Real Life 101

This Post is Worth 6,082 Words

I have eight days left of maternity leave and I intend to spend it sitting on my ass and watching TV (in between nursing, laundry, dishes, cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, entertaining a two-year-old, changing diapers ... on second thought, maybe I'll just go back to work tomorrow). Anyway, I am going to post the birth story. Someday. Right now, though, I am taking a bit of a break from the computer. In the mean time, I hope you enjoy the pictures!

He's Here. Finally!

Lucas Mason screamed his way into the world on Tuesday, August 22nd at 3:09 p.m., after a whole nine minutes of pushing.

What my body lacks in the "going into labor without medical assistance" department it more than makes up for in the pushing department!

He is 8 pounds, 4 ounces and 22 inches long. Oh, and incredibly handsome (if I may say so)!

After I've had a chance to get more than 20 minutes of consecutive sleep I will update you on the details.

What? Were you expecting a birth announcement?

40 weeks, 5 days, and counting …

The bags are packed.

The cradle is assembled.

The onesies are washed.

The car seat is installed.

The diapers have been purchased.

The room is ready.

My husband has threatened to take the phone off the hook.

My mother-in-law has been reprimanded (and has taken to calling my parents for updates instead).

Christopher is starting to think that this ‘baby’ thing is all just a hoax.

I am starting to think he may be right.

The induction has been scheduled for Monday.

And then moved to Tuesday (because, what the hell, what’s another day at this point?).

I have begun to seriously consider downing a bottle of castor oil.

Any time now, kid … (except for the middle of the night. I really don’t want to go into labor at 3 a.m. … so any reasonable hour now, kid!)

39w, 6d

After spending an hour and a half in the waiting room, my doctor so kindly informed me that not a damn thing has changed since the week prior, when I also spent an hour and a half in the waiting room to find out that not a damn thing had changed since the week prior, when … Rinse and repeat.

Since 36 weeks I have been, and apparently will be remaining for all of eternity, 1 centimeter dilated and 50% effaced. I have also spent roughly 63.5% of my time over the last four weeks sitting in my doctor’s waiting room. On the upside, I am all caught up on my celebrity gossip, having read every People magazine published since January 1985. I am a one-woman expert on the ups and downs of Britney’s love life. Go ahead, quiz me.

If I don’t go into labor by next week I will punch someone in the face I will go to the hospital on Monday for an NST and an ultrasound and be put on the induction schedule for the 21^st. By that time I will also very likely have murdered my mother-in-law for calling AGAIN to check and see if I’m in labor yet. Because she has to run to the grocery store and doesn’t want to miss the call. But she will have her cell phone on just in case. So if something happens within the next hour call her on her cell phone. But if it’s over an hour from now call her at home. But if she doesn’t answer the home phone don’t leave a message, just in case she doesn’t get it. In that case, try her cell phone ….  

The woman is totally serious. I am to remember these instructions and not be distracted by other things, like the fact that I’M IN LABOR!!! I will plead temporary insanity. I am sure that the jury will be sympathetic.

Despite the numerous times a day that I threaten to kill someone if this baby is not born soon, and all of my complaining about the constant peeing and the bladder-and-lung-crushing Braxton-Hicks and the excruciating pelvic pressure that I experience each time this child decides to head-butt me in the cervix and the … where was I going with this? Oh yeah, I am actually going to miss being pregnant. For one thing, there’s the boobs. By this I mean that I actually have some. I still wear my old B-cups, but now they are filled with something other than multiple layers of synthetic padding. And my skin, it glows. My complexion actually has a subtle hint of non-artificial color. Until they come up with a way to bottle this stuff (‘Oil of Olay, Now with Estrogen!’ ??) it looks like I will soon go back to looking like Powder.

Also, my freak out about having a newborn in the house again has subsided. In the last week, Christopher has taken to getting out of bed approximately five times a night, beginning somewhere around 2:30 in the morning, and trying to weasel his way into our bed. Combine that with my every-hour-on-the-hour trips to the bathroom and I’m getting, oh, about 45 minutes of sleep per night. What’s a few middle of the night feedings throw on top of it? Hell, I’m already up. And the breastfeeding also means that I get to keep the boobs for a little while longer, so there’s that. And how could I forget? Margaritas!!

Oh, and a new baby, of course!  

In the Home Stretch

My parents, two of my sisters, and my in-laws are all out of state for the week on assorted vacations and whatnot. The fact that I haven’t yet gone into labor in the middle of the night, scrambling for a babysitter, a dog-sitter, trying to remember what the hell I’m supposed to pack in my suitcase, and screaming at my husband to find and install the infant carseat that is hiding somewhere in that mess that we call an attic (because seriously, did I not tell him to do that weeks ago?), all the while trying to breathe through contractions, is amazing to me. Karma must be sleeping on the job because it’s not scientifically possible for us to be more unprepared at this moment.

Technically I have two and a half weeks left to go and I intend to procrastinate up until the last possible second. Physically I feel great, considering that it’s ninety-plus degrees out, I’m hauling around the extra weight of three or four small human beings, and the amount of ice cream that I consume on a daily basis is going to land me in a twelve-step program*. Sure, I get out breath if I blink too much and there are those days when the pressure in my pelvis is so bad that I can’t stand up straight because (and this is a direct quote from my doctor) “those muscles just aren’t what they used to be, you know”. But, really, I can’t complain. Although I do. Hey, I have two and a half weeks to take advantage of other peoples’ inherent need to pamper pregnant women and wait on them hand and foot. I intend to take full advantage. Don’t judge.

*Seriously, I found this at the grocery store the other day. I now have to hide it from my two-year old because mommy is not willing to share.

In other news, we finally got around to taking a few belly shots. When you impulsively spend $900 on a new camera that you really didn’t need (you know, because you already have, like, four other cameras) it sometimes helps to justify the purchase by taking some actual photographs. Please forgive the stupid camera angle. My husband, he was being “creative”.

Also! The four-plus-month painting project that is Christopher’s “big boy” room is now officially complete. Curtains (finally) arrived, pictures hung, furniture assembled, closet doors in place. I have even made my peace with Ikea and forgiven the cabinet fiasco. Christopher has been sleeping in his big boy bed for a month or two now. The key word in that last sentence being “sleeping”. 7 PM to 6 AM. Without a two hour crying jag. Without bargaining and begging and protesting. Just sleeping. At last! Or at least for the next two and a half weeks.

 

Countdown

There are some limitations of having a not-so-anonymous personal journal out on the internet for all the world (or at least 5 random people) to read. For example, one must restrain themselves from dishing about their summer vacation with their capital C, Crazy, in-laws. And really, if all those stories are off-limits, what is left to tell? Stories about the weather? It rained, and then it was nice (if not a bit windy), and then it rained again. The end. Or how about the day that I forgot to put sunscreen on my legs and ended up with a burn so bad that I could hardly walk? That was fun. That was also Monday, which made the rest of my beach vacation exponentially more enjoyable.

See? Not exactly captivating tales. Oh, but if I could tell you about the night that my mother-in-law … or my father-in-law’s … Damn you, internet. Alas, we had a nice time. Also, I happened to have suffered from a bout of the Crazy myself about a week or two before we left and, on a financially irresponsible whim, purchased this. The credit card bill has yet to arrive in the mail so I am still, at this moment, blissfully in love. And as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, so at least it will save me from having to spew mind-numbing, weather related narratives about my vacation. Instead, you can just check out the photos.

Moving on …

I am due in approximately four weeks and I am … apprehensive? Anxious? Fucking terrified? Before Christopher was born my concerns were mainly: Is this going to hurt? And also, how badly is this going to hurt? I never really gave much thought to the stitches and the ice packs and the hemorrhoids and the nerve-racking list of possible ailments that could befall my newborn and the tedium of the endless feeding/changing/sleeping cycle and the months of leaky, swollen breasts and the sleeplessness and the pumping and trying to lose the weight and (holy fucking ouch) ever having sex again.

I love my son more than anything. I have loved watching him grow and change and (most importantly) become increasingly independent. Two is an amazing age. He can walk and talk and put on his own shoes and feed himself and explicitly tell me that he wants his milk in the blue cup, not the red one, rather than just screaming nonsense and hurling the cup at my head. Sometimes. Granted, toddlerdom is not all rainbows and fairies. There are many days when I want to run away from home, pierce my own eardrums, or scream ‘Oh, for the love of God, JUST LET ME DO IT!!’ because, really, who has fifteen minutes to spare watching a two year-old try to put on his own pants? And then there’s potty training. But let’s just say that, overall, two has been my favorite age thus far.

The thought of starting from scratch with a whole new person is overwhelming. Perhaps I will feel differently once this baby is born. Or, perhaps, in the next four weeks, medical science will come up with a way for women to give birth to one year-olds.

Sun, Fun, and Sand. Only without the sun. And very possibly the fun.

In less than twenty-four hours we depart for our Annual Summer Beach Vacation with Michael’s family. The forecast is calling for at least ten straight days of thunderstorms and temperatures that don’t reach above seventy-two. Hurrah! Nothing like spending an entire week trapped indoors with three small children and a father-in-law who watches nothing on TV other than 24/7 sports. Have I mentioned that I can’t drink? Not even one gallon bottle glass of wine? Awesome!

On the upside, my fellow beachgoers will be spared the sight of my 33-week pregnant form in a bathing suit, in all of its pasty and oversized glory.

This road trip is also our first opportunity to use the portable DVD player that my mother-in-law bought for Christopher for his second birthday. You know, one of those models that straps to the back of the headrest? One of those things that I swore I’d never have because, damn it, children should learn to entertain themselves? What’s wrong with a little boredom and some casual conversation?

I will tell you: The sheer volume of verbal minutiae that can come out a toddler’s mouth in the ten minutes that it takes to run to the grocery store and back (nevermind a four-hour trip to another state) is infinitely more than one reasonable and sane adult can be expected to handle.

“I want go THAT way!”

“Well, the store is this way. We will go that way later.”

“We go grocery store?”

“Yes.”

“I ride in race car*?”

“Yes.”

“Where we going?”

“The grocery store.”

“Grocery store THAT way!!”

“No, it’s this way.”

“I want ride in race car.”

”Okay. When we get there you can ride in the race car.”

“Where grocery store?”

“THIS way. We’re on our way.”

“No! THAT way! You buy me orange juice at grocery store?”

“Yes.”

“I want donuts at grocery store.”

“Okay.”

“I want ride in race car.”

“Race car. Donuts. Orange juice. GOT IT! Can we be quiet now?”

“NO! I WANT TALK! … We go grocery store?”

Repeat 452 times.

* This conversation can take a horrible turn for the worse if, God forbid, we are going to a store that does not have race car shopping carts. Even worse? If they have them but they’re all taken. In this scenario I have been sorely tempted to just abandon the trip all together, turn around and go home.

So my objections to the constant multi-media bombardment of small, developing minds (and to candy, and donuts, and McDonalds, and bribery, and juice boxes, and an overabundance of toys, etc., etc. … Really, I should have made a list. Just so I could look back and mock my naïve, childless self.)? Totally out the window.

In-car DVD player, I welcome you into my life with open arms!

I hope it lives up to my expectations. I also hope that I don’t get stuck driving while my husband sits in the back seat and tries to convince Christopher that we forgot Thomas the Tank Engine at home, but look! We have Star Wars! And The Office, Season II! They’re just as good as Thomas. Really!

The No-Nap Sleep Solution

In the never-ending quest to close the book on Project Get This Goddamned Child To Go To Sleep  Already. Please, God! we have come up with solution #901: No More Naps.

We think this might be The One. Yes, it’s true, we thought we had solved this problem with Solution #752: A Bottle and Two Books.

That worked for about a week. Then there was the revised version, Solution #812: Two Books, A Small Cup of Water and a Lullaby CD. Eventually this evolved into Two Books, A Small Cup of Water, a Lullaby CD, and a Two Hour Screaming Fit Complete with Houdini-Like Escape from the Crib. We thought we had embarked on the Holy Grail of solutions when we took the front rail off of his crib and replaced it with the toddler rail and all of a sudden, thrilled with the ability to get in and out of his crib as he pleased, bedtime became much less dramatic. I believe that I even went as far as calling it “easy”.

Seriously, that was stupid.

See, we failed to realize that once he could get in and out of his crib as he pleased he would GET IN AND OUT OF HIS CRIB. NON-STOP.

At first he only got up once in a while. We would find him watching TV in our bed or asleep in the upstairs hallway or turning up the volume on his CD layer until Brahm’s Lullaby could be heard three states away. Sometimes I would get up to pee at three in the morning only to have the ever-loving shit scared out of me after tripping over a small body lying at the foot of my bed. Getting out of bed “once in a while” quickly escalated to “every night, approximately ten seconds after we’d tuck him in and leave his room”. He’d demand one more book or one more cup of water. He’d want to be rocked in the rocking chair.  He’d want to sleep in our bed.

Let me pause here to tell you something very important: I am weak. Oh, sure, I had envisioned myself as a take-no-bullshit type of parent. I’ve seen Nanny 911, and Dr. Phil, and enough re-runs of The Osbournes to scare me straight. I was not about to be pushed around by someone who still peed in his pants on a regular basis.

But then one night it happens. I’m trying to watch something very important, like American Idol, and this kid won’t stop whining. I get him a cup of water. I rock him in the rocking chair. Oh, fine, whatever. I let him come into my bed. Just for ten minutes. Okay, twenty.

Fast forward a month. Michael and Christopher are sleeping soundly, sprawled across our king sized bed, while Juan, my new lover in the form of a body pillow, and I have been forcefully relocated to the right-most half inch of the bed to sleep. Only I don’t actually get any sleep due to the near-constant need to pee, the intermittent kicks to the back, and the occasional elbow to the boob from the cute-but-impossible-to-sleep-with two-year-old who has recently repositioned himself on top of my hair. 

And then the obvious dawned on me: come August, either this shit has to stop or this new baby and I are going to need our own room, preferably at a spa somewhere in southern California.

It was time to do the unthinkable: We took away Christopher’s nap. To be honest, naptime only resulted in an actual nap about 30% of the time and come bedtime the child clearly wasn’t tired, but I argued and pleaded and maybe even cried a little, because I just want ready to say goodbye to the possibility of a nap forever. It was all Michael’s idea and I’m still a bit bitter because he was right. Also because he gets to go to work while I’m left to fill ten hours of non-stop toddler time with fun and engaging activities. There are only so many times that a grown woman can play Thomas or read Digger Man in a ten hour period without losing her mind. Those two or three hours in the middle of the day were a much needed break, even if most of the time they were spent running up and down the stairs and yelling, “Are you kidding me? Get back in your damn bed. It’s naptime!!”

He now goes to sleep at 7. I won’t gush about how well it’s going because then I’ll have to stick my foot in my mouth and call myself an asshole when it all goes to shit in a week or two because, if we’ve learned anything throughout this process, it’s that everything works temporarily (See: Solutions 1 -900) but nothing works permanently.

I still mourn the loss of the nap but Christopher has managed to find some new friends to help get us through the mid-day slump: Barney and Poe and Lala and … oh, hell, I don’t know all of their names. I don’t even care. I’m just happy to have my two hours back.

So explain to me how I used to do this blogging thing again ...

Apparently one of the lesser known side effects of pregnancy is writer’s block because I cannot come up with a single original or entertaining thought to write here. Have you noticed?

In lieu of originality or entertainment I thought I’d provide you with some long unanswered Q&A.

Q: Do you know what you’re having?

A: Yes. We’re pretty sure it’s a baby.

Ok, so no one seems to find that as amusing as I do.

We didn’t find out with Christopher and when I tell people that we have no plans to find out with this baby either I get one of two responses:

“Oh, you’re so patient. I could NEVER wait the whole nine months. I’m going to find out/I found out as soon as possible.”

Fair enough. I’m all about instant gratification and planning so I understand the impulse. But, also? What did people do before there were ultrasounds?

And then there’s this one (usually from the older crowd):

“Oh, that’s great. There aren’t very many true surprises left in life. Everyone finds out right away these days. I think it’s so nice that you’re waiting.”

Yes, I also love the surprise. On the other hand, this response always makes me feel a wee bit guilty because I’m TOTALLY LYING to the person. We know exactly what we’re having because we’re weak, weak people and we caved during the ultrasound (after driving the tech absolutely nuts with an endless discussion of “Should we? Shouldn’t we?” until I’m pretty sure that she was ready to scream, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut the hell up already!! It’s a _____!! Now get out! GET OUT!” right before hurling that wand-thingie at our heads.)

Alas, we’re keeping the fact that we know a secret for now. I have no idea why, really. We had planned on telling but then so many people praised us for waiting, and of course we had no choice but to agree with them (“Yes, yes we are wonderfully patient people. No, we would never want to ruin a surprise like that”), so now we can either look like assholes (“Well, actually, you see, we are NOT wonderfully patient people. We are LIARS! Also, we love to ruin surprises!”), or continue to perpetuate this vicious cycle of lies and hide away our secret stash of little blue (or pink?) onesies in a box up in the attic until August.

Q: Where are the pictures of your belly?

A: Pictures? Of my belly? My pregnant belly? I have some bikini shots from my vacation to Aruba in the 11^th grade. I’d much rather show you those. You’d much rather see those. Trust me.

Truth is I don’t have any. When I was pregnant with Christopher I chronicled every stage and milestone, read him stories, played him music, did prenatal yoga, and took regular pictures of my rapidly blossoming belly. Not so much with this pregnancy. Not at all, actually. The only similarities between this pregnancy and the last one are the heartburn and the unnatural rate at which my ass is expanding.

I don’t think I even have a single picture of me visibly pregnant this time around. Oh, sure, it’s on the to-do list. Somewhere between “wash kitchen floor” and “win lottery” in the “Things That Will Probably Never Happen” section. Partly to blame for the lack of photos is the fact that Michael has been banned from ever operating camera equipment again. This leaves Christopher, who has not quite yet mastered an acceptable point-and-shoot technique (although it IS better than his father’s).

But let’s pretend that we took a few photos, shall we? I am currently about 29 weeks, which means I look something like this but am quickly approaching this. With a little PhotoShop and some luck this kid will never know that that’s really his (or her?) big brother in there.

Regularly Scheduled Monthly Update

So, I was just thinking, You know what I haven’t done in a really long time?

Update this blog? Change out of my one pair of maternity jeans? Yes and yes. But also, wash my floors. And then in walks Christopher with an empty sippy cup, which he hands to me and remarks, “Mama, I all done juice!” [Pauses as a big I’ve-done-something-bad-and-you’re-probably-going-to-want-to-kill-me-but-Look!-Look-how-damn-cute-I-am!-It’s-hard-to-kill-me-when-I’m-this-cute!-grin crosses his face] “I SHAKE IT!!”

ENTIRE. Living. Room. Showered. In. Orange. Juice.

Cute-(wet)-and-still-alive-but-definitely-in-trouble-toddler in never-ending time-out.

Floors? Well, no excuse not to wash them now. Twice.

So, as long as I’m knocking things off of the to-do list, what’s up? How have you been?

If you’ve emailed me or had left a comment that I’d normally reply to or have asked me a question in the last few months, let me tell you something that you’ve probably already figured out by now: I never got back to you. You see, there was this thing, and then this other thing, and then that came up and then … well, I got busy. I’m sorry! Let’s focus on the positive…

The laundry room? IS DONE!! (99.9 % at least – I still have to hem and hang the curtains. This will get done circa 2008 so we are letting that last .01% slide for now). In my husband’s defense it has been 98% done for some time now but those last finishing touches (like putting the knobs on the cabinets so that I can open them) seem to take forever. Anyway, it no longer looks  like  this . Photos are down there on the right somewhere, if you’re interested.

This pregnancy? Progressing along perfectly, although much more quickly than I remember from the last time. I am 23 weeks, but I confess that I had to look that up. Often when asked my due date or how far along I am I look at the person blankly before remembering, Oh, yes, I’m pregnant. Well, that would explain the heartburn and the reason I’ve been wearing these jeans for fifty-two days straight! And then I start counting on my fingers, give up and just blurt out some random number because, honestly, I lost track a long time ago. I am too preoccupied with work and showers and weddings and home improvement projects and holidays and birthdays and a two-year-old who just refuses to stop talking, just for one second, so that I can think. When did he go from the occasional “mama” and “dada” to non-stop 24/7 verbal diarrhea?

Christopher’s favorite phrases as of late include, “I want it”, “I need it”, “I found it”, and “I did it” as well as the ever popular, “I DO IT MYSELF!” He has opinions on what he wants to drink, what cup his drink of choice should go in AND what color top should go on the cup. God forbid I put the blue top on his milk when he wanted the red one … the tears, the pouting, the drama! He wants to dress himself and pick out his own shoes, as well as mine, and many mornings have left me contemplating whether I should just do as he says and put on the snow boots with my t-shirt and jeans or endure the protests while I slide on my flip-flops and lecture my toddler on the finer points of accessorizing.

We are also getting ready to move him into his “big boy” room. Or, in other words, we are kicking him out of the nursery to make room for the new baby. The first of the many, many hand-me-downs to be bestowed on this poor second child. Christopher will be getting the room adjacent to the nursery. All we have to do now is paint it, buy furniture, decorate it … hopefully it will be ready sometime before he’s eight. I’ve picked out the linens and purchased the paint, which is significant progress considering our track record for getting things done in a timely fashion. The main goal right now is to paint to the walls before Christopher finds the paint can and decides to do some redecorating himself.