This.

This. When you've bought the boys a Happy Meal because you didn't have time to get them dinner at home because somebody thought karate for a five year old at 5:30 in the evening was a good idea and then when you get to the karate place, the three year old is completely over his fast food and wants even faster food from the vending machine. Because,

"But I neeeeeeed dessert!"

This. When your three year old never hears you tell him that it's time to eat his lunch, get his shoes, clean up the toys, wash his hands, buckle his carseat, leave the library, come inside, quit touching his brother, wipe his bottom, put his clothes back on, turn off the TV, play outside, take a bath, or leave the dogs alone, but then when you think he's heard nothing you've ever said in the world, he tells the nice lady handing him a sticker at the store that happened to not be the sticker he wanted the one thing you wish he had never heard,

"Dammit."

This. When the boys are so tired of being at home together that you get them suited up, sunscreened down, snacks packed, floaties inflated, water bottles cooled, bag loaded, helmets secured, bikes mounted, and you head to the pool the minute it opens. Then you when you arrive, ready to let them burn off their energy with all the other children there,

"Don't touch him! That's my brother! I'm playing with my brother!"

And no one else in the world will do.

Turning "no" into a flight home

By Sunday, I was really ready to come home. There were things I wanted to do - an invitation to the Art Institute or a sightseeing cruise - but when it all came down, I just wanted to see my boys before they went to bed that night.

Unfortunately, my flight didn't get in until 10:00 PM. They would have been asleep for hours.

Having used up every ounce of fabricated extrovertedness I could muster anyhow, I packed my bags and headed to the airport. I took a taxi to the train station and the train to O'Hare. It cost me around $10, mainly because I ridiculously over tip cab drivers.

My first stop was the American Airlines self check in. "I would like to catch an earlier flight home. Can you help me?" I asked.

"No, but you can do that on the self serve kiosk behind you."

"No" number one.

I move to the kiosk and begin typing in all of my information. The kiosk informs me that there are no seats available for an earlier flight.

"No" number two.

There is an American employee standing beside the kiosk, so I smile and ask her if I there is another option to finding an earlier flight home. She shakes her head and told me that the people at the desk have the same information as the kiosk.

"No" number three.

At this point, I was checked in for my late flight home, and I still had four hours to kill. I went and stood in line at the main American counters.

When it was my turn, I stepped up to the man behind the counter and said very calmly, "I would really like to get home sooner, can you help me get on an earlier flight? I know the kiosk said there wasn't anything, but I was hoping you might be able to help me."

He said he would try and began plucking away at the keyboard of his computer. No weather delays. Lots of standby passengers already. There was nothing he could do.

"No" number four.

I asked him what gate the next flight to Raleigh would be using, and he told me. He said I could ask the gate agent, but there wouldn't be anything for them to tell me.

After I made it through a very slow security line, I found the gate with the plane leaving for Raleigh.

FINAL BOARDING CALL the sign blinked above the desk.

I stepped up and smiled at an incredibly tired looking attendant.

"Yes? Do you need something?" she asked.

Pulling out my calm smile once again, I told her that I had hoped that she could get me on this flight to go home. I really just want to go home.

Sigh. "I have too many standby passengers as it is. I'm not putting you on my standby list."

"No" number five.

I smiled and raised my eyebrows at her.

Sigh. "I guess you can wait there and see."

I replied, "I've got nothing but time. Thank you so much."

She went through her remaining list of standby passengers. One by one they boarded the plane. Finally, she turned to me and said, "I guess I can take you, but it will be $75."

"Wonderful," I said. "I could just hug you, although that would be inappropriate."

A quick scan of my card (justified by not spending the money on the cruise or a cab home later that night) and an even quicker text to Kevin to tell him I was on my way, and I boarded the plane with not one, but two seats to myself. Ninety minutes later, I was landing in Raleigh and hugging my boys.

Turns out, they even delivered my luggage to me the next day instead of making me come back to the airport and pick it up. I did a lot of smiling at that guy too.

There are so many times when I'm told "no," and I just give up. It doesn't seem worth arguing or fighting back. Of course, this time I didn't argue, and I didn't fight. I just kept smiling and asking the question in a different way to a different person.

And come to find out, "no no no no no" in American Airlines vocabulary? Actually means "yes."

Mother Daughter

I am not her mother.

She is my sons' sister. She is my husband's daughter. I cannot claim her.

I am not her mother.

She is her own person. She is smart. She is talented. She is kind. I passed no genes to her.

I am not her mother, but she is my daughter.

A child of my heart. I love her with the love I have for her brothers. When she leaves, I feel part of our family slipping away, leaving a huge hole where she belongs. When she is here, I curse her teachers for giving her so much homework that she can't spend time with me in the evenings, and I simultaneously burst with pride that she is so conscious of her work on her own.

So I take her M'n'M's to munch on while she studies. I make her a sandwich to take for lunch. I try to remember to get her brothers' things out of her bathroom and make sure they stay out of her room.

It's not much. I'm sure she doesn't know how much I love her. I'm positive she doesn't know how much I'm going to miss her when she goes to college in a little over a year.

I've kept my distance. It is so important that she have a good relationship with her mother. A child needs that. I want her to always have that.

But can it be time for her to know that we are also parent and child? Stepmama and stepdaughter. Family. Friends.

Before she is gone, I want her to know that she can always come back. We will always be here for her, waiting for hugs, playdoh, coloring, TV marathons, family movie nights, and brownie baking.

I want her to know that I love her, and that even though I am not her mother, she is my daughter. My only, quite perfect, daughter.

It won't because she was sweet

My Aunt May is dying. She is 94 years old and has been in a nursing home for a few years. She is the last of the Carter siblings for whom my oldest son is named. She is a fireball. She is strong. She is smart. And now, it is her time to go.

Over the past few years, I've experienced death in many different ways. My grandmother had Alzheimer's and experienced a very slow and difficult decline. She was the first family member or friend that I lost. I was sad but not destroyed.

My other grandmother, Honey, moved to California with my parents when she was around 90. I didn't get to see her much or talk to her in her last years. She was 97 when she died. She died in much the same way that her sister, my Aunt May, is going. She was just worn out of living. Again, I was sad - I lost a great champion in Honey. She believed that I was as close to perfect as God ever made, and I loved her dearly for her belief in me and the strength she taught me.

Next to go was my grandfather. He was one of my dearest friends. It was the first loss that sent me to the floor, knees buckled, tears streaming, and actual physical grief coming forth with no way for me to control it. He told me that he didn't want to go just days before he died. I didn't want him to go either. I was pissed off at God for a long time even though Granddaddy was 94 when he died. It wasn't exactly a surprise

Then, my daddy got sick. So very sick. Parkinson's and dementia took him slowly and cruelly. He died in February of 2011, and I felt relief. I felt relief for him and for my mother who was his primary care giver in spite of her ongoing battle with ovarian cancer. I missed my daddy for a long time before he died. I mourned his death, and I still miss him now, but again, I managed.

What came next was completely different. 364 days after my daddy died, my best friend, my soul sister, my person, she died. Gone. Left this world. Left her husband, her kids, her parents, her brother, and her friends. Some days I'm so angry. Most days I'm just sad. Often it feels like we are all just kind of standing still, holding our breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Susan is gone. What happens next?

What in the world are we all supposed to do now?

It's like that when someone young dies. You don't exactly make long term plans with your daddy who has a degenerative disease or with your 97 year old grandmother. But with your best friend of decades? You plan things. You plan trips. You plan things for your boys. You plan retirement. You dream together because you are peers. I can't imagine the plans that she had with her family.

What do you do with all of those plans?

I know I have to let it go. I have to send it down the stream.

It's just not that easy.

*******************************************************
Kevin and I made a trip down to Georgia for him to meet my relatives there. They are awesome people, and I wanted him to spend a little time with them. His favorite story to tell from that trip is about meeting Aunt May. We got to talking about my grandmother, May's older sister, and her nickname, "Honey." Kevin asked Aunt May why we all called my grandmother "Honey," and Aunt May replied without a moment's hesitation,

"Well it won't because she was sweet."

I love that woman. Thank you, Aunt May, for all you did in helping raise my momma to be the woman she is today. I wish you peace and comfort.

Next

What am I doing here? Not blogging, that's one thing.

I'm healing. Still hurting. Mostly living. Getting help. Finding help for my heart and my boys. Swimming. Working. Sewing. Cooking. Losing weight. Chauffeuring. Vacationing. Hiking. Trying to reconnect with people I adore and miss and have been shutting out.

Considering what comes next.

Nothing makes me miss Susan more than opening blogs. I'm not sure I want to do it without her anymore.

And yet, in a few weeks, I'll be flying up to New York City to attend another BlogHer convention.

What exactly am I doing?

I miss writing. But more than that, I miss knowing that she's reading.

Coming out of the dark

I haven't written much this year, and in a way, that tells you all you need to know. I've turned inward a little too much I suppose, but it's what I've needed to get through the day to day.

To be honest, I haven't had a whole lot of positive things weighing on me. I feel like the house is too dirty, the boys watch too much TV, we eat out too much - all of the things I'm supposed to be taking care of, I feel like I'm not good enough.

I'll have spurts of competence. There will be weeks when I'm really good at keeping up with a meal plan, finishing the laundry, and staying on top of all the bills. Then, I'll sort of drift off into some place where my family and friends can't find me. Some place where I try to heal myself.

The other day, when I was having my annual at the Birth Center, the nurse told me she really wanted me to add in some therapy to my Zoloft prescription. I told her that right now was not the time for talking. Right now was the time for getting through day to day. If I had to talk about it too? Well, forget it.

Sounds all doom and gloom, doesn't it? It's not. There is just a lot of sadness mixed in with the happy. I have a lot to be happy about, and you can consider that the understatement of the year.

So, my goal for the rest of 2012, is to write about some of those things. I know for a fact that I need to find my way out of my shell, and if I'm not going to talk my way out, then I can certainly start writing my way out.

I've got 17 days left and many more than 17 things I could list. This should be easy, right?

She'll be coming around the mountain

Momma comes tomorrow. Ever since last Thursday, I've been going through my days thinking, "This time next week, Momma and I can do [this] together."

To say I'm excited is an understatement.

It will, however, be the first time I've been with just Momma.

There will be the freedom to do whatever we want to whenever we want to without having to worry about Daddy as a prisoner to Parkinson's.

There will be the emptiness of not getting to sit with him. Not getting to see Christopher snuggled up next to him. Not being able to introduce him to Colin as a full on toddler and the funniest member of the family.

To say I'm heartbroken is another understatement.

I want to see my daddy too. Ever since February, I've been here, just like always. I haven't lived in the same state as my parents for twelve years. It's not like I saw them all the time. So for me, it's been easy to just imagine that Momma and Daddy are carrying on like they always were, and that I would see them again soon.

Tomorrow, I will see Momma. Just Momma. I'm so happy she is coming. I'm so happy that we will get to spend just us time. It's going to be awesome. It's just that it's going to be sad too.

I wish she had gotten here two days earlier to enjoy the leaves. She loves the colors of fall. Tonight, it will rain, and most of the leaves will be gone.

Today, a cooler arrived UPS. It contained her chemo for the next 10 days. Kind of surreal.

Tonight, I'm admitting that I always did the obsessive house cleaning for my daddy. Momma will have clean sheets and clean floors, but beyond that, I promise nothing.

Christopher has been waiting for tomorrow for what seems like forever. There seriously hasn't been a day that has gone by since I told him Nana was coming that he hasn't asked when she would get here. He is so very very excited.

We all are.

Bonus: tomorrow is her birthday.

A night out with winners

Tonight, we took our children to Chik-fil-a, dressed as cows, in order to get free food. Why no, we have no pride, thank you for asking.

Christopher cried because he didn't want to dress up like a cow. We just told him he was Sheriff Woody instead.

Colin rather liked dressing up like a cow and was enjoying himself until he projectile vomited nuggets, fruit, and chocolate milk all over himself, the high chair, and the cup I formed out of my hands to try and contain some of the toxic spill.

I wheeled him into the bathroom, still in the high chair, caught some additional puke, and stripped him down. After trying to clean the high chair as best I could, we mooooooved on out of there as quickly as possible, letting the nice girl up front know that they had a contaminated high chair in the ladies room.

Parents of the year.

But hey, dinner was free, so I'm marking it in the "win" column.

I am from

I am from peanut butter, from Nilla Wafers and powdered milk.

I am from the southern part of the South, dripping with humidity and hypocrisy, balancing redemption and restitution, forever pushing people away all while calling them to come back home.

I am from the chaise lounge in the forked branches, the climbable magnolia.

I am from Sunday dinners and slow talking, from a line of Tom's and Henry's and Suttle's without being it at all.

I am from love felt deeply, loud laughter, fiery anger, long grudges, and stubborn pride.

I am from how you get to Hell and how you get to Heaven.

I am from Presbyterians, serious and regimented. I am from the Book of Order. I am from committees, liturgy, and sacraments. From preachers and elders. From Sunday School teachers. I am from tight knit youth groups where friendships remain even after time unraveled the rest.

I am from Mississippi. I am from buttermilk biscuits and pound cake. BBQ ribs and vegetables fresh from the garden that grew in town behind my grandparents' house. From the busy road, you could catch a glimpse of country in a part of the city that had been so very developed. I am from the country stuck within the city.

I am from boxes stuffed with photographs, unordered and smudged. From CD's I won't listen to anymore. From songs I won't sing again.

I am from five sets of china and antiques battling for space within my home. I am from a wedding dress boxed up and passed down, a wedding dress worn and then forgotten, and a wedding dress still new, hanging clean in the bag, overlooked for eloping. I am from dress gloves and costume jewelry that I will never wear, but yet never let go.

I am from a pipe that stills smells a little like my grandfather. I know this because I still pull it out of the drawer and expectantly smell it every now and then. I am from cardigan sweaters that used to warm my Daddy when he stayed so very cold all of the time.

I am from joy and pain. Pride and shame. I am from all of this and so much more.

******************************************************************

Jennifer at Playgroups Are No Place for Children was the first place I saw this. Then today, Maggie at Magpie Musings wrote one as well. They are both beautiful writers, and I hesitated to join in - but the template (from the Campbell Folk School in North Carolina) is lovely and the results all so different. Schmutzie has also done it and is making a link-up. Come join in.

Backyard Discovery = Happy happy children

Two moderately skilled people. Twenty to twenty-four hours.

They weren't lying.

Kevin and I looked at dozens of swingsets, both assembled for you and assemble yourself. Being that our pennies are always pinched to the thinnest we can possibly pinch them, we quickly ended up only looking at build it yourself sets.

Last weekend, Kevin and I started building a swingset. Only it wasn't the swingset of my childhood: a metal a-frame with a metal slide that would give your bare thighs third degree burns in the coldest part of summer. Nope. This is a swingset on steroids. Big conifer steroids.

The most affordable option we found by far was on this website: http://swingsetsonline.com. I

thought surely something had to be off because their web address was so, well, generic. It wasn't

the name of the business, like Backyard Discovery, it was just swingsetsonline. For some reason,

even though I'm sure the search engines love it, and granted, I found them first through Google, I was just skeptical if they were a legitimate company or not.

Then, soon after we found a set on their website that we really liked, I stumbled upon a Tweet from Amy, otherwise known as Resourceful Mom. She was touting Backyard Discovery. She had one set at her old house and was getting ready for the delivery of a new set to her new house. As sparsely as I am on Twitter these days, I was pretty shocked that the exact information I needed just popped up in my stream.

A short Twitter conversation later, I was sold. She even had a coupon code for that month. Unfortunately, we didn't get to place our order before the code expired, but it was a nice thought (insert small amount of grumbling here).

Is this beginning to sound like a review? It's not. Just look at my About Me page to see how completely unmarketable I am. It's just what Kevin and I have been working towards the past couple of months. Literally 24 hours of work went into just the swingset, but holy cow, was it fun! It was like a giant set of Lincoln Logs with great instructions. We had the best time putting it together, together.

And now? We'll have the best time playing together, together outside. In our own backyard.

I am a happy happy mama. And Christopher finally doesn't have to ask every single morning when he wakes up, "Is my swingset ready yet?"

"Some Assembly Required" Hahahahahaha.

Laying out the plot plan. Lots and lots of labeled lumber.

That's where we were supposed to hang their sign. I figured this post is enough free advertising for them. We hung our own family name sign from Etsy.

Building the floor to the tunnel.

And the children play. Joy.

Don't eat the baby chickens

I don't write about Mallory much anymore because she's 14 and her own person. However, she has granted me permission to tell this one on her.

In the four years I've been cooking for Mallory, she has refused nothing. There are things she loves (chicken enchiladas) and things she would rather not have again (butter beans), but she has eaten everything. Even when I'm not cooking, she is game to trying anything. We took her out for sushi one night, not telling her what it was, and her only response?

"It's a little fishy."

She kills me.

On nights that Papa brings Mallory home, we have family dinner. Since the baby came (see how I say that like it was yesterday, not EIGHT months ago), I've been a little slack. So when I fond some organic cornish hens on sale, I thought they would be a nice change from the all pasta all the time. You know, fancy little tiny birds. Kinda creepy, kinda cute.

Everything was going swimmingly until somebody, I'm going to blame Papa because he doesn't do the internet, called it a "baby chicken."

And there it sat. The "baby chicken." Mallory wouldn't touch it.

To make it worse, Kevin made up songs about the baby chicken that included choreography from his baby chicken's carcass. She didn't eat a single bite.

It is, if you can believe it, the very first thing she has ever left on her plate untouched at my dinner table. And really, I can't say that I blame her.

They are a little creepy.

Certain, I think.

Today was my last appointment for this pregnancy and birth. The six week check up. I'm officially released into the wild again.

I am sad.

The thing is, I loved going to the Birth Center. I looked forward to my appointments and now they are over. I loved this journey of learning to trust my body and my baby. I loved the whole experience. And now with the help of Zoloft, I'm loving the postpartum period too.

I'm so happy with the way everything went and how everything is, I could be pooping rainbows.

Only now it's over.

I know what people will say. Nice people will reassure me that there might be another one. You never know what the future holds. Maybe you'll have one more. They will be trying to make me feel better.

The problem is, I know in my heart that we're done. It's not that we only wanted three children; truth be told, we would enjoy one or two more. There are so many things to consider though, the biggest of which is time.

Kevin and I didn't get married just so we could have kids. We got married because we love each other and because neither of us can think of another person we would rather spend time with. We got married because we love to walk together, cook together, travel together, make music together, go to concerts together, and 100 other things together. Selfishly, we would like to get back to some of those things as a couple before we turn 60. If that's going to happen (and we remain the kind of parents we want to be), we have to stop having kids.

Another issue with time is that Lovely is entering high school this year. That means in just four more years, she'll be heading to college. We want to be able to spend time with her. We want to go to the football games if she's in the marching band. We want to support her in whatever she chooses to do. A lot of what she'll be doing will take place at night, and right now, I would have to stay home with the boys. And taking a 3 year old to a piano recital? Not a good idea.

And still another time limitation is that I truly believe each child deserves some valuable one on one time with each parent during the week. Right now, and for the foreseeable future, Kevin works his hiney off. Between the amount of work he has to do and the commute, he is easily gone 50-60 hours a week and then still might have work to do from home. Add to that the never ending home addition, and you have a daddy whose time is stretched pretty thin as it is. Another child would likely mean someone's going to end up shortchanged.

I probably don't even have to mention our age. Neither of us are spring chickens, and by the time we would be ready to add another bambino to our clan, I would be 39 and Kevin would be 48. He wants to be able to keep up with his boys and be a fun, active dad. As do I (inserting "mom," of course). Watching him doing flips in the inflatable bounce house on Sunday, I marveled at his youth and called BS on his claim of being an old man. However, I respect the fact that he doesn't want to be 66 when his last kid graduates from high school. I get that.

I know I'm going to have to be talked down from the baby bug again and again. Shoot, even though we've planned on a permanent contraceptive procedure, I still brought home information on an IUD today. Just in case.

But really, I know. And really, I'm okay with it.

It says a lot about a place and the people that work there though, to have them make me want to have another baby just because they helped make the experience so wonderful. Thank you, WBWC. I love y'all more than you know.

Parkinson's brothers

Disclaimer: My family can be weird. Shut up. So can yours. Yes, I'm about to tell you that I read important family news on my mother's blog. It's better than when I read it on her Facebook page.

This morning I was catching up on some blog reading, including my momma's blog. It's a good thing I did, because I learned some big news. My uncle has Parkinson's. My father's little brother has been diagnosed with Parkinson's. Just like my father.

My first thought was how horrible that is for him. Just in general.

Then I jumped to how horrible it is that he has watched my father's plummeting decline for the past six years. He has a good idea of what is in store for himself, and it isn't pretty. I think this would be a case of ignorance being bliss.

Finally, I jumped to the selfish thoughts. About heredity and genetics. Two brothers hit with the same disease at almost the exact same time in their lives? My mind jumps to my twitching leg and my recently diagnosed depression. Is the anxiety I battle a precursor? Because I know my father battled it. I fight many of the same battles I watched him succumb to as I grew up. The temper, the nervousness, the paranoia. I see myself in him so very much.

I had been convinced that my dad's illness was tied up to his chemical exposure in Vietnam. That it was completely environment that made this happen to his body. I guess we know now that's not the case. The obvious answer would be genetics, but then again, it could be toxins from when they were children. They have never lived in the same place as adults though.

I want my husband, who works in genetics research, to figure this out. Ironically, he'll probably be the first to tell me that trying to find a genetic link will just give us more questions rather than answers. Or something like that. Stupid science. Dumb genetic research.

Is there prevention? I guess that's the question that I really should be seeking an answer. It's worth a shot at the very least, and more than likely, any prevention is tied up tight within a healthy lifestyle that I should be living anyway.

Biting the bullet

There is a point that is reached in blogging - a point of no return from whatever has been keeping you from writing. It is at this point where we turn to the cop out of all blogging techniques: bullets.

I am at this point of bullets.

• Bird turned two. I have pictures and stories about his second birthday, but they aren't here yet. I'm working on it. He turned two just two days after Squeak was born. I can see it now - the little brother teasing the big brother that his birthday comes first. I'm considering just lying to them and telling them they were both born on the 25th. Split the difference.
• Squeak had his two week appointment earlier this week. Not only has he regained up to his birth weight, but he has also put on a pound. He is a big tub of squishy baby love.
• I don't feel well. I've had a low grade fever all week, have some sort of weird rash on my legs and back, my skin aches to the touch and itches, and some of my joints hurt. How weird is that? I'm almost embarrassed to call for an appointment because those symptoms are just lame. But dude, I really don't feel well.
• Wednesday, at the grocery store, the nice lady handing out sushi samples asked how old Squeak was. When I told her that he was 2 weeks old, she exclaimed that I looked "great!". She followed that lovely compliment up with this, "I mean, you chubby, but you not 2 week old chubby. You like six month chubby," grinning the whole time. I could hardly stop myself from laughing out loud before I could get my sushi and get out of there. Or waddle my 6 month chubby self out of there, as the case may be.
• I broke my new phone. Because I suck.
• Our new urologist's name is Dr. Weiner. Because I am 12, I laughed and laughed before I realized the other people in the room were not laughing with me. Then I apologized for being 12.
• I cannot stop eating Kara's homemade granola bars. Can. Not. Stop.
• Need to insert my foot in mouth on this post, because my gut instincts were right. Some times people are just what they seem to be on the surface. Probably more times than not. But for whatever reason, Kevin and I both have the fatal flaw of assuming that people are good no matter how many clues they give us up until the time it completely bites us in the ass.
• My stolen purse? Recovered in Fayetteville, which is about 90 minutes from here. Cards and phone are gone, but my license and keys were still there. We tried to go pick it up before Squeak came, but the evidence room was closed on MLK Day, which they neglected to mention to us when they said, "Come anytime between 8:00 and 5:00, Monday through Friday." The other postscript to that story is that Holly Aiken is amazing. She found that post and offered to remake the purse for me for free. Because she is amazing. I'm waiting to take her up on it until I see what condition the original purse is in. Maybe it's alright, or maybe they used it for an ashtray. I won't know until I can make it back to Fayetteville when the evidence room is actually open. I've been a little busy having a baby and all.
• My husband is awesome, and has been doing so much to help out with Bird and Squeak and making sure dinner is on the table every night. He rocks.
• After a holiday season of watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" waaaaaay too many times, Bird now calls all jazz, "Brown music," which I will no doubt have some explaining to do if he says that in certain situations.

I suppose that's enough for now. Life is crazy. I can't believe I'm the mom of two boys now. I can't believe we're done having kids. I can't believe my own life's checklist is getting back to finding some time to do my own recording. I can't believe I got to have the birth experience I so deeply desired. I can't believe I'm still rambling on when I could be using this time to actually bathe. I smell.

Pictures soon, I promise.

Squeak's water birth

This is how I started Bird's birth story, and I think it still applies with some minor edits:

I'm reminded more and more that this space, though shared with many, is still first and foremost a personal journal. So as I begin this journey through becoming the mother of two, I'll most likely drone on and on. Don't feel badly to skip some posts, come back later, or even just skim. I'm going to just record it all for the record.

For the record, for my record, the very long birth story about about a not so long birth.

It was noon on a Saturday. The day before my due date. I realized that I had forgotten to get a baby book for Squeak, and I had library books to return (which are still in my car at this moment), so we loaded up the family and headed to Borders with plans to go by the library after that.

I'm walking through the bookstore, mumbling to myself that they are always moving things around when I became uncomfortably aware that my water had broken. A quick escape to the bathroom and a couple of curses at my unpreparedness confirmed it for me. I came out with a sheepish grin on my face, and Kevin didn't even have to ask.

"You're kidding me," he said.

He wanted to bolt and started rounding up Lovely and Bird. I wanted to buy the dang baby book I had come for, and I did. It's not the most wonderful baby book in the world, but at least he has one. Maybe he was just waiting on me to buy him one before he came.

We grabbed some lunch at a drive thru and headed for the house. I called the midwife and my doula to let them know that my water had broken, but that I didn't have any contractions. It was just like Bird's beginning except that I wasn't freaked out by it, and I didn't have a jackass OB telling me that it was a worst case scenario to have no contractions and have my water broken.

I made a list of things to encourage labor to get on with it. The midwife had suggestions and so did Julie, our doula. I sent Kevin to Whole Foods to get me some more raspberry leaf tea and a king cake. The king cake didn't have anything to do with labor, but it was awfully yummy. I sat on the birthing ball and bounced. I walked steps. We did some other things that are none of yo' beezwax.

By 7:00 or so, there was still nothing, and the midwife started talking castor oil. I really didn't want to go there, but I was willing. She gave me until the morning to do it because she wanted me to get a good night's sleep.

Julie paid lip service to the good night's sleep as well, but confided in us that she had taken a nap in preparation because she knew that as soon as I lay down to go to sleep, the contractions would start. She showed us some acupressure points, and told us to call her when contractions were coming 10 minutes apart for an hour.

From that point on, it was like whatever was suggested, my body took as a command. I went to bed around 10:30 and wasn't there 5 minutes before I had a contraction. By 12:30, we were calling the midwife to let her know they had been 10 minutes apart for a little over an hour. She said to call back when they were 5 minutes apart for an hour. The very next one came at five minutes, lasted for 2 minutes, and an hour after the first call, Kevin was making the second call while jumping into his blue jeans.

Meanwhile, I was changing the sheets for our neighbor, Cyndi, who was coming over to stay so we wouldn't have to wake the kids in the middle of the night. I did forget to leave out a clean towel for her, but I think I can get a pass on that.

I gathered up our meal for after labor, a Trader Joe's Moroccan chicken dinner, some juices, bananas, and the bags I had packed three weeks ago, and we hit the road.

Halfway to the Birth Center, the contractions had me gripping the door handle so hard I thought I might pull it off. They were way different than the ones at home. When we arrived, we parked in the back where I thought we were supposed to, and couldn't get in the building. After a phone call and a few more contractions, I finally just started beating on the door. Turns out, we could have just walked around to the front.

When we got inside, I tried laying down on the bed again to get some rest. Lee Ann, the midwife on call, checked me and declared (once again) that I had a lovely pelvis, which is nice to hear when you are aware that it is about to have to squeeze out a small watermelon. She also declared me to be pretty well effaced and about 3 cm. I was disappointed in the 3 cm, and assumed that we had a hella long road ahead of us. Lee Ann went to take a nap, because I think she assumed the same thing.

It was a little after 3:00 AM at this point.

By 3:27, I was standing up and having trouble focusing through contractions that were coming about 3 minutes apart and giving me just enough time to vomit in between them.

By 3:31, I was trying with all my might to subliminally will Kevin to put me in the car, take me to UNC and get me a freaking epidural.

It was best for me to quit watching the clock at this point. So I did.

The fear though, was that it was going to be like this for another 10 hours. I figured that 3 cm and my dang marathon labor with Bird were indicators that Squeak wasn't going to pop out for a good long time. I didn't think I could do what we were doing for much longer.

Julie kept saying to take it one contraction at a time. I heard her. I tried to heed it. I'm not sure how successful I was, but it was the only way to make it.

Some time before 5:00 AM, I asked to be checked again. Jewel, the midwife who was on nurse shift for the night, presented a brilliant diversion of the tub. I agreed to get in the tub. I needed to get off my feet, and I couldn't sit or lay down, so the tub seemed like a great plan to me. Much better than the plan I had concocted of getting checked, finding out I was only 4 cm, and running for my life towards the nearest medical intervention.

They started running the water in the tub, and it was like someone had put headphones over my ears and turned up the volume to eleven. It was so loud, and I couldn't keep to a low moan during contractions because I wanted to drown out that sound. I don't know why it was so awful, but it was. Finally, the tub was ready. I've seen women be all prepared and leave on their bras or a swim top or something. I just stripped completely naked and got in, trying to beat the next contraction.

As soon as I got in the water, my body gave me a five minute break. I slept soundly for five minutes. I only know it was five minutes because that's what they told me. It felt like an hour. That sleep was broken by a manageable contraction, which was then followed by the most freaked out I have ever been in my life.

I don't know how I came up with the scenario in my mind, but even though I knew I was going to be allowed to push naturally and with the rhythm within my own body, for some reason, I still thought that they were going to tell me when to start doing that.

Um, no.

The second tub contraction, I found myself pushing with all my might. The shadowing nurse jumped up and ran to get Lee Ann. She had just asked me if I was feeling some pressure, and I didn't answer her. I was trying to figure out what I was feeling when WHAM! Pushing.

All of the sudden I didn't feel the contractions anymore, but I knew when I should be pushing. I could feel his head almost immediately. Kevin grabbed one leg, giving me resistance to push against, while some of the other team members grabbed the other. I kept pushing and not getting him out until Lee Ann told me that there was a drop in his heart rate and I had to get it done.

At some point, Kevin thought it would be a good idea to document this water birth with a flashing camera. All he got was a blurry picture of me flipping him off and telling him to, "Cut it the f*** out!" Nice of me. I also remember screaming at anyone in earshot to "Take. Him. OUT!" because I was certain that there was plenty for them to grab and just pull. Crazy, I know.

Time was morphing. I thought for sure I was pushing forever, but really it was only about 15 minutes before I finally felt Squeak's head make it through. It was quickly followed by a chunky little body which before I could sigh with relief, was placed on my chest.

While the cord was pulsing, the team tried to get Squeak to cry. I'm not sure if there was tension or worry, because I was just soaking in the warmth and squishiness of my new son. But they kept at it until Squeak finally let out one good "WAH!" and then was quiet and content again.

After the placenta was delivered (which by the way, is really messy to do in the tub), I passed the little guy over to his daddy, who was ready for skin to skin (I love that man) with his new son.

I got out of the tub and dried off. Walked to the bed and sat down, watching my big man and little man bond. The midwife checked me out and declared me tear-free. Not a single stitch was needed, which amazed me since it felt like my vagina was turning inside out and being ripped apart.

We nursed. We rested a little bit. I got hungry, and NOT for Moroccan chicken. After all, it was morning. Kevin went out and got us breakfast.

The thing is, all of this post delivery stuff - I'm telling it like it's mundane. But it was the unknown bonus to Squeak's non-medicated entry into this world. I was knocked out from Bird's birth. Stayed in the hospital for two more nights and then took another week at home to be able to move around painlessly.

I was totally ready to go home about five hours after Squeak was born. It was awesome. Bird barely knew we were gone. He just had a lovely morning playdate with his BFF, Pippi, and then we were home with his baby brother.

I think the biggest difference in the whole experience is that I surrounded myself with people I trusted and put myself in an environment where I felt safe. I didn't go into the experience feeling like I would have to fight for simple things like being allowed to eat or drink if I was hungry. I was confident and had visualized the experience over and over again as positive and successful.

The whole thing was as close to perfect as I could have hoped for, except for the end result, which is far more perfect than I ever dreamed.







Welcome to the world, Little Squeak.

Squeak

It's difficult to find time to write when nursing is a two handed - who are we kidding - a 4 to 6 handed adventure. By the time little one has nursed himself to sleep again, I can't bear to put him down. So either way, nursing or sleeping, my computer has sat dormant this week.

The update is that things are going fine. Nursing is far more successful this time, even though we've still got a latch issue on one side. I'm getting plenty of sleep at random times throughout the day and night, and Kevin is making sure that I'm eating and drinking. Bird is not so crazy about the adjustment in family structure, but he's digging the reappearance of overflowing na-na's. Did you know that even toddlers can have the yellow seedy breastmilk poop? Not that you needed or wanted to know that. You're welcome.

Butterbean needs a new blog name. Mainly because I'm too lazy to type Butterbean all the time, and good heavens, he's a big chunk of rolly love, so "bean" just doesn't cut it. Kevin has started calling him "Squeak" because most of the noises he makes are just that - little squeaks. He rarely cries, but even when he does, it's not much more than some over zealous squeaking. He's still a mellow little dude. Maybe we should be calling him The Tiny Lebowski. Or maybe not.

I have to admit. I am already sad about Squeak being "the last one." Things have been so different this time. As I keep running into things that I only needed for pregnancy or birth, I get these twinges of blue that I won't need those things again. This coming from me, a woman who declared that she really didn't like the newborn stage. I take that back. Apparently, on Zoloft, I like the newborn stage very much. Or, it could just be that second time around, I'm a little better at it, and of course, there is the factor of Squeak being a totally different baby than Bird.

While I might be a little blue about it, there is that nagging bit about having to be responsible for that other person for at least the next 18 years. That's keeping me grounded. That, and the fact that we are too stinking old to have any more. We old and tired and would like to have some time to ourselves before one of us turns 80. So, we stop here, and it's alright.

But I feel a shift in priorities. I feel that pull towards spending as much time with my boys as possible. I want to shed off the things in my life that might take my attention from them. I savor the moments on the couch or on the bed where I have a nursling on either side of me. I love that this is my life now.

And with that, before I even get to work on that birth story, Squeak calls. Maybe I'll make it back here before another week passes.

Savoring

The silence doesn't mean much. It's just me turning inward a little, focusing on the job I have to do in the next couple of weeks. Focusing on the tangible now.

There was drama on the interwebs, and I knew that my emotional state and my big mouth needed to take a break. Step away for a little bit so that I could not waste my energy on fighting a battle that would soon dissipate into thin air as people simply moved on from it.

Besides, I have a job to do.

Week 37 presented with contraction after contraction. My face broke out, my tummy was upset, and I felt ready. So ready that I almost said "yes, come on" to my heart friend who I would love to be here for the birth. I'm glad I didn't though, because my littlest is still tucked warmly inside my belly, waiting on just the right moment to appear.

Week 38 presented with hardly any contractions and the energy to get some things clean around here. Kevin helped me with the kitchen, even cleaning off the bookcase which until now was simultaneously displaying my favorite Gail Pittman pieces, his favorite power tools, and a pound or two of dust. I am so happy to have it back to being pretty.

Week 39 is here. My littlest is a little less active; he tends to squirm most when I'm trying to sleep of course. I am peaceful. He will get here, one way or another, and within the next three weeks. I'm comfortable with all of the midwives. I have my bags packed. I have wonderful friends who are standing by to help us.

I'm into savoring.

Savoring each nursing session with Little Bird, as I don't know when it will be his last time not to have to share me. Savoring each morning that I get to roll over and lay on Kevin's chest while we snuggle and listen to the chit chat over the baby monitor. Savoring each turn and stretch that I feel inside me as I remind myself that this is what life is about now. No matter what parts of me remain - musician, arts advocate, teacher - the parts I love most are wife and mother.

The last days as a family of four are precious to me. I'm savoring them as best I can because once we become that family of five, I know that it will immediately replace these days as the best days of my life.

A little holiday magic

Right before Christmas, Kevin and I took the kids to Great Wolf Lodge. It was a great way to get away with them before the new baby comes, and it was a great way to get me to slow down and not worry about everything I thought HAD to get done for the holidays.

I admit, it is a cheesy place. But it's supposed to be. It's for the kids to have fun and the parents to have fun watching them. That's exactly what we did.


I got my picture of the kids with Santa, and I didn't have to fight the mall to do it.

I got my Christmastime snowfall, and I didn't even have to wear a coat.

I got my time with my family, away from any schedules or hurry.

I got a lovely vacation only a couple of hours from home, and I got to don a swimsuit while 35 weeks pregnant. Mmmmmm, belly.

It was so very lovely. Honestly, it was a little magical. I think we could add it to the "tradition" list with just a little coaxing.

And no, Great Wolf Lodge did not compensate me for this post. They did send me a coupon code after I badgered them on Twitter endlessly. And we did go there on their dime in April which was also lovely, but not what this post was about. So there.

Starting

Kevin has declared 2009 the year in which nothing was finished. My new shiny outlook gets to declare 2009 the year in which many things began.

Either way, we still have major construction going on at our house.

It's going to be lovely when it's done.

That's my mantra. I say it three times as I breath slowly and stare out the back into the mud and mess. Really, it's not that bad. It is going to be lovely, and Rob, our contractor, is an amazing miracle worker. Truly.

2010 will be the year for finishing a lot of thing though. The house will get finished. Our family will be complete. Kevin will finish up a lot of lingering projects at work. He's really looking forward to it.

I'm okay with not being finished though. I'm kind of looking forward to starting a bunch more new things in 2010. Here are a few that come to mind:

1. Becoming a mama of two boys.
2. Learning to live without the extreme highs and lows I've had.
3. Tandem nursing.
4. Writing and recording again finally.
5. Getting back in shape.

Lovely will be starting high school. Little Bird will be starting multiple days of preschool. And my littlest boy will be starting life.

So here's to never completely finishing and finding plenty of new things to start in 2010.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Forgotten birthday

Today was my father-in-law's birthday, and we completely forgot. It's just another stupid thing I've done this week. I can't keep anything straight and keep making the dumbest mistakes. I don't remember being this flaky when I was pregnant with Bird. Maybe I should check my archives.

I teach on Wednesday afternoons, getting done at 5:30. Tonight, I finished up and asked Papa if he was going to stay for dinner. He said he would if he was invited. Of course he was. He had picked Lovely up from school and brought her home. Then the two of them were helping with Bird while I finished teaching. Dinner was the least I could do. Except that I had completely forgotten that he eats with us every other Wednesday, and had only thawed two chicken breasts for dinner.

Luckily, while Papa and Bird were in the other room, Lovely said quietly to me, "Did you know today is Papa's birthday?"

Oh, crap. I had forgotten. Totally forgotten. I started to cry. It's my job to remember these things, and if we don't celebrate Papa's birthday, then who will? I felt awful.

Here's where I got creative. Perhaps I should have just told him that I forgot both dinner and his birthday and moved on, but I just couldn't. I cut the chicken into tenderloins so that it could be shared by all of us. I pulled the turnips from last week and this week's CSA delivery and roasted them all. I tossed in some of the green onions, and steamed the greens from the turnips to bed it all on. Then, just in case, I heated up some English peas, because I didn't think Papa liked greens very much. While all of that was going, I made a chocolate chip pound cake, but poured it in a sheet cake pan so it would bake faster.

After everything in the kitchen was put together and the table set, I ran upstairs and raided the stocking stuffers I had already bought for him. I pulled the movie that was supposed to go in his stocking and wrapped it for his birthday instead. I can always buy another movie before Christmas. I put it on the table in front of his place.

A phone call to Kevin while he was commuting home served as a warning that we had forgotten Papa's birthday, but don't let on.

We sang to him. Even Bird helped out by wishing him, "Happy DAY! Happy DAY cake!!!" He opened his present. Then we said good night and bid farewell.

I'm too chicken to ask him if he could tell we forgot. I hope that he didn't. Because forgetting his birthday is not how we really feel about him. You don't forget the birthdays of people you love. And we love our Papa.

Next year I'll make it up to him. I hope.