The countdown

Less than 10 days to go before Christmas. And Missy is scanning the sky for Santa.

Actually, she's looking for snow. Until this week, we had only trace amounts throughout the West. Today it is snowing on the valley floor in Portland, which is a rare thing indeed.

Next week we leave for 12 (gulp!) days in our ski camper with a 7-month old in tow. I am both happy beyond belief and a bit nervous.

Every year we do a holiday post card. This is ours from this year.

Flashbacks

Now that we are in the thick of the holiday swing, I find myself having vivid flashbacks to this time last year – Missy’s first trimester – and the fall prior – my first miscarriage.

I rarely wrote about how sick and terrified I was in this blog because I feel like I went through my first trimester with Missy in full-blown bunker mentality.

You would think that my beautiful daughter, harried life and, well, time itself might have dulled the angst-ridden memories. Still, I find myself visiting a random place like Costco and remembering vividly how it felt to walk down the aisle on the verge of puking. Or standing at the check out line at New Seasons Market on a rainy Friday night in November with a pint of ice cream and a box of pads as I lost Junior #1. I went for a doctor’s appointment in the same building where I had my CVS almost a year ago to date and could almost feel my knees knocking in fear again.

The fall of 2006 was filled with so much sadness and searching after my first miscarriage. The fall of 2007, so much anxiety and sickness. While I selfishly long to add another child to our family, I am not ready for the potential re-visit to such dark spaces.

In the initial months after Missy’s birth, I was too busy – or just plain too tired – to remember the pain of IF and miscarriages. This living, breathing, fiery little bundle consumed every spare second. I thought the pain might have gone – poof! like magic – the moment she emerged.

Now I have a bit more precious time & energy to think as well as the context of the holiday ritual to remind me how I felt last year and the year before. I am simultaneously sad and so very grateful. I can’t even fathom how much inner resolve it took to get through it so stoically. Was I ever that strong? I didn’t feel so at the time but in retrospect I am in awe that I made it through.

Shortly after we got the thumbs-up from the CVS results – and knew Missy was a missy – we received our first baby present from Mr. & Mrs. Super Planner: a subtle pink-striped swaddle blanket from PBK.

I found the gift receipt for the swaddle blanket the other day. Ever the glass-is-half-empty, I had saved it throughout the pregnancy just in case we had to return the item (for obvious, unspeakable reasons).

So I took that receipt…and shredded the shit out of it.

So Long

It has been so long since I've posted.

I know, I know. I suck.

I feel like there is so much to say, to write about. But the reality is that I barely have time to get online. I am so immersed in, well, life. Just life. The everyday nuances and rhythms. The good. The bad. The spit up. The everything.

No offense, internet, but if I have a spare 30 minutes, I am more drawn to making a batch of baby food or cleaning my shower. Suzy fucking domestic that I am these days. (That's another post entirely.)

I've also been struggling with what this blog is now that Missy is here. Sure, I could post all of her achievements: sitting up (check), rolling (check), drinking water from a sippy cup (check), sleeping through the night (pipe dream).

I could post our daily life stuff: waterbabies on Tuesdays; library on Fridays; her first season pass.

Our favorite things: bumGenius 3.0 cloth diapers, the Ergo baby carrier, the California Baby line of natural babycare products, the REI down infant suit, our bunny blabla.

Or the things I've learned: how to get dinner ready & feed a baby simultaneously; how to deal with a reflux kid; how not to put a baby with a dirty diaper in the jumperoo.

The truth is that I have an adorable baby who I took Thanksgiving food shopping and Christmas tree hunting. I am happy. But I can still feel the pain of infertility and the first trimester sickness and fear of a repeat miscarrier like it was yesterday.

It is a dark place in the span of my life. So dark that it threatens to block out the sunshine-y days. So sometimes I just need to put it back there, in the back of my mind. Which is why I'd rather clean the shower than blog.

But then I feel like an ass who has left so many relationships behind. Relationships that developed right here. That I don't want to leave behind. Because I enjoy those relationships. And because I made a promise that I intend to keep: to see everyone through.

I never want to be that blog that just ends. A random post and then no more. A promise to keep writing and then nothing.

But I am struggling about what to write.

For those of you still reading, what are you interested in regarding this journey from miscarriages to infertility to a successful pregnancy and now motherhood? Anything is fair game.

Here are some pictures of Missy at 5 & 6 months old. She is more fun with every passing day.

We love our bunny blabla. He matches our eyes.

First meal. Rice cereal is the bomb!

Go to Sleep Little Baby

Or maybe I should title this, I’m-Glad-I-Didn’t-Spend-a-Fortune-on-a-Crib.

The old saying is "People who live in glass houses, shouldn’t throw stones."

Cowboy pointed this out to me when I requested a complete 180 on the subject of Kid Sleep 101.

Before I had a kid, I had all of these theories about how I would raise mine. As if.

Behind their backs, I used to criticize some of my good friends’ parenting choices. Oh, the karma of it. I believe this karma came back to bite my ass a few weeks ago when Missy went several days in a row where she woke every 2 hours at night demanding to nurse and catnapped no more than 45 minutes during the day. At one point I recall literally staggering down the hall as if I were drunk on my way for another episode of soothing.

Exhausted, I decided it was time to teach-this-kid-a-lesson.

I’ve been mostly reading "Healthy Sleep Habits" by Dr. Weissbluth when it comes to sleep parenting. It’s taught me valuable tidbits, such as when to recognize the sleepy signs so I could get Missy back into nap mode to prevent over-tiredness. Basic stuff, such as infants should be up no longer than 2 hours at a time.

But I was so frustrated because according to the book, if I were an observant parent, I would see the sleepy signs, jump into bedtime action and my baby would snuggle into sleep by herself after a short bit of soothing. And then unicorns and rainbows would fly out of my ass.

Anyway. I watched. Like a freaking hawk. I spent days focused on just Missy’s yawns.

To no avail. If I laid her in her crib awake, she’d cry. If I laid her in her crib half-asleep, she’d wake up and cry. The only way to get her out for an hour of naptime was to rock, nurse and shush her into oblivion.

This day, however, I was determined to get my child to sleep on her own. How contradictory and absurd that sentence seems now.

At naptime I sprung the old ‘graduated extinction’ method on Missy:

She cried for 5 minutes. I soothed.

She cried for 10 minutes. I soothed.

She cried – a persistent, panicked cry – for 15 minutes. I went in to soothe and saw that the little person I love and had wished for all those months had spit up all down her chin and swaddle blanket.

This time, I cried.

I just couldn’t do it.

See, almost 14 years ago, I brought home a shiny, yellow-gold puppy. I had read in some dog training book that you were supposed to crate a dog for safety and put his crate in the same place where you would keep the dog when he was older. So the crate went in the kitchen, since this is where Gus would spend his young days while I was at work.

Poor Gus. He cried and yelped all night. And for several nights after.

Finally, I was, like, fuck this. I need some sleep. Besides, poor little guy, it must suck to be used to sleeping all warm and cozy with your littermates and momma, and then all of a sudden you are alone in a crate in a dark kitchen.

So I hauled the crate up to my room. And put it next to my bed. I snuggled baby Gus in my bed until he fell asleep and then I slipped him into his crate.

After each potty run outside, I would snuggle him back to sleep in my bed. Sometimes he went back into the crate and sometimes he slept in my bed with me.

He ended up being the best damn dog ever.

So if I’m willing to sleep with my dog, why not my kid?

With this in mind, I bought Dr. Sears’ Baby Sleep Book. Even though I promised myself no more parenting books. Even though I knew what this particular book would recommend.

When I was pregnant with Missy, a friend loaned the Sears’ breast feeding book to me. After reading it, I felt so thoroughly educated and empowered – and breastfeeding has gone so well for us – I thought I might get a repeat performance with the sleep gig.

I read up. Called some trusted friends. It’s staggering, really, how many will admit to it when asked point blank. Ran the plan by Cowboy.

And then brought the baby into bed with us that night.

Everyone got the best sleep we’d had in months.

So we kept at it. The best part is that we are bonding more as a family. Cowboy is gone for most of Missy’s waking hours but now he gets the chance to have her close by all night. She no longer fusses when he holds her as if she doesn't recognize him. At night, we are no longer dividing and conquering – both of us feeling increasingly alienated as we did. By side-lie nursing, I get so much sleep I feel like a rock star. Most important, Missy is getting all the snuggles and closeness that she needs. Because, really, it’s about what she needs and not what I need her to do.

I never thought this would be me: freaking hippie bed-sharing momma. I never wanted to nor thought I would ascribe to nearly all the tenants of attachment parenting. But that’s the thing about this trip. It forces you to open your mind and humble yourself in ways you never thought possible.

Step inside my new glass house. May I get you something to drink?

Perfect Moment Mondays

I wrote this in my journal last Sunday after our neighborhood picnic. It was a quintessential moment. I had really become someone's mom:

Today while sitting on someone else’s lap, Missy began looking around – agitated – and then began to whimper. I moved into her view. She calmed and smiled.

Later, in her evening bath, she looked up at me and I could see - I mean, really see - love in her eyes.

Make New Friends...

...but keep the old.

Some are silver and the other gold.

Remember that cheesy song from summer camp?

I rarely do this, but it is high time for some shout outs to my bloggy friends. For the few of you still reading this blog, please go and spread the love.

The VERY first blog I read regularly was The Oneliner. Now known as Apron Strings, she brings home the improbable Cate from the hospital. I have tears of joy in my eyes for her.

The dearest Lori at Weebles Wobblog is a bit blue. This to shall pass, but for those of you who have light to spare, please go shine some her way.

My new friend Lxox from Sydney, AUS is waiting for her betas to fall as she experiences her second miscarriage. Those of you who know this special kind of hell - or those who have empathy to spare - please go lend her some support.

Namaste

Home

The bright morning sun bounced off the statue of Buddha.

The baby was at home, fed, diapered and asleep. Her daddy watching over her.

My guruji enveloped me a warm hug as I stepped in the door.

The yoga mat practically sighed as it unfurled against the hardwood floor.

"Ahh. So there you are."

Wading into the fray

Lordy. Where did the summer go?

Oh, that’s right. I spent the summer from a chair in the nursery. Trying to get little Miss High Maintenance to sleep without someone having to hold her during the entire nap. That's an entire other post that I'm too tired to write.

Instead, I’m going to join the politico fray because I have so many thoughts on this subject ruminating in my head. That’s what I do. See, I’ve taken to walking. Me, Missy and Gus. And since it’s generally a one-way conversation with a dog and a three-month-old as I ramble down some trail, I get to think and talk to myself. A lot.

Sarah Palin. Sigh.

Wonderwoman Hockey Mom? Hmmm....

To be clear, as someone who spent 15 years busting ass on the corporate ladder before jumping off, I am totally stoked that we have a woman on the ticket for vice president.

But I’m just not buying the Hockey Mom thing. I seriously don’t believe that Gov. Palin manages the state affairs of Alaska, has a new baby and finds time to chauffeur her 4 other kids to hockey practice and games. If she does, it is the exception not the rule.

I have a feeling that Gov. Palin doesn’t really have much in common with me as a mom. The fact that she went back to work when her special needs baby was 3 days old is case in point.

I’m advocate for more maternity leave. Paid maternity leave for that matter. As such I don’t think I could see eye-to-eye with a woman who takes a three-day maternity leave when I think that three months is too little. I certainly don't feel comfortable having a woman like this as the representative of what is the "all-American mom" simply because I think it is all spin and little substance.

My bet is she has abdicated a lot of the day-to-day rhythm of parenting to her husband or another caregiver. Which is cool. But doesn't make her Hockey Mom.

Even if you are on your fifth kid and the parenting gig is old hat, there are parts of it – like breastfeeding or pumping - that just take time and can’t be done by dad. Time where you have to focus on what is right in front of you. Time when you have to give your body over to the process of nuturing – whether it is holding, or bathing, or rocking, or simply talking to your children.

And there just aren’t enough hours in the day to do that and run a testosterone-crazed state like Alaska and run on a presidential ticket.

I used to think of myself as a feminist. But if Gov. Palin is the standard bearer of modern day feminism (e.g. I take a three day maternity leave) then I don’t want any part of it. That’s just not reality for 99.9% of women out there. Feminist or not.

I admire her pluck, of course, but I have to seriously question the judgment of someone who is back behind her desk before her milk comes in.

And – my God – I’ll just say all snarky and all because no one else in the mainstream media will – and you know everyone wants to – but how’s THAT for abstinence only sex ed?

Oh, and since when is having to deal with an unplanned teenage pregnancy considered a "everyday problem that normal people deal with," as one woman convention goer was quoted as saying. Sheesh. Are we a nation of PWT?

Poor Bristol. Thrust into the spotlight like that because of her mother’s ambition.

Poor Trig. Who will have to do without his mother around much during his critical first year of life.

Sometimes when mommy wins, the kids lose. That’s just not a victory worth anything in my book.

Now we are 3

...months, that is.

Missy at 3 months:

Giggles.

Screw tummy time! She'll last for about 5 minutes. (Above photo taken within the first minute of "tummies" hence the smile.) Also shows zero interest in rolling from back to tummy or vice versa. She'd rather STAND. I am not joking. She's stacks her little hips over her little feet and balances. We call it ski conditioning.

Weighs 10 lb 10 oz., 22 inches. She's in the 15th percentile. Poor kid got her mama's build.

Hair is turning auburn. Blue eyes and auburn hair? Even though I am totally anti-gun and refuse to allow them in my house, am considering buying Cowboy a 12-gauge as as "push present."

Pimp My Ride

Even though I am a West Coast girl at heart, I have this compulsion for New England-y paraphenalia: Nantucket decals, Black Dog t-shirts, Boat-n-Tote bags and Shaker furniture.

When I lived on the East Coast, I got a kit to make a Shaker ladder back rocking chair replete with taped webbing seat. I lovingly put the rocking chair together while imagining that I might one day rock my children in that chair.

So nostalgic was I for this image of rocking a baby to sleep in the rocker on a hardwood floor that I hauled the chair from the Atlantic to the Pacific when I moved West for business school.

Right after grad school, I went through a phase where I wasn't sure kids fit into my life. I tried to loan the chair to some friends who were starting families but got no takers. In retrospect, that should've been my first clue. So I hauled said chair again to another home. I swear, I moved that chair at least 10 times.

Once we settled, the poor chair sat lonely in The Room while we waited to start a family. It sat lonelier still as we failed to sustain a pregnancy.

When it finally became clear that Missy was coming, the chair figured prominently in the nursery design plan. Other friends had their gliders and cushy rockers. I considered getting a new ride briefly but when you get ready for a kid you feel like you are hemorrhaging money. So I worked the nursery around the beloved old rocker.

However.

It was only after that I spent several very uncomfortable nights nursing and rocking and rocking some more that I learned that the Shakers are FREAKIN' CELIBATE! Which is why there are like only four real Shaker people left in the U.S. And which is also why their rocking chairs suck. They were never designed to withstand long, lonely nights with an infant in arms.

So after one loooong night when Missy fought sleep after each feed, I announced to Cowboy that we needed to pimp my ride. And I went out and - money be damned - bought one of these cozy, comfy behemoths from PBK.

My ass has never been so thankful.

Missy's not convinced. She still takes much cajoling to drift off to sleep. But at least we're comfortable while we debate the issue.

For those of you who are planning The Room, my assvice to you: do not skimp on a chair. Buy the best, most comfortable one you can afford. You have no idea how many hours you will spend in the thing.

As for the dear Shaker rocker...I'll be posting it on Craigs List as soon as I rid it of any evidence of breast milk and spit up.

The Zen of Ms. Planner

Many, many thanks to everyone for the kind support offered after my last post.

Y’all must have known how desperate I was to put up a post whining about early motherhood on an IF blog fer chrissakes.

I know, I know. Had I read that post on someone else’s blog last summer, I would have rolled my eyes. The outpouring of support from this community was a clear demonstration that every single one of you are way better folks than I.

I have a new motherhood strategy (since clearly the old one was not sustainable):

No more parenting books. Save one. Read below.

And

Take it one hour at a time.

Seriously. This works. I only anticipate and approximate two activities for her: she seems to feed every 3 hours and gets tired about an hour after waking. Some days she naps like a champ. Other days like a high-strung cat. Other than this, I’ve let go of my desire to have any semblance of a schedule.

I go into each night expecting her to fuss and cry. Not hoping that she won’t. She’s beginning to surprise me. She’ll go a few glorious nights without fussing one bit and then – bam! – we’ll have another full of the fussies to put me back in my place. Consistent, she is not.

The good news is that once she is down for the night, she’ll go a full four hours without waking. My major problem now is that she is starting to fight sleep during the day. Since I have always soothed her to a deep sleep (mommy is a sucker) because her reflux meant I couldn’t just lay her down after nursing, now I have to commence with the soothing routine before every freakin’ nap: swaddle, rock, bounce, pace, hum, sing, shush. It is a major endeavor in itself.

Missy does not go quietly into the night. Or nap.

I’m about ready for a little cry-it-out (I know, I know. I’m horrible) but my pediatrician said she is too young for CIO.

I also read Momma Zen, which was recommended by Megan. Thanks, Megan! I echo Megan’s endorsement of the text. Even if you eschew all books on parenting, please read just this one. It's a fantastic book for any first time mom - or exhausted mom - in early motherhood.

It reinforced even more that I need to just be in the now. To not battle between the life I once had and the life I have now or the life I desire to have since the baby arrived. To let go of it all. And just be in each moment. Good, bad or just plain exhausted.

The other thing I stopped doing was attempting to have dinner ready for Cowboy. Letting go of my need to provide this for him has really helped the evening. Now I watch her closely for signs of sleepiness and swoop into the night routine at a moment’s notice. Plus, having it be all about her – and not about her, dinner and a tidy house – makes the evenings not as exhausting just in case they end up stretching into the wee hours of the night.

Lastly, I do have a sitter. While she is here, I am mostly working but steal a few minutes to write in my journal or go to the grocery store sans baby in tow. On Friday, however, I have our sitter scheduled in the evening so I can enjoy a girls night out. Just without my main girl for a spell.

Life gets better with each day.

Ms. Super Planner

My parents left today. And I am a mess.

Ms. Super Planner has been here for most of July. It’s been a Godsend. I don’t think I’ve done Missy’s laundry all month. Ms. Super Planner did it. She did my laundry, too. And my husband’s. She also unloaded the dishwasher as soon as it stopped. Reminded me to run the dishwasher. She dressed Missy every morning. And took over the soothing process at 10 PM every night so I could get some rest until the 2:30 feeding.

She even cleaned the guest bathroom before she left.

I tried to have it all together. To run the household and care for the baby while Cowboy brought home the bacon. So 1950’s, I know. With Cowboy’s new job and a new baby, we knew we’d be in boot camp for awhile. Then I took on a part time gig, which was stupid, but I really, really wanted to work for this client.

Cowboy’s dream job is still his dream job, but he quickly figured out that "we’d love to have a fresh set of eyes on things," during the interview process is code for: please come in and clean up this mess that someone else got us into.

He leaves the house at 5:45 AM and often doesn’t come home until 7 or 8 at night. He’s exhausted and stressed. I feel so bad handing a baby with the evening fussies off to him so I can get a break. That’s not fair to him. Or Missy.

Missy isn’t colicky. But she is moderately fussy. She’s also past the snuggle-on-the-chest-while-you-zone-out-in-front-of-the-TV-phase. She wants to move. This is not a baby that likes to hang
out by her lonesome. Take her to a coffee house and she’ll sit quietly and gaze in wonderment at everything for an hour. But she’ll fuss mightily after 5 minutes in the baby swing while you try to get some semblance of dinner together.

We’re also still doing the dream feed at 9:30 or so, which means she’s not soothed until 10, 10:30 or 11 and later. And it’s that last hour that is soooo exhausting. I’ve almost lost it a few times. I’ve had to put her in her crib crying and walk away.

In the process, I learned that you can do it all.

But only for about six weeks.

And then you start to fall apart.

Which is just about when Ms. Super Planner showed up and saved my ass. But now she’s gone.

I started crying in bed last night. I don’t want to go back to where I was the beginning of this month: exhausted, barely functioning and not enjoying my new daughter. I begged Cowboy to please come home earlier and manage his day at work so he’s not so exhausted at night (like eating lunch or working out). If I can leave the house for an hour to work out or run I am sure I would have enough endorphins to get through the late night soothing routine. Just for a few weeks until Missy is old enough to go to the gym day care.

He promised and I hope we turn over a new leaf.

Why is it then that I can’t stop crying today?

Missy is 2 months old

Missy at 2 Months

Smiles. Finally.

Weighs almost 9 lbs (4 kg). Yeah, she’s a peanut.

Is cloth diapered. We cheat and use a fabulous diaper service along with Thirsties diaper wraps. It is as easy as using disposables, esp. since I don’t launder the diapers in our home.

Still loves her Baby Art Cards. These things are like baby pot for Missy. She just stares at them forever with an intent, faraway stoner look. Maybe she’ll be an artist?

Has her first eating disorder. She likes to throw up after eating. My friend says you either get a poop baby or a spit up baby. I must have the latter because Missy just recently went one full week without pooping.

Favorite accessory: a bib

Ms. Planner at 2 Months

Has nursed in the backseat of the car several times. Good thing public nudity is legal in Oregon.

Once went to a client meeting and realized she forgot to put nursing shields in her bra. A big no-no because I leak like a freaking sieve. So I stuffed each side of my bra with plastic bags from Gus’ poopy bag stash I keep in the car. Not one of my prouder moments but my shirt stayed dry.

Unknowingly went to another client meeting with a large spit up stain on her jacket.

Has 8 lbs to go before reaching her pre-Missy weight.

Is not eating dairy because it jams up her daughter (literally). Hello, my old friend, coconut milk ice cream.

Favorite accessory: a burp cloth.

# # #

I apologize for not being up-to-date on blogging, reading and commenting. I am working for a client part-time plus hanging with an 8 week old. It is crazy. I have so much admiration for those moms who work full time with babies. Seriously. I don't know how you do it.

More lessons learned

Just you.

The day is hot and beautiful. The kind of day you dream about in the throes of winter. Warm east winds create a rushing sound through the firs. At mid-day the back porch is shaded by a massive black walnut tree. Sunlight sparkles through the tree canopy on to the white Adirondack chair where you sit for hours.

With the baby. She’s nestled in her favorite spot. Asleep. Her cheek on your clavicle. Her hand clutching the ringed collar of your scooped neck tee in the center of your chest. The collar, you reckon, is splattered with spit up.

You believe that as you close your eyes in the moments before your eventual death, your memory will flash a series of scenes from your life. You will your brain and body to reproduce this very one.

There are chores abiding. But they can wait. Trading this moment for a basket of matched socks and a clean floor seems wholly unjust.

There was a time in your life that you would have put the baby in her crib and rolled through the list of chores. You worried about the future too much. And dwelled over the past. You slaked through the hard times by pushing your body to its limits. You never lived in the now.

Then life made it hard. It set you on a path that forced you to sit with the now and accept how hard it was to just be with unfulfilled desires. It demanded that you not escape into tough physical pursuits to exhaust yourself just so you didn’t think so much.

You don’t want to say life made you lose things you loved in order to teach you a lesson. But maybe you needed to learn something. Maybe you needed to learn to be present during the hard times so you wouldn’t miss being present during the so-very-good ones.

So you learned. Now you recognize the gift of these moments as they happen. You have learned to just be.

Just Say No

I have this thing about little girl clothes.

I can’t stand most of them.

This past weekend I went to mecca – Babies R Us – for the first time ever to buy a monitor. I did my tour around the store and saw some cute shirts for little boys with "Surfer" on them. But on the little girl side of the store, the pepto-pink -- God everything there was so pink -- shirts read simply, "Surf Club." The message was subtle but clearly there: as a girl, you are not a surfer. You are just part of the club. On the sidelines.

We’ve all seen Blue Crush, right? We know that girls surf. I have no doubt that my daughter will surf one day.

Apparently the product line managers, graphics designers, merchandisers and buyers who source the little girl stuff are from the backwaters, where girls still sit on the beach and don’t surf. I am ashamed that most of these people in charge now are of my generation (X) and were lucky enough to grow up with Title 9 and everything else that girls can do now.

Same thing goes with the appliqued onesies that read, "Daddy’s Princess," or "American Sweetheart," or "Beauty Queen" (I swear I just saw a shirt like this today in size 0-3 months at Target – sick I tell you!).

You don’t find little boys’ t-shirts that say, "I give out hugs and kisses." In my view, by putting these slogans on a little girl, we are enforcing the stereotype that a female is only valued if she is affectionate. Only if she uses her little body does she gain favor with others.

Using cheesy onesie logic to explain it: if Missy is a princess, that makes me the queen. And the queen says no apparel that subjugates females will be worn in her household.

As such, I have two (!) bags full of onesies, dresses, etc., thoughtfully given to us by well-meaning neighbors and relatives that I simply won’t ever put on my child. They are headed for Goodwill. Tags still on them.

Shame on Babies R Us and Targets of the world for sourcing these stereotypes of little girls. In the meantime, I’ll stick to the consignment stores and boutiques to look for more appropriate clothing for my daughter.

I know I probably shouldn't even be bitching about this. That I should consider myself lucky to have the privilege to buy such clothes. But is this seriously the kind of world we want for our daughters?

BELIEVE

Birth Story (the final chapter)

Within minutes the room exploded with people and carts.

Cowboy said later that it didn’t really hit him that we were having a baby TODAY until he saw them wheel in the baby-warming table. Do you think the poor guy was in a bit of denial up until this point?



The standing OB was brought in to give me my last ultrasound. Missy was face up. (They have to be face down to easily pass around your pubic bone). I don’t know how I lay still for the ultrasound. The contractions were coming hard and fast. I was still pain-med-free although I began regretting my decision to wave off the epidural.



At this point, Nurse Nicole crouched down and addressed me inches from my face. "There is no shame in getting an epidural at 8 centimeters," she counseled.

Cowboy was still counting to 30 once a contraction began. I imagined that I was running up a long hill in Forest Park as each contraction peaked. The mental imagery helped but the news that it would take 30-40 minutes to turn Missy before I could even start the real pushing just broke me.

I’m a wimp. I want an epidural.

Still, Nurse Nicole – following my birth plan to a tee – made me ask for an epidural three times before bringing in the anesthesiologist. Who did a fast and fabulous job. I could still feel my pressure in my legs and pressure where Missy was, but the epi totally took the edge off.

Someone snapped a picture of me post-epidural and I’m all smiles. I kind of wish I had a before and after-the-epidural pictures because it would have been hi-lar-ious. Then again, I probably would have snatched the camera from their hands and smashed it.

As the epidural kicked in, I received two surprises that made the delivery so special:

First, our doula arrived from Seattle and got us into position for optimum pushing. She quickly became legend in the L&D ward when the nurses found out that she had driven three hours in the wee hours of the morning to make it to the birth.



Second, my OB, who was not on call that weekend, arrived in the room in her scrubs. We were prepared to have another OB in her group deliver Missy but my OB happened to stop into the hospital on her way to the farmer's market with her family. She saw my name on the board and ditched her family in order to deliver our baby. I can’t say enough good things about my OB. She is wonderful.



Then it was time for the big show. They had me start pushing mildly as a contraction started. I could still feel pressure when a contraction came. After three rounds of pushing, the OB would REACH UP THERE and TURN THE BABY ever so slightly as I relaxed. Yowsers. Did I mention how glad I was that I caved and got an epidural? I was thanking my lucky stars that Nurse Nicole checked my cervix when she did.



The doula was holding me on one side and Cowboy ponied up on the other. He was supposed to stay uptown and instead he was getting the full meal deal. While I am very proud of him, it will probably be a looong time until we do it with the lights on. Men being so visual and all.



I pushed for a little over an hour and then she was here. Full head of hair. Just crying up a storm. Skin as ruddy as a lobster. She had a little fluid in her lungs (part of preemie status) but they just had me keep her crying for about an hour before she had her first nursing session. Our hospital has such great new baby policies. Missy remained in either Cowboy’s or my arms for the first hours after her birth.

Nurse Nicole holds the lobster baby. Seriously, this was the color of her skin.

And like that, I was no longer pregnant. I was officially a mom. Only then did I start to tear up when I realized that she’s mine. All mine.

The very thing that had consumed me and our marriage for so long was wailing up at me in my arms. Feed me, damn it, was all she said.

IF and all its baggage went sailing on down the river. I had no more time to dwell on it. There was work to be done.


We had a little come-to-Jesus – mother to her daughter – before our first nursing session. Earlier in my pregnancy, I had adopted the same stance on nursing that I had on having a baby. I hope I’ll be able to nurse, was my train of thought.


A few weeks before I delivered, however, I was overcome with this re-borne confidence in my body that had ebbed with each pregnancy failure. With my confidence anew, I decided that the maybe-I-could-nurse protective stance just wasn’t an option. Of course my body would do what I needed it to do.


OK, we can do this. Rookie mom and rookie baby. But we can do it.


I took some deep yoga breaths and relaxed. With that, Missy latched on like a little barracuda.


I felt like I had arrived.

1 whole month

It's fixin' to be time for my third nap of the day.



I loooove my baby art cards. The worm is my favorite.

I'm very concerned about the prospect of off-shore drilling for oil.

...We interrupt this birth story to bring you pictures of Missy at 1 month. Gosh, I can't believe it has been a whole month.

I fit into a pair of my pre-baby jeans yesterday.

But there was some serious muffin top going on.

Ick.

Birth Story (chapter 2)

It was 2 AM by the time we got settled into our room at the hospital. Sadly, we had not stopped at the bar.

The night nurse took my birth plan – and actually began following it. I was offered no pain meds. They hooked me up to the monitors only briefly to check on Missy and my contractions. I breathed a HUGE sigh of relief when we heard Missy’s heartbeat. I hadn’t felt any movements from her in awhile. I guess she was sleeping in an effort to conserve her energy for the morning’s big event.

The nurses did not check to see how dilated I was. They did not want to risk infection. Instead, they were waiting on the on-call OB. Contractions were coming every 7-8 minutes and didn’t feel that bad to me. So they instructed us to hunker down for the night and try to get some rest. I guess they figured: first time mom = long labor = no rush.

About 3 AM, my contractions got intense and started coming about every 4 minutes or so. I think. I didn’t have a watch. Cowboy was asleep. I went into the bathroom and sat backwards on the loo, gripping the plumbing post. I just gripped the shit out of that pipe and rode out each one like I was on a surfboard as a set of waves blew in. I didn’t call the nurse. I didn’t wake Cowboy. I just thought this was what labor was and I was being a wimp if I got everyone riled up.

I woke Cowboy up at 5:30 AM. I couldn’t do it alone any longer. The contractions were more intense and coming much closer together. We calculated every 2-3 minutes. No one had checked my cervix yet. I had a bath. The warm water helped a bit.

We started making calls: my mom, yes you are getting another grandchild today. The doula, who was hung over in Seattle but pulled the major rally and drove back to Portland. The salon where I was scheduled to get a brow shape that day – um, I have to cancel the appointment because I’m, like, giving birth today.

I thought I would be much more modest in the labor room. I brought yoga shorts and a yoga top to wear. Instead, I couldn’t stand to have anything on from the waist down. There I was straddling the ‘loo or sitting in child’s pose in the bath – full on commando. And so not like me. I just didn’t care at that point.

At 7:30 AM, the nurses had a shift change I was given the BEST L&D nurse. Ever.

Nurse Nicole summoned me from the throne to monitor Missy. She wanted me to let her know when my contractions started to feel like I had to poop.

"They’ve been feeling that way since 3 in the morning," I told her.

Her eyes widened a bit and her eyebrows arched.

"Okay, I’m going to check your cervix. Now."

She did. Then said she wanted to get a second opinion.

Nurse Nicole brought in the head nurse. Who also checked. And – for the record – having someone shove her hand up your lady garden during a contraction is majorly NO FUN.

Because I was in the middle of said contraction, all I heard was: "Oh, yeah, she’s at 8. Maybe 9."

Birth Story (chapter 1)

"You might want to get the car seat in the car this weekend."

That was from my OB on Thursday, May 15 during my 36-week check-up. Turns out I was 75% effaced and 2 cm dilated.

A friend assured me I could stay like that for a few weeks. I immediately began cranking on all of that last minute stuff: a birth plan (yeah, I caved), a post-birth plan for Missy’s care, a list of what to pack for the hospital. I cleaned. Looking back, it should have been a sure sign of imminent labor that I was scrubbing my shower with a half of a lemon dipped in baking soda.

Friday, May 16 was freakishly hot in Portland. My cankles responded super well to the heat. My mom was in town for the baby shower and we spent the day shopping in this hip section of town, enjoying the sun. My back ached a little bit. I chalked it up to hauling my huge belly around in the heat. I was having BH contractions throughout the day but thought nothing of it.

A little after midnight, I was lying in bed and woke from a dead sleep. I felt a trickle. And got mad.

I can take the fat ass. And the swollen face. And the cankles. I haven’t complained about them all one bit. But to have this pregnancy make me pee the bed is just downright insulting.

I jacked myself up and barely made it to the bathroom before more "pee" came out.

I wonder if my water just broke?

I woke up Cowboy who, after imbibing in nearly a bottle of wine at dinner earlier in the evening, was none to happy to be awake.

I think my water just broke, I said when he appeared in the doorway.

He looked like a deer trapped in the headlights. Seriously. I wish I had picture of his face.

Go wake up your mom.

I am not waking up my mom, I hissed. This is our deal, not hers.

Instead, I woke up the answering service of my OB. The OB on call rang back immediately. She wanted us to get the hospital sooner rather than later.

She asked if I had felt the baby move since the "pee" incident. I had not. And immediately I was terrified. We hadn’t come this far to have something bad happen to Missy. I begab praying that she was still okay in there.

We packed in a jiffy (good thing I had written up a list the night before) and headed off. On our way to the hospital we passed the Old Lompoc Bar. We joked about going in to have a beer since it was 30 minutes before last call.

Besides, it might be our last chance to do so for awhile without hiring a babysitter.

Let's Go to the Highlights

I have managed to write my birth story – in three parts nonetheless. I’ve thought long and hard about publishing it to this blog. I mean, this is a blog about miscarriages and dealing with infertility. Does Missy’s birth story – the conclusion of this part of the journey - really belong here?

Or is it just for me to remember?

I don’t know. I just can’t decide about publishing it for now.

Here are some highlights though:

#1. The 10-hour labor. My water broke spontaneously at 12:30 AM and Missy arrived by 10:43 that morning.

#2. Our doula – who I neglected to let know I was 2 cm dilated because all of my friends assured me I could hang out like that for weeks – was in Seattle. We called her at 5:30 in the morning to give her the heads up. She could have called in a reserve doula, but she got up and drove back to Portland. Hung over. (She admitted she’d had a bit too much wine with her family the night prior). She arrived just when I started to push. We heart our doula.

#3. Despite all of my tough talk, I caved and got an epidural when I was 8cm dilated. "There’s no shame in getting an epidural at eight centimeters," our labor nurse rationalized, "It’s the women who come in and beg for an epidural at 2 centimeters that we kind of roll our eyes at." Our doula wasn’t there yet so Cowboy and I had managed 95% of the labor sans drugs and sans any assistance except for some pointers from the labor nurse.

I got spooked when they told me that Missy was face up and that we’d have to spend about 30-40 minutes of "gentle" pushing while the OB turned her face down for the delivery. Yeah, "gentle pushing" in between roller coaster contractions that we coming every other minute. I don’t regret it. I went from the fetal position to complimenting the anesthesiologist on her fantastic snakeskin heels within minutes.

#4. I labored through most of the night by myself in the birthing room bathroom. For those who have had spontaneous miscarriages, there is a scary point in labor when the contractions intensify and begin to feel exactly like cramping that happens during a miscarriage. I had to face my demons here. It took a lot of mental strength to remind myself that this was good. That these contractions would result in a real live baby. That I was okay. I started to panic at this point, but am proud that I talked myself back from the ledge and relaxed into the contractions rather than fighting them by tensing up in fear.

#5. Cowboy was a rock star. He even cut the cord! He didn’t stay uptown like he was supposed to, but I didn’t care because he helped me with the worst of the contractions by letting me know when each one was half over. Contractions only last one minute each. Believe me. Those are some long ass minutes. So it helped mightily to have him time them. It is kind of going on a long run. Somehow it seems easier to handle the fatigue if you know where you are in the process. Once each contraction hit the 30-second mark, I could breathe deeply knowing that the pain would subside soon.

#6. The only bummer about a labor that comes before your due date is that – or at least for me – you’re not prepared to say good-bye to your pregnancy. Don’t get me wrong. I did not relish the whole pregnancy gig. But one day you have this fuzzy little kitten moving around in your belly and the next day the feeling you got so used to is GONE. Like that. During our first night in the hospital, I so missed the feeling of Missy squirming in my belly as I fell asleep that I moved her from her bassinet to my bed and we snuggled like the old days.

#7. These days I stare as much at my ankles as I do my daughter. My (c)ankles swelled to epic proportions post-delivery. The day my old slender, athletic ankles appeared again was a banner day in our house.

And because no one is coming to this blog these days to read the blah-blah-blah from me, here is a photo of Missy at three weeks old.



Our part-time-for-the-summer nanny starts this week so hopefully I will have time to catch up on the computer and all of your blogs. I apologize that I have been M.I.A.

Introducing...

Piper Austin J.

May 17, 2008 @ 10:43 am

5 lbs. 14 oz.

19-1/4 inches long

Many thanks to everyone for your wonderful comments and your patience! Sheesh. It took us long enough to post the details.

Because of her preemie status, Miss PJ stayed in the hospital an extra day under the tanning bed lights trying to rid herself of jaundice. We came home for a day-and-a-half but then ended up in the pediatric unit for another spate of tanning.

We are now home and on a strict every 2 hours breastfeeding schedule, which is working wonders on the jaundice (and her weight) so far.

Labor came fast and hard. I will post the birth story soon. Cowboy rose to the occasion and in true Cowboy fashion had tears in his eyes when she let out her first wail.

She's a very mellow baby (part of this is preemie-induced mellowness). We have to wake her to feed her and she mews like a little kitten. She has her dad's eyes. Brown hair with blond highlights. Her mom's petite frame with the beginnings of some serious yoga shoulders.

I am beyond smitten.

It goes without saying, but she is well worth every single heartbreak, pee-stick throwing, prometrium-induced headache and tear shed in frustration.

The Best Intentions

I had planned on posting this past Sunday, when I would have hit 36 weeks (9 months) that I had had my first - ahem - internal exam heading into the home stretch.


"You might want to get the car seat in the car over the weekend," my OB had suggested. I was 75% effaced and 2 cm dilated.


I had planned on driving out to a spot on the Columbia River on Saturday so I could snap a picture of a very snow-covered Mt. St. Helen's for Miss JJ's birthday on Sunday, May 18. Happy belated birthday, JJ!


I had planned on attending a second baby shower in my honor on that same Sunday. Mrs. Super Planner had flown up from Texas to attend as well.


That was the plan...


Instead, I spent the weekend giving birth to a gorgeous, healthy little girl.


Proving - once again - that nothing, I mean, nothing ever goes according to plan. But somehow life always turns out beautifully in the long run.


Pictures, name, birth story, etc., all coming soon.




And she already has Cowboy wrapped around her tiny little finger.

Score one for Cowboy

Cowboy got the job! The dream-with-a-capital-D job.

I am so happy for him. I remember us taking Gus for a walk one February night in the college town where we lived for grad school. We had just started dating and he was discussing the three job offers he had received.

"But what do you really want to do?" I asked.

"I want to be a CFO someday," was his reply.

"Well then choose the job that is going to put you in the best position for that future," (oh, I thought I was such a smarty pants first-year back then.)

For the first 7 years of our relationship, I can definitely say that my job came first. We chose the town we live in based upon my job offer. He transferred his job with the bank so we could be in the same city. I traveled extensively. Usually over weekends. For long periods of time. Always surrounded by a cadre of guys. He had the local job. At the bank with its regular hours. And took care of the house, the bills, the dog, etc., while I galloped around mountain towns. He never gave me shit or grief for any of it.

Um, honey, I know we just bought our first house but I need to go live in Park City for 6 weeks during the Olympics. Where will I live? Oh in a townhouse with the rest of the marketing department. I guess that’s right. They are all guys. Hmm. That will be strange. As an aside, that townhouse became affectionately known as The Delta House. I coined the name the night I slept on the couch because some unplanned visiting big wig was staying in my room. I had counted well over 2 cases of empty beer bottles on the coffee table and thought, "I am so too old for this shit."

Heck, we almost moved to a freakin’ backwater Mo’ town in Utah for my job. (Not PC. We so would’ve moved to PC.)

Now it is his turn to have his job put first.

First because the commute is a wee bit longer. And the job is his first in the executive-level ranks = long hours. Long days. Stretches of days where – once she gets on a schedule – he will likely not see Missy awake. Please Lord, let her be one of those babies that sleep through the night sooner rather than later.

Did I mention that they want him to start before June 16. And we have that pesky little thing in June called a DUE DATE, which, falls on June 15.

Which is code for "Of course you can have some time off when the baby arrives. Will three days be okay?"

New baby. New job. Now we just need to buy a new house to completely stress us out. Actually, the new house will probably come next year when he gets sick of the commute and wants to move closer to his new gig.

We looked at each other this morning and nodded, "Yep, we'll both be in boot camp for a solid year."

And, we decided, all of this puts me in a new job, too: stay-at-home mom.

Wow.

Part of me is secretly pleased with this new job – I already bought a book on making homemade baby food. Title of mom is one of my dream jobs. I just never thought "stay-at-home" would come in front of it. That I would be on this side of the Mommy War.

But the reality of it is that any new job I get will require those long, pay-your-dues hours, too. And it is just not fair to us, to the new baby and to our employers. Everyone will lose under that scenario. Something had to give.

I don’t want this to come off as whining. Please. Dearly wanted baby scheduled to arrive in a month. Husband with his dream job. We are beyond lucky. And I am beyond grateful.

I’m just a little freaked out about this radical change in my career path. I have to have faith that I will figure something out so I can build a bridge between two sides of the divide.

That and trying to manage the web of changing health insurance coverage so close to the end of the pregnancy.

Thoughts on yesterday

Hope abides; therefore I abide.
Countless frustrations have not cowed me
I am still alive, vibrant with life.
The black cloud will disappear.
The morning sun will appear once again
All in its supernatural glory.

- Sri Chinmoy

# # #

I copied down this poem off the blog of another (who no longer blogs and has removed her site so I can't even point you in her direction). I've never had the urge to get a tattoo, however, if I were to get one, it would be this poem. But maybe in Sanskrit or in some other beautiful-fonted language.

I think this poem is so appropriate for the ambivalent feelings many might have towards Mother's Day. For whatever our reasons.

Maybe it reminds us of what we are going through now.

Maybe it reminds us of struggles we've conquered. Or are in the process of conquering.

Maybe it reminds us of someone who is no longer there and the sadness that enveloped us after their departure.

I thought this poem should live on in this circle.

I look at my hand-scribbled version on the back of my notebook everyday.

95% there

...With the room.

I hemmed and hawed over bookcases and then found this antique pine armoire, which was marked down for a song. I have a thing for old pine armoires. This is the 4th one in our house. It holds toys, books and a pile of clothes that have yet to be washed and hung. Next weekend.

Here is the vintage secretary's desk I painted. The attached changing pad can come off when Missy is out of diapers and then we'll use it as her desk. We still need to hang the Shaker rack over the changing table.

Those effing curtains - lined and all - are 9 freaking feet long. Each.

Sorry I haven't been posting or commenting. As you can see, I've been on a mission this week.

Coming Soon: The Room

May 1. In most Western cities, May Day is reserved for workers' rights protests, strikes, parades, etc.

In our house, this May Day really means, "May Day!" As in...oh-my-god-I-have-less-than-six-weeks-until-this-kid-comes-and-I-am-so-not-ready.

Like most who have gone through pregnancy loss, I didn't even accept that I might actually have a baby until about halfway through the pregnancy. As such, no planning happened until 5 months in.

Then - I confess - I made a spreadsheet. (Hangs head).

It was the only way my linear mind could grapple with all the stuff we needed to source, buy, research, do. Most people think of spreadsheets for finance, but when Micr0soft launched its Excel program, it used famed mountaineer Ed Viesturs' need to manage supply logistics for an upcoming expedition to Mt. Everest as a marketing story in how to use Excel for planning purposes. If it worked for Ed and Everest, I figured it was good enough for me.

Only back at 5 months when I developed our baby logistics plan, I had all sorts of 2nd trimester energy and failed to incorporate the 3rd trimester brain drain into the plan.

As such, I am behind on the nursery. The ROOM. The room that has so much significance in our journey. The room that I visualized decorating. For years.

The room that has been alternately cleaned out then had the door shut on it with each pregnancy and subsequent loss.

The room that caused a huge fight between us when I refused to move my new work office into it because just in case we might get pregnant. (Ironic but we ended up finding out about Missy a few weeks after that fight).

The room that has sat empty and undecorated since we bought our house in 2001. I referred to it as the "mayonaise room" due to its off-white walls, off-white wooden blinds and off-white berber carpet.

Here, take a look.

I can't believe I'm behind on it after I have pined to decorate it for years. I mostly need to sew and hang the curtains. And sew the crib skirt. And a duvet for the down quilt (even though I know you aren't supposed to use such things until Missy is much older).

The fabric has been sitting in the room for ages. Again, damn that 2nd trimester energy kick making me think I could put this off until now. I need someone to seriously kick me in the ass and get my sewing machine cranking.

You'd think the six-weeks-to-go countdown would be motivation enough. Or just the sheer satisfaction that - finally - THAT room would be done.

Now, I'm locking myself into the house this weekend until all that sewing is accomplished. I don't care if it is sunny outside. My loss for procrastinating.

And because pictures of a boring-ass-white-room are so what no one wants to see on a blog, here is a fun picture from Missy's first shower.

I ate 3 of these.

Blogoversary: In the Course of One Year

Below is an excerpt from my journal entry of April 25, 2007 – one year ago today. I was 6 days post miscarriage #2. I had just posted my first blog entry on That Was The Plan. I kept this entry private at the time because I did not want to start out my blog with too much negativism. Clearly, I needed an outlet. Big time.

April 25, 2007

My whole freaking soul hurts. I am scared. I have that sick feeling in my stomach. I look at my future and it seems so bleak and scary. I want to punch something so hard. I want to throw my laptop out the window. I mean, hurl the damn thing. (I never thought I would have anything in common with Denise Richards, but there you go).

And with this feeling, I am supposed to be networking and being helpful to might-be-influential people and looking for a new job. Oh yes, did I mention that the job I have had for 6 years and love is going away in September because my company is moving to Utah. I mean, UTAH! WTF!

And – guess what, because life wasn’t fun enough – that Cowboy had $4 million in deals fall out of his pipeline yesterday, which means that all of the hard work and long hours he has put in recently, that despite all valiant efforts, his job is in jeopardy, too.

Which puts the anxiety level up to here. And the sadness level up to there. And all of a sudden I can’t see so clearly.

I feel like Cowboy and I are in boat looking at each other like, "I thought you brought the freaking life preservers!" I seriously don’t know if we will survive this: his job, my job, IF. Somebody, please. Somebody cut us a break.

# # #

Whenever I go through hard times, I try to remind myself of their impermanence. "Life will look so much different in six months," I’d say. I said that back in December 2006 when I was still sad about my first miscarriage and the jury was still out as to if we would be moving to a new state with my job.

Cowboy had stepped up to a vacant position in the bank that needed to be filled. We didn’t know if it was going to pan out either.

Flash forward to late April 2007 and boy how things had changed. Only now they were worse. Where before we had uncertainty, now seemed to face a series of dead ends. I'd turned down a promotion with my company in Utah and would be out of a job come end of summer; we realized that Cowboy's new gig at the bank was of the churn-and-burn variety; not only were we not pregnant, but we were staring down the barrel of recurrent pregnancy loss testing and whatever those results might bring.

For the first time in my life, the 6-month rule hadn’t worked in the positive way I’d always meant it to. I felt duped. And terrified. The above journal entry clearly reflects the space we were in.

Last night, a full year later, I woke just before the alarm. Cowboy was asleep with his bedside lamp still on. The Birth Partner book lay open across the duvet. He had been reading it since waking at 2:30 a.m. (he always wakes at this time). I note this and smile because it is the first I’m-having-a-kid book that Cowboy has cracked.

He woke up because he is feeling guilty and nervous. I know this because he has just found out he is the front runner candidate for his dream job. I mean, dream with a capital D. This is the kind of job that he set his sights on back in business school. This is the kind of job that kept him hanging on at the bank for 8 years. Because of some bank regulations that govern his dealings with three new clients, today he has to face his boss with the news that he may be leaving. If nothing, Cowboy is a loyal employee. He has only worked for 2 companies since graduating high school.

I woke up because I have to go to the bathroom. Again. Because while last year I was reeling from m/c #2, now I am 8 months pregnant with a by-all-accounts healthy baby. I, too, have just found out that a local creative agency is interested in hiring me for freelance marketing consulting, which means I can continue to work from home for the remainder of the year.

The word grateful springs to mind. But it feels so inadequate. This is so beyond simply being grateful. This almost feels like a different life. But it is not. It is our life. Our life last year replete with all of its sadness and worry. Our life this year at 180 degrees opposite with breathing room to spare.

I try to be perfectly content. But I am on edge. Because I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because we don’t deserve this much good fortune. The fates will surely punish this much good fortune by taking something we counted on away.

Which, I know, is both completely paranoid and glass-is-half-empty.

That I have such thoughts shames me. It leaves me to ponder how can I ever pay this much good fortune forward. How can I pass it on so I don’t hold it too tightly and lose it.

This is what can happen in the course of a year.

Week of April 21: 8 months, 8 weeks to go.

Busy, busy week ahead.

Sun: L&D tour at the hospital. Hang head when Cowboy asks if we can bring Gus into the waiting room. In his defense, the lady giving the tour made a big deal about our ability to invite as many family members and friends into the waiting room as we want. Find out that they have flatscreens in the labor/delivery/rest rooms. And cable. Neither of which we have. Is it wrong to kind of hope that Missy will oblige her mama and come late in the week so I can watch "What Not to Wear" on TLC?

Mon: Interview pediatrician. Decide I like her when she says she doesn't mind if I space out vaccinations so Missy won't get several in one day. Bonus points for her saying that she believes that rising rates in autism are probably linked to bad things in the environment.

Mon: Texas Independence Day. Hang out Lone Star flag. Check.

Tues: Earth Day. For the past several years, I celebrate by adding one thing each year to minimize our impact on the environment. This year it is going paper towel-less. We've been paper towel free in our house since January and it hasn't been that hard at all.

Wed: My birthday! Last year I celebrated by recovering from miscarriage #2. Am hoping for a much better day this year.

Thurs: nothing.

Friday: My one year blog-a-versary! What a difference a year makes. I've been thinking a lot about how changed my life is from last year to this year. Will post my thoughts as soon as I suss them all out.

Would love to hear from others as to how you celebrate Earth Day. Do you celebrate it? What, if any, are some things you've done this year to contribute in a positive way to the environment.

Or you can post a "shut up, you hippie" comment if you want to instead. It will make me laugh. I love that word. Hippie. It's funny.

Dear Diary

What the fuck am I going to do? I am going to mother a daughter. And recent events have made it quite clear that I am in way over my head.

Current exploits to acquire childhood toys and books from my parents' storage shed also yielded not one but two diaries.

The first, started when I was 8. Here is an excerpt from the second entry: Today in school Bryan M**** atted (sic) very serious about kissing me. You can tell when he feels like kissing you. When he runs around and atts crazy, that means he loves you and wants to kiss you, BUT he doesn't.

WTF!! I am 8 and writing about boys already. Kissing boys. I can't even properly spell "acted" (for some reason, however, I can spell "serious" correctly). Although I should point out that I didn't technically, really kiss a boy until I was like in the tenth grade. It was all wishful thinking up until that point.

Oh, it gets better. Every few entries begin, "Dear Diary, Now I think I have a crush on so-and-so." Sheesh. I was an 8-year-old jezebel.

The second diary - with Hello Kitty on the cover - gets even better. Started in junior high, it goes all the way up to my senior year in high school.

In it, I went through my mean phase with harshly written critiques about everyone and everything. Although I had just read Harriet the Spy and I remember deliberately trying to copy the prose from the book.

There is the awful, awkward phase of comparing myself to other girls: the pretty, popular ones and the not-so-pretty, not-so-popular ones. It is hard to read now. There is the ridiculous, trying-on-other- personalities phase whereby my friends and I referred to each other by names and persona other than our own.

There is the entry written toward the end of my junior year that begins, "Dear Diary, I think about sex all the time..." Mind you, I hadn't had sex yet either, but still. Oy.

Does anyone else think it ironic you can find a sentence like that one in a diary with Hello Kitty on its cover?

I AM IN WAY OVER MY HEAD.

The most disturbing entries are in the back of the awkward-years-Hello-Kitty diary. It is a food and weight diary, which I began in 8th grade and kept up sporadically during times of *crisis*. Daily, I listed my current weight, my desired weight and everything I ate that day - along with supportive comments like, "pigged out" and "gross. must eat less tomorrow." In the 8th grade, at age 14, I weighed 79 lbs but wanted to get down to 72.

Okay, I should point out that I am short to begin with and was from ages 7 to 20 involved in a sport that dictated small-ness. But desiring to be 72 lbs. as a 14-year-old ?!? WTF?

Old habits die hard. I still keep food diaries from time to time. Although I have not done so while pregnant (too dangerous for me to do). I can't even keep a scale in my house as an adult. I am totally not in the position to pass along good body issues to my daughter. Or, for that matter, equipped to handle the crushes of an 8-year-old or god knows what else of a teenage girl. Holy frick!

Good Lord. I AM SERIOUSLY IN WAY OVER MY HEAD.

I 've got to save these diaries, although kept under lock and key, so I can refer to them when Missy is 8 and then in junior high and so on. That way I can remember what I was going though. It's the only way I can think to put them to good use as a mom.

Any ideas for a terrific hiding place?

It's not all bad

Just when I was bitching about the cold and the rain, today and tomorrow are calling for sunny and warm. Finally, a taste of spring up here.

I feel like the countdown has begun. And even though I still have days of doubt and terror, each day finds me feeling a wee bit happier about Missy’s arrival.

Last week brought it all home – literally and figuratively. I went to Texas to visit my parents. It was wonderful. Great food. Good weather. A fantastic pedicure. My brother visited, too, and we spent an entire day going through my parents’ storage shed, which contained 40+ years of family history in the form of scrapbooks, baby books and favorite story books and treasured toys from when we were young.

My mom, Mrs. Super Planner, had each large box labeled by child. Inside each box was a list of the contents. Items were carefully wrapped in paper. I don’t call her Mrs. Super Planner for nothing. Our goal was to purge items: keep things we wanted for our children or prep items for a mega-collectibles tag sale my mom will hold in the fall.

It was like going through a time capsule of your life. There were the two baby dolls I received as gifts when my sister and then my brother came home from the hospital (replete with entire wardrobes of doll clothes sewn by my grandma). A Depression-era handmade doll cradle used by my grandmother when she was a girl. My first kiddie rocking chair. Hardbound Dr. Suess books (do you have any idea how much those cost now?). A vintage – at 30+ years old, they sure are vintage now – Fisher-Price barn and schoolhouse with all the non-toxic, Made-in-the-USA plastic animals and wooden people intact. My collection of Little House on the Prairie books.

Missy scored.

I love that she’ll be playing with some of the toys and reading some of the books that we spent hours with. And I appreciate that my family is re-using these toys so we don’t have to buy new. Some people might freak that they are older toys but I feel safer having a few pre-made-in-China pieces around.

Missy received some of her first gifts as well, including a pale pink felt cowgirl hat. By a few days into the visit, I actually felt happy and confident enough for Missy’s Nana (that would be Mrs. Super Planner) to buy a sweet little coming-home-from-the-hospital-outfit from Janie & Jack. I went into Pottery Barn Kids for the first time since I started trying to become pregnant. It was a new me, for sure.

I guess my point in all of this is that I am glad that I’ve let those who love and care for me into this process. At first, I was so paranoid and scared about everything. I put off every kind of celebrating. I didn’t want to lose another pregnancy and then be ashamed to face everyone with my sadness.

But the more I open up and let others celebrate – where sometimes I still cannot yet – is absolutely healing to the soul and affirming to my spirit.