Extraordinary Things

There's a load of dishes to unload from the dishwasher, and a Fisher-Price toy bomb has exploded all over the living room floor. The beds haven't been made and I may not get a shower today. Forget working out. Instead, I am snuggled on the couch with my daughter, flipping the channels between Sesame Street and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I sip my coffee and skim over the colorfully loud Black Friday ads and before I know it, I've started to convince myself that we actually do, in fact, need a 40-inch LCD TV. Then my eye catches an adorable Betsey Johnson charm bracelet that they're also practically giving away. I think to myself that maybe I "need" some more jewelry too. Before I realize what's happening, I've created a bulleted, detailed mental list of things that I'm sure I've said I wanted at some point in the past. Maybe it was sub-conscious, even. But I'm sure I want(ed) these things. And at $____ a pop, it would be a crime NOT to buy them.

The truth is, I don't really remember what I got last year for Christmas, with the exception of maybe one or two things. I don't even remember what I bought everyone else on my list- though I can be sure it was things like non-descript sweaters, bedroom slippers, jewelry, random stocking stuffers- all marked down to a ridiculously low price and all for the sake of putting a tiny check mark by a name. I do, however, remember the picture I painted for Jake last year to give him for Christmas as well as the poem I wrote and gave to him the very first "married" Christmas we celebrated. I remember car trips from the Detroit airport to my parents' house- my home away from home- laughing at crazy Mad-lib stories and playing games of peek-a-boo with Ella. I can almost always conjure up the smell of cinnamon rolls and my mom's famous egg and sausage bake that she makes every Christmas morning. I remember a fabulous bottle of wine that Jake and I shared after we barely made it home one snowy Friday evening last December when we got our first official snow of the year and the "ugly sweater party" we threw last year.

Yet, even with those memories, I seem to be a walking sucker for the over-sensationalism of the Christmas season (and you can bet that commissioned sales-people can smell me approaching from miles away). Finding obscure justifications for needless expenditures is an art form I strive to perfect. I am often guilty of over-indulging and I can almost guarantee that I will spend more than I should this year. My futile strive for perfectionism always seems to peak during the Christmas season. I envision myself making Christmas cookies and red-velvet mocha truffles that would grace even Martha Stewart's table. And darn-it, I want my Christmas gifts to be wrapped in color-coordinated wrapping paper. (True story). Every year, I face the "want-it-alls," as if my holiday season would be less memorable if I don't find the perfect Christmas Eve outfit for Ella or I end up having to mix my Christmas cookies in plain mixing bowls, as opposed to the dainty winter ones I've been eyeing at Sur Le Table. I catch myself chasing down picture-perfect memories to paste into a mental scrapbook that is nothing if less than perfect (and accurate). And the expenses for trying to create such a book are far more than just monetary.

But this morning, I am hit with a simple reality and it is this: I am an ordinary girl whose life is filled with the extraordinary. And it isn't because I throw on a pair of designer jeans (by the way, never make the mistake of buying said designer maternity jeans in your first trimester. It will only piss you off when you've gained too much weight to be able to wear them in your third. I'm pretty sure the word for this is "karma"). But seriously, there is nothing about my life that is "ho-hum" and it has nothing to do with stuff. (This is the exact conclusion that retailers during this time of year don't want any of us arriving at). The truth is, I wake up in mismatched pajamas in a bed that hasn't been stripped or washed in weeks and I don't even know the thread count of our sheets but I do know that I wake up next to the man who let me have his heart five years ago- free of charge. In return, I have experienced love that is always changing, always growing and never settling to leave me the same as I was yesterday.

Extraordinary.

I am overwhelmed with laundry because I'm fortunate enough to be able to buy all the clothes that we need- and even more that we just simply want. Same with cooking and grocery shopping and cleaning out the fridge.

Extraordinary. (And undeserved).

I complain that we are very quickly running out of space in our tiny 1100 square foot home, but it's cozy and warm and filled with sweet nostalgia: a slow dance after a proposal that took place in what would become our bedroom, the first time I made breakfast for Jake when I burned all of the Belgian waffles, the late-night take-out and movies and bottles of wine, family get-togethers and birthday celebrations. Walking the hall at 2 a.m. on countless nights, shushing a tiny, peanut Ella and getting ready to do it again with my son in just two short months. When we move into a bigger house, I will cry for all of the precious memories that will be boxed up along with the dishes and books and knick-knacks.

Extraordinary.

I am inundated with cuddles and sloppy wet kisses from my daughter. Just because. She makes my world brighter and richer and full of possibility.

Extraordinary.

I struggle against an anxiety that threatens to consume my time, energy and thoughts- but it's a battle I'm learning never belonged to me in the first place. I'm learning, perhaps for the first time in my life, to loosen my white-knuckled grip on the handle-bars and let go. And when I do, someone is always there to catch me. Lots of "someones," in fact.

Extraordinary.

I'm grateful for the beautiful, poignant tapestry that is woven out of all of these extraordinaries in my life. May it always be more than enough to keep me humble. More than enough to propel me forward. And more than enough enough so that I can't keep it only for myself.

The Sound of Sleep...

This is day #2 that Ella has decided to sleep in. Usually, the term "sleeping in" is thrown around pretty loosely in our house. If I make it to 7:30 a.m., I feel like I've slept in (ah, long gone are the days where I hit the snooze button at 9:30 and rolled over for a few more minutes of uninterrupted bliss). My body has finally seemed to adjust to "toddler time" as well. On days when Ella is over at Jake's parents house, or she otherwise decides to randomly go past her usual 6:30-7:30 bracket, I'm usually awake or starting to stir around 6:45 or 7. Even given the opportunity to sleep in, my body just won't let me. Yay motherhood. ;-)

She went down at 7:30 last night, after a 3 hour nap from 2-5. It is now 9:35, and she's still going strong. I know, because I've already checked on her twice to make sure she's still, in fact, breathing. (Because part of motherhood requires you to rid yourself of any paranoia that something might be wrong before you can truly let yourself enjoy every last drop of your extra cup of coffee). Having rid myself of the worry (for now), I find it odd that I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. On the mornings she wakes me up early (or even at her usual time), I tend to sit in a glazed over state, holding my cup of coffee and thinking of all the things I could be doing if she were still asleep and yet when given the gift of time that is truly at *my* disposal, I drum my fingers on my coffee cup and peruse the internet and get antsy. What's up with that?

I could get a head start on a load of laundry, empty the dishwasher, hop on the treadmill for a quick powerwalk (if I'm feeling especially ambitious). Logically, I know there is a list a quarter-mile long that I could make of things that I *could* be doing. And while I'm always thankful to be given an extra few minutes of precious sleep (a commodity that will surely become even more rare and precious once Milo arrives), the truth is that my world wakes up and comes alive when she does. I wake up and immediately listen for her tiny, high pitched squeal and the sound of her musical seahorse and then eventually the dull thuds of all of her animals and books being chucked out of her crib. Something in me relaxes, even though I know that *my* time is over. No matter how tired and worn down I am from the previous days' antics, tantrums, nap-strikes, Sesame street songs and Elmo videos, jaunts in the yard, trips up and down the hall on my shoulders or driving in her cozy coupe, I am grateful for another day-another opportunity- to have my small world opened up by the tiny, curious hands of my daughter. My body might be unwilling and achy, but my heart is full and content. This is the reason I wake up. This, I have come to believe, is grace. ;-)

Christmas Shopping (According to Kdub)

It's about that time, peeps! (Or it already has been for some of us...) There are only 40 shopping days left 'til Christmas and while I suspect that most guys will wait until day 40 of this countdown, I have plans to have all of my gifts bought AND wrapped at least 2 weeks before the big man in the red suit makes his appearance (but we'll see how successful I really am at this). As entertaining as it is to watch my feet and ankles swell up like sausages, I've decided that, at 33 weeks pregnant, I will not want to go and stand in ridiculously long lines at the mall to find the perfect (and probably overpriced) sweater/earrings/scarf/kitchen gadget. I would reconsider if I had a Little Rascal to scoot around in, but my pride is too big to be swallowed at this point. (Give me another month though, and I might reconsider). Just for fun, and because I haven't posted anything in a while, some random thoughts (that I loosely refer to as "rules") when it applies to me and Christmas shopping. ;-)


1. Set a budget and stick to it.
You know, within a couple hundred bucks or so....

2. Shop when there are sales. If possible, combine with coupons or other savings cards you get in the mail.
This way, you can buy that cashmere scarf for your best friend and one for yourself.

3. Online shopping really is the way to go.
Coming from someone who loves to shop in stores and malls at Christmastime- if for nothing more than the nostalgia and overall warm Christmas fuzzies it gives me- even *I* can't deny the advantages of one-click purchasing. Really, who can argue with the concept of perusing stores in your pajamas with a cup of hot coffee while watching Christmas movies? Throw in some cinnamon rolls and I've pretty much died and gone to Heaven.

4. It's socially acceptable to start Christmas shopping as soon as Halloween is over.
(Maybe even sooner). I know a lot of people will disagree with this, but just take a walk through Target the day after Halloween. No sooner have the Jack-O-Lanterns been put on clearance than the Christmas trees, Santa figurines and holiday decor come busting out. If it's there on the shelf, then who can blame you for putting it in your cart? No time like the present!

5. While out Christmas shopping, it only makes sense to be listening to Christmas music.
Even if the weather is, oh, in the 70's- like it has been here in Richmond for the past 2 weeks. (Don't even get me started). It may feel like Christmas in July, but don't be ashamed. Go ahead and turn up the "Linus and Lucy" theme song and get your jam on. (Disclaimer: if you are caught listening to either "Christmas Shoes" or "Dominic the Donkey," you will be hunted and down and brusquely beat about the head with a giant candy cane).

6.. If you put it on a credit card, it doesn't really count towards your original Christmas budget.
This is probably one of my favorite self-imposed rules. If it doesn't come directly out of your account at that moment of purchase, you can pretend it didn't happen! This is especially beneficial for that pair of over-the-knee suede boots that were too good to pass up. Pure magic! Just tell yourself you'll deal with it in January. (I'm pretty much expecting Dave Ramsey to be beating down my door any second now...)

7. Buy people what they have specifically asked for.
Especially if you're lucky enough to have someone actually give you a specific list. I tend to adhere to this as the "Golden Rule" of Christmas shopping: do what you would like to have done to you. I'm sure we can all remember specific incidents as kids when we got what I like to call "filler gifts." If you left too much up in the air for the person shopping for you, you were liable to end up with granny panties, socks, a Richard Simmons workout DVD or some kind of inanimate object you can neither identify or determine it's use. These days, gift cards are not thought of as "taboo" or "thoughtless" as they might have been viewed once upon a time. If you don't have specifics, gift cards are the way to go.

8. It really isn't about the gifts.
(Duh). Contrary to some of the earlier "rules," of course, I know that it really isn't about checking off a list or maxing out a credit card, but it's easy to get sucked into the hype. Really, who doesn't love giving gifts to other people- even if it means going a little overboard? However, my excitement for Christmastime revolves more around being with family now-especially after having Ella- and sharing experiences together and reflecting upon a baby born in Bethlehem- a story that will bring even more significance to me this year as my own discomfort from being hugely pregnant with our son will serve as a precious reminder. (And yeah, I think riding on a donkey would be a sure-fire way to send me over the edge at this point). I know that the memories we will make this year will far outlast anything I could buy or wrap up in shiny paper, and this is a legacy I hope to pass on to Ella and Milo through the years. (Okay, that, first and foremeost- and THEN the art of Christmas shopping). ;-)

Is "One" the Loneliest Number? (Thoughts On Being An Only Child)

I had a lot of "pretend friends" when I was a little girl. I don't remember their names, only that one was native American (random, I know). Before you start to think I'm one sandwich short of a picnic, let me preface this by saying that I grew up in a small, rural town in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley and I was an only child. (Okay, I am still an only child). But there wasn't much to do around those parts. We lived in an old, renovated farmhouse; behind us, an apple orchard (that unfortunately wasn't ours) stretched for several acres and directly across our gravel driveway was a cow pasture. We're talking, po-dunk RURAL. My little invisible native American friend and I would run around outside all day once I got home from school. We climbed trees, made forts, looked for bugs and other creepy-crawlies and on days when "Tanto" needed a break, I would usually go and befriend the lazy cud-chewing bovine in the neighboring field. (Don't judge). That was all I was used to at the time. Of course, I had friends at school, and there were plenty of days when I would have my "non-invisible" friends over to play or spend the night, but overall, I was accustomed to stirring up fun (read: trouble) on days when I was on my own.

For the most part, being an only child was okay. It was sometimes hard not having someone else to blame things on. Mom: "Kristin, did you eat the 2 cookies I left sitting on the counter that I told you not to eat?? Me: (sheepish look) "Um, I think I saw Piper (our cat) take them out to the yard...." Anyway, I do remember that I wanted a brother or a sister, and I went through a phase where I was obsessed with little babies and would pray and ask God to give my mom another baby. But, shallow as it seems, each time Christmas rolled around and I had two sets of grandparents doting on me (one set for which I was the only grandchild), I would usually be up to my eye-balls in packages and I would suddenly realize I didn't really want a brother or sister that much. (Yes, being an only child has it's perks when it came to national holidays and my birthday. Up until about 2 years ago, I would get a check in the mail from my grandmother for Halloween- to go out and buy myself a halloween "treat." It usually funded a new pair of shoes. True story.) But all spoiling and monetary gifts aside, I have often looked back, as I've gotten older, and wondered how my perspective on life would be different had I had a brother or sister. How would my identity have shifted? Would it have shifted at all? How would my views of the world, my parents and my relationships be different now? I'll never really know, but I've always wondered.

One thing that being an only child did imprint on me was the notion that I wanted to have more than one child when it came time to start my own family. Not because I hated being an only child or because it was a miserable existence but more because it was just something I knew I wanted to do. I'm sure that a large part of it was because I never had it and because as parents, we all aim to give our children those things that we never got to have for ourselves. For some, it's a promise to sit down to dinners as a family every night of the week. For others, it's saving money to ensure that their son/daughter has a college education. For me, it's wanting my children to experience the deep bond of the love between a brother and a sister. And though I know that producing a blood relative with similar genetic makeup doesn't guarantee a "deep bond," it does guarantee that neither of them have to feel alone. They will hopefully always have each other to lean on, even when life will eventually take them down separate paths.

It was this hope that propelled me through the pukey days of the first trimester, when I could barely see the day ahead of me and even still, during those times when the anxiety is so thick that it almost feels hard to breathe. Even in those moments when I've broken down and said, "why...why did I want to do this again??" , I've at least been able to answer myself pretty truthfully. And the truth is that I didn't want to get pregnant for me. Not even for Jake. Of course, we both wanted another baby- and even talked about 3 or 4 *laughs deliriously at this now.* but if I could have skipped the pregnancy part and had the stork show up at our door with a tiny bundle, I would have made those arrangements in a heartbeat (and I doubt that I'm the only woman who's felt this way). The truth is, when I look at Ella, I simply know that she's the reason I'm pregnant again. This is as much-if not, more- for her as it is for me or Jake, or anyone else in our family. I'm sure she won't be thanking us right away, but hopefully she'll know we've done this because we love her, and one more person in the family means just one more way for her to know she's loved.

Of course, none of this is to imply that 5 years down the road, she won't actually be blaming me for the fact that he's chasing her around the house, crashing in on her tea parties and otherwise aggravating her to no end. After all, this is what brothers do best, supposedly. But it will be good for her. It will be good for all of us. ;-)

Things You Shouldn't Do When You're 6 Months Pregnant

This list will probably vary greatly from one woman to the next. And by the time I reach 7 months, there will be a whole new set of things to add to it. Over the last couple of weeks, I've begun keeping a mental checklist of things that shouldn't be attempted at this stage in my pregnancy (it's becoming quite the long list indeed). I've discovered I can categorize each thing into one of three categories: 1. Shouldn't do. 2. Will never do again. 3. WTF was I thinking?


{It should go without saying that I'm going to fast-forward through the usual no-no's like smoking, drinking, litter-box cleaning, bungee jumping and closing one's self up in a freshly-fumigated room with no windows).


1. Sit down on the floor with Ella. The only way this could work now is if she had the upper body strength of my husband to peel me off of the floor when we're done playing.


2. Attempt to shave parts of myself I can no longer see. (I'm just gonna keep that one as ambiguous as possible, but you get the point). This would fall into category #3...


3. Watch any baby-related TV Show. "Bringing Home Baby" and "A Baby Story" are somewhat manageable, although I find it impossible not to cry every. single. time. when the babies are born. NICU is out of the question. I've watched it only once and nearly gave Jake a heart attack when he walked in our room to find me sobbing and hicupp-ing like a crazy loon. And let's not even talk about the "I'm Pregnant And..." show. I was lucky enough to catch the beginning of an episode featuring a woman who was pregnant and a nudist. There are just no words for how special that was and now I wish I could poke out my mind's eye.

4. Do "Downward Facing Dog" in Yoga. There are a couple of reasons for this one. a) have you actually watched someone do this pose? *Awkward* b) I'm not even sure it's physically possible for me to bend that way anymore. c). Pregnancy farts are in a class by themselves and doing a pose like this is just asking for it. d). All the blood rushes to my head and I almost pass out. So there. Four very good reasons not to stick my hips and butt up in the air above my head.

5. Wear heels two days in a row. It's always a sad, sad day in my pregnancy when I realize that I have to ration my boot or high-heel wearing to only once every other day or every two days. But it's also a sad, sad day when I can't get up from the sofa or lift my daughter out of her crib because my lower back is in knots.

6. Look at the scale. Because really, what's the point? It's not like it's going back down anytime soon. In fact, I don't plan to step onto that guilt-box until I'm 6 weeks post-partum.



There will be more to add to this list in the days to come, I'm sure. But right now, this momma needs some sleep and preggo brain is in full effect. ;-)

"I Don't Think You're Ready for *This* Jelly"

I was running some errands earlier today and one of the featured "Friday Flashback" songs came on- "Bootylicious" from Destiny's Child's Survivor Album (and since when 2004 became a "flashback," I have no idea. 6 whole years ago. What a stretch.) Anyhoo, I was instantly taken back to my single, clubbing days- drink in hand, dancing off the buzz and appreciating a song that made girls with curves feel good about what God gave 'em. There was a time when I knew this song word for word, but those days are long gone, so when I got home, I pulled up the lyrics. (And discovered that there were quite a few lyrics that I never had right to begin with...)

And while I skimmed over them, I thought, "ya know- this is pretty applicable to pregnancy too." So I thought I'd offer some insight into the words sung- ever so eloquently, I might add- by Beyonce, but with a preggo twist.


"I'm about to break you off
(if you ask me if I'm sure I'm not having twins)
Read my hips
(and you'll probably see remnants of the humongo bearclaw I had from Panera this morning)
Slap my thighs
(but be warned, they're big enough to slap you back now)
Swing my hair
(thanks to my prenatal vitamins, it grows at an alarming rate of 1/4 inch per day)
Squint my eyes
(No, I'm not trying to look sexy, I'm actually feeling a little nauseous)
Lookin' hot
(oh Jesus, here comes another hot flash)
Smellin' good
(did someone bring in a pepperoni pizza...*drool*)
Groovin' like I'm from the hood
(yeah, because they haven't even invented a word for my skin's particular shade of white)
Over my shoulder
(there's a strange new pregnancy-induced skin tag that appeared in the last few weeks. Awesome.)
Blow you a kiss
(because I'm really not in the mood to be touched. Or have sex. For like, the next 7 months).
Can you handle, handle this?
(Nope. Not without my yoga pants and a special little friend called Zofran).


I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(I just tripped over my cankles on the treadmill)
I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(is that *another* stretchmark??)
I don't think you're ready for this jelly...
(did someone say "jelly?" Blackberry is my favorite. I want to make biscuits. Oooh, breakfast for dinner sounds good...)


"Cause my body's too bootylicious for ya, babe."

;-)

A God of Small Things

I laid on the exam table yesterday and prayed it would be over soon. The room was muggy and I hated having to lie flat on my back. I felt like I couldn't breathe. A by-product of my anxiety, plus the very real pressure of an enlarging uterus pushing up against my diaphragm and lungs. I eyed the door nervously, reached in my pocket for the reassurance of 2 little pills- one, Zofran and the other Xanax- and the barage of excuses I could use to make an escape pressed their way into my mind, before I even asked them to. I decided to split the Xanax in half in case I needed to take it, since it had been months since I needed one and I really didn't want to take it. Then, as if having it in my pocket wasn't close enough, I decided to hold it in between my thumb and forefinger.

I should have been excited to get my ultrasound, to have a chance to see Milo again. But more than anything, I just wanted out. I suddenly wished I had gone with my gut and declined the AFP test (alphafetoprotein) but instead, let the doctor talk me into having the extra peace of mind. If only it had really been that easy. The nurse called with my test results and said they were "slightly elevated." My risk assessment for having a baby with Spina Bifida rose from .5% to 1%. (Really?? You want me to come in for an extra ultrasound because there's a 99% chance that my baby is fine?) *insert eye roll here* I tried to put the worry of the tiny chance something was wrong out of my mind and instead, consoled myself with the fact that I would get more pictures of my little guy. But wait, I hate doctor's offices. I despise the sterile smell and the big equipment and the bland, oatmeal-colored walls and carpet and the fact that everyone talks in hushed voices. Talk about wanting to make an anxiety-prone person bolt for the door....DAMN them! Now I *had* to go back. I could have turned down the ultrasound, but then I would have had that 1% following me around for the rest of my pregnancy, painting scary images in my head. I knew that I had to put the worst case scenario out of my mind for good.

The lab tech came in and pressed the probe down on my belly, giving me a painful reminder of my full bladder and causing me to draw in a short, sharp breath. And there he was, this one-pound ball of flesh and bone, hiccup-ing and squirming around and otherwise, looking very content. I wondered, could he sense my tension? Could he feel that his Momma was scared? I took steady, deep breaths and focused on the perfection of his little silhouette. She took an extra long time looking at his spine and I started counting the discs and bones, (as if I knew what a perfect spine would look like if it came up and bit me). But at least, it took my mind off of my nerves. Despite having gone through pregnancy once before, I still found myself completely and utterly in awe that a whole entire body had been fused together inside of mine: the four chambers of his heart beating in perfect rhythm, the sections of his brain that had divided where they were supposed to, the curvature of his tiny spine, even the way he balled up his tiny fists and kept them close to his face. All of his tiny organs in place, continuing to grow and develop, but- as the tech reassured us- all working in perfect harmony with each other. I felt relief and gratitude wash over me. There were no obvious markers for Spina Bifida, just as we all had prayed. I momentarily wondered how on earth you could ever give someone news like that and suddenly I felt very grateful for my job as a piano teacher. I would never have to deliver devastating news like that.

But wait, we weren't done and the doctor would be back in to talk with us. What could this be about? Maybe just a follow-up? I groaned and flopped back on the table. My half-pill of Xanax had all but dissolved into a tiny speck in the clammy-ness of my fingers. I discreetly let the white powder and loose crumbles fall to the floor. The doctor came in, seeming very jovial, which put me at ease, and scanned over Milo's body while he asked us questions about what we did for a living. "I'm a piano teacher and my husband is a web-developer," I heard myself say, but I was distracted by the fact that he kept trying to zoom in to Milo's left hand. Come to think of it, the tech did the same thing. The doctor asked if Jake played any instruments too. The conversation faded as I studied the doctor's face. What was that he was counting? Oh God, please let everything be okay. They said everything was fine. Why was he concentrating like that?

Then, in a very matter-of-fact voice, he said "Well, he's stone cold normal, except that he only has 3 fingers and a thumb on his left hand. He's missing his pinky." As if he was telling me the weather forecast, or that the color of my shirt was light pink.

What??

Perhaps he missed the irony, but it wasn't lost on me: A piano teacher and a guitar player, having a baby with only 9 fingers. I thought, surely he was mistaken. Maybe it was just a bad angle, or a misplaced shadow. But no. He was, in his own words, 100% sure that Milo's left pinky was gone- most likely due to something called an "amniotic band," in which tissue wraps around a developing fetus's limbs or digits, creating a type of tourniquet by cutting off blood flow and ultimately resulting in a freaky kind of self-amputation.

I let it sink in for a minute. So our son wouldn't have a finger, and honestly, of all fingers- heck, of all body parts- to be missing when you're born- second only to your pinky toe- the pinky finger would be the one someone would miss the least, right? If we walked in worried about something as devastating as Spina Bifida and walked out minus one pinky, life was still good. Yes, life was still good. But the mommy in me struggled to accept a potential disability- no matter how small. A flood of questions and doubts entered my mind: Will he get picked on? Will he be embarrassed? Will he be able to throw a ball, play sports, play instruments, tie his shoes? I thought about how much I really use my pinky. I would obviously miss mine now, but he won't ever know the difference, so that makes it okay, right?

But it's not okay. I had to finally let myself admit it as I drove home. I felt ungrateful as the tears stung my eyes and fell silently onto my round belly. Of course, he was going to be a normal kid and live a good life if we had anything to do with it. He didn't have something devastating like a hole in his heart or a misplaced organ. His spine is perfect. He's beautiful and he's ours. But my conscience was heavy with a thought I wanted to destroy and never think again: He isn't as perfect as I wanted him to be. Not as perfect as he seemed before the doctor came in. And then, the harder pill for me to swallow came a few minutes later- that my idea of "perfection" is about as small as the box I try to make God fit inside. All I could think was that my son would be coming into this world at a small- however, instant- disadvantage, because not everything is where it should be. I wanted to mourn that little finger because it would be one less finger I get to kiss and hold when he's born. I have no doubt that I'll be too wrapped up in holding him and marveling at him once he gets here, but I don't- for one second- think that I won't want to wave a magic wand in the months and years down the road and make that pinky reappear for him, just so things might be that much easier, if only in a minuscule way. It seems so little. But I'm reminded that maybe that's what God wants me to see- that He's a God of the little things, just as much as He is a God of huge things. Perhaps this is a reminder that nothing is to ever be taken for granted, on any scale. The first time Milo drops a block into the shape sorter with his left hand, the first time he ties his shoes, the first song he learns on whatever instrument he chooses to play- they all become victories in a way they might never have been. Small things made spectacular. Or rather, spectacular things revealed to me in a brand new light, and one that asks me to throw my pre-conceived ideas out the window.


Milo isn't even here yet and already, he's teaching his Momma how to let go. I like this kid. <3

It's Not What You Think

I've put off writing about this topic because it's a tough one to even know how to articulate. I always try to find the humor in every day circumstances, but sometimes, there isn't any to be found. Musicians play, dancers dance, babies cry and writers write. Even when it hurts. Even when there's no clear way to end the words. As with anything in life, I've learned that it's about the process- and even more about the discipline- than it is the finished product, although the artist in me still strives for perfection every single time. And every single time, I will fall short. It happens.

There's a quote from a song I like that says, "Life perfect, ain't perfect if you don't know what the struggle's for." For four years, my struggle has been against anxiety. It's true that life wouldn't be nearly as precious to me now if I hadn't had to fight to find my identity and my own degree of normalcy since 2006. Since then, there has rarely been a day that I don't wake up on the front line of a continual war against- well, me. My own body. My racing mind. The subconscious circuit of lies and "what ifs" that are on constant replay. I liken it to being tuned into a bad radio station with a bunch of negative talk and static. Often, there is no volume knob or dial to tune into something different. Not too long ago, I had a painful realization that I had begun to accept this as "the way of life" from here on out. This revelation scared me more than the panic attacks themselves. But having already spent thousands of dollars on counseling, psychotherapy, and refills of Klonopin and Xanax (which, thankfully, I don't need to take anymore), I had begun to have expectations of little more than obtaining a mute button for my own back-stabbing mind. Realistically, I still don't expect the negative voice to go away. I can only hope to muffle it until one day, it just quits trying.

It's not what you think.

I don't need to go and sit in my car by myself and do deep breathing. But sometimes, it's the only way I feel safe. It may never have crossed your mind while standing in the Kroger check-out lane that you have. to. get. out. But I think it every single time I'm putting groceries on the belt. It takes everything I have in me to make myself stay because for so many years, I've trained my body to simply run.

It's not what you think.

I may try to look put together, but don't be fooled. Each time a panic attack hits, I turn into the woman who weighed 120 lbs and was a few steps away from being hospitalized. For a few minutes, I become the wife who almost lost her husband before she ever made it to her first anniversary because the stress was almost too much for either person to handle. People find it funny that I don't leave to take the trash out without a dab of concealer and some lip gloss (and it's true), but it's less because I'm a girly girl and more because I've learned to hide behind the makeup.


It's not what you think.

An introvert I may be, but I still want to hang out with my friends. But if I begin to feel anxious, I'll make up reasons to not be able to see them. I know I have a choice, but it never feels that way to me at the time.


It's not what you think.

Whatever excuse I gave you for needing to leave, it's probably a lie. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I've made a habit out of lying to the people I love so that this "thing" is never what they think it is. It's never the truth. Even when I know that the only person it truly hurts is me. Sometimes, I hope I'll start to believe the things that I make up because those realities seem easier to live with.

What is it about saying, "I'm scared" that's so hard? So many times I've wished I were afraid of heights or planes or spiders. I tell myself if I could only see it, just put my finger on it, I could kill it and move on.



But then I think, this thing that has a grip on me- perhaps it's not what I think it is either. Perhaps it's actually nothing but a bully, sucking all of it's energy and ego by preying on all my truths and twisting them around until they're unrecognizable. I watch my daughter's reaction when she doesn't get her way. Her face turns a reddish-purple, the inevitable high pitched wail that could peel the paint from the wall follows, something is usually thrown and then she crumples into a dramatic ball on the floor. A tantrum, in it's most classic form. (I can't wait for that to happen in Target one day). So it seems that my mind has become quite adept at throwing it's own tantrums, vying for my attention, which I've been all too willing to give it over the years.

It's not what you think.
"How will your daughter ever know what strength looks like if she always sees her mommy run?"
It's not what you think.
"And you thought you should have another baby? How will you be strong enough for them both?"
It's not what you think.
You're never safe.
It's not what you think.
The ending is already written. You can't change it.
It's not what you think.



Maybe, just maybe, It's not what I think, either.

What's in a name?

I have decided, there are few things that can leave a marriage as divided as the process of naming your unborn child, probably ranking second only to finances. Some couples get lucky and come away unscathed, landing on a name almost immediately (and although this was the case when we picked Ella's name, I think it more of the exception). Some couples know they will use certain family names, and whether they particularly like the name is of no matter; it's a family name, it's a done deal, and there are no qualms.

Thankfully, we had a boy name already left over from when I had first gotten pregnant with Ella and we wanted to have both options. So, I have to admit, I prayed that this child would be a boy. Not because I was against having another girl- I could see Ella having a sister and always thought two little girls would be so much fun. As a matter of fact, I was pretty convinced that we were, in fact, having another girl, from the very beginning. But I prayed for a boy because I knew there was a good chance that if it was another girl, our daughter would be nameless. As in, "Nameless Seward." Because her mother and father couldn't actually agree on any name. "Nameless" would at least be unique.

Thank God that he put a stem on this apple and saved us from what was sure to be another several months of struggle and debate. And although I have no idea what to do with little penises (a topic for which I'll need a few separate posts to cover), I'm sure I'll adjust and at least my son has a name. So Milo Ryan will be joining us in the first week of February. :-) We get a few eyebrow raises every now and then when we mention his name, but we like that it's unique (and yes, I do know that was the name of the cat in the movie "Milo and Otis" and hell no, that is not where we got the name from). Seriously, people.

And then it occurred to me this morning that I had absolutely no idea what my son's name means. Not that it matters. If I looked it up and discovered that it meant, "a homely child; one that possesses a single, lonely eye in the middle of the forehead," we would still roll with it (and pray that he isn't born a cyclops) because we are not, under any circumstances, reconsidering another name. Done deal. Fortunately for us, although the exact derivation is unclear, his name is most likely derived from Germanic origin meaning, "mild, peaceful and calm." Hah. Jake's kid?? I think not. As a little boy, my sweet husband was tested for ADHD, however, it was instead determined that he was just "hyper." He was not allowed to have any soda, but apparently, his Dad liked to give him a Coke every now and then just to watch his reaction (think Tazmanian devil-like antics). Of course, you would never know this about him- now, he's the most chilled out and laid back guy you would ever meet. Regardless, something tells me our kids are most likely destined to run the same course. However, Ella was already delivering some swift sucker-punches at this stage in my pregnancy with her, so it does seem to me that little Milo is already a tiny bit more calm in there. Fine with me. I'll take whatever little bit of peace and serenity I can get before February.

It's a.......Gut Feeling

Friday is the big day. THE day. I can hardly believe it's here already.

It is time, at long last, to know the flavor of this little bean. I didn't give it much thought in the very beginning, probably because much more of my focus was centered on trying to keep the contents of my stomach in my stomach. I could've given a rat's patootie what the little belly-dweller's gender was, so long as it wasn't two of them and so long as I didn't become any sicker than I was with Ella.

But of course, I compared notes between my two pregnancies. I noted when the morning sickness started, when it peaked, when it ended, what I craved, what I had aversions to, etc etc. I also eventually succumbed to the gender quizzes on various baby sites and consulted the Chinese Gender chart on several occasions. Every woman who becomes pregnant is secretly (or maybe not-so-secretly) desperate to know whether she's carrying a girl or a boy. And it's usually the second question out of people's mouths too, right after they notice your protruding bump.

"When's the baby due?" - The middle of February.
"Do you know what you're having?"- _________?

A word of warning: Especially nosy people may proceed to ask you, then, if this was a planned pregnancy, if you're planning to have anymore, what the name is, and some truly special people might indulge you with the story of their child's birth or how they knew so-and-so who crapped on the table when they were pushing the baby out. No, I'm not kidding. That happens (the crapping part AND the fact that someone I had known for 40 seconds was willing to share that tidbit with me). I felt special.

Anyway, when I was pregnant with Ella, I wasn't technically supposed to know that I was pregnant with a girl, but in an unfortunate turn of events (that proved to be fortunate for me), it was revealed to me during one of my appointments when Jake wasn't there. He insisted on being kept in the dark for the next 5 months, and so I kept it from him, trying to preserve the surprise he so desperately wanted on delivery day. And I must have done a good job masking it, because he and several of his family members swore up and down that we were going to be meeting Milo Ryan that day, not Ella Claire. It was a truly beautiful- yet almost comic- moment when they pulled her out and said, "okay Dad, take a look- what do you see?"

A girl?!?!

I had the last laugh on that one. ;)

This time, I pretty much insisted we find out as soon as humanly possible. There would be no more secret shopping and hiding clothes, no slip-ups to give anything away. No waiting until Christmas morning to open the shiny package. (It wouldn't come as a shock to anyone that I was the child that would crawl up under the Christmas tree to more thoroughly examine and shake the packages with my name on them. I'm pretty sure I was caught doing it last year too). So yes, we are going to "ruin" the surprise (as some people *cough-JAKE-cough-cough*say) and go right for the crotch on Friday.

But, even with the mounting excitement, I feel that I could already tell you what we're having and that I'm 95% sure about it. And of course, I could be wrong. But I don't think I am this time. I've been surprised at how many of our friends feel very strongly that we're gonna be buying blue this time around. I had a few friends call it right from the beginning. Jake also believes Ella will be getting a brother, but I'm not sure if it's because he just wants a boy so badly or because he actually has a feeling in his gut.

The feeling in my gut has been girl, almost since the beginning. I've had nothing but girl dreams, some of which even revealed girl names that we've considered. I've even had a few people tell me I must be having a girl. And on that note, I've learned that you should never, ever ask them why, or else you could end up hearing them reference some crazy old wives tales like the unevenness of your breasts, or the fine hairs on your upper lip or how your right butt cheek sags more than your left, so therefore, it must be a girl. I just don't ask anymore.

I haven't really checked out all of the crazy old wives tales this time around. To be honest, if I were going by some of the more well-known (and slightly less insane) tales, I'd actually have every reason to think this is a boy as well. Which is why it's all the more intriguing to me that the closer we get to the big reveal, the more I feel like we're going to have two little princesses on our hands. I would love to be proved wrong, but then again, I always like to hear the words, "you were right." ;)

My next favorite words to hear: "Let's go shopping." And no doubt, there will be plenty of that in the coming weeks. ;-)

A Work of Art

My parents have this picture I made for them when I was about ten years old. It's a picture of Santa Claus and a Christmas tree with toys under it. And, just to show that I was versatile in various mediums, I went all out and used puff paint for this particular masterpiece. Yep, I was cool. Anyway, every year at Christmas time, they pull this picture out and put it up on their refrigerator. They even had it laminated for good measure, making it next to impossible to tear or cut up, as I had tried to do so many times years later. Now, it's become sort of a standing joke, that when I come to visit and go to open the refrigerator, I am stopped dead in my tracks by the deformed looking Santa (and is that his sack on his back or is he somehow related to Quasi Moto?) I always roll my eyes and make a crack about taking the picture somewhere very far away and putting it out of it's misery, to which my mom exclaims, " NOOooo- you leave that picture right where it is! Someday you'll have children and they'll make pictures for you and you'll think they're the most beautiful things in the world and you'll want to keep them too."

Now, let me be brutally honest: I've worked in several nurseries and done my fair share of babysitting enough to know that most of the pictures I've seen kids draw have been, well, the word ugly springs to mind. Some have even been downright insulting. A few years ago, I was in church and a little girl I used to babysit walked up at the end of the service and told me she had drawn a picture of me for me to have as a gift. And there I was: a long torso, midget legs, and fins for arms. I had a few strands of hair that were styled into a mullet and my forehead showed indications of a thalidomide birth defect. Yeah, real nice, kid. I'm glad to know that's what you think I look like. Somehow, I was able to mask my look of horror, forced a "thank you," and managed to take it all the way home with me, where Jake and I had a good laugh over it and it was then promptly placed in the trash can.

Instances like that, plus my disdain toward my mom's sentimentality over the Santa Claus/Hunchback picture fueled my belief that I would probably poke fun at my own kid's artwork someday too, (but not to their face, obviously). Ah, but parenthood seems to have a way of making us eat our words or pre-conceived notions. Ella picked up some crayons yesterday, so I got a piece of paper and taped it to the table and let her go to town. I was a little leary of leaving her with a box of crayons at her disposal, as only 2 months ago, I had tried to show her how to hold a crayon and scribble and she had instead found them more enticing to eat rather than to draw with. This time, however, she had figured out how to hold the crayons and had seemingly forgotten that they had ever tasted good. I watched her look of concentration as she figured out exactly the right angle to hold the crayon and saw how her eyes lit up as she began to make marks on the page. A few minutes later, I walked back over to find that she had even used several different colors and there were scribbles, zig-zags and curvy lines scrawled all across the paper- her first official piece of artwork. I almost had to stop myself from tearing up, but I suspect the pregnancy hormones were mostly to blame for that. Either way, it was beautiful and it was a part of her. And in that moment, I understood why my fugly Santa picture still adorns my parents refrigerator at Christmastime. Probably for the same reason that my mom has kept my baby dolls and barbies. They are reminders of her little girl as well.

So, I now resign myself to having my refrigerator and walls overtaken by my daughter's creative musings. The house is already covered in Fisher Price and Leap Frog toys, so why not go all out, right? Another milestone is reached and I am both the proud and sentimental Mama I swore I would never be. But I'm totally okay with that. :-)

The Pregnancy "No-No" List

I'm slightly aware that this next statement may make me sound like a borderline alcoholic, but I promise that's not the case. Truly, one of the hardest things for me about being pregnant is the restriction of alcohol. There I said it. (What, you thought I was going to say sciatica? That sucks too, but in a different way). I've found that giving up the nightly glass of wine doesn't seem so difficult in the first trimester since nausea and alcohol don't tend to mix well anyway. But once I cross the threshold into the golden second trimester and began to feel like myself again, my self starts to remember how good my favorite bottle of Cabernet tastes. I look longingly at the shelves of wine in the grocery store and have found myself enviously eyeing the couple splitting a bottle at my favorite local cafe. (I stop staring just short of drooling and making an ass of myself). Anyone who knows me knows that wine is my drink of choice. I made weekly trips to the local wine shops- usually with Ella in tow- tasting wines and usually coming home with a few bottles in order to stay stocked up. A glass or two of wine each evening was the norm in our household and I looked forward to date nights with Jake where we would pop in a DVD, put our feet up and crack open a bottle. As preggos, it's bad enough that we're sick for 14 weeks straight during the first part of our pregnancy, and then we're faced with our changing bodies and fluctuating weight, but it only adds insult to injury when we're out with friends and have to watch them enjoy their adult beverages as we sit and sip our Shirley Temples. It's utter torture sometimes.

But truth be told, I live very comfortably in moderation camp. Every woman has to choose what's right for her and her baby in terms of what she allows herself to do while pregnant and it's a personal decision. I felt okay about drinking an occasional glass of wine when I was pregnant with Ella, starting around my 5th month up until she was born. I know that some would flame me for that, and of course, they're entitled to their opinion. In keeping with that, I also never ascribed to the "no deli meat" while pregnant. Because if I lived according to that, then I would have to obey the "no soft-serve ice-cream" rule. (No DQ when you're pregnant?? That's just silly). And then if I didn't do that, I wouldn't be able to be around any chemicals at all. While I don't walk around with my nose jammed into a jar of rubber cement, I did paint most of Ella's nursery during my 2nd trimester, (with latex paint and in a well-ventilated room), got my hair highlighted on a couple of different occasions and even used self-tanning lotion that my OB had approved. I guess I came to my own conclusion that pregnancy is tinged with enough worry and concern for me- everything from Down's screenings to spina bifida testing to gestational diabetes and so many other developmental concerns- that if I had to make myself worry whether the peanut butter cup blizzard I had just devoured was possibly contaminated by a dirty machine carrying lysteria, I would have had to check myself into the funny farm.

Coming from someone who considers herself to be a chronic worrier, it seems there's so much more to worry about in pregnancy now than there was even 20 years ago. I do value and appreciate where modern science and technology has brought us, but I can't decide whether it has actually created a culture of fear more than one of safety. Has it hurt more than it's helped? The answer to that is different depending on who you ask. I'm sure if I was considered a high-risk pregnancy, my answer to that would be a lot different than it is now. I have been lucky to not have to deal with some of the pregnancy complications that others face. But if there's one thing I do well (not that I'm proud of it), it's worry. Especially about things that I have no control over. So I try to live my life while pregnant as normally as I would when I'm not, with some obvious precautions and exceptions. I do eat deli meat, but usually heat it to steaming first- a good middle ground. I try to get plenty of sleep (and with a 14 month old, that proves to be difficult at times). I avoid ice cream, not because of the lysteria threat, but because of my lactose intolerance this pregnancy. (I had a Chic-Fil-A milkshake about once a week in my last month of pregnancy with Ella and it was usually the highlight of my week). I have had a glass of wine or two since being in the second trimester, and will probably continue to have one glass of wine per week. I met up with a good friend last night who is 31 weeks pregnant with her 2nd. We went to a local wine shop to do a tasting and proceeded next door to a wine bar and ordered a glass at the bar. Needless to say, a few eyebrows were raised, but we had a great time and I really enjoy that I'm not feeling as uptight about things this time around. Pregnancy is a special time in a woman's life, and thus, should be treated with respect, but it's not a disease. It's not a perpetual "no-no list" but a heightened awareness of your own personal intuition about you and your baby. My momma gut hasn't let me down in the past and I continue to trust it.

And so the count-down continues. 24 weeks, 3 days, or approximately 171 days, until this baby gets here and then of course, I'll have a whole new set of worries. But among the many things I'm looking forward to post-pregnancy, being able to crack open a bottle of wine while fixing dinner and then share it with the hubs is one of the top ten, for sure. If absence does, in fact, make the heart grow fonder, then my heart is growing quite fond of wine, soft cheeses and ice cream. ;)

I Just Need to Get This Off My Scale (I mean, "chest")

I don't consider myself to be an overachiever. In the academic realm, I regret now that I only allowed myself to simply "get by" with A's and B's. I knew even then that I could do better, but I was much too concerned with being a social butterfly. Musically, I've always been more of a perfectionist, but even then, I was never driven to the top of the class, and while I did set (and achieve) my own personal standards, they by no means included holing myself up in a practice room for 8 + hours a day. There does, however, appear to be one area in my life where I love to show off: weight gain during pregnancy. Apparently, I pull out all stops and it's no holds barred between implantation and D-day.

I say "apparently," because this kind of weight gain came as a shock to me. I can vividly remember sitting in my OB's office at our first prenatal appointment when I was pregnant with Ella. When I asked how much weight I could expect to put on, my doctor matter of factly said, "oh, probably a good 30 lbs." I almost keeled over at even the thought of that much weight and silently vowed right then and there that I would not gain 30 lbs. No way. And as luck would have it, I didn't.

I gained 55.

There's a quote that says something to the effect of, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." (I'm finding that pretty much incapsulates all of parenthood). So about half-way through my pregnancy with Ella, I just stopped looking at the scale at the doctor's office. I figured ignorance truly is bliss. And I was incredibly relieved when all of the weight came off (and then some) in the first 6 months and I realized that I could actually abandon my original plans to breastfeed her until the 4th grade in order to get my body back. That would have been awkward.

But now, it's back to whistling and looking away as the nurse asks me to hop up on the scale and I'm once again scheming ways in which I can produce enough breastmilk to feed an orphanage once this baby arrives. I'm almost 16 weeks pregnant and it appears my body very clearly remembers how to make a baby. If there were classes being offered in this field, I'm guessing my body would have a major in gestation with a minor in fat storage. I'm currently in that awkward stage where I'm not obviously pregnant yet but appear to have "let myself go." Which is odd, because the only place I remember letting myself go was Arby's. My reasoning was simple. When you're newly-knocked up, hungry and constantly feeling on the verge of throwing up, if the only things that sound good to eat are a roast beef sandwich and mac 'n' cheese, well, that's what you eat. Of course, I questioned why I couldn't be like my friend Elizabeth who craved lima beans. Really, how could you go wrong eating those? Definitely a "scale-friendly" food. Not me, though. I wanted- needed- carbs and starches- baked potatoes, bagels, pasta, and then of course, the occasional (or maybe not so occasional) roast beef sandwhich from Arby's. I wasn't overly concerned about my weight, as the numbers didn't creep up very much in the first few weeks. But I can only assume that there must have been some sort of delayed reaction, because quite literally, I gained 4 lbs almost overnight (or over the course of a weekend). It's continued to come in spurts ever since. Unfortunately, it seems that my body has decided to hold on to every little calorie I eat, as if it's being starved and doesn't understand that there are limitless food options available. I wish I could somehow reason with it and explain that there really is no need for the bowl of cheerios I ate last night to make their way down to my hips....and yet, they did, and there they shall stay for quite some time. I cringe to think of what happens when we order pizza.

So, my weight gain to date...*drumroll please*....18 pounds in 15 weeks. How much of that is baby, you ask? Oh, about 4 ounces. (I win the prize, right?) And while I'm vaguely aware that I'll be having to put on a swimsuit in 3 weeks, I haven't really let that sink in. Denial is a good place to be for now. And the best place for my scale, I've decided, is buried deep in my closet, under my favorite pair of Seven jeans and other clothes that have been over-taken by my burgeoning body parts. I have high hopes that they will make their triumphant return sometime in 2011. Until then, what I don't know can't hurt me, right? ;)

From a Bulging Belly to a Grateful Heart (Part I)

While pregnancy gives a woman much to be excited for, it goes without saying that it's not always a walk in the park. Between the first trimester nausea and fatigue, the growing belly and tightening clothes in the 2nd trimester, and the various body aches and pains that accompany the 3rd trimester, a pregnant woman can count on hurting in some form or another just about every day she puts her foot out of bed. (Lucky us).

And while it's easy to gripe and complain (and we have every right to), I thought it was time to write a post about all the things that I'm grateful for this pregnancy, in spite of the above-mentioned annoyances. First and foremost, I'm grateful for my health and the health of this baby. Stating that pregnancy isn't "a walk in a park" is a major understatement for many women who find themselves violently sick throughout the entirety of their pregnancy, or are put on bedrest due to threatened miscarriage or pre-term labor. I'm so thankful that I haven't fallen fall into either of these categories, and I know that I've surely taken it for granted at times. I am also grateful to have had a "textbook" pregnancy with Ella and that I wasn't even as sick in the first trimester as some women are. This pregnancy seems to be following suit (fingers crossed!)

But here are a few other things that I simply couldn't live without and are definitely worth mentioning (in no particular order):

1. Zofran.
It's no surprise to anyone who knows me well that I would mention this miracle pill, what with my unique fear of throwing up and all things associated with it. This tiny, unassuming yellow pill is packed with a punch that transforms even the greenest of green into a nice healthy shade of pink again. Oh, and did I mention the current price for just one of these little miracle-workers is $4? I might also add that I'm not expecting much for Christmas this year, since I've had it refilled about 3 times a month at 30 pills a pop. Yep, you do the math. Nirvana ain't cheap. (But oh, so worth it).

2. Coke

Ah, nothing is more refreshing than an ice cold coke on a hot day. And there's something about it that my pregnant body craves from the moment implantation occurs until my 40th week (or 41st, as was the case with Ella). Aside from the debilitating nausea, my insatiable thirst for coke was another big clue for me that I was knocked up, even before the pee stick turned pink. And it has to be real coke. The "fatty" coke that's chock full of empty calories. Not diet, not coke zero, not even coke with lime. Just good ol' fashioned Coca Cola Classic. (Even better if it's in a glass bottle). ;)

3. Chocolate

If you had handed me a piece of chocolate or a brownie when I was in my first trimester with Ella, there was about an 85% chance I would have gagged and run for the bathroom. Not so much with this pregnancy. It's no secret that I've developed quite the sweet tooth with this baby. Just the mention of chocolate or seeing a commercial on TV will have me salivating for some dark chocolate sorbet or a Milky Way bar. And that's not to say that indulging in a big chocolate chip cookie a few weeks back wasn't without it's consequences of immediately feeling sick and regretting the decision. Still, I craved it and continue to have a jonesing for something sweet every day. Although now unfortunately, I don't often have the backlash of nausea to make me re-think going for that second or third helping. Which, consequently, brings me to #4...

4. Elastic waistbands.

I lost the battle against my pre-pregnancy jeans about 4 weeks ago and have been living comfortably in maternity pants ever since. Honestly, it's a battle that I regret fighting so hard to begin with. After having the button of my jeans digging into my bulging belly for 6 weeks, secured only with a hair rubber band, stepping into my favorite maternity pants was like a little slice of love handle heaven. And now that my belly is actually starting to resemble more of a bona fide baby bump and less of a muffin top, I can feel even better about investing in a designer pair of maternity jeans, right? ;)

5. Naps

Naptimes are sacred in this household because Ella naps = Mommy naps. I am both lucky and grateful that she still takes two fairly long naps a day, and although it's a rarity that I actually get to have some shut eye when she does, I almost always take advantage of the time to put my feet up and rest (and maybe eat, again).

6. My husband.

I admit, during the lowest points of my pregnancy (i.e. moments I spent lying on the bathroom floor and every contraction leading up to my epidural with Ella), it was tempting to blame Jake for my condition (I mean, after all, I didn't get myself pregnant). But honestly, he's my rock. I know that I couldn't have survived either pregnancy without him. From late-night Wendy's runs, to foot-rubs and back-massages, to dealing with the ups and downs that was (and still is) the hormone rollercoaster I've been on, it goes without saying that the man has the patience of a saint. And the biggest heart of anyone I know. I know I'm a lucky girl, although I don't think I let him in on that fact often enough.

7. My daugher.

Amidst the tantrums and the ever-unfolding diva attitude she displays on a daily basis, she is without a doubt, my absolute joy. Even after a day of feeling worn down, hungry, nauseous, then hungry again, then scared to death of what life will look like with 2 under 2, I can take just one look at her and immediately know exactly why I'm doing this all over again. I remember that I literally felt my heart grow in capacity when they put her in my arms and I'm totally expecting for it to grow twice as much again when this new baby comes. Becoming a mommy has hurled all kinds of new things at me, but none have been greater than the joy it brings me to watch her grow into this incredible little person. While I have my moments of anxiety about bringing another baby into our already crazy life, I am reminded of what a gift it's going to be for me to watch Ella transform, before my very eyes, into "the big sister." Being an only child, I'm grateful to be able to give her something that I was never able to experience for myself- the love that exists between siblings. To be able to play a part in creating this legacy for them is something I never want to take for granted.


There will be more "grateful" posts to come, I promise, as I have much in my life to be thankful for....but only so much time before a certain little bug wakes up from her nap. ;)

Veggie Tales

And this is how our particular tale goes (names have been changed to protect the innocent).

There once was a little girl named Stella. Stella became a very picky eater after she stopped nursing. She loved cheese- lots of cheese. And she loved bread- lots of bread. And sometimes she would eat pasta (but only as long as there was cheese on it). She did not, however, like peas, carrots, green beans, broccoli, sweet potatoes, squash and cauliflower- or anything that did not resemble cheese or bread.

So she ate cheese and bread for lunch and dinner. Over and over and over again.

The mommy tried to hide carrots in her cheese quesadilla at lunchtime. Stella discovered them when she took her first bite and got so mad that she threw her quesadilla on the floor. The mommy went and beat her head against the kitchen counter.

The daddy showed Stella how to eat her veggies to encourage her to try them. Stella decided to kindly offer her daddy the rest of her veggies instead. Then proceeded to dump them on the kitchen floor. The mommy went and banged her head against the kitchen counter again.

This continued every evening with no end in sight.


The end.



*A sad and rather short story.* (Hey, I never promised it would have a happy ending).

#%@& happens.

A lot, when you're chasing after a 14 month old. And it comes in various forms. The literal kind, that you wipe off a pair of butt-cheeks 2 or 3 times a day and that- if you're unlucky enough to have raging pregnancy hormones- will sometimes leave you gagging for the duration of the diaper change. Then there's the more metaphorical, yet very real bull#%&@ that abounds in everyday life. (If only a box of wipes could take care of that, I'd have it made, but I digress).

The point is, %@& happens. And sometimes the actual word, "s**t" happens as well. I admit, it's more of a common word in our household than it should be, and this is one that I can't put on Jake. And so at last, I "out" myself. For years, I have taken some unknown, great pleasure in saying this word. Maybe it's the way you can really get into the "ssshhhhhh" part of it, especially if you're really peeved. In those instances, I pride myself on taking a one-syllable word and stretching it into two. More like "ssshhhheeee-iiiiiiitt!" It just feels good. And I justified this for many years. I figured, it's one thing to do it by yourself and no one's there to hear you as you sit behind the wheel of your Mazda V6 Wagon (because that's the kind of car you buy when you want to dominate the highway, right?). I also had a theory that there's a direct correlation between the amount of pain I'm in and the number of times I get to say this word. So that 5 lb bag of ice I dropped on my toes? That was worth a couple of expletives. But the sneaky thing about this word is that if you're not careful, it starts to randomly show up before you have time to stop it: your computer freezes and you're right in the middle of a facebook status update. (#%@&!) Then you can't open a jar of spaghetti sauce (#%@&!) You step in dog-doo (quite literally- #%@&!) You stare at a positive pregnancy test on a random Saturday afternoon and then it's HOLY #%@&! (saved for those truly momentous occasions). 10 months and 1 week later, and you've been in labor for 16 hours when the doctor informs you that you're going to need a c-section. (#%@&! #%@&! #%@&!)

And so life continues, and #%@& continues to make an exit from your lips every now and then. And it's all good for awhile because your little girl is just a baby. There's no need to censor the Lil Wayne and Nelly CD's just yet. But the weeks turn into months, and now you realize she's starting to listen to you. She wants to communicate with you. You think this is pretty much the coolest thing ever. And you're not much worried about the few times you slip, because she's still so little. She doesn't understand the meaning of that word anyway.

But she doesn't need to.

Because kids don't need to understand what they say before they say it. Remember the show "Kids Say the Darndest Things?" Someone got seriously rich capitalizing on little kids who made total @$$es of their parents by saying things within a context they didn't understand or repeating things they had no business repeating. And most of the time, it's cute. When you wait so long to hear them say their first word, the last thing you probably worry about is whether that word will be sandwiched between some expletives. Ella has always been quite the chatterbox, and so I became accustomed to listening to her experiment with combinations of vowels and syllables and talking nonsense to her Sophie and other animal friends for months. And like any other mom, I melted the first time she said "mama" and giggled at her attempt at "banana" ("nanana") and "kittycat" ("keekah"). And then one day- whether by chance or perhaps by, ahem, some *other* coincidence- I heard a different set of syllables and vowels coming out of her mouth. At first I reasoned it must have been the word "spit," but really, how likely was that? I walked back to her room, watched her throw her binkey on the floor and then, right on cue, "#%@&."

Fabulous.

It got even better when we would go to Target or the grocery store. I was now very well aware of her newfound vocabulary and as if in slow motion, I would watch as she would animatedly point at something and then proceed to yell out the same 4 letter word before I could get my hand to her mouth or shove a cracker down her throat. We got a few looks, needless to say. I prayed it was a phase. And thankfully, it seems to have passed for now. (And you better believe I've made Jake clean up his language....ahem...)

So I guess it's time for me to come up with another word that is just as gratifying to roll off the tongue in less than happy circumstances. I think I'm actually going to miss it. But it must be done. Apparently, little cornfields have big ears.

Things I Wish I Had Known (A Letter to Myself)

A few months back, a good friend of mine asked me to take part in a project she was doing for work that aimed to uncover certain universal truths about the mother-child bond. In this project, her agency asked for women who are mothers to write letters to themselves the night/day before they have their first child. What would we tell ourselves? What things do we know now that we would have loved to know then? What legacies do we wish to carry forward with this next generation?

I jumped at the opportunity to write about the relationship I have with my Ella-bug and immediately dove into the recesses of my memory, trying to re-live the last few days, hours, minutes, before I was catapulted into "first time Mommy-dom," with it's steep learning curve, rollercoaster hormones and 3-a-night feedings. And as I reflected back, I realized that- excited as I was about meeting this tiny person who had been shoving her feet in my ribcage for well over 5 months- I had become afraid of her. I had heard one too many stories from (I think) well meaning people who told me that my life, as I had come to live it, was "over" once "that baby comes along." Things like, "forget sleeping in," and "I hope you enjoy infomercials because that's all you'll be watching at 2 a.m. when you're up feeding the baby," and "your time is the baby's" and "you'll forget what it's like to have a real date night with your husband...." reverberated through my head. In spite of all the wonderful things people were speaking into my life about becoming a mommy and how I would fall head over heels in love with this little creature (which I totally did), I instead chose to hang tighter onto all of the negative things. Isn't that the way it always goes?

And guess what? I lost sleep. A lot of it. I cried a lot in those first 2 months of Ella's life. But more often than not, the tears were happy ones (hormones, I tell ya, hormones...) I actually *did* get to sleep in, because I have a wonderful husband who would get up with Ella when it was obvious that I needed a break. And we started having "real" date nights again after about 6 weeks, when Jake's parents offered (and we gladly accepted) to keep her for us on a Friday or Saturday night almost every single weekend. To this day, she still goes over there one night every weekend and we still get to be "Kristin and Jake," not just "Mommy and Daddy."

I was scared for no reason. And as I started to write this letter to myself and reflected back on the last days before Ella's arrival, I realized that I haven't missed out on a single thing. Nothing at all has been taken away from me that I wouldn't gladly give up. (Obviously, because I'm about to do it all over again in 6 months. ;) ). Life is more rich because I'm Ella's mommy. She has given me more than I could have ever given myself in the 27 years I had before I knew her...



Dear Kristin,

You have been waiting impatiently for your little girl to get here for 10 months and 1 week now. Your labor has started up and then just as quickly fizzled out every day for the last week and as far as you're concerned, time could not be going any slower. But please, hold onto this moment. Enjoy feeling her move in your belly. Savor these last precious moments you have with your husband as just the two of you. Life is about to change dramatically in less than 24 hours. Yes, after 276 days of pregnancy, you have only hours left to wait. Don't rush this. Because once you hold your daughter tomorrow, time will never be able to go slowly enough for you. You will blink your eyes and the tiny 6 lbs 15 oz peanut you cradle in your arms will soon be an independent, spunky toddler who refuses to let you rock her to sleep. You, too, will become the cliché you swore you'd never be, who asks, “where did the time go?”

Right now, you are wondering how you could ever love someone as much as your parents love you. You've heard people talk about this kind of love, and though you would never admit it to anyone, you're afraid you may be the one exception. You worry you won't love her enough. But rest assured, your heart will break in a completely new way when you lay eyes on her tomorrow. You will dream bigger, pray harder, laugh louder and love more deeply than you ever knew you could. Jake will continue to be your rock, and though you might find that you disagree over the little things, remember that they are just that- little things. He will astound you in the way that he loves and cares for his little girl and your heart will be so full as you watch her eyes light up when he comes home from work. Please don't take him for granted. You will be emotionally and physically exhausted at the end of each day, but remember that he will be too. Lean on each other and your love will be stronger for it.

Now is also a good time for you to admit that you don't adapt well to change. You have a certain idea of how things should be once Ella is home with you. Be prepared to throw these pre-conceived and idealistic notions out the window. This is going to be messy- both in the physical and metaphorical sense of the word. Make the decision right now to adjust the amount of pressure you place on yourself. You will not be able to clean the house, fix dinner, take a shower and tend to all of Ella's needs, every single day. Your outfit may not be coordinated some days. You may not get a chance to put on makeup. This doesn't make you any less of a woman, and it certainly doesn't make you a failure. You are using up every resource available to you to take care of this little one and that in and of itself, is a beautiful thing. Don't stress about the pile of dishes in the sink or the dust bunnies lying on the floor. You have the rest of your life to clean up your house, but only so many years where she will actually want you to play with her. Get down on the floor with her at her level- every day. And remember that it really is okay if she doesn't go down each night right at 8:30 or if she doesn't finish all of her veggies. Be prepared to question yourself on a daily basis, regarding everything from over the counter meds to sleeping arrangements and discipline, but resist the temptation to carry around the infamous “mom-guilt.” Don't let yourself fall prey to anyone who makes you feel that you aren't enough. Remember that God has hand-picked you to be Ella's mother and thus, has given you a strong intuition specifically for her. Trust it and go with it. If you remember to do anything as a mother, extend grace as much as you ask for it.

No matter what you ever knew or thought you knew about God, you will experience Him in a whole new way tomorrow when you hold your newborn baby girl. You may, in fact, get just a glimpse of how much you are loved by Him. Your daughter will be a constant and precious reminder that life is to be lived. Get ready for the celebration.



K

The Gender-Defender Post

Ever meet those people that assume that when God created dogs, they were all female? I happen to know these people exist because I've heard them say, "hey there girl!" to my dog, sometimes within seconds of him cocking a leg over his favorite pee stone. I was never offended when this happened to our dog though. Stupefied, maybe, (considering my dog tried to hump everything with legs), but dogs are dogs and cats are cats. It's a different ball game altogether, though, with the tiny human I'm strolling around, whom I grew in my belly for 10 months. For the record, I did not create a unisex baby named Pat. So I would like to ask why, better yet HOW...someone's brain processes an oversized bow on the head of a baby (who also happens to be wearing a floral print shirt) and then proceeds to comment on how cute "he" looks or how badly they want to pinch "his" cheeks.

In the beginning, I tried to be gracious about it. It's a known fact that my daughter was an onion-head at birth. No hair to speak of, so no point in trying to pin little bows to her shiny bald head. Even so, I always thought she had very feminine features that made her look overwhelmingly like a girl, but given the gender-neutral car seat and gear, I tried to cut people some slack during those first few months. (This was a real feat considering my crazy post-partum hormones). I'm also not big on dressing my little girl in head-to-toe pink. I don't like anything frilly or lacy. I usually prefer to dress Ella in the same color palette that I would wear, perhaps with a few exceptions. I can see where this would also cause a bit of confusion so I gave the benefit of the doubt. But as Ella began to get older, she grew more hair. And out came the hair accessories. Then the weather got warmer and I stocked her closet with sundresses and baby- doll tops. I stood back and gazed at her closet and breathed a sigh of relief. I was convinced that we were officially past the "thank you very much but this is actually a girl" correction phase. Surely no one would ever mistake her for a little boy now.

Wrong again. So a few messages..

To the man at Subway who bent over and commented on the cute baby, I appreciate the compliment. I think she's cute too. And you could have left it at that. But unfortunately, when you asked her name and I responded with "Ella," and your next remark was "such a handsome lad," you left me no other choice but to think you're a complete dumbass. And that you teleported here from the 1930's. No one says "lad" anymore here in America, dude.

To the woman in Target who was too young and dressed far too hip to make a faux-pas such as this: did you not see the pink blanket with the daisy applique that was laying across her car seat? Do you also speed through red lights because you think they're green? I hear that color-blindness strikes one out of every five people. Stupidity strikes one out of every three. Good luck.


To the woman at the coffee shop who pointed and said "look at him lovin' on his mama..." did you see a penis poking out from under her skirt that I wasn't aware of? By the way, that sound you just heard was my jaw hitting the floor.



So a word to the wise: if there's any doubt in your mind at all about the gender of the little peanut in the shopping cart in front of you, perhaps it's best to simply smile and be on your way. However, if said peanut is wearing any type of bow, headband, hair accessory or has random splotches of pink in her outfit, you're 99.9% safe to assume it's a girl. It will make that mother's day, I promise.

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six HUndred Minutes...

How do you measure a year?

The past 525,600 minutes (I refuse to type that out again) have, indeed, been the most precious of my life so far. At 7:49 pm on a warm Saturday evening in June, all at once, I fell in love, had my biggest dream fulfilled and felt my heart break in a completely new way. I remember a very real feeling of panic as they placed this tiny peanut-person in my very shaky, unsteady, new-Mom arms. "Can't these nurses see that I don't know what I'm doing? Are they really going to leave her with me? What now??"

Looking back, I wish I could say that I remember more of our first few days and weeks together as a new family. Unfortunately, for about the first 3 months, I walked around my house half-robed in a zombie-like state, searching for either a paci, the coffee maker, or a burpcloth. So perhaps, the last year could be measured solely in the amount of time I spent awake when I should have been sleeping. I'm gonna guess it was about 495,000 minutes of the 525, 600.

But I have a confession. I didn't write in her baby book this year. *Bad Mommy.* I had every intention to. I even went out and bought a scrapbook, stickers, paper and special markers to do her very own scrapbook. And every time I open my hall closet and see all the materials still neatly tucked away in their original packaging, I laugh at my own naivety. Sure, after the baby goes down, the house is picked up, dinner is made and errands are run, why wouldn't I want to sit down and spend a couple of hours with a glue stick, scissors and stickers? I have a sneaky suspicion the book and all of it's components will be hanging out in our hall closet- quite possibly- until she's in college. So unfortunately, I wish I could tell you the exact date she said her first word, rolled over from tummy to back and vice versa, ate her first food and took her first steps, but I can't. But maybe knowing the dates isn't so important after all. I lived those moments with her, regardless of whether I made note of them elsewhere. And while my Mommy brain may not be functioning on all cylinders all of the time, I have come to realize that those moments are etched in my memory just as clear as if they happened yesterday: the way it felt to hold her for the first time, the way I melted when she smiled her first real smile (and I knew it wasn't gas), the first time she said "mama" to me and held her arms out to be picked up, the panic and helplessness I felt the first time we made a trip to the ER at 5:30 in the morning when she spiked a fever, the first time she walked to me....

These moments make up just a small fraction of the grand-total, but they are the ones that have helped define me as a mommy this year.

"In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights and cups of coffee" (and there were a lot of those)

"In inches, in miles, in laughter and strife

"In five-hundred twenty-five-thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in the life?"

How about love? There's been an abundance of it this past year and for that, I'm so grateful. :)