What are you looking at?

First day of kindergarten? CHECK.

On her first day of kindergarten, Kara was up and dressed a full hour before the bus was scheduled to arrive. She's always been an early riser, but walking around the house with her book bag over her shoulders before 7 am was a bit much. So instead we spent the time taking countless photos in strikingly similar poses.

Personally, I think they're all stunning.

Luke packed her lunch the night before: half a peanut butter and banana sandwich, bunny snack mix, an apple and raisins. He placed a note in her lunch box featuring a sketch of her face ("She likes pictures of herself!") that he and I both signed. When she wasn't sitting in thoughtful silence, she was chattering on excitedly about the bus.

"I ride bus, too! I ride bus, too!" Liam shrieked, and Nathan was jumping out of his skin with anticipation.

"Next year when I go to kindergarten, I can ride the bus with Kara," he told us. "I can sneak on and sit right next to her!" Which, ermagaaah, what are you all doing to me.

By 7:50, the whole family was outside waiting for the big yellow school bus to round the corner and take our baby away. I didn't ride the bus until I was in sixth grade, and even then the neighborhood stop was my old elementary school. I felt supremely out of my element.

"You must be Kara!" the bus driver said as she opened the doors. And then suddenly Kara was walking toward the steps, too quickly for me to hug her good-bye. I plan to remind her of this oversight on her wedding day.

All morning I was so proud of myself for holding it together - making jokes to keep Kara smiling and keeping my voice bright and perky - but I lost it, here. I waved furiously until she couldn't see us anymore and kept my face turned away from the other parents so they wouldn't judge the newbie mom crying all over herself just like when M'Lynn took Shelby off life support.

Then Luke, the boys and I piled into the Outlander and promptly drove to the elementary school.

Oh, yes we did. Because apparently it's perfectly reasonable these days to stalk your children when they're going to school for the first time, documenting their newfound independence with more pictures and a side of helicopter parenting. Works for me!

Baby steps off the bus, baby steps into the classroom...

We originally planned to walk back to our car after that, but the principal was ushering all the families inside to keep the parking lot clear, so we darted into the building and met up with Kara again, who was trying to figure out what to do with her lunch box.

The four of us stuck around for another 15 minutes, helping Kara at her locker, getting her folder to her teacher and watching her settle down with a puzzle. Then, seeing as it was the first day of kindergarten and not a spin-off of The Real World, we said good-bye one last time and finally made our way home.

We were back at the bus stop at 4 o'clock, and just as quickly as our family was separated that morning, we were reunited.

Kara's school adopted full-day kindergarten this year, which means she was in class for a whopping seven hours. Thanks to her detailed account, Luke and I were able to discern the following about her day:

• She colored a Clifford coloring sheet.
• She ate lunch in the cafeteria.
• She had quiet time on the carpet.
• I'm hungry, can I have a snack?

She's going to be just fine, this year.

Speaking up for gray

This week I came across a handful of blog posts that turned my blood cold. They were uncomfortable to read and left me squirming in my chair, upset, confused, embarrassed. No longer sure what to think of experiences I made peace with years ago.

Why I Talk About Rape

On being an object, and then not being an object

It should be said.

The rape article was the hardest to get through, but it was a line in Liz's post in her account of a sexual assault that brought me to the computer. A simple sentence, stripped of layers, absent of clever innuendo or metaphors, but powerful nonetheless.

I remember that at 17, the idea of waking parents seemed somehow worse than anything.

Let me be clear. I have never been raped. But as a young woman, GOD did that general sentiment ring true for me.

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When I was 17, I landed a job at a laid-back mom-and-pop video store in my neighborhood, a job I chased after for an entire year because I loved the idea of getting paid to watch movies, do my homework, and hang out with friends twelve hours a week. The owner put me off until I was a senior in high school because the store had a...shall we say...robust adult section, and I was underage. But I was an ambitious 17-year-old, and I had excellent references, so it was only a matter of time before I was collecting late fees from local enthusiasts for titles like Hein*feld and Wednesday is Hump Day. 

On one of my last nights there before leaving for college, I was closing with "Frank," a middle-aged guy with two kids and a day job as a paralegal. He was normally a pleasure to be around, very helpful and kind - he always gave me a ride when we closed, saving me a ten-minute walk home. On that night, we were talking and laughing as usual, but on this night Frank had a few beers on our shift. I don't know that this would have been discouraged by the owner, exactly, since he was known to have a can of something in plain sight of customers while balancing the books, but it was a first for Frank, and you could tell he was buzzing. As the night went on, he became looser with his tongue, and he kept saying how nice and pretty I was; next thing I knew, he was approaching me from the back and wrapping his arms around me in a close hug.

I was taken off guard; what the hell did I know about inappropriate? It's not like he was grabbing at the waistband of my pants or even trying to kiss me. And it was over as quickly as it began, so I don't remember how I acted in the moment aside from making some lame joke and sliding out of his arms. He was such a nice guy, after all, and not himself from the beer, and he still had to drive me home. Because of course I let him drive me home.

I reflect on this now, and I'm angry. I'm angry that a grown man thought it was okay to throw a few back, on the clock, in the presence of a teenager who thought she could work four hours without having someone's hands on her hips. But I'm also so sad for the girl who felt that she had to act like it didn't happen, who felt obligated to get in the car with him, EVEN THOUGH HE'D BEEN DRINKING, because she didn't want to be rude, and who made light of the whole thing when he called to apologize the next day. (See? Such a nice guy.)

Sometimes, Breain, it's okay to be impolite.

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When I was 20, I had sex when I didn't want to. He was older, and I was intoxicated with the attention. In previous conversations, I had told him I wanted to wait, but in the moment, I never said no. When it was over, I didn't know how to react except roll over and cry. All he could do was apologize for misinterpreting my body language. I could see that he meant it. I knew he felt terrible.

If I would have pushed him off me, said WAIT, STOP, I'M NOT READY YET, I know he would've done it. But we'd been fooling around night after night for almost two weeks, and I sure did like him a lot, and I didn't know how to switch gears. How do you talk through such an intense situation when you're physically trying to recover from it? Literally catching your breath, pulling an arm through a shirt sleeve, waiting for your half-asleep eyes to adjust to the light? And that's the problem, I guess. I was more concerned with the awkwardness of the after, with the proverbial waking of the parents, than the hurt I would feel from the during.

He and I went on to date for almost a year, and nothing about our relationship was coersive or forced or any of the adjectives typically used to describe a violent situation. He is even someone I call a friend today. Looking at that one night, though, from the perspective of a grown woman with a daughter of her own, I wish I hadn't cared about the after. I wish I'd been strong enough to say no. 

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The posts I linked to at the start of this entry describe ecounters twenty times more heartbreaking and terrifying than mine. But that's what drew me to share. It's so easy to write off those experiences we believe to be less than someone else's. But not every incident is that black and white, and there is equal value in talking about the gray. I don't want the women in my life thinking they ever have to tolerate the less than. And I hope with all my heart Kara never gives a thought to waking me up.

A tale of one gallbladder

I know, I know, it's been awhile. Can I appease you, first, with a baby photo? Because let me tell you, this is one cute baby. And five months old to boot. (Eight days from six months, to be exact, but let's not split hairs because waaaah.) Can you believe that time passes even when you don't update your blog? The more you know...

Liam was surprised, too.

I don't have any exciting reason to explain the first month of my absence, but as the title of this post suggests, the second month has been quite the ride, leaving me sans one gallbladder and four new incisions (thankfully they are small and will practically disappear at some point), along with one stent. Zero partridges in a pear tree.

Let's review!

The night of Thanksgiving, I had excruciating pain in the upper right side of my stomach. Pain that woke me up in the middle of the night and left me crunched over the side of my bed in agony for two hours before it went away and I was able to fall back asleep. Same thing on Black Friday - same time of night, even. Luke and I were puzzled. What the hell was this? Random-pattern food poisoning? Really bad gas? I took a couple of Gas.X on Saturday and, when I didn't see any more pain the rest of the weekend, assumed I'd hit the nail on the head.

Then came Monday.

On Monday morning, I drove to work as usual. By eight o'clock, I was hurting again and called my OB's office to book an appointment, since their practice is a stone's throw from my office and I wasn't sure where else to turn. Sure thing, they said. See you at 3:10. Until then, just sit hunched over your computer typing random medical terms into Google and try not to alarm your coworkers with gutteral cries of pain. 

I managed in that state until one o'clock, at which point I burst into my boss's office sobbing that I couldn't take it any longer and needed to see a doctor.

In near hysterics, I drove straight to my OB, where they took one look at my blotchy red face and ushered me into a private room to wait until somebody could see me. I spent 15 minutes trying every position I could think of to relieve the pain - knees on floor; frame draped over back of chair; limbs curled in fetal position. Nothing. Kill me now.

My doctor wasn't on-call that day, but another physician within the practice as well as a nurse-practitioner examined me and quickly determined that the location of my pain (upper right side) pointed to an issue with my appendix or gallbladder. Since it was so late in the afternoon, they said my best bet was to get to the ER. So I drove myself to the emergency room near my work and prayed I'd be seen quickly, and given lots of drugs. The pain was like the worst contraction imaginable, in transition, only instead of lasting thirty seconds, it was going on six hours.

I spent two hours in the waiting room. That was a fun time.

Once I could finally be seen, I was quickly given narcotic-grade pain relief through an IV, after which I decided once again that life was worth living. An ultrasound revealed a cluster of gallstones in my gallbladder, which apparently is quite common after pregnancy and also apparently leads to one course of action: remove cray-cray organ. Works for me.

There was a lot of discussion about fitting me into surgery the next day, but since "gallbladder disease" isn't a life-threatening condition, they couldn't guarantee my wait wouldn't be for naught. My best hope was that they could squeeze me in between emergent cases and those already on the schedule. I declined but booked a consult with one of the staff surgeons the next day, hoping we could wrap this up before week's end.

Oh, no, she said. The quickest we can do this is next week. I am full.

Thursday, December 8, to be exact, said the scheduler.

For those not keeping track, my consult was on November 29. December 8 was nine days away. Meanwhile, I'd suffered another (albeit much shorter) attack right before my appointment that brought me to my knees. Not my finest moments, to be sure. 

I don't think I can wait until then, I said, each time this window was presented to me. These attacks have been coming at me almost every day since Thanksgiving, for hours at a time. 

Just take your pain meds, they crooned, and patted me on the head like a good little doggie. It will be okay.

I was given Vic.od.in in the ER, I replied, and it's not helping at all. I really don't think I can wait nine days and go to work and take care of my kids and function like a normal human being until then.

Good dog, atta girl, they said.

That night I had another attack that started right around the kids' bedtime. Four hours later, at twelve-thirty on Wednesday morning, I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance for the first time in my life, Luke watching me leave from the doorway because we had three small children snoozing away on the second floor and there was no way in Hell we were waking them up at half past midnight just to watch them go cray-cray (trademark Whitney, to which I credit my new favorite catch phrase) from sleep deprivation.

These angels? Never.

Can this story BE any longer? Geez. Go ahead and warm up that Joe.

So.... Once again I was half-intoxicated thanks to intravenous narcotics and left to nod off while the medical staff figured out what to do with me. At least I was being admitted to the hospital and would most likely not leave until I was minus one gallbladder. I was taken for an MRI that afternoon and eventually slated for surgery the following morning (Thursday, December 1). After the MRI, I called surgeon number one and gleefully cancelled my outpatient appointment for December 8. I came back to the ER again, I informed them joyously, triumphant that my original assessment was of course correct. In an ambulance! Possibly without a bra! You suck and I win!

During this time, Luke's parents drove down from northern Indiana to help manage the children and allow him to visit me unencumbered as often as needed - having just left us on Black Friday after celebrating Thanksgiving with us. I hated being away from my kids but tried to make the best of it by approaching my hospital stay as a brief vacation from everyday life. Heck, my only to-dos were to sleep, fast, and bother my nurses for drugs. Plus, the hospital had cable, so I could watch all the TBS reuns I wanted.

Surgery took place on Thursday morning as scheduled. I was sedated for the first time ever, which was kind of cool. One minute you're talking to the OR nurse, and the next, BAM! You're in recovery.

When I woke up, I was hella disoriented and still in a lot of pain. I scared the crap out of Luke and my nurse when they took me back to my room and I started crying like a school girl from the post-opp slash gas pain combo I had going on. Why always with the gas pain? (Damn c-sections!)

I've heard many people have their gallbladders removed as an outpatient procedure and report feeling relatively back to normal upon leaving the hospital. I, on the other hand, stayed two nights and didn't go home until Saturday, having not seen my children since the previous Tuesday night, because my pain level was still close to a 10. Everyone heals differently, my surgeon said, but he was sympathetic to my plight and willing to prescribe me various drugs as a result.

I carried on that way until Tuesday, when I called his office after shuffling around the house for three days like an eighty-year-old on my death bed, fighting pain that was so intense I could barely leave the couch. A rare attempt at showering left me dizzy and nauseous.

The doctor would like to see you as soon as possible, they said. Hell yeah, he do.

My surgeon was visibly concerned and immediately ordered blood work and a CAT scan of my abdomen and pelvis to check for anything out of the ordinary. Unfortunately, the scan wouldn't take place for another two days, so I was prescribed Perc.o.cet to better handle my pain until then. I can tell you honestly that Perc.o.cet did nothing for my pain, but it did give me my first high. Joshua Jackson may or may not have appeared to me in the form of a pony.

Liam thinks: Woman, you are redonk!

Luke's parents came back to Indy for the third time in three weeks to help us out, God bless them, and I somehow made it to Thursday's CAT scan. Not ten minutes after it was done, a radiologist was talking to Luke and me about excess fluid in my belly that indicated a biliary leak. An ERCP was scheduled for that afternoon to get a more detailed look at my abdomen and insert a stent to allow the duct to heal, if indeed a leak was the problem.

Four visits to three different hospitals in less than two weeks. Go me! Also, PLEASE GOD MAKE IT STOP I AM DYING OVER HERE.

The ride to hospital three was horrible. The wait before the ERCP, even worse. At one point I was writhing on the floor weeping, cringing at the slightest touch, and retching uncontrollably. I must have looked like an addict battling the early days of withdrawal. My nurses felt terrible but couldn't give me anything for the pain without approval from my specialist, and he was with another patient. I seriously expected to pass out. Tell the kids I love them, I pleaded to Luke with my eyes.

And then, miracle of miracles, the specialist was available and I was revived from the brink of death. If a fourth child were biologically possible for Luke and me, I would name it Dem.er.ol. Boy or girl.

The specialist in charge of my ERCP was very kind. He explained the ins and outs of the procedure along with the risks to Luke and me while I was rolled onto my side, stickered with monitors, and prepped for sedation. One of the nurses placed a green mouthpiece between my teeth for inserting the scope, and then suddenly I was on my back in recovery. Now I know how Olivia and Walter felt during the start of this season's Fringe.

To wrap up this epic novel of a tale, there was a leak, a stent was placed, and I'm feeling much better now. I returned to work last Tuesday after two weeks out of the office, and I can once again do simple things like change bed sheets and pick up my baby. Aside from a follow-up ERCP in February to remove the stent, the only loose end is some random chest pain for which there isn't an obvious explanation. Luckily, a second CAT scan and additional blood work show that I'm on the right track to recovery. It may just be that I am a delicate flower who cannot tolerate wee straw-like substances residing in my body. I'm like the Princess and the Pea of gastrointestinal complications!

Nathan isn't pleased with my witty comparison to traditional folklore.

Coming at the close of the year after several months of difficult times, personally and professionally, and right on the heels of getting back to church, this cray-cray random medical ordeal has been quite sobering for me, encouraging me to keep perspective even when all seems lost. There is so much in store for my family in 2012, and at the same time, much work to do. We are facing more uncertainty than ever before. But I am strong, and I have faith, and a dedicated partner, and three little people who are counting on us to push ahead. Like the first surgeon said, we will be okay.

Stay tuned for everyone's favorite end-of-year meme that is so prevalent around Christmastime. I promise to post it before spring.

Wonderful, wonderful day

It's been 15 weeks and five days since Liam was born - well beyond the expiration date for posting the average birth story - so it shouldn't surprise me that I've already lost a number of details I was so determined to hang on to regarding that day. And yet, it does. The name of this medication, the reason for that test, Liam's Apgar score - oh, shit, did I even ask about Liam's Apgar score? Whether I knew it then or not, it's definitely gone now. So understand this won't be a suspensful or even entirely accurate play-by-play of his arrival. Besides, scheduled c-sections by their very nature lack the unpredictability factor required for a nail-biting read. I didn't experience false labor, my water didn't break in Target, I wasn't at risk for giving birth in the backseat of my car. That said, no matter how routine it was or how many holes there are in my story, on June 29, Liam was born, and it was one of the best days of my life. It deserves to be celebrated.

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Luke and I were late that morning, getting to the hospital. We woke up early enough to shower and finish packing - before five, I think, and we were due at St. Vincent's by 7:30 - but I couldn't get out the door. I kept finding things to do, all the while thinking, "This is the last time." Not that I wasn't going to rinse a dish or change a pull-up again, but you know what I mean. The last time.

We arrived on campus around 7:45. I spent most of the car ride e-mailing family and friends, including my boss and my CEO, whose own wife had given birth just three days earlier at the same hospital. When I shared that Luke and I were on our way to deliver Baby Brother, he joked, "I hope there'll be someone around to help you out!" After checking in at the front desk, I called Samantha, who was driving to Indy with my parents, to give her the latest update. Luke debated getting coffee but decided against it (silly man). I half-wondered if I'd be out of recovery in time to watch All My Children.

I remember waiting in triage with Luke, sending Tweets into Blogland. I used the bathroom twice, dreading the inevitable introduction of my catheter. The nurse inserted the hep lock for my IV and did a beautiful job. I saw my obstetrician. I tweeted some more.

I spoke to the anesthesiologist on call for my surgery, trying to figure out if he was present for Nathan's birth (he wasn't) and if there was something he could do to curb the crazy itching I would have in reaction to the morphine soon to be pumping through my veins (there was - administer less of it).

I turned off my phone, put on the fugly calf-length socks provided by the hospital, and a little after nine o'clock, walked myself into the O.R.

Luke couldn't join me until my spinal was in place. Had to keep busy somehow!

The first thing that struck me was the temperature of the room - cold, so very cold. There could have been icicles hanging from the ceiling and I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. I was helped onto the operating table and waited while my medical team prepared for surgery. Lisa, my nurse, stayed by my side and outlined the process for administering the spinal. Arch back. Relax muscles. Keep very, VERY still.

Now, as long-time readers know, Liam was not my first c-section; all three of my kids were delivered under the knife. I should know the drill by now, yes? I was certainly on my game when Nathan was born; cracking jokes, following directions, and just plain making everyone's job easier because I was so excited to meet my baby. But this time, despite my best efforts, my body wouldn't comply. I couldn't stop shaking, my shoulders wouldn't unclench, and then, suddenly, I was crying. Bawling, actually. It was almost embarrassing, the jaggedness of my breaths and intensity of my sobs.

Everyone in the room was so kind and did their best to help me calm down. "It's so cold," I kept telling Lisa, and, "I'm sorry."

Eventually, with some deep breathing, I was able to control myself long enough for the anesthesiologist to inject the medicine into my spine, and soon I was laying down on the table, arms extended Jesus-style, and feeling a warm sensation run through me as the anesthesia began to take effect. After performing the standard pin-prick to make sure I was completely numb, the anesthesiologist went on to explain that he gave me a little less Dura*morph (aka morphine) to combat the itching and paired it with another drug (Tora*dol, maybe?). He told me to let him know if I started feeling any pain or discomfort any where, any time.

I was fitted with a nasal oxygen mask as a precaution, and then Luke was at my side. By that time I was so anxious all I could do was cry again. "She's a little emotional," Lisa told him as he wiped my tears away. He was nervous, too.

We didn't talk much. Luke rubbed my head while I focused on my breathing. I was so tired.

Luckily, it wasn't long before those pulling and tugging sensations I was so familiar with from Kara and Nathan were happening, and at 9:48 a.m., the room exploded with the most beautiful sound of my life: my newborn baby's cry.

"He's okay, right? He's okay?" I asked, nearly choking on my tears.

He was okay. All nine pounds, eight ounces, and 22 inches of him. The medical staff was impressed.

Luke went over to the baby while they cleaned him up and the doctor continued on with her business. The anesthesiologist was checking on me constantly, which I was glad about, because this c-section was so different from my other two. More discomfort than I was used to, overall, in addition to taking longer. There was also a sharp pain in my right shoulder that the doctor said was normal. It was hard to take deep breaths sometimes.

My boy was brought to me once for a quick snuggle and kiss while my OB/GYN closed me up. "What's his name?" Lisa asked. I turned my head towards Luke. We'd been waffling over two choices for the last few weeks. The only thing we'd decided on were Baby Brother's initials - LBD, just like his daddy. This was the first time we didn't have a name immediately at the ready. "We're not sure yet," he said.

Before I left the O.R., my legs were wrapped in sequential compression devices (SCDs) to help avoid clotting after surgery, since it would be about a day before I attempted walking again. Once they were finished, the baby was nestled into the crook of my arm, and we were wheeled off to recovery.

Surprise! The happiest moments are not always the most photogenic.

Once in recovery, it was just Luke, me, the baby, and my nurse - my family was still en route to Indy, and Molly, the only other person I would have wanted in the room - was at home watching my other two kids (along with hers. God bless you, friend). It felt so good to have all that weight removed from my uterus, and so wonderful to hold him, that I didn't have a care in the world. My nurse was concerned, though, because my temperature had dropped, so I was covered with an air blanket for more than an hour to bring it back up.

It also took about that long to settle on a name. Our contenders were Linus Brendan and Liam Benjamin. We thought about Linus Benjamin, but people. We are only one year out from LOST. The world is not yet ready.

We loved the uniqueness of Linus but worried my Chicago Southsider parents would label it yuppy or too "out there." Plus, I have a weird thing about having at least one "a" in my kids' first names. We loved the simplicity of Liam, and it had actually been on our short list for Nathan, but.... But....

"Honestly, I could go either way," Luke said, each time I asked his opinion. "He can be whatever you want."

Eventually, we ran out of butts.

"He looks like a Liam," I finally decided. "Liam feels good."

Welcome to the world, baby Liam.

It was around one o'clock that Luke, Liam, and I were brought to our room (and yes, I did catch a little AMC). Samantha, my parents, Molly, and all the kids showed up around three-thirty.

Kara and Nathan showed a lot of interest in Liam when they first arrived, but after the first ten minutes or so they were distracted by all the other people in the room. They would make their way over to me a lot, though, when Liam wasn't with me. I don't think the visit lasted longer than an hour, which was fine by me because I was still so tired, and crying on and off, too.

There is a special place in Heaven for this woman, who stayed with my children and hers starting Tuesday night and lasting until Friday afternoon.

Samantha's made it to the hospital on the day of every one of my children's births, despite her hectic life and the long drive. She and Molly, who is equally busy, are the only people who can say that. Amazing.

This was the first time my parents were there. When I found out we were pregnant again, it was one of the first requests I made of them, to come see us in Indy and meet the baby and not wait until we made the trip to Chicago. I'm so happy they did. Luke's parents would have been there as well, like they were for Kara and Nathan, except they were in Wales on a trip that had been planned long before we learned about Liam. Thank goodness for Facebook.

Then, soon, it was just us again.

Our pospartum time in the hospital was the best of all three experiences. I was using the bathroom and walking the day after surgery, Liam nursed well, and I was getting more sleep than I expected. We had lots of visitors, but usually they didn't stay that long, which fed my conflicting needs for company and solitude nicely. With the introduction of the SCDs, I felt like I had more "stuff" constraining me this time around, but my IV hep lock was removed more quickly this time than with Kara or Nathan, and my pain med cocktail was working well, though I did have a lot of gastrointestinal issues. Weeks later I was still having pain in my abdomen, a lingering byproduct of all that gas.

As much as I enjoyed the "free" hospital food and chance to rest up, though, I missed my babies and was eager to get on with the regular course of life. I made sure my OB, nurses, and pediatrician knew of my goal to be discharged after two days instead of three and worked hard to meet all of the standard milestones. Luckily, Liam was healthy and I was progressing well, though my ped was (appropriately) concerned that I might be overdoing it. He knew I was experiencing more pain with this c-section. But I wanted to be home. So on Friday, July 1, we dressed Liam in his going-home onesie, and home we went.

In the three and a half months that Liam's been with us, to say that Luke and I have been overwhelmed at times is an understatement. There just aren't enough hands to get everything done that needs to be done. My bathrooms have never gone this long between cleans; getting a decent night's sleep has never felt more primal. And with a longer work commute and increased responsibilities (and costs!) of raising toddlers who are fast growing into full-fledged children, sometimes all I can do at the end of a day is stick my hand in the cookie jar and collapse in front of the TV. Not exactly how I want to spend my time long-term.

But still.

We couldn't be happier.

My own Doogie Howser, M.D.

In my 31 years of life, I've completed almost three pregnancies, but it is yesterday's brief conversation with a grade-schooler that wins the award, hands down, for "Most Shocking Gestating Dialogue."

SCENE: Retail outlet store, where Luke and I were stocking up on summer clothes and baby onesies (our first time buying for three children at once, OMG). Kara and Nathan were occupying themselves by an activity table filled with toys, where a few other kids were also hanging out. Several of them were from the same family, including a little boy who was maybe five or six years old - seven, tops - and who I was already having issues with mainly but not completely because he kept grabbing things out of Nathan's hand.

BOY: (eyes me up and down) You're going to have a baby.

FREMA: That's right.

BOY: (To Kara) Your mom's going to have a baby.

KARA: (Enthusiastically, because she loves interacting with other kids) Yes!

BOY: (Back to me, matter-of-factly) They're going to cut you open!

FREMA: (In her brain) ...

FREMA: (Actual words) They don't have to.*

FREMA: (In her brain, a second time) ...

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Twenty-four hours later, and I'm still not sure what to make of this. I wasn't wearing my "C-sectioners Unite!" sandwich board, and layers of clothing combined with an impressive amount of belly flab ensured that my scar wasn't visible to the general public, so unless he had x-ray vision or possessed a Sixth Sense type of power that alerts him when a surgical patient is near, I can only assume that BOY's mother had gone under the knife herself and shared that tidbit with her son. Which, okay; I personally don't think I'd choose to give that young a child that much information, but then again, my oldest still wears a pull-up at night, so who knows? Really, I was most surprised that a) he apparently believes all babies are delivered this way and b) he chose to talk about it in such a manner with A COMPLETE STRANGER.

For those to whom this applies: What's the weirdest thing a child has said to you about your pregnancy?

* Actually, my doctor and I are in agreement that they pretty much DO have to cut me open, but hell no was I going to support that kid's logic. Seriously, I've seen infants share toys better.

How number three came to be

I guess I can archive these past few years of drama regarding to three or not to three in my Waste of Time file, huh?

Thank you all so much for the congratulations and well wishes on this pregnancy. It's been a surreal few weeks around here, that's for sure.

For those interested, a timeline:

October 10
Let me preface this by saying the entire fall season has been a blur of activity for my young little family. Weddings, bachelorette parties, middle-of-the-night births, work trips, guy weekends - all of them took place one after the other, at least two and a half hours away from home. I worked one Friday in September and was out of the office six days in October (mixture of work and personal). We have certainly enjoyed celebrating these happy events and good times with our loved ones, but all that travel produced a constant undercurrent of fatigue among the adults in our house. Which does not exactly lay the groundwork for, ahem, proper romantic relations.

This particular weekend began with my returning from a corporate-related field visit to Clarksburg, West Virginia, at 10:30 p.m. that Friday, resulting from a 15-minute delay of my initial flight that caused me to miss my connecting flight, and of course the next couple of flights back home were either full or became full after passengers other than myself were rescued from Airport Hell via standby lottery. I missed Kara and Nathan's bedtime when I should have been home for their mid-afternoon snack. It was a long day.

The following morning, Luke and his brother drove to Sandusky, Ohio, to hang out at Cedar Point Amusement Park until Sunday afternoon. I had a wonderful time playing with my kids, but hot damn, I missed mah husband.

So that night, after the children were asleep and the dishes were washed and Facebook appropriately monitored, Luke and I cracked open a bottle of wine we had purchased more than two months ago and settled in for a quiet, relaxing evening. An evening that just so happened to end with me asking, "You do know what could have just happened, right?"

Luke nodded, shrugging his shoulders. Obviously the wine had lowered his inhibitions. (Not that I was complaining.)

Quickly I did the math regarding my September visit from Aunt Flo and measured it against the average length of my cycles (32-34 days), and as we turned out the lights I confidently summarized, "Well, my last cycle was before Gina's wedding, so it should be here any day now. I'm sure we're probably safe."

Only the longer I thought about it, the less confident I felt. Since Luke and I have consisently used protection since Nathan was born, I don't make a conscious effort to track my cycles; i.e., there were no helpful Xs on the calendar for me to verify this now-critical piece of information. Then I remembered that, in fact, I had NOT gotten my period before the wedding, but after, vividly recalling my thankfulness to Flo on the morning of September 19 for staying away from my two-hundred-plus-dollar bridesmaid dress. 

I eventually changed my stance and told Luke, who could barely keep his eyes in his sockets by this point, "If we had been TRYING to have a baby, we couldn't have picked a better time."

Obviously, that was not the case with Luke's urology consult (November 3) (which has since been cancelled) (of course).

Meanwhile, the opening scene from Look Who's Talking was being re-enacted in my uterus.

October 11 - October 20
For almost two weeks we were stuck in The Land of Not Knowing, hashing out next steps if it turned out I was pregnant, and me preparing myself for the news that I wasn't, because I so, so wanted another baby and I knew this was my only chance to realize this dream. We have been so cautious for so long that it was a miracle this random fluke even happened at all. We were not trying, and would not be trying. It was now or never.

I looked for cosmic signs that another pregnancy was meant to be, like our recent financial overhaul and the last-minute decision not to sell our carseat. The brand-new, twice-used Ergo carrier sitting in Nathan's closet begging to hold a child who wouldn't scream and flail about angrily because "I wanna walk, Mommy." Also, our track record for accidentally conceiving children.

Then again, we were living a wonderful life with the family we had right now, and it was so much easier for us to get around, and I didn't miss night feedings or nursing anxiety or c-section recovery or taking almost a year to resume my pre-pregnancy weight. We had exciting plans for the future. Financial security was in sight. I was going to visit another continent, even, to help Molly get her precious baby next year. And one day, we would be foster parents, and possibly even obtain our third child that way. Another baby would be like taking two steps back, right? Life is good, I told myself. I will be okay.

October 21
That week I confided in several people about my maybe baby, with varied responses. That Thursday afternoon, I finally told my coworkers, and because a number of us have been experiencing random bouts of baby fever since the summer, they were super-excited; to the point that they eventually convinced me to run to the pharmacy and take a First Response during lunch.

I only took it because I was sure it would be negative. Even if I were pregnant, it was too soon to tell. Wasn't it?

"I'm not even late yet," I warned them as I headed to the bathroom. "It's only Day 32."

On a related note, did you know that a home pregnancy test can now be accurate as early as six days before your missed period? When Nathan was conceived, they were only at five. Slowpokes!

Two minutes later, I was running downstairs with two pink lines and one shaky left hand.

They were all so surprised I didn't call Luke the minute I got the positive, but I knew the news had to be shared in person. So I left work a few minutes early and cornered Luke in the kitchen once I was home. He was at the sink, washing dishes.

"I told the girls at work today about maybe being pregnant," I said, hand in purse searching for my precious evidence. "They were so happy, they wanted me to take a test."

"Did you tell them it was too early?" he asked, his own hands submersed in dishwater.

"That's what I said, but they told me that now you can get a positive reading from a drugstore test six days before you miss your period!"

"Yeah? So do you want to--" He stopped short after turning around, slowly taking in the white stick held snugly between my fingers. His eyes grew wide.

"Oooh."

-------

Baby number three was definitely not part of our current life plan. Many adjustments will have to be made. Like, no more Africa next year (which I am so, so sad about, but Molly has been great), and a major vehicle upgrade, and money for prenatal visits and hospital bills and maternity leave. I will have to prepare myself to once again dance with nursing and hopefully, finally, make it my bitch. Plus, navigate all the insecurities that go along with mothering a brand-new person AS WELL AS adjust to being outnumbered by an army of children under the age of four.

And yet, just try to wipe this silly grin off my face. Just try.

On the day he was born

Nathan turns 20 months old on Friday, and as the present clouds memories of yesterday, I regret more than ever my almost two-year delay in writing his birth story. I was so tired those first few months, and trying to make the best of a rushed maternity leave, and then coping with going back to work, and mothering a newborn and very young toddler besides. But now I have no excuse except that the details aren't as top of mind as they used to be, and I'm afraid that committing the day to "paper" will only reveal everything I don't remember. That problem will only get worse the longer I wait, though, so here is what I can tell you.

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Those of you reading at the time of Nathan's birth might remember that my c-section, originally scheduled for week 39, was moved up by six days due to my showing mild signs of pre-eclampsia. Surgery was moved up to 8 a.m. on Saturday, January 31, which meant he would share a birthday with my sister, Ryan. The day before I put in a half-day at work, sending frantic updates on active projects and cleaning my office of personal effects I thought I might need at home. There was dusting and vaccuming, upstairs and down, the cleaning of toilets, folding of clothes. Also a trip to Red Robin, a sort of last-ditch effort at a low-key Night Before, except it wasn't a low-key experience at all because they gave Luke the wrong burger. He didn't care too much, but I insisted on calling the manager, because hell hath no fury like a fully baked pregnant woman wronged. He promised to comp Luke's meal and actually voided the entire transaction, which we learned a couple weeks later when reading our bank statement. And I didn't even have to cry.

Luke's parents arrived shortly after dinner, primed for Kara duty for the length of my hospital stay. Bedtime went smoothly. I puttered around in Nathan's room arranging onesies and blankets. I blogged. Sometime after midnight, I finally went to sleep.

Luke and I woke up at 5:00 a.m. to start getting ready for the hospital. I showered and shaved my legs, fiddled with my hair. Kara woke up at 6:00, so I was able to hang out with her a little bit before we left. And surprisingly, I wasn't nervous about leaving her anymore. She and Luke's parents get along famously, and Luke was going to be alternating between home and St. Vincent's so as not to completely abandon her routine. It was going to be okay.

We left the house by 6:15 and made it to check-in around seven.

 

Primping for my date with the scalpel.

There are a few details I can recall about being prepped for surgery: the first nurse's botched attempt to insert my IV, watching cartoons with Luke while waiting for my obstetrician, getting updates from Molly en route to Indianapolis. Once in the OR, I learned that my anesthesiologist was acquainted with my employer's CEO. The spinal was administered without any problems; a tight pinch at the beginning, but otherwise so much quicker than the epidural. Once it was fully working, in went the catheter.

The most important thing I remember is my sense of calm. I was finally ready for Nathan to be born. Good thing, too, because sometime around eight, the procedure began.

Due to my pre-eclampsia symptoms, they didn't waste much time cutting right to the chase (no pun intended). At 8:39 a.m., out came Nathan, screaming at the top of his lungs, giving us a small taste of what was to come. He weighed 9 lb 5 oz and measured 22 1/4 inches long. At 38 weeks! Let's not even think about what those numbers could have been at 40.

Surgery was uneventful, thankfully, just like last time, as was the pressure in my chest when they pulled him out. I remember cracking jokes behind the curtain, making the doctor and the nurses laugh, so happy that this moment was finally here, and that we were getting to meet our son. 

He wowed the hospital staff with his impressive lung capacity, as well as his handsome little face, but soon he settled down and humbled himself to the flash of Luke's camera.

 

Post wailing.

Luke and I tossed around several names throughout my pregnancy - Liam, Peter, Toby, Benjamin, Alex - but Nathan Byron is the name we had ready for Kara had she been gifted boy parts, and it still remained our favorite, so Nathan Byron it was. Nathan because we liked it, Byron for Luke's middle name, in memory of his late grandfather on his mother's side. We figured we could call him Nate for short, but not once have we done that so far (though family members have). Just Nathan, or Buddy, or BooBoo, or Little Boobah. (Don't ask about that last one. We don't know, either.)

 

Unlike his sister, Nathan was able to wear more than one newborn diaper.

One of the main reasons Luke and I loved our hospital so much (aside from the private rooms and 24-hour room service) is that the staff considers "mommy and me" time to be top priority, so minutes after I was properly stitched up, Luke was placing Nathan in my arms. He felt so warm, and compared to Kara, so tiny. Words can't describe how much it meant to have him there, another tangible product of my relationship with Luke. I was so in love, with both of them, and Kara, too - my family in its own infancy, shiny and perfect and new.

 

I snuggled him close as they wheeled me into recovery, where Molly was waiting for us. She held her godson for the first time while Luke made phone calls, and then it was time to nurse. He latched on easily and fed for a bit on both sides. Afterwards, it was snuggle time, his face resting on my chest, my hands running over his back, my mind at peace. Feeling exhausted but oh so happy, enjoying my perfect little piece of the universe.

I remember looking up at Molly and saying, "Now I know why some mothers have eight children. I could see myself having ten just to relive this feeling."

 

Nathan and Molly, who, based on her expression, appears fully on board with this plan.

An hour and a half after surgery, I was brought into my room. I remember struggling to stay awake and scratching at my arms and legs constantly, the itching a side effect of the spinal. Luke held Nathan while Molly updated the Internet and I drifted in and out of sleep. I briefly called my boss, and others, too, I'm sure, but I don't remember anyone else. I was starving but wouldn't be allowed to eat anything solid for several more hours. Thankfully, the catheter was still in, so I didn't have to worry about getting up to pee.

By mid-afternoon, Molly was on her way back home to snuggle her own baby and Luke was off to have dinner and bedtime with Kara, leaving Nathan and me to our own devices in the hospital. It was pretty uneventful. I was still so tired, and scratching everywhere, and my butt was sore from lying in bed all day. In the early evening, Samantha, Dan, and Danny Jr. showed up from Chicago to meet their first nephew and visit with me in all my incoherent glory. They were my only relatives to make the trip to Indy, and I was so, so grateful they were there.

 

Auntie Samantha loving on her nephew.

Late that evening, Luke came back. At one point I devoured a glorious postpartum dinner of a roast beef sandwich, vanilla shake, and lime sherbet. I always load up on the sandwiches whenever at that hospital - they could easily stack up against any deli in town. And okay, I drank two shakes, not one, but hey, twelve hours of nothing but liquids = PRIMAL HUNGER.

The following day brought a lot less itching and a few more visitors. Luke's parents, Kara in tow, Luke's brother. They all came together and didn't stay terribly long, but it was so good to see my little girl, and it strengthened my resolve to leave the hospital on day three, to get back to my life. She didn't show much interest in Nathan, or even me, for that matter; she kept running back to Grandma and Grandpa, which was just fine, because I kept worrying about her accidentally kicking my incision.

 

Nathan with Daddy and Grandma D.

That day also brought the removal of my catheter, at which point I was charged with the monumental task of emptying my own bladder. It was hugely difficult after Kara, and not accomplished without many tears, but R.N. Susan-Marie gave me a fantastic tip that moved things along much more efficiently and with a lot less pain: get a glass of water and blow bubbles into it with a straw while you're pushing; this gives you something tangible to focus on. That was my biggest problem last time - my body was so out of touch with the act of bearing down that I had no idea how to direct my efforts. Genius!

I can't stress enough how wonderful my hospital stay was this time around. Nathan fed, pooped, and slept with no problems, I ate to my heart's content, and Luke and I received an adequate amount of rest, even sending Nathan to the nursery once for a good four hours so we could get sleep with no interruptions. There were no jagged breakdowns over nursing, no feeling like a bumbling idiot in the hours before we came home. There were no looming doubts over how the hell am I going to do this?

 

Luke and Nathan scoring some father-son time before our release from the hospital.

There were several major obstacles we faced in those first few weeks home: slow weight gain (Nathan's, unfortunately, not mine), nursing and bottle-feeding troubles, constant spit-up, ear-piercing crying, and through it all, nobody nearby to help us. But I love thinking about those first few days when the world felt paused on its axis, and all that mattered was enjoying my new family.

 

Party of four in the hizzouse!

I think the reason I put off writing Nathan's story for so long is the lack of drama surrounding his birth. Kara's story was fraught with suspense at every turn - Will my cervix fully dilate? Drugs or no drugs? Will the baby ever drop? - and I knew readers would get a kick out of the minute-by-minute play-by-play. With Nathan, though, I had all those questions answered before the second trimester by taking them off the table. Water breaking, dilation and effacement, pain relief, pushing, episiotomy or natural tear. Deciding on a c-section eliminated most of the unpredictability. The pre-eclampsia threw a wrench in our plans, sure, but only in regards to time frame. (And thank God for that.) The execution remained unchanged.

But whatever Nathan's birth lacked in story-telling potential was made up for in spades with peace and love and joy. I can more than live with that.

 

It took two years for you to write all THAT? Geez, Mom, you are so lame. Also, so is your cell phone. Pony up and get a Droid already.

No crawling, but close

Well, I did it. I finished my first half-marathon. And there were so many amazing, wonderful things about it. Also, a few terrible things. Mainly miles ten through thirteen. But we'll get to that.

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The morning went like clockwork. I was on the road by twenty to six, second half of my peanut butter bagel in tow, and found parking at the downtown mall with no trouble. It was cold outside--somewhere in the forties, and windy to boot--so I was donning a long-sleeved cotton tee with plans to discard it once I was good and warmed up. Katy and I communicated via cell phone a couple of times to report on parking and wish each other luck, and after a much-needed bathroom break I found my corral near the end of the pack, where I waited for more than an hour for the Mini to begin.

Standing there with runners of various shapes, sizes, and ages, I was no longer nervous about the race, just excited, feeling properly rested, dressed, and fueled to kick some Mini ass. I had no idea what to expect in regards to finish time, but the one ten-miler I did with Katy a couple of weeks back was managed in two hours and ten minutes, and that was with several walking breaks and a couple of torturous hills. Even though I'd been sharing my "under three hours" goal with anyone who would listen, secretly, I expected better. I wanted to hit 2:40:00.

Taken by a fellow racer while waiting for the Mini to start, Indianapolis Artsgarden looming in the background. Not bad for cell phone quality!

The gun went off around seven-thirty. By eight o'clock, I was officially en route, armed with my phone, car key, and a sandwich bag containing pretzels and gummy bears at the suggestion of Dawnie, a seasoned runner who also recommended my breakfast. 

Man, it felt awesome.

I took my PT's "start SLOW" warning to heart and advanced along at a leisurely jog, content to study the crowds, enjoy the live music, take pictures with my cell phone, and overall just bide my time. Thanks to the long gap between joining my corral and actually starting the race, though, I already had to pee, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to go very long without making a pitstop to the bathroom. I saw the first string of porta-potties before the one-mile marker, but the line was longer than the run time for Dances with Wolves, and I was already plenty behind, clocking a dismal 15-minute mile pace. Even on my worst training days, I did better than that. Hell, my one-year-old son who likes to snack on his own SHOES is faster.

Chin up, Frema. You're just pacing yourself. You've got the whole race ahead of you to gain back some time.

When I passed mile two roughly fourteen minutes later, my concern grew. However, the size of my bladder did not, so barely a half-hour into the race, I was stepping in line for a porta-potty. Where I stood for SIX EFFING MINUTES before I could lock myself in a closet-sized stall and relieve myself so quickly that pee was still dripping down my leg when I hiked up my pants and hit the road again. (Not really.) (Well, maybe.) (Let's call it poetic license and leave it at that.)

I was closing in on mile three when the best part of the whole race happened and Jenn, a local blog reader, introduced herself. Jenn, your reaching out meant so much to me. I hope that first meet-up wasn't our last.

Unfortunately, my good spirits were dashed when I checked my cell phone at mile three. Forty minutes. At mile five, well over an hour.

FUCK.

This was not going according to plan. Physically I was still feeling good, but you wouldn't have known it from my time. I re-evaluated my random picture-taking strategy. Did I really need shots of every live band? Would anyone benefit from a low-grade image of senior citizens square dancing? This was a RACE, for cripe's sake, not a freaking city tour.

Point taken.

Mile five led us onto the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, a welcome change of scenery compared to the dilapitated houses, grocery stores, and gas stations lining the streets moments before.

 

Entering the Speedway.

Once inside the Speedway, things started looking up. Something about the track's simplicity made it easier to keep pace, and the gummy bears were a perfect pick-me-up, so as I hit mile nine just outside the track, the face on my phone said 10:03--a little more than two hours after starting the race. For the first time that morning, my 2:40:00 goal seemed reachable, provided I kept at my current pace. Encouraged, I pushed on.

Then I reached mile ten.

It felt like I was the Energizer Bunny whose battery had up and died, because suddenly, my body...just stopped working. Puffy knees, sore ankles, throbbing feet, side stitch--the pain seemed to hit me all at once, to the point that I wasn't sure I could go on. For the rest of the race, I kept my lips pressed firmly together and eyes focused straight ahead, searching in vain for the next mile marker. With each walking break I took--and there were many by that point--I saw my precious 2:40:00 time slipping further and further away. I have no idea why that stupid number meant so much to me, but it so, so did.

Ignore the pain, I told myself. Pretend it's not there. Just a little ways to go.

But I couldn't get past it, and the end wasn't near. Those last three miles were tougher than the first ten, without a doubt, and with each step I took, the lump in my throat grew larger because holy crap, this was not what I signed up for. Luke called me just before mile twelve (I decided against using the stopwatch on my phone so he and I could stay in touch over the course of the race), and I could barely muster the strength to talk to him. He was waiting by the bleachers with the kids, he said. Watch out for us! But my vision was blurred with tears, and I couldn't see anyone.

Luckily, he saw me.

 

"Look! There's Mommy!" Luke shouted to my babies as they froze to their deaths in the stroller, and all I could do was throw up a hand and keep moving. No hello, no hugs or kisses, no thank you for braving the chaos of downtown to watch me sweat like a pig in cheap Target gear. But I was afraid that if I stopped, I might never make it to the finish line. Even that close, it seemed so far away.

 

I cried for the entire last mile, feeling so ridiculous and utterly alone. I didn't even realize I had crossed the finish line until I noticed that everyone around me had stopped running and volunteers were passing out bottled water. I'm surprised I still had the presence of mind to grab my finisher's medal.

I met up with Luke and the kids several minutes later, near a Prairie Farms truck that was distributing free bottles of milk to racers and their families. Once he was in arm's reach, I buried my face in his shoulder and totally lost it. My poor husband, he kept saying over and over how proud he was of me, what a good job I did, and I just kept crying. Because completing the Mini felt nothing like I thought it would. Instead of having a Rocky moment and reveling in my accomplishment, I was disappointed in my performance. Embarrassed over my finish time. Angry over my cavalier attitude for the first few miles. That's what stung more than anything--feeling like I hadn't done my best. Plus, while I achieved my "under three hours" goal, I just made it, with an official race time of 2:53:26. 

I'm capable of more than this, I thought upon reading the results online yesterday. I should have done better.

No matter what bad feelings I may harbor towards my performance, though, I still have a medal for completing a half-marathon. That's still pretty bad-ass, right?

I think so.

-------

Not quite two days later, I have adopted a more realistic perspective. First off, I'm not even a full year into this running business yet, and taking on a half is no joke (trademark Jillian Michaels). It's not like in high school where you can skip a few homework assignments and still ace a test. You can't trick your body into thinking it's done training that it just didn't do. At least, I can't trick mine. Did I prepare for this race? Hell yes. But did I follow my program to the letter? No. There were days of sleeping in when I should have dragged myself onto the 'mill or at least squeezed in Level 1 of the Shred. I attempted less than half of the allotted cross-training days. And I used my knee injuries as an excuse to take a three-week break from exercise when I should have been focusing on my upper body and core. But I didn't. And ultimately, I paid the price on race day.

But tomorrow is another day, and the Rock 'n Roll Chicago Half Marathon is another race, and this time, I will work harder. In the meantime, I'm going to forgive myself for missing the mark this time and embrace the fact that I finished. Like a wise runner once said, "13.1 miles isn't half of anything."

Damn right. 

LockedIn

Before I begin, first let me say that I am not a fan of the word "playdate." Are you hearing that? Playdate. Sounds so preppy, doesn't it? Very la-dee-dah and let me don some pleated khakis and pristine Keds so my perfectly groomed offspring can delicately sip tea in your living room. As a girl who grew up on the South Side of Chicago and whose neighborhood wasn't immume to the occasional drive-by, it just sounds pretentious to me. But there isn't another word that better describes coming to somebody else's house for a couple hours of hands-on toddler fun, so there you go.

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It was a cold, snowy day in February, and I had just pulled into Katy's driveway for a playdate. And not just any old playdate: my very first one. Katy, my racing partner in crime, is the first non-work friend I've made since moving to Indianapolis and also becoming a mom, and we are still very much in the courtship phase of getting to know each other. Add to that the fact that family and work obligations have prevented us from meeting up outside of the occasional race, and you're left with a mother who is equal parts nervous about unleashing her kids on unfamiliar turf and hopeful that everyone would hit it off famously, laying important groundwork for future merriment to come. It was perfect timing, too, as Luke was supposed to be out of town visiting his BFF, so I wasn't even cutting into our family time.

The first crack in our plan was the cancellation of Luke's trip due to poor weather; Indianapolis had been hit with a few inches of snow, making a lengthy road trip on I-65 not such a smart idea, so he decided to reschedule for the following weekend when conditions were predicted to improve. The second was Nathan's accidental ingestion and prompt regurgitation of a pretzel stick that became lodged in his throat, resulting in a clothing change two minutes before we were supposed to leave the house. As I buckled the children into their car seats, pulled out of my garage, and began the 45-minute trek to Katy's neighboring town, I quietly wondered if God was trying to tell me via snow and vomit that maybe we'd all be better off if I just stayed home.

But, but.... Friendship for me! Social interaction for the children! (Think of the children!) As Gollum would say, "We wants it, we needs it!" And so I trudged on.

We arrived at Katy's house about twenty minutes later than planned, so I was already feeling the pressure to get the kids out of the car and onto her door step as soon as possible. Not helping matters was Kara's entrance into Dreamland minutes before pulling into Katy's subdivision. The minute I killed the engine and grabbed my purse I was faced with an issue I hadn't previously given much thought to: When you have a wide-awake, rambunctious one-year-old who can't be trusted to follow directions near a residential street and a two-year-old who COULD be trusted but is snoring louder than any adult you've ever heard in your whole entire life, what are you supposed to do? Which child do you grab first?

In hindsight, I know what I should have done: I should have called Katy on my cell phone to ask if she could take Nathan while I handled Kara. But what can I say? I'm not a stay-at-home mom, and this was the first time I had ever traveled alone with both of my kids, and I was afraid of playing into the stereotype often ascribed to working dads--being too far removed from the trenches of day-to-day parenting to do anything more than run around like a decapitated chicken when presented with the simplest of tasks, like, I don't know, GETTING MY KIDS OUT OF THE DAMN CAR. I was too embarrassed to ask for help.

This is what laid the groundwork for my fatal error.

I grabbed Nathan first.

With the boy perched securely on my hip, I checked to see that my purse was still hanging from my shoulder (it was) and made my way to the other side of the car, where Kara continued to snore. I opened the door, lay my purse down at her feet (DANGER DANGER), hit the automatic locks (OMG WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS), and with my free hand shook her lightly by the shoulders. "Kaaara, Kara, honey, we're here now. It's time to play with our friends!" I chirped loudly into her ear. Silence. I grabbed her hand and kissed her cheek and ruffled her hair, but nothing.  I unstrapped her car seat buckles and even tried to tickle her, hoping all that jostling would wake her up enough to, at the very least, crabbily push me away. Fughettaboutit. "Kara-Kara-Kara-Kara-KAAARA," I shouted, Nathan wriggling like an earthworm, struggling to break free of my grip which was fast losing hold. And it was all in vain. 

Well, shit.

That's when I heard the turn of a doorknob, and Katy stepped outside.

"Is everything OK?" she asked. "Do you need any help?" At least, I think that's what she said. It's hard to recall exact wording at this point, but I trust it was something similarly hospitable and kind and caring.

"Oh, yeah," I called back, trying to sound casual when the whole time I was dying inside, DYING, "my daughter went and fell asleep on me, that's all!" I swiveled to get a better look at my hostess, and before I could process what was happening, my hand instictively pushed on the car door, and the car door snapped shut.

Internally, my slow-motion battle cry was so loud it was deafening (NOOOOOOO), and my eyes grew bigger than Pamela Anderson's double endorsements because holy hell, I done locked mah baybee in the car. In twentyish-degree weather. Almost an hour away from home.

The tears, they were threatening to surface any second, and if this had happened in front of one of my sisters I definitely would have pulled a Sally Field (I WANNA KNOW WHYYYY) but I pushed them away because crying in front of a woman who doesn't even know if you have a middle name is perhaps not the most inviting way to get better acquainted.

I would have stood there maintaining my deer-in-headlights expression a la Uncle Jesse from Full House except Nathan was still in my arms and I needed to call somebody to free my toddler from her hatchback prison. Plus, the car was parked in Katy's driveway in a town with a reputation as one of the safest and friendliest in the Indianapolis area, and the engine was off, and Kara was plenty warm in her winter coat, and besides that she was STILL snoring away, so I pried myself away from her long enough to carry Nathan inside. Katy called a local locksmith, but there was either a communication gap or a sense-of-urgency gap on his end because while the guy promised to call back with an estimated time of arrival, he never did, mother-effing bastard, doesn't he care about the children?!

So I called Luke. The husband who should have been in Kentucky some three and a half hours away with our only spare key but due to a random stroke of luck just happened to be at home.

That was a pleasant phone call. Especially since we'd had a slight disagreement earlier that morning.

Again with the forgetting of specific details, but the phrases "OH MY GOD!" and "I'm so sorry!" were involved. I'll leave you to guess who said what.

He had to dig the Cobalt out of a mountain-high pile of snow, Luke said, but he was on his way.

So, every three minutes for the next hour, I ran outside to check on my girl and make sure that a Wizard of Oz-like tornado hadn't suddenly carried the Outlander away. I imagined her waking up, realizing her predicament, and throwing herself against the window sobbing for Momma to get her out. I feared she would slither onto the floor and hit her head against the base of her car seat. I worried Luke would get lost or stuck in traffic and that I'd have to beg the fire department to pull the door off its hinges. Not that I'm even sure they do that sort of thing, mind you. But you know. I was scared.

I also felt very much like an idiot in front of my new friend, my new friend's husband, and my new friend's children.

After what seemed like an eternity but in reality was just a little more than sixy minutes from the time we called the locksmith, Luke was parking behind the Outlander and unlocking the passenger-side car door. I pushed past him to gather Kara in my arms--my baby, my baby--and brought her into Katy's house, and let me tell you, Sleeping Beauty never even stirred until I started removing her coat. She yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes and seemed generally refreshed from her leisurely mid-afternoon nap. She didn't even notice that her mother was curled into a fetal position on the floor, cheeks burning in humiliation, giving silent thanks to God, already drafting the inevitable blog entry.

Shower the people you love with a long, boring story about locker room politics

Before I left for an overnight business trip to Tampa two weeks ago, I signed up for a gym membership through work with the rationale that the minute I returned I would dive headfirst into pre-training for the Mini. My plan for the next few weeks involves experimenting with all the different aspects of training to smooth out out any potential kinks, everything from keeping pace on a treadmill to defining "cross-training" within the running community. Come the third week in January, I want all of my fears surrounding the logistical aspects of training to be laid to rest so that I'm not thrown off-track by something like operating equipment at the gym. No anxiety over the unfamiliar, no distractions, just me concentrating on my goal.

Except that I never actually made it to the gym. Of course, there was always a perfectly valid reason not to go: waking up late, errands after work, Christmas shopping to do, blah blah blah. Then last night I realized that hey! All these excuses aren't doing my training (or my waistline) any favors. Throw into the mix that I'm standing up in a wedding in September and shopping for bridesmaids dresses commences in four short weeks, and voila! Instant mental kick in the pants.

So on Sunday night I decided that this was the week to get the proverbial ball rolling. Despite the upcoming holiday and consequent onslaught of goodies sure to blanket every surface of my office (who recommits to health and fitness BEFORE the New Year?), despite hosting my sister's family the previous weekend, despite getting under the covers at a quarter to one. This was the week. Monday was the day.

When I set my alarm for just four hours later, though, I had my doubts. Luke was also concerned.

"Maybe you should just push it off until after work," he said. "I can take care of the kids through dinner and even do bedtime."

It was tempting, but too late. My work clothes and shower gear had been stuffed into a backpack. Lunch was made. The iPod was loaded. A padlock had been located for securing my cubby in the locker room. I'd even outlined a brief schedule to account for every major chunk of time between leaving the house and arriving at my office. An extra twenty minutes of sleep after all that careful planning wouldn't add enough to my day to justify skipping the workout, I reasoned. More importantly, the longer I waited to get to the gym, the less likely I was to follow through.

"I'll set the alarm and see what happens," I said. "If I'm too tired, I'll wait. But at least I want to try."

And I did try, first at 4:40 a.m. when my alarm started beeping, then again at five. I felt Luke's warm body next me, sensed the presence of Kara's feet near my hips, and thought how nice it would be to cuddle as a family a little while longer. But I got up, anyway, and thirty minutes after my feet left the mattress, I was following a 5K loop on the treadmill. I ran 3.1 miles in under 35 minutes, gave myself a hearty pat on the back, and made my way down to the locker room, where I would shower and get ready for work.

This is where things get interesting.

Now, I don't consider myself a prude by any means, but when it comes to getting dressed in front of people who either a) don't share my DNA or b) didn't contribute to the conception of my children, I'm a little shy. Love handles, tire gut, back fat--these are parts of my body I'm not exactly excited to show the rest of the world; in fact, I prefer taking any steps necessary (short of surgery) to give society the faulty impression that I am absent of any of these physical flaws. I don't wear bikinis or low-rise jeans, and unless it's a ring-collar tee-shirt, I never wear a top without sporting a control-top shaper underneath. An argument could be made, I suppose, that I should be happy with my body as is and that hiding my natural shape is a slap in the face to women's lib, but ladies, there's nothing natural about my back fat. Not when it consists of french fries, cheeseburgers, and ice cream, and certainly not when, with a moderate dose of healthy eating and exercise, I can make it disappear. Which I totally plan to do. It's just taking some time.

(Plus, my high school may be the only one in North America where showering after gym class wasn't required. There were showers for that purpose, yes, but the instructor always ended class a few minutes before the bell, so there wasn't enough time to clean up without being late for your next class, and washing the stench from your arm pits wasn't a valid excuse for tardiness. And in going to the gym as an adult in years past, I either went after quitting time or, if it was in the morning, went back home to get ready for work. Granted, I did go back and forth from my dorm room to the community showers on my floor wearing only a towel, but I was 18 then, and too blissfully young to be appropriately insecure.)

Anyway, where was I? The locker room. Right. Long story short, I am not a fan of changing in the locker room. But the gym is closer to my job than it is to my house, so overall, getting dressed there is definitely the best solution.

It was around six-thirty that I started pulling out my shower things, and overall activity at the gym was still pretty low. Still, I debated the best plan of action for even getting to the shower. Should I strip down now and just wear my towel or walk over in my sweaty running clothes and strip inside the stall? In the end, I stripped in the stall because the idea of soaking my clean towel with perspiration just didn't seem right to me.

The actual shower was uneventful, even pleasant because the water pressure was good and there weren't any children trying to climb their way in (though I did make a note to purchase some cheapie rubber flip-flops because the ones I had on featured cloth lining and probably weren't intended for full-on H2O immersion). Once I was all cleaned up, I wrapped my towel around my chest, grabbed my clothes from off the floor, and made my way back to my locker, where business casual attire and my trusty black shaper awaited.

At first I was the only woman there, but the thought that somebody could join me any minute kept me from ever letting my guard down. I cursed the length of my towel as it constantly slipped from my grasp, holding it in place with my chin as I slipped on my underwear, then cinching it around my waist by leaning into my backpack so I could quickly fasten my bra. It wasn't until my pants were on and the shaper was in place that I could fully relax and go through the rest of my routine without feeling so self-conscious. And even then I was on edge, as I kept dashing back and forth between my locker and the sink to retrieve my moisturizer, Q Tips, and hair spray.

The more times I do this, going to the gym before work, the more natural it will become, and I won't always care about another female catching an eyeful of thigh. I know this. That's why I'm in pre-training now, so that I can overcome my silly inhibitions and fears before they have a chance to negatively impact my regimen. I've run on a trail and in my neighorbood, in rain, shine, and below-freezing temperatures. I've run on a treadmill. I signed up for a gym and got my first time out of the way, and I'll get a tour of the equipment this Saturday. I earned a $50 gift card to Dick's Sporting Goods for my level of participation (four to five events) in my company's racing circuit, so I'll be getting better workout clothes. And soon I'll have a training program. The pieces are falling into place. It won't be long before they're all working together.

5K Race Day, Part Two

Read part one here.

While flipping through Luke's (most likely outdated) copy of The Everything Running Book, I was informed that I should set three goals for my 5K: one that was easily attainable, one that was difficult but realistic, and one that was significantly more challenging--more of a stretch goal. So I followed instructions like a good little runner and set three goals.

1. Easily attainable: Finish the 5K

2. Difficult but realistic: Run the entire time; no walking breaks

3. Significantly more challenging: Finish the race in under 35 minutes

The rationale behind setting these goals was threefold. First, seeing as I'm young and in good health, I couldn't think of a single reasonable excuse (aside from injury, of course) for not staying on course and (eventually) crossing the finish line. Second, while many runners take walking breaks during races, I believed that for the amount of training I'd completed in the last seven weeks, I was sufficiently prepared to maintain some semblance of a jogger's pace the whole time. Which, in the interest of keeping it real, probably comprises the bulk of my running experience. Third, I remembered Linda's account of her first 5K and reading that she finished her race in 34 minutes (and some change), and if she could do it, why not me? Never mind that she frequents the gym and works with a personal trainer and recently completed her first triathlon. Forget that I never averaged less than twelve minutes a mile in my training sessions. I figured the adrenaline rush I'd get on race day would be enough to bridge the gap between my average and my goal. Plus, I am woman, hear me roar and all that.

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The front runners take off immediately, and the middle of the pack follows suit. It is only a few seconds later that my feet start moving while my eyes scan the crowd for signs of Luke and the kids, my left hand clutching my iPod Shuffle, my index finger still fumbling with the buttons to activate my playlist. More seconds pass as I strain to hear the opening bars of Grover Washington's "Just the Two of Us" over the mass of people pounding the pavement around me, but nothing. I begin to panic. What if the battery is dead? What if I'm resigned to run the full three miles with nary a diddy to be heard? I've run without music before, but it's been several weeks and I'm worried that I won't be able to pace myself without it. I turn the volume up and hit the back button to the last song on my Shuffle, wondering if maybe the song's first few notes are too soft to pick up with all this noise. Sure enough, Rusted Root's "Martyr" pours into my ear drums as I simultaneously breathe a sigh of relief. I skip back to Grover Washington and allow the calm of the music to filter through my body, warning my feet to start slowly, friends, slowly, so that we may finish strong.

We start in the middle of the street adjacent to the outdoor track-and-field complex belonging to one of the local universities, and the course involves running uphill, crossing a bridge, and weaving through several downtown blocks, normally bustling but peacefully quiet on this weekend Saturday morning. As we break off into groups, the stronger runners picking up speed and the novices falling behind, I say a prayer of thanks for the trail that runs behind our subdivision and continues through several area parks; if I had trained on a treadmill, I'm convinced that the steepness of the hill and the uneven distribution of cement on the road would do a number on my ankles.

It's surprisingly difficult not to sprint ahead with the best of the runners. Here it is, race day, and I'm doing it! I'm running! This is easy! But I heed the voice inside my head reminding me that we haven't even finished half a mile, that three miles will be the longest I've run in my whole life, ever, and my pace isn't anything to write home about just yet. So I do my best to focus on the music, time my breathing, and avoid paying too much attention to those who are passing me by. A woman pushing a baby in a jogging stroller comes from behind and continues on with her bad-ass, super-momma self. Steady, Frema, steady. I'm eating the dust of a mother-effing WALKER, for crying out loud. Pay them no mind, Frema. Move along. The Indigo Girls' "Least Complicated" is on now. In training, this is the point where I would pick up the pace, aiming to reach a mile before the end of the song in order to clock a twelve-minute average.

And what do you know. Here comes mile one.

I check the face of my cell phone for the time. 9:12 a.m.

We've crossed the bridge, and there's a big sign, clearly marked, with several volunteers cheering us on. Encouraged, I pick up speed and continue on my way; a couple of minutes later, the opening bars to "Martyr," a song I love more for the beat than the lyrics, hits my iPod a second time. And I keep running.

We're weaving through side streets, running next to parked cars and pedestrians fiddling with their keys. I briefly wonder if any of them are runners who dropped out, but I decide it would have taken too much effort and planning for them to park their vehicles this far away from the starting line on the off chance they chose not to finish. I pass a water station and grab a little paper cup, allowing myself two small gulps and swallowing them with my next couple of inhales. When walking 5Ks, I've tsk-tsked the runners who threw their cups onto the ground, like, Didn't your mother teach you better?, but faced with the choice myself, the idea of running with a crumpled piece of tree in my hand isn't so appealing, so I toss it to the curb (That's what volunteers are for, right?), apologize to my mother for the blatant disregard of good manners, and keep on running.

I can't stop looking around me to measure my progress against the rest of the group. When I first approached the bridge, I remember gasping a little when I saw that the front runners were directly across the way. Now they are nowhere in sight; the crowd behind me is small. Not too far behind them are the walkers. There are runners walking, too. But I keep on running, downhill now, back towards the track-and-field complex.

Here comes mile two. The volunteers are happy to see me. I smile and wave, check the time. 9:24 a.m.

I can do this.

The closer we get to the complex, the more excited I get. I'm not running very fast, still keeping to the light jogging pace that saw me through ninety-eight percent of my training. Liz Phair is on now, a song from her self-titled album, and adds a little spring to my step. There's a grandmotherly-type woman sitting on the curb before I reach the complex, a young girl sitting beside her, and they both clap and cheer as I pass them. I see runners ahead of me pouring through the entrance and think the end is near. A few steps later, though, I realize the course is not ushering us in. Instead, it continues past the complex for several more blocks before winding around and directing us back to campus. My legs are heavy now, and my mind is tired at the idea of running away from the gate only to go back. But I keep on running.

I see one of our corporate officers, a seasoned runner and long-time triathlon enthusiast, securing a spot inside the complex. We lock eyes, smile, and wave. As I approach the cones that direct us to turn around, I find more of my coworkers; one ahead, a few behind. We're happy to see each other. We all keep running.

I'm running uphill again, and I've started searching again for Luke and the kids. I'm forcing myself not to slow down. I don't want to drag this out. I'm ready for this race to be over, but in this moment, I can't run any faster, and I can't walk now, not when I'm so close to achieving my goal.

But suddenly, amazingly, the gate is in front of me--surrounding me--behind me. I can see the finish line. As I sprint towards the huge digital clock fastened to the archway, I notice that we're in minute thirty-five. My boss and her husband are standing on the sidelines, and she's whooping it up for me, shouting "Go, Bree, go!" Rusted Root is on again deliberately, to give me one last extra push. The announcer declares that another employee from my company has just entered the track. That employee is me! I can't stop smiling.

And I run like hell.

My legs are flying, my arms are pumping, and I'm huffing and puffing my way to the arch until the clock is right above me. It's minute thirty-six now, and the seconds are flying away. I'm not sure at which point the electronic chip attached to my left shoe is officially registered, but it doesn't matter because now I'm on the other side, where runners are recycling their chips, eating bananas, and rehydrating with bottles of water.

Official time: 36:15:1, placing me 627 out of the 696 runners in my division (females aged 25 through 29).

Average pace: 11 minutes and 40 seconds per mile.

Boo-fucking-yeah.

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It wasn't until afterwards that I found Luke and the kids. He had trouble getting everyone out the door and didn't even reach campus until a couple of minutes after I finished the race. He felt terrible, but it worked out for the best because he didn't have to occupy them on his own for the thirty-six-plus minutes I was en route. We stuck around to watch my coworkers participate in the tug-of-war competition and walked around downtown for a bit before heading home.

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Because Liz asked, here's the playlist I used for the 5K. It's part-granny, part-Rocky, at least for me.

Frema's 5K Playlist

"Just the Two of Us" - Grover Washington (Reminds me to start slow and tortoise-like.)

"Say That You Love Me" - Fleetwood Mac (For some reason, the opening notes remind me of when Forrest Gump started his cross-country run. Yes, another Forrest Gump reference!)

"The Real World" - Matchbox 20 (I remember our VP/COO once saying that he ran to this song because it reminded him of college and made him feel young. I was a junior in high school when I bought the CD, so now it makes me feel young, too. Not that I'm old. Life begins at 30 29.)

"Least Complicated" - Indigo Girls (The music inspires a fierce, Rocky Balboa-ish attitude.)

"Martyr" - Rusted Root (Insert Rockygasm here.)

"American Girl" - Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (Very suburbanite, I know.)

"Back and Forth" - Aaliyah (Brings me back to a more subdued pace so I can rest. From white bread to flava!)

"It's Sweet" - Liz Phair (To pump me up again; in training I tried "Jealousy," one of my favorite songs ever from her, but it was too fast and I couldn't focus.)

"Least Complicated" again (To inspire me near the end of the race)

"Martyr" again (For the win)

It's important to note that had iTunes not acted like a total douchebag the night before, the playlist would have included a few more songs just in case it took longer than anticipated to finish the race. "Rain King" by the Counting Crows, "Fighting for My Love" by Nil Lara (thank you, second season of Scrubs, for introducing me to that one), and JT's "SexyBack" were all denied access to my iPod, even though two of them were on there the week before. WTF, Apple?

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So, there it is. My first 5K, with two out of three goals realized and the third not entirely out of reach. Obviously, there's endless room for improvement, but overall I'm proud of my performance and look forward to improving it the next time around. Of course there will be a next time. How could there not? Have I been a runner all my life and just didn't know it? Or does it only fit my personality now that I have two more especially important reasons to stay fit? I don't know, but in the end, it doesn't matter how I got here. The important thing is I'm here now and ready (finally!) to challenge my body in ways that I never have before.

Luke and I will walk with the kids in the 5K associated with the Indianapolis Marathon and Mini-Marathon at Fort Harrison State Park two Saturdays from now. We will both run the 5K attached to the One America 500 Festival Mini-Marathon in May 2010. My goal is to complete the mini-marathon at Fort Harrison one year from now. Luke and I hope to participate in several more races before then, in addition to Chicago's Shamrock Shuffle, an 8K, in March.

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In the last few months, I've heard a lot of sad news. Babies passing away before they had a chance to celebrate a first or second birthday; celebrities dying too young; mothers falling victim to horrible diseases and then being tasked with saying good-bye to their families. Some of these people I never met, while others are casual acquaintances I know only on a surface-level basis. But I have cried tears over them, have closed the door to my office to hurt on their behalf. I imagine what it would feel like to know I would never see my children grow up, or, even more gut-wrenching, to live life without them, and my nose twitches and eyes well up and a rock forms in the pit of my stomach because I can't. I just can't. In religion, there's so much talk about emphasizing the mental and spiritual aspects of ourselves because our physical state is temporary that it can be easy to overlook the fact that God made us human for a reason; that having a living, breathing body is a gift we shouldn't take for granted. So I want to use mine better. I want to make it stronger, leaner, healthier. I want to laugh more with it, cry happy tears with it, tickle Kara until she squeals more often and snuggle Nathan close every time I find him attached to my leg or foot or shoulder. I want to make love with my husband even when there's an opportunity to get more sleep. But I want to get more sleep, too, so I can tackle daily challenges and opportunities with a fresh mind and heart.

In between writing this entry, I clicked through my blogroll and came across Emily's post about running in the Baltimore Half-Marathon this Saturday, and how running made her think of little Emily Mandell, who passed away six months ago from a rare form of cancer. What a coincidence, I thought, that the same activity inspired each of us with the same type of thought track. But maybe it's not a coincidence. Maybe it's just being grateful.

 

5K Race Day, Part One

So! I ran my first 5K on Saturday.

THERE'S a sentence I never thought I'd say.

Even more amazing? I absolutely loved it.

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In the days leading up to the race, I was hella nervous because my training could only be described as spotty at best. The couch-to-5K program I started in mid-August had me running just three days a week, and the first two were okay, encouraging, even, because the intervals were manageable and I was fueled with enthusiasm. But the third week was more challenging, directing me to finish a 20-minute run on day three, and the idea of failing was so intimidating that the entire seven days passed without me completing a single run. It was a turning point, I think, giving me an opportunity to re-examine my commitment; how serious was I about adding this 5K to my list of accomplishments for the year? Was I willing to write the whole thing off as another botched attempt at healthy living? Was I okay with publicly falling flat on my face and looking and feeling like a failure?  

As it turned out, I wasn't. So I gave myself a second try. In hindsight, I am so proud of myself for doing that; for not giving up, for investing myself in this training and identifying it as something worth fighting for, even when I had a long day at work, even when I would have preferred rolling around on the floor with my kids. I wanted it for my health, but I needed it for my own sanity.

That doesn't mean I was perfect. Aside from the first two weeks, I never followed the program to the letter again. But I was running. The first few minutes were always the hardest--my breathing was random, my ankles felt like weights--but then my feet made their peace with the concrete of the trail, and my mind settled down, became quiet, reducing the chatter of the voices in my head, and my eyes functioned as catapults, physically moving me closer to each short-term landmark (If I can just make it to the overpass.... If I can just make it to the bridge...), and I called on the breathing exercises I used when in labor with Kara, marveling at their usefulness in situations outside of childbirth (hee hee hoo...hee hee hoo...) and suddenly I was light as a feather, gliding over the pavement, and sharing Knowing Glances with other runners who passed me by. Ah, another fellow bad-ass. Top of the morning to you.

Most of the time I didn't give much thought to my speed, choosing instead to focus on running for the full seventeen minutes or whatever my goal was for that run, but the closer I came to race day, the more curious I was about my ability to finish in a respectable amount of time. From my reading I knew that the usual goal of a 5K was to average ten minutes a mile, so one Saturday morning I started my run precisely at the 3.0 mile marker of the trail, ran straight to the 4.0 and then turned around and ran back to the 3.5, keeping a watchful eye on my cell phone the entire time. The good news: I completed a mile-and-a-half run in 15 minutes. Hurrah, progress!

The bad news: I had to quit running at minute 18--two minutes short of my goal time--because I felt like I was going to die. That morning was the first that I walked home with a stitch in my side. My timing was good, but clearly I had overdone it. Plus, it was one of my first runs using an iPod, and I learned very quickly that the Black-Eyed Peas and Justin Timberlake were no good to me, at least during training. The songs were too peppy, and being a novice runner, I needed something calmer, music that would drive me forward but allow me to concentrate at the same time.

Speaking of time, my time was running out. The following week I stayed on task and ran two miles in just over twenty-four minutes, but it was a far cry from completing a 5K. Beginning of week five I pulled something in my thigh (not a training injury, but it threw a wrench in my schedule just the same), and between traveling to Orlando for work and playing catch-up at home, a whopping ten days passed before I hit the trail again, just four days before the big event.

Hella nervous.

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The night before the race, my preparation left much to be desired. I filled up on turtle cheesecake and Raisinets and bad episodes of All My Children and neglected to drink even a single ounce of water, staying up until two in the morning attempting to create a musical soundtrack destined to propel me to victory. I obsessed over that playlist way more than I should have, I know, but most of the songs I used during training were pretty tame--anything faster than Indigo Girls or Grover Washington and I couldn't pace my breathing--and I was convinced that come race day, I'd need something stronger.

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The next morning, I woke up to my alarm at 6:15 a.m. and promptly got to work. I threw on my clothes and enjoyed a breakfast of a spoonful of peanut butter and a bottle of water. I stretched on and off for a good forty minutes, Kara smiling at me during my jumping jacks, Nathan sucking on my knee while I touched my toes. I spouted off directions to the race location to Luke, who hoped to make it with the kids just in time to see me off. With a filled-up gas tank and four dollars for parking, I was ready to go.

In case I haven't mentioned it before, this was more than a 5K--it was a full-fledged corporate challenge involving 100 businesses in central Indiana--so the starting area was congested with traffic and Hoosier employees preparing for their respective events. I spent ten minutes waiting for a spot in a nearby parking garage and holding back a unrelenting urge to pee the entire time. I made it to my company's tent with fifteen minutes to spare, long enough to pin my bib onto my shirt, attach a tracking chip to my shoelaces, relieve my poor, overworked bladder, and find a place in the starting line, all the way in the back. I was grateful to have stretched so much at home because I was too self-conscious to do more than hop around and pull on my legs. My CEO tapped me on the shoulder to say hi, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Have I mentioned how nervous I was?

We all made small talk for a few minutes until I excused myself to get closer to the middle of the pack. Before I was worried about getting trampled on by the pros. Now I'm just afraid of being left behind.

I checked my cell phone. One minute to starting time. Suddenly, we're counting down the seconds, from fifteen to one.

I take a deep breath. My right index finger is hovering over the play button on my iPod, waiting to sync my shuffle with the exact beginning of the race.

Three...two...one.

And we're off.

Apparently five home pregnancy tests CAN be wrong!

When visiting the phlebotomist at my ob/gyn's office yesterday, I couldn't sit still. "It's OK," she joked as she grabbed my arm to keep it steady. "It's going to be just fine."

And I really did think it would be. I walked to my car and drove home and picked up Luke and Kara so we could meet the realtor who will help us buy our first home. I figured I would call the office in the morning to confirm my negative pregnancy test and finally get on with my life already.

But at 8:30 a.m., the results weren't in. "It usually takes 24 to 48 hours," droned the receptionist, not understanding my urgency. "We'll call you."

WTF?

As I was packing up for the day, I decided to call one more time. Because HELL NO was I waiting until Monday.

I’m pretty sure it was the same receptionist, because once again, she acted like finding out whether or not I had a human being in my uterus wasn't that big a deal and didn't she say they would call when they had news?

(She didn't say that. But I know she was thinking it. Bitch.)

I heard shuffling of papers.

"Well, the test came up positive, but we didn't check your levels, so…"

My stomach dropped. "Excuse me?"

"The test is positive."

"The test is positive?"

"Yes." She sounded slightly annoyed. Women get knocked up every day; what's one more, right?

And then I was grabbing my purse and hauling ass out of work as fast as my legs could carry me because I knew I was going to cry and I didn’t want anyone to see.

By the time I got to my car, I was hysterical. Perfect time to tell Luke.

"Hello?"

"HONEY?"

"Yeah?"

"I'M PREGNANT," I wailed.

"OK… Honey, are you OK?"

"I'M SO HAPPY I’M SO HAPPY."

And I was.

My doctor called last night. The plan is to schedule a full work-up in about three weeks. Because I've only had one cycle since Kara was born, and because I still haven't scored positive on a pee stick yet, we need some help with an exact due date. My guestimate? Is February.

I suppose we’ll need a lot of help until then.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

As told by Luke, as played by Steve Martin

This is what happens when you engage in marital relations on day 30 of your cycle without protection, assuming Aunt Flo is just around the corner but realizing two weeks later she is still nowhere to be found.

Scene: Chevy Cobalt, Walgreens parking lot, Northwest Indiana

Bree: So…. Do you want to run in, or should I?

Luke: I don't know.
 
Bree: I should go. I'm the one who's going to pee on the stick, I should be the one to buy it.

Luke: No, I'll do it; you’re already back there with Kara. I'll just be a few minutes.

Bree: Remember, First Response or EPT, and make sure it's a bonus pack.

Luke: OK.

Luke enters Walgreens; stands in entranceway, searching for appropriate aisle. Picture furrowed brows and much head scratching.

Sales Clerk 1: Sir, is there something I can help you find?

Luke: I'm looking for a…

(Still grappling with the possibility of having two children less than a year and a half apart, his mind blanks on the correct terminology needed to verbalize his request)

…birth detection kit?

Sales Clerk 1: Do you mean a prophylactic?

Luke: No! The opposite of that!

Enter Sales Clerk 2.

Sales Clerk 2: Sir, are you talking about birth control?

Luke: No, no! It's too late for that!

Sales Clerk 2: Ooh! You want a pregnancy test!

Luke: Nods frantically, fights urge to smack forehead a la "I could've had a V-8!"

In the end, a First Response bonus pack was indeed purchased, and by Mother's Day morning, both tested negative. But this evening, when toasting to two years of marriage, we used sparkling grape juice instead of wine.

Anytime now, Aunt Flo. Anytime.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

L&D Q&A numero tres (aka: The one about breastfeeding)

Be sure to read parts one and two. 
 
I would like to hear how breastfeeding went the first few times. 

Oh, breastfeeding. How I wish we'd gotten better acquainted.

Growing up, I never gave much thought to how I'd feed my kids. My mother tried breastfeeding me for the first few days after I was born, but that was the extent of it, and I can remember just one time I saw somebody nurse in public—one of my aunts, when I was twelve, at our family Christmas party. She was on the couch, babe in arms, blanket draped over her shoulder, and as I went to kiss her good-bye, I noticed my tiny cousin attached to her breast. I blushed, embarrassed, thinking I'd seen something I wasn't supposed to see. All of the other babies I'd known were sustained with formula. I'd given countless bottles to my youngest sibling and tons of cousins. In my world, nursing wasn't something "normal" women did. And when Luke and I started dating seriously and talking about the future, the topic of breastfeeding came up, and I didn't hide my trepidation. I knew plenty of people—myself included—who were formula-fed and turned out just fine.

Then came the Internet.

I discovered blogs in 2004, and it didn't take long to notice that a significant chunk of them were written by women, particularly mothers, and it wasn't until then that I learned about all the hype surrounding breastfeeding—the benefits, the challenges, and the "new" connotation often associated with formula feeding. I saw new mothers struggle with poor latches, mastitis, low milk supply, unsupportive partners, and a myriad of other problems to nourish their babies with their breasts, and after weeks, sometimes even months, I saw some of them give up. But not without a lot of tears and even more guilt. I admired them for trying so hard, but I still didn't get it. In ten years, would it really matter?

THEN came my first positive pregnancy test. You know the saying, "It's different when it's your kid"? It really, really is.

I still didn't care how other women fed their kids, but I suddenly cared a hell of a lot about mine. I scoured the Internet for more information on breastfeeding, read lots of books, and took classes at our local hospital, and for mini-Bree's sake and mine, I knew it was something I had to try. I was in awe that my body could produce a perfect mix of nutrients for my baby; that it could provide her with unique antibodies to protect her from illness; that it could protect me from several types of cancers, some of which run in my family.

Also, that it was free, free, free.

After Kara and I were wheeled into recovery that fateful Monday night, we were given the opportunity to nurse, and words can't describe how wonderful it felt to be that close to her, connected to her in such an intimate way. Luke, Molly, and Samantha were still in the room, but all I could see was my daughter.

In the first few days that followed, things continued to go well. The nurses said it was my colostrum that helped the meconium pass out of Kara's system so quickly, and one of the lactation consultants complimented my knowledge of breastfeeding terminology. "If every new mother were as prepared as you, I'd be out of a job," she said, and I beamed with pride. I may not have been able to give birth the way I wanted, but this? This was in my control. This was something I could do.

Until Wednesday.
 
It started around nine o'clock that evening, Kara's fussing and eating of her hands, and Luke brought her to me in bed so she could nurse. She latched on for a couple of minutes but soon grew restless, pulling her head away and crying. I kept putting her back on, and she kept forcing me out of her mouth. Confused, I switched sides and tried again, only to get the same result. Her crying escalated and I turned to Luke, not knowing what to do. "Maybe she's too wound up to eat. Let me calm her down," he said and took her in his arms for some quality father-daughter bouncy time. It worked; she did settle down, but she was still eating her hands and smacking her lips—classic hunger cues—so he brought her back to bed with me. Again, I latched her on, and again, she pulled away, crying.

We did that for six hours. It was awful. I've never felt so helpless.

At one point my nurse came in and noticed our situation. "I can see that she's hungry," I said tearfully while Luke drew Kara to him for the zillionth time that night. "She wants to eat. But I can't get her to stay on. I don't know what else to do."

She hesitated a moment before asking: "Do you want some formula?"

"No!" I cried immediately. "We're nursing. I can't risk my milk supply." I wiped at my eyes, afraid I'd lose it in front of this poor woman who was only trying to help me. "Let me try again," I said and hobbled over to the bed, the best place for me to nurse while recovering from my c-section.

Soon it was five o'clock in the morning, and Kara was inconsolable. Luke and I were both crying. Despite all my good intentions, for whatever reason, my breasts weren't doing their job.

"I think—I think we should give her formula," I said.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"No, but she's obviously hungry," I cried. "We have to feed her, don't we?"

Ten minutes later, after just a half an ounce of formula, Kara was asleep in Luke's arms. She stayed that way for three and a half hours.

I wept the entire time.

Four days into this motherhood gig and I'd already lost control in an area that had quickly become so important to me. The Books clearly stated that introducing artificial nipples so early could sabotage breastfeeding efforts. The Books said that babies didn't need much to eat in the first week and my breasts would produce enough to satisfy my daughter's tiny appetite. According to The Books, I had failed.

At the same time, I hated myself for not giving her the bottle sooner, when it's clearly what she needed.

Luke tried to comfort me, but I was too far gone. It didn't help that I was running on four hours of sleep accumulated over three days and still in a lot of pain from my c-section. I tried to control my breathing and attempted to lie down, but then I'd picture Luke giving her that bottle, and the hysterics would start all over again.

Eventually, through talking with our pediatrician, my ob/gyn, and one of a long line of lactation consultants, I got myself together enough to realize that supplementing wasn't the end of the world. Plus, the formula had filled Kara's tummy enough to curb her hunger, but not so much that she wasn't willing to nurse, which made things much easier. We continued to supplement as we waited for my mature milk to let down. Thankfully, it was in by Friday, but on Saturday night Kara's wet-diaper count was pretty low for being almost a week old—just five to six a day—and the doctor was concerned. He put us on a strict two-hour schedule that involved me nursing and pumping, and Luke feeding her the expressed milk, topping her off with a bit of formula if she wanted more. She always did.

I won't lie; that was a pain in the ass. I was never able to pump more than an ounce or two at a time, and that was from both Thelma and Louise combined. It wasn't long before Kara was once again unhappy at the breast, latching on and pulling away even though we knew she was hungry.

The last time I nursed her was in the early morning hours of Christmas Eve. I pumped until she was a month old, but by then Luke was back at work and it was too hard to manage without having somebody on hand to tend to Kara's needs. This past Tuesday, I packed up my Ameda Purely Yours and haven't looked back.

This (seemingly never ending) entry wasn't written to scare anybody off from breastfeeding. Luke and I plan to have more children, and when the time comes, I plan to try again. I still believe in the benefits it has to offer and the bond it can nurture between a mother and her baby. But I talked so much about nursing while I was pregnant that I thought it important to relay my experience as honestly as possible.

Am I disappointed over how things turned out? Yes. Could I have tried harder to make it work? Probably. Do I feel guilty? Sometimes. But I'm not beating myself up about it anymore. I'm at peace knowing I did the best I could and that breast milk is just one of countless gifts I hope to pass along to Kara as she grows up. There are many more to come.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

To think I could’ve had a daughter named Puppy! Birth story part four

Don’t go on unless you’ve read parts one, two, and three.

9:00 p.m.
True to her word, my doctor arrived once more to perform a final cervical check. No change. She looked at me, waiting for my cue. I wasn't crying anymore.

"We've waited long enough," I said. "Let's do the c-section."

The Pitocin drip was turned off, and the anesthesiologist was summoned to ramp up my epidural. Samantha called my parents to give them the news, and moments later, the phone was to my ear. It was my mother. Having given birth five times herself and delivered the youngest of us via c-section, she wanted to offer words of reassurance.

Also, lies!

"Mine wasn't bad at all," she said. "I didn't feel a thing."

"Yes, you did!" I cried. "The whole time I've been pregnant you’ve talked about how the doctors messed up your pain meds and how you felt them cut you open!"

"But I had bad doctors!" she replied. "You've got good doctors. Everything's going to be OK."

I sure hoped so.

The anesthesiologist arrived and increased my epidural. "How numb should I be?" I asked. "Should I feel pokes but no pain, or not feel anything at all?"

"You won't feel anything at all," he said. "At one point there'll be pressure, but other than that, you shouldn't feel a thing."

"What if I do?"

"Then you tell us, and we'll stop."

"OK."

Luke was given a gown and face mask and instructed to suit up. Meanwhile, the day was finally taking its toll on me; I thought I might fall asleep any minute. I actually hoped that I would.

9:23 p.m.
I was wheeled to the OR. (Thanks to Molly for jotting that one down. Luke was a bit preoccupied.)

I don't know what I imagined the operating room would look like, but it seemed a lot smaller than I thought it would be, and much brighter. I was transferred from my bed to the operating table, and my arms were laid out on my sides. My gown was rolled up to my chest, and a curtain was positioned just below my breasts. Luke had to wait outside while Kelli, nurse number three, prepped my lady parts for surgery. The anesthesiologist was there, too, ready to offer his services at a moment's notice.

My eyes kept closing. I really thought I might pass out. Then Kelli spoke.

"I've been poking you pretty hard," she said. "You didn't feel anything?"

"Nope. Where's Luke?"

"He's coming," she said. And suddenly, he was next to me, to the right of me, squeezing my hand.

"You're not going to look, are you?" I asked, and he shook his head. "I'm going to stay right here with you."

Part of me wanted to look into his eyes, but keeping them shut seemed like my best option. I kept willing myself to fall asleep and not wake up until the baby was out and I was put back together. I was still afraid of the epidural failing on me, just like it had with my mom.

Next thing I knew, the doctors were doing their thing, and I couldn't keep quiet.

"What do you think her name will be?" I said to Luke. "Do you think she'll be a Kara Leigh, or Maia Katherine, or Katherine Amelia?"

"She can be whatever you want," he replied. Later, he told me he would've agreed to any name I wanted, that's how bad he felt for everything I had to go through that day, only to have it end with surgery.

After what seemed like forever, the doctor spoke.

"You're going to feel a lot of pressure on your chest now," she said. "Remember to take deep breaths, OK?"

"OK," I said, and bam, there it was, all that pressure, and I was holding on to Luke's hand with all the strength I could muster.

And then I was hearing her cry. It was the most incredible moment of my life.

The doctor held her up for me, and I maybe saw an arm. But I didn't care.

"She's OK?" I asked. I was crying again, in a way I've never cried before. What else can you do when presented with such a miracle?

"She's perfect."

I looked at Luke, and tears were in his eyes, too. "I love you so much," I said, and he kissed my forehead. "I love you, too," he replied.

"Go and be with her, honey," I said. "I'll be OK."

And I was.

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

All my poop worries were for nothing: Birth story part three

Don’t read any further unless you’ve seen parts one and two.

2:14 p.m.
By this time, the epidural had taken full effect, and the doctor had returned to perform another cervical check. Luckily, things were moving along, albeit still at a snail's pace: I was ninety percent effaced and eight centimeters dilated.

Eight centimeters dilated! No wonder the pain had been so intense; I was in the transitional phase of labor, that magical and pain-riddled time in which the cervix dilates from eight to ten centimeters and the baby drops lower into the pelvis—both of which are required to dispense a human being through one’s vagina. I’ll be the first to tell you about my low threshold for pain (my dentist would probably be the second), so I was extremely proud of myself for moving through the first half of labor with natural coping techniques and not crying “Uncle” the first chance I got. While it’s true they don’t hand out gold stars for Best Laborer, it was important for me to get a small taste of what natural (Pitocin-inspired) childbirth felt like. I’m happy I did.

But I was even happier about the epidural.

My ob/gyn proceeded to break my water, and a warm gush passed through my legs. Surely this baby would be coming any minute now.

3:00 p.m.
Another cervical check revealed I was fully effaced but the baby was only at -2 station, meaning her head had quite a way to go before fully descending into my pelvis. Bertha’s shift also came to an end; she would be one of three L&D nurses I’d interact with that day. Angela was number two.

4:38 p.m.
Molly and Samantha, who’d both arrived around lunchtime with gifts and good will, took turns massaging my feet while I drifted in and out of a half-conscious sleep, still optimistic about wrapping things up before dinnertime but confused as to why the induction was taking so long.

4:47 p.m.
I received my very first catheter. Good times.

5:15 p.m.
For the first time since the Internet's outrage over it last year, I saw that infamous breastfeeding commercial where the pregnant woman rides a mechanical bull and the caption reads, "You wouldn't take risks before your baby's born. Why start after?" That's one way to promote boob juice. I guess.

7:18 p.m.
Another nurse, another check, another disappointing update. Still no dilation past eight centimeters, and the baby's head was holding steady at -2 station. Any confidence I had in my body's ability to get this baby out the old-fashioned way was rapidly fading fast.

7:35 p.m.
My doctor paid me a visit and did a check of her own, even kept her hand up my girly parts to see how my cervix fared during a contraction. "Well, at the height of your contractions, you're almost at nine," she said. "But other then that, there's still no change. Let's start talking about our options here."

I nodded.

"You've had a long day," she said, "and your contractions have been doing exactly what they're supposed to be doing. In my opinion, the fact that you've been at a standstill for such a long time means Mother Nature's trying to tell us something."

"You think it's her size?" I asked. This time, she was the one who nodded.

"I think we've got ourselves one big baby."

She went on to explain that mini-Bree (who at that point still didn't have a set-in-stone name) had fared wonderfully throughout my entire ordeal, and there was no medical reason to rush into anything. She was more than willing to let me labor for another hour or two and see if a vaginal birth was still possible, if that's what I wanted. I agreed to take the time, and she made plans to come back by nine. Once she left, my face crumbled, and I let myself sob, really go at it, because I knew in my heart I'd be getting that c-section. The extra hour and a half was less about letting things progress and more about preparing for my first bout with major surgery.

To be continued…

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

People really do this without drugs? Birth story part two

Catch up on part one here.

9:49 a.m.
My Pitocin drip was up to 6ccs. Bertha checked me again and found I'd dilated another centimeter. "How are you doing on pain?" she asked. "Is it time for the epidural?"

"Not yet," I said, and it wasn't. The contractions were faster and closer together, but they weren't so much painful as they were uncomfortable. The breathing exercises I'd learned in childbirth class were enough to keep me focused and calm. I was seriously considering forgoing pain meds altogether.

"You're a big, strong woman," Bertha said.

10:21 a.m.
My ob paid her first visit since my admittance to the hospital. Her cervical check revealed no change in dilation or effacement, and in fact, my cervix was in a posterior position, which meant she had to navigate her fingers around the baby's head to feel it. She wanted to break my water but decided to wait until my cervix was closer up front.

11:17 a.m.
Up to 12ccs and still managing the pain just fine. I asked Bertha about the highest amount of Pitocin she'd ever administered. "I once gave 100ccs," she said, and I gasped. "Don't worry," she added. "I don't think we'll need to do that with you."

11:24 a.m.
Realizing I'd forgotten to swipe my armpits with my Dove bar that morning, I implored Luke to dig out his Old Spice deodorant from his hospital bag and hand that bad boy over because HOT DAMN, did I smell.

12:38 p.m.
Up to 20ccs, and it was getting more difficult to talk through contractions. Bertha had to excuse herself briefly in order to rescue her husband, who had locked himself out of his car. Fabulous.

1:08 p.m.
Slight leak draining through my special place. Did my water break? I summoned Bertha's temporary substitute to do another check.

1:10 p.m.
No breakage, just pee. Figures I made it through nine months of pregnancy with nary a urinary accident only to break my lucky streak in active labor.

1:40 p.m.
22ccs and the four-count deep breathing wasn't cutting it anymore. I graduated to the hee hee hoos and made Luke work through them with me. Hearing the pattern of his breaths was the only thing that kept me calm enough to focus.

1:46 p.m.
Bertha was back and happy to see the consistency of my contractions. I, however, wasn't as pleased. She decreased the Pitocin down to 15ccs to ease my discomfort, but it wasn't enough. My eyes were glued to the monitor, and with each spike, I could feel my uterus tightening as if it were trying to drain the essence of my very soul. I couldn't concentrate on breathing anymore. I couldn't stop crying.

"I'd like the epidural now," I sputtered.

2:00 p.m.
The anesthesiologist arrived armed with The Good Stuff. The bed was elevated, I was propped up with a pillow, and I think I was holding on to Luke and Bertha while the doctor numbed my back. The needle stung, and I cried out, but after living through the torture that is natural childbirth, the pinch was nothing. This? Was child's play.

2:11 p.m.
Oh, blessed, sweet relief! Bring that baby on.

To be continued…

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

One baby, hold the fries: Birth story part one

Seeing as my child is almost three weeks old, I suppose it's time to start spilling the beans regarding how she got here, right?

To prepare for just this occasion, I took careful notes in the hospital. You think I'm kidding? Don’t make me scan in my scratch paper.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 17, 2007

Luke and I were up by six o'clock to get ready for our 7:30 induction. After a rough night obsessing over the fact that the manner in which we were collecting our baby could be compared to somebody ordering a value meal from McDonald's—each incident a painful experience in its own right—I had finally reached a place where I was at peace with the whole situation and excited knowing that by the end of the day, I'd be holding my daughter in my arms. Hell, with such an early induction time, I was counting on having her by lunch.

We took our showers, gulped down bowls of cereal, double checked our bags, and before we knew it, we were off.

7:50 a.m.
After registering at the front desk, the two of us were escorted to a private room in the labor and delivery unit, where I would remain until after the baby was born. We were introduced to Bertha, the first of three nurses I'd be assigned to that day. I was handed a set of gowns and told to undress. With the exception of my bra, I wouldn't don actual clothes again until my discharge Thursday night.

Once I'd gotten good and nekkid, I made myself comfortable in bed while Bertha fired off a series of questions regarding my health and the progression of my pregnancy. She asked about my preferences regarding pain relief and I replied that I'd probably want an epidural.

Then she asked about my last meal, and I told her about the bowl of Cheerios I'd eaten a couple of hours before.

"Did your doctor give you permission to eat that?" she asked.

"She didn't say I couldn't," I replied, which was true, but it didn't matter anyway, because hell no was I going to starve myself before jumping into the most physical challenge of my life. I'd talked to plenty of nurses to know there's no real benefit in a woman refraining from food or drink during labor, so self-restricting beforehand didn't make sense to me.

I refrained from sharing these deep insights with Bertha (who really was a lovely person and a great support in the hours ahead) and simply smiled.

8:50 a.m.
Bertha gave me my first cervical check of the day and pronounced me five centimeters dilated and eighty percent effaced—no real change since my last doctor's appointment the previous Friday. She told me her instructions were to start me on 2ccs of Pitocin and increase the dosage in increments of two until my contractions were consistently two to three minutes apart. Once the IV was in place, monitors were attached to my belly to measure the baby's heartbeat and the pattern of my contractions, the drip was started, and Luke and I were left alone to take everything in.

At this point, I wasn't sure what to think. I'd taken classes, done my reading, and overall prepared myself to give birth as naturally as I felt comfortable. With continuous monitoring and drug administering, ninety percent of the laboring positions Luke and I had practiced were no longer feasible. The suite did have a rocking chair, which I was encouraged to use, and it was perfectly fine for me to walk around the room, but I felt most at ease just sitting in bed, watching my contractions dance about on the monitor, hammering out last-minute name ideas with Luke, and waiting for the arrival of my sister Samantha and good friend Molly, each of them warning me not to push the baby out before they got there.

To be continued...

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Excerpted from Parental Discretion Advised, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2008 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

Forget the epidural; why doesn't anybody warn you about the IV?

It's been a long few days.

Those of you who follow my Parents blog already know about last Thursday's ER scare; those of you who don't? Well, you really should follow my Parents blog.

Just kidding. (Except not really.)

Here's the story: Almost two weeks ago, I showed signs of my third pregnancy-related yeast infection. I began treatment and took my last dose this past Wednesday; the following morning, I awoke to mild irritation in my vaginal area. Initially attributing it to an ill-timed poke with the Monistat applicator, I drove to Rensselaer as usual for class because my friend Jackie--fellow BlogHer attendee and seasoned PR executive--was scheduled to give a presentation about her experience with blogs in the marketing world. I didn't want to waste her time or cheat my students, and anyway, I figured the discomfort would fade away as the day wore on.

Only it didn't. Two hours before class, I was crying to Luke about the pain, my God, THE PAIN, in my special place and now my stomach, too, wondering how the hell I was going to make it from six to eight-thirty without running to the bathroom, pulling my pants down, and trying my damndest to relieve myself, as by that time, my symptoms were comparable to the worst urinary tract infection imaginable.

As it turns out, I didn't make it. Hell, if you ask my students, I barely made it the first thirty minutes. Five minutes before class began, I called Luke to tell him I needed to get to the hospital. I knew I couldn't drive back to Indy in my condition, so the plan was for him and his brother to meet me in Purdue country, enabling my husband to take my spot behind the wheel without leaving behind a second car. I figured Jackie could make her presentation and I could end class shortly after to get started on the forty-five-minute trip to Lafayette.

Educating young minds without sacrificing my need for immediate medical attention. Everybody wins!

Jackie eventually transported me to the local ER.*

I didn't know what to feel. On one hand, Freka's activity level hadn't changed at all, and I wasn't leaking any fluid, so a phone call to my doctor reassured me I probably wasn't in labor. On the other, I was also experiencing irregular contractions and a physical strain so intense I could barely walk. All I could think about was parking my ass on a toilet and willing it out of my body.

The ER nurses loved hearing that. "Don't push, don't push!" one of them barked when I explained my urge to pee. "We don't want to deliver a baby right now!"

Me, neither, lady.

Thankfully, I wasn't in labor. I was, however, badly dehydrated, and apparently lack of fluid was to blame for the contractions and that horrible pain. I received my very first IV feed, and it hurt like a sonofabitch. A non-stress test confirmed the baby's heart beat was strong, and three and a half hours later, Luke and I left the hospital with the results of my urinalysis and strict instructions for me to get more rest and drink lots of water.

The fun part? A follow-up appointment with my ob/gyn the next day showed that our little Freka is sitting way lower than normal for this stage in the game; also, my cervix has already begun to soften. Even though there's still seven weeks to go until my December 10th due date, it's not totally off-base to think my Christmas baby might be here by Thanksgiving.

At least she's head down.

Things are OK now; I had another "episode" on Saturday night, but I'm thinking the six hours Luke and I spent running through the aisles of Babies R Us and Super Target in a frantic attempt to stock up on the last of our baby essentials had something to do with it. Once again, copious amounts of water saved the day.

...And consider yourself officially caught up on all matters related to my uterus. Don't you feel special?

In other news, my sister's post-wedding wedding shower is set for November 18th, but in light of recent events, there's no way I can in good conscience commit to a trip to Chicago. Ryan was extremely understanding, and she promised to visit with Jason while he's on leave, but still, knowing I have to miss one of the few marital milestones I could've actually participated in for her doesn't have me jumping up and down for joy. (Their elopement, by the way, was rescheduled for this weekend due to outrageously priced air fare, so she still has another few days of living life as a single woman.)

Tune in again on Wednesday to see all the progress I've made on my prenatal to-do list. You'll be amazed, I promise.

* Words can't express how grateful I am for all Jackie did that night--taking over my class, driving me to the hospital, staying by my side until Luke arrived.... I couldn't have managed on my own, and she made it possible that I didn't have to. Jackie, thanks so much for being such a good friend. It means more than you know.

Even more amazing than peeing on all those sticks

There were two possible ways I could approach blogging about today's appointment.

1) Post a quick "It's a insert gender here!" and go into more detail later.

2) Write a lengthy entry and make you wait 'til the end for the reveal.

At first I thought I'd go with number two, until I realized that most people would just skim through the entry until they found the information they wanted, which meant all my carefully crafted prose would go to waste, and who wants that?

In the end, I decided to write the tell-all version right off the bat. But first...

Sugar and spice and everything nice, indeed. And this next statement might sound weird, especially since you're essentially looking at my daughter's ass (I think; some of these pictures are super hard to read), but she's absolutely beautiful.

------- ------- -------

It wasn't until Luke and I were in the car to make our 10:30 appointment with the ultrasound tech that I began to feel nervous. Up until that point I'd been solely focused on learning the gender, but once we were on our way to the clinic, I couldn't stop picturing worst-case scenarios about the progress our baby was making. I'm eating much better and have put on a few pounds since my last visit, but what if my lack of weight gain was due to the baby's lack of growth? Why hadn't I felt Freke move yet? What if, lying on that table with my belly covered in goo, we were told the baby had died?

Awful thoughts, but I couldn't shake them. My heart was pounding, my hands were clammy, and I thought I was going to lose the bowl of Fruit Loops I had for breakfast.

Once there, we waited about ten minutes, and then suddenly I was lying on that table, pulling down the waistband of my maternity pants, and breathing deeply in an effort to stay calm. Lisa, our technician, squirted the gel over my stomach (and it was hot! Yikes!), and went into her spiel.

"Now, I normally use 'he' when referring to the baby, so until I say, 'I think it's a...', don't take that to mean anything, OK?" she said.

We nodded.

"Also, I like to make faces when I'm reading the screen, but that doesn't mean anything's wrong, OK?"

Again with the nodding of the heads.

She was a pleasant woman, that Lisa, and the three of us chit-chatted about various gender myths as she moved the wand over my belly, typing notes on the screen and keeping an eye on the monitor the whole time. She kept it face forward, so I tried to crane my neck a bit to see what was going on, with no luck. I motioned for Luke to join me next to the table, and he grabbed my hand.

After a few minutes, a slew of pictures printed from her machine, and she tilted the monitor towards us. There was our baby.

She pointed out various body parts for us to see: head, legs, arms, spine, stomach, from all sorts of angles. I almost stopped breathing when I saw the tiny little heart muscle, beating just as fiercely as it had during my initial appointments through the Doppler. A hundred and forty-three beats per minute, she said.

Then we were on a mission.

"Let's see what we can find," she said, and proceeded to poke and prod my belly for a shot of the good stuff.

It was hard at first, but finally the baby moved into the proper position, and Lisa took a peek.

"Now, there's always a chance I could be wrong, but I think..." Her voice trailed off, and her fingers returned to the keyboard to type those fateful words.

"It's a girl."

And that was it. I started to cry, and I really went all out, with the chest heaving and shortness of breath and the blotchy red face. I couldn't believe it. I was so damn happy to see our baby in action, in person. It was the most miraculous moment of my pregnancy thus far. Not since learning about this little person's existence have I been so emotional.

Luke squeezed my hand and kissed the top of my head, and Lisa grabbed some tissues. She didn't comment on my tears, and I was glad, because I hate when people acknowledge my blubbering. It just makes the blubbering worse.

After about fifteen minutes of watching our baby in action, Lisa was helping me off the table and handing Luke our now-precious VHS tape. We went back to the waiting room for my 11:00 appointment and were ushered in just minutes later.

The actual appointment was great. Measuring within a four-day range of her December 10th due date, our little girl is doing marvelously, and there's no reason not to think I'll give birth to a strong and healthy baby.

Hi there, baby. We love you.

------- ------- -------

Now the only question is what to do about her Internet moniker. Freke no longer seems fitting, and I was considering Frekie, but that might be even worse. Freka? Frekette? Your suggestions are most welcome.

If Lucy Ricardo had worked, this is how she would have announced her pregnancy at the office

Before I disclose the full details, it's important that you know I originally circulated a bare-bones version of this entry via e-mail to family and friends because I thought the content could possibly get me dooced. However, Isabel has since guaranteed my job security, and it really is a pretty harmless little tale, so I'm going for it.

Transport yourself to last Wednesday afternoon, a point in time in which only three people at work knew about my pregnancy because I was afraid my "condition" would result in a harsher critique of my performance.

(In that respect, men really do have it easy. Luke was able to spill the beans to his co-workers shortly after we found out because he doesn't have to worry about anyone keeping an eye on how many trips he makes to the bathroom or how many days he has to work from home because he can't make the twenty-five-minute commute without dry heaving behind the wheel.)

Anyway, I'm sitting in a meeting for which I was the last person to arrive. We're making traditional small talk about the weather and local construction and what not, preparing to outline a production schedule for some promotional videos, when suddenly my boss is mentioning that the wife of one of my co-workers--the co-worker himself being in the room--recently received a horrible sunburn at the beach while on vacation, and she's eight months' pregnant. Then he turns to me and chuckles, "But you don't want to hear about that," which sends a ripple of subdued laughter throughout the conference room.

HOLY CRAP HE KNOWS. He knows! I could feel the redness in my cheeks as my mind raced to pinpoint a time when I might've given myself away, eventually concluding it must've been the previous Monday when he used the extension in my office, the day I ripped off the flap of my sample box of prenatal vitamins and positioned it by the phone so I would remember to contemplate other options with my ob/gyn nurse. What other possible reason could he have for directing that line to ME? What does this mean for my job? I knew I had to broach the topic with him as soon as possible, but he left the meeting early, and by the time it was over, he was gone for the day.

Crap. Crappity crap crap.

The next morning, I decided to nip the problem in the bud and asked him to have a seat in my office during his morning rounds, requesting that he please close the door. I took a deep breath and donned a "knowing" smile.

"I have something to tell you, but after a comment you made in yesterday's meeting, I think you already know," I teased. He wrinkled his brow in confusion and looked at me, obviously intrigued. "No, what?"

And at that point I realized he didn't know, had no clue, but it was too late to come up with something else on the fly. I was about to out myself for no reason.

"That I'm having a baby?"

"No, no, I had no idea! Congratulations!"

"But," I sputtered, "that story you told about John's wife..."

Turns out that had been a topic of conversation just before I walked into the room, so what I interpreted as a sly administrative tactic informing me the jig was up was really just an inside joke he didn't want to relive twice. How a pregnant woman's sunburn becomes small talk during any company meeting is another matter entirely, but the point is, I'm an idiot. Thanks for playing.

So, ladies and gents with children, how did you break the news to your bosses? For the singletons (men and women alike), how do you think your employer would respond if you announced you were expecting a baby right now? Do you work in a family-friendly environment? Would you be able to pursue your career goals without any major obstacles?

What to Expect When You're Not Expecting Anything

The Sunday before Easter started out like any other Sunday, except that Luke and I didn't make it to church. We rolled out of bed around 8:30, lounging around our apartment in tee shirts and underwear, devouring three blueberry muffins a piece in an effort to liven up a free breakfast at home. I continued my DVD player's love affair with the third season of Sex and the City, initiated the day before while Luke was in Michigan for work, while he surfed the Internet for potential city parks to visit later that afternoon. We talked about Easter and how nice it would be to relax in Indianapolis in lieu of a six-hour round trip to visit family and friends scattered throughout the Chicagoland area. We debated over the dinner menu for our cozy little holiday, lazily wondering if we were in the mood for turkey or ham.

Since it was the first of the month, Luke updated his "Walking America: A Year on Wilderness Trails" calendar that hangs above the computer station in our bedroom, and it reminded me that my own Peter Rabbit masterpiece needed flipping as well. As I tacked the new page to the wall, I noticed I was on day thirty-nine of my cycle. There was nothing particularly alarming about this, seeing as the last few months have followed this same pattern, so I figured I was due the next day. However, after studying all my not-at-all-inconspicuous date circles indicating Luke's and my...er...special marital time, I thought, hey, I've still got two First Responses left. Why not pee on a stick?

So I did. And two minutes later, I almost peed again, this time all over myself, out of pure, unadulterated shock. For the first time in my twenty-seven years on this planet, I saw a second pink line. It was faint, but it was there.

"LUKE!" I yelled, arms shaking as I held onto the bathroom sink, my lower lip already beginning to quiver. "THERE ARE TWO LINES ON THIS TEST OH MY GOD OH MY GOD."

"What?"

"JUST GET IN HERE AND LOOK AT THE TEST. IT SAYS I'M PREGNANT, RIGHT? YOU WOULD CALL THAT A SECOND LINE, RIGHT?" And I kept talking just like that, in all caps, while pestering my husband for his non-medical opinion regarding the actual existence of the life-changing second pink line.

"I think so, honey."

"SO THAT MEANS I'M PREGNANT, RIGHT?"

"I think so, honey!"

For the next thirty seconds we kind of just stood there, dazed and confused with this unexpected piece of information, and then he sauntered over to the kitchen table and started flipping through yesterday's mail while I exploded all over our bathroom.

OK, so that didn't really happen, but by that point I was a dry-heaving mess. It's probably safe to assume I lost all concept of rational thinking at the same time I lost my urine.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THIS? DO YOU THINK I'M PREGNANT OR NOT?"

"I would say so, honey," Luke said for the third time in five minutes, poor guy, totally wanting to reassure me before I lost my already-fragile grip on reality and totally not knowing how. Luckily, I had the perfect solution.

"GO TO WALGREENS AND BUY MORE TESTS. RIGHT NOW. WHY AREN'T YOU PUTTING ON YOUR COAT." (Nope, no question mark there. NO TIME FOR QUESTION MARKS!)

He was gone in eight seconds. Meanwhile, I decided to occupy myself by making the bed and taking the second test. Thank the Lord for bonus packs.

And there it was again. A second pink line, only this one was dark enough that I started to think maybe, just maybe, the universe wasn't filming a special April Fool's edition of Candid Camera.

Now that I had two sticks confirming my future presence on the Mother ship, all I could do was sit and sob and pray to God not to take away my baby before Luke returned from the pharmacy and I could pee on two more.

He returned. I peed on two more. Positive, each one. (You don't say, Frema!) And that's when we both cried and Luke kissed the second of my two gut rolls as a "hello" to the newest member of our family. Before the day was out, we had celebrated with pizza and a trip to the bookstore, where I purchased The Girlfriends' Guide to Pregnancy and The Real Book of Birth, because I am already terrified about pushing this miracle out of my special place. Last Monday I only made it through a half-day of work because I came in to discover an army of ants crawling all over my desk and the facilities manager decided to spray my office and I skidaddled the hell out of there as fast as my legs could carry me because OH MY GOD I WILL NOT ALLOW MALICIOUS INSECTS OR THEIR DEATH JUICE TO KILL MY BABY.

(Get used to the caps-lock voice. It's probably going to stay with us until my November 29th due date, as estimated by my ob nurse, who also informed me that I needed to adjust the lower seat belt strap when riding in the car so it doesn't tighten around my belly in the event of an accident. "Just like Kyra Sedgwick in Singles," Luke offered helpfully. Thanks, dear, for easing my troubled mind.)

(Also, I'm pretty sure she was recommending this for when I'm actually showing, but that hasn't prevented me from hooking a thumb through said lower strap and pushing it away from my stomach, you know, so the baby can breathe. I am such a good mother already.)

To this day we've taken six tests, bought three books (and two magazines to boot), purchased Baby's First Onesie, and started an official list of names; I've also taken it upon myself to start combing through Amalah's pregnancy entries in between projects at work. We waited an agonizing five days before telling our families so we could deliver the news in person, which involved presenting each set of grandparents with an Easter basket and a commercially manufactured Hallmark greeting introducing the future tiny object of their affection. My mother's reaction was straight out of a sitcom, pulling the card out of the envelope and waving it around dramatically for three minutes before finally reading out loud "You're going to be..." and then stopping mid-sentence, dropping her jaw, and turning to the kitchen table for emotional support. (Like mother, like daughter.) As for my father, well, he had to lie down. At six-thirty. For the rest of the night.

And now, in the middle of my sixth week of gestation, finally I have permission to tell the Internet.

Internet, we're having a baby.

Those EPT readings were both positive, I swear.

A Blush-Inducing Public Service Announcement

The memory of losing my virginity is one that will never lose color. I was eighteen years old and on the verge of jetting off to college, and Nick and I had been dating for three years--not straight through, but steady enough that each break-up led to a passionate reunion, and every reunion foreshadowed an angry shouting match complete with name calling, door slamming, and hot tears running down one or both of our faces. You know, all the elements of a deliciously amateur teenage romance.

In the summer of 1998, we'd been together consistently since prom (another post in the making), and from that night, I remember everything. The positioning of his lava lamp; our spot on the bed; the CD set to repeat on his stereo. I was convinced that melting into each other, in body and soul would seal our commitment to each other and provide Nick with the life-changing revelation that after sharing such an intimate experience with me, he'd never be interested in anyone else.

In the midst of clumsily trying to find our way around the bedroom, we both had sense enough to use a condom, and continued to do so for the first two months of our sexual relationship, but by the time we finally (unknowingly) severed all emotional ties two years later, the only layer of protection in place was my spotty use of the Pill. What can I say? We were both virgins when we started, and I never once thought Nick had been unfaithful. The only thing I cared about was not having a baby.

One month into my relationship with Mike, who was lucky enough to date Trophy Frema for ten months, I still believed that to be true. However, thanks to all the literature passed around in high school health class, I knew the most responsible course of action when taking on a new partner was to undergo testing for sexually transmitted diseases. At twenty-six years old, almost twenty-seven, Mike had been with twelve women, and it strengthened my resolve all the more.

That's another day I'll never forget, driving the two hours with him to a congested Illinois suburb to receive services at a free clinic sporting stark, white walls and rows of plastic chairs littered with outdated issues of the Chicago Sun-Times. We waited another hour and a half to be seen, and during that time we sat silently because, really, is any sort of small talk appropriate when you're waiting to find out if any previous sexcapades ruined your fertility or planted warts on your privates?

Once our names were called, each of us was whisked away to separate examining rooms, and I solemnly spread my legs as a doctor who couldn't pronounce my name performed a pap smear conducted a culture under harsh florescent lights. When it was over, the nurse who assisted him gave me a brown paper bag filled with female condoms, assuring me that "your guy will thank you for these, honey, I promise." After I donned my clothes, I found Mike already waiting for me in the lobby. "How did it go?" I asked.

He was pretty quiet until we were almost to the stairway, where he stopped, placed his hands on my shoulders, and said, "I love you, but I didn't go through with it." Something about them wanting to stick a Q-Tip through his you know and him vehemently denying access. We argued about it all the way to the car, but ultimately he won, because he said he wore a condom with his last girlfriend, and he'd been tested a few times before, and he was positive he didn't have gonorrhea, and that was that. And even though I knew he'd been with four women in the last twelve months because the forms had a spot for listing your number of sexual partners and he commented on 2000 being a pretty good year, I didn't push the issue. Adding to the madness was the fact that I was still on birth control, but we never used a condom. Not even the female ones endorsed by my overly enthusiastic free-clinic nurse. I was in love, and I trusted him. For almost a year I trusted him, until we broke up, and Luke and I started dating, and soon we were asking questions about the other's sexual history. We brought up the idea of STD testing but never took it any further.

Until this year.

While reading through my Kerflop-approved copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health, I discovered a whole chapter dedicated to the correlation between STDs and infertility, and by the end I couldn't believe how reckless I'd been to kabosh testing after Mike and I parted ways. Suddenly all of my former hesitations--Where will I find another free clinic? What if the doctor calls me a slut? What if Luke thinks I don't trust him?--paled in comparison to the possibility of passing something harmful along to our future baby.

So today, after conducting my second ob/gyn interview in two weeks, I explained my concerns to the doctor, and she didn't grimace in disgust or tsk tsk at my careless behavior. Instead, she arranged for me to meet with the phlebotomist and have my blood drawn to test for HIV, hepatitis, and syphilis. I'll see her again in six weeks for a culture, where she'll gather samples to test for gonorrhea and chlamydia.

Do I think I have a sexually transmitted disease? No. Do I think Nick or Mike ever cheated on me? No. Do I think Luke contracted anything from his previous partner? No. Am I experiencing any out-of-the-ordinary symptoms? No.

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

Edited to add: Upon further consideration, I don't think the exam I received at the free clinic was a pap smear, since they aren't able to check for STDs that way and the doctor knew that was my sole reason for coming in. Culture, the term my new ob/gyn used, is the correct term.

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Other

A few days ago, Britt of Weekday Wisdom blogged about some embarrassing moments she experienced in middle school, and it got me to thinking about an incident in my past I'm not exactly shouting from the rooftops myself, an incident that truly encapsulates the severity of my pre-teen awkardness. And I thought you'd like to hear it. Consider it my Thanksgiving present to you.

The year was 1989, the backdrop fourth grade, and for all but one of the twenty-nine students in Ms. Socha's classroom, the subject was math; for Frema, however, it related to how long she could refrain from spilling the contents of her bladder all over her hardwood chair. Ms. Socha must've had her back turned to the students for a good five minutes while she wrote out various mathematical formulas like fractions and multiplication tables and division exercises and other important number things, while I raised my left hand like an enemy ship waving a white flag after initiating an attack over unfriendly waters: fiercely, with passion, filled with hope for a better tomorrow. But I didn't care about tomorrow; all I wanted was thirty seconds to reconcile with the unfriendly waters raging in my urinary tract.

If this predicament had fallen upon a more confident child, the course of action would've been easy. Say the woman's name already! Students do it all the time! For some reason, though, the thought of asking my teacher for permission to use the potty in front of my peers was more horrifying than wetting my pants.

Which is exactly why I wet my pants.

It started out innocently enough. I'll just go a little bit, I thought, just enough to relieve the pain until Ms. Socha's done at the board, but you know how it goes. Similar to devouring a container of Pringles, once you pop, you can't stop. Two minutes later, my teacher had turned to face the class, a yellow puddle had formed beneath my desk, and I had darted off to the community restroom JUST ACROSS THE HALL (thus making my tale even more tragic), where I cried and peed to my heart's content. Luckily math was the last subject of the day, and since we were so close to dismissal already, I hung out in one of the stalls while the bathroom monitor contacted my mother about bringing a fresh change of clothes for the walk home.

The following morning, I was terrified to go to school; fourth graders aren't known for their compassionate dispositions, the boys being an especially awful lot; it wasn't uncommon for them to taunt their female counterparts by pulling on their hair or mercilessly chanting "Skid Row beat up New Kids!" during recess. It had taken hours to fall asleep the night before, imagining the horrible tricks they might have up their sleeves for me.

Seeing as I approached the playground with this mindset, you can imagine my surprise when a group of friends circled around me hastily, anxious to receive an update on what they called my dire medical condition; apparently everyone had been told I'd gotten sick in class and thrown up in my seat. How a bunch of kids mistook urine for vomit I'll never know. Maybe it was Ms. Socha's doing. Maybe it was God's. Either way, somebody saved my gluteus maximus from months of teasing and humiliation, and I will never forget it.

Tell me, what was your most embarrassing moment as a kid?

Bringing Stupid Back

After more than a week of soup, spaghetti, and take out, yesterday I decided to prepare an actual meal. "Pork and vegetables" was originally slated for last Monday, and since the main ingredients had already been purchased, pork and vegetables it was.

With a few dishes under my belt, the whole cooking thing is becoming much more enjoyable, thus making it easier to navigate through each step. It took just twenty minutes to cut the potatoes, slice the carrots, and "wedge" the onions, and according to my Pillsbury cookbook, the whole sensuous ensemble would be ready in the same amount of time it would take to recap the AMC episode of the day. Just stick the meat thermometer into the thickest part of the meat to verify it cooked all the way through, and the triumph of another successful dinner would be mine.

True to Pillsbury's word, the time went off just as Zach and Dixie's murder trial came to fruition. Hurriedly I ran to the stove, eager to show off my mad housewifery skillz to a husband who graciously launders ninety-eight percent of our clothes, and became dismayed to find the face of the meat thermometer glued to the top of the oven. "Oh, well, at least the meat is done!"

"What do you mean, 'At least the meat is done?'" Luke jumped up from his seat on the couch in time to see me extract a now-ruined thermometer from the pork's caboose. "You're not supposed to cook that with the food!"

"But the book said to stick it in the thickest part of the meat!"

"Yes. AFTER it's done cooking!"

"Then why did they include it at the beginning of the directions?"

Luke: Bangs head against wall, wonders if this incident provides sufficient grounds for divorce.

Frema: Doesn't blame him.

Utensils And Their Place In Corporate America

This morning I attended a roundtable session that focused on the future of life sciences in Indianapolis, as my boss was invited to co-facilitate the discussion as an industry expert. Since I have to write a story about his involvement, I decided to tag along. The start time forced me to wake up half an hour earlier than normal, and in such instances, there's only time for the bare essentials. There's no eyelash curling, no applying of the chapstick, and certainly no time to scarf down a bowl of cereal. But no worries--the session decided to attract participants by way of the continental breakfast, which really just means coffee and fruit, but still creates a little ball of excitement in the pit of your stomach, because getting your hands on free food provides legitimate yet dignified means to stick it to The Man.

I arrived at the conference room at a quarter to eight, allowing me plenty of time to fill up on my share of grapes, and was pleasantly surprised to find almond-braided coffee cake and danishes in the midst of breakfast offerings. I grabbed a plate and carefully selected items least likely to get stuck in my teeth. Just needed some juice and a fork and I'd happily be on my way.

Except there were no forks. Little red coffee straws? Check. Napkins? Check. Butter? Confusing, but also Check. Zero forks.

At first in denial, I blamed its absence on my poor findability skills. (Yes, it's a word.) (OK, no, not really, but don't you think it should be?) My eyes scanned the table again, but nothing. Then I looked back at my knife.

Now, in case you couldn't tell through the style and subject matter of my entries, I'm not a classy girl. I attach "You know?" to the end of ninety percent of my sentences. I don't own a business suit. I still can't eliminate The Crease from my eyelids. And if there's more than one spoon surrounding my plate, I pick up the closest one and use it for the entire meal. That's just me, you know?

So when my eyes rested on the knife, I thought perhaps it was part of a New Way to eat pineapple wedges and grapefruit slices that I was too unrefined to know about. Because the other option was to eat it with my fingers, always the thing to do when you're surrounded by white-collar executives eager to check their Blackberrys in five-minute intervals and hand you a business card upon learning your name. I considered asking, but if it really was The New Way To Eat Fruit, I sure as hell wasn't going to out myself. So I took the knife and headed back to my seat.

Once everyone was settled in and the PowerPoint was in motion, I oh-so-subtly took a survey of the room and mentally counted the individuals in my vicinity brave enough to tackle the whole fruit/no-fork thing, and pinpointed a guy about my age just two seats down who'd filled his plate with grapefruit. I waited to see how he would approach said grapefruit.

Five minutes. Nothing.

Ten minutes. Nope, not hungry yet.

It was an hour and a half before he took a piece of grapefruit and ate it with his fingers.

In the meantime, I had used my knife to cut my coffee cake into sections and pop the cubes into my mouth (sophisticatedly, of course) (Yes, I know that's not a word either, but really, people, I'm not very smart), leaving the fruit untouched the whole time, so I finally broke down, cut up the pineapple, and followed my nearby companion's example. I figured if anyone picked up on the sound of me sucking my fingers dry, I could shrug my shoulders and nod my head in his direction, as if to say, "There's your real culprit."

It's amazing, the number of etiquette-related behaviors that have ceased to find a place in Corporate America. Or maybe it's more about status. After all, my nearby companion and I waited out almost the entire length of the program before we gave in to our fruity hunger. (No pun intended.) (Well, maybe a little bit intended.) (What is it with me and parentheses today?) However, the seasoned researcher who presented the PowerPoint had no problems wiping his nose with a Kleenex while still at the podium, and one of the panel members removed his glasses to give his face a thorough once-over with his hand. These are the same people who delight in telling stories from "back in the day" and pointing out to you--in a group consisting of you and your superiors--how those stories are way before "your time."

You Baby Boomers say what you want about Generation Xers and our lack of interest in big business, but dammit, at least we have manners.

I Don't Know Which One Owes Me More For The Free Publicity

OK, if you were watching tonight's episode of 24 (which, !), at approximately 9:47 p.m. eastern standard time, you bore witness to the glory that is Taco Bell's newest promo for the Chicken Ceasar Grilled Stuft burrito. Why does Frema care about Taco Bell? you might ask. Well, Frema doesn't care about Taco Bell. Frema would rather eat the skin off her fingernails (and sometimes does) than eat Taco Bell. However, she DOES have a vested interested in the gold-painted Greek who says, "Why, thank you!" at the end of the commercial, because that Greek? Is none other than Jason Chambers--former object of unrequited luurve, current BFF.

Well, a BFF that I haven't seen in almost two years, but whatever.

As you can tell from his Web site, Jason is an actor. In fact, you've probably seen him in action. Maybe you caught him choking down cheese-covered grasshoppers on Fear Factor. No? How about regurgitating Jerry Seinfeld's "women are like parked cars" analogy to FOX executives during a screening interview for Joe Millionaire? He's also been A Guy At The Bar Reading A Paper on Guiding Light, Recurring Bartender on As The World Turns, and Featured Lead Punk in Bob Harvey, a movie Jason swears actually exists. We once pulled an all-nighter taping his video audition for the part of Leo on All My Children (my mad acting skillz qualified me to read the part of Dixie off-camera). He's also guest-starred on a little talk show I like to call JERRY FREAKIN' SPRINGER.

Apparently, so have I.

Jason and I met in Chicago in the spring of 1994 during Maria High School's production of Fiddler on the Roof. I was a Russian dancer who could do leg circles like nobody's business; he could balance a bottle on his head during Tevye's rendition of "L'Chaim." My sophomore year, he was the Bottom to my Peter Quince in A Midsummer Night's Dream. It was after that play we started hanging out. His first visit to my house had him making spaghetti and dinner rolls for my entire family, which charmed the pants off my mother, and he was the only guy who wasn't intimidated by my father, whose personality bore striking resemblances to Kevin Arnold's dad's on The Wonder Years. He was also the one male in my life pre-Luke allowed to spend the night, which meant we could play rounds of Tiger Woods Golf 'til we passed out on the floor.

My second year in college, Jason made his first TV appearance as a guest on Jerry Springer as a stud muffin engaging in a torrid sexual affair with the girlfriend of his childhood pal "Ben," some guy he'd just met the day before. This stint gave him an in with the Jermeister's publicity department and empowered him with tickets to at least five shows a month. One fall day he coerced me into skipping a day of class to attend a taping with him and his latest girlfriend (who eventually became the mother of his now six-year-old son, but that's another story), I coerced This Girl, and suddenly we were in the audience for "Shocking Secret Lovers." My favorite storyline involved a 350-pound woman named Tiny who walked on stage wearing nothing but a matching bra-and-panties set from J.C. Penney and turned out to be Dwayne the Lame's mistress because Dwayne's actual girlfriend didn't know how to mate socks. Dwayne wanted a woman "who could give him the world."

My opportunity for fifteen minutes of fame presented itself during the questions and comments portion of the show and is the only instance in my life I blame entirely on mob mentality. With all the hootin' and hollerin' I'd done for Jerry and Steve and the dignity of baby's mommas everywhere, I was an impressionable vessel bursting with a burning desire to tear down the self-esteem of others. So, it shouldn't surprise you that when Jerry approached me with the microphone, I all but grabbed it from him to deliver a cleverly worded put-down to Dwayne:

"You said you wanted a woman who could give you the world? Well, ya sure got your hands full now!"

Spent and satisfied, I was able to contain myself until the end of filming, at which time I attacked Jerry with a 33mm camera and forged an unshakable bond between my undergraduate alma mater and questionable daytime television. Good times.

Hmmm. Where was I going with all of this? Oh, yeah.

Jason Chambers is my friend. Watch for his Taco Bell commercial. He's very gold--almost as gold as the Saint Joe long-sleeve I wore on JERRY FREAKIN' SPRINGER.

So Worth The Onions

I once broke up with someone the day after Valentine's Day. As a sophomore in high school, I dated Jon for one month and sixteen days, our courtship initiated on New Year's Eve while sitting on the stoop of my front porch. On February 15, we were hanging out in my room, and miracle of miracles, I was even allowed to shut the door. This was huge, as my parents preferred my dates to consist of me and my suitor playing Mortal Kombat on the Sega in the living room with my seven-year-old brother. I think they were just so happy I had attracted a boy who not only had a GPA higher than 1.7 but also intended to pursue medical school that the possibility of grandchildren conceived out of wedlock wasn't such a bad idea. With my track record, it wouldn't have been unreasonable to assume he was my last chance to cinch a connection to any man who dared to finish high school.

When it came to boyfriends, I had a few strengths. I knew how to make out, maintain awkward silences for as long as thirty minutes in order to avoid conflict (both on the phone and in person, how talented was I?), and pretend not to notice that joint sticking out the pocket of your flannel hoodie. Hell, I did it for five years. However, these strengths did not apply to transitional men, because life was too short, I wasn't that good an actress, and besides, Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, was totally going to come crawling back to me sans hoodie and drug-free.

Anyway, we're in my room, me making small talk, him making a pencil sketch of fall trees in bloom as he was both a doctor-in-training and aspiring artist, and we fall into the topic of some bet we' recently settled. What the bet was about, I have not a clue; maybe we were gambling on whether or not Mel Gibson's scraggly mane in Braveheart was real or if Ross and Rachel were in fact each other's lobster. I only remember that the winner had the power make the loser do whatever he/she wanted, and I was the loser. Jon decides that he wants me to kiss the person of my choice. I decide that Jon has devised a clever way to propose our first kiss; also, that I have no interest in exploring a first of any kind with him.

"Can I pick the dog?" I ask.

Of course, this leads to The Talk, how it's not him, it's me, I'm in a Bad Place, blah blah blah. The poor guy was on the verge of tears, which back then I thought, "Soooo lame." If only he'd been a pot-smoking, comic-book reading, high-school dropout. Then I would've put him on a pedestal.

Stupid girl. Also, bitch.

Ten years later, my actions are much more appropriate for the occasion, only now it's less about Valentine's Day and more about it being Luke's birthday. Not only did I surprise him with some kick-@$$ presents, I also cooked a chicken fajita dinner ALL BY MYSELF, because I'm domestic like that, and bought a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. Note to self: buying food is much, much easier. It's also less likely to smudge your mascara.

However, Luke had a kick-@$$ surprise of his own, which I discovered at work when pulling out the Care Bears fruit snacks from my lunch bag. It was a Charlie Brown Valentine's Day card with an inscription that read, "I love you so much, Frema, and I can't wait until the next Valentine's Day because we'll be married for that one."

I almost cried, which is really saying something, because you know me. I never cry.

To Plate Or Not to Plate

While trying to fudge with the margins of a balance sheet I'd just pasted into PowerPoint at work, I received a phone call from my aunt, my father's sister, who also happens to be my godmother. It had been a few months since we last talked, so she asked about my job, offered congratulations on Luke's and my engagement, and wished me a happy birthday. We were on the phone no longer than five minutes before she got down to business.

"I want to buy your china," she said.

"Oh?"

"I'm looking at the catalog for Carson's, and they've got like seven patterns on sale for fifty percent off. I wanted to get you white, you know, so that they could go with everything, and they have different trim colors. Do you want blue, silver, or gold?"

"Oh!"

"If you don't get it now, you're never going to get it, you know? I figured that since you're a professional, you'll need it, you know, to entertain."

"Yeah.... Thanks, Auntie. I really appreciate you wanting to do this for us."

"So which one do you want?"

"Can I talk to Luke first?"

"Sure, sure. I wanted to get you something special, honey, since I'm your godmother. I want to do this for you."

"I know, and I appreciate it. But.... Auntie? I don't have people from work over for dinner. And we kind of weren't even thinking of china right now. We were just going to look some regular dishes--ones we could use every day."

"Well, I'm not sure how long this sale is going on...." (Flip, flip says the pages of a Carson Pierre Scott catalog, because my aunt believes that Carson's is the Greatest Store on Earth.)

"It's really nice of you to want to do this for us. But I don't even know where we'd put stuff like that right now. We don't even know where we're going to live afterwards."

"I have a girlfriend who got into a house with almost zero down. You could do that, couldn't you?"

"Yeah, but...."

And so on and so on.

I have no doubt that her intentions were sincere. Throughout the years, she's made a conscious effort to remember my birthday, buy me gifts at Christmastime, and generally establish a relationship that better mirrors one that's shared between girlfriends. And I'm grateful for that.

But that's not the point. The point is this whole china thing. I don't want china. Luke doesn't want china. Luke and I don't want china! We eat soup out of bowls from the Dollar Store that have been disfigured by the microwave and spaghetti off of plates that bear rust stains on the rim. We're simple folk, really, and have no need for plates that cost more than ten bucks apiece and/or could inspire the makings of a family feud years after our death.

"I want Momma Frema's white gold china with the blue trim she and Daddy got from Carson's!"

See? No good for anybody.

But I couldn't make my aunt see that. It makes me wonder if the gift is about me having the china or my aunt being able to say that she bought me the china. I couldn't have been any nicer about not wanting the china, any more appreciative about appreciating the sentiment but not appreciating the china. Yet still, it's all about the china.

China, china, china! And while we're at it, Appreciate!

I suppose this was to be expected. When my sister got married last summer, HER godmother was also insistent about purchasing fancy plates and went so far as to tell her to register for a nice pattern at Marshall Field's. Samantha didn't need the china, either, but she didn't want to appear ungrateful, so she went downtown at the height of the Wedding Crazy and picked something out. A few days later, the godmother, the person who asked Samantha to register for the dishes in the first place, called her back and suggested that maybe she would consider a lesser pattern at Sears?

Samantha said a paper shredder would do just fine, thank you very much.

Her godmother bought the china. One setting, to be exact, as in one cup, one plate, one bowl. Samantha returned them all and got her very first Coach purse. This is quite distressing, as I am the oldest sister and I don't even have a Coach purse.

Maybe I should reconsider my aunt's offer after all.

Belated Apology

The last three days have been a whirlwind of activity centered around cake testing, tuxedo shopping, invitation choosing, and birthday celebrating. Plus, my good friend Molly gave birth to her second son, Jack, this morning, who just happened to be the New Year's baby for their hospital, so a big hip hip HOORAY! to the Ray family, PLUS, I've caught up on the first of two weeks of All My Children tapes and discovered that Dixie is alive! Could life get any better? I think not.

Our experiences over the weekend bring with them the potential of amazing blog entries, but I'll let Luke handle that. The thing I can't stop obsessing over is the etiquettenesss (is that even a word?) of the whole thing. Dates for singles? Kids or no kids? Perform or forgo bouquet and garter tosses? Make room for or scratch off "The Chicken Dance"? The pressure from all this decision-making is enough to break my body into a thousand tiny pieces.

However, the most interesting directive falls upon the shoulders of your guests: Guests, if you RSVP for the ceremony and reception, please plan to the attend the ceremony and reception. When you agree to take part in somebody's special day, please don't show up at the church and leave the bride and groom with apologies that you won't be at the hall because your boyfriend wants to take a nap and you are too much of an @$$wipe to stand up to him.

That @$$wipe? Would be Trophy Frema. She did it to baby Jack's momma on October 28, 2000--her wedding day.

During the ten months that Mike and I dated, I ran myself ragged trying to please him. I bought him cigarettes even though I despise them and to this day still attempt to wiggle out of my mother's requests to pick up a pack for her at the corner store. I charged extra cell phone minutes on my credit card so he could call his buddy from the aisles of Best Buy to get the name of a Nirvana CD he had to have. And I acted like it was no big deal that he didn't want to go to Molly and Kevin's wedding because it was the same weekend of his annual Halloween party, and I didn't think I was a good enough reason for the party not to go on.

I eventually guilted him into agreeing to be included on the RSVP, while he eventually guilted me into skipping the reception, saying he'd worked a long week and was really tired and just wanted to go home and sleep. So, instead of expressing my excitment at the night's upcoming festivities, I gave Molly a hug and shook Kevin's hand after their beautiful ceremony and left them standing there at the end of the service with nothing but a congratulations and our regrets. Turns out The Powers That Be found a way to punish me for my faux pas, because that same night Mike patted my stomach and casually remarked, "You didn't have this when we first started going out." Karma, she's a bitch.

Today, as I reflect on all the time and effort Luke and I have funneled into this wedding to date, it crystalizes for me just what it means to be included on somebody's guest list. It means you are wanted. It means you are loved. It means your relationship is worth a twenty-dollar meal and the price of an open bar. In other words, you are not expendable.

I also realize how lucky I am that Molly never called me out on the rudeness of my behavior, that she never tried to make me feel bad, that she continued to be my friend. During these next few months, may God bless me with the same grace and understanding this incredible woman exercised with someone who should have known better. For what it's worth, Molly, I know better now.

"It Tastes Like Feet!"

Today provided a sort of break-through moment for me, as the technical director I have inwardly referred to as The Man Who Hates My Guts Or At Least Doesn't Like Me Very Much made it a special point to invite me to the company's Christmas breakfast, a breakfast I had originally planned to skip because there would be things like French toast and omelets and I don't like French toast and omelets and I didn't want to appear snobby by participating in a breakfast at which I didn't plan to eat.

However, I had been so sure that this man Hated My Guts Or At Least Didn't Like Me Very Much and was therefore so moved by this gesture that I could only smile, nod, and follow him to the breakroom, where he and another scientist were playing chef. I took in the scene: griddles with toast sticks, tubes of salsa, sheets of bacon, and frying pans for yucky, cheesy, surely-going-to-increase-my-cholesterol omelets. To my relief, though, there was also a healthy supply of muffins and bagels. Was there a chance I could survive this experience carbed up and unscathed?

"So, what'll it be?" he asked.

At that point a banana-nut muffin was already on my plate; yet, instinctively, I knew that wouldn't be enough to appease the emotional appetite of a man determined to feed me. So I did what many eager-to-pleasers have done before: play dumb to stall for time.

"You know, I've never even had an omelet. What goes into one?"

"Meat, mushrooms, cheese.... Whatever you want."

"Aww! I'm supposed to cut down my cheese intake," I said apologetically, all the while mentally high-fiving myself for pulling out the health card, because really, who has the gall to challenge the health card? Surely not The Man?

"We don't have to put cheese in it. We can cook it however you want. Really."

"Oh."

By now it's decision time and I'm panicked. I don't understand! I like meat, mushrooms, and cheese. But I don't like omelets. Why don't I like omelets? Tell me, Jesus, why don't I like omelets?

It wasn't until after I had agreed to my sentence that my eyes met his hand and my prayer was answered.

Ding Ding Ding Ding Ding! Eggs, you idiot moron! You know, that rubbery yellow $#@* that made you wretch on sight as a kid? The crap that even your mother stopped trying to forcefeed you because she was sick and tired of cleaning up your--

Amen.

I watched in horror as the eggs got eggier and the omelet got omeletier and pretty soon it was impossible to tell where one part ended and the other began. In mere minutes, The Man was presenting his finished masterpiece.

"You wanna put salsa on that?" he asked.

The hell? But there was no choice. In a desperate attempt to cancel out the substance's rubber plasticity, I drowned that mutha in Pace and never looked back.

Once at the table, I took my time. Had a drink of cranberry juice. Enjoyed a slice of bacon. Picked at the meat that had worked its way out of its taco-like coccoon. Checked to see if The Man was looking.

The Man was looking. And kept looking until a forkful of the stuff was in my mouth.

"How do you like your first omelet?" he asked, and I was immediately reminded of that episode of Friends where Rachel makes the beef trifle. It took all my energy NOT to disguise my gag reflex with belly rubs, head nods, and encouraging mmmm sounds.

Luckily, it only took one "It's good!" from me before he had to go back to work, and then my other colleagues were going back to work and I was on the path back to my cubicle, believing myself fortunate to escape the situation as intact as I did. The omelet sat on my desk for approximately twelve minutes before I wrapped it up in a paper towel and stuffed it in the trash.

One day, when The Man and I are bosom friends, I'll share this story and we'll enjoy a hearty laugh, just like how my former boss likes to bring up the time she found my doodle paper in the fax room, bearing scribbles that combined her first name with the last name of her last boyfriend. Just to see if it looked nice.

Quiz Show

Today is significant because:

a) It's pay day.

b) The January issue of Glamour arrived in the mail.

c) I participated in an all-you-can-eat spinach dip contest.

d) It's exactly five months to the day Luke and I say "I do"

And the answer is... D, for Dammit, It's About Freaking Time!

On the night I returned home from my trip to Minnesota, the Red Sea parted and the angels in Heaven sang a chorus of "Hallelujah" as Luke got on bended knee and asked me to be his wife. With me in sweat pants and a blubbery mess of tears. Then it was Ramen noodle soup and off to bed, because it was eleven o'clock and we were both tired and apparently we now resemble senior citizens who get pooped after a round of Bingo and an episode of Wheel of Fortune.

I have to say, thus far, our journey to the altar has been anything but traditional. The shenanigans began in mid-November, when we started talking about having a May wedding, and wouldn't it be nice to have a May wedding?

Then came the day after Thanksgiving, when the two of us not only picked out my engagement ring, but Luke had "The Talk" with my dad.

Saturday, December 3: Luke picks up the ring, which I refuse to lay eyes on again until it's slipped on my finger. I worry all the good May dates will be taken. We nail the hall for Friday, May 12, 2006, in Merrillville.

Sunday, December 4: Secure the pastor. (Yes, pastor. However, the race isn't over until the Fat Lady baptizes someone. The Catholics still have a chance!)

Monday, December 5: Book a gazebo for the ceremony.

Wednesday, December 7: Officially become engaged (read: I'm finally wearing the ring that keeps me from looking like a fool for making plans without having the goods to back them up).

This weekend was The Telling Of The Families, which means it's now OK to share our happiness with the entire Internet, which I have been dying to do since Black Friday. So now you know why my entries have been somewhat sporadic. Suppressing the information that has just about taken over my entire being was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It was worth it, though, to see everyone's faces when we sprung the news. The scene at my parents' house was like one comprehensive episode of The Brady Bunch, with Marcia and Greg building the house of cards in one corner, Bobby weeping over the disappearance of Tiger in another, and Jan yakking it up with George Glass. I finally shouted, "Everyonebequietwehavesomethingtotellyou!" Then I held up my left hand and cried, "We're engaged!"

Imagine much hugging and crying and the perusing of many, many bridal magazines.

This moment in our lives has been four and a half years in the making, originally conceived one April night when I was brave enough to bounce a check.

We're so happy.

Note: I am fully aware that the publishing date of this entry says Monday, December 12, but that the actual publishing date is Tuesday, December 13. However, if I were to officially acknowledge this by changing the date, my whole quiz gimmick would go to pot and I would have to kill Luke for being too tired to blog and thus foiling our plan to update our blogs within minutes of each other so neither could accuse the other of stealing the wedding thunder. See how well that worked out?

Scream 4: Indianapolis

Time: Monday Night

Scene: Frema and Useless Clutter's Apartment

It's 7:30 p.m., and Frema has just come home from a mentoring session with Annie. Tired from staying up late the night before, she is anxious to change into her pajamas and perhaps maybe dabble in some dip of the spinach and artichoke variety. Eyelids half closed, these are the thoughts running through her mind when she unlocks the door to her apartment. The lights to their newly decorated Christmas tree are on; Frema tilts her head and releases a happy sigh at the idea of peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. All should be quiet, as Useless Clutter is participating in the first night of his evening temp job. But what's that noise? The alarm clock? Could Useless have overslept and missed his first night of work?

Frema makes her way to the back of the apartment to the bedroom, where the alarm is set for 6:45 p.m. She turns off the noise and then turns her head. Why is his sock drawer sitting in disarray on their bed?

Frema is very aware now that something isn't right. A cold rush goes through her body as she slowly works her way through the apartment. The garbage can lid is up. Kitchen cabinets are ajar.

There's a good possibility a manevolent stranger is taking refuge in her pad.

Frema barely refrains from wetting her pants as scenes from Halloween, Child's Play, and Pet Sematary race through her head, and she hesitates at the doorway of each room. She resists calling out, as that very act has resulted in many Hollywood characters meeting their maker prematurely and with lots of blood. She does, however, turn on each light and investigate each space: behind the shower curtain; inside the laundry room and the hallway closet. She cannot bring herself to crouch down and check under the bed. She'd rather be knifed in the ankles then in the face, as her Prada glasses offer no stab-free guarantee.

The check is complete. Nobody is in the house. But that doesn't mean there never was. Frema realizes that Useless could have been kidnapped and tortured into revealing his girlfriend's schedule. He might still come back for her. Maybe to rape her. Maybe to slash her throat or pump bullets into her skin. Frema thinks she needs to get THE HELL out of there.

But first, she turns on the TV. That guy with the mustache from The Insider is talking about some obese woman with a disease that makes her think she's hungry all the time. She has a bad habit of hiding unbaked cookie dough in the soles of her shoes.

This could be interesting. And she IS really tired. Surely the killer wouldn't arrive in the next half hour, she thinks, and settles her bottom into the softest spot of the couch.

Later, Frema will learn that Useless made it to work unscathed. However, he did have some trouble finding his ID.

End Scene

Priceless

* As Number Twelve chronicles the story of how she met her husband, it reminded me I've never shared with you just how Luke and I came to be. I wrote the story last year, and it was published by the Rensselaer writing club I belonged to. Here, the highlights. And one adorably dorky photo.

Almost five years ago, when I was writing for the second-smallest daily newspaper in Indiana, I was a junior in college who wasn't looking for a serious relationship. I already had one proving to be more trouble than it was worth. But when Luke's brown eyes and kind handshake greeted me one December afternoon, I instantly knew he was something special. When I returned to my residence hall an hour later, I couldn't help babbling to my friends about the cute reporter I'd met that day. He believed in God, loved his parents, and thought stealing was wrong; that alone placed him above and beyond every boyfriend I'd ever had. I was hooked.

I still had my own beau back home, but my enchantment with the cigarette smoke and Play Station 2 that so encompassed him was fading fast. Breaking up with him was easy; showing Luke I was now an eligible bachelorette required more effort. There were "just-writing-to-say-hi" messages delivered several times a week to his home e-mail address, conversations about Kevin Smith movies and Ice Cube, and invitations for him to join the Relay For Life team I was captaining in town. Soon he was making mixed tapes--always an encouraging sign, am I right, ladies?--and returning from vacations with souvenirs especially for me. When I found out he had reluctantly agreed to volunteer his time at a local charity bachelor auction that April, and that there was one ticket to spare, I felt my cards had finally fallen into place. The night of the auction, though, I was beginning to doubt my decision, so I devised a plan: I would not take along any credit cards or receive any cash advances from my ATM. My ammunition consisted of a Monopoly-themed checkbook with a fifteen-dollar balance and a twenty-dollar bill. If God couldn't find it in His heart to present to me The Man Of My Dreams for a combined thirty-five bucks, surely it was a sign we were not meant to be.

As I made my way into the VFW hall, wearing the only dress I owned at the time, a velvet number totally inappropriate for spring, I did what any restless girl would do in an unfamiliar place: head to the bar. By the time the auction began, the room was slightly off-kilter and my bladder was filled to capacity. Meanwhile, Luke had already downed four rum and cokes. Earlier in the week, he'd confided in me that he wasn't very secure in the Looks Department and was afraid it would detract potential buyers. Silly boy--I was already worried that hoards of drunk female professionals would trump me with their plastic before I made my own meager offer.

And suddenly, he was up.

"Can we start the bidding at fifty dollars?" the emcee asked. I bit my lip and frantically shot a look at one of my female coworkers, who whispered, "Bid, Frema! Bid!"

"Fifty dollars!" I shouted, and the whole room stopped and stared at my overzealous announcement. I couldn't meet Luke’s eyes as the emcee said, "I've got fifty dollars! Can I hear fifty-five?"

"Fifty-five!" I replied. Then, "Sixty!" I eventually outbid myself with a grand total of one hundred and twenty dollars. The other ladies never stood a chance.

"Sold to the lady in red for one hundred and twenty dollars!" he concluded, and then it was up to me to collect my new prize. I grabbed Luke's arm. "I wouldn't let them get you," I whispered, still afraid to meet his eyes.

"Thanks," he said.

After the bidding was over, there was the small matter of payment. That's when I remembered my pre-auction resolution and the fact that I was ninety-five dollars short. I gulped as I wrote out my check and handed it to the cashier. Everything will work out, I told myself firmly, but really, it didn't. I bounced that check, as well as the one I wrote to cover it. And so it went for two months until I landed a steady summer job selling popcorn and pretzels to snobby tourists at Navy Pier. Adjusted grand total: one hundred and ninety five dollars.

But he's worth ten million times more.

God Works in Indianapolis Ways

Through no (recent) work on my part, it looks like my dream of finding a new job by graduation is actually coming true.

It all started on Monday, when my employer held its annual student career fair. I was visiting with an alumnus, "Dr. Job," who owns an analytical laboratory in Indianapolis. I've interviewed Dr. Job several times over the last three years and knew him well enough to stop by his booth for some chit-chat. Our conversation included him asking me about my plans after receiving my master's degree. I told him I wasn't sure but was interested in working for a smaller company, as I liked the personal contact between employees.

"Well," he asked, "how would you like to come work for me?" and proceeded to say that his company has been expanding and he needs help with proposal writing, newsletter writing, and the like and that he's had me in mind for a long time. The position would be new; I could start whenever I was ready.

Great news, right? So I had lunch with Luke that day and told him all about it. When I returned, one of my co-workers said that he bumped into Dr. Job and was deluged with a bunch of questions about my work performance. I also spoke to our career development director, who had a similar encounter. The day climaxed when Dr. Job interrupted a meeting I was in WITH MY CURRENT BOSS to talk more about the position. She skidaddled, and then it was just the two of us.

"So," said Dr. Job. "I've been asking around about you today."

"Really? You don't say."

"Oh, yes. Everyone's been very impressed with you, and I think you'd be a great fit for us."

To make a longer story shorter, I'll be making a trip to Indianapolis on April Fool's Day to meet with his team and iron out some details. Judging by his language, the job is mine if I want it, and by the end of Monday, I had decided that unless he offers me minimum wage and slave-labor hours, I'm taking it. I never considered working in Indianapolis, as it would place me farther away from my family and friends in the Chicagoland area, but how exciting to be in a place ALL MINE. Picture it: malls and chain restaurants in the same zip code! I could get a dog! Buy a couch that wasn't from the 1970s! And I could enjoy it all in a great apartment (or condo, if the price is right) while being done with school FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE. I can barely contain myself. Hopefully he won't end our visit by tweaking my nose and shouting "April Fools!"

It's going to be a long week and a half.