"Go Shorty, It's Your Birfday"

My godparents walked in the door around 3:35 at the peak of Milo's birthday party. Popcorn was scattered on the floor, clusters of kids galloped through with cups of hot chocolate, and a duet of wails pierced through the ambient noise downstairs. Motorized toys whizzed between people's heels and a group of older elementary-aged kids had apparently created a secret society in our downstairs bathroom. No one was gained entrance because no one knew the correct password. As I hugged my godfather, he just shook his head, laughing and said matter of factly, "you've lost your ever-lovin' mind."

It was then that I noticed a few adults huddled close together in our dining room. At first, I thought they looked somewhat amused, but upon further inspection, I actually decided they looked scared. Milo clung fiercely to my leg and I gratefully took the opportunity to whisk him upstairs and nurse him. I knew, however, that it would take him all of four minutes to eat, and I wondered momentarily if I could get away with offering to feed anyone else's baby while I was at it. You know, just to buy myself some more time.

But all of the chaos was to be expected. We invited close to 70 people and 60 showed up. When it comes to birthdays, my motto has always been Go big or go home. No apologies. I wanted a special day for my boy, and that's exactly what we had. The mere fact that we had so many of our loved ones under one roof was, in and of itself, enough of a gift- both sets of grandparents, great-grandparents, godparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second-cousins, friends from close by, friends from a few hours away. With the exception of a handful that didn't get to be here, these were the people that made this birthday so poignant. Strip away everything else, and we still had more than sixty reasons to be thankful. That's just beautiful.


(Instead of a guestbook, I asked people to write a message to the birthday boy on a picture that we'll hang in his room).



And that would have been enough. But there was a little bit of extra sparkle to the day- some "icing on the cake" (and I later discovered, quite a bit on the wall- literally). Richmond has had an unusually warm winter this year, much to my dismay. With average temperatures in the mid 50's since November, I had all but given up hope that we would even see so much as a single snowflake this year. I forged ahead in planning Milo's "Winter ONEderland" party, despite visions of people drinking hot cocoa in short-sleeved shirts and flip-flops. But then my mom told me the day before his party that they were forecasting the temperature to drop sharply the next day, so I was relieved to think it would at least be cold outside, for once.

Then, around 3:30 yesterday, as our guests mingled and tried to dodge loud, hyper children, I looked outside and literally shrieked like a kindergartner as white, chunky snowflakes started swirling outside. Richmond's first official "snow" of the season (those of you in the north and midwest- go ahead and have a good laugh here).











There was an almost palpable excitement in our house. Kids pressed their noses against window panes and watched. A few more guests trickled in and shook the wintry wetness off their coats. Some weren't even wearing coats, as it was 50 degrees only a couple of hours before the party started. In a matter of minutes, the ground was covered in a thin blanket of snow. Once Milo was situated in his high chair, I rounded everyone up and a chorus of 60 voices sang happy birthday to him as it continued to come down.


He clearly wasn't as caught up in the moment as I was.






(Really, were we that off-key??)


But, for all of the tears, it was still as close to perfect as I could have imagined it being.


And, as if on cue, the snow stopped a few minutes before the party ended as guests began to bundle up to head home. The kids each got a pair of mittens and some of the homemade hot chocolate mix we served at the party. Hopefully, Richmond still has a day or two more of wintry weather up it's sleeve so they can actually enjoy them in the right setting. ;-)








Milo may not remember anything at all about his first birthday, but it's one that I certainly won't forget. :-)

"Sweet Shot Tuesday" aka (When It's Okay Not to Share)

I'm always complaining to Jake that we have so many pictures of the kids (duh) but hardly any pictures of us WITH the kids. I want more family pictures. I want Ella and Milo to remember what I looked like now- before all the gray hairs and wrinkles settle in for good. After reading a post on clickinmoms with tips on how to include yourself in pictures with your kids, I decided, "it shouldn't be THAT hard, right?"

And once again, I was reminded that I needed to take that expectation bar that I already thought I had placed low enough and lower it once more. And then again. Nope. Maaaaybe just another inch. Okay, right THERE.

This picture, while by no means perfect, was one of my favorites from that afternoon. I kiss Milo like this all the time. Kiss him while he's nursing, kiss him while he's looking off in a different direction- just press my lips against his soft, chubby cheeks and smell his delicious baby-ness. I love it when both of my kids nap at the same time- don't get me wrong- but I have grown to really cherish those afternoons when Milo wakes up early from his nap. It's almost as if he knows this is one of the only times he doesn't have to share his mama.


Linking up with My3boybarians "Sweet Shot Tuesday." :-)

Milo Takes Flight

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose."

I've heard this phrase a good many times since the kids were born. Maybe it's just me, but I almost always have high expectations that either saying or hearing it will make me feel better, and I'm always sorely disappointed.

And hey, speaking of "sore,"... Milo got up close and personal with our stairs two days ago. Every single one of them, to be exact, all the way down to our hardwood floor. Try as I might, I cannot get that sickening thud out of my head or the sound of Jake yelling and the terrifying scream (although I think it was actually mine and not Milo's). He seemed okay, sans the hysterical crying and a growing goose egg on his forehead, but we became pretty concerned when he started throwing up and then proceeded to get sick four more times before I hurried him and Jake out the door to the E.R. I sat on the couch with Ella and cried. God love her. She rubbed my back and said, "It's okay mama. Milo fall down and bump his head. He get a bandaid, make it feel better."

Oh if only it were that easy, baby. I didn't feel like trying to explain to her that there are some things that band-aids just can't fix. I figure she'll learn that soon enough though, so I'd like to let her believe that for as long as she wants. Instead, what I'd like to have a quick fix for are the inevitable pangs of mom guilt. I've already been sensitive to the fact that my little bean has gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to attention, (although thankfully, he has nothing to compare it to). But he doesn't have his own scrapbook like his sister's, doesn't have nearly the same amount of pictures in the ol' iPhoto library, kid came into the world already missing a finger. When Ella was born, we had visitors streaming in and out of our hospital room all day, every day. I finally had to tell people we couldn't see them because I was flat exhausted. I still remember when Jake went out to announce, "It's a GIRL!!!!" to our families and it was immediately followed by hoots and hollars and all kinds of jubilant screeches, so much so that a few nurses reprimanded them for being too loud. When Milo was born, things were just different- as they almost always are with the second. Less fanfare, less attention. I spent the first day of his life lying in a hospital bed, barely able to hold him, nauseated and shaking from pain meds while my parents and Jake's parents popped in and out to meet him. Mom guilt then too, but I think the percocet took the edge off of it that day.

So to say that I've been conscious of the fact that he hasn't gotten near the limelight that his sister has (and her limelight could stand to be put on a dimmer switch, in my humble opinion) is an understatement. And a couple of years from now, I get the bonus of being able to tell him about the time he did his best imitation of a slinky all the way down our stairs. You know, just to rub some salt in that "Why Wasn't I Born First?" wound.

So a couple of realizations I learned the hard way (although probably not nearly as hard as they were for him):

1. 6 month olds who've just learned to crawl are incredibly fast.

2. Momma's with adrenaline pumping through their veins are also incredibly fast. I think I bounded up the steps by threes in about 1.5 seconds to get to him and practically pulled my hamstring.

3. A goose egg IS, in fact, a good sign.

4. Vomiting is sometimes not (although not altogether unusual).

5. It's usually not the worst case scenario. And that was the case for us as well, thankfully. But my mind still went there- and I knew it would. That's part of being a mom. The other part of being a mom is honoring that little voice that tells you to go with your gut, just in case. (It would have been nice, in my case, had that voice decided NOT to be on mute or "en espanol" when I left my child up in his room "just for a minute" to play with his toys while I went to throw clothes in the washer. Lesson learned. *sigh*

6. I don't remember things from when I was 6 months old-- and neither will he. THANK GOD.

So needless to say, there's a lot of gratitude in our house today.

That, and two more brand-spankin' new baby gates....

Sometimes Love Hurts

Milo is loving life right now (well, except for yesterday- but that's another post). If I were to list his current "hobbies," they would include: pinching (he's perfecting that pincer grip and especially enjoys using it on the tender, meaty parts of the backs of my arms), pterodactyl-like screeching, drooling, gnawing, the tummy twist-and-shimmy (a Milo original) and army-crawling whilst attempting to pull random, inanimate objects off of table tops and dressers by their cords. (He's gonna be the popular one at the playground, no?)

I'm also starting to believe that he's enjoying kicking my @$$. I'm not just referring to his 3 hour schedule during the day or the fact that he's been waking up a few times a night for the past 2 weeks due to teething (he finally popped his bottom two teeth a few days ago! Yay? Maybe?) The sleep deprivation kicks my butt too, but in a different way. As I just alluded, we've recently entered what I like to call the "happy-slapping" phase. It's cute, and I'll take it because I know all too well that this eventually segues into the "Eff-off, Mom, I Can Do It MYSELF" terrible two's slapping phase. But while I can tolerate the quasi-coordinated flailing of limbs, I gotta say- kid can pack some punch! At a healthy 20 pounds (and some change) at 6 1/2 months, I guess that's to be expected. I'm still nursing him several times a day and although I love bonding with my baby boy, I gotta admit I'm looking a little rough around the edges: I have bruises on my triceps and my forearms, scratches under my nose and on my cheeks and claw marks across my chest. On several occasions, I've had tufts of hair pulled out by the roots. Then the other day, I learned- in the most painful way- that I can no longer wear my dangly earrings (I'm not even sure what I was thinking by wearing them to begin with). I'm also pretty sure that "the girls" will never forgive me for continually subjecting them to "the piranha." Matter of fact, Jake may not forgive me for subjecting them to him either. It's never usually a good sign when your husband walks in while you're undressing and asks (in reference to your parts), "is that, um, normal?" (What- the fact that they're hanging down to my belly-button and are the color of heirloom tomatoes? What's not normal about that??)

Alas, I know this is a season- a relatively short one, at that. So what if he causes me to wince every now and then? When it comes down to it, I guess love just plain hurts sometimes. :) (I think I'd take the physical pain over the other kind ANY day). My boy is loving me the only way he knows how. In the meantime, I'm going to try to figure out how to wear some protective gear during our nursing sessions that won't end up sending him into therapy 15 years from now....

"These Are a Few of My Favorite Things.."

In honor of my little boy's half-birthday, a few things that are simply and utterly "Milo."

1. The grin. It's like he can't get his mouth wide enough and his eyes become little slits. This was the first grin I ever caught on camera- when he was not quite 6 weeks old:

And just last week...

2. The cheeks. (I adore both sets of them, but in the interest of sparing some of his future embarrassment, I'll be nice). Nom nom nom.

3. He's been such a good sport when it comes to tolerating his big sister. {She loves her Mi-yo}.

This will lovingly be dubbed, the "Desitin incident."

4. I've always had a thing for blue eyes (obviously). :) And I adore his. {Please don't change}!

5. I also love that he's 100% a Momma's boy. Sorry ladies, he's in a long-term, committed relationship. Fully attached (I'm sure you can wager a bet on what). But for the past few months, he's become increasingly affectionate. He grabs my cheeks with his hands and pulls me to his face, mouth open, drool abundant, and plants his smackers on my chin/nose/cheeks/eyes- basically whatever is available. It literally gives new meaning to the phrase "suck face." My son has this down pat (perhaps this should be a point of concern in oh, another 15 years?)

Like so:

6. And finally, this.


Happy 6 months to my lovable, squeezable, happy "Mi-yo Bean." <3

"Whatcha Gonna Do With All That Junk..."

Milo came in to the world at a very average 7 lbs, 7 oz. He is now 29 inches long and almost 19 lbs at 5 1/2 months. (And I wonder why I stay exhausted). :) He still nurses every 3 hours (sometimes less) and will only take a bottle of breastmilk begrudgingly after the appointed 20 minutes of screaming, shrieking and looking around frantically for me. Yes, to say I'm loved and needed is an understatement. To say that he has a healthy appetite is an even bigger one.

I love that random people want to point this out to me. They NEED to tell me how big he is. (Kinda like the "you haven't had that baby yet??" comments when I was 54 weeks pregnant and ready to pop). Something about a chunky baby with big leg rolls makes people lose their mind. Although I have to agree, my son's cheeks are pretty delicious. :) So just for fun, here are a few of the comments I've {we've} received- especially as of late:


1. "That looks like it hurts." (Referring to me carrying Milo with one arm. And no, it doesn't hurt. Because my arm is actually numb).

2. "What are you feeding that guy??" (small animals and badly-behaved little children).


3. "Well, just look at those leg rolls. Hope nothing's hiding in there." (First of all, um, gross? And secondly- what exactly would one hide in their rolls? Like, oops- THERE'S his binky! I knew I put it somewhere...)


4. "That's a big baby! What is he, about 11-12 months?" (Nope, he just wears 12-18 month clothes...)


5. "You've certainly got your hands full." {snickering and shaking head}. This one KILLS me. I'm not sure it's actually in reference to Milo, but the fact that I'm dragging Ella to the car- mid-tantrum and in 95 degree heat- while hoisting Milo onto my opposite hip and wearing spit up on my left shoulder. Again, what is the appropriate response to this? I mean, it's kinda awkward. Maybe I should reply with something equally as obvious: "Hey, thanks! You've certainly got brown hair!"

Thankfully, for all of the inane comments I've gotten, there have been twice as many sweet ones. (But let's be honest, they're just not as fun to write about). :)

The Difference 365 Days Can Make

This picture was taken June 7th 2010. (Yes, I just posted a picture of my pee stick- deal with it). :) I called Jake- who happened to be overseas in London at the time- but when I couldn't reach him, I texted him a picture of the test, to which he eventually said " I don't really see a line..". {insert Debbie Downer them song here}. But I couldn't fault him. Most guys don't have "line eyes" like we women do. So then I texted him this picture:

Of course, then he believed me. :) I guess something about seeing the word spelled out across the test strip made it more real, even for me. And so we learned that our family of three was going to become a family of four. Life changes and evolves. It's a continual rollercoaster that begs the question: do we clench our teeth and white-knuckle the safety bar? Or do we let go, throw our hands up in the air and enjoy the ride?

June 7th 2011: my baby boy who is 2 days shy of 4 months, and my big baby girl, who is 6 days shy of turning 2.

Life is good. :)

The Timeline of "Tired"

It's currently week 11 of Milo's middle-of-the-night munching. This is exactly four and a half weeks past the point that Ella decided to be an angel and sleep through the night. (Yes, I now painfully understand how lucky we were with her). At first, I was naive enough to think that putting him in the Woombie would work it's magic just like it did with his sister, but alas, we are still waking up at least once in the middle of the night. So I started thinking about this sleep-deprivation thing and I've decided that there's a certain progression down this oh-so-familiar path of fatigue. I think it goes something like this:

Weeks 1 and 2: Some might predict these to be the hardest weeks of adjustment, but surprisingly, these are some of the easier weeks to deal with because you're still riding that hormonal high (and sometimes hormonal VERY low) and you're simply caught up in the newness of your little ball of pudge. You look at your husband with googly eyes as you watch him make the transformation from husband to Daddy, or daddy times two (or three...). Life is sweet. You might even catch yourself saying, "Hey, this isn't so bad. I don't know what I was so worried about. I'm not that tired."

Week 3: this is the game-changer. Something happens in week 3, (or at least it did both times in my case): the newness wears off, the family that was hanging around to help (if you were so lucky) has vacated the premises and "real life" starts to sink in. It's 1:42 a.m. and you're up yet again with your hungry ball of pudge and two realizations hit you. 1) Your husband has a hidden talent you never knew existed in all your years of dating and marriage, which is that he could sleep through a tornado. Perhaps DEAF is a better term. At the same time you also realize that you are now equipped with an acute sense of hearing- one so sharp that you can actually hear the boogers rattling inside your baby's nostrils. You find this to be both alarming and annoying.

Week 4-5: Is it just your imagination, or is your darling little one a little less darling at 2:19 a.m.? You'll do anything to keep yourself awake because, as odd as it sounds, having the jaws of life attached to your boobs isn't enough. So you resort to checking facebook on your phone. What? No one else is posting at 2:30 in the morning? Only one new post? Lame. And then by 5:50 a.m., you're so tired that you hate your iPhone, you hate your leaking boobs, you hate your husband for not being able to lactate (and also for the simple fact that he looks so peaceful sleeping beside you) and you hate your child's incessant booger rattling/grunting/squeaking/farting.

Week 6: Hello, growth spurt. In other words, the 20 minute window of time you used to take a shower is practically non-existent. You might as well not even wear a shirt. When you go to your 6 week PP check-up, your OB asks you about birth control and first, you laugh. Who's having sex?? But then you tell him you'll take them ALL. The IUD, the depo provera shot, the pill- Just throw them all in a goody-bag and you'll be on your way. You can never be too sure.

Week 7-8: At this point, baby randomly throws in a 5 hour stretch of sleep here and there and you're so elated that you almost pee your pants in excitement. Suddenly, 4:30 doesn't seem so bad when you weren't already awake at 2. S/he looks cute again. Your husband's snoring doesn't seem to bother you as much. You think that maybe things are starting to take a turn toward normalcy.

Week 9: Yeah, right. SUCKA! You're back at square one again, and this time it stings that much more because you've had a taste of what semi-decent sleep feels like. You fight the urge to pick up the phone and call your mother to tell her you're sorry for all the shit you put her through and that you love her. She must have put the "I hope one day you have kids who act just like you do" curse on you. You think if this is any indication, the teenage years are going to be AWESOME.

Week 10: You figure out that whatever is left of your disposable income after buying diapers and wipes goes to coffee and under-eye concealer, in that exact order. And then wine.

Week 11: The sleep is getting better. Gradually more nights of 5-6 hour stretches, but not enough that you're willing to bank on anything. You've learned the hard way that these precious babes are notorious for making you think you have them figured out, only to throw a wrench (or teether, whatever) into the plans. So you do what can do to get by- only slightly aware of what day of the week it is, and you think it's already May, but who can be sure? You're confident that one day you'll look back, albeit with a much more well-rested perspective, and think it wasn't so bad.
(But then you can re-read this blog-post and be reminded that it only took 5 days to actually finish it because brain cells only function for so long with inadequate sleep).

Ah well, life goes on. ;-)

Milo's Birth Story {or something close to it}

I'm about half-way into my humongo cup of coffee and feeling somewhat coherent, so I figure now might be a good time to conjure up Milo's birth story before the sleep deprivation and postpartum memory-suppressing hormones rob me of the remaining details. {I love my french press. Just need to give it a shout-out. Moving on....}

I never wrote Ella's birth story out. It was such an incredible and life-changing experience that I *swore* I couldn't ever forget it. Then, reality hit like a ton of bricks (or should I say, "like a spinal tap") when I was lying on the cold O.R. table, feeling my whole body slipping away from my own control and I quickly began to realize there were, in fact, quite a few things I didn't remember {read: chose to repress} from when she was born. As I was feeling the warm numbness take over my legs and the heavy weight on my chest from being flat on my back, the room started to spin and I broke out into a sweat and started to feel very sick. I muttered something to the effect of, "Why is this happening...? I don't remember any of this with my daughter..." And my sweet anesthesiologist gently stroked my hair and said, "Of course you don't remember any of this, honey. That's why you're back here again." She laughed to herself like she had just delivered the best punch line and I decided I might one day be able to laugh at it when I finally got the feeling back in my diaphragm or maybe by Milo's first day of Kindergarten.

This story will be somewhat shorter than Ella's, and probably not nearly as exciting, since I didn't have the 20 hour labor prior to the c-section like I did almost 2 years ago. But here are the bare bones, as well as my very NON-medical interpretation of them.

1). "Your c-section is scheduled for 7:30 a.m. Please be here at 5:30 a.m."

Interpretation: "Because we want to pump you full of enough fluid to make your ankles look like sausages and make your chin disappear into your neck. And while we're doing this, we'll be asking you questions about every known virus and infection you've had since you were two and poking you repeatedly in the hand in an attempt to get a blood sample. This will actually only take about 45 minutes, but we thought it would be fun for you to get up at 4:30 and get here extra early because our beds are just THAT comfortable.




2). "Okay, we're ready to take you to the O.R."

Interpretation: But we won't be wheeling your bed in like last time or even taking you by wheelchair. No, no. That's too boring. Instead, we'll make you walk down the hall and flash your crack to everyone you pass and maybe even trip over your own IV bag. {We'll all laugh behind your back and tell you it happens to everyone else, too}. And if you weren't already shaking from nerves, you'll be shaking from the meat locker-like temperature of the operating room. Then, we'll strip you of even more security by asking your husband to wait outside while we insert a long needle into your back, BUT we'll give you a squishy pillow to hold onto in his place.

3). "You're gonna feel a tiny sting."

Interpretation: Really? Was *that* a bee that just stung me?? Because I stepped on a bee with my bare feet when I was three and I barely noticed it. So, dear nurse, although I realize it wouldn't be too prudent to tell your patients, "hey- you're about to feel like a snake is sinking it's teeth into your spinal column," I'd still like to say: Tiny sting, my @$$.

4). "Just lay back and relax."

Interpretation: Mmkay, sure, I'll do that. You go ahead and strap down my arms while I lie flat on my back and feel like I'm suffocating. And I'll have you know, when you just poked me with that sharp object to make sure I couldn't feel anything, I FELT IT. {Enter panic mode here}. But go ahead and cut me open and I'll just "lay back and relax." Oh, and did I mention that I have this insane fear of vomiting? I did? Okay, well, I'm about to tell you again, because the room is starting to spin and I'm feeling a little too warm and I think I might be sick. I NEED MORE ZOFRAN. Where is my husband? Why do I feel like I can't breathe? Don't hand me that basin to puke in. (And for God's sake, why do you give your patients a tiny pinto-bean sized plastic dish to throw up in? Who has that kind of aim??) GIVE ME MORE ZOFRAN. I realize that it's just another day, just another section for you all as you stand over my entrails and talk about the recent Superbowl, but seriously, can we get to the part with the screaming baby? K, thanks.




5). "Lots of pressure now..."

Interpretation: "You thought you couldn't breathe earlier, but just wait. Now we're actually going to push and pull and stretch things and your lungs are going to momentarily come up into your throat." {But oddly enough, I still found myself grateful l wasn't having to use those over-stretched muscles to actually push him out}.

6). 8:06 a.m. February 9th 2011.

Interpretation: What would normally be an average minute on an average day now becomes a defining moment that I'll remember the rest of my life- just the way I remember 7:49 p.m on June 13, 2009 as my Ella-bug's voice pierced the air and I finally crossed the threshold into motherhood. One minute earlier and my world was violently spinning and I couldn't catch my breath and then suddenly, everything around me stopped. He was on the outside. He was real. He was okay. Pink and mad and screaming his little lungs out for his perfect apgars. (Such a little over-achiever already). I felt myself breathe deep and relax- for the first time in a long 10 months. My son, my little My-Ry, born on my dad's birthday- arrived right on time. Not a second too early, not a second too late.






8:06 a.m. and I became a mommy again, crossing a new kind of threshold- one that promised I would be enough, have enough and love more than enough- two times over. My heart has never been so full.

Ode to Sleep

We've arrived at our last weekend as a family of three. And it started abruptly at 6:01 a.m. when my normally good sleeper decided she would throw her binky out of her crib and then talk (read: whine) about it. I guess she figures that since we're *this* close to having a newborn in our house, we might as well start getting up before we darn well feel like it.

Oh sleep. You've been so good to me over the last 16 months. Please don't forget about me. Please don't forget about my son. And please don't forget the fact that you showed up in very large chunks when Ella was only 5 weeks old and that you graced her with your beautiful 7-8 hour presence by 6 weeks. Yes, I know how lucky I was. But I'm asking to be that lucky again. If it's wrong to hope that this will be a common trait shared between a sister and brother, then I don't want to be right.

In case you decide to hold out on me, I come armed with the Keurig B70 Platinum edition. 5 cup sizes and brewing strengths. A "brew over ice" option, even.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

(Ok, but seriously, don't forget about me. Please. Thank you...)

Dear Milo...

You don't even know what's coming. Right now, all you know is quiet contentment- the warmth and darkness of your now overly cramped living quarters and the gentle swooshing of your Momma's heartbeat. But in just a few hours, you're going to be pulled, kicking and screaming (quite literally) into something cold and foreign, with big, bright lights and strange faces and voices and it will all be very overwhelming for you. I want to go ahead and tell you right now that everything will be okay. You might be afraid for a few minutes, but the fear will pass. It always does, sooner or later. Some of those new faces will bundle you up and make you warm and then one of them will carry you over to someone whose voice you'll recognize. You've heard him talk and laugh and sing and play with your sister. His hands will wrap themselves around your tiny, shriveled fingers and it's these hands that will one day teach you how to hold a baseball and throw a splitter, and how to play an E diminished on the guitar. But these hands will also show you so much more than that- like how to embrace both the beautiful and painful things in life...how to loosen your grip on those things you will want to control and how to hold on tightly to the things that are worth holding on to. This is your Daddy.

He will teach you to live in the moment. And it won't take much time around him for you to come to understand what compassion is- what it looks, feels and tastes like. He will show you that it's okay to let your heart break for other people and that being vulnerable with others has the ability to make you come alive. He loves you more than you'll ever be able to comprehend. I am so excited for you to meet him. And I can say with all of the confidence in the world that he is, and always will be, your biggest fan.

Your Momma has been eagerly awaiting this day too. To say that this has been a bumpy ride for both of us is an understatement. It's been an emotional and anxious 10 months and I'm sure you've been able to sense that. I wish I could've changed so much of that for both of our sakes- especially yours- but the truth behind the scary feelings is that they cause us to grow and change and become stronger people. As you grow up, you will be afraid and have your heart broken and feel pain and your Momma will have to fight a very real and overwhelming urge to want to hold you and protect you from those things (you know, until you're at least 79 years old or so). But there's a journey ahead for both of us, and it's called letting go. The time that you've spent in my belly is the only time I know I'll ever truly be able to hold and protect you as much as I possibly can. I'm fully aware that once the doctor puts you in my arms, I've already begun to let you go. I've already begun to give up control. I've already begun to pray harder than I've ever prayed in my entire life. I did the same with your sister. And I'm still learning to give up that control, still letting go and pulling close, still praying.

Being Mommy to you and your sister is the best thing I will ever do. I can't wait to know who you are. To touch you and know that you're real- that you're not some very active figment of my imagination for the last 10 months. To hold your precious hands and to kiss each tiny finger and toe and to be thankful that you're mine. To be grateful I've been given the privilege of being your mommy. I can't wait to see that first crooked little smile- the one that I'll see in your eyes before it ever makes it's way to your mouth. And then to see you recognize your big sister and to watch her love you in the way that only she'll know how. (For the record, she is going to beat you up and boss you around from time to time. And there will be consequences for her actions, of course. But don't say I never warned you. ;- ) ).

My sweet baby boy: you are loved. You have been hoped for, wanted, dreamt about, prayed over, cried for, celebrated- long before I ever felt you move inside me for the first time, and even more so since then. I love you- more than I did yesterday, but not nearly as much as I will in a few hours.

I'll see you soon. :)

Love,

Mommy

"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. ;)

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

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. ;)

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. ;)