What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

One baby, extra caesarean, hold the VBAC

When I was 26 weeks pregnant with Kara, my uterus measured a perfect 26 centimeters. So when people questioned the appropriateness of my size, I just repeated what my doctor told me: the baby was healthy and doing just fine. I kept the meaner, gutter-language retorts to myself.

Here's photographic evidence of Kara and me at the 26-week mark:

 

...And here I am yesterday morning, 26 weeks in with Baby Brother, just a couple of hours before my monthly prenatal appointment, where he measured a whopping THREE weeks ahead of schedule:

I know. Kara can't believe it, either. See her look of disbelief? She's all, "Who does this kid think he is, showing me up before he's even outside? I'M the miracle-size baby. Just let him TRY to top my birth weight!"

(Um, sweetheart, let's not encourage him.)

What to say to the haters now? There's no denying it: I look huge and I feel huge. The doctor wasn't concerned, but when I told her I wanted remove this boy from my uterus via a planned c-section, she didn't bat an eye, just asked for my date of choice and verified with the doctor scheduled to be on call that day (the doctor who performed Kara's surgery, no less). I've spent more time ordering beef low mein than it took to schedule the birth of my son. And the noodles weren't even that good.

For those not in the know, I've written a couple of times about forgoing a VBAC on my Parents blog, but to document it here on my personal site, I'll share my thought process again. At last month's appointment, I asked the doctor for her opinion regarding whether or not attempting a vaginal birth was a good idea for me. There are five ob/gyns in my practice, and each time I see one, I throw that question out there just to see if everyone's on the same page. And when it comes to supporting a woman's right to VBAC, they are; nobody ever said I couldn't try for one. However, this doctor was the second one to recommend another c-section (my primary ob was the first). She listed Kara's size as one factor, which I knew was still mind-boggling to everyone there; so much so, in fact, that at yesterday's appointment I took my glucose challenge test two weeks early to make sure my body isn't harboring a secret case of gestational diabetes. The other issue was the risk of uterine rupture, a rare but life-threatening condition I'll allow Wikipedia to explain to you. It sounds just lovely.

Anyway, the idea of attempting labor and then deciding Baby Brother was too big to deliver vaginally was never a big deal to me; I wasn't worried about pain because I knew I'd get the epidural again, and the possibility of avoiding surgery was worth risking an unsuccessful trial of labor. It's the uterine rupture thing that's always been a hard pill to swallow. Once I learned from my doctor that the risk of rupture increases when births are fewer than two years apart, there was no question in my mind that for me, a c-section is the way to go. My kids will barely be ONE year apart as it is; hell no am I counting on the strength of an abdominal scar that only had a few months to heal before it was subjected to another pregnancy.

I applaud women who have the confidence to attempt a VBAC. I think it's wonderful that the old adage "Once a c-section, always a c-section" no longer applies. I'm proud of myself for even considering it. But in the end, it's just not for me. So Baby Brother's birth day is officially on the books: Thursday, February 5, 2009, 8 a.m. My plan is to wrap up work the Friday before and spend the first half of that week freaking out about having my second baby, a baby I STILL can't believe exists in the first place. Mark your calendars and hold onto your hats.

As if this post weren't already chock full of meaty content, I also talked to my doctor about birth control after Baby Brother's extraction--something I obviously didn't pay much attention to after Kara. I'm not interested in methods that turn my uterus into a poo-poo environment on the off chance ovulation were to occur; once the life process is in motion, I don't want to mess with that. But I am interesed in sidestepping it for a bit while Luke and I figure out if we want to have more children. Just for kicks, I asked my doctor about having my tubes tied during my caesarean, but since I'm delivering at a Catholic hospital, it's not even an option. Which is fine--I'm not sure how I feel about permanently ending my childbearing years before I'm 30--but I'm not sure I'd ever be up for another pregnancy, either. My doctor recommended Mirena, which sounds great except it doesn't meet my uterus-friendly criteria, and she also mentioned Essure, a procedure that's just as permanent as a tubal but without all the surgery. Also great, if we decide that we're Done.

In the end, Luke and I will probably just use condoms until my cycle regulates itself and I can trust the calendar to tell me when I'm ripe for the picking (thank you, Taking Charge of Your Fertility). It obviously worked before Kara, seeing as we were able to conceive her the minute we stopped avoiding relations on my "high-trigger" days. Baby Brother's conception had nothing to do with botched birth control and everything to do with "Ha! There's no way that could happen to me." A hard lesson to learn, for we all know how well THAT turned out:

Not that I would have it any other way, of course.

Your mother's a tracer!

The names, they were copied.

They were placed inside a hat.

  

And then three names were chosen by Luke, who was gracious enough to play my assistant while catching up on last night's episode of House.

In an effort to spread the wealth, I decided to break up the mega package into three separate prizes: the Jay and Silent Bob series, the two Clerks comics, and our dear Buddy Christ.

And the winners are...

 

 

Congratulations Gry, Dawnie, and Audrey! Gry, you get the Buddy Christ. Dawnie, the Jay and Silent Bob series is yours. Audrey, enjoy Clerks. Get me your addresses by Monday and I'll try to mail everything out next week. A big thanks to the rest of you who...um...wanted to take my stuff.

For those of you who couldn't care less about my nerdy contest, might I interest you in a belly shot of sorts?

 

Here I am at 23 weeks pregnant with Baby Brother, my two-days-shy-of-10-months-old daughter standing by my side. It's not the most telling angle, but it's the best Luke and I could manage under the circumstances ("circumstances" being a code word for "the child who insists on clinging to my legs for dear life the minute I walk through the door"). However, it's still enough to compare to my size at this point in Kara's incubation:

 

So far, the kids seem to be progressing at relatively the same rate. I had an ob/gyn appointment on Monday, where I learned that Baby Brother is spot on, measurement-wise, just like Kara was until we reached the final few weeks. (For more details about that visit, including my decision regarding whether or not to attempt a VBAC, check out my post on Parents.com.)

Edited to add: Whoops, there was one more photo I meant to post last night, because HELLO, adorableness:

Closing time

So. Today is closing day! The day Luke and I officially become homeowners for the first time in our lives. Final walk-through is at 2:30 p.m., closing is at 3:00, and of course we're still waiting to get final numbers from the bank for our cashier's check because why should we expect things to run smoothly?

I came into work this morning with a huge rock in my stomach (aside from Baby Brother), and as excited as we are to begin this new chapter of adulthood, Luke and I couldn't be more nervous. And because everything's happening so late in the afternoon, I'm not sure how we're going to celebrate. Maybe remove the "For Sale" sign in the front yard. Possibly go out to dinner because there's dried Rice-A-Roni on the stove from last night and Kara will need to eat shortly after we close and our apartment is a good forty minutes from our new pad. Continue to hash out paint colors and a schedule of what we can reasonably expect to accomplish before our October 28th move-in day. Originally the plan was to spend three weekends painting the entire house and the last weekend moving in, but my nephew Danny's baptism is now set for on October 26 and by the way, Ryan is moving to Germany to reunite with her army husband the weekend before that, and there's no way I'm missing out on my last chance to see her before spring. This leaves us only two working weekends left, so the NEW objective is to simply finish the second floor before the new carpet and bathroom tiles are installed later in the month.

Not that any of this makes me the slightest bit uneasy. Or crabby. Or hungry for a big bowl of spinach dip and a day in my pajamas.

It's overwhelming, how much there is to do before vacating our apartment; so overwhelming, in fact, that all I can do is think about October in small, manageable chunks. Call the flooring company. Price-check options for Internet, phone, and cable. (Yes, after more than three years of doing without, the Frema-Useless Clutter household just might hop on the cable bandwagon again.) (Also, I'm thinking not so much with the Comcast.) Buy primer and paint. Figure out when to paint. Figure out what to do with Kara. I would totally put her to work if she could walk more than five steps at a time. Also, if she could be trusted to keep her gums off the paintbrush.

(Actually, we do have some plans for Kara. A friend of mine from work who I knew from my Saint Joe days is going to come to the house and keep her company next Saturday so Luke and I can tackle the upstairs at the same time. Marissa heard about our baby-sitterless plight and actually volunteered to baby-sit. Hopefully this will be the beginning of a beautiful, paid friendship.)

In more uplifting news, did I tell you how much fun Kara is these days? Oh, wait, I guess I did. But I want to document it here, too, that my baby toddles and eats yogurt and "reads" her board books the right way and still has to play with my hair when I rock her to sleep. Luke and I are constantly looking at pictures from her newborn days and marveling over how much personality she's developed since then, how active she is, and how she loves us through each fumble. I would never categorize myself as patient, and I'm embarrassed to admit how damn frustrating parenthood is sometimes, but despite my shortcomings, Kara still scrambles to my arms when I come home each day. The biggest fear I had about being a working mom--that she wouldn't want me as much--has now reversed into my biggest obstacle, at least when trying to tackle my daily to-dos. She can't get enough of me. But I wouldn't want it any other way.

It's amazing to think that soon, there will be TWO little wonderfuls vying for my attention.

This was taken last Wednesday morning to document me at 20 weeks. Tomorrow I will be 21 weeks. Where is the time going?

Kara doesn't know, either.

It's mind-boggling, how much I love her.

Trying to bring pretty back

At nineteen weeks and some change, I finally feel like I'm coming into my own with this pregnancy. Having more energy and a cute little baby bump to boot have inspired me to take more pride in my appearance as opposed to those first couple of months, when just rolling out of bed and showering required supreme effort. Blow-drying my hair? Ha! Don't make me laugh.

Now, though? I'm not sure where to start.

I desperately need a hair cut, but my stylist is in Chicago and I'm not brave enough to try somebody new, so that will have to wait until the end of October, when Luke, Kara, and I will make the trip for little Danny's baptism. I plan on adding to my maternity wardrobe, but new clothes aren't enough. As always, whether I'm gestating or not, my biggest problem has to do with my skin.

Before returning to work in March, I went on a postpartum shopping spree to load up on products that I hoped would reduce the appearance of blemishes and even out my color. And once I went back, I took great care to apply the moisturizer, primer, and foundation. I used Philosophy's "On a Clear Day" kit and was pleased with the results. It was groovy, baby.

Now that I'm knocked up again, though, the tools at my disposal have changed. I love the overall effect of Philosophy's acne products, but the magical step-two serum is now off-limits until I deliver, and it seems like a waste of time and money to use the others out of sequene. For a while I continued to buy the facewash, but I'm going to run out of my current supply any day now, and it doesn't appear to be as effective without the added boost of the serum and the creams. Also, I'm too lazy to go to the mall and buy more, so I'm scratching that, too, even though it would also give me the opportunity to restock on my absolute favorite Clinique product in the whole entire world. End result? Right now I'm going the drugstore route and relying on Aveeno to keep my face clean and moisturized until Baby Brother makes his debut.

Did I ever tell you about how the rest of my beauty finds worked out? Of course I didn't, otherwise I wouldn't have set myself up to talk about them right here and now.

Since 2005, I had been utilizing every last drop of my bottle of Becca's Mattifying Primer because of how silky the mousse-like texture felt on my skin. So on my back-to-work shopping spree, I originally searched for that. However, the gal at Sephora said the brand had been discontinued and pimped the Smashbox Photofinish Light Foundation Primer as a worthy alternative. Amalah is a huge fan of Smashbox as well, so I gave it a shot. And I liked it! But it was one of the few times in my cosmetic history where I actually depleted a product over the span of a couple of months as opposed to a couple of YEARS. And when that product is forty buck a pop, that will. not. do.

So I went back to Sephora, where this time Laura Mercier's Foundation Primer was pimped out instead, and I said yes because it was ten dollars cheaper. But this primer? I do not like. It feels good going on but leaves my face greasy and shiny all the livelong day. According to some of the reviewers who faced the same problem, this probably isn't the best choice for those with oily or combination skin.

I still have a lot left, but because I don't like it, I've stopped wearing make-up altogether, even though I actually quite enjoy the LORAC foundation I found in March. This means I've been showing up to work in all my prenatal, pimply glory. I have finally decided this must stop.

So in vain I looked up Becca on Google, and what do you know, the brand wasn't discontinued after all. And oh, look, there's my primer! So did the Sephora girl lie to my face, or did she mean to imply that Sephora discontinued the stocking of Becca products? If it's the latter, she certainly could've MENTIONED the ability to buy it elsewhere. But whatever. I'm thisclose to doing exactly that. I'm sure my complexion and my coworkers will thank me.

Before my Oops, I Did It Again Moment in May, physically I was in a good place. I felt more confident about how I looked, and I was on the right track to losing the last few pounds of my baby weight. Pregnancy is a blessing, but hot damn, am I excited to do that again.

So, to sum up, Aveeno cleanser and moisturizer (including night cream! my, but I'm fancy), Becca primer, and LORAC foundation. I guess I DO know where to start. Carry on, then, but not without sharing your own favorite beauty and skincare products. You know, for future reference. Sisters have to help each other out, you know?

Let's Hear It For The Boy

Well, THERE went two weeks of personal blogging I'll never get back.

The mini-hiatus was unintentional, but life, it has been busy. Between welcoming sweet baby girls, working out insurance and inspection details for our September 30 closing, and keeping up with projects at work, I'm lucky I've managed to update my Parents blog. But, you know, they pay me, so it wasn't that hard of a decision to make.

Speaking of Parents, if you're a follower, you learned on Friday that a penis was discovered in my uterus.

Thanks to the cheesecake I had at lunch, Baby Brother was much more cooperative during his ultrasound than Kara was for hers, so we saw the goods twice. Also, his very adorable profile.

Oh, and we might've purchased a few little boy things. Maybe. Just a few.

I so thought this baby was going to be a girl (thanks for nothing, stupid old wives' tales), but disappointed would be the last word I'd use to describe what it felt like to learn about my son. Luke and I couldn't be more excited.

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I really appreciated all of your comments regarding our new house and our plight with the kitchen cabinets. Despite the amount of work we know it's going to take, Luke and I have decided to bite the bullet and repaint them a soft, creamy color. Paired with a khaki/tan shade on the walls, that should be enough to even things out and keep the first-floor rooms from clashing with each other, no matter what colors we end up using. I was quite impressed with Dr. Maureen's paint job, and after seeing her "before" pictures, I better understand why in certain cases, painting over the wood actually makes more sense than keeping the cabinets in their current condition. I have no idea what shape my cabinets were in before they were subjected to all that green, but after visiting the Valspar Web site to review paint swatches, I think I know where the sellers got their inspiration.

Coincidence? I THINK NOT.

The kicker? I actually DON'T MIND the color scheme in this room. But when you swap out the laminate flooring for a blah white tile and eliminate more than half the square footage, including the kick-ass island, what could have been a warm and inviting look becomes cramped and mismatched in a less impressive space. Oh, well. Live and learn.

The time between now and when we actually move in October is already making me nervous, wondering if we can paint every room and every damn cabinet prior to the second floor's carpet and tile job, prioritizing the items we want to add/upgrade in our home, counting every penny and trying to maximize it best we can. It's overwhelming now, but I trust that once we have the keys in hand, everything will suddenly appear much more managable. In the meantime, let's all ooh and ahh over Kara, who turned nine months old today and currently steals our hearts with her open-mouthed kisses, determination to walk, and ability to babble Mama and Dada at just the right time.

The apple of our eye indeed!

Much cuter than the professional shots she took at Target last month. We'll be redoing them this weekend at Portrait Innovations.

Today it's orchards, tomorrow undergraduate education. Sob.

"The Moist Maker" sounds much tastier than a calzone

Blasted food and its effect on second-trimester gestating women! The drama continues.

(Though not with Subway. I finally figured out the solution to my sub-versus-wrap dilemma. Double meat! Genius! AND DELICIOUS.)

The farther along I get in this pregnancy, the hungrier I get, at least for the first part of the day. If you don't believe me, let me tell you that today's lunch included a Weight Watchers Smart Ones calzone, an apple, banana, pear, and a roast beef sandwich. God help me, I PACKED A ROAST BEEF SANDWICH AS A MID-MORNING SNACK. With cheese, even! The sandwich was gone before ten, and that's only because I had a nine o'clock meeting. Restraint and Self-Control, see you in February 2009.

Anyway, by eleven I was fishing around the company freezer to retrieve my calzone, but it wasn't until I had unwrapped it that I realized it wasn't my calzone at all, but one of those Hot Pocket things that Jim Gaffigan used to poke fun at, and a feeling of shame washed over me as I compared myself to the professor in Friends who shamelessly stole Ross's post-Thanksgiving turkey sandwich and only ate half before throwing the rest away. I imagined the owner of the Hot Pocket lamenting the loss of his high-calorie treat much like Ross did, releasing a gutteral "My Hot Pocket?!" cry loud enough to send every pigeon in the Indianapolis area off in search of less tortured pastures.

But now that it was opened, what could I do but eat it, write a note of apology, and carry on with my life? So I stuck the Pocket in the microwave, taped a note to the freezer offering my smaller-but-healthier Smart Ones calzone in return, and waited three minutes for the dinger to go off.

Turns out my packing the sandwich wasn't just a piggy move after all, because the Hot Pocket smelled absolutely terrible and inspired a gag reflex so horrendous that I tossed the whole damn thing in the trash. I almost ripped up the note and went for my Smart Ones, but the guilt of eliminating somebody's lunch entirely was reason enough to hold back. I quizzed a few of my coworkers to see if they were the owners of the offending Pocket, but nobody was, though I did learn the IT director is quite fond of them, so I'll check out that lead later this afternoon.

When revealing my plight to one of the director's colleagues, she was sympathetic. "Now, you don't have a lunch," she said.

I just nodded. Nobody has to know about my sandwich but me.

P.S. House info is coming! The inspection is scheduled for three o'clock tomorrow, and I'm allowed to take pictures, so I'll try to relate that tale sometime this weekend. In the meantime, might I placate you with shots of my eight-month-old? She really is the cutest.

No, my daddy doesn't spike my bottle with Starbucks, why do you ask?

My mother, a sandwich stealer? Heavens to Betsy!

I'm a little ashamed

...because here's what I bought for lunch today. For myself.

Let me explain.

It started out innocently enough yesterday when I went to Subway for lunch, as I've been apt to do on days when our cupboard is bare. Usually I order a six-inch turkey sub on wheat bread with American cheese, tomatoes, and mustard, and I was about to order that yesterday when a sign caught my eye. It said that any six-incher could be turned into a salad or a wrap. And since I wasn't really in the mood for a whole lot of bread, I went with the wrap. And it was delicious.

But the wrap was not enough. Even after a bag of chips, even after a chocolate-chip cookie. I still wanted more.

So when I went back for lunch today, I contemplated getting TWO turkey wraps. I reasoned I could eat one now and one later on in the day so Luke wouldn't feel pressured to make dinner as soon as I got home. But then two of my coworkers lined up behind me, and if there were two turkey wraps attached to my order, it would be obvious that both of the sandwiches were for me. And since it's NOT obvious to everyone that I'm 14 weeks pregnant (it's not a secret, but it's not main-stream information for those who don't know me), I did what any starving, gestating woman would do.

I got a turkey and a roast beef. With two different kinds of chips. Fooled them all, I have! I thought, and ran the hell out of there.

Until I got back to the lab and realized that NOW I had to worry about somebody passing my very-public cubicle and noticing the two Subway sacks on my desk. Plus, I was mentally cursing myself out for not ordering any liquidy condiment for the roast beef, because Subway's beef tastes awfully dry without at least a little bit of mustard. Too late now.

So far I've eaten one full wrap--half the turkey and half the roast beef--and I've finished one bag of chips. I'm not starving anymore but still hungry enough that there's a good chance there will be nothing left to store in the company break room for tomorrow.

I have a good excuse, though, right? Doesn't every woman start her second trimester with a desire for two lunches?

Also, to document that my pooching uterus still looks more like it's holding beer and pizza than my beautiful, surprise second child, here I am at 14 weeks. In the john. Again. Some things never change.

ALERT, ALERT: An update to add that everything is gone except the second half of the roast beef, which is now sitting in the fridge and will probably never be eaten because OH MY GOD, DRY. Then I went and grabbed an ice cream sandwich from the vending machine and so help me, God, it was delicious. Good thing I'm out of cash or my boss would have to roll me to my car, Violet-style.

In case you couldn't tell, I got a haircut, too

You don't mind an entry chock full of pictures, do you? Good. Because I am very tired and these images are the only reason I was motivated to post tonight.

Last week, Luke, Kara, and I spent four days up north visiting family, prompted by the fact that my new brother-in-law, Jason, was on a two-week leave from duty in Iraq, and not only did I have to miss his and Ryan's wedding (remember my Saint Joe scare?), he was deployed before Kara was born, so he still hadn't met his niece. We wasted no time getting them properly introduced.

Uncle Jason was happy to see Kara, though he admitted at one point, "I don't know what to do with her!" Here they are both looking to my mom for further instruction.

For our four nights away from home, we spent the first and last one at Luke's parents house and the middle two with Samantha and Dan. My sister is just over a week away from her due date, which just so happens to fall on the anniversary of her wedding. Little Danny Junior's arrival is eagerly anticipated by all.

(Here would be a great place to include Samantha's picture, except that I didn't take any. Bad big sister!)

Here's Luke reading to Kara one of the mornings we stayed with Samantha and Dan. I'm including it because Kara munching on her bunny's ear--the one that has helped her recover from a rough sleep patch these last couple of months--is way adorable, and it showcases one of her very favorite books: Gossie and Gertie, which is actually part of a Gossie-and-friends-type series. MY favorite is the one about BooBoo because it talks about burps, and what could be cuter then a story about a gosling who burps?

 

On Saturday morning, our little family stole away for a couple of hours and drove to Navy Pier. It was Kara's first time seeing Lake Michigan, and Luke and I had a blast strolling her down the boardwalk and giving her a view of the water. The Pier is one of my favorite Chicago landmarks, so it was probably natural that I felt a ping of sadness over not living closer and being able to see it any old time we wanted. Staying in Indianapolis is the best option for us right now, but part of me holds out for the chance of someday making the move to northwest Indiana, where the grass is green and the commuter trains are pretty.

Later that afternoon I attended a surprise baby shower for Molly (I know she'll be sharing pictures soon) (hint, hint, Molly), and while I was gone Luke and Kara hung out with my mom, who was ecstatic over having so much time with her granddaughter. There are some especially cute pictures over at Parents, where Kara's reading Grandma's face Helen Keller style and Grandma's teaching Kara this "so big!" move that she absolutely loved.

(Notice Kara's travel chair? It's a Chicco Caddy Hook-On Chair we can use at places where a high chair isn't available. It was thirty-five bucks and works like a charm, though Kara did cling to me for dear life the first couple of times she was in there.)

Kara likes the hustle and bustle of Chicago, but she also enjoys the quiet calm we experience when we visit Grandma and Grandpa Dunscombe. Also, Grandpa provides adequate lap space for naps.

The next day, before we headed out of town, we stopped to visit Molly and Jack. They were both excited to see Kara, because Molly has baby girl fever and Jack still gets a kick out of Kara's "Oopsie" video. I think they had a good time with each other, though Jack was not thrilled with Kara's tendency to drool on his toys.

Jack's like, "What are you doing with my bus, woman?" and Kara's like, "Boat?"

I don't know why innocent pictures like this make me want to joke about a future pairing, but they do, except then I get weirded out contemplating my baby daughter's potential love matches. Forgive me, Jack.

Molly and I juggling small children and fetuses (feti?) in utero. Neither of us expected to get knocked up with surprise babies this year, but who does? And anyway, there's nobody I'd rather freak out with.

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Now, the random stuff.

My Hoosier Momma shirt turned out to be too small, so my embarassment over wearing it can wait until next year. Maybe we'll just save it for bedtime.

It looks like the top three venue choices for BlogHer 2009 are Portland, Philadelphia, and St. Louis. I voted for St. Louis because it's closest in proximity to Indianapolis, but I would be way stoked to visit Philly again. I went there with Luke in 2004 to visit his best friend. We visited Old City and Valley Forge and took a ghost tour and all of it was awesome. Luke is actually encouraging me to sign up next year and even suggested that the four of us (!) could go together and turn part of the trip into a mini family vacation. I am so all over that; I really did have a great time last year. My only hang-up is my purpose for attending: my personal blog is often left to collect dust, so ads are definitely not a part of my near future, and sometimes it's difficult to keep up on the one I get paid for. Am I looking for larger readership? More freelance work? Or simply network (Amalah, for the love of God, PLEASE SAY YOU'RE GOING IN '09) and have a good time? Is that good enough?

I suppose it doesn't really matter. Luke's on board with my going, and I bring in enough money from blogging that attending a conference like this would be totally worth it. Count me in.

This week has been great to me, baby-wise. I entered my thirteenth week and experienced an energy surge that didn't come until closer to week eighteen with Kara, and my work unveiled a new maternity leave policy, effective immediately, that pays six weeks at one-hundred-percent salary. Words can't express the impact this will have on my life, but I make the attempt over at Parents.

On the housing front: Luke, Kara, and I will visit three more houses on Indy's south side. Wish us luck.

Lastly, Kara is just nine days away from turning eight months old and making the cutest "mamadadababa" babbles you've ever heard in your life. On Monday morning, Luke will take her in for her first professional photo shoot. I didn't realize how bummed I'd be over not being able to join them, but I'm already leaving early that day for an ob/gyn appointment, and things are too busy for me to take off the whole day. Where did the time go? When did my sweet baby girl go from this:

To this?

Hell if I know, but damn if she isn't the most beautiful person I've ever met.

A six-month-old's lament

Dear Internet,

Why is my mom all about the disappearing acts lately? This hiatus was even lamer than the last one. I didn't even get a chance to post! What's up with that?

Grrr,
Kara

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Dear Kara,

When you type negative comments about your mother using her very own blog, remember she can read them. Also, that she has the power to take that pacifier away faster than you can crawl after her.

Love,
Momma

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Well, if my non-literate baby daughter took the time to ask such deep and meaningful questions, the least I can do is answer them. Maybe you're interested, too!

But really, it's quite boring. I never intended this place to collect dust for as long as it did. Every few days I'd intend to post, but first-trimester yuck caught up to me, to the point that once Kara was down for the night, I was down for the night. I could pull myself together long enough to post on Parents, but not for anything that didn't absolutely require some level of attention. Plus, I'm still feeling hella overwhelmed about this baby (as evidenced by my recent Parents freak-out), and I wasn't sure what to say about it here. I go back and forth between feeling completely off my game about having two kids so close together and completely guilty that I'm not one-hundred-percent over-the-moon about our new addition, which I know is a gift from God, a gift I will love just as much as Kara. But right now the big picture is hazy, as the every day is spent battling UTIs, trying to find an appetite (yet simultaneously wondering why I've only lost a pound), sleeping whenever I get the chance, and bemoaning my overall lack of energy. I don't want to complain all the time. I don't want people to think I'm asking for sympathy. But I can't pretend I'm over this hump yet, physically or emotionally.

It helps that Luke and I have put off house-hunting for a bit. Our whirlwind touring process ended with us making offers on three houses in two weeks, none of which worked out. In all three cases the counter was too high, and the sellers weren't willing to come down any more, and we couldn't afford to go up more than a couple of thousand. The first house we bid on was actually a pipe dream -- it had only been on the market one day, so we knew they wouldn't be desperate enough to go down as much as we wanted, but it never hurts to try -- but the last two offers were acknowledged to be quite reasonable by the seller's agents. It sounds like in each case, the sellers owed more than the houses were worth and couldn't accept much less than their original purchase price. Which, OK, but then why is your house on the market? Why not wait until the economy improves and get more bang for your buck? Whatever. Luke and I are taking the next couple of months to save up a larger down payment (thank you, July bonus) and clear our heads so we don't settle on something that won't work in the long run. I really hope all three of those houses are still on the market when we get back on track. Maybe they'll like our offers then, bastards.

(Not that I'm bitter or anything.)

Things around here are OK. Kara officially turned six months old a couple of weeks ago and weighs in at a whopping 21 pounds and 11 ounces and measures 28 3/4 inches long. She's crawling, pulling up on furniture, kind of submitting to a somewhat regular nap schedule, and laughing. The laughing is the best -- full-on, belly laughs that I didn't think were possible for babies, but they are. And on Saturday night, we caught it on video.

I look terrible, and my voice is super annoying, but surely you can get past all that to appreciate my beautiful baby girl. We couldn't be more delighted with her.

FYI, we haven't been able to get a reaction like that from her since, even with the magic word "Oopsie," so let's just thank our lucky stars we captured it when we did.

(It's totally inappropriate for me to watch this clip and wish I'd pointed at my belly during one of the "Oopsies," right? Probably yes?)

Also, in case you were wondering, the newest Frema-Useless Clutter embryo (who from here on out shall be known as Number Two) isn't doing so bad, either.

There's not much to see right now, but the first picture includes a tiny yet helpful arrow to indicate Number Two's current residence. This ultrasound was taken when I was exactly six weeks along and suggests a due date of February 11, 2009. If I have another c-section (which my doctor suggests), I'd go a week earlier, putting my children just shy of 14 months apart. Tomorrow I will be eight weeks. This early part of pregnancy is going exactly like I remembered -- loooong, and also BLECH -- and I'm already waiting in earnest for that second-trimester burst of energy that didn't come until around week 18 with Kara. Hopefully, Number Two will be more considerate, but probably not. I bet Kara posted crib notes on the wall of my uterus, instructing future siblings on proper prenatal behavior, just to spite me.

For those of you who haven't stopped checking this blog for signs of life, I will do my best not to flake out again, but see above regarding BLECH. Thanks for hanging in there.

For what it's worth...

I told myself it didn't matter, not having a positive pregnancy test. A blood prick from the doctor's office is way more telling than a first morning's urine, and the last thing I need to do is waste three-fifty on something that offers redundant information. But tonight I asked Luke to pick up a Target-brand HPT, anyway, frugality be damned, because I am a girl and biologically programmed to pee on sticks. I need proof. I need the two pink lines. Or in this case, a big blue plus sign.

Mission accomplished.

It's about damn time.

Congratulations, pregnant self! Call me crazy, but it's much more real now.

Things have been crazy-busy around here. Last Wednesday, Luke and I lost two hours of married life talking numbers with our mortgage lender and visited seven homes in four hours on Sunday. Today we saw three more plus the most promising one from the weekend, and tomorrow we will make an offer.

House hunting has proven to be one of the most interesting experiences of my life, and the most exhausting, especially when you're schlepping around a six-month-old who will only tolerate so much car seat before her screams permeate a twenty-foot radius. One house had a whole room shocasing African safari decor complete with elephant wallpaper border and an unfortunately persistent smell of cat. We also attempted to see two bank-owned homes listed at to-die-for prices, until we actually entered the homes and realized that's probably what happened. Somebody must have died. What else could explain the torn carpet, scribbled-on walls, damaged fences, and bugs seeping through the woodwork? If Luke and I could afford a more mature down payment and about ten thousand dollars worth of up-front maintenance costs, these bad boys would be a steal. But we have babies (babies! MY GOD), who would prefer to eat more than once a day, and I am not a fan of having to purge questionable living creatures from my happy place.

The house we are going with, our first choice, is adorable. Three bedrooms, two baths, roomy, fenced-in backyard, two-car insulated garage, brand-new carpet, appliances included, and closet space galore, all in a neighorhood with one of the best school systems in the Indianapolis area. Originally we were hoping to score four bedrooms, or at least three beds and an office space, but alas, we are first-time home-buyers living on one salary, so some of those wants will have to wait until next time. First Choice will definitely meet our needs as a soon-to-be four-person family for years to come, and today on our second walk-through, I got lost thinking about raising our children there--rocking them to sleep, setting up a Christmas tree, playing tag in the yard while Luke throws hot dogs on the grill--and now I am quietly freaking out because I am too emotionally invested in this transaction. We have a price cap that we will not (cannot) negotiate, and there are two other houses to act on should this deal fall through, so I'm not worried about losing my head, but if for some reason things didn't work out, I just might pull a Sally Field circa Steel Magnolias ("I wanna know whyyyyyyyy") and consume an entire pint of Chunky Monkey in one sitting. Which may or may not be appreciated by my embryo.   

Kara is fabulous. She's been sitting on her own for months now, but yesterday was the first time she actually pulled herself into a sitting position. That made me cry, too, as did thinking about how huge I'm going to be in a few months and I won't be able to hold her on my chest like I do now and wah wah wah more ice cream please.

It's getting harder and harder to keep my lips zipped about baby number two at work. I've already told my VP, my direct supervisor, two of my work buddies, and our sales and marketing analyst. If I can make it to my June 18th ob/gyn appointment and ultrasound without tipping off the CEO, it will be a bloody miracle. And seeing as life lately is already one big miracle, I doubt I'm due for another.

Name that due date!

I don't know if it's a sign of pregnancy or just an excuse to abandon the strict Weight Watchers regime, but food and I have once again become BFFs. Last Thursday, I "snacked" on a piece of cold steak while Luke was cooking dinner, and yesterday I suggested ordering from our favorite local restaurant, and by the way, wouldn't it be nice to get a hot roast beef and split a small pizza?

What can I say? Baby's gotta eat.

Not this baby. The new one.

Clearly, Kara is bad to the bone.

While surfing the Web for a due date calculator that would allow me to take my unpredictable, postpartum Aunt Flo visits into account, the only one that even provided a spot to adjust cycle length was BabyCenter.com, but even then the cap was 45 days, and I truly believe ovulation took place in mid-May. There's no way I can be seven weeks pregnant. I just can't.

Can I?

You decide. Here are the facts (advance apologies for the TMI):

First day of last period: March 27
Unprotected "incident" #1: April 26
Unprotected "incident" #2: May 12 (Happy anniversary, dear)
Negative home readings: May 9 through May 29
Positive blood test: May 30

There's no morning sickness to speak of yet but plenty of uterine cramping, so my guestimate is still mid-February. If I had ovulated at the end of April, surely I would have seen a positive reading on ONE of my five pee sticks, yes? At least, I think I would have. When I found out I was pregnant with Kara, I was only a few weeks along and STILL got six positive readings. Why would this time be any different?

So. Have at it!

Good-bye, cold lunchmeat. See you in February 2009.

So, over the last couple of weeks, I've kind of been making a big deal over the possibility of being pregnant (again). At first it was fun, something to blog about for Parents that didn't make me out to be an angry dog hater, but I didn't really think it was true. Apparently nobody else did, either. I heard the DUH in comments from some of my readers. "You KNOW your cycle can take a while to get back on track, right?" they said. Which, hey, I'm with you. Surely FIVE negative pregnancy tests can't be wrong.

Except they totally can, because according to my blood test? I'm having a baby.

It's probably safe to assume Luke will never touch me again. No need to worry about number three.

Kara is unimpressed.

Silly Mommy. You've really gone and done it now.

It's going to be OK, right? I mean, I KNOW it's going to be OK, birthing two children fourteen months apart and having to buy a house and upgrade our car and save for doctor's visits and hospital bills and maternity leave (oh, my God, my boss is totally going to think I'm a nympho) and recover from two c-sections in two years and deal with morning sickness and round ligament pain and breastfeeding AGAIN. I know people do more with less. And really, I am so happy. So very, very happy.

But still.

Tell me it's going to be OK.

She's here!

Boy, you guys are a tough crowd.  When Frema appointed me Official Blog Updater (for when I arrived home tonight, that is) I suppose we might have mentioned that I'd be staying at the hospital with her.  All day.  Without internet access.  Until I arrived home, which was two and a half hours North of where this precious baby was born tonight.

But now you'll forgive all of the madness and waiting, won't you?  Because I've returned with pictures!

When I arrived today, I was excited to see my dear friend in her normal character.  Is this the perfect Frema Does Childbirth picture or what?

Of course, then the medical staff went and ruined all the fun with a pretty good Pitocin drip, and I've never seen Bree more focused, or in more pain.  She was wonderful, and Luke was an incredible support, but dog-gone if she wasn't in some pain.

And then, well, the drugs came.   And all was right with the world again.

By 2pm there was cheer and double foot rubs and full effacement and eight good centimeters of dilating.  We thought for sure baby Freka was well on her way to catching the five o'clock news.

But as things sometimes go, progress came to a screeching halt and the baby decided things were a bit cramped, but mostly comfy inside.  And she stayed exactly where she was comfortable throughout almost fourteen hours of labor, until approximately 9pm, when the doctor assured Breain and Luke that the only way this baby would be coming out would be through a c-section.

This was definitely the low point of the day, when they wheeled our girl(s) off to surgery. 

(Luke, your gown's open, pal.)

(Snicker, snicker.)

Thankfully, the low point was followed closely by the highest point.  This is who returned to the room, just an hour later:

An amazing family of three.

At 9:50pm, Miss Kara Leigh arrived, weighing 11 pounds, 4 ounces, and measuring 22.5 inches long, with a smirk on her face and the sweetest chubby cheeks you've ever laid eyes on.

Which should leave no room for questioning the need for a Cesarean Section.  My word!

Congratulations, friends.

The end is near.

Well, it looks like we'll need that induction after all. Freka appears quite content to remain in my uterus, thank you very much, so tomorrow at 7:30 a.m., Luke and I will head to the hospital and see what we can do to persuade her to join us.

It's been a weird day, and more than a little unnerving to think about having to jumpstart a process so intimate and normally so intuitive. I'm sure the baby would've come on her own eventually, but the longer she stays in here, the more on edge I get, wondering if her activity level is normal, if my placenta's still taking care of her the way it should, if her ever-growing body is going to fit through my wee-by-comparison vagina. I never thought I'd need an induction, but I still feel good knowing that I didn't rush into things the minute my due date passed and that I gave her some more time to get with the program. Now, though, her lease is up, and Momma wants to collect what's due.

Until then, it's time to clean up and go to bed. I've got a big day tomorrow.

(By the way, let's all give three cheers for Molly, who has moved Heaven and Earth to be able to come to the hospital tomorrow and see my baby. She's being charged with the very important task of updating this blog with pictures and news once she gets home, so be sure to be nice to her.)

Not so much with a baby yet.

Just in case anybody's checking in on Blogland this weekend, I wanted to post a quick no-baby update. There's been breakfast at my favorite pancake house, the purchase of new gloves, a wonderful steak dinner prepared by my husband, LOTS of eager phone calls, and a little bit of snow, but nope, no baby.

As you were.

My child is a medical marvel

"I honestly don't know what's keeping this baby from coming out," said my doctor this afternoon after my latest cervical exam. Dilation is almost five centimeters, while effacement is steady at seventy percent. A non-stress test revealed Freka's strong heart beat and contractions six and a half minutes apart lasting sixty to eighty seconds long. Go, body, go!

My original plan was to schedule induction for Saturday morning if Freka hadn't arrived before then, but it turns out my practice doesn't "do" them on the weekends, so we're penciled in for Monday at 7:30 a.m. However, my doctor said that at this point, if I were to show up at the hospital, nobody would turn me away.

I'm well aware that my gut feelings haven't amounted to much these last few days, but I really don't think I'll make it to Monday morning. Until then, though, Luke and I will continue our going-out-to-dinner streak (I'm in no hurry to mess up our perfectly clean kitchen), watch movies, and rest up as best we can for the job ahead. Also, we'll be keepng a close eye on the weather, because Indianapolis is slated to receive six to ten inches of snow this weekend. Of course.

I feel good about where things are and how I'm progressing. The gals at the front desk were impressed that I was already so far along and predicted a fast and easy labor for me. "I bet you'll show up at the hospital ten centimeters dilated and ready to push," the receptionist said.

Works for me.

I'll keep you posted.

If the stair climbing doesn't do it, Carol's sexual innuendos will

I was so sure it was going to happen last night. The contractions were coming every fifteen minutes or so, Luke and I walked around our apartment complex to jiggle the baby up, and I bounced my ass off on the birthing ball; plus, ten minutes before bed I proceeded to have a nesting panic attack so severe that Luke mopped our floors and took out the trash for me. At midnight. Because suddenly everything seemed filthy.

This morning we woke up and took another walk. I vaccuumed the shit out of our apartment, bleached our sinks (wearing gloves, don't worry), and did several laps on the stairs in our building. When Luke comes home for lunch, we'll do some more walking, but in the meantime, I'm watching A Very Brady Christmas in hopes that the awfulness of the dialogue, wardrobe, and continued abuse of Alice (if she's really a houseguest, why not encourage her to get out of that damn uniform?) will be enough to make Freka want to flee the confines of my uterus before the ending credits have a chance to roll.

Seriously, this movie is terrible. Between Carol's thinly veiled "let's do some business together" sex talk, Mike's pairing of a watch and a bracelet on the same wrist (I really can't stand jewelry on men), Greg's selfish wife (who refuses to visit the Bradys for the holidays this year because her favorite aunt will be in town, EVEN THOUGH they've been to her family's house for Christmas the last two years), Marcia's whiny, jobless husband (who has no qualms sharing their dismal financial state in front of their two bratty kids), and Peter's willingness to sleep with his boss but not make her an honest woman because she makes more money than he does, I haven't a clue as to why I look forward to watching this drivel year after year after year.

But, God help me, I do.

Still hopeful for today

Luke and I were married on May 12, so I think December 12 would be an excellent birthday for our first child, don't you agree?

Obviously, still no baby yet. Contractions are coming, but they're not very long or close together, so I still haven't bothered to time them. My guess? Freka is just as psyched as I am about this week's three-episode block of Deal or No Deal, and she's not coming until the last one airs tonight. And really, who can blame her? Howie is awesome.

So. Happy.

Let's hear it for Freka and my cervix, the latter of which, according to my doctor, is almost four centimeters dilated and 70 percent effaced!

My 40-week appointment was this morning, and I walked away from it feeling much better than when I came in. My total weight gain to date is steady at 35 pounds, the baby's heart rate is strong at 160 beats per minute, her head is sitting low in my pelvis, and my uterus is measuring in at a whopping 43 centimeters. Upon hearing that, I shot a worried glance at Luke and asked the doctor to estimate the baby's weight. In her opinion (which, yes, I know it's only an opinion), about eight pounds. Whew.

Things are going well, though she did say there were slight traces of protein in my urine and asked if I was experiencing any headaches or blurred vision. "None" to the first, and "occasionally I see spots" to the second, but other then that and the swelling in my hands and legs, I'm peachy keen. We talked about induction, and I said I wanted to give Freka some more time to do things on her own. Both of us were impressed with the progress I've made in the last eight days, and I don't want to interfere with that when there's no medical reason to do so. We scheduled an appointment for Friday afternoon, at which time we'll do a non-stress test to make sure the baby's still thriving. If necessary, I plan to induce on Saturday.

It feels so good to know my body's doing what it was designed to do and that my baby really will be here any day now. In the meantime, I'm going to clean up, rest up, and think good thoughts about labor and delivery. I can do this. My body was made to do this. My baby has to come out. These are all good things.

Once again, to quote the great Amalah...

Hello, due date!

Good-bye, due date!

When Luke came home from work this evening, I held it together for approximately eight seconds before bawling into his shoulder over how nervous I was about labor and how I did NOT want to read another baby book until I actually had a baby to deal with at home. I started What to Expect: The First Year yesterday, and while it's been a great read so far (I really have no idea why the What to Expect series gets such a bad rap from the Internet. The authors are always talking about the wide range of normal that exists both in pregnancy and in babies, and I've found them to be very comforting), my brain needs a break. The last thing I want to turn into is That Mom who runs to her stash of parenting guides every time she has a problem, and yet in the last few months, I've read two books on breastfeeding, delved into two baby's-first-year manuals, finished The Big Book of Birth (which I just might review on my Parents blog one of these days), and breezed through countless magazines from my ob/gyn's office. And that's in addition to all the regular pregnancy stuff. Being prepared is one thing, but at this point, it's safe to say that I am literatured out. Tomorrow I'll go for something lighter; perhaps a hardcover Nancy Drew.

If I'm still at home, that is. I've been having more regular contractions since before Luke and I went to dinner (thank you, spinach dip?), though I still haven't timed them. I'm almost afraid to, like I'll jinx my progress or something.

People are calling me, full of excitement about the new little person that's about to enter our lives, eager to measure my own barometer of Happy!, and I feel like my reaction disappoints them. I'm not chirpy, I'm not eager, I'm not even impatient anymore. Freka can wait a few more days if she wants to. Hell, I'm not going anywhere.

Here it is, folks. Forty weeks in all its glory. Here's hoping I don't make it to forty-one.