"Get the Hot Water!"

Watch any old black and white movie when a woman is about to give birth, and there is that inevitable bimbo (usually the father-to-be) running around yelling for someone to "get hot water, get hot water."

And my question has always been, "what on earth for??" I realize there's probably a valid answer for this lurking out there in Google- probably something to do with disinfecting- but I've just always found it amusing. It's funny what the brain thinks in certain circumstances. A few nights ago, I was awakened by a horrible pain. In a sleepy stupor, I instantly thought, Damnit, I started my period.. Wait... Nope. Nevermind. This actually feels about 15x worse. It started in my back and radiated around to my front and for a split second, I wanted to blame it on the fact that maybe the baby was just in a weird position. So I rolled over. Ever so gracefully. Flopping around and gyrating the bed until Jake (who could normally sleep through a tornado) woke up and asked if everything was okay.

Yep. There it is again. Definitely a contraction- and definitely more painful than any of the others I had been having up until now. I grabbed my phone and pulled up the "contraction master" app (they really do make an app for just about anything these days) and started timing them. 3 minutes later, another one. I tapped Jake on the shoulder and said, "I think this might be it- these are actually pretty painful." He responded, "do you want me to draw you a bath?" (And for a split second, I considered the antics of the anxious father-to-be and wondered if this was his own version of, "get hot water, get hot water!") But really he had a point. God love this man. Even at 3:05 a.m., he had the presence of mind to know that getting into the tub would tell me whether or not I was truly "in labor". (So maybe those bimbos in the old black and white movies were on to something...)

Unfortunately, this was not the first time this scenario has played out in our house (although it was the first time it was strong enough to wake me up out of a sound sleep). For the past 2 weeks, I've been suffering through prodromal labor. Definition: the early period in parturition before uterine contractions become forceful and frequent enough to result in progressive dilation of the uterine cervix. Or, in non-medical terms: false labor. Or, as my doctor pointed out, "you could just have an irritable uterus." Well, I have news for my doctor: there ain't much on me that's not irritable these days. My earlobes are irritable. Let's not even talk about the muscular organ that's encasing my 7ish lb son. After several appointments at which it's been determined that I'm closed up tight, I've basically been operating under the assumption that a jack-hammer might be the only thing capable of getting my cervix to budge. So, as much as these contractions hurt, I knew not to jump the gun and waddled out to the couch to let Jake get some sleep and see what would come of it.

It's an odd place to be, really. (No, not our couch). It's the realization that hits a pregnant woman smack in the face when you reach this stage in pregnancy: you're so uncomfortable and DONE, and you complain about how much everything hurts all. the. time- and in places you never even knew existed- yet you turn into a giddy school girl, deliriously happy over something best described as "the holy mother of all period cramps," which will only escalate into the greatest pain you will ever experience. Ever.

Not that I would know anything about that kind of pain. Two years ago when I went into labor with Ella, I had this awesome plan to put our labor and delivery unit on speed dial so that I could call them on the way to the hospital to "pre-order" my epidural in an effort to ensure that I wouldn't have to wait to get it once I got there. By the time we arrived, I would've gladly welcomed a curbside injection, only to discover that I was a measly 3 centimeters. THREE. Women unknowingly walk around at 3 cm before they even go into "real" labor. Yes, it's true: a high threshold for pain, I do not posess. But then again, squeezing a watermelon through a lemon-sized hole is in a class by itself, as far as pain goes (as it should be), Instead, I will essentially be allowing them to create another lemon-ish sized hole in my abdomen (that doesn't already exist naturally) and pull the baby through that way. When I think of it in those terms, it doesn't sound so great either, it's just that I know from past experience that it's a better fit for me.

So it's on: a week to go and ultimately, my cervix will be deciding if I roll up to the hospital at some ungodly hour in the morning in full blown labor....or if I stroll in (still, at an ungodly hour in the morning- 5:30 a.m.) after a fabulous dinner out the night before (of my choosing) and a somewhat restful night of sleep. One thing is certain though, I will be more than ready. ;)

Purple Elmo's

I love watching Ella color. I love the non-conformity with which she scribbles. Lines? Who cares about staying in the lines? Who cares if she colors Elmo black, then red, then a couple of shades of purple and gives him a blue nose. Sometimes, i just want to crawl inside her head and see what she's thinking- just watch the wheels turn. (But, really, I'd only like to do this while she's between the ages of 1 and 5. After that- and especially when she heads into puberty- I think I'd rather not be inside her head. Might be a bit too much for me to handle).

Back to my little artist. I love that she loves to simply create, and the cool thing is that her imagination is turned on by what I would probably consider the dullest things imaginable. The other day, she spent an hour playing with some little glass votives (supervised playing, of course ;-) ). I sat on the floor with her and watched her as she picked them up, carried them to the table, set them down, randomly put cheerios in them, then picked them back up and carried them back over to the windowsill....and so on. For an hour. She had a blast. As I watched her, I found myself wondering what happens to us as we get older, that we stop being captivated by everyday things. For the record, I'm not advocating that we should all stand and gape open-mouthed at some kind of glass votive centerpiece (though I've been guilty of doing this with similar objects while shopping in Crate and Barrel. But that's beside the point). It just seems that over time, we tend to lose our curiosity about the little things. Even the big things.

At some point, we stop thinking outside the lines in the coloring book. Maybe it's because one day, someone tells us that we need to color Elmo red- because he's always been red and he'll always be red. It's no longer acceptable to make a purple Elmo. So we say, "okay," but we move on to our next project with just a shred more trepidation and insecurity. And this is just the beginning of a chain of events that cause us to become increasingly aware that it's not actually okay to branch out anymore- that "different" isn't so good after all. By the time we hit our teenage years, we're dropping money (if we're really lucky, it's our parents') in an effort to keep from standing out at all. We need to do, wear, and buy what everyone else is doing, wearing and buying. By the time we reach college, we decide on majors and minors and a small percentage will end up with a career in something that truly re-creates and energizes them. The rest fall into the trap that because we're truly good at "X", we need to put all of our eggs into one basket and pursue "X," even if it isn't life-giving. Even if it's, in fact, soul-sucking.

I grew up surrounded by music. I say it was my first love, because it truly was. But here's the thing about first loves- they're the exception rather than the rule, aren't they? They tend to stick with us better in our memory than they often do in our reality. After 25 years of lessons, recitals, gigs, a Music Education degree, a few years leading a worship team, a private piano studio, a handful of finished original songs (and many more that are unfinished), it's hard for me to recall a time in my life when music wasn't an integral part of it. But just because it was integral doesn't mean I always wanted it that way. The truth is, I have never totally resolved the feeling that I should be doing music- even if I didn't want to. Even if I was burnt out. It was my "X" and because I was deemed "good at it," the rest, as they say, is history. Even in the last few months, I've grown increasingly frustrated that I'm not churning out more original work and writing new stuff. But no one other than me has placed those expectations on my shoulders. I came to the startling conclusion that I've never allowed myself to let it go for any length of time because I almost felt like I was committing some form of adultery. My first love- how could I let it fall by the wayside while I explore other things? That would just be....wrong....right??

Wrong.

So I've let myself off the hook. And it's been incredibly liberating. Honestly, I don't miss music too much at the moment. Not only that, but I don't feel guilty for not missing it. I know I'll eventually come back to it and it'll be there waiting for me. And when I do decide to pick it up again, I can be sure it will be with a renewed vigor and intensity. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, after all. Until then, I've got this new camera that is completely perplexing to me, but I'm loving figuring out all of the buttons and gadgets and how if I take the picture at this angle and increase the shutter speed or use a different mode, I get this kind of result. Sadly, it's been a long time since I've actually learned something new. Too long. I can blame a fear of failure, in part. I can also blame a guilty conscience, as weird as it was for me to come to that realization. Yet I suspect an even bigger culprit in this was the gradual loss of a childlike curiosity for something new and uncharted. But I've been able to draw inspiration, once again, from my little Bug- who continues to be delighted in coloring pictures of purple Elmo's with blue noses. I hope she never loses her sense of creativity. But just in case she does...I think I'll frame them for future reference. ;-)

The "Monkey Incident" (and a few other thoughts)

There was a crisis in our house this evening. In fact, I'm still reeling from it.

Ella left her "mussy" at church. This would be the Curious George monkey that her great grandmother gave her 2 Christmases ago when she was but a nugget in my belly. Jake and Ella had gone to church tonight while I stayed home to put my feet up and well, continue to be very pregnant. When they got home, he walked in and said to me, "I think we left the m-o-n-k-e-y in the nursery at church."

*Dun-dun DUNNNN.* {What?!? You left what??}

I think I stared at him as if he had just told me that there was a world-wide shortage of dark chocolate. I'm sure he thought I was overreacting, and for a minute or two, I considered the fact that I probably was overreacting. Sure, she loved her "mussy" and yes, she slept with him every night and ate breakfast with him and took him for car rides and...uh-oh. This was not good. Not good at all. Still, I thought that maybe she would be okay to snuggle with one of her many other stuffed animals. Maybe she wouldn't really notice.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

After a particularly draining and frustrating day filled with motrin, molars and meltdowns, it was apparent that our little bug was perhaps in even more desperate need of her friend than most other nights. I knew she would be asking for him when we put her down- every night it's the same routine. One of us picks her up to carry her to bed and she immediately askes for, "beee??" (binky) and then, "Mussy??" Thanks to the ever-potent hormones coursing through my body, I could already feel myself beginning to choke up thinking about having to tell her that she couldn't have her monkey tonight, so I asked Jake to put her to bed and figure out how to break the news to her.

And then the shrieking started- the most sorrowful wail I've heard come out of my girl in a long time (she never even cried like this when she was sick or got shots). I went in to console her (bad, bad mistake) and, after seeing her big hazel eyes spilling over with crocodile tears as she begged me over and over for her monkey, we both emerged from her room with tear-stained faces. I carried her out to the living room where Jake was happily watching the game and squeaked out in a shaky voice, "we NEED the mussy...we REALLY need the mussy." (For the record, I am aware that I'm a wuss. I could have let her cry it out. But in my overly pregnant and emotionally fragile state, it just wasn't happening tonight).

So Jake made arrangements with Uncle Doug to go back to the church and hunt down her beloved friend. While he was gone, I positioned her atop my belly and rocked her while she continued to moan softly. And suddenly, I thought about this monkey- this toy- that she was so torn up about. I thought about the four and a half minutes or so that I let her wail for him in her room before I caved and went in to scoop her up. I considered the seemingly fragile security of my 19 month old daughter and how I was willing to do just about anything to restore it when it was threatened. I thought about how it hurt my heart to hear her moan and cry and how- 9 1/2 months pregnant or not- it physically pained me to hear her so upset. But this was over a toy- a very loved and cherished toy, no doubt, but still a play-thing. As I rocked her, I re-played the scene in my mind of coming in to tell her that she wouldn't be getting her "mussy" tonight (before I all but begged Jake to go get him) and seeing the devastation on her face.

And I wondered what that would have been like if she had been crying and begging for food...because she was hungry and because I didn't have enough to give her to eat. And I imagined- for one horrifying second- what it would have felt like to look at her face and tell her that she would have to go hungry tonight. How I would have to hold her and listen to her moan because her tummy was empty and she couldn't sleep. And suddenly, I wasn't crying over the missing monkey ordeal anymore, or because my back aches or even because my hormones have a death grip on me (well, okay, maybe that last one). I forget- on a daily basis- that I have it so incredibly good, and it feels wrong sometimes because so many others don't. There are mommies and daddies all over the world who have to hear their children cry themselves to sleep every night because they didn't get any food and that thought is devastating to me.

I will admit, I was never as moved by this kind of reality as I am now that I'm a parent. And I'm not even sure where this is going, other than that I had to get it out, first and foremost. If for no other reason, "the monkey incident" (which it will be called from here on out) stirred something in me that was more than just about pacifying my daughter. It's something that I'm sure will be weighing heavily on my heart as I go to bed tonight and in the days and weeks to come. Our babies can reveal so much to us about ourselves- certainly the good and the beautiful, but even more so the hard truths, the ugliness, the weak spots...those things that we'd rather pretend aren't there. If I've learned anything so far about being a momma, it's that it's a constant collision of the things I think I am and the things I really am.

It hurts like hell, but it's best thing that's ever happened to me.

Worth Repeating to Myself (and other ramblings from the previous year)

I have stood on the edge of Unknown,
And peered timidly over
I have held on too tightly and let go too soon,
I have jumped without looking,
Fallen without caring,
Been caught without question.

I have been there, done that, regretted
Then wished I could do it again
I have stood hours in line to wait my turn
Then backed out at the last possible second
I have lost battles
Stolen moments
Remembered promises
Forgotten hurts.

I have fought demons
Removed bandages
Punctured old wounds
Needed a tourniquet
Wanted drugs.
I have gotten drunk off bitterness
After just one sip
Then tasted the joy of sweet release
I have found approval
Too many times
Hanging on a sale rack
I have paid too much for a pair of shoes
And sold my soul for cheap.


I have made friends
and created new traditions
I have burned bridges,
Trashed memories
Run without looking back
I have laughed 'til it hurt
Cried 'til it was numb
Pretended it didn't matter.
I have shared secrets
And hoarded truth.
I have f***ed up.
Over
and over.
I have come to the end of myself
to find the beginning of grace.


But most of all,
I have loved
And I have been loved.

What *Really* Happens in the Last Month of Pregnancy? (I'm Glad You Asked).

I have a confession: I hate the month of January. Always have. So what- it's cold and it snows. Big deal. Christmas isn't for another 11 months so there's no sense in getting excited about snow anymore. And the Christmas cards that once filled the mailbox have now been replaced with Christmas BILLS. (I'm convinced I have selective short-term memory loss. Really?? I spent THAT much?!) And what else could make the dismal, depressing month of January seem any longer? Getting it on with your husband at the end of the previous May, which apparently gives your little belly-dweller a due date in the first half of February. Yep, I just went there. (I mean, could we NOT have thought about shooting for the end of March and giving ourselves a nice little tax deduction? NOOOooo.) But, because sitting down with a calculator and a bottle of lube isn't exactly an appropriate (or romantic) form of foreplay, we wound up getting ourselves a little pre-Valentine's Day lovebug.

So the countdown is set: 3 weeks- possibly/hopefully/"please-dear-God-in-Heaven" even less- until we meet our little boy. Sometimes, it feels like a dream. And then suddenly, I cough and pee a little and nope, not a dream. I'm fully awake (and now incontinent to boot).

And in keeping with the cough/sneeze/laugh and pee conundrum, a few other things that tell me I'm solidly in the homestretch...


1. Performing the "is this pee or amniotic fluid?" sniff test every day, sometimes several times a day. Sorry, but I don't own any of those dipsticks they give you at the hospital to tell for sure whether or not your water has broken and God gave us noses for a reason. (For the record, you can be assured you've reached a whole new level of security in your marriage when your husband walks in your bedroom to find you holding a pair of underwear to your face and he doesn't even bat an eye anymore).

2. You begin to measure everything in contractions. As in, "I have to walk all the way to the back of the store to get the waffles?? That's a good 3 braxton hicks away...*sigh*" Today, I calculated that a loop around my neighborhood is precisely .9 miles (or approximately 13 braxton hicks). I didn't test it out to see if it was correct though. Math is not my strong point.

3. The belly stares. Not many people seem to acknowledge that I even have a head anymore and I actually find it pretty entertaining. The other day, I walked up to pay for my groceries and the cashier guy looked at me as if I might actually be crowning at that very moment. Maybe I should have asked for a separate bag for the placenta...

4. I waddled up to the bar in one of my favorite local cafes and ordered myself a lovely glass of Cabernet. Then- amidst curious stares- waddled over to a table and very slowly and unsteadily lowered myself into the chair. And then I sat with the glass perched tediously on my belly and let my eyes glaze over as I prepared to enjoy it- all by myself. This is another sign of entering the last month of pregnancy, which is what I also like to call the "I could really give a flying rat's @$$ what you think" month.

5. I can't read stories to Ella anymore without completely losing it. Currently on the "banned" book list are: "I'm a Big Sister," "Guess How Much I Love You?" "Corduroy," and "Love You Forever" (that last book especially does me in, no matter how creepy I think it is that a mother breaks in to her gown-up son's home to hold him in the middle of the night). So Jake does those books with her. Until Milo is born and the hormones calm down, Mommy is relegated to stories about potties, trees, bugs and poop.

6. Every time I've gone to the grocery store recently, I have a moment- albeit brief- when I look at the motorized scooters and have to talk myself down. In my mind, I picture myself zipping right to the bakery for some snickerdoodles and noshing away as I fulfill the rest of my shopping but I would feel pretty bad if an old gray-haired woman with an oxygen tank came shuffling up and there was no scooter to be found. (But then again, maybe I'd just offer her my snickerdoodles for her inconvenience).

7. During my 3rd trip to the bathroom last night, I distinctly remember sitting on the toilet thinking, " I can't WAIT to have this baby so I can get some sleep." And then I had a good chuckle, all by myself in the bathroom- a fine demonstration of what the combination of sleep deprivation and raging pregnancy hormones will do to you by week 37. So sleep is a thing of the past. But if I'm gonna lose it, I'd much rather lose it to an adorable baby boy than to my overworked bladder and sciatic nerve.


Yes, it's true that 21 days is but a drop in the bucket compared to the 252 that are under my belt. So it's onward and upward (even if it's at my new leisurely pace of 3 mph). Getting closer...

Things I Know For Sure

1. I'm a round, walking mass of hormones (might as well start with the obvious). I think I can best describe it as OCD meets Alanis Moriestte meets a Lifetime tear-jerker marathon. Believe it or not, I can move fluidly between all three scenarios in a matter of 4.2 seconds. Just ask my husband. I'm convinced that if I could step out of my own skin (which I would gladly do at this point), I would be both highly amused and completely wigged out by the metamorphosis.

2. I married a very good, good man. There is just no other way to say it. I think sometimes he might be scared of me (see #1) in this very pregnant state that I'm in. When he wraps his arms around me, his hands now barely clasp behind my back, but those wordless hugs do something to restore my soul that nothing else can. (I love you babe. ;) ).

3. There is no limit to God's grace.

4. There is, however, a limit to mine. Some days, I feel like I reach it about 26 times an hour and it's at those times I remind myself of #3.

5. I can eat chicken enchiladas at 10 pm and go to bed without even a hint of heartburn, but a handful of Craisins will inevitably bring me to my knees begging to the god of Zantac for relief. Riddle me that.

6. I have no problem admitting that I'm scared of what life with two under two will resemble. I'm also not ashamed to admit that the reason we decided to have two children is plain and simple: we do not want three.

7. Of the 45 lbs I've gained so far this pregnancy, I'm approximating 30 lbs of it to be semi-sweet chocolate chips and cherry limeades from Sonic (and the plethora of Arby's roast beef sandwiches I survived on during the first trimester).

8. I am loved. Absolutely, positively and unconditionally. But understanding and embracing this took far more than the years I spent sitting in church, nodding my head in quiet agreement whenever John 3:16 popped up on a projector screen. I've heard this all my life but in truth, those words never stopped me from continuing to try to earn something that was already mine, or to try to be something that I wasn't. There are still plenty of days that I struggle to accept that I am good enough- that I am just enough. Especially on days that I lose my patience with Ella and raise my voice at her, when my "fat" jeans are the only pair that fit, when I find it easier to run the other way than press in and press on. But at the end of those days remain the things that anchor me- my family, my friends. A little bit of breathing space. Rest (albeit very little). A relentless hope that no matter how "bad" the day was, I get a clean slate the next day. Good, good things.

9. Yoga pants are the little black dresses of pregnancy. You simply can't have too many. (Yes, I'm still trying to figure out a way to rock them with a pair of stilettos).

10. I will lose the weight. (I often say this in a sort of repetitive chant to myself when I happen to catch a glimpse of my naked body in a mirror). And for the record, I'm well aware of the many wonderful benefits of breastmilk, but I have to say that my intentions to do it again are quite possibly more selfish than selfless. You better believe I'm counting on that extra 600 calorie/day metabolism. So bring on the lanolin, cracked nipples and engorgement. No pain, no gain. (Or loss, in this case).

11. My daughter is going to make a fabulous big sister. She already possesses a very "take-charge" attitude- great for bossing around little brothers- and it's also become increasingly clear that she doesn't take crap from anyone. One high pitched squeal and she goes right for the hair. (Seriously, where did she learn this?) Yes, it appears our little girl is more of a fighter than a lover at the moment, but we're told it's just a phase. In the meantime, I'm comforted to know that her strong-willed spirit will never render her a doormat for someone else to walk on, and if my suspicions are correct, she will be all too willing to stick up for her little brother. Attitude and spunk aside, she's an incredibly loving and affectionate little Bug and I'm excited to watch her make the transformation into "Big Sister."



30 days... (although this is one thing I don't know for sure. Maybe less?? Please?) ;-)