In which we take the mall by storm

I don't frequent the mall. Most of my shopping is done online for now. Of course, most of my shopping is for two small boys. My clothes, at least the ones that aren't maternity clothes, are all three years old if not much older.

Yesterday, I had a shirt from Gymboree that I needed to return because the sleeve fell apart the first time I washed it. I figured it would be easier to just pop by and swap it out at the store rather than mailing it and all. I also wanted to get Bird some Crocs for the summer, so I had two reasons to go. I always have to have at least two reasons to go to the mall.

I dropped Bird off at preschool. Squeak and I headed to Crabtree. On the way there, I realized that we didn't have any money in the account. Kevin was in a meeting and couldn't make the transfer. I didn't want to go home because I was almost there and dang it - I had worked out my day so carefully. So I called Momma and walked her through (she has the patience of a saint, I tell you) transferring money online for me. Crisis averted. Ha.

Squeak and I returned the shirt and wandered over to the Crocs store. Did you know there was a whole store of Crocs? Do we really need that many different kinds of Crocs? And are there really enough adults still wearing them to warrant an entire store? Apparently so. Who knew?

Anyway, I found some navy blue Crocs for Bird and went to check out only to find that I had no debit card. No way to pay. I wasn't sure what I was more upset about - losing my debit card or having my shopping day ruined.

By the time I got home, I remembered that Kevin had taken my debit card to use at the ATM. It wasn't lost, so I was free to just be annoyed that my shopping trip was ruined.

All of this to SAY, we went back to the mall last evening as a family. We left the mall with more questions than purchases.

1. When did the mall become the place for strippers to shop?
2. Okay, so that was harsh. How about this: When did the mall become the place for 14 year old girls who want to look like strippers to shop?
3. How come I can't find anything between Ann Taylor and Target that I might possibly want to wear?
4. Why does our Food Court have two Greek restaurants, but yet there doesn't seem to be one decent one outside the mall?
5. When did stores stop taking checks? Like at all?
6. Is it ever possible to get past the hair straightening kiosk without one of those women chasing you down with a blazing hot iron? As in, I'm wearing my infant child, so no, I don't want you to sample your burn maker on me.
7. When did everything get so expensive?
8. When did I get so old?

By the time we were done eating dinner and shopping, we had come to some clear realities about ourselves. We are old. We are cheap, but with expensive tastes. We are more crunchy than 99% of the people at the mall. We probably shouldn't go back anytime soon.

It's true. We really should avoid it for awhile. Considering that some of the highlights included Bird's gDiaper leaking a river, causing us to let him go pantless for the rest of the trip AND Squeak needing to nurse in the middle of Ann Taylor, but Bird needing to go to bed, so I compromised and got Squeak latched on in Ann Taylor and then just walked through the mall to the car while nursing Squeak and trying to get Bird to quit screaming . . . well, let's just say we created a bit of a scene.

Bird: no pants and very loud.
Squeak: latched on and grunting.
Me: half a boob hanging out and mei tei dragging along behind me.
Kevin: stroller, diaper bag, and all purchases hanging from each arm.

Crabtree will never be the same.

Common sense

It's amazing how very little time I have at the computer where I have two free hands. If I'm sitting down, I'm either nursing or holding a sleeping baby. If neither of those things are going on, then I'm on the run. And I cannot type with one hand. If my fingers can't keep up with my brain, I get very bored.

There has been plenty going on. Both boys have been to the emergency room, and Squeak was admitted and spent 3 days in the hospital. Both boys are fine now, and I've learned a great deal about being a parent in a worst case scenario driven health care system.

First, Bird was sent to the ER in the middle of the night by the call service nurse for our pediatrician. After days of fever from a fever virus that had finally climbed to 104.9 that morning, we found him crying in his crib with a temperature of 95 that night. Weird. So I called, and we were sent packing to the ER.

The short version, which is just as interesting but far less painful than the long version, is that Bird was just fine. In fact, by the time the doctor saw him, he was dancing around the exam room like Mick Jagger in his footie pajamas. We felt ridiculous for being there when what we should have done was gotten him up at home and observed him there for a little while before calling or going in. Lesson #1 learned.

Being the generous big brother that he is, Bird shared his virus with Squeak. Even though I know fever is serious in itty bitties, I wasn't that worried. His fever was 100.8 though, and I felt more comfortable taking him to the pediatrician. He looked good. He was eating, peeing, and pooping normally. So she ordered a blood culture and a urine sample and sent us home after consulting with some of her colleagues because of his age. I admit, I was nudging her along to the "go home" decision. I did not want to end up in the hospital with Squeak.

Beverly, our pediatrician, wanted to see him the next morning, just to be on the safe side, so we went back in and she declared him fever free and looking good. Big sighs were issued on a dodged bullet on this one, and we said our good byes.

Then, around 4:00 that afternoon, another doctor in the practice called and told us we had to get Squeak to the hospital NOW. As in, I was nursing him at the time and was supposed to stop and go to the ER. Weird, since he hadn't had a fever all day and seemed fine.

Again, the short version is far more interesting. He's fine. Not for a lack of invasive testing though. Bacteria in the blood is serious - if it's making you sick. However, there are instances where it's not making you sick, and there are even more instances of blood cultures being wrong due to contamination.

After three blood cultures (one out of each arm and the last out of his ankle), two catheters for urine cultures, one spinal tap, and a weekend of IV antibiotics, they decided that Squeak had a virus that he had kicked on his own.

Duh.

While I think we all did the right thing at the beginning, there was definitely a point when I should have stood up and argued more. Demanded that they start using common sense and stop following the doctor rule book. I understand that rules are there for a reason, but Squeak was so obviously NOT sick anymore - it was just ridiculous to keep torturing him with that IV and more blood culture draws.

I should have stood up for my baby and said no to the last round of tests. I know now.

The nurses we had were wonderful though. It was refreshing to be around nurses who assumed that as Squeak's mama, I had it under control. They treated us with common sense actually. I stayed with him, and he co-slept with me the whole time. They never questioned whether I was feeding him enough and never suggested that I didn't know what was best for him. Since he showed every sign of a healthy baby with faulty test results, they treated him that way. Instead of following the clock, they followed his cues and took his temp when he happened to be awake. They made the stay quite bearable, and I am very grateful.

It's hard to argue with a doctor though. One of them asked me at one point if I actually had a scientific background. I guess I wasn't supposed to question so much? I told her that I did not, but that the definition of stupid was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Okay, so I didn't really say that, but I wanted to, and said some extremely nice version of it that went something like, "doing the same test over and over again until you get the result you want seems very unscientific to me."

It's hard to argue with a doctor when they have the scare card in their deck. "IF" is a very powerful word when it comes to your child's health.

There has to be a balance when it comes to listening to the parent and following the doctor rule book.

I wonder if they wrote common sense into the fancy new health care bill? The health care system could use a huge dose of common sense for sure.















Home again and happy about it.

Dumb rules I made before I had children

I will never buy my children clothes with licensed characters on them . . .

I've added a new category to the blog. It's called "Dumb rules I made before I had children."

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.

Yes, I still blog here

Gratuitous picture of my beautiful boys. Bird always wants to hold Squeak. It's sweet and a little dangerous all at the same time. He's going to love his little brother to death if we don't watch out.

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Remember that last post? The one with the bullets? With this bullet in particular?

• 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.

Yeah. The next day, I couldn't walk without help. We headed to the urgent care and found out that I had a nasty case of shingles.

Fair. Not. All that work to be back up and going right after Squeak's birth was hosed. I was down for the count for at least a week and have just now, almost 3 weeks later, gotten back to being able to handle a normal day of activity without my leg crying out in pain at the end of the day. The not very creative way to put it is that it completely sucked.

The salt in the proverbial wound is that my leg, which is currently one of two parts of my body that aren't pudgy (the other being my wrists), and is my husband's favorite part of me, is pretty scarred up now. I'm not sure if it's going to go away. I suppose only time will tell. I hope so, but I'll take the scars over the pain any day.

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This morning, Squeak and I are headed to our La Leche League meeting. Poor Bird is sick again, so he's staying home with his daddy. Bird had to be picked up from preschool yesterday, and by 5:00 this morning, I had him in a lukewarm bath trying to get his fever of 104 to break. He's better this morning, but I'm grateful that Kevin stayed home to help. Yesterday was not easy.

Anyway, I've been thinking about La Leche League and wondering if I might want to become a leader. In theory, I would love to. I'm just not sure that I'm "LLL enough" to be a leader. I'm pretty moderate in my parenting philosophies if you were to average them out. As in, we vaccinate on schedule for the most part, but an artificial nipple will not touch Squeak's lips. As in, we co-sleep until the baby is ready to move, but eventually we are going to do some sleep training if we need to. Basically, we do what works for our family, and at the end of the day, I think that might be "LLL enough," but I'm not sure.

I really believe though, that moms need support and encouragement to breastfeed successfully. If that is something I could do, I think I would like to. I'm a little fearful of the commitment also. Sound wishy washy? Yeah. I know.

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It's March, and I haven't written about Bird's second birthday. So many people just flat out ignored his birthday this year. I wasn't one of them, but I didn't do as much as I would have liked. But it hurt my feelings for him - being ignored for your birthday is rotten, even if you are only 2 and don't realize it yet. Hurts my mama heart.

That's all I'll say about that now. He deserves a full post for his big 2 year old day.

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Amazingly, I got to type all of this in one sitting and didn't have to hold any children while doing so. If I don't stop now, that will no longer be true. So I end here, with way too much left to say, and a severe lack of editing in this wad of words. My apologies.

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.

He's beautiful

He's here and he's beautiful. I'm working on his birth story, but I don't want to leave any little bit of it out. Any part of Colin Henry's birth.

I can tell you this much. I didn't expect for him to be born in the water, but he was. And it was wonderful.

Welcome to the world, Little Squeak. Your mama has fallen in love with you already.

To the tune of Morning Has Broken

So I'm not going to live blog this birth or anything, but I'll probably Tweet it. Or at least update my Facebook status. That's just how it rolls these days.

Apparently, I have a method to giving birth. A method which involves my water breaking before contractions actually start. Boo hiss. If you Google some stats on that, I'm in a low 8% of women who that happens to.

Of course, last time, we were under the care of an OB and hospital who told us that it was a "worst case scenario" and to have some Pitocin.

Meh. Maybe we'll end up at the hospital again, maybe not. This time, we are under the care of midwives and have several things that we are doing to get those contractions going. In fact, I'm bouncing on my birthing ball as I type. Go, me.

Funny story, or at least mildy amusing, we were in Border's today because I realized I hadn't bought my littlest a baby book yet. I'm wandering around, trying to find the parenting section, when my water breaks. I guess I really waited until the last possible minute to buy that baby book, didn't I?

I'm so predictable. My water broke with Little Bird the day before his due date, and he was born the day after his due date. Hopefully though, this little dude will show up tomorrow, right smack dab on his due date. I wouldn't mind being in that low percentage there.

Wish me luck. I'm going to walk the stairs now.

Water has broken
Like the first labor
I hate Pitocin
It's evil stuff
So I'll just bounce here
Drink tea and do squats
Stimulate nipples
And walk the stairs.

It's a new folk song hit, people. Just wait.

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.

Dear Asshole Who Just Stole My Purse

Dear Asshole Who Just Stole My Purse,

Really? You take purses from the parking lot of a nice city park where families take their children to play? Did you happen to notice that I'm 39 weeks pregnant and toting around a 2 year old? Did it occur to you that carrying a purse too was just too much for me today?

I guess you did, since you stole it right out of my car.

All the cards and checks are canceled. The phone too. I don't carry cash. There is nothing for you there except my address. Which, if you had any decency about you, you would just drop off my favorite bag intact some time tonight. At which point I will forgive you and we'll call things even.

You took the pictures of my son that were on my phone. You took my day planner and all the information on my son's upcoming surgery. You took our evening. You've certainly tested my ability to hold it together.

I hope that you found my blogging business cards and come by for a peek. There was nothing for you to gain by taking my purse. If you happen to be the little shits who were throwing mulch all over the place where toddlers were trying to play, then yay for you. Maybe you feel some vindication because we asked you to stop.

More than likely, you're just some asshole who ruined our afternoon and took my most favorite Holly Aiken bag. Congratulations. I wish I had the pleasure of being around when karma comes back to you and gives it to you good.

Sincerely,
The sucker who forgot to lock her car today

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.

Microwave Smores Maker

This past holiday season, my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I pointed her to my Amazon wish list. She replied, "But it's the same as last year. You haven't updated it."

Well, that's because I didn't get anything off of it. Ahem.

I retold this anecdote to Kevin, my wonderful husband who had NO time to shop this year, and voila! My Amazon wish list appeared under the tree.

Minus a Kindle. But that's because I never use the iPod he bought me two years ago. Well, not never, but rarely. He's deemed me unworthy of new technology. I can't disagree I suppose.

Anyway, along with a Tom Waits TRIPLE cd set, an immersion blender, a book called Weekend Sewing, a pastry scraper, and a digital picture frame - was THIS:

A microwave smores maker.

I married the most wonderful man in the world.
















A few essentials from the store:














Set up of the high tech machinery. The little arms hold the smore together since the marshmallows go CRAZY in the microwave.














The finished product in the microwave:














Kevin tries a bite:














Kevin declares them to be quite lacking:














The overall result was lacking. The marshmallows don't have the chance to char over an open flame, which is my favorite part of smores. Kevin was definitely not sold on them. Me? I'm headed into the kitchen to give them a second chance. After all, melty chocolate goodness can never be far from wrong.

Split Pea Soup

Kevin and I have tried to marry our very different family culinary traditions during the winter holidays. I have loved learning to make pirogi, and tolerated learning to eat pickled herring. My favorite recipe of his mother's that we've adopted though is split pea soup.

Never in a million years did I imagine loving a thick green soup with barely any spices in the recipe, but I do.

Split Pea Soup

16 oz package of green split peas
3 qts of water or enough water to cover
1 small ham shank or bone (with plenty of ham left on it)
1 large onion, finely chopped
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1 1/2 cups finely diced carrots
1 cup finely diced celery
1 cup finely diced potatoes

In a large pot combine peas, water, ham shank or bone and simmer for 1 1/2 hours. Remove ham shank or bone. Stir in carrots, potatoes, onions, and celery. Simmer an additional 1 1/2 hours or until soup reaches desired thickness.


Of course, by now you know that I've got some "but I do it this way" to add to any recipe. This one is no different.

First of all, we cut up even more ham and add it to the soup at the half way point. We use big chunks of potatoes. And of course, I use stock instead of water. Usually I have plenty of turkey stock left over from Thanksgiving, and I'll just use that.

However, this year, my fabulous brother and sil sent Kevin a rack of ribs from Dreamland. They were delicious. We ate them for lunch the day we made the soup, so I collected the rib bones and made stock from them.

Let me tell you. There is no other way to make pea soup now. That stock was amazing, and lent the perfect marriage of our southern and northern roots to an old recipe.

Yum.

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.

None of us is the only one

Why is that during the times I have the most to say, I find it hardest to say anything at all?

Two weeks ago, I had the most productive appointment with a health care professional that I've ever had in my life. I left it feeling defeated and broken. I thought I had received terrible news that would pigeon hole me and leave me with an unshakable stigma.

It only took four days after that for me to realize that I didn't care about the pigeon hole or the stigma. I felt so much better in just four days that I couldn't believe I ever cared about any of that.

I have clinical depression, but I don't look like those commercials you see on TV. I don't sit around in my pajamas and ignore all of the people around me. Mine manifests itself in anger, anxiety, and irrational reactions to stuff that should roll off my back.

When Sarah suggested that I start Zoloft, she might as well have said to me, "You are a complete failure, and you aren't capable of managing your life." I didn't want to hear that my issues weren't something that I could fix myself. Of course, that was some seriously small minded thinking. Because I am fixing them myself. Starting with an itty bity dose of Zoloft every night.

Four days. That's all it took for me to pull out of the black place I was in, look around, and realize that I should have done this so so so much sooner. It's not going to completely fix me, but it's helping me become a better mother and wife and person by allowing me to stand firmly on both feet. It's given me some stability.

It's taken me two weeks to write about this because I wasn't sure that I wanted it out there for everyone in the world to see. However, when I was feeling at my lowest after that appointment, I only knew one person to call for advice. Lucky for me, she answered the phone and talked to me as long as I needed to.

Since then, though, I've found out that I'm really not alone in this. More friends have stepped up with, "Me too." None of us is the only one.

So I'm out, and I'm saying that this is one of the better decisions in my life. A tiny little pill. A whole lot of clear headedness.

I'm on my way to being the wife and mother I should have been all along. It's a great feeling.

My 12 days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A broken washing machine.

On the second day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the third day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the fourth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the fifth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the sixth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the seventh day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the eighth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the ninth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the tenth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the eleventh day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Dog poop on the floor
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me.
A high of 65
Dog poop on the floor
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

Ho, ho, freaking ho. Thank goodness for the fifth day of Christmas.

Here's to time with whatever part of your family you get to be with, whatever food you get to eat, and however full your stockings are. Christmas is coming tomorrow whether I like it or not. Might as well enjoy it as it is.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

Twas the night before Christmas Eve

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care.

The presents are wrapped and under the tree.

The pirogi are in the fridge and Papa has bought the ham.

And none of the rushing around or planning matters because Little Bird has a fever of 102. Funny how all of the sudden I don't care about finishing the family's pajama pants when my little boy just needs me to hold him while he fretfully sleeps.

All I want for Christmas is for my little boy to get well and stay well. Poor Little Bird.