional fragility/anti-social behavior/mellowed trips/missed trips/sleep-interrupted-by-crowded-bladder all TOTALLY WORTH IT!

I love him.  Completely.  Without conditions.  Forever.

Just like that.




I always mean to have an attractive hospital shot but make-up and combed hair always seems so unimportant after birth.  But, aren't my four boys handsome?

Jay holding Daniel.  He managed to be at the birth AND work as he could read the images from the other hospital on the monitors in the radiology department.  He just had to cancel all of the procedures they had scheduled for him to do.  With a whole night of lost sleep, however, he was so, so tired.  I at least got to nap during the day.



He is perfect.

One Week

It's been one week since I thought I would deliver my son and be done with this pregnancy.  One week since my parents have been here, supplying order and assistance in my life with no cute grandbaby to hold as a form of thanks.  And one week of having what seems to be an endless conversation that usually begins with the line, "Haven't you had that baby yet?"

Last Saturday morning at six o'clock, after I had been up for an hour and a half and after I had showered, dried my hair and put on make-up, I received a call from my OB/GYN.  Even the digitized ring of the phone had an ominous tone to it.  After all, what good comes from a call at six in the morning?  She started to explain that she had been looking through my chart, apparently for the first time, and realized there was a discrepancy in my due dates.  One date, the one she had been basing her decisions on, was December 17th.  That date came from the little cardboard wheel they spin around on your first appointment when you give them the day of your last menstrual cycle.   The other due date was December 26th, which was based on an early pregnancy confirmation ultrasound I had done because, if you'll remember, I hadn't been expecting this pregnancy.

According to my radiologist husband and the OBs in the group, the December 26th date was much more accurate because embryo development is very predictable in its early stages and measurements that come from a six week ultrasound are considered accurate to within a day.  I remember wrapping my head around a Christmas Day due date and thinking, "If I could have this baby one week before Christmas, that would be perfect."  And so my unfortunate tendency to have what Jay affectionately refers to as "Lucy time" got involved.

I think being an OB would be a hard medical specialty.  The group I went to in Denver when I had Seth was established much like this group here in D-town.  They take turns being on call and whoever is on call on the day you go into labor, or schedule a c-section or induction, that particular physician is the one who delivers you.  That means, if you go into natural labor, you really have no control over which doctor you'll get.  As I had planned on an induction since day one, I didn't follow their recommendations and make appointments with each of the different doctors throughout the pre-natal care months.  I asked the PA, who I had been seeing for years for my yearly appointments and really liked but who couldn't deliver me because she didn't have delivery privileges at the hospital,  who best fit my personality and scheduled my next appointments with the three different female physicians she recommended.

The first one, I didn't like at all.  I found her condescending and quickly ruled her out as a choice for delivery. The next one I liked well enough but the third doctor I liked best of all.  Like Goldilocks, her manner and tone seemed just right.

I made all my appointments with her up until two months ago.  When we started narrowing down dates for induction, which I was not doing for convenience but because of the recommendation of my last OB in Spokane who didn't get to deliver Henry because he came so fast, we realized she would be out of town with her family when I reached the magical-and-earliest-they-will-even-consider-induction-date of 39 weeks.  She fished out the call schedule and informed me of which doctors would be working which days and who did I want to deliver me?

Wouldn't you know, of the three doctors scheduled for that week, I hadn't met two of them and one was the doctor I didn't care for at all?  Another of the three was one I had purposely never seen, as he is known in the community to favor population control and perform abortions.  I'm sure he is perfectly competent but, with this being my fourth delivery, I imagined lots of lectures about our precious world resources and my responsibility to protect mother earth by limiting my offspring.  To this day, I still mentally rule him out.  I don't even want him to accidentally deliver me.  As much as I have complained about being pregnant, I still think my body has done a beautiful thing and do not think for a minute that having four children is selfish or irresponsible.  And how can you trust an OB who thinks there are too many babies????

That left a woman who had just joined their group in August and who I had never met.  I scheduled my appointment with her and while she is very young and only fresh out of her residency, she seemed sweet and kind and not lecture prone.

It did leave me weary explaining my history all over again.  But, I did and thought I had included all the details as to the whys and hows of my need to be induced and she agreed with every single one of my points.  "Let's put you on the schedule," she replied.

When she suggested the date December 10th, I did hesitate.  It was an entire week earlier than I had been thinking possible and I brought up during that very first appointment with her, that my ultrasound date was inconsistent with my LMC date and I remember her saying, "Let's just go with this date!"  Maybe she was feeling eager to please, maybe she didn't imagine that the two dates were actually nine days apart, but I was thrilled.  December 10th!  That was lots of time before Christmas and an entire week less of being miserably pregnant.  My mind answered, "Hell, yes!" but I'm sure I simply responded with a smile and a more appropriate, "Sure!"

I remember calling my mom from the parking lot of the hospital with the good news.  She felt as surprised as I did and started making the mental adjustment with me of a week earlier than we had been planning on her and my dad coming out to be with me and help.  There was some guilt in this switch as it meant they would miss some of their own local Christmas festivity but they were willing to come on the 9th and stay through Christmas and that was what I needed.  Their presence.  Their help.  Their love.

I started letting other friends and family know.  At first, the 10th seemed so early as I had been telling everyone I was due right at Christmas.  But, then it just became the day that this boy would be delivered and I never mentally went back.

Then, came the whole breech business.   Already anxious about going into natural labor before my scheduled date, his breech-ness took me to a whole new level of fearful.  I'm not sure I'm capable of adequately explaining my worry and fear about going into natural labor.  Seth and Sam were both born weeks early and Henry was born so, so quickly and the overwhelming memory of that event for me was how out of control and scared I felt when I knew I couldn't hold back his little body entering the world, even though everyone was telling me not to push and there was no doctor and I wasn't even in a delivery room but in a bathroom and then on a stretcher.  Even before learning he was breech, I was very concerned about this new baby's safety as well as my own.  The breech thing cranked up every ounce of my melodrama and suddenly, I had visions of one or both of us dying tragically.  Perhaps I've read too many books or watched too many shows and movies about babies getting stuck, leaving husbands as widowers and children as orphans, but even the 10th of December, two whole weeks before my due date, seemed almost too late to have this induction or c-section.  Besides not wanting a c-section, that fear is really what pushed me to try everything to turn the baby so that he could at least not die if my body went into labor before the 10th.

When he flipped, all the stars seemed to be coming into alignment.  I had a little over a week to go before his delivery and, as long as he stayed head down, I was going to have a brand new baby soon!  Again, never having been induced before and being prone to dramatics, there was some fear about how my body would react to whatever my doctor decided to do to get me going.  Still, I felt in control and safe.  My parents were here.  My bags were packed.  My laundry was done.  My house was clean.  Let's do this thing!

Then, the phone rang.  At six am.  And I knew.  I honestly did.  She explained how she had never seen the 26th date and didn't feel comfortable inducing me at 37 and a half weeks when the baby might not be ready to be born.  She explained how babies that aren't fully developed have more problems controlling their body temperature and glucose and struggle with respiration and of course I didn't/don't want my child to struggle with any of that.  I just thought she knew about the dates!  I felt ashamed that she thought I was trying to "get away with something" and mad that she hadn't bothered to figure this out until the morning I was going to be induced.  Shame and anger translated into a morning of tears.  Lots and lots of tears.

My boys woke up early to see me before I left for the hospital and all I could do was cry and tell them I wasn't going anywhere.  It was too difficult to explain all the ins and outs of the days but I said that I most likely wasn't going to have the baby that day and they just sat there and hugged me and wondered if I would ever stop crying.  Jay tried his best to reassure me that all was well and this was best for the baby (I know!) but I just felt annoyed.  I didn't want to be consoled!  I didn't want him or my doctor to be right or reasonable!  I wanted to be at the hospital delivering this baby!

Eventually, I did get out of bed again.  I explained to my parents what had happened and it began what would be a day of having the same conversation at least fifty times.  Our ward's Christmas party was that night and no one was expecting me to be there.  But, I knew if I didn't go and explain what had happened, people would be pestering Jay at church the next day, or my parents, or Jay's parents and I decided to follow my mother's advice and just get it over with like "ripping off a band-aid."  It would have been easier to have just worn a sign around my neck.

I've had the same conversation dozens and dozens of times this week.  I know I shouldn't but I still feel foolish.  Now, everyone thinks I'm overdue and I'm still a week away from my due date!  Worse, I feel overdue.  I do.  There was a mental end that has come and gone and every day this week has been torture waiting and wondering.  I don't have another induction date scheduled for various reasons.  First, I'm still mad and annoyed at this OB practice.  If I hadn't already paid them for this delivery, I'd seriously consider calling up another group and asking if they'd deliver me.  Second, all of the options now seem bad.  With the 26th as my "official" due date now, my once-decided OB won't induce me a second before December 19th - exactly one week before my due date. Well, the 19th is our anniversary and I know that a child's birthday will forever trump an already difficult to celebrate wedding anniversary.  Besides, Jay is scheduled to work in a town an hour away on the 19th and, I wish I could explain, it is so so hard for him to rearrange his schedule.  That was another very annoying result of having this date switched.  I had explained months ago that I needed a date so that Jay could make sure he could have it off as they do their own group's schedule months in advance.  On the 20th, the abortionist is on the schedule.  No, thank you.  The 21st, the annoying female doctor I saw very first and never again is scheduled.  Jay is on call on the 22nd and so my sweet, young doctor suggested the 23rd.   Really, what's the point?

Lastly, a lot of my fear has subsided with my parent's steady presence.  I now have round-the-clock-on-call child care for my other boys and a guaranteed ride to the hospital in a moment's notice should I go into labor when Jay isn't around.  I know I have several friends and family members who would be more than willing to drop everything and come pick me up, but if this delivery is anything like Henry's, minutes count and it felt risky to depend on anyone who might not be home.

So, I've decided to just wait and see.  It is horrible.  Yesterday, I was so grumpy and moody and uncomfortable.  I want to be done.  I want this little boy, who is obviously an instrument to teach me about humility, patience and the Lord's timeline, to be born!  I alternate between mentally pretending to be O.K with the whole "Thy will be done" and a one-sided shouting match where I murmur, "Can't I catch a break!" to God.    Then, I really do humble myself and know that I am so blessed.  I have a healthy baby who is developing normally and a body that is adequately providing a nurturing environment for him.   I have an amazing support network.  I have a beautiful family that is just waiting to welcome this new person with all the love and glee imaginable.  It's just me and my misery that gets in the way of this being a wonderful thing.

December 17th would be a great day to have a baby.  My doctor checked me at my last appointment and my body is dilating and effacing and preparing itself to deliver any time.  So....could it be today?  Please, please, please?

See?  I haven't learned a thing.  Not one thing.  I am not in control.  I am not in charge.  There is no such thing as "Lucy time."  It is a figment of my own imagination.  I've been learning this very hard lesson for one week now.  I hope admitting it keeps me from having to learn it for another or, heaven forbid, more.

Nine Months

So much for documenting my pregnancy, eh?  I regret not writing more but, it is what it is.  For some reason, whether it be depression, anxiety, boredom, busyness, sickness, fatigue, or just the ease of neglecting a neglected blog, I have not chosen to share the day to day events of my pregnancy or our life lately.  Honestly, I'm not doing much of the things I love to do lately.  I'm barely reading.  Not singing.  Not traveling.  Not spending time with friends.  I'm not exactly sure where all the hours go.  There are always errands to do and I usually need or want to rest following any kind of activity.  There are the endless rides for the boys' activities.  That wears me out.  Mostly, I think I've known that whatever mood I was in when I had time to write wasn't one I really wanted to remember.  In summary, I am glad this pregnancy is over.

Tomorrow, I am scheduled to arrive at the hospital for induction at 7:30 am.  There is a chance that my doctor will send me home and if that happens, it happens.  I would rather the baby be safe and uncomfortable and miserable for another few days or week than expose a baby not ready to be born to a harsh environment he's not ready for.  I really hope that's not the case, however.  I am ready to meet this little guy and while I know newborn life and needs aren't exactly easy either, I'd rather deal with those events than the enormous belly I'm sporting, the heartburn, the nausea and sore hips and back.

I am not really thinking that clearly but I just remembered that I wanted to remember the craziness of having this baby be stubbornly breech for nearly a month.  I did all I could to avoid a c-section, even though I am not morally or ethically against them.  I just knew it'd be harder and longer to recover if I had one so I researched and tried as many remedies as I could find to turn this baby into a head down position.

The first thing I tried was swimming.  I have really enjoyed swimming during this last trimester so it wasn't really trying anything new, just adding a few flips underwater and the occasional handstand.  I wish I hadn't been embarrassed by my efforts, but I was always hyper aware of being watched and looking foolish.  I don't think it worked.

I tried crawling and stretching on all fours.  This was a lot harder than I initially thought it would be.  The added weight of pregnancy made being on my wrists and knees sore and it was very difficult for me to stay in that position for the recommended 20 minutes/3 times a day.  I don't think crawling or being on all fours worked.

I tried placing a bag of frozen peas where the baby's head was (underneath my right ribs) and inverting myself to persuade the baby to turn from the cold and negative slope but I don't think it worked.

I went to the hospital for an ECV (external cephalic version) where my doctor physically tried to manipulate the outside of my stomach and rotate the baby into a head down position.  It definitely didn't work and it hurt.

As almost a last resort, I tried a Chinese homeopathic remedy called Moxibustion.  In this treatment, two cigar shaped sticks are lit and held close to my pinkie toes at the same time for as long as I could stand the heat.  When it got to hot, the sticks were moved away for about ten seconds and then brought back into position.  I did this once at an oriental medical practice and once at home, with Jay holding the moxa sticks.  I really wish I had taken a picture of Jay on his belly, stinky smoke billowing into his face while I sat in the blue recliner.  He only burned me twice but I think his technique (slightly distracted by the TV show behind him) did the trick because the next day, the baby had turned head down.  I also had acupuncture done.  It could have been that too.

Regardless, I am happy that baby is where he should be but nervous about being induced tomorrow.  I have been nervous and anxious this entire pregnancy and I really wish I were serene and calm and cool about it all. The thing is, I have never been induced so don't know how my body will respond.  I don't know if it'll make the whole labor and delivery harder or more painful or really awesome because I am somewhat in control.  O.K.  Not really in control but not out of control like I was when having Henry.

Man, I am rambling.  I really wanted to get one post out before tomorrow - a last hurrah, if you will.  But, I am not into it.  Let's hope my post pregnancy brain is an improvement over the last seven months of blah blogging.

Still....I'm done!  In twelve hours, I'll be leaving for the hospital.  That, my friends, is cause to celebrate.  Just forgive this post:)

Party Game Fodder

It seems to come up in almost every "Get To Know You" game.  The question:  What is your most embarrassing moment?

I've never, ever, never witnessed anyone who either loved getting this question or even knew how to respond right away.  It seems to me as if our truly embarrassing moments are either heavily suppressed, too indecent to share, or still so embarrassing that no one actually wants to be reminded of it.

I know I draw a blank when I get this question.  For a long time, my go-to response was an embarrassing-to-me-but-quite-lame-story about being in a Broadway theater at the age of 15 to see Les Miserables and having a woman come up to me and ask, "I love your outfit.  Where did you get it?"  The question is actually funny considering I was wearing purple stretch pants, a mauve, cream and purple patterned button up shirt and a cream colored cardigan on top of the entire ensemble, but I suppose it was a pretty rocking' outfit in 1990.  Instead of simply responding that I'm from Montana and I bought it in a mall store there, I looked at her like a deer caught in the headlights and only managed to say, "Not here."

She waited for a few seconds until she realized that was all she was going to get from me and then walked away.  I recall my sister ridiculing me for my lame response and my hot cheeks and beating heart about not having more smooth and savvy conversational skills interfered with my enjoyment of Jean Valjean, Eponine, Marius and Cosette and their music.

But....not really that embarrassing, right?  I mean, I can't exactly use that story as a 36 year-old woman, now can I?  A few years ago, I switched to the really more horrifying than embarrassing story about when the SWAT team stormed into our small Denver apartment during a night when we decided to let our one year-old, Seth, cry it out.  It's definitely the kind of story that gets the shocked responses that kind of question inevitably seeks out, but, even now, I'm not really that embarrassed by it.  Truthfully, I was more embarrassed that they saw us in our garments (it was a hot summer night, after all, and we had cinderblock walls and no air-conditioning and fans going in every room...thus the ability to sleep through Seth's wails, the phone ringing, the pounding on the door and the bursting into the apartment) than that this black-clad team of police officers thought we were some drugged out couple abusing our child.

Even my blog post, How Embarrassing, doesn't translate well into party game story telling.  The climax just isn't....embarrassing enough, I guess.  "I ran out of cash while grocery shopping at Walmart and had to run out to my car to get more!"  See?  No good.

Well, folks, I've got a new one.  Yesterday was not a great day.  I am unable to figure out the exact configuration of clouds, stars, food, temperature, side of the bed or whatever makes a bad day a bad day but yesterday was one of them.  A big vote goes towards having to do my 3 hour glucose tolerance test at the hospital in the morning.  Mornings are, by far, the most likely time for me to feel sick and throwing an empty stomach, blood draws and an overly sweet sugar substance coursing through my veins for hours did nothing to help.  I was tired the rest of the day and napped off and on until it was time for the after school madness that is our existence most days.

After dropping Sam off at cub scouts and driving back across town to pick Seth up from middle school, I stopped at Sonic for some happy hour goodness before Seth was due at soccer practice.  I can't figure out which is faster: the drive-thru or car-hop service, but my guess is neither.  I opted for the drive-thru and it was definitely a mistake.  After ordering, the line moved slowly towards the pay and pick-up window.  When we reached the "next in line" status, I coughed.  On an empty stomach.  On a bad day.  It was a disaster waiting to happen.

I started to heave and gag - the precursors to vomiting.  Sometimes, if I can really channel my inner Zen, I can sort of kind of in a lamaze like way breathe my way out of it.  As my stomach lurched and involuntarily squeezed its contents up my esophagus, I closed my eyes and tried with all my might to contain it.

Then, I pulled up to the window.

She took my money and re-closed the window and I put my hand over my mouth in a desperate attempt to at least postpone what now seemed like the unavoidable ending to my calamitous cough.   Just as she re-opened the window to hand over the bag of tater-tots for Henry and Seth and my Route 44, easy on the ice, Diet Coke, I lost control.

I tried opening my door to aim my retching to the concrete beneath me, but I was too close to the building and could only  manage to opening it an inch.  With no other option in front of me, I threw up into my hand, all over my door and all over my shirt and skirt.

She waited until I was finished, all the while holding my styrofoam-filled beverage, and then offered me my drink, which I took with my slimy hand.  Of course, she was horrified but did manage to ask me if I'd like some napkins.  I nodded with desperate need and she handed me a smile pile of about five napkins.   What is it with some fast food restaurants that make them so stingy with napkins????  As I drove away, she called out, "Feel better!" and as soon as I could, I pulled over to clean myself and my car as best I could.

The smell alone made me retch again but this time, I was at least out of my car and hurling into a weeded area off a nearby parking lot.  Thanks to incredible kids who can do without me if necessary, an understanding husband who gets when I need to call it a day and ignore dinner and any kind of evening reconnecting and a helpful friend who was willing to drive Seth home after soccer practice, I was able to come home, start a load of laundry, wipe out my car and open up a new air-freshener, take a bath and go to bed.

So, the next time someone asks me to share an embarrassing moment, I think I'll say, "The time I threw up all over myself in front of the Sonic drive-thru window girl!"    It counts, right?

1000th Post

I think I started this post about two weeks ago.  I had painstakingly found old posts to highlight, old and more recent photos to compare and contrast of our family and had actually started compiling blogging statistics:  number of bloggers I've met, number of bloggers I've kept in touch with after I've met them (shockingly few.  Classic case of "It's not you, it's me."  Not sure why), places we've lived, number of callings, number of documented Henry disasters.  It was all very time consuming but, for a thousandth post, I justified the effort.  It was to be my fait de accompli, if you will.  I figured if I never, ever blogged after this post, I'd at least have a nice summary of Life Is A Spasm Who Flow over the past five plus years.

Well...one errant keystroke, I'm not even sure what it was, deleted the whole thing.  I was mad at technology for awhile but then more disinterested than anything.  Still, I had this "1,000" in the queue and it kept me from blogging about other things.  Nothing was really up to snuff in my head about what a thousandth post should be.

Enough.  A post is a post is a post and this is my thousandth.  Whoop de whoop.  I've decided that a snapshot of what I'm like today - what I think, feel and look like, is good enough.  It's my life and my spasm, after all.  Let it flow:)

The idea came to me this morning as I pulled into a gas station immediately after dropping Seth off at the middle school.  Only yesterday, I vowed that I was going to give up soda again, cold turkey, because I learned early this year that I don't actually like it.  I mean, once you give it up and really lose the cravings, when you do drink it, you realize that it's just a nasty concoction of chemicals, carbonation and artificial tooth staining coloring.  But, the first trimester of this pregnancy had me in serious survival mode and it comforted me.  It doesn't anymore but I'm probably back to being somewhat addicted to the stuff.  Anywho, I was sipping from my stryofoam refill container and waiting at a stoplight and I wanted to write down, today, about how much I love my sons.  Like....I started crying in my car kind of love.

They are so patient with me.  Every morning, they forgive my, "I'm just so,so tired," that always translates into chaos as they help me find stuff for lunches, get breakfast, find clothes, shoes, backpacks, and race to the bus and school.  And I AM tired.  Constantly.  I am best from the hours eight to eleven in the morning and then I start to drag.  So much has been left undone and instead of complaining, they feel bad for me.  I don't like to play favorites, but Sam has been especially helpful.  Several mornings this week, I have heard him in the kitchen before I am even out of bed, gathering lunch stuff on the counter, feeding himself cereal - always fully dressed with his shoes and socks already on.  It makes up for the whirlwind that must form around Henry who hates mornings and declares every morning that he hates school, shoes, lunch, teeth, buses - you get the idea.  Anything he has to do.  I'm sure I could alleviate all of this with some planning and prep in the evening but you should see me in the evenings.  Not pretty.  After chauffeuring boys around non-stop from the hours of 3 until 8, I. am. done.  My back hurts.  For the past three weeks, my throat, head, nose and chest have hurt from the worst cold I have ever had.  It is strictly bath and bed time.  Bubbles required.

So, yes, I really am this whiny nearly all the time.  That is a sad, sad snapshot but real. I fervently hope that pregnancy hormones are to blame, but I have a feeling they simply heighten what emotions are already there. But, so is this deep love for my children.  They are incredibly good and I worry that my little blasts of scary-tired-mother ruin all of the other moments where we are best friends.  For example, yesterday, Seth needed his white shirt ironed for his choir concert.  If you could have seen this shirt....oh my goodness.  Other than taking it straight out of the washer, crumpling it up into a ball and vacuum sealing it, I'm not sure how it could have become so wrinkled.  Time was running short and Henry needed his Kindergarten homework stapled (had to make a book that involved cutting AND gluing.  Mercy.)  and I had just discovered that, at some point, he had ruined our stapler.  I don't know how but it was completely jammed and useless.  Consider the fuse lit.

Then, I go into the laundry room to iron Seth's shirt and discover that my new, expensive Rowenta iron has a crack in the handle.  A crack!  I don't know how it got there.  It was probably something I did but in that moment of needing to iron, being late, jammed stapler - all of a sudden - everything that was wrong came bubbling to the surface.  The broken dishwasher for the past month.  The central vacuum that stopped having suction,  the well pump that had to be fixed so that water would come out of the faucets when I turn them on, the crashed computer, the van whose damn engine light is back on, the flooded basement that still needs to be put back together (carpet isn't tacked down and baseboards are off and lying on the ground with their exposed nails jutting out.  I had a handyman give me an estimate for putting the baseboards back on and he told me $650!  I really need to become more handy), the toothpaste in the carpet of the bathroom....ALL of it exploded in a fiery shout, "WHY CAN'T ANYTHING JUST....NOT SUCK!" sending my kids hightailing it out to the van.   It makes me sad that I have these moments where I really do scare my boys with my loud anger.  I've never hit them but I know every syllable of audible anger, even if it isn't directed at them, is a verbal slap to their sensitive souls.  I want to be better.

We drove to the concert in Jay's truck because I couldn't find my keys and I hate my van with its jerking, misfiring second cylinder (what the check engine code repeatedly states is wrong.  So, why can't they fix it!?!)  and, although the car ride significantly cooled me off, I still managed to yell out my window at a woman who  parked right on the yellow line of the parking spot, making it impossible for Jay's mammoth truck to fit in the should-have-been-available spot next to her.  Bad parkers are a serious pet peeve of mine.  It's just so.....selfish.  And people whose actions expose their belief that they are more important than everyone else (dictators, pimps, loud talkers in restaurants, vandals, and people who take two prime parking spots on purpose to protect their precious cars (leave them home or park further away)) are some of my least favorite people on the planet.

In spite of my mood, or maybe because of it, I thoroughly enjoyed watching Seth sing.  He is having a great year and is really blossoming into a young man.  Sure, he still leaves his socks everywhere they shouldn't be, and can't clean his room without getting distracted by a book, but he is a quality kid.  He takes his duties seriously - even singing - and I even caught glimpses of some of the others boys in the choir looking back at him (big no-no, but still cute) to make sure they were singing the right part.  They should have been looking at the conductor but she was at the piano.  Kind of another pet peeve of mine but I get that sometimes it is easier to play yourself than find an accompanist.  It just didn't leave the kids, most of whom were immature and embarrassed about singing in the choir in their purple vests (they ARE in middle school, after all), anywhere safe to look.  I was proud of him and loved watching him sing.  I also loved sitting next to Henry while he tried to sing along to every song, whether he knew it or not.  My favorite moment was when the eighth grade choir from the other middle school (did I mention how the concert included three choirs from our middle school, a choir from the cross town middle school and two choirs from the high school?  Fun fun!)  started singing "And I'm proud to be an American," and he said, "Hey, I know this song!"  Like we have Lee Greenwood playing on our itunes all the time.  He's heard it at a few Bolder Boulders but the boy has a sharp memory and, there he was, singing along to the parts he knew.  Very patriotic.

The entire concert made me appreciate my sister, Maureen, and how good her choirs are and the effort that goes into them.  It's not an easy thing to teach fine arts, music, culture, etiquette and all of that fun stuff to youth.  Most don't seem to care, as I witnessed last night with all the whooping and hollering, coming and going during the middle of songs, and waving to parents from the risers.  But, she is good and they sound good and I'm so proud of her for all the work she does.

Which, of course, sent me over into a tizzy of appreciation and love for the rest of my siblings. I love each of them and am so grateful that they are my eternal friends. In fact, I just got off the phone with TWO of my sisters, Emily and Sarah, and now I feel silly for documenting my earlier rant.  They are that calming to my soul.  If only they had called an hour earlier.  I'd delete it all, but I already lost one thousandth post.  I'm not starting over on another, however less embarrassing and flaw exposing it may be!

My parents and Sarah will be here tomorrow.  If that fact doesn't calm me down, also knowing that I have a weekend to listen to general conference, where leaders of my church will address the world with messages of faith and support does.  I love this weekend.  I love knowing that there is purpose in the madness and struggle.  I love knowing that happiness and joy are equally available and that, when I open my eyes and heart, everywhere around me.  It is a necessary reminder.  Especially now.

I thought I'd keep this blog open all day to make it a more accurate snapshot than one mood during one part of the day but, looking ahead, it's too busy to think about blogging anymore.  I've got a YW in Excellence script to write, invitations to make, laundry to fold (oh my goodness do I ever), a house to pick up, a baby to feed (still in utero but it makes me feel less piggish)  and an afternoon and evening full of soccer practices to get boys to and from.  I also haven't seen my husband all week due to his cowboying-up (round-up time with his dad and brothers) and I plan on staring at his handsome face as much as possible tonight.

My soda is gone, so I'm going to be done with this post.  I'm not sure this is very coherent and I'm not going to do any editing, unless I find some glaring errors like a "your" in place of a "you're,"  but, at the very least, my thousandth post will showcase how I, Lucy, felt today, September 29th, 2011, during my 29th week of pregnancy from about 9 until 11 in the morning (with a long phone break in between).  It might not be everyday but it's today.  And isn't that what blogging is all about?

taken today on imac

Baby #4

That is me on the way to the hospital for my ultrasound. For some reason, I really dislike pregnancy pictures of myself. I have very few shots like this, where I'm holding my belly, but I was trying to be cute and pregnant and felt happy so decided, what the hey. It might be the last one I take:)

It was so great to see baby this afternoon. I think the twenty-week ultrasound helps me to start bonding with my children. Before anything was even said, I teared up seeing the clear pictures of a head, a spine, a beating heart and little dancing feet.

For quite some time, I thought I'd have to leave the hospital without knowing the gender of our baby. It was curled up into a tight little ball and the tech was worried more about getting any good pictures than gender at that point.

Then, baby started the show. What a mover and shaker! Hands lifting up and down. Thumbs going into mouth. Feet performing a near Irish jig. What a personality.

Everything looks great. I'm so relieved. I'm also relieved that my subconscious really felt the same way my intellect did - that either a boy or girl would be wonderful.

Because, when the tech told me, I felt nothing but joy.

It's a boy!

My four sons:)

Sweltering with Sackett and Stench

I love summer.  I do.  I love it at the lake.  I love it near a swimming pool.  I even like it inside an air-conditioned car during a road trip.  I'm finding it a bit more difficult to love in my non air-conditioned house during the hours of 4:00 and...say...8 pm.

Those hours have long been known to be bewitching to mother and children alike, but I have found those hours to be incredibly important to my day.  It's when I....

...frantically pick up so Jay doesn't think I've done nothing all day.
...start dinner (why haven't I become a religious crock pot user yet???)
...clean up dinner (just finished and my hair is wet with sweat.  I kid you not).
...think about blogging before I call it a day and go read/take a bath/sleep.

July and its usually pleasant upper 80 degree temps that feels like 105 to my bloated body isn't conducive to any of those things.  I think I've made an actual meal for my family, and not just set out things to eat, only three times this month.  Tonight was one of those rare nights.  I grilled a beautiful fillet of wild Alaskan salmon, steamed some string beans and cut up some cantaloupe, even though I don't enjoy that particular taste of melon.  I had nearly forgotten how enjoyable it is to set a table and call children to the table and then call a second time to the one that's missing and then a final warning that if he doesn't come, he doesn't eat for the rest of the night.  No, really, it WAS delightful and the highlight for me was to watch everyone simultaneously laugh following Henry's declaration during our baby naming discussion, "Let's just go with Sackett, Mom."   In all seriousness.  Darn that Jay and his love of Louis L'Amore.

By the way, our baby won't be named Sackett.

It also doesn't help that during our afternoon viewing of National Geographic's The Womb, Jay and I both caught the repugnant whiff of skunk and realized our more adventurous and obnoxious cat, Scout, got sprayed.  Her seeming method of dealing with the stress is to stand by my bedroom window and flop around. It's so strong that all windows have had to be closed and Jay's handy Ozone machine, which he purchased to rid his truck of the previous owner's cigarette presence, was used, shutting down the use of our bedroom for four hours.  Who knew a generator of free radicals to eliminate odors would come in so handy? Jay is just a new breed of cowboy with his Ozone totin' gun.  Eat your hearts out, Sackett boys.

That's a long winded way of saying I'm hot.  I'm hot!  But, since I managed to cook dinner and clean up the inevitable mess that comes with it, I thought I'd hit three out of the four and blog.  I miss thinking outside my own head.  Even when it is my sweaty-hair-on-the-back-of-my own head.

On Tuesday, I am officially 20 weeks pregnant.  Halfway through!   Woo-hoo!  That is also the day when I am scheduled to have my ultrasound.  I toyed with the idea of not finding out the gender of this baby, just for experience's sake, but with names like Sackett flying around the house, I need all the time I can get to think about, decide upon and then convince the others what the name of this child should be.  It helps to have narrow it down to either boys names or girls names.  Trust me on this, if it is a boy, I'll need all twenty of the remaining weeks to work out a name.  The ones I like bore Jay, the ones he likes have got to be jokes and the boys throw out names like Bobby Jr.

I feel like I must declare pre-ultrasound that I really will be happy with either a boy or a girl.  I've thought a lot about it.  Again, for experience's sake, I'd love to have a girl.  I'd love for the boys to have a sister....a future woman in the house to learn how to treat and respect.  I'd love for Jay to have a daughter because I hear that relationship is pretty special.  Myself, I'd love to discover how parenting a girl would feel.  Would it be harder because of my own preferences and experiences or easier for the same reason?

That declaration made, I adore boys.  There is a huge part of me that wants our family to remain a clan of boys with me as their queen.  Seriously, I think having another boy would be wonderful.  He'd have shining examples to look up to in any and all of his brothers and...well...we know boys.  We have boy things.  I'm pretty sure having a boy would be an easier transition for our whole family.

I have one more day to wonder.  I googled the statistics because I'd heard somewhere at sometime that the odds of having the same gender baby if you have three of the same was around 70% but it's more like 57%.  57% chance of having another boy and 43% chance of having a girl.  Jay scoffs at those numbers.  He says it's always 50/50 but I'll stick with the science of statistics and won't be shocked when the ultrasound tech announces little Sackett is coming to our home.

It's 7:30 and starting to cool off.  I'm also starting to get sleepy.  Still, July got TWO posts so I'm clearly on the upswing.

Man...it's hot.

********Prediction time!  What do you think #4 will be?  A baby boy or baby girl?**********

It Wasn't Me

For the past two months, I have been suffering what I self-diagnosed as partum depression.  Of course, when I mentioned my concern to my doctor, she asked me if I had any suicidal thoughts and when I replied, "No," she said, "Well, it's not really a great surprise that you feel down.  You're throwing up and tired and have all sorts of hormones running through you."  Lucky for her, my feelings of contempt towards others has been somewhat universal and there isn't enough spare spite to hold a very strong grudge towards her professional blow-off.

While it's true that I never wanted to "do myself in," I have felt like an alien was controlling my thoughts and feelings.  It wasn't me at all.  The world at large and people in particular overwhelmed and annoyed me.  The simplest stresses became major irritants.  I could fake normality for a few hours if I had to but those close to me usually paid the price later in the evening with some major moodiness and emotional withdrawal.

I tried perspective.  In truth, I have been an anti-Job.  Job, who intellectually must have known his right to complain and curse his fate, spiritually couldn't leave the God he loved.  Me?  Intellectually, I know every single reason to be grateful, happy, at peace with what is happening to my body but spiritually, I have had some rather murmurous moments and hope Heavenly Father will forgive my rather biting thoughts towards Him and how I'd have arranged to bring about the human race in an altogether less obnoxious way.

I use the past tense because for the past few days, I feel more and more confident that I am shedding this alien skin and replacing it with my own.  I feel more like....me.  And I like me!!!

I have been blessed and exhausted with both a trip and company for the last three weeks and I'm sure all of that forced socialization and out-of-my-cave excursions have helped my mental state.  I'll report on all of that soon, I promise (mom).  

There have been many, many times when I have wished to be the type of person who can be gracious in the midst of trials.  These past months have only been the latest in my own history that prove that I have a lot yet to learn about the "Be still and know that I am God," counsel.  Is it wrong of me to blame the hormones?  Is that part of me still me?  I can't help but wonder if my meltdown is just a preview of things to come.  Will I be maniacal in menopause.  Or, when I'm old and perhaps ill or stiff or lonely or forgetful, will not feeling like "me" turn me into a crotchety crank?   Am I really responsible for all of my bad behavior?

For what it's worth, I appreciate the notes, texts, emails and calls to check in on me.  I felt the baby move for the first time last night and had what I think is the first non-forced positive thought towards this pregnancy since it began.  I'm not sure why feeling what is akin to a bag of microwave popcorn going off in my stomach should bring peace and joy to my troubled mind, but it did.  And at sixteen weeks, I am more than ready for a change of heart.

What I Miss

You know what I miss most since being pregnant?   Having any kind of energy.

In a lot of ways, this pregnancy feels nearly identical to my others.  My gag reflex is exactly has it has been in the past:  highly sensitive so although nausea can definitely make me throw up, so can coughing, sneezing or burping.  I crave horrible food that makes me fat.  I feel depressed and cry at the drop of a hat.  I murmur.  A lot.

But, one sensation that seems extra heightened this time 'round is my extreme fatigue.  I don't know if it is my 35 years compared to my 24, 27 and 30 years in comparison, but I am tired all the time.  Bone tired.

Most days, I can get away with it.  My world has been very sympathetic to my expanding womb plight.  My young women didn't bat an eye when I came unprepared last Sunday to teach my lesson (a big chunk of the problem was because I had planned to show a movie I had ready on my laptop...which I forgot at home) and ended up holding up my cell phone at the front of the room so they could watch it start and stop intermittently as it buffered slowly on the Verizon network.   Embarrassing, for sure, but I even got a hug from one of my laurels afterward telling me it was a fine lesson.  My sister came down for a long weekend and patiently did my laundry, cooked my children's meals and repeatedly cleaned my kitchen while I sat moaning on the sofa.  My husband is a saint and always asks me how I'm feeling when he walks through the door instead of looking around at all of the piles of things I didn't get done.

My mother's brother died this week from pancreatic cancer and I'm leaving tomorrow morning for his funeral up in Utah.  As much as the past month has tried to convince me otherwise, some things, such as getting ready for a trip, can't be sloughed off.  The tire pressure sensor all aglow on my dashboard needed some attention (nail - slow leak - all fixed).  Milk, as well as a few other staples, needed to be purchased.  Child care needed to be arranged and the big Young Women's Camp Fundraiser, which is being held next Wednesday, needed to be organized enough to be delegated.  I also tried to sneak in a cut and color today because I have looked hideous for a month and am tired of braiding my hair.  When you add my unrelenting need to eat at least once an hour, it makes for a busy and very tiring day.

It doesn't sound like a lot, but my whole body is screaming for sleep right now.  Why don't I indulge and take a quick nap, you ask?  Because there is still stuff to do, it is almost dinner time and I want to go to bed early tonight so I can wake up as early as I need to and not fall asleep during my seven hour drive tomorrow.

I could really use some energy.  Just a small amount.  Nothing Herculean required.  Just the amount needed to get up out of this IKEA chair, walk down the hall and switch  my clothes from the washer to the dryer.  Perhaps if I just close my eyes for just a minute....

What Is It Worth?

I'm determined to blog through this pregnancy.  I have zero, zilch, no record of any of my other pregnancies.  I didn't write in a journal.  I didn't scrapbook.  I didn't even take pictures.  I think there are a total of five pregnancy pictures from all three and most are me sitting down looking at the camera with a visible wish that whoever was taking the picture would go away.  Other than my memories and actual children to show for them, it's like they never happened!

My only concern is that my record might sound like a sad sounding country ballad on repeat.  Um...I feel sick.  And tired.  I need to reach deep for new material.

I had a doctor's appointment yesterday.  She came in with a sympathetic smile tinged with a smirk.  You remember our last conversation was about getting an IUD.  She did redeem herself by running for saltines and water when I started to dry heave in front of her.   Fun, fun, fun!  I left with some serious swag and a prescription for Zofran, an anti-nausea drug I've taken in the past that really does work wonders.

One ironic thing about being married to an actual practicing physician now vs a medical student or resident is we have horrible insurance.  I say horrible, Jay says adequate, but I think that's because his partners chose it and he's being gracious.  Compared to what we paid for our three other children's births, this is going to be a lot more expensive.  Each doctor's visit requires a $65 copay.  I'm paying that much to be weighed and pee in a cup.  It doesn't feel like a bargain.  And would you believe that my ultrasound and future ultrasounds are not free?  The radiologists can waive their fees but the techs and hospital still need to be paid.  Reimbursement rates are at a horrible low in this economy and Jay refuses to add to the statistic or demand special treatment. Fine.

Except I just went to fill my Zofran prescription.  $144 dollars for 60 pills.  The script says to take up to four a day for nausea/vomiting.   At $2.40 per pill, that's almost $10 a day for nausea relief.  Is that expense justified?  I'd spend $10 for lunch but not every day.  I'd spend $10 for a book but, again, not every day.  I'm trying to justify the cost here.  Can I legitimately and in good faith spend $5 or $10 every day to feel better?  Or, should I just save the money and sit around some more?  Well, when I put it like that....

I think I'm going to decide it's worth it.  I have a feeling this is just the beginning of a pretty expensive baby.

Alive...Yes. Kicking...Not So Much

I'm not gonna lie, it's been a rough month.  I think there must be some kind of natural blogging instinct to not write when frustration or despair is raw.  Part of me wishes I had - to capture the real emotions as they happened, but, I think for history's sake, it's more kind to document with the perspective of hindsight.

However, the longer you go without writing, the harder it is to jump back in.  It's almost as if you need something really BIG to be worthy of breaking the silence.  I think I've got just the thing.

I'm pregnant.

It sounds incredibly stupid to say this came as a complete shock when I haven't done anything to prevent a pregnancy for the last three years, but after that much time, and because I needed help conceiving with all three of my others, I really didn't expect for it to happen.  In fact, I had a doctor's appointment last week and made a plan to get a Mirena IUD at the start of my next cycle.  Well...that cycle never came.

When a bout of nausea hit me last Tuesday, I had my first suspicion.  It's such a particular sensation associated with being pregnant for me.  I kept my worry to myself but at my Wednesday morning workout, my trainer asked me if everything was alright and after some tears, convinced me to go buy a pregnancy test.  I had such low energy.  While I drove home from Walmart, I glanced over at the passenger seat to see the IUD pamphlet jutting out from beneath the plastic bag holding a bright pink pregnancy test box.  I thought, "I bet most people don't pick up both of these things in the same week!"

I wish I had more faith or less pride to be able to say with complete confidence that this is the way things are supposed to be or that this is all part of a specific plan.  I'm not sure how that all works out after seeing many wonderful people and couples remain childless and some I consider undeserving proliferate with ease.  And unlike some I know, I've never felt that whispering or prompting that there were more spirits waiting to join our three boys.   I felt...good.  I felt content to move past the young-child-at-home-stage with Henry starting Kindergarten next year.  The idea of starting over - of getting all the things we'll need to have a baby again - still feels overwhelming.  And it's not just all of the paraphernalia we'll need.  It's really hard being sick again. It's really hard to think of all of the work I've put in to losing weight these past months being undone.  As willing as I want to be to stay in shape and keep exercising,  I have no energy.  I feel sick all day.  I'm throwing up in the morning and due to some troublesome spotting, have been instructed by my doctor to avoid anything strenuous.  That means my workouts as I know them have stopped.  Oh, I should still be going for some walks, I suppose, but it's easier to feel bad on my couch and watch movies.  It makes taking one of my three to five naps a day more convenient.

Even though this wasn't planned or expected, Jay has been really sweet and reassuring that we have a great home to welcome whomever is coming.  I like that thought.  We told the boys last night and I wish I would have thought to videotape their reaction.  Seth seemed a little upset.  Sam seemed excited once he actually believed us.  And Henry...oh, sweet Henry, well....he's in for the shock of his life.   I hope to feel like a normal person again soon, but if not, I know come Christmas time, when the baby is due, that this confinement, which turns out to be an appropriate description for now, will end.  Then, it'll be car seat/stroller/diaper bag/portacrib time.  Oh my goodness.

Please forgive my bemoaning.  I realize there will many blessings associated with this experience.  I have no doubt, whatsoever, that when all is said and done, this new life will bring more joy, more spirit and more love to our home.  And if there happens to be more estrogen as well...I certainly wouldn't be disappointed:)