What are you looking at?

As Nike likes to say...

"Momma, you're not going to die."

We were all in the car when Nathan said this to me, returning home on a random Thursday from a photo shoot for our church's directory, and I couldn't have been taken more off-guard. Luke's grandmother passed away a few months ago, and since then we've had on-going conversations about death and what it means, but still, kids are masters at the element of surprise.

Luke and I shot glances at each other before I started talking about how everything that is born has a lifecycle, and lifecycles are different for each type of creature, and many people live a very long time and that I probably would, too, because in our family we work hard to stay safe and live in a healthy way. And hey, turtles can live to be over a hundred years old! And afterwards, we get to see God and Jesus in Heaven!

Nathan took my response under careful consideration. We pulled into the garage.

"Momma, I don't want to die."

I freed him from his carseat and hugged him to my chest.

"I don't, either," I replied. Then he ran into the house, asking for cookies.

Maybe - just maybe - I could've handled that better.

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The following Tuesday, I went in for my first mammogram.

I scheduled it after my last physical at the recommendation of my doctor, since two of my mother's sisters were diagnosed with breast cancer before menopause and apparently that is a big deal. One is in remission, thank goodness, and the other, my auntie Debbie, passed away six years ago (WOW) from complications ultimately related to brain cancer. Her daughter was only four when she received that diagnosis - the same age Kara is now.

The results of my mammogram came back normal, but MAN, talk about a reminder that life is short.

Life is short.

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One of my biggest shortcomings is my tendency to wait for inspiration, forgetting it's in the act of doing that we are inspired. For example:

Ever since I was a little girl, I've wanted to write a book. I cranked out tons of short stories in grade school and gave them to my teachers as presents. (Yes, 'lil Frema was quite adorable.) In seventh grade I tied for first place in the Chicago Young Authors Contest for a story about a hit-and-run, and got an A+ when I submitted THE VERY SAME STORY as a final writing assignment my senior year in high school. In eighth grade, more than half the messages in my autograph book ended with, "I can't wait to read your first book!" In high school I laid the groundwork for Tragic Love Friday with my two-part soap opera miniseries. I majored in English in college.

Today? No book.

I can offer a number of excuses as to why that is. I'm not as jazzed about creative writing as I used to be. Blogging satisfies my need to be published. I'm not sure what I want to say. I can't find the time. I'm scared.

But none of them are true except the last one, and that is not good enough.

So last week, I made a declaration to my peeps on Facebook.

I wasn't sure what I wanted to write - something non-fiction, probably, to put my inner monologue to good use - but that didn't matter. I would figure it out. Do it, and then you will be motivated to do it.

Everyone was so generous with encouragement and praise that I forgot about all the reasons I had for not doing it earlier.

And two days later, on my way home from work, driving in the pouring rain, Nelson on the radio, my idea just came to me. Themes and chapter titles were scrolling across my mind like the stock ticker on a news broadcast, and I just started crying.

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Shortly after my announcement on Facebook, one of my middle-school friends commented, "I've been waiting since 7th grade!"

Me, too.

Rolling away my stone

Let It Be Known that on February 24, 2012, Luke and I submitted a payment of almost five thousand dollars to our credit card company, leaving us with a double-digit balance for the first time since 2010. We celebrated with a cheap bottle of red and nineteen dollars' worth of steak and tortillas from Qdoba. Bring on the cookies, bag up those chips. We can afford it. (Today.)

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After four months of intermittent physical therapy, I can finally run with only minimal aches and pains. Did I ever give you the skinny on that whole thing? A PT evaluation in October confirmed my body was still a mess from my last c-section: severe diastasis at least three fingers wide, weak pelvis and lower abs, compression in the right knee between the kneecap and the femur. It was explained that my core was too weak to absorb the regular impact of running, so the full burden fell to my lower half, which promptly failed the task. PT exercises helped alleviate this until my gallbladder pulled a hissy fit on Thanksgiving, and it wasn't until my birthday I felt like anything close to normal. By then it was January and hello, Mini Marathon training!

It had been my plan to run this year's Mini since being pregnant with Liam, with goals of improving on my freshman effort and marking a return to the sport with a PR. At the start of training, though, I hadn't logged a mile since September.

Here is where I experienced my first lesson in Keeping It Real for 2012 and admitted I couldn't tackle the Mini quite the way I planned. Right now I'm following a run-walk schedule that exists only in my head, and it is this: Get outside three times a week. Run when I can, walk when there's pain, and don't feel guilty if I skip two weeks a day. Just keep on.

To date I'm at three miles, and the official training program hosted their 10K race last weekend. CAN WE SAY YIKES. Moving forward, it's probably best that I focus on races where training doesn't start in the dead of winter, especially when we're not in a financial position to take on a gym membership. But that's okay. The important thing is I'm moving again.

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My kids are growing up so fast. The toddlers are signed up for school in the fall - pre-K and preschool, respectively - and will take swim lessons this summer. They're also displaying an interest in learning how to read. How do you spell "snake," Mom? Daddy, how do you spell "airplane"? Kara holds ballet shows in our living room on a regular basis, inspired by Selena's and Olivia's enthusiasm, and will start her first dance class next month. There is constant chatter from her about turning five and going to kindergarten and next year can she please invite school friends to her birthday party and slow down, child, I'm not ready for this yet. Nathan is making steady progress on the potty-training front and adores all things trains and dinosaurs. Liam is cutting two bottom teeth and pulling up on everything in reach. He was baptised at our church, which we are quickly falling in love with, at the end of February. 

Such the little man.

Their relationship is every bit as adorable as you can imagine.

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I'm not sure how to navigate this new place I'm in, having recently resolved to let the dust settle from several years of activity instead of chasing The Next Big Thing. I've adopted four different life plans since the start of 2012, embracing then abandoning each one wholeheartedly when the sense of peace I waited for didn't come. Taking long-held dreams and examining them under a microscope, I'm faced with hard questions. How much of my goal setting has been driven by an attitude of laziness and a longing for easy? Am I allowing the bottles-and-diapers phase of parenting, which is unique and temporary, to misguide decision making related to the future? Have I been moving towards something or running away?

Then there is this: Who am I holding accountable for my long-term happiness, aside from myself? And where am I left if those people fall short? 

(Can you imagine living with this crazy on a daily basis? I assume Luke has your sympathy.)

I've made a lot of declarations the past couple of months - make that the last few years - about family and priorities and What Really Matters, and it's embarrassing to consider another direction now that the follow-through isn't meeting my expectations. Maybe it's the wrong time. Maybe I had the wrong dream. Maybe the alignment of the two already happened - right time, right dream - and I missed the window. No matter what the case, now I have to admit that it might be time to move on.

(Related food for thought: Linda's post on giving up a dream. Note my passionate monologue on plan one near the bottom. That Frema! So naive four weeks ago back then.)

Picture Linus from the Peanuts Gang being asked to give up his security blanket.

Lucky for me I don't need to act on anything today. Even luckier, there's plenty left to hold onto.

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.

Tuck it in, tuck it in *(belly, not baby)

Six weeks and six days ago, I had a baby. Here he is.

The Beach Boys and hottie John Stamos aren't the only ones who want to go to Kokomo.

At six weeks and six days, Liam:

• Has been diagnosed with and declared healed from umbilical granuloma
• Indulges in self-torture by way of pulling his own hair
• Screams after said hair pulling but requires Momma to free him from his iron grip
• Smiles when you plant puckery kisses on his mouth
• Is drawn to light, especially when it's shining through half-closed blinds
• Cannot maintain a dry diaper for longer than eight seconds
• Is settling into a feeding pattern of four ounces every three hours and is already showing signs that he's ready to ditch his middle-of-the-night feeding
• Spent a half-hour awake and smiling in his cradle swing today. THIS IS HUGE.
• Has perfected several facial expressions, including Zoolander's Blue Steel
• Is already losing his hair. Maybe, son, it's because YOU'RE PULLING IT OUT BY THE ROOTS
• Will probably grow up answering to Luke's and my primary nickname of choice: Nathan

Harbored behind those bright blue eyes and chipmunk cheeks is an ocean of wisdom.

Meanwhile, this is me.

At six weeks and six days postpartum, I:

• Drink a lot of coffee, as evidenced by ninety percent of my Facebook posts
• Call milk and cookies my evening poison
• Sit almost five pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight, despite my brand loyalty to all things Oreo
• Lay claim to one (1) infection-free c-section scar
• Have hosted a lengthy visit from the nefarious Aunt Flo
• Heard the phrases "tummy tuck" and "plastic surgeon" uttered by my OB/GYN during last Thursday's postpartum follow-up
• Feel super awesome about this!

Let me explain.

Early on in my second trimester, I was diagnosed with having diastasis recti - the separation of your abdominal muscles into left and right halves. It felt like a pretty big deal at the time, as I cried out in pain whenever someone so much as brushed against my stomach, but by my third trimester, the discomfort was gone and I assumed I was out of the woods. Prior to my c-section, though, my OB/GYN promised to be mindful of my abdominal area and do what she could to tighten things up during surgery, if such tightening were necessary.

The first few weeks after Liam was born, I was in such hell from my c-section and then so focused on recovering that I didn't think much about the diastasis recti, until a fellow Hoosier blogger posted about her own dance with the condition. I wasn't feeling any of the pain Casey talked about, but my stomach protruded in a similar fashion, albeit saddled with eight extra tons of Frema flab. Now, I've never rocked a six-pack, or even a one-pack for that matter, but maybe at least some of the flab could be attributed to this? I decided to ask my doctor about it at my six-week check-up.

The exam itself went great. Incision healed, vitals normal, birth control taken care of (thanks again, honey), physical activity approved.... All good news. Then I brought up the diastasis recti and waited to hear the recommended course of treatment. Ab splint? Physical therapy? Whatever it is, I said, I would do it. Bring it on.

My OB/GYN was silent as she rested her hand slightly below my breasts.

(Get your mind out of the gutter, you.)

"There's still a slight separation I can feel right here," she explained, her hand still in place, "but most of what we're dealing with is stretched out skin."

Hmm. Not exactly the verdict I was hoping for. "Since I'm cleared for exercise, would that do anything for me?" 

She tilted her head as she considered the question. "It could help some, but typically excess skin, once it's there, doesn't go away without surgery."

Enter abdominoplasty/tummy tuck conversation here.

Before you start railing on my doctor, please note that she did not in any way, shape, or form suggest that I need to have this done. If you had been a fly on the wall for my entire check-up, it would have been obvious to you that the thought of carrying around this amount of skin for the rest of my life made me more than a little uncomfortable. She also went on to say that during my c-section, she added some extra stitches to tighten things up around my abdomen and pointed out that internally I am not completely healed. "It's too soon to make any decisions right now. See what you can do with diet and exercise, and after some time, if it still bothers you, I can give you a referral for a plastic surgeon, and you can schedule a consult to get more information."

So, there you have it. One more bullet point to add to my list of "Things I Used to Scoff At Before I Became a Mother."

Seriously, though, I'm not sure what to think. On one hand, even before having kids, I've always had a bit of a belly overhang that kept me from effortlessly shopping for clothes, being naked in front of other people, and having sex without feeling at least a little self-conscious. After Kara, that bit of overhang turned into a tire gut, and after Nathan, graduated to the dreaded "mother's apron" (a term I just today learned from Shape of a Mother, thank you very much), and now? Well, let's just say even the worst "Before" pictures on Wikipedia's abdominoplasty page don't do my midsection justice. Yet, all this time, I've never before entertained the idea of having it surgically removed. Girl power, love yourself and all that jazz. And now as a parent, in particular a mom to a daughter, I worry about the kind of message I would be sending about self-love and acceptance by submitting myself to unnecessary plastic surgery. How can I encourage Kara to embrace who she is, AS she is, if I'm having my own imperfections hacked off with a scalpel?

On the other hand, it's not as if I'm in danger of becoming the next Heidi Montag. Overall I quite like my body and thank God for all it's been able to do, including but not limited to carrying three healthy babies and running a half-marathon. I have no problems walking out of the house sans make-up, even to work, and I can take or leave coloring my hair. Getting a tummy tuck would be a specific answer to a specific problem that's frustrated me for years. And unless I changed my zero-tolerance policy on bikinis and tube tops, the only person besides me who would even notice the end result is Luke. Which is fine by me, since I would only be doing it for me.

As for Kara and the boys? Well, I may be relatively new to parenting, but even I know enough to appreciate that this one choice wouldn't negate years of consistent teaching and role modeling when it comes to loving yourself as you are. Plus, while I believe in the importance of self-acceptance, I also support making your own happiness and not closing a door out of fear for what others might think. 

On the other OTHER hand, cosmetic surgery is not something to be taken lightly, and after three c-sections, going under the knife a fourth time to basically improve my self-esteem hardly sounds appealing. Also, I'm nowhere near convinced that the benefits outweigh the risks when I've barely scratched the surface when it comes to improving my commitment to physical fitness. I may never eliminate my gut entirely that way, but who knows? I might come close, all on my own, and that may be enough.

Also, dudes. Tummy tucks? Not cheap.  Even if I was resigned to having it done, we couldn't afford it until Luke was back at work, which could be another five years away, and even then I'd have a hard time justifying the cost when the money could be deposited into one of our retirement accounts. 

Maybe one day Liam would take pity on me and HE'D pay for the surgery. We could call it the Mother's Day gift that keeps on giving. You think?

Luckily, this is not a decision I have to make (or can afford to make!) tomorrow. What I can do is run over to Wal-Mart, pick up a new Jillian Michaels video, and draw inspiration from one Marty McFly: "If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."

Now for what YOU can do: Ripped in 30 or 6-Week Six-Pack?

* ETA because I didn't even think about the title indicating that this might be a sleep entry.

This is what four weeks postpartum looks like

Four weeks ago yesterday, at 9:48 a.m., the last child I will ever carry (that is, unless Luke is fatally injured, I meet Joshua Jackson, and he requires biological offspring in lieu of a marriage prenup) was strategically evicted from my uterus. Only it doesn't feel like four weeks ago, more like an eternity, because it's already that difficult to imagine what life was like without Liam.

Fortunately and unfortunately, the biggest hurdle to overcome thus far has been my own physical recovery. There's some persistent fluid build-up causing tenderness in my abdominal area, tenderness that until a few days ago inspired mild nausea whenever anyone came into contact with my stomach, and my tire gut contributed to bacterial and fungal infections around my incision that interfered with the normal healing process. Apparently, all that extra skin (sexy!) worked against me when it came to keeping the scar dry, turning the whole area into a red, blotchy mess. I've been to my ob/gyn's office twice since coming home from the hospital, with another follow-up slated for today. 

Luckily, an elaborate ritual involving cotton balls, hydrogen peroxide, MY FRIGGING BLOW DRYER, anti-fungal powder, and hospital-grade gauze applied twice a day for the last week has resulted in me finally feeling like myself again, my personal best, even, since before the onset of my first trimester morning sickness. I'm feeling so good, in fact, that I also have two full days of meds-free living under my belt, with not so much as an over-the-counter pill in my system. Hooray for me, and also, IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME.

It's only because I'm doing so well I can admit that in those first few weeks, all that unresolved pain paired with the traditional complications from this type of surgery seriously impacted my ability to function. What I said about mornings being a cherished part of my routine in my last post was true, but it's also true that they were the hardest part of my day. I posted a lot of jokes on Facebook about my A.M. coffee intake, but truly, I was no good to anyone until half-way to lunch, even though Luke and I shared night duty for Liam, and even though Luke continued to get up with Kara and Nathan just as he does when I'm working so that I could go back to bed for another couple of hours while Liam dozed after his first morning bottle.

For so long I was embarrassed about this, would apologize to my husband for having to pick up my slack, and felt like less of a mother because I couldn't push through my own issues to be fully present for ALL the members of my family. It wasn't like I was completely detached from daily living, but oftentimes even simple tasks such as giving a bath or unloading the dishwasher put too much strain on my body, so that I couldn't do more than a couple of things like that in a 24-hour time span. Now that my infections are just about healed and my overall pain has been downgraded to annoying at best, all I can do is recognize that I'm not Wonder Woman, acknowledge that I needed help - a lot of help - to get back on my feet, and thank my lucky stars Luke was around to give it to me. His being the at-home parent in our relationship allowed Kara and Nathan to get the care and attention they needed and enabled me to focus on bonding with Liam and getting better. I'm not proud of how often I fell short, but I can forgive myself for it and move on.

And yet, even in those early weeks when I would cry over not being the wife and mother I wanted to be, I was still in much better shape mentally then I was after having Kara, as I learned how to integrate the role of mother into my life, and after Nathan, born not fourteen months after his sister, who was still just a baby herself. This time around, there was no veil of self-doubt, no wavering in making decisions that were best for my family. I was still able to embrace each day for the gift it was, laugh through the building of Lego towers with my toddlers, and appreciate every hour of snuggle time with my new baby.

I keep comparing this maternity leave to Kara's and Nathan's, and each time, I realize how far I've come since then. This is the first time I've been able to bring home a child and hold onto the best, most confident parts of myself. I am so grateful for that. This focus and sense of peace I've discovered since Liam was born, it's such a blessing.

Speaking of Liam, he continues to knock our socks off. He's finally "woken up," so to speak, and joined the world of the living in that he isn't sleeping twenty hours a day anymore; he has fussy periods in the morning and evening hours, but they are not unbearable or even a surprise, given his age. At last Friday's weight check, he clocked in at a whopping 10 pounds and 3 ounces. Two days later, he rolled over for the first time. He enchants us all with gassy smiles, wide eyes, and pursed lips. Poor thing still has traces of Kara's and Nathan's cold, and it appears that we are dealing with a clogged tear duct in his right eye, but again, nothing unbearable. I can't believe how lucky we are to have him, or that I owe his existence to a bottle of red from Walmart. Miracles, though, aren't picky.

As for me, I am good, so very, very good, if not a little stir-crazy from mostly hanging out indoors, partly due to the above-mentioned ailments and partly from the Midwest's record-breaking humidity. I've generated a few unexpected bills since my leave began (damn crown, breaking off two days after coming home from the hospital!), and since we had to deplete a lot of our savings before Liam's birth for a variety of reasons, I have decided to return to work two weeks early so we can avoid financial strain. This puts me back in the office the week of Labor Day instead of late September. 

In the past, the very thought of this scenario would have reduced me to a weepy puddle of WAAAH, but I'm okay with this decision, too. I'm not wishing my time away with my family by any means, but there is a piece of me that's eager to embrace our new normal, and that new normal includes me going back to work. Plus, there is so much for us to do now that Liam is here; prepare to put our house on the market, for one. Pay off our credit card debt (and new array of medical bills) once and for all. Start tending to my professional network again. In other words, make our dreams come true. 

I am so ready.

Outnumbered, overjoyed, undermedicated

 

A week ago yesterday, I gave birth to Liam. And in this past week, I have dealt with two sick toddlers, 48 hours worth of c-section recovery without the aid of narcotics, and nursing difficulties that once again rocked me to my core.

On the surface, it all sounds pretty craptastic. Yet, that isn't the case at all (mostly - Kara and Nathan's colds weren't fun for anyone).

I've given myself 20 minutes to post, so most of the bloggy goodness will be shared over time, but here is what I feel compelled to share at this particular moment about having three children - or, more directly, three c-sections.

RATION THY NARCOTICS.

In the hospital, I was taking two capsules of my OB/GYN's drug of choice every four hours; as a result, I was feeling well enough to shower, meander through my corridor, receive visitors with a smile (if not without bloated ankles and droopy eyes), and leave within two days of surgery, which became a primary goal the minute Liam was out and we were both deemed healthy. Because I was afraid of losing my post-partum high, I continued this regimen once I returned home, which meant by Monday morning, I was out of meds. No worries, I thought. I have one refill. I'll just refill it! So imagine my surprise when, after Luke called in the prescription, the pharmacy's auto robot denied my request because it was too soon to have depleted my supply.

(Are you imagining that scene from Wayne's World where Mike Myers walks into the guitar store and sees the "No Stairway" sign over his favorite piece? If you weren't, you totally are now, aren't you?)

The bottle said I could take one to two pills every four to six hours, so I didn't see anything wrong with following the maximum dosing schedule. Apparently, though, the on-call OB/GYN who released me did. Which meant that entire Monday all I could depend on for relief was Al*eve and Ty*lenol.

Tuesday came, but I was afraid to call in again because what if the pharmacy's auto robot was keeping track of this and thought my profile matched that of a bonafide street addict?

Monday and Tuesday were not good days.

Luckily, then came Wednesday, and I was brave enough to call again, and the gods were smiling upon me, because I received another dose of happy pills. Of which I am now taking one, every six hours, and am no worse for the wear.

If they don't want you to take two pills every four hours, they really should just make that clear on the damn bottle.

I'm very sorry for wasting so much of your time with my pill-popping story, but this is an issue that quickly became very important to me, so I would like to spare all of you similar pain if I can. You are welcome.

Okay, okay, more pictures.

 

Kara is in love with Liam and constantly refers to him as "my baby." She can't help herself from kissing his hands, feet, cheeks, head, etc. Luckily, her fever/cold is just about gone, so  I should be able to allow her to make contact with his sweet little face again.

 

Nathan, poor thing, took the brunt of the summer cold this time around, but is thankfully now on the mend. He loves his baby brother just as much as Kara does, and they are equally concerned for his general welfare. Whenever he wakes up or cries or does anything even remotely resembling an awake human being, they immediately start shouting, "Mommy! Daddy! The baby NEEDS you!" until Luke or I stop what we are doing and tend to whatever the issue is requiring attention.

They've said some pretty funny things about Liam, too. I wish I could remember them all, but here's a sample.

Kara: (after staring at him intensely) Is Liam creepy?

Nathan: (after waking up and finding the two of us on the couch) Oh, Mommy! The baby is still here!

I have passed my 20 minutes, but there is one more thing I wanted to share before signing off. Mainly because I don't plan on talking about it in-depth and prefer that it not turn into an "Is she or isn't she?" lingering kind of issue.

I am no longer nursing.

I did it while I was in the hospital, and I'm glad I did, and continued a bit when I got home, but that first night was extremely difficult, and I quickly realized what I personally would need to do to make it work for my entire family. In the end, I decided it was not my path. So Liam is now formula fed, and I am at peace with it. So, if anybody would like a half-used box of Mother's Milk tea and a completely new bottle of fenugreek for their upcoming breastfeeding needs, just let me know.

Alright, fine, one more picture.

 

I am seriously over my time limit here, but how can I let you go without telling you how amazing this baby is? Because he is. Everything about Liam is wonderful, from his Danny DeVito hairline to his piano-player fingers, from his bright blue eyes to his ruby-red lips. Right now we are in the honeymoon phase that is the first week, during which they sleep almost ninety percent of the time and therefore trick you into thinking they are absolute angels and that their agreeableness is the result of your mad parenting skillz, and then somewhere between weeks two and three they wake up for longer than 90 minutes at a time and trick you into thinking you don't know anything at all. So I very well could be pulling my hair out seven days from now over the latest development of his personality. But right now I am grateful that he eats, pees, and poops well and is content to sleep almost anywhere and takes all the poking and proding from his older siblings in stride. Also, that he is a happy, snuggly baby, a miracle baby that I am so, so grateful for.

The five of us, we are going to be unstoppable.

33 weeks

I heard Janet Jackson's "Miss You Much" on the way to Subway today, and it reminded me of all things I miss about my pre-pregnancy life. At 33 weeks, the list includes:

• The shape of my face (aka non-puffy)
• Eating any type of spaghetti sauce I want without fear of indigestion
• Being able to get in and out of bed without grunting in pain
• Sleeping without a pillow cushioned against my belly
• Walking in heels without resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa (Don't worry, I switched to flats months ago)
• Running
• Sitting the children on my lap instead of barely fitting them onto my knee
• Wearing pants with buttons instead of elastic waistbands
• Not worrying that my shirt is going to creep up and expose what must be the largest uterus on Planet Earth
• Overall energy level, zest for life

And... the photographic evidence:

 

This was taken last week; originally I intended to post a more current photo with this entry, but after reviewing the results of this morning's shoot I found that the lighting on my face is all wrong and part of my hair is sticking up and really, it would be better for everyone to gaze upon a version of my visage from happier days.

Fatigue continues to plague me constantly, whether I get eight hours of sleep or five. There is occasional swelling in my feet after a long day, but it's easily cured by putting them up the minute I get home. Two things that did worry me this past weekend were intermittent pains in my stomach and some light vomiting after taking my vitamin cocktail, so I called my OB/GYN's office on Monday and was seen that day to check my blood pressure, urine levels, and the baby's heartbeat. Luckily, everything is looking good; as for the vomiting, my doctor and I think it was the result of switching from the premium-grade vitamin samples I was using back to the generic ones I had been taking all along. They didn't make me throw up before, but that was before I was prescribed the iron supplement. I now have almost a month's worth of samples in my possession, which should see me through almost to the end of the pregnancy, and by that point, I may just pay the piper to avoid making out with the porcelain throne again.

Quite a lot has happened since the last time we pow-wowed, the biggest being Luke's follow-through with the snip at the end of April (the timing with the royal wedding was purely coincidental, I swear). He is just now beginning to feel like himself again, so I feel okay to talk about it.

The planner in me is so relieved to have this taken care of and cross such a huge thing off our post-partum to-do list, and for the first time in my life, I am absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent certain that I do not want to be pregnant ever again. Still, though, on the morning of, there was a huge rock in my stomach that stayed with me for the first half of the day, wondering if we were doing the right thing. Was I being selfish asking Luke to do this when I could just as easily get on the pill, despite my misgivings? Were we being fiscally irresponsible by spending precious hospital dollars to have this done, knowing that my insurance deductible would be met after Baby Brother's arrival and we could score a tubal for free? Was I really comfortable with the idea of the two of us never making a baby together again?

I always knew I would be sad when the time came to do something permanent with our reproductive parts; I just didn't know how sad.

Luke and I talked it out, and while we were both nervous, we also knew logically it was the best long-term choice for our family, and one we both could handle without regret. And so it was done, and now I have come full circle, because seriously. Giving birth is a miracle, and I will always be grateful for being a part of it, but I NEVER WANT TO BE PREGNANT AGAIN. Thanks, honey, for taking one for the team.

The urologist did ask Luke if we wanted to postpone the procedure until after Baby Brother was born, "just in case," but as devastated as we'd be over anything happening to this little guy, it wouldn't change the fact that we are just not up for another pregnancy.

Morbid "what-if" conversations with your spouse: yet another perk of the whole marriage and family planning package!

The second big thing is that we finally made a dent in Baby Brother's bedroom. We stuck with our decision to keep the paint and wall art as is, but we did rearrange the furniture so that it actually feels like it was set up for a brand new person. It's not picture-ready yet, as there is a pile of laundry that appears to be mating with itself next to the crib, but it finally feels like progress is being made.

 

The kids are doing great. Kara's last official day of "school" was last week, but this week they're throwing a last-hurrah carnival for all the kids and their families, so I will be taking the day off work so the four of us can attend together. One of the best decisions we made was to send Kara to this program, even if we could only swing one day a week; she has so enjoyed the Fridays where she gets to play with her friends and interact with her teachers and make "heart projects" (her original pronounciation of "art projects") to bring home.

I wish our finances and our family situation allowed us to send her to the church's preschool program in the fall, because Luke and I both know she would thrive in one, but with a tight budget and a newborn on the way, it just isn't feasible for us this year. But she's only three, and she will still have her one day a week, as will Nathan, and we can pay for those things without losing sleep, so it will have to be enough for now.

 

Inspired by Emily's recent post on summer strategizing, I fully intended to talk about Kara and Nathan's plans here, but this entry is already long enough, and with my sporadic posting schedule, it's probably best that I not place all of my blogging eggs into this one basket - er, post. Until next time, then!

26-27 weeks, big boy beds, and number three's ETA

Howdy, third trimester! Allow me to welcome you with a washed-out, shiny, deer-in-headlights expression:

 

I think I've grown since last week - check out the below picture and judge for yourself.

 

Here I am at 26 weeks and some change with Kara, who wanted to join in on the photo-snapping fun, and here is photographic evidence of being pregnant with both Kara and Nathan at this same point. Man, is my body predictable when it comes to gestation.

Things are going fine, incubator-wise. I continue to have an appetite that cannot be satisfied; I've only gained about eight new pounds with this pregnancy so far, but half of that was put on in the last two weeks. My diastasis recti is easing up, thankfully, but it's being replaced with an easily-triggered fatigue that I assume is the result of hauling around another ginormous baby, if Baby Brother 2.0 stays the path carved out by his older siblings; at 27 weeks, the boy is already measuring at 28 centimeters, according to my OB/GYN. My latest appointment was three days ago, which involved throwing back a fruit-punch-flavored glucose drink for my gestational diabetes test. The results of the bloodwork showed that my sugar levels are fine but that I'm slightly anemic (which would also account for some of that fatigue). This same thing happened with Kara, so I will just take my prescribed iron supplement and carry on as normal.

The most exciting thing about my visit was getting my c-section on the books at the hospital - Wednesday, June 29, 9:30 a.m. Mark your calendars!

Finally, I have now reached the point where I need to visit my OB every two weeks. Things are really starting to move along - and not just with the child occupying my uterus. Kara and Nathan are in for some changes soon, too.

 

Kara spreading her own PB&J. In case that wasn't supremely obvious already.

Grandma and Grandpa Dunscombe were in town this week to help us out with some spring-cleaning type projects and also to order parts for Kara's "new big girl bed" - also known as The Extra Bed We Desperately Need To Free Up The Crib For The Baby. Kara will occupy the new twin (to arrive in about two weeks), Nathan will inherit Kara's toddler bed, and the baby will get all of the furniture in Nathan's room. Luke and I have been talking to the kids ad nauseum over the past month about how they'll be sharing a room soon and the big kids will all be together and Won't that be so much fun? Kara's taking it all in stride, but Nathan hasn't readily embraced the concept yet.

Monday night while getting ready for bed, after having talked about the move for the eighty-seven-millionth time:

Frema: Hey Nathan, are you a baby?

Nathan: (smiles) No.

Frema: That's right, you're a big boy. And do big boys sleep in cribs?

Nathan: No. No, they don't!

Frema: That's right, they sleep in big boy beds! So pretty soon, you're going to sleep in a big boy bed! And you can bring all your blankets and all your stuffed animals - the only thing that's changing is that you'll be in a big boy bed!

Nathan: (pauses, then reaches out to touch his crib) I want to sleep in this big bed.

Frema: No, honey, that bed isn't for big boys, it's for babies.

Nathan: I like this bed.

And to think we want to take away his beloved pacifier at the same time! (Because only babies who sleep in cribs use pacifiers! Not big boys!) We're prepared to be flexible, but still, this transition should be super-duper fun.

Money-wise, things are going well. After a grueling six-week wait, we finally received our federal tax return on April Fool's Day, which allowed us to cut our credit card debt almost in half and set aside the out-of-pocket cash we'll need during my maternity leave. We continue to funnel money into savings and cut corners in our budget to make all of this happen, and it feels like it's finally paying off. We sailed through all the major bills of spring - car insurance premiums, school registration, vehicle registration renewals - without using our Visa; in fact, we haven't touched it at all this year, AND we've been making steady progress in lowering our balance even before receiving our tax check. We buckled down when it counted the most, and we are seeing the rewards, and it feels awesome.

To celebrate our financial success, we drove 40 minutes to our local creamery and blew nine dollars on organic ice cream. Hey, all work and no play, right?

 

I'm not sure what the kids are staring at. Certainly not the camera.

After spending so much of the winter cooped up indoors, it felt great to venture beyond our zip code and blow a few bucks on something as indulgent as dessert. We weren't there that long, but Luke and I had such a good time, and the kids, too.

 

Of course, can you have a bad time when ice cream's involved?

 

The cows were in the barn and mooing something fierce when we arrived, so Kara and Nathan wouldn't venture much farther than the doorway.

And...that is my blog update! I hope you all are just swell.

Adventures in Sterilizing

It was all so perfect in my head.

During one of my first prenatal appointments for this pregnancy, I discussed with my ob/gyn the possibility of getting my tubes tied shortly after delivering baby number three. I already knew that the hospital where I had Kara and Nathan wouldn't allow this procedure during the c-section, being a Catholic institution and all, and I was okay with that because I loved both of my stays there and how I was treated by the staff. Plus, Luke has always been willing to man up and get The Snip, so there was no reason to give it any more thought.

Until recently, when I gave it some more thought.

The idea came up again during talks with a coworker who is expecting her first child in May; I learned that she was delivering her little guy at a neighboring hospital, and it reminded me that when I first signed up with my practice some four years ago, right before I became pregnant with Kara, my doctor told me she had privileges at that very facility, in addition to the one I eventually chose. Let's call my current hospital Scrubs A and this second one Scrubs B.

Scrubs B has no religious affiliation but maintains an equally stellar reputation.

The wheels in my head started turning.

Originally, I didn't even want to think about switching to another hospital because my experiences with Scrubs A up to this point have been wonderful, and I had no desire to throw unnecessary wild cards into the mix with this last baby. However, Luke and I have been doing an awful lot of talking about the whole getting fixed issue lately, and since my personal deductible will be all paid up as a result of the charges associated with this pregnancy, any procedures that are covered by insurance would be free of charge for me. You never want money to play a factor in determining which spouse gets sterilized, but when you are already pinching pennies and you are searching for a permanent resolution to ending the reproductive chapter of your life, it is what it is.

So I changed my tune. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to switch things up a little, especially since Scrubs B is so well known for its maternity services and especially since, to the best of my recollection, my doctor could just as easily deliver there as she could at Scrubs A. Then I could kill two birds with one stone - one baby, one tubal, one surgery for the win!

"Let me just make sure the practice still delivers at this hospital," I told Luke a couple of weeks ago. "My next appointment is soon. I can't imagine they wouldn't deliver there anymore."

That appointment was today, and guess what? They don't deliver there anymore.

Well, that's not exactly true. As it turns out, privileges are maintained by physicians on an individual basis, and of the now eight ob/gyns currently with my practice, only two might possibly still retain privileges. This is largely due to the practice's close proximity to Scrubs A - we're talking right-across-the-street close - and of course, as fate would have it, my own doctor is not one of those two. She explained that she stayed affiliated with Scrubs B for quite a while but that her patients always chose to deliver at Scrubs A, so she finally decided there was no need to maintain her ties with Scrubs B. MINUS ONE FOR FREMA.

On the up side, though, the two doctors she mentioned are ones I really like, so while I didn't particularly enjoy the idea of having someone other than my primary physician perform the c-section, that's exactly what happened with Kara and everything went swimmingly, so the switch was still on the table, until she reminded me that if a complication accelerated my delivery and one of those two doctors weren't on call, I'd end up having Baby Brother at Scrubs A, anyway. And as long-time readers may recall, I did have a complication with Nathan that caused me to deliver earlier than planned, so even though my scheduled c-section removes a good chunk of the guesswork from the actual birth, the pregnancy itself is still very much up for grabs, and the last thing I want is to spend my remaining gestating months fretting over how this will all play out.

All of that to say: no two-in-one for me.

Still desperately wanting to take advantage of having a paid-in-full deductible, I talked to my doc about having a tubal after the fact and learned I could schedule it within a week or two of my six-week postnatal follow-up, if I wanted. Which at first I did, because hello with still trying to kill two birds with one stone. Two surgeries within the same recovery period can still be considered a win, right?

My findings: It's a standard outpatient procedure, my ob/gyn can do it, I'd have to be sedated, and someone would have to drive me home afterwards, but recovery time is short at roughly one to two weeks. However, during that time, I would be prohibited from any strenuous exercise: no running, no 30-Day Shred, etc. You know, all the things I planned to do to get into shape before returning to work. Of my anticipated 12-week leave, I would be able to maybe use three of those to actively lose any baby weight.

I went back to work after eight weeks with Nathan, and I looked and felt terrible. I do not care to repeat that experience with baby number three, when the length of time off is one of the benefits I now have at my disposal.

So, all of THAT to say: no tubal during maternity leave for me.

After my appointment, Luke and I did some more talking, and  we came up with a plan. We decided that he would reschedule the urologist consult he cancelled back in October to get more information about The Snip and to find out how much of it would be covered by insurance. If our portion is minimal - as in, a few hundred dollars or less - then Luke will take care of things before I deliver, and we'll write off the bill as money well spent. If the cost outweighs the benefits for us at this particular moment in time, I will schedule a tubal for myself around the holidays, at which point I'll have been back at work long enough to use up some vacation time. Either way, somebody in the Frema-Useless Clutter household is getting sterilized in 2011.

I smell a new reality show for next season. We can call it The Amazing Race: Tubes versus Testes!

21-week update

I am 21 weeks pregnant today, and according to the plethora of baby books in existence, I should be at my prenatal peak: visibly showing but not enormous, increased energy levels, and only occasional bouts of round ligament pain. Go on and run that 5K! Hike your ass off! Enjoy these precious weeks of gestating freedom while you still can!

All of that may be the case for a first-timer or a gal who hasn't birthed 11- and 9-pound newborns, but these are not my truths.

After complaining of tenderness in my belly at my 15-week appointment, a quick exam from my ob/gyn revealed that I have a condition called diastasis recti, meaning that my rectus abdominal muscle has separated into two vertical halves. It's common among women who have endured multiple pregnancies and who have delivered larger-sized babies -- CHECK and CHECK -- and it's not anything I need to be concerned about in the long run (so I've been told, at least), but the doctor did say that the tenderness would remain present throughout the pregnancy and most likely increase in intensity. And oh shit, was she ever right.

I usually begin my day feeling perfectly normal, and if I were the sadistic type I could lightly pummel my stomach without suffering even the slightest twinge of pain. But by the end of the work day, the soreness has emerged from its bat cave, and come dinnertime the skin over my belly button is protruding something fierce, to the point that if it even lightly brushes up against another object of any kind, I am clutching my sides and sucking in my breath as if I've been kicked with a steel-toed boot. Even simple acts like sitting on the floor or repositioning myself on the couch have become seriously fucking unpleasant, and poor Luke has taken over the bulk of evening kitchen clean-up once again.

At my last two appointments, each doctor has recommended using a maternity belt to relieve some of the pressure, but I don't wear belts when I'm NOT pregnant because I hate the idea of having something so constricting touching my skin. However, the pain has gotten worse over the last several days, and even Luke is pushing me to look into this. Have any of you dealt with this condition before? If so, did a belt work for you? Any feedback on this would be much appreciated.

 

It doesn't even look like a typical pregnant belly, does it--all triangular and cliff-like? Plus, my hairstyle is making history by introducing what can only be described as the first front-facing mullet for women! to the modern American public. Clearly, the epitome of sexiness all around!

The saving grace throughout all of this has been Baby Brother's activity, which has been strong enough for weeks to feel at various points throughout the day, and oftentimes it is a welcome distraction from focusing on how uncomfortable I am. I'm already daydreaming about what he looks like, what he'll feel like, and what our lives will be like after we bring him home. Kara and Nathan have started incorporating mentions of Baby Brother in our daily conversations, so I think it's becoming a little more real for them, too.

Kara: Does Mommy and Daddy love you? (She revels in asking this question and poses it frequently throughout the day)
Frema: Yes, honey, Mommy and Daddy love you and Nathan very much.
Kara: And the new baby?
Frema: Yes, honey, and the new baby.

 And we do. We really, really do. 

So long, Cecilia

That was our front-runner name for a girl. Cecilia Mae because we liked it or Cecilia Maureen in honor of my late Nana, whose actual name was Gloria Darlene, but we were going with Maureen because it's the name of my grandmother's sister, so it was still using a name from her side of the family without burdening the child with a fuddy-duddy throwback like Gloria. Though I actually did like Gloria and would have seriously considered it for a first name except that Luke was not. on. board. Darlene was, well, never an option.

Anyway, it's a moot point now. We're having a boy.

 

And not a shy one, apparently. I could tell before the ultrasound tech finished typing the first word what our little guy was sporting down there.

 

Kara and Nathan weren't much impressed by the news, but Luke and I both had tears in our eyes, and I couldn't stop smiling. I can see our future so clearly now -- birthday parties, graduations, treks through the Grand Canyon, room-sharing arrangements, tossing out casual phrases like "The boys are in the yard" -- all of it. This tiny new person, my youngest son, our new Baby Brother, feels so right for our family, and for the first time since learning I was pregnant, I sincerely CANNOT WAIT for him to get here. We love him so much, already.

To read my pre-appointment ramblings from last night, click here.

15 weeks and personal finance mumbo jumbo

Today I welcomed my fifteenth week of pregnancy by vomiting for the first time since I peed on that fateful stick back in October. For future reference, prenatal vitamin + leftover Raisin Bran milk = blaaaaaaaaah.

In other, less disgusting news, I had my monthly ob appointment yesterday, and Number Three is doing well; very active, according to the doctor, and the heartbeat sounded strong at 150 bpm. There are a few aches and pains going on that are typical of this stage - the acting of up my sciatic nerve, for one, and a tenderness in my abdomen that was diagnosed by the doctor as being diastasis recti. I also found my first pregnancy-related skin tag ever near my collarbone, a couple of nights ago. Way to go, baby, for keeping things interesting!

Here I am in all my gestational glory:

 

Why do I look whiter than the Pillsbury Doughboy? And is it just me, or is that picture frame crooked? Oh, well, at least I can still fit into my regular-sized dress slacks. So long as they are cotton and sport elastic waistbands.

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At the start of the New Year I outlined our household budget through the remaining winter months, and I know these issues are only temporary, but things feel bleak, friends. Luke and I are working hard to pay off our credit card balance before the baby comes in June, which means almost every bit of cash from now until March is needed to cover our car insurance premiums, homeowner's association fees, and necessary grocery and household items as well as pay down our Visa bill. Luke and I did not exchange Christmas presents, only token stocking stuffers, and there are no travel plans slated for anytime soon, save my niece's baptism in Chicago next month.

Sometimes I feel like a complete and utter failure for not being able to manage our finances more efficiently, and then I remind myself that some things were simply out of our control: a $164 increase in our mortgage last fall thanks to a negative balance in our escrow account was the most jarring, and the random but major car repairs totaling almost two grand in September were definitely not on our radar. Luckily, there is light at the end of the tunnel: tax refunds in February and my annual raise in April should put us on more secure footing, though we have decided there is no way in hell we have any business taking on a car payment to buy a vehicle that can accommodate three car seats anytime soon. This means we'll be hauling two cars if we need to go anywhere local as a family and renting a van if we find ourselves needing/wanting to travel north. But hey, at least we have two cars that we own outright, and we can still pay our bills and put food on the table, and we don't have to talk about Luke going back to work (as if we could afford three kids in daycare, anyway), and really, this money glitch is so temporary in the grand scheme of things. Nothing on our plate is unmanageable, just really hard to get through sometimes on a day-to-day basis.

How's that for keeping it real?

This is just one more reason I have been considering launching a part-time freelancing business sometime this year. I'm not looking to replace my full-time income, just supplement it with some meaty writing projects from time to time.

Have any of you had any luck starting your own business? How did you get started? Are there any books you would recommend?

MyTubes*

* I changed the title because "Headaches, rambles" was very boring and vague and hello, there is an actual topic for this entry, only I didn't realize that until the drive home last night, which is when I thought up this little gem. How could I not use it?

I hit 11 weeks in this pregnancy yesterday, and the most noteworthy tidbit I can offer regarding this topic is that I've been plagued with a recurring headache for more than a week now that can't be alleviated with soda or chocolate. No change in my level of fatigue, nausea, or tendency to gag over smells ranging in intensity from air freshener to number two diapers (thank you, son). With Kara I started feeling better around week 20; Nathan was a few weeks earlier than that, so let's cross our fingers that the month of January brings wondrous feelings of joy and mirth.

My second prenatal appointment for Number Three took place on Monday, where I heard the baby's heartbeat through the Doppler for the first time, pounding away at a whopping160 bpm. Was it a sign that I'm having a girl? A byproduct of my key lime cheesecake from lunch? The world may never know. In any event, things are looking good, fetus-wise.

I also spent some time talking to my ob/gyn about having my tubes tied sometime after delivery.

Seeing as this is our second surprise pregnancy, and knowing that Luke and I conceived Kara when we were open to children but not officially "trying," it shouldn't shock anyone that I am obsessing over the best way to shut down this baby train. While there has always been a hankering for a third baby, I harbor no such illusions regarding a fourth. I am deeply grateful that I have been able to conceive so easily, without the aid of charts or medication or invasive procedures that can go on for years, and that I have given birth to two beautiful, healthy children. But still. Overall, I do not enjoy pregnancy, and I am still freaking out over earning enough bacon to support five people, and my husband would like to go back to work before he turns 50. That is not too much to ask.

Speaking of Luke, he has always been willing to "take care of things," so to speak, and that is still an option. Early next year we hope to get him to the urologist for a consult and determine how much of The Snip is covered by our insurance. If we can swing it financially, we would love nothing more than to "address this issue" before I go under the knife in June. (Are you loving my double entendres today?) That actually makes the most sense, since a tubal would require yet another surgery for me. I deliver at a Catholic hospital, so a two-in-one deal is not an option, and I'm not sure how long I would need to wait after delivery to have it done, and I don't care to leave myself susceptible to another happy surprise for very long.

For a while after Nathan I seriously considered the Essure procedure, which seems to be my practice's first choice for female sterilization, but reading this thread about failures and complications was enough for me to say KEEP THOSE COILS AWAY FROM ME, YOU.

I think this is all coming about because I'm feeling pretty powerless these days. I can't help myself physically feel better, our household budget is in chaos after paying on life insurance premiums, car repairs, and (drastically scaled-down) Christmas expenses all in the same month, and our place is a mess because I can't bring myself to even fold a basket of laundry. (Did I mention that I am an absolute baby when I'm sick?) The idea of snuggling a squeaky little newborn excites me beyond belief, but preparing for that baby will be a lot of work, and the adjustment period will be a lot of work, and I know myself well enough now to say I am not in my element in the first year. Although, recent interactions with Kara lead me to think that the toddler years aren't shining the light on my finest hours, either.

Anyway, I am done with surprise pregnancies and worrying about birth control and stressing over various infant-related issues. Part of what is getting me through this first trimester is knowing that I'm doing this for the last time. The sooner I can enjoy reproductive freedom, the better. 

(I did mention that I'm grateful for this, too, right? You all know what I mean.)

Green bean

That's the way we chose to describe the baby to Kara and Nathan on Monday during my first ob/gyn appointment, once my uterus was in clear view on the ultrasound screen. A very chubby green bean. Or maybe a Tootsie Roll. I could keep going here, but you get the point.

 

Everything is going swimmingly. I am properly fatigued and nauseated and as of today am currently 7w1d along in this pregnancy, which aligns perfectly with our date of conception. This gives us a due date of July 5, 2011, though I will deliver him earlier than that, since my history of two c-sections removes any discussion of how Number Three will enter the world. The baby looks good and produced a strong heartbeat of more than 140 beats per minute during the ultrasound. For the rest of the afternoon, Nathan kept saying, "Want. to. see. the baby's. heartbeat?" And once we were back in the car, he and Kara each had to have their very own picture of the baby to study and hold and crumble and very possibly eat. It was really quite adorable.

My doctor and I talked a bit about my sudden onset of pre-eclampsia symptoms with Nathan, and some baseline testing can be done at the time of my gestational diabetes test (around 28 weeks), but other than that, all we can do is keep a close eye on my weight, protein levels, and blood pressure, especially near the end, and be prepared to jump into action should there be a reason. I'm cleared to continue running, though right now curling into a ball on the couch and burying my face in a pillow is about all the exercise I can handle.

I'm still hella overwhelmed, which I think has a lot to do with how crummy I feel. I've lost interest in the majority of food, and all things chicken and pork, except for Chicken McNuggets, a craving I have been fighting for almost a week. Dairy products aren't sitting well, so not even ice cream is a comfort, but cheese continues to be my friend. I am ridiculously tired come dinnertime and usually crawl into bed immediately after the last child has gone down for the night. Uterine cramping is still going strong, mostly due to dehydration, I think, because I have always been terrible about drinking enough water even when I'm not gestating. All of this physical upset means that I am terrible about returning e-mails and phone calls and sitting about three pounds below my normal weight (in other words, no maternity clothes yet). It also contributes to my feeling of dread when thinking about what lies ahead; I am already obsessing over nursing and wondering how I can navigate that situation to produce different (i.e. successful) results (no advice, though, please!), planning our finances so that we can upgrade our family car when we are already squeezing every penny, and dreading the going-back-to-work routine AGAIN. I know! One thing at a time, right? Keep perspective, God provides, etc. But it's hard not to fast forward to next year when I already know this pregnancy will fly by so fast. Even if it feels like I'm inching along right now. I still can't believe I've known for so long--Sunday will mark the four-week anniversary of my first positive pregnancy test. Technology really is amazing.

I'm excited about next week, though--I'm taking off the entire week of Thanksgiving, thanks to my awesome vacation accural as a long-time employee (six years in June!). I plan to lay around in sweatpants the entire time, save for the one-hour photography session Luke and I will be scheduling to formally document our existence as a family of four one last time. And if I'm feeling good and motivated, maybe I can even get some ink onto the pages of Nathan's baby book. You're welcome, son. 

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.

Screw perspective.

I want to run the Mini.

This revelation came to me last Wednesday during a ninety-minute consultation with a physical therapist, who diagnosed my knee problems as patellofemoral pain syndrome resulting from overtraining (too much speed, not enough rest) and switching into a shoe with too much pronation (mid-training, bad Frema!), which threw off my biomechanics and brought my kneecaps out of alignment. So, a little more complicated than just inflammation.

I went into my PT appointment with the same C'est la vie attitude I wrote about last time: There will be plenty more races in the future, missing this one won't be the end of the world, no use pushing myself to achieve a potentially unreachable goal. I was patting myself on the back for being so zen-like and reasonable and not assigning more value to the Mini than it actually deserved.

Then I learned that my physical therapist was a runner. And a parent. Who was also training for the Mini.

Being in front of somebody who knows where I'm coming from on a primal level made it almost therapeutic to talk about my struggles and challenges with training--balancing runs with work and home life, playing catch-up when building mileage defers to marketing deadlines and sick children--that it also reignited my passion. Somewhere between the flexibility tests, strengthening exercises, and random shop talk, I knew that I wanted to see this thing through. Of course I do. It's one of my biggest personal goals for 2010. I've worked so hard already, and in the hands of a healthcare professional more appropriately trained to help me with my problems, I could sense it was reachable. After all, the official goal has always been to simply complete the race. How I accomplish that (run-walk combo? baby-crawl to the finish line?) is up to hard work and fate.

Luckily, after a couple of visits and reviewing my progress, my PT agreed with me.

My first set of instructions were to tape both knees during the day to alleviate discomfort, do some exercises at home to build strength, and bike when possible until I could walk without pain (I think I did that once; cycling is boring at the gym). Once I could walk without pain, then it was time to run. SLOW running, he warned, since overexertion is one of the main reasons I got hurt in the first place, and short distances (no more than three miles), with plenty of walking breaks as necessary (another thing I was called to the carpet for--running through pain). I also have strict orders not to schedule my runs back-to-back; there has to be at least one rest day in between.

In the last week and a half I have been to three PT appointments and seen tremendous improvement. The gazillion exercises are annoying to keep track of, and I'm still not good at sticking to a running schedule, but pain is rare these days, with the primary sources being driving (bent knees in a fixed position) or standing in one place for long periods of time.

Because I've been feeling so much better, I broke the tape rule on Tuesday night when a hellish evening with the kids drove me out the front door the minute bedtime was done, because by then it was already dark and I didn't want to wait one second longer than necessary to hit the road, let alone the five to seven minutes it would have taken for me to properly apply the tape. The during part was okay--three miles, handful of walking breaks, 11.5-minute pace (if that, no Garmin to measure my stride)--but by the time I was sitting on my couch to catch the latest episode of LOST (fellow Losties: !), it felt like "shock waves" were running from my knees straight to my toes. I don't know how else to describe it except that it wasn't painful and 20 minutes of ice and elevation fixed the problem completely.

Needless to say I'll be wearing the tape for my next run.

That run should have happened last night, but even with this abbreviated schedule, training is getting tricky to coordinate. For example, on Monday Keith and I agreed that I would do short runs of three to four miles on Tuesday and Thursday and one long run of six to eight miles on Saturday. Reasonable mileage, adequate rest. Perfect, except on Thursday I came home late from work and Luke and the kids had been cooped up in the house all day and the weather was so gorgeous that we went for an after-dinner walk, which threw off bedtime by almost an hour, which threw off the rest of the night. Now I have to get my run in today and move my long run to Sunday, but that's going to throw off next week because I'm out two days for a sales meeting and there's a 5K walk we're doing for work and...

You see how I got into trouble, yes?

It would be so much easier if I didn't like running. It's time-consuming, unpredictable, hard. It pulls me away from my family, challenges my comfort zone (cross-training with free weights, hold me), and drives me to salivate over expensive gear. It seduces me into setting goals I might have no business contemplating--a marathon, maybe even an ultra-marathan, good Lord, am I crazy? I don't even know how many miles make up an ultra-marathon.

But for the peace of mind I experience while trotting along my trail, for the sense of accomplishment I feel when I hit my goal mileage, for the healthy example I'm setting for my children, is it ever worth it.

-------

Speaking of family, it's been a while since I posted any mugs of the Frema-Useless Clutter clan. Here we are, in the flesh.

My two favorite boys, with Nathan looking so very much like his daddy.

 

Kara enjoying tulips at the Indianapolis Gardens.

 

Nathan showing off his mad utensil skillz.

 

Are these kids shedding their baby skins or what? I swear they were babies, just yesterday. 

To Mini or Not to Mini?

That is the question, as it's been two weeks since my last run due to intermittent pain in my knees that will not go away, even with medication.

The problems started last month sometime after my weekend mileage went beyond the seven-mile mark. While soreness in my knees and ankles isn't uncommon for me after a long run, it usually resides after two or three days and I can continue with training as scheduled. But at one point it just...stopped going away. Not frequent enough or severe enough to interfere with my day to day, but even after a self-imposed running break, the occasional ibuprofen, and applying ice packs to both knees every night before bed for almost a week, the alternating feelings of pressure, tightness, and discomfort still persisted, so last Friday I finally caved and paid a visit to my primary care physician. She diagnosed the problem as fluid in my knees/inflammation due to overuse and recommended naproxen along with a continued break from running for seven to ten days to get me back on my feet. Well, it's been 17 days since my last run, and today is my tenth day on the naproxen, and nothing has improved; if anything, the pain is more noticeable than ever (though still not continuous). I've already scheduled a follow-up with my doctor to discuss next steps, which will most likely involve a referral to a physical therapist for a more thorough work-up.

All of this non-running just four weeks before the Mini Marathon begs the question: have I totally screwed my chances of participating in this race? Because even if I'm cleared to run in the next few days, I'm not sure that the training I do from here on out can make up for such a lengthy hiatus. Then again, maybe it's just a matter of readjusting my goals. As in, maybe running all thirteen miles is no longer realistic, but with frequent walking breaks, I could still complete the race without further injury.

Running this half-marathon has meant so much to me recently that I feel like I should be more disappointed about potentially missing it, but honestly, it's not the crushing blow I once imagined it to be. Competition or not, the time I spent training brought me back to my pre-pregnancy weight and provided a more structured approach to exercise and fitness. Plus, I want to be a runner for the long haul, not just for this race, and there are a bazillion other halfs I can do once my body is fully ready. No need to mope over this one.

In fact, in hindsight, I wonder if I had any business attempting this race at all, being such a new runner. Most of what I've read has suggested logging 20 to 25 miles a week before committing to such an ambitious undertaking as a half, and at the time I registered, I was barely in the double digits (if that). Not to mention that finding the time to train has been hard, really hard, which is partly the reason I got injured in the first place--constantly falling off-schedule, then scrambling to make up for it by sacrificing my rest days. Not the smartest way to cultivate a life-long habit or preserve any level of motivation.

So, I will see the doctor again, and I will follow her orders, and I will do what I can to get myself completely healed and back on track. But I will also gaze longingly at the runners I spot on the trail as the weather climbs into the seventies. This is my time. This is my sport. And I will get back to it.

See ya, February delivery date; January, how YOU doin'?

Today at three o'clock, I had my 38-week appointment slash last prenatal visit before Baby Brother's scheduled delivery on February 5. I learned from the nurse that the protein level in my urine was still at +3 but that I had lost two pounds since last time, which means my swelling has gone down. Blood pressure checked out just fine, as usual. I saw the doctor, who measured me at 43 centimeters and said she wouldn't be surprised if I had a ten-pound baby in there. I mentioned last week's HELLP scare, and she looked at the notes taken during my last visit. We talked for a few minutes about life with two small children, as she herself is the mother of two boys fifteen months apart. By a quarter to four, I was on my way home.

That was easy! I thought. No more drama.

At four-thirty, I walked through the door. At four-thirty one, Luke informed me of a message from the doctor on our voice mail, instructing me to page her at my earliest convenience. She had called at four o'clock.

Well. That can't be good.

I paged the doctor. She called me back. After examining my file more thoroughly, she discovered that my 24-hour urine collection revealed a protein level of 691, which puts me in the category of "mildly pre-eclamptic." If I were 32 weeks along, I'd be on bedrest, she said. But since Baby Brother is full term and growing well (ha! that's an understatement), there's no need to keep him in there any longer.

"So, what does this mean?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"It means that I would be more than happy to deliver your baby tomorrow."

And there it was.

As it turns out, I'm not having the baby tomorrow. Because my pre-eclampsia isn't severe and my blood pressure is good, my doctor was fine with postponing the c-section until Saturday. So the new game plan is for me to go to work tomorrow long enough to tie up some loose ends and then scramble like mad to clean our house. (Three cheers for doing the last of our shopping and finishing the baby's room over the weekend.) Luke's parents will arrive tomorrow evening (a gazillion more cheers for wonderful in-laws willing to watch their granddaughter while her pushy brother makes his way into the world). At five a.m. on Saturday morning, we'll depart for the hospital. I should be under the knife by eight.

I'm not sure what to feel. On one hand, OH MY GOD AM I SICK OF PREGNANCY. It hurts to get in and out of bed. My clothes don't fit. The Braxton-Hicks contractions are taking their toll. The last of my work projects can be easily passed along to other members of my department. I'm tired all the time. Our bags are packed. I'm done.

On the other hand, I'm not ready for surgery. I'm freaking out over having to leave Kara. I'm upset that our family of three is losing four precious days together. I'm worried about recovering from surgery while meeting the needs of two young babies. I need more time.

But all of that said, I still know that I'm lucky, because the first scare was enough to whip our asses into gear and the second one bought us another day and a half to wrap things up. Poor Emily had to leave from her doctor's office straight for the hospital for the births of BOTH her children. In the grand scheme of things, my rushed birthing experience isn't that big of a deal.

Remind me I said that when I'm hyperventilating tomorrow.

Expect one more post before Saturday.

HELLP diagnosis: negative

The doctor just called. Platelets are good. Blood count is stable. Liver enzymes are normal. Nothing indicates HELLP Syndrome, though I was instructed to stay off my feet as much as I can to help with my swelling. I shared the happy news with my boss, and she has instructed me to step away from the computer and get some rest. So I am going to do just that.

Thanks so much for the well wishes. Will hopefully update over the weekend with pictures of wee baby clothes (and maybe even my house!).

Not the HELLP I had in mind

"175," announced the nurse.

I almost shit my pants when she announced my weight, up a whopping NINE POUNDS from the week before.

As she took my blood pressure, she also shared that the protein level in my urine had risen to a +3. Unbeknownst to me, I've been at a +2 all month, but since that could have been for any number of reasons, it wasn't enough to raise a red flag.

"The doctor will want to do some tests," she said.

Not the routine 37-week appointment I was hoping for yesterday.

Me at 37 weeks. This was taken two days ago, before I knew about the atrocious weight gain (though it only brings me to 35 pounds overall. Thank goodness for small favors?).

I talked to my doctor. My blood pressure is and always has been normal, so no cause for concern there. However, he wonders if I might have HELLP Syndrome; if I do, the only cure is to deliver the baby.

"So he could come as early as Saturday?" I asked in disbelief.

He smiled sympathetically. "Tomorrow. He could be here tomorrow."

-------

In the waiting room, I was fine. I called Luke. I had three vials of blood drawn. I accepted my tool kit for collecting a 24-hour urine sample (which is festering in an ugly orange jug in the fridge as we speak, isn't THAT a lovely picture). I called my boss. I walked out with the receptionist and got into my car. I called Luke again and pulled out of the parking lot.

And then I lost it. Suddenly I was sobbing about not being ready to mother two children and what if tonight is the last night that we'll only have Kara and the baby clothes aren't washed and I don't want to go to the hospital and waaaaah.

I broke down again a few hours later during Kara's bathtime, sitting on the floor and cradling my head in my arms on the toilet seat lid as I contemplated life's grave injustices. "I'm not ready," I wailed.

There was silence for a couple of minutes. Then Luke said, "We can call him Jake if you want."

When in doubt, comfort your wife by conceding to one of her top name choices.

(Note: His name will not be Jake. But I sure appreciated the gesture.)

-------

I'm OK now and trying to stay positive. Baby Brother measured at 40 centimeters and I don't have any other obvious HELLP symptoms (headaches, nausea, vomiting), so maybe I just grow big babies. All I can do is wait for a call on the results of my blood work and take it from there. If all is well, I'll drop off my urine sample at 4 p.m., have more blood drawn, and await further instructions. I spent a lot of last night and will spend much of today catching up on work so I don't leave my boss in the lurch. Luke's been on laundry detail. Kara's being her normal wonderful self.

 

I just called the doctor's office and was told someone would get back to me soon with an update on my blood work. I'm torn between wanting this pregnancy to finally be over--my physical uncomfortableness is now at a point where I cry out just from getting out of my seat--and hoping for more time to relax and prepare. But last night I had a dream about Baby Brother, and he was so cute, except for the part where he didn't have a penis and Luke told me I was looking in the wrong place. 

Don't hold me to it, but I think I'm finally ready to snuggle my son.

One baby, extra caesarean, hold the VBAC

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

----

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

I may not be a natural athlete, but I sure am great on defense

On Wednesday night, Luke and I prepared ourselves for our first "big" trip away from home with the baby--dual check-ups at the dentist, whose office is located a good half-hour from the apartment. Diapers, check. Wipes, check. Back-up outfit, check. Pacifiers, three different kinds. Pre-mixed bottles, double check. Also, a whole lot of finger-crossing. We'd been out with Kara several times, but just to run small errands among faceless strangers we'd never see again. We know our dentist. We LIKE our dentist. And we didn't want him thinking our girl was anything but a beautiful, delectable, five-week-old-who's-already-wearing-three-to-six-month-old-clothing angel.

The visit went well overall, with just a few snags. Like when the hygenist squealed over Kara's adorable adorableness (can you blame her? I mean, really) and she asked how the baby was sleeping, and I said pretty well, considering her age, and I was able to bank four to six hours a night on average, and she was like, "Wow!" and I was like, "Yeah, we're pretty lucky, I'm sure it'd be different if we were still breastfeeding, though," and she was like, "Oh?" and then, because I am still Sensitive About My Feeding Choices, fell victim to Diarrhea of the Mouth and spent ten minutes relaying my woeful nursing tale. Then she was like, "What formula are you using?" and I was all, "Similac Advanced," and she was like, "Oh!" And I was left thinking, "Huh?"

After THAT awkward exchange, Kara decided it was time to release a questionable-smelling number two, which, thanks, sweetie, for pooping in a place where the restroom doesn't have one of those plastic koala-bear tables attached to the door. My first diaper change away from home was staged on the floor of my doctor's personal office just as Luke's exam was coming to a close. He peeked in on me and the baby and gave us a smile. "I'm almost done," I said as I tried to keep my collection of dirty diaper wipes in a manageable pile away from his fancy, shiny furniture. A couple of minutes later, he popped in again while I was fastening her waist straps. "She still fighting you?" he asked.

Fighting me? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I bristled at his choice of words but shrugged it off as I passed Kara over to Luke and took my place in the chair. "It's about time for her to eat," I said as she began to fuss, and he nodded as they made their way back to the waiting room. The hygenist took the standard annual x-rays, and when the doctor joined us a few minutes later, I could hear Kara wailing in the other room.

"She's very loud, huh?" he said, smiling. The corners of my mouth turned up weakly.

"Yep, she sure is," I replied.

"Is she colicky?" he asked, and I stiffened, even though Luke and I were wondering the same thing last night. Once again, I tried to laugh it off.

"No, she's just a baby, doing what babies do." Now, if we could please just keep the focus on my damn teeth....

Luke and I have been frequenting this particular dentist's office for almost two years, and we like him very much. It's not like the guy's a jerk or anything. But I'm still wearing this motherhood gig very delicately, like a brand-new suit I'm afraid to take outside, and I don't know how to deal with those random comments people say about my kid. Just like when I was pregnant, I want to set the masses straight, tell them their remarks are out of line and why, only this time I'm not the focus, my baby is, and the last thing I want is for anyone to have the opinion she's anything less than wonderful.

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.

L&D Q&A numero dos

You know the drill, part one is here, blahdee blah blah.

Did you feel as if they rushed you through labor? Or were you able to go at your own pace? Also, is the pain really as severe as people say it is?

When pregnant with Kara, I took three different childbirth classes and read a bunch of booktalk that outlined the nitty-gritty of labor and delivery, and the most important piece of advice I gleaned was to be my own advocate; that I had a right to express my wishes, ask questions, and know what was happening to my body at all times, and I had a right to know why. Giving birth isn't like mending a broken arm; it's not about fixing what's broken but facilitating a process that's natural and beautiful, and it's not unreasonable for a woman to hope that process stays as intact as possible. Until I was admitted, I was afraid of the hospital staff placing their own scheduling needs above my desire to let my baby come in her own due time. We were already nudging things along with the induction, and while I was in full agreement about its necessity, I wanted to keep further interventions down to a minimum.

I say all of that so you can appreciate how relieved I was to learn that my medical team felt the same way. When my nurse started my Pitocin drip, she did so at the lowest amount possible and slowly increased it over a period of hours. When my contractions hit their stride, the dose was scaled back. Cervical checks were done sparingly, and I was mostly left alone to dilate and efface in peace. I received the epidural when I asked for it, but it wasn't pushed on me, and the nurse didn't laugh when I told her I might try to go au naturale. And it was only after twelve hours of labor that the idea of a c-section was even brought up as an option. All of my questions were answered promptly and completely, and my husband and I both were treated with dignity and respect. So no, I don't feel like I was rushed through labor, and yes, I most certainly was allowed to go at my own pace. I'm glad I was prepared to speak up in case things were moving too quickly, but things never moved too quickly. I have no regrets.

Also, HELL YES the pain is severe as people say it is; at least, it was for me, though to be fair, it's well known that contractions jumpstarted with Pitocin are more intense than those that come about naturally. It's hard to describe what they felt like; it's as if a giant hand had wrapped itself around my uterus to squeeze it like a grape. At their worst, I remember thrashing my legs about, trying to focus on another part of my body, but it didn't help, and breathing didn't do anything, either. Praise Jesus for the epidural, is all I have to say about that.

What were your first thoughts when they decided to do a c-section? Were you relieved, sad, scared? Was there ever a point where you had to ask people to leave the delivery room to give you privacy? Was it nerve-racking having so many people focused on your lady-parts?

Wow, lots of questions here! To say I was scared about having a c-section would be a gross understatement. Aside from minor dental surgery—a root canal here, an implant there—I'd never gone under the knife. Nothing sprained, nothing broken, nothing removed, and I had hoped it would stay that way, thank you very much. I was terrified that the epidural would stop working mid-procedure, like it had for my mother fifteen years ago. I hated that my chances for future vaginal births would be in jeopardy. And I was worried I'd come to resent my baby for making things so difficult for me.

Once the doctor left to let me think things through, I sobbed good and hard for at least ten minutes. Crying has always been the best way for my body to get rid of bad feelings, so I didn't try to fight it. But surprisingly, when I was done, I was really done. I was done trying to question all the ways my operation could go wrong. I was done praying for my cervix to dilate that last fateful centimeter or for mini-Bree to get to her proper station. I was ready to meet my baby, and at least with the c-section, I didn't have to wonder when that was going to happen anymore. And once she was out, nothing mattered but her.

In regards to having people in the delivery room with me, long-time readers will recall that I went back and forth on that issue way before the big day. On one hand, I wanted my family and friends to be with me on one of the most important days of my life. On the other, I was afraid I'd be too intimidated with everyone there to practice all the natural coping techniques I'd learned in childbirth class. I was also nervous about Luke and me not having enough time to just be together and take everything in.

In the end, though, it turned out the big crowd I was hoping for/afraid of wasn't meant to be. Most of our family members were too sick to make the trip to the hospital, but my sister Samantha and good friend Molly braved the questionable Midwest weather and came to Indianapolis. They showed up around lunchtime, which meant Luke and I had the whole morning to ourselves, and they really helped me keep my mind off all the "what-ifs." They brought me presents, they made me laugh, they massaged my feet. And when I found out about the c-section, they told me they loved me and said everything would be OK. I'm so glad they were there.

As far as the whole privacy/lady parts thing goes? Any shred of modesty I had left by that point in my pregnancy went out the window the minute they gave me those crappy gowns to wear; after that, I truly didn't care about trying to stay decent. Molly and Samantha were told by the nurse to leave the room for every cervical check and the insertion of my epidural, but other then that, I was perfectly fine with them sticking around as much as they wanted to.

I would like to hear how breastfeeding went the first few times.

Oh, this one’s a doozy, so I’ll save it for next time. Be sure to bring tissues.

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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 uno

OK, folks. Now that my birth story has been laid out for all of you to see, it's time to address some of the questions you posed before I was admitted to the hospital. Because I have delusions of self-importance, and also because I like to babble incessantly about my female parts, I'll break up the answers into a series of posts and scatter them throughout the next couple of weeks. At this point, Kara will be hitting her first birthday and I'll STILL be philosophizing about her birth. How boring am I?
 
Don't answer that.

Let's get started.

Was it easier or harder than you imagined? 
Nothing like easing into things, eh? This is actually a hard one to answer, because really, it was both. It was harder than I imagined for a lot of reasons. I always pictured myself going into labor on my own without any trouble, and that didn't prove true for me. Kara went a week past her due date, it took a Pitocin drip for my contractions to finally reach a consistent pattern, and even after a full day of labor, I still ended up with a c-section. For a gal who once contemplated giving birth in her own home without the assistance of pain meds, things definitely didn’t go as expected.

On the other hand, it was also easier. I was able to handle my induction quite well for the first half of the day, I felt wonderfully cared for by my nurses, Luke was by my side the entire time, keeping me focused and calming me down when I was unable to cope, and Molly and Samantha pampered my feet with Warm Vanilla Sugar body lotion. Plus, most importantly, being in the thick of things made it truly real that this baby was coming. I was in the hospital, wearing those crappy gowns that never cover you completely, epidural in place. This experience couldn’t end any other way, and when times got really tough, that was the thought that made it all bearable.

I’d like to know if the nurse that put your IV in poked the area that she had just placed your IV and then had the audacity to ask if that hurt. Mine sure did! 
My nurse actually did a decent job; the biggest surprise was that she placed it above my wrist instead of on my hand, which is how it was done back in October when I went to the hospital worrying about pre-term labor.

Now that you’ve had your baby in the hospital, will you be more receptive or less receptive to my pro-homebirth brainwashing? 
This question comes from Katie, a longtime reader of my personal blog who, in case you couldn’t tell, isn’t a cheerleader for the medical profession, at least when it comes to childbirth. Sorry to disappoint you, Katie, but I was quite satisfied with my birth experience. Read on to learn why.

Did you feel prepared to deviate from your birth plan as needed? Did you feel supported by your medical team? And okay, did you poop? 
First things first: The whole poop issue actually turned out to be a non-issue, seeing as I never even reached the pushing stage of labor. And because I don’t see myself being brave enough to attempt a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) with any future children I bring into the world, I’ll never worry about it again. Score one for surgery.

Second, the birth plan. I’m so glad I had a birth plan. It was a simple one, really, and mostly consisted of things that were already hospital procedure, but as a person who makes her living as a writer and thrives on list-making, it was important to put down on paper what aspects of labor, delivery, and recovery meant the most to me—or at least, what meant the most to me at the time. Keeping that list down to just a handful of bullet points helped me not sweat about the small stuff, and when things didn’t go as planned (i.e., “No interventions unless medically necessary, i.e., Pitocin”—ha!), it felt good to know that at least my plan was a starting point.

I don’t know why birth plans get such a bad rap. We go through our whole lives preparing for best-case scenarios and re-adjusting when things deviate from our expectations. Does that mean we shouldn’t plan for anything, shouldn’t hope for anything? If you ask me, that’s a pretty pessimistic way to live.
 
So really, the problem isn’t the birth plan, it’s the attitude of the person writing the birth plan. During one of my later prenatal visits, my doctor once mentioned a woman who wrote a SIX-PAGE birth plan, filled with stuff like the temperature of the room and how often she’d be checked and how she did NOT want a c-section. Good God, the thing should’ve been copyrighted and displayed in the window of a Barnes and Noble. Do you think everything went according to her control-freak novel? No, it didn’t.

At first glance, it may seem like a lot of things in my birth plan didn’t come to fruition. I had a Pitocin drip and IV fluids from the very beginning, and I had continuous fetal monitoring. However, when you see that the phrase “unless medically necessary” is attached to almost all of them instead of “not at all,” you’ll see that actually, everything went according to plan. I didn’t want Pitocin unless it was medically necessary. Was it medically necessary? Since my doctor and I were both in agreement about induction, and since Pitocin makes inductions possible, yes. It wasn’t my first choice, but in the end, it was still what I wanted. You could say the same thing about my c-section except it wasn’t in my birth plan. I tried to include things that would reduce my chances of needing a c-section, but I knew if I needed one, I’d have to get one. No wiggle room there.
 
And you know what? I don’t regret that, either. My biggest fear was having something done to me that I didn’t understand. I was afraid of having a labor progress slowly but normally and a doctor who wasn’t patient enough to wait it out. But that’s not what happened to me. We’d given a vaginal birth the best shot we could, and Kara still wasn’t budging. Once I agreed to the c-section, I was freaked out and sad and scared, but I knew it was in my and the baby’s best interest, so at least I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I was doing the right thing. It’s not something I give much thought to these days. I’m ready to move on.

Some things that we thought we wanted didn’t happen. With all the hullabaloo in the OR, Luke didn’t cut the umbilical cord. He probably could have, but he totally forgot to ask. Does he care now? No.

And yet other things went right according to plan. I wore my contacts during labor and nursed Kara as soon as we were wheeled into recovery. Luke was with her when I couldn’t be. And nobody offered the baby pacifiers, sugar water, or formula. All in all, my birth plan kicked ass.

Pardon the French. 

More tomorrow.

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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.

My child is a medical marvel

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

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

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

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

Works for me.

I'll keep you posted.

So. Happy.

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

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

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

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

Drop it like it's hot? Not yet.

So I had my 36-week check-up today, and things are peachy keen. My overall weight gain currently stands at twenty-seven pounds (speaking of which, a woman at work actually had the gall to ASK for my "number," how ballsy is that?!), Freka measures in at around 37 centimeters, and my blood pressure, sugar, and protein levels are marvelous. I told my doctor about the intermittent cramping I experience in my fingers throughout the day, and she attributed it to swelling, which she noticed slight traces of in my face, hands, and legs--totally normal at this stage in the game. We discussed the logistics of my birth plan, talked shop about pediatricians, and laughed over all the conflicting advice I've received about the baby's gender and positioning of my uterus. Which means that no, I've not dropped yet, and in fact, I may not drop until right before I go into labor, but either way, it'd be a better use of my time to pay attention to the irregular contractions I've been having as of late. Good call, Doc.

In other news, a big thanks to all who took the bait for my Q&A teaser. Here's a burning question from The Ambitious Mrs:

Are there any traits about yourself or your husband that you're hoping your baby really will or will not inherit?

If we're talking physical traits, Luke and I are both plagued with poor vision and temperamental complexions, and I'd love it if Freka didn't have to bother with contacts, eyeglasses, and routine visits to the dermatologist. When I was a kid, my poor mother, who was blessed with beautiful skin, didn't know what to do with me; I often received instructions to lay off the candy and chips, and she wasn't above steaming my face with a hot wash cloth and squeezing out the blackheads herself to ward off my acne (are you gagging yet? Because I sooo was just typing that, God bless my mom's dedication) (your mom's dedicated!). It wasn't until years later that she recognized I could've used some medical attention, but at least my siblings have had a much easier time of things. Luckily, I'll be prepared to handle this with my own children, but if they could skip that trauma altogether, that would be fabulous, thank you very much.

By comparison, dealing with glasses and contacts isn't nearly as big of a deal, but I remember the types of frames I was drawn to a kid, so all I can do is pray that little Freka demonstrates better taste if she's subjected to the fate of her parents. Seriously, have you seen my blog banner? It was bad, folks. Really bad. But as Luke pointed out, my father--the one who took me to all of my appointments--was brave enough to let me choose my eye wear, and lil' Frema liked having that say. After all, it was my damn face. Doing the same thing for Freka is the least I can do, if it comes down to that.

Physical traits I hope she does inherit? My thick hair and Luke's ridiculously long lashes. A few inches of her dad's height wouldn't hurt, either. Man, would she be a knock-out.

In regards to intellectual traits, we plan to do everything in our power to encourage a love of reading in our children. I also hope they have a passion for education. And blogging, but all in good time, my pretties. All in good time.

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.

According to my doctor, I'm one hot momma

Maybe "hot" is too strong a word, but this morning at the ob/gyn's office, the first thing he did after shaking my hand was comment on how warm I felt. Then he winked. Or was it an eye twitch? So tired today. It's all a blur.

As far as Freke is concerned, everything is A-OK. My urine sample came up clean, and while I haven't lost or gained any weight since my last appointment, I'm continuously reassured that this child is acting as a parasite and thus freely taking whichever nutrients it needs to thrive, regardless if there's anything left for me. After relaying this information to my mother on the phone later in the afternoon, she said, "His whole life he'll be taking from you. Get used to it now."

(In case you didn't notice, my mom thinks Freke's a boy.)

I had a lot of questions today, questions about when to schedule classes and search for a pediatrician, and also uncontrollable smiles on the way to work, because we went ahead and scheduled my first ultrasound for July 11th at 10:30 a.m. By lunchtime I'll (hopefully) know whether to read up on HPV vaccinations or begin addressing the whole "to circumcise or not circumcise" issue.

I was informed we can invite family and friends to witness the baby's debut on the two-dimensional screen, but Luke likes the idea of us finding out together, just the two of us, and seeing as we'll be up north that weekend, anyway, we can just bring in our VHS tape and show everyone just as well, though my mother has informed me that she doesn't want to know the gender, despite my warning that I'll be sharing the news with the entire Internet. So, for any relatives who read this blog (Auntie Diane, are you out there? Stop lurking!), know that your lips must remain sealed regarding the revelation of any wee body parts. Because, don't you know, "finding out the gender in the delivery room is the only fun thing about pregnancy."

What can I say? I want my fun now.

Testing 1-2-3 Wednesday

Yesterday I had a follow-up doctor's appointment to check on my recent weight loss. Turns out another three pounds have gone by the wayside since I was in last, but since my appetite is slowly starting to return, the physician I met with saw no reason to take any further action. I heard the heartbeat again, whooshing away at about a hundred and sixty beats per minute, and we talked about the ultrasound I'll be having in roughly eight to ten weeks.

She also brought up the idea of prenatal testing. Hmmm.

I know that testing can be important for many types of women. Those of certain ethnicities, for example, or who are over 35, or whose family histories include physical or mental disabilities. I know that testing can determine whether or not your baby is predispositioned to genetic defects and provide couples with an opportunity to make critical, sometimes heartbreaking, decisions prior to delivery. I know it and appreciate having the choice. But I don't want it.

My reasoning? Neither Luke's nor my cultural backgrounds are prone to anything out of the ordinary. Experiencing my first pregnancy at 27 years old is far enough from 35 to categorize this gestation as low-risk. I'm healthy. Our families are healthy. Everything should be fine. But if for some reason it isn't? Well, I don't know that we'd do anything about it, anyway. After all our talk of wanting a baby, we've been given a baby--a miracle, a gift we've done nothing to deserve. We will take this gift and care for this child the best way we can, for as long as we can, whether it's eighty-three years or twelve days or six minutes or just nine months in utero. Even the best testing can't guarantee anything, even the best testing can be wrong, and I would hate to play God based on the number of dots or squiggles printed on a piece of paper, then wonder for the rest of my life if I should've left things alone. I'd much rather take each day as it comes and prepare for the worst when there is a legitimate reason to do so.

Tell me, parents out there, what's your take on or experience with prenatal testing?

Edited to add: In reading through your comments, I realized my post reads as if I believe the only reason to move forward with testing would be to determine if termination is "necessary," which isn't true at all. There are many afflictions that can plague babies but don't prevent them from living long and happy lives, and many parents want to have that information. Again, though, for me, it wouldn't help. How does one mentally prepare for something like that? As far as medical arrangements are concerned, Luke and I have chosen a hospital that's well-equipped to handle any complications with my labor and/or the baby's arrival, and if specialists are required, we can receive recommendations at that time.

I briefly considered going through with the first-trimester screening, a non-invasive way to detect chromosomal abnormalities, but to have a test done simply because it was non-invasive didn't sit well with me. Since ultrasounds between eighteen and twenty-two weeks are routine and have the capability to provide physical evidence of a problem, that's enough 411 for this mother-to-be. Finding out the gender? Will be icing on the cake.

It seems like only yesterday I was ten weeks' pregnant

On the day Luke and I learned I was "with child," one of the first things we did was race over to the computer to determine a due date. We stumbled across babycenter.com, which asked a couple of questions about the first day of my last period and the average length of my cycles and then voila! A December 10th due date.

Three days later, I met with my ob/gyn nurse for the first time, who used that fancy little calendar wheel shaped like a pack of birth control pills to place my date of delivery at November 29th. Since she had collected extensive information on my menstrual history, I shrugged my shoulders and didn't give it much thought. Until today, that is, when the doctor noticed my cycle length and discovered that the nurse hadn't taken my 38-day visits from Aunt Flo into account.

"So that means..."

"Instead of being ten weeks and five days pregnant, you're actually only nine weeks and two days," he said. Which puts me back to a December 9th/10th due date.

In other words, I have to deal with this first-trimester crap for THREE MORE WEEKS. Oh, the horror. Words cannot properly express my sorrow.

It also means I'll change weeks on Monday instead of Friday. This kid is lucky I'm flexible.

Other then that enlightening piece of information, the visit went well. Luke was subjected to an up-close-and-personal view of my first prenatal pelvic exam, through which it was revealed that I have a wide V bone or whatever the hell it is you call it, which will be helpful when it's time to push this darling miracle out of my special place, and the internal exam showed that my uterus is a bit larger than what's considered typical for nine weeks, so basically we have to wait for the first ultrasound to see when this baby might want to come out. The doctor asked about my weight loss and reassured me that I can skip vitamins altogether right now if I can't keep them down, since the most important thing I can do is increase my fluid and caloric intake, in that order. He recommended lots of milkshakes, and really, who am I to refuse doctor's orders?

We also got to hear the baby's heartbeat, though we were warned that nine weeks is sometimes too early to pick up anything on the monitor. He squirted some jelly on my lower stomach and pressed. We all waited. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, already consoling myself with the knowledge that we could try again in a couple of weeks at my next appointment, scheduled specifically to see if I was making any progress in the weight gain area.

Finally, after a couple of minutes, it was there.

Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh. Like my uterus was busy washing a load of whites on its lunch hour. Only it wasn't a load of whites, it was my little baby. A hundred and seventy beats per minute, the doctor said. Luke and I locked eyes and smiled.

Pretty effing cool.

Baby Steps Wednesday

Baby steps, indeed.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 138.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 13.2

I blame the absence of any truly significant weight loss this week on Luke's surprise dessert Tuesday night. The day had been going so well otherwise; me weighing in at a respectable 137.2 that morning, the two of us feasting on a light dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup, my future plans of nursing a small bowl of berry rainbow sherbet before bed. Then, suddenly, I noticed the oven was on.

Surprise! Luke said. Pillsbury cinnamon bread!

Foiled again!

In an effort to remain content with eating at home, we often pick up fun breakfast items from the grocery store to have on the weekends, like muffins or cinnamon rolls. Who knew one could partake in the joy during the evening hours?

After it finished baking, Luke presented his spontaneous masterpiece on one of our largest Target dishes, along with two forks, and we delighted in the gooey, frosty goodness. Ten minutes later, Luke had stopped with the delighting; meanwhile, I was packing it away like a rabid squirrel on the cusp of hibernating for the winter. The look on my husband's face clued me in that we probably weren't meant to finish it off in one sitting.

And to think I told my new ob/gyn I was giving diet and exercise "an honest try." Ha!

My appointment yesterday ended my journey to find a doctor who could manage both the care of my nether region and the delivery of my first child before either was actually necessary. The first one I met with two Fridays ago was receptive to all of my questions, but Dr. Wonderful (do you think she'll mind if I call her that?) took a more proactive approach in providing information. She initiated conversations about office procedures, equipment capabilities (3D ultrasounds right in their office!), how to time conception, standard L & D practices, and anything else you could possibly think of; plus, the fact that she was a young, healthy woman currently experiencing pregnancy herself--she's due at the end of the month--put me at ease right away. I knew within the first five minutes I'd found the right person.

Before I left, Dr. Wonderful sent me off with a generous sampling of prenatal vitamins, and it's now starting to hit me that holy crap, I'm trying to grow a baby inside of me. For the first time in my life, I'm counting the days on the calendar in anticipation of my next fertile window, Luke and I both so excited about finally taking the next step in our relationship as a family. There's no guessing how long it will be before the little person I'm so in love with already will assume his/her rightful place in the world, but knowing that we're finally OK with putting ourselves out there, well, right now that's fantastic enough.

Not so much that I'm laying off the junk food, apparently, but fantastic just the same. I'll get there, sweet baby, I promise!

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.

Giving You the Best That I Got, Which Isn't Much Today

In snippet form:

This morning I saw my general practitioner for the second time in seven days to see how the urinary tract infection I've been suffering from all month responded to the antibiotics. While everything appears to be in tip-top shape, I'm still running to the bathroom every eight seconds, so he prescribed a second round of meds to treat any lingering effects. UTIs are nothing new to me; I've gotten at least one a year since my sophomore year in college, most likely due to the fact that I don't get thirsty very often, I'm afraid a liberal intake of fluids will result in bathroom overload, and I hate the logistics of leaving my office, marching down the corridor, and going through the whole depants-pee-handwash routine twelve times a day. Of course, this eventually guarantees that I'll leave my office, march down the corridor, and go through the whole depants-pee-handwash routine twelve times a day, only with a sharp pain in my bladder and a heightened sense of urgency. My plan, she's not working so well.

During my visit, the doctor and I talked about how Luke and I plan on actively trying for children soon and discussed the importance of finding an ob/gyn now, so I have time to interview different practitioners and determine which one will be the best fit. Besides abandoning artifical birth control last year, this is the biggest step I've taken to acknowledge that I (hopefully) (some day) will become a mother. For some reason, it's freaking me the eff out. Any suggestions of questions to ask when putting these MDs in the hot seat?

My much-anticipated Big Love season one, disc one DVD came in the mail on Tuesday and I popped it in last night, as Luke is away on business and completely uninterested in watching the life of a closet polygamist unfold on the small screen. Thirty seconds into the opening credits I already loved it, knew it would be a work of art, and spent the next two hours learning about the marital interworkings of Bill and Barb, Bill and Nicki, and Bill and Margene.

Storywise, it's fascinating, watching this man juggle three different families and serve as a referee of sorts in the family's interactions with each other. It's also disturbing; Margene, his youngest wife, can't be older than twenty-two, and the way they communicate reminds me more of a father/daughter relationship (minus all the sex, of course) ("Oral is moral!") instead of one in which each partner is on equal footing. (One might argue that women involved in plural marriages aren't looking for equality, but that's a post for another day.) And I can't help feeling for Barb, who spent ten years of her life with a man in a committed, monogamous union before talks of a second wife began. How betrayed she must have felt; how heartbroken she must have been to know her husband was interested in adding another woman to their family.

I don't know if watching this show will be a good idea for me in the long run, but I plan on plowing through a few more episodes, maybe even the entire first season, before I make a final decision.

BlogHer '07 is fast approaching, and updates regarding theme, location, and seminar topics are showing up more frequently in my Gmail inbox. One tiny fact that has yet to be revealed: the freakin' cost. When perusing the list of upcoming conferences, I noticed that BlogHer's business extravaganza in New York City is running for a whopping six hundred and ninety-nine dollars. The hell?! What middle-class Jane Doe can afford to drop a grand in conference and travel fees at a moment's notice? I'm hoping and praying the Chicago shindig is more reasonably priced, seeing as the majority of women who blog either do so without the benefit of financial compensation or generate meager sales from ad revenue and/or shopping paraphernalia. With Luke and I working so hard to get into a house this summer, I can't in good conscience do anything to jeporadize that. However, the possibility of not going makes me very, very sad. Maybe I can talk to Saint Joe about shouldering some of the costs--you know, for academic research!

When the nurse weighed me this morning, I registered at an even 133, even with my clothes on. So apparently I lost four-point-eight pounds in twenty-four hours. I could get used to (delusions like) this.

Yesterday I realized that, whenever I say my blog title in my head, I'm totally doing a throw-back to Biff from Back to the Future, in the scene where he grabs the fifties version of George McFly by the collar in their high school cafeteria and snarls "What're you lookin' at, butthead?" to an onlooking Marty McFly. That'll be a fun story to share at dinner parties.

Wahoo! Wednesday

I did it! I lost weight! And all without resorting to bulimic tendencies.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

But don't pat me on the back just yet. Remember what I said last week about dumb luck? Well, she must've been a lady for every night of last week, because not only did I continue to avoid the gym, but Luke and I finally took official measures to axe our membership. We're both sad about it, because we really do like working out, but the motivation to get us through those blasted double doors just isn't there, and I don't want to flush another sixty-nine dollars down the toilet while we coax ourselves into a better mindset. Fortunately the Y doesn't charge registration or cancellation fees, so we can pick up where we left off any old time we want to. Which helps to lessen the blow--a little.

In the meantime, I'm going wallow in self-pity over the plethora of dental problems currently plaguing our household. You'll recall that two weeks ago a permanent crown fell out of my mouth, requiring another trip to the dentist and the refastening of my silver bling with temporary cement until he could schedule another appointment for an impression. "If it falls out again," he said, "don't worry about it. You'll be back in another few weeks and we'll take care of it then."

As luck would have it, the blasted thing DID fall out again, last Tuesday while I was at work. Because a root canal was performed on the original tooth just six months after the crown, I'm unable to detect sensitivity or pain, so I simply shrugged it off until Monday night, when a piece of said tooth broke off during a marathon viewing of the last four episodes of All My Children (Dixie is dead! Because she ingested poisoned peanut-butter-and-banana pancakes originally meant for her skanky daughter-in-law! If that's not infuriating enough, her 2006 storyline revolved entirely around finding the little girl she gave up for adoption four years ago after receiving substantial injuries from a plane crash in Switzerland and being suckered into signing away her parental rights by her doctor, who told her she was on the verge of death and hinted that Tad would resent Kate for taking Dixie's life. And then she croaks before learning her daughter is now living in PINE FREAKIN' VALLEY. Though viewers were treated to Dixie's spirit realizing the truth and blowing her daughter kisses before ascending into Heaven and flashbacks to all three of her weddings to Tad. Hiccup sob blah).

Anyway, the tooth. I tossed the fragment into the garbage can and indulged in a mini-freak out, because what if they can't save what's left? What if it's so weak and decayed that the dentist opts to pull it and drill another post into my gums? So I called his office in a slight panic yesterday morning, and Betty, the sent-from-above hygenist who held my hand and dried my tears during the whole implant procedure, assured me there were other ways of fastening the crown without replacing what little of the tooth I appear to have left. They'll assess the decay and outline my options first thing tomorrow. Because there's no better way to motivate yourself for a nine-hour work day than a consultation for hundreds of dollars of anticipated dental work, work that doesn't include the extraction of Luke's wisdom teeth OR the minor gum surgery he'll have this spring. Praise Jesus for insurance.

Moving on....

After reviewing yesterday's post, I realized that for all my talk of houses and cars and stay-at-home parenting, I neglected to address the most emotional topic of all: baby making!

Before the wedding, Luke and I had planned to start trying for kids as early as the honeymoon, so eager were we to start our family. However, when forty days passed and we confirmed I wasn't pregnant, we decided to hold off until Luke found a job and we had stabilized our finances. Once that happened, we agreed to start this summer. And even as we bounce back and forth like ping-pong balls over every other issue under the sun, this is the one plan we continue to agree on. It's the one plan that hasn't changed.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to spell that out for everyone. Maybe it's due to the fact that whenever I broach the subject of getting our ducks in a row before making The Leap, many people like to remind me that Luke and I can never adequately brace ourselves for parenthood; there will never be enough money or time or insurance or enough square footage, and we'll never have all the answers. And I know that. I have no intentions of allowing the best part of life to pass me by because I was busy worshipping a spreadsheet.

That said, I also don't like the idea that family, friends, or even blog readers might be calling me naive for wanting to buy a house or have a baby without worrying about foreclosure or having to transform one of my dresser drawers into a makeshift crib. For cripe's sake, I'm only 27 years old. My clock isn't ticking. I have not been diagnosed with a fatal illness. Waiting a few months or even a year to procreate doesn't seem unreasonable or even idealistic to me.

Not that I'm defensive or paranoid or anything. Not at all.

Weight Loss Wednesday

Feelin' good, people, feelin' good! I'm wearing my super-comfortable gauchos, pain-free brown boots, and less weight than I did this time last week. Miracles, they do happen.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.2

I'm not really sure HOW I lost the weight, since I pigged out on TGI Friday's beef brisket and a Pot Belly's roast beef sub within a twelve-hour timespan, but when faced with a miracle, it's in one's best interest not to ask questions.

Unless those questions are about a costly gym membership. Luke and I have discussed this on and off for the last few days without coming to any real conclusion.

In theory, we're both serious about wanting to commit to a regular fitness program. The Y is a seven-minute drive from our apartment; unless we decide to shack up in the facility's parking lot, you can't get any better than that. The branch is less than a year old, so the equipment's top notch. At the end of our work-out, we always feel better than we did coming in. What is the problem?!

The problem is reality. In reality, we function better at night and stay up too late to put in sufficient time on the treadmill before breakfast without wanting to crash after dinner. In reality, at five o'clock we're more excited about coming home to each other and our pajama pants than spending another hour at a place that isn't home. (OK, so I'M the one who tosses the work clothes aside for pjs. The SexyBack giveth, and the SexyBack taketh away.) When push comes to shove, we're mentally burned out.

But there's something about the gym that keeps us holding on. As long as we continue to renew our membership, there's still hope that one day we'll fulfill our half of the bargain and actually use the machines we pay to access. Continuing our membership gives us motivation to get our squishy asses off the couch. Being open to even the possibility of swiping that plastic card at the Y's front desk means we're not failures.

One option we've talked about is eliminating the Y from our budget and paying for an annual state park entrance permit instead. It's way cheaper--just thirty-six dollars for the whole year--and we'll be paying for an activity we truly enjoy. The majority of our weekend trips revolve around hiking, camping, and frolicking at the beach, anyway, so this would just encourage that.

What do you guys think? Are we awful for giving up before we even really get started, or does it make sense to axe the Y and explore different ways to get in shape?

In other news, the crown is back in my mouth, held into place with temporary cement until the dentist can see me again in February, at which time he'll fit me for a new, permanent piece. Since I was so busy reading through yesterday's entry for typos, I didn't get out of work until forty minutes before my scheduled appointment, which means I didn't have time to pick up my old one on the way. I called the receptionist twice to make sure this wasn't a problem, and twice she assured me it wasn't. That is, until I got to the clinic and waited an hour and fifteen minutes to be seen for my "emergency" fit-in, only to be chastised by the denist for not bringing in the original crown. If looks could kill, some funeral director would be pumping that woman's limbs with embalming fluid as we speak.

Since it would've taken another hour and a half for me to go home, pick it up, and come back, I did what any married woman would do--call her husband and beg him to make the drive himself. Which he did, bless his white little heart, and the doctor took all of four minutes to stick the thing back on tooth number fourteen. By this time it was seven o'clock and we were about to eat our own arms for nourishment, so we hopped over to Bennigan's, home to The Best Spinach Dip In The Universe. I planned on ordering that and nothing else, fully content to bask in the glory that is spinach and artichokes on seasoned flat bread.

Imagine my surprise, then, upon learning that the dip had been removed from their appetizer menu ONE DAMN YEAR AGO. I almost burst into tears right in front of the waitress.

A perfect ending to a perfect day.

What Am I Still Doing Here?

When reviewing my entries for last week, I was proud to see that Hey! I posted five days in a row! I totally need do to that again! So yesterday afternoon I slaved over a post that was intended to honor Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, but the Internet was acting wonky and I forgot to copy and paste the text into Word before hitting "Publish" so I ended up losing the whole damn thing. Which is OK with me in the end, because the post was fine, but it didn't feel like ME. So here is something more ME. Crap! In the form of chunky paragraphs without transitions!

Friday

The BMV mix-up was resolved in eight minutes, with profuse apologizing on behalf of the branch. It was implanting my post that took an hour and a half, what with my sobbing hysterically every time the drill attempted to secure the metal screw through my bone. It all started on Wednesday, when I accompanied Luke to have four cavities filled (because the HSA debit card is in my name and practitioners like to be compensated for their work) and warned both the doctor and hygenist about my tendency to get a tad "anxious" in the chair, suggesting it would benefit all parties involved to nail a nitrous oxide mask to my face for the entire procedure. The doctor just laughed and assured me I wouldn't feel any pain, he'd thoroughly numb the area and anyway bones don't have nerves so I shouldn't feel a thing.

I laughed, too, and didn't give it much thought until Friday morning, when they called me in after a thirty-minute wait, during which I reflected on the hell I experienced in Rensselaer when they attached a permanent crown to my badly cracked tooth and thought once again that nitrous would best calm my ultra-sensitive nerves. And once again, I was silenced with promises of no pain. It wasn't until the doctor had pumped my gums with Novocaine three times in an effort to stop my hysterical chest heaves that he began to second-guess his decision, but it was too late. I was afraid of the drill and the size of the screw, and everyone's attempts to comfort me just resulted in more tears because being the center of attention when I'm upset is embarrassing, and when I'm embarrassed, I cry, and the vicious cycle repeats itself until I'm home, where I can unabashedly surrender to my hysteria and then move on with my life. Until I remember all the caring and sympathy and cry again.

The doctor called me at home later that afternoon, when the pain had turned into a dull, bearable throbbing, and apologized for the miscommunication; a nice touch on his part, and I hung up feeling pretty good about the whole situation, soothing myself with the knowledge that I had a six-week time frame before my next appointment, during which I could pray for selective amnesia.

Saturday

Molly of Lost A Sock fame and I joined forces to drive to Chicago and attend Dawnie's 27th birthday bash at Dave and Buster's, marketed as Chuck E. Cheese for adults. Dawn and I "met" each other through a CD swap organized last spring and have been e-mailing back and forth since then, but this was our first meeting, not to mention MY first time meeting a blogger in real life, so by the time we parked Molly's Ford Explorer (an adventure in its own right) and made our way through the crowd to find Dawn and her friends, I was ready to wet myself.

There wasn't much time to talk, but it was a fun night. Hopefully we can do it again before BlogHer. Also, don't you like how Molly and I used mental telepathy to coordinate our outfits?

 

I risked my life to take this photo by pretending I wanted a shot of Molly scoring tickets from Pirate's Revenge, but it was totally worth it because this woman looked like she'd had one too many Appletinis and was concentrating harder than a gambler in a Las Vegas casino. She must've been sitting in front of that "Wheel of Fortune" station for at least thirty minutes. Of course, Molly and I dropped twenty bucks apiece at the Skeeball lanes (where we almost had to rumble with a couple of bitches who claimed we were taking their place in line, even though they were gabbing it up a good five feet away), so who am I to judge?

WARNING: the following two paragraphs contain spoilers for 24. Fans not in the know should proceed at their own risk.

Sunday

The first two hours of 24's season premiere. I spent most of it yelling at the television because after six years, don't these people know Jack's super powers can't be thwarted by a twenty-month stint in a Chinese prison? Watching him bite flesh off a terrorist's neck was pretty disgusting, but I nearly lost it when the Muslim American teenager labeled a terrorist by some hillbilly redneck actually turned out to be a terrorist, causing me to change my Gmail chat tagline from "Tragic Love Friday: now with more tragedy" to "Twenty Flop." Way to break down ethnic stereotypes, FOX.

Monday

Two more hours of 24. Two more hours of yelling at the TV and lamenting Curtis's totally out-of-character personality change and subsequent death. However, the nuclear explosion was cool, so I changed my Gmail tagline to "Twenty Forgivable."

I also lost a crown while brushing my teeth.

I got the crown in June 2004; the following January I received a root canal on the same tooth, which is how the hole started (he had to go through the crown to get to the nerve), until it got bigger and bigger and eventually it was so big I could feel it with my tongue. My dentist and I had previously talked about replacing it since the hole leaves the tooth underneath susceptible to decay, so I'm not heartbroken, just baffled as to why the crown chose MLK Day to make the break.

Tuesday

As soon as I finish this sentence, I'm going to the dentist so he can make the crown situation all better; I could've left an hour ago but didn't want to go another minute without updating this blog. I'm nothing if not dedicated. And stupid.

Tragic Love Friday

Today marks the beginning of a four-day weekend for me, a day I'd like to spend catching up on two weeks' worth of All My Children episodes but will probably use to run boring errands like finally updating my driver's license to reflect my married last name and visiting the dentist to take bite-wing x-rays of a tooth most likely infected with a cavity. Luke and I were there just last month for cleanings, during which I scheduled a post implant to replace the molar I had pulled two years ago. I would've had the bite wing taken then if my period hadn't been a week and a half late, causing me to think I was pregnant, but of course it came the next day and I was a little sad but mostly pissed about having to make the thirty-minute drive to the doctor's office before my January 12th appointment. The things I do to avoid radiation exposure to my future children.

But what about Kayla's and Jenna's little rug rats? That's the real question of the hour.

-------

CHAPTER FIVE - JENNA

I walked out of St. Joseph's Hospital feeling like I could fly. My doctor, Dr. Foremann, had given me an excellent report. "Your little girl's doing great. The next time I see you, young lady, will be in the delivery room." [Because women who are seven months pregnant could never benefit from a doctor's watchful eye. Frema, M.D. strikes again!]

I had really hoped David could be there, but he had to work. Poor David. He seemed so stressed out. I decided to stop at McDonald's and let him know the good news about Mary Katherine.

When I got there, business was slow. David was slipping on his jacket. His face paled as I walked over to him and gave him a kiss. "Jenna, what are you doing here?" he asked. "I just got back from my appointment. The baby's doing great," I said, smiling. David just stared at me. "We have to talk."

"Sure. About what?" He didn't answer, only led me outside to where his car was parked. "First let me tell you that I never wanted to hurt you," he began.

"What are you talking about?"

"It all started last month. One night I was with Mike, and we had a few beers. You and I had a little arguement that day, and somehow..." he bowed his head. "I went to Kayla's house. We talked about my mom, you, the baby. She listened to me. Old feelings were brought up. Jenna ... we made love." 

I felt dizzy. David noticed and tried to put an arm around me, but I pushed him away. "Don't touch me!" I yelled. "You bastard! Don't ever touch me again!"

"Jenna, I'm so sorry. I feel terrible." He took a deep breath. "Today Kayla called me at work and said she was pregnant with my child." [Oh, that would've been a fun scene to write! How could I have let that gem slip by?]

That did it. My fist went smashing into David's jaw. He stumbled a few steps backward, but managed to stay on his feet.

I was crying. My eyes blinded by tears, I ran to my car. David was right behind me. "Jenna, wait! Let me explain!" [I think you covered just about everything but positioning, buddy. She gets it.] I started the engine and rolled down my window. Throwing a glass car ornament at him [do these even exist?], I screamed, "Take your explanation and shove it where the sun won't shine!"

I managed to get home without killing anyone. I ran into my house and picked up the phone, punching in Kayla's number. She answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Kayla, you slut! This is Jenna. [Ya think?] I'm just calling to let you know that if you want the asshole who slept with you, take him. He's all yours." I slammed the receiver down.

"Calm down," I told myself. "Don't do anything that would hurt Mary Katherine."

That was the only reason I didn't go kill David. The stress of killing him could hurt the baby.

I needed to talk to someone, or else I'd go crazy. So I hopped back into my car and drove straight to Michael's house. As soon as he opened the door, I collapsed into his arms. "Jenna! My God!" [If this were a TV script, this would be a perfect place to fade to commercial, don't you think?] He scooped me up and carried me to the couch. [How muscular must Michael be to sweep a pregnant woman off her feet? Pretty muscular, ladies!] "Are you OK? What's wrong?"

"It's David. He's..." My voice cracked with emotion. "He's gotten Kayla pregnant." I couldn't say anymore.

My best friend was silent as I sobbed in his arms, his hands running through my hair. [I'm surprised they're not on her boobs. News flash, Michael: Groping isn't part of the traditional BFF package!]

After a while, I was OK. I told Michael everything. When I was finished, he looked like he would spit nails. "Jenna, he's a jerk, an idiot and a fool. He doesn't deserve you or that beautiful baby you're going to give birth to."

"What am I going to do?" I wailed.

"You're going to forget about him. He's not worth the effort."

"But he loves the baby. He wants to be in her life."

"So he takes her to the park once in a while. Listen to me," Mike said, cupping my chin in his hands. "I will help you get through this. I'll ALWAYS be here for you. You can depend on me for anything." [Except to support the role your baby daddy hopes to play in your daughter's life.]

"I know." I smiled through my tears. "Tell me: what did I do to deserve such a wonderful friend?"

He hugged me. [Geez, he can't keep his hands off her for even a second!] "Dollface, it's the other way around."

-------

When my girlfriends at school got to this point in the notebooks, they always sighed over Michael's outlandish yet noble display of affection. It even seemed sweet to me at the time, and I wrote the damn thing, but you all know better, don't you?

I have a few thoughts about the story's progression so far. Despite David's superhuman baby-making abilities, I feel for the poor guy, who really has worked hard to do the right thing. Sure, he fucked up a little, but he's also admitted his shortcomings and taken responsibility for his own actions. Most adults in his situation wouldn't have stepped up the way he has for Jenna and the baby, and there's no reason to think he wouldn't support Kayla and her child as well.

My opinions are probably clouded by the fact that I often hoped Nick, who received the best of my heart during my teenage years, would act in a similar manner if I ever "fell with child." I never would have tried to get pregnant on purpose, but I secretly wondered if such a life-altering change of events would inspire him to take stock of his life and realize the wonderful future we could have had if he put forth the effort, because as dysfunctional as our relationship was, we did have amazing chemistry and we really cared about each other. I realize now how naive I was, how lucky I was to be spared the pain of learning my lesson the hard way; Nick didn't have the ability to be the father figure I romanticized about for my babies or the partner I longed to have for myself. But back then I thought about it all the time. What a dreamer I was.

Also, if I were Kayla, and the love of my life came to me one night and wanted to hold me and kiss me and make love to me, I would've had my clothes off faster than you can say "Your mom." For real, peeps.

Not Even An "A" For Effort

Are Luke and I the only people who watched Skating With Celebrities? After my baby freak-out the other day, I knew I needed to bring back the funny STAT or risk having you all think I spend every night holding myself in the corner of my closet, mumbling some nonsense about Lucy falling from grace with the local mail carrier is all due to my taking a cashier job at the local Jewel. Only instead of inspiring laughter, I had people scratching their noggins and thinking, "The hell?" Way to alienate your readers, Frema.

Anyway, my cholesterol test. I wish I could say the doctor's weight-loss announcement was true. I wish I could say the ten bowls of Cheerios I had last month were enough to produce satisfactory results. But I can't. In fact, my "bad cholesterol" actually went UP a few points. Because I had talked to Mr. Doctor about getting off the pill and Luke's and my baby-making plans, his nurse explained he didn't want to prescribe a medication, so I need to continue adhering to my diet and start exercising several times a week, something I didn't even try to do before. On the bright side, at least I know what I've been doing wrong: still snacking too much, planting my bottom on the couch after work, etc. Imagine if I'd done everything to the letter and still got crappy news? Which is quite possible, since my mother's mother had a history of cholesterol problems before she died in 2000.

I'm disappointed the results weren't better. I'm disappointed in myself for not taking this more seriously. But it's water under the bridge now. All I can do is try harder.

Back in happier times, last weekend witnessed the rejuvenation of several pampering rituals, most of which should only be done in the sanctity of one's four walls; soaking in a bubble bath, buffing and painting my toenails, and letting my hair air dry, which, lo and behold, is just what it needed to curl properly in the absence of thirteen-dollar styling products. Luke and I also spent two hours uploading songs from old CD's so we could pawn the hard copies at a local music store. Approximately forty discs earned us twenty-seven bucks, but you'd have thought it was twenty-seven hundred the way we rushed back to the car and stared at the bills in awe. The world was ours! What to do with this power? New top from New York and Company? Additional accessories for Luke's iPod? Extra milk and pretzels to hold us over 'til pay day? In the end we treated ourselves to dinner at Applebee's, and I'm telling you, no two people had a better time there than us. We barely even talked--just being together in the presence of processed food was just what we needed to feel more in touch with the universe.

By the way, we also spent the majority of our Sunday browsing through pictures for our reception slide show. Therefore, be on the lookout for Frema's Life in Pictures, because oh, yes. It's coming.

Beauty and the Prick

The beauty is ... well, me. The prick is from the nurse's needle that broke the surface of my skin yesterday because, after two weeks of insurance glitches, I said to hell with Anthem and their refusal to hand over my new insurance card and just kept the damn appointment to follow-up on my cholesterol.

(Or by the time I remembered to call and cancel on Thursday, the doctor's office was already closed and my appointment was the first one of the day and I didn't want to piss off the nurse because she's nice and all but has a bit of a Homie Don't Play That complex. Would you want to trigger the Homie in your health care professional? I didn't think so.)

Anyway. I get to the office and engage in some friendly banter with the receptionist, who's become a kindred spirit through all this insurance nonsense, and then I get weighed, and then I get pricked, and then I twiddle my thumbs until the doctor delivers the verdict.

Turns out he's got good things to say. While the actual test results won't be available until early next week, he reports that I've lost four pounds since my last visit, a sure sign that my cholesterol is on its way down. He said that I'm the exception, because most people who come in for this kind of follow-up have either gained weight or simply refuse to be weighed, a sure sign that they fell off their diets. He congratulated me for making such great progress and left instructions to call on Monday for the numbers.

And the whole time he's talking, all I can think is: there's no way I lost four pounds. No. freakin'. way.

Because at my last visit, I remember the nurse weighing me in at 133, and that made me ecstatic, because on the visit before THAT I was 139, and I said, "I lost six pounds?" and because she has a Homie Don't Play That complex, she wasn't about to patronize me, so she said, "Let me check on that," and then a few minutes later she was all, "You're right!" And then I cried tears of joy into the camera and thanked the Academy for making this miracle possible.

At yesterday's visit, I weighed 135, which at first didn't bother me because I was on day two of my cycle and therefore blamed the extra poundage on Aunt Flo's water-retaining suitcase. That is, until Mr. Doctor started talking about extra weight sentencing patients to cholesterol hell. THEN it totally bothered me, and twenty-four hours later, I still can't tell which of us is the crazy one. Was that glorious visit a figment of my imagination, or did Mr. Doctor skip over the last page in my file?

Who knows. It no longer takes three jean wears for the denim band to accommodate my pouch, so maybe he's on to something. Either way, I'll find out next week. Cross your fingers.

In other news, I cannot BELIEVE I forgot to mention last week that Amalah answered my question on the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Here's how it happened:

Last Thursday I was checking my Gmail, minding my own business, when I discovered the following message:

Hello!

So I read your comment AGES AGO about having a question in the July batch of advice emails (Right? Am not hallucinating this?) (Man, I gotta cut back on the shrooms.), and I was all, "Oh! Frema deserves special treatment, because I love her!" So I was decided that your question would be the next one I answered.

Except...um...I don't seem to have it. Which is probably completely my fault -- I may have not labeled it correctly or something. So! I would like to answer your question, either the original one or any other new question of your choosing, since you know, JULY.

Bah.

Amy

And I was like, "Holy crap! The goddess of the Internet is talking to ME!" So I wrote a really long reply that spelled out my question of what to do about sunburnt shoulders, originally submitted because I was wearing a strapless dress in my sister's wedding and needed advice on how to cover them up. I went on to tell her that now is actually the PERFECT time to be answering this because I'm getting married in May and the dress is strapless, thus resurrecting the problem all over again. I may or may not have ended my monologue with, "This e-mail will stay in my Gmail box FOREVER." Nerd.

And then, heavens to Betsy, I was on Amalah.com.

Amalah did a great job of whittling my rambles down into a short and comprehendible read, though there are a few words peppered here and there that only those privy to my original e-mail would understand. But still, me! On Amalah.com! Mine was the last question, so do a little scrollin' and witness the glory for yourself. Also, if you read the comments, you'll notice our own Number Twelve was the first to post. A happy, happy day.

Oatmeal in the Hizzouse

Oh, Internet, how I've missed you! I've thought about you daily, reading your updates, tossing around ideas for possible posts. And yet, I have not actually done anything until today. Here's why:

Tuesday: Receive a call from my new doctor's nurse, which initially scared the bejeezus out of me because she said she wouldn't call unless the results were abnormal. Am told the results were abnormal and that I have elevated cholesterol. Am ordered to reduce my intake of fast food, greasy food, bread, cheese, and pasta and load up on fruits, vegetables, oatmeal, and other not-going-to-kill you items. Cry because I suddenly hate my body with all its digusting internal problems that are meant for old lazy couch potatoes like Archie Bunker, not young and vibrant couch potatoes who put a cup and a half of Parmeasan cheese in their spinach dip like me.

Wednesday: Try oatmeal for the first time in my life. Gag reflex is reborn.

Thursday: Visit Annie. Am witness to Kroeger Night, in which workers from the local chain of the national grocery store stop by the facility with a stocking for each resident. Stockings are filled with oranges, electronic Uno, and sample sizes of shampoo, toothpaste, and deodarent. Cry at home when I realize that's all some of these children will get this year.

Friday: After two days of soup and fruit, throw caution to the wind and bust out with a frozen pizza for dinner. Indulge in season-two episodes of Scrubs. Provide shelter for Ryan and her boyfriend, Jason, en route to Chicago from IU in Bloomington. Spend forty-five minutes inflating new queen-sized air mattress with bicycle pump. Never actually finish inflating mattress.

Saturday: Spend the day with Luke's sister-in-law and baby niece, now ten months old. Against my will, order garlic chicken from Chinese place. Spend Saturday night scatching the skin off my thighs, bottom, and stomach, because, they itch! my God they itch! Get out of bed at 2:00 a.m. intending to catch up on soaps "until I fall asleep." Finish soaps. Don't fall asleep until 8:30, after wonderful Luke has purchased Aveeno cream for my skin and Benadryl to finally knock me out.

Sunday: Sleep. Shower (I think). Sleep again. Repeat non-sleep sleep cycle.

Monday: Try to work at home but the itching! my God the itching! won't let up and I'm exhausted and now sick to my stomach. Visit idiot dermatologist, who is an idiot because he dares to talk smack about Proactiv, which I have not personally tried but want to because my siblings and Jessica Simpson and Vanessa Williams are doing it and achieving marvelous results. Same idiot hypothesizes that the itching is caused by an allergic reaction to the meds for my bladder infection, orders blood work, and makes weird lines on my back with a popsicle sick. Submit myself to blood work from rival lab. Think twice about naming my employer on their information forms. Pass the evening in an oatmeal bath, in which I sit for nearly an hour. Surprisingly, no urge to vomit. Instead, sleep peacefully. Hooray!

And now, today: Update with a guilt-filled frenzy that cannot be denied. Will most likely be late for work. Promise the Internet to check for typos at lunchtime.

There Are Lurkers in Our Midst

I visited this blog today, which talked about celebrating the wonderful concept that is de-lurking: that is, "taking attendance" of those who visit your blog but don't speak up. It sounds like she has software that tracks the number of hits she gets each day. I, for one, do not, so I would appreciate it even more if you made your voice heard - whether you already comment or not.

Now, my life. Things are good. I had a root canal on Monday that went really well, and I'm in zero pain, though I keep forgetting that I no longer have to guard the tooth with my tongue when drinking milk. Next dental endeavor: replace the molar I had pulled this past summer. Then I can demote my activity to a normal biannual cleaning. In the meantime, I'm thinking a lot about school, which starts tomorrow (assuming the roads will be clear and the university doesn't close). My last winter class. Possibly my last Thursday class. Oh, what a diligent student I will be this quarter. Straight A's to prevail all year round! I will walk across stage in June with magna cum laude status and seize the world!

Since the new year began, my head has been spinning with the goals I want to accomplish, mainly find another job and become Money Saving Genius. I'm currently in the market for some kind of investment planner who can help me manage my moolah. Should I pay off my car early before student loan debt hits this December or funnel all extra income into an IRA? How much extra income do I actually have? How many shopping sprees am I allowed before they become obsessive? Absolutely mind boggling. And all in time for my very own 25th-no-longer-will-I-ever-again-be-early-twenties birthday. This Sunday. January 9th. Just in case you want to de-lurk and offer warm wishes.