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:)

Trotting Like Turkeys

Whenever I start to feel guilty that my children prefer cookies over carrots, I remind myself that at least they also like to run.  And bike and hike and play sports and wrestle.  But not swim.  I have totally failed at that.

But they DO like to run!  Remember, no guilt.

Thanks to their father, a runner extraordinaire, they think donning a pair of shorts, t-shirt and a hat on a cold holiday morning and running one or five miles is fun!  They pay for the privilege!

Like many places, D-town puts on a local Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day.  They have a one mile fun run for kids and wimpy adults (kidding.  Sort of.) and a brutal five mile hilly course for those with no other option (ever heard of a 5K D-town?  They’re kind of popular).  Jay, of course, loves the 5 mile distance.  For him, it is a short run.  This year, Seth chose to leave the kids behind and lengthen his own stride but agreed the five miles was a bit too long.  He was tired at the end.

I was proud of all of my boys.  I have done it in years past (well...one) and I’m sure I’ll do it again.  I’ll at least do the wimpy 1 mile with Henry, who would probably prefer something shorter.

Working hard for their turkey dinner.

Goofy boys.

Jay in the pack.  Nice and steady.

Seth a minute later.  Probably started a bit too fast.  His 6:30 minute mile at the school might have given him some false confidence in a distance race.

Sam cheers on his dad and brother with me.

Here comes the leader!

It’s Jay!

Straining.

I love watching him run.

Breathe, baby, breathe.

Form check.

Checking to see who’s behind him.

Finishing strong.

Holy moly.  He just ran five miles in under 30 minutes.

Two cute boys in a tree.

Here comes Seth.

That’s dad in the background who went back to run in with him for a strong finish.  Because five miles wasn’t long enough.

A camera is just the right kind of motivation to finish with a sprint.

Not too shabby!  He said he walked a lot after the first mile so to average 10 min/mile, he must have run fast when he was running.

Sam rocked the 1 mile.

Love this leaping gait!

And.......here comes Henry.  Marching to the beat of his very own drum.

Nope. No one is behind you, buddy.

Who says you can’t race barefoot in Tevas?

Always cute.

Isn’t there a wise proverb about it’s not about the swift?

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Holiday I Hate The Most

A more positive way of naming this blog post might be the holiday I like the least but I really strongly dislike Halloween.  I know it’s fun for kids and if it were just a fun day for kids to dress up and get candy then I’d be hunky dory.  Fun fun!  But, it’s an entire month of looking at skulls and other macabre displays in stores not to mention the ever increasing adult influence with raunchy and embarrassing costume displays.  No thank you.

I skip it as much as I can.  No decorations.  Candy at the last minute.  Simple costumes.  And guess what?  My kids enjoy it just as much.  They get a pumpkin full of candy and a day to be silly and dress up.  And I don’t have to decorate my home with cobwebs.

I know some people love the month.  To each her own.  I’m comfortable with my boo-humbug.

Sam rocks his disco dancing costume.

I’m always curious how kids decide what they want to be.  I know Henry has never seen superman or read any of the books but, obviously, has heard about him.  Superman was a huge costume this year.  I bet there were at least six of them at the school parade.

This was not Seth’s costume.  For the school carnival and trunk or treat, he went as a distance running vampire (very clever, I thought).  He wore Jay’s candy strip running shorts over running tights, a singlet over a long sleeve shirt, a cape, headband and wristband.  He opted against putting on white face paint and blood at the mouth, which is probably the reason he didn’t like his costume when he got home (i.e. no one got it).  Jay ran up the driveway with this getup on and scared the pants off of us and Seth borrowed it for trick or treating.  With the large plastic hands and full face mask, Seth struggled to trick-or-treat.  He was so annoyed that I think I have a Halloween hater in the making.   But the plethora of fun-sized sugar is a pretty powerful enticer to the dark side.  

Nine Short Posts

1.  I have started swimming as exercise again and it feels wonderful.  I wish I had the mental and emotional strength to overcome my fierce tendency to feel depressed and lethargic during the first months of pregnancy.  I know many women who, in spite of the nausea and fatigue, manage to eat well and exercise because they know it's good for them.  Not so with me.  I have to feel somewhat good to make myself feel good by doing the things that are good for me.  Make sense?  I look forward to my swim days with glee and anticipation and if it wasn't for the wet hair and two-hour time commitment when I include drive time, I'd do it every day.  But, I'm still awfully pleased with three times a week.

2.  I feel as if I have had to become a crusader of my Sabbath Day religious right.  In years past, I have delicately side stepped birthday parties and other minor activities that occasionally get scheduled on Sundays, but this year, I have had to get into the whys and hows with both Seth and Sam's soccer teams.   Even though the response I have received has been mainly of tolerance and respect, I still feel a bit preachy and holier-than-though when explaining why soccer games, soccer practices, soccer parties are not something my boys or we parents will attend.  Now, Seth's middle school is putting on their first ever Family Fun Run to raise money for smart boards in the classroom.  When the newsletter came home, Jay and I responded by telling Seth, "We totally would have supported this had it been on any other day, but we're not giving money to something that's being held on a Sunday."  He understood and didn't make a fuss about it at all.  Now, the person who has organized the entire thing, who happens to be the mother of one of Seth's very good friends who HE PLAYS SOCCER WITH, has sent me an email saying she knows we won't run in the race but hopes we'll consider pledging money anyway because it's for a very good cause.  I get that.  Jay gets that.  What they don't seem to get is that it's on Sunday.  We don't want things to be on Sunday.  We think that day should be off limits - for soccer, for parties and especially for school events.  While part of me feels Scrooge-ish for withholding our generosity for something that would benefit the school and our kids, I also feel (and Jay even more strongly than I) that supporting an event that we won't attend, because it's on Sunday, with our money sends no message at all.  We'd like them to do this on another day.  I'd also like to not have to explain this, again, to this very nice, very, very helpful woman (she's the mother who drove Seth home after my vomit episode yesterday.  She's a great person).  But, her email kind of put the kibosh on my passive-aggressiveness.  Darn it.

3.  For some reason, I have a hard time gushing on this blog.  I know bloggers, in general, get accused all the time of prettying up their life and only showing the good stuff but I almost have the opposite problem.  I am much, much more comfortable whining and complaining on this public forum than saying, "This part of my life is really great!" Bizarre?  I just read through my pregnancy posts and, holy cow, my future child may have some issues should he ever read my accounting of how he came to be.  With that in mind, I want the entire world to know that while I still detest and loathe being pregnant, I have fallen deeply in love with my baby already.  I'm not sure how Heavenly Father manages to squeeze out my divine nurturing skills when I resist them so, but I feel that bond between us already.  His kicks, his hiccups, even his stillness all seem so....personal.  I thought I should reassure any that may be concerned about my ability to be a good mother to him that he'll be cherished and perfectly spoiled with my sincere devotion.  He just kicked.  I told you we have this connection.  It's like he's saying, "Me too."  Love him.

4.  All three of my boys had parent teacher conferences this afternoon.  I've been going to these things for seven years now and I have to say, I've gotten pretty used to hearing the accolades and praises of my genuinely bright and well-behaved boys.  While I have learned that this desire to please and innate obedience has very little to do with any parenting techniques Jay and I use, it still makes us look good.  And I like to look good.  This year, we've thrown Henry into the fray.  Henry, who can manage to charm a complete stranger into buying his little bag of oreos at the store yesterday because, "He's a cute little guy."  has not managed to enamor his Kindergarten teacher.  None of her complaints surprised us today, because we live with him after all, but I'm just so unused to hearing about anything but his adorable glasses/face/voice/dance moves etc. etc.   I suppose I should be glad that she is so determined to break him of his slightly less cute stubbornness,  inattentiveness, disregard for quality work and bossiness,  but I learned it's never that much fun to hear another adult describe the faults of your child.  Thankfully, he's bright like his brothers so, academically, she thinks he's doing great, but if we could get him to care about coloring in the lines, cutting out things with more care, and not talking back when he doesn't want to do something, she'd appreciate it.   Could that guy who wrote, "Everything I need to know I learned in Kindergarten," actually have been right?

5.  Jay ran 29 miles today.  29.  I am married to a machine.

6.  Because Jay had the day off today (thus the time to run 29 miles because that is apparently what a machine does on a day off), he had the boys for the after-school slew of activities:  piano lessons and soccer. I had a little over an hour to kill before Young Womens started and, rather than going home, I went to the library and to get some dinner in town.  I really, really didn't want fast food so I opted for Applebees.  Is it weird that I find chain food comforting at times?  My cute, small mountain towns abhors chain restaurants and, other than Applebees and fast food, there are none so I kind of consider it a treat when I get to go.  The thought did cross my mind that it wasn't a typical table-for-one kind of restaurant, but I had a hankering for the Oriental Chicken Salad so didn't let that small fear dissuade me from entering.  When I told the hostess it was, "just me," she responded with WAY more sympathy than was required.  "What?  Just one?  No one else coming?  Well...O.K."    Really?  Is solitary restaurant eating really that unheard of?  I have to say I loved it.  No spills.  No complaining.  No cutting of food.  Just me and my salad.

7.  Of course, having only a salad in front of me left me open to all kinds of people watching.  Seated just on the opposite side of the half-wall that separated us was a combined group of a man, two women and about seven kids.  I never could figure out who belonged to who or what the celebration was (several of the children were wearing mardi-gras type beads) but I watched the middle-aged man (probably slightly older than me.  Looked forty-ish) possessively touch the woman he was seated next to, who I assume was his wife as they were both wearing rings, on the thigh through the entire meal.  He was even eating a sandwich...some kind of melt, and that takes skills.  Usually two hands.  I thought about his need to touch her while eating and I surmised that the older children in the group couldn't be theirs.  His or hers but probably not genetically theirs because, and this is sad thinking, people who have been married long enough to have children that old do not feel the need to touch throughout a meal, especially when eating a tricky layered sandwich.  The hand-on-thigh wasn't the only clue.  She seemed much younger.  They kissed at least three times.  Mind you, this is at Applebees.  Not some candlelit romantic restaurant.  I hope I'm not being overly cynical.  Jay and I went to the movies last Friday night and we totally held hands.  Fifteen years of marriage and we're still willing and able to touch in public.  The spark isn't gone.  But....I'm about a thousand percent certain that had that date been at Applebees, with our children and a few extras, there would have been no thigh caressing.  I'm just saying it's unlikely.

8.  I went to an art gallery for Young Women's tonight.  I know nothing about art.  The pieces on display were really spectacular, especially with the inside information given by our tour guide.  There is always something about being around art, or seeing what other people can create that leaves me a bit depressed.  I think of all the people of the world I envy and the talents I covet, that ability to create beautiful things with your own hands ranks near the top.  I appreciate the ability to sing and read with a critical eye but if I could wish for a talent, I'm pretty sure I'd wish for artistic skills.  It could be anything.  I saw amazing woodturning and jewelry sculpting tonight.  The paintings were spectacular.  There was an artist that painted glass and turned them into intricate lamps.  That'd be o.k. with me too.  Sigh.

9.  I had the best cup of warm apple cider afterward (or is it afterwards, Mom?  I don't get the squiggly green line with either so I don't know which is right!)  It is happiness in a paper cup.  Yummy.

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?

Hot Air Ballooning

I’ve decided to try and fill in the many, many, many blank spaces missing from my blog last year. I am sad I didn’t try to capture more day-to-day moments on camera, but in light of playing catch up, it’s probably best that I really only have pictures of some of the bigger events.  I plan to post in no chronological order, just as the mood strikes and I find the pictures I need.

For Christmas LAST year,  a few sisters and I bought my mom a ride in a hot air balloon during the Albuquerque Fiesta Balloon Festival.  It is the largest hot air balloon festival in North America and my mom had put riding in one of the balloons on her bucket list.  I got myself a ticket too.

She, in turn, bought our dad a ticket to ride for his birthday in May.  It wasn’t until they sent a reminder email in early September that I read the fine print and in large, bold letters, it stated that under no circumstance would pregnant or could-be pregnant woman ride.  Had I not been gigantically pregnant, I may have challenged their fetus-carrying discrimination but figured maybe it was in my and the baby’s best interest not to ride.  My sister, Sarah, got my ticket for her birthday.  Gotta love the ability to regift.

Once October 4th came, there were health problems and weather problems and it was almost a no-go but they ultimately got cleared for take off.  It was beautiful to watch and I think all three enjoyed their hour up in the air.  My dad had two hernias that had been bothering him for awhile and standing for that long really aggravated his pain but he still says he’s glad he did it.

They all said it was surprisingly peaceful.  Very quiet.  I hope to go sometime.

We had to arrive very early in the morning.  At 5:45, I think.  We had no idea where we were going so it was good we got there as early as we did because it took us a good half hour to find the right booth.

Then, with the weather being what it was, we had to wait and wait and wait.

Will they go up or won’t they?

My dad in his happy place: talking to complete strangers.

The balloon gets some air.  They aren’t actually doing anything helpful.  It’s just a photo op.

Cute ballooners in the morning sun.

I love my mom and her adventurous spirit.

I love this natural happy look too.

Sarah is ready to go.

Waving goodbye to the pregnant lady stuck on the ground.

Lifting off

Going over my head.

What their balloon looked like.

A cute balloon.

 They lift off in waves.  It’s quite a site.

Pink elephants on parade.

Next time!!!