Farewell, our dear companion

Turbo

Turbs

Toi-boy

Pooch-O

Bo Bo

Dippy Doo

Stinky Doo

Sh!tbrick

Ol' One Eye

Toivo. 

Our one-eyed Finnish Spitz. Our beloved dog.  

We said goodbye to you today.

. . . .

When I was growing up we had a family dog - a Cocker Spaniel named Dusty. Dusty was with me during junior high, high school and college. That's a lot of time, and a lot of life, to share with a pet. When it came time to put Dusty to sleep I couldn't help but think of all of the things I had been through as a teenager and young adult, and how he had been there for all of it. All of the times I had spoken to him privately, sharing my thoughts, fears, dreams. Think of all the drama, all of the stuff that happens when you're 13 to 23 years old. Dusty was there for all of it. When he had to leave us, it broke my heart. My childhood was officially over.  And when I went home that day, to grieve the loss of Dusty, Toivo was the one waiting there for me.

. . . .

I didn't want Toivo originally. I was living with a boyfriend at the time and one day he announced that he was bringing home the dog that his grandparents had gotten as a puppy the previous year. (They didn't want the dog anymore because the dog would periodically take off, taking the bike path along the highway all the way into town.) I was indignant, almost hostile. Dusty was nearing the end of his life.  I knew that we were putting him down soon.  I didn't want another dog. I had a dog at my parent's house that was using that part of my heart. I wasn't about to replace him prematurely with some prone-to-running-away farm dog.

My former boyfriend brought Toivo home anyway. I looked at the ragged looking dog and told him pointedly, "You are not my dog."  Though I really didn't want anything to do with him, I also wasn't going to abide the mess that he was.  Within the first three days of Toivo living with us I had him neutered and thoroughly de-ticked. Honestly, I had no idea so many ticks could live on a dog. I spent a couple of days sweeping up piles of dead ticks. [shudder] I was hesitant to like Toivo, and I think he knew it as he kept his distance.

Shortly after Toivo's arrival, the time came to put Dusty down. I came home from the vet, eyes red and swollen. I sat down on the couch and started to cry again. Elbows on knees, head in my hands. Tears flowing from guilt and sadness.  Toivo was sitting quietly on the other side of the room looking at me. After a few seconds he stood up, crossed the room, jumped up onto the couch next to me, laid down and put his head in my lap. I cried harder. I put my hand on his head.  "Ok," I told him, "You are my dog."

. . . .

Toivo struggled with epilepsy as long as I had him.  The last couple of years were challenging as his seizures got more frequent, but our vet found a good combination of medications to control them.  In the last two years I had almost forgotten Toivo had seizures, they were so infrequent.  But there is one thing that medication simply cannot cure: aging.  This last year Toivo started to decline, as old dogs tend to do.  His hearing started to fade and at the end it was practically gone.  His eyesight (in his one working eye) wasn't as good as it used to be.  His endurance when we were out for a walk declined.  And in this last month his hind legs started to fail him.  He would try to get up from his dog bed and his back legs would give out.  He'd try to get up on the tile floor in the kitchen and couldn't.  He'd stumble when he'd walk and have a terrible time trying to negotiate the four stairs in the back yard.  He fell a few times.

I talked to our vet who prescribed one medication.  When that didn't help, she prescribed another.  That one didn't help either.  We talked on the phone a couple of weeks ago.  She said she could take x-rays and MRIs and take my money chasing a definitive cause, but that at the end of the day it wouldn't matter.  Whatever the diagnostic tests revealed the course of treatment would have been the same.  One of the two types of medications should have brought him relief if there was relief to be had.  To put it simply: there was nothing we could do to fix him this time.

. . . .

If there was anything Toivo had too much of, it was wanderlust.  (The running away from the farm should have put me on alert.)  He ran away at least a half dozen times during his life.

A couple times he took off at the cabin.  Once in the winter. I had to chase him through the woods in knee-deep snow, where he'd stay just far enough ahead of me to taunt me.  I lost sight of him at one point and only found him because I heard his bark a few properties over as he met up with another dog.  Another time he got loose at the cabin it was a rainy, dreary day.  That time my brother-in-law found him by chance.  Toivo's tether (we had learned to tie him up but he had escaped) had gotten wrapped around a log in the woods.  But he had sat there quietly, giving no indication of his whereabouts while we scoured through the trees.  I can't believe that Paul found him to this day.

On numerous occasions when we were in Hawaii he'd sneak out of the yard when we weren't watching.  Or he'd sneak off while we let him watch us play bocce in the big grassy area beyond our fence.  He'd disappear through the holey chain link fence into the unkempt Naval property to the rear of our house.  We'd run around calling his name and just when we would be ready to give up for awhile, we'd find him.  Usually nose-deep in a hole, chasing after something that liked to burrow.

He escaped through an unlatched gate three times here in California.  I've chronicled those adventures in my blog already.  Those were the scariest, as he was losing his hearing and sight and we live very close to a highway.  The first time he got out his bark saved him (again).  The second time?  Thank you microchip and animal control.  The third time?  Dumb luck.  The absolute dumbest of luck.  We had no business finding him that last time.  But once again, Fate decided that Toivo belonged with us and we found our way back to each other.

That last adventure seemed to end Toivo's desire to stray.  He seemed content these last 12 months to stay home.  There were a couple of times the gate got left open, but he didn't take off.  Maybe he didn't even realize the gate was open.  Maybe he did, but he knew he was getting to old for that crap.  Maybe he finally decided that whatever was out there in the great, wide world wasn't what he wanted anymore.

. . . .

If Dusty was the dog of my youth, Toivo was the dog of my transition into adulthood.  He was there for my first adult relationship.  He was there for the breakup.  (I got "custody" of him the breakup.  Best thing ever.)  He was there as I struggled with finding myself in the aftermath.  He was there when I found my strength and confidence.  He was there when I met my future husband.  He was there as I changed jobs.  As I finished law school.  As I passed the Bar.  As I moved from place to place.  We lived in St. Paul in an apartment, in Minneapolis with Grandpa, and Oklahoma, Hawaii and California with Zac.  He had been on long road trips to and from Oklahoma, from Oklahoma to Nebraska, and the great road trip of 2008 that had us drive from MN to NE to Seattle, WA via Yellowstone National Park.  He had flown from Seattle to Hawaii to San Diego.  Toivo was there when Grandpa had his heart attack, when I got married, when I left my friends and family to move to Hawaii.  He was there when I struggled with infertility and then when I had a baby.  He saw me through all of it.

. . . .

A number of years ago Toivo snagged one of his toenails on Grandpa Clare's carpet.  It was nearly ripped off.  It looked like it could be nothing but incredibly painful, but the only thing that had alerted me to Toivo's condition was his limp.  No whimper, no sound to indicate discomfort.  I took him to the vet to have it taken care of.  When we got to the vet he laid down on the floor to wait patiently for our turn.  A little girl, maybe five years old, came up and started petting Toivo's head.  Though Toivo was one of the most mild-mannered dogs I had ever met, you never know what animals will do when they are injured or hurt.  "Honey," I told her, "I don't think you should pet him.  He hurt his paw and sometimes doggies act funny when they're hurt."  The little girl continued to pet him and then gave Toivo a big hug around the neck.  "He won't hurt me," she said.  Toivo looked up at me with (what I projected to be) a look of kindly resignation.  No, he wasn't going to hurt her.  Toivo never ceased to amaze me with his patience when around children.

When the vet saw Toivo's toenail she was astounded that he wasn't more agitated, more distressed.  She said that he clearly must be in pain, but he wasn't displaying it the way most dogs would.

It's with that experience in mind that I've watched Toivo deteriorate these last weeks.  Was he in pain?  I couldn't tell.  He didn't whimper when you pet him, but he fell regularly when he tried to stand.  He must have had a few bruises under all the fur.  He still had his appetite, but his bones were becoming more and more evident as he lost his muscle mass.  He still had his personality, but he was a little more tired than usual.  But even though his body was failing his personality was still there, clear as day.  He was still Tovio. 

. . . .

We had hoped that we would get a definite sign of when we needed to put Toivo to sleep.  We never got it.  I picked Saturday because Zac would be able to be there with me.  Friday night I sat on the floor next to Toivo, laying in his bed, and said all the things I wanted to say.  Zac comforted me and I finally pulled myself away to go to bed.  After all, I had to get up in three hours to feed our son.  I got myself ready for bed and noticed that Zac hadn't come to the bedroom.  I went to the living room and there he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Toivo like I had been.  Tears rolling down his face.  It suddenly dawned on me that as much as this story started out as a story about girl and her dog, it had become a story about the three of us more than seven years ago.  This was Zac's dog too.  I had been so wrapped up in my own grief that I hadn't taken the time to consider Zac's loss. Zac hadn't had a pet since he was a young boy back in Nebraska.  But about seven and half years ago he gained a dog because the dog was part of a package deal: If Zac wanted me, he was going to get Toivo too. And so the three of us became a family.  Zac's affection for Toivo was always evident, even though Toivo sometimes drove him crazy.  Zac was the one who always brushed the dogs.  He would tell you it's because he couldn't stand their shedding in the house.  But I could always hear Zac talking to Toivo, laughing.  And every brushing ended with a hearty belly scratch and a Milkbone treat.

I sat down next to Zac.  We sat there, crying, scratching Toivo behind the ears.  Saying goodbye.

. . . .

I've had guilt over these last 10 weeks of Toivo's life.  More often than not when he came over to get pet, I had an armful of baby and no hand to spare.  He'd bark that needed to go outside, but I'd be in the middle of nursing the baby and couldn't get up.  I felt like I was neglecting him.  Perhaps the only good thing about knowing when your pet is going to pass is it allows you plan your last days together. Toivo got a few pieces of steak with each meal this week.  He got copious amounts of carrots, asparagus and broccoli, his favorites.  He always had a rawhide to chew on if he wanted it.  He got a lot of affection.  Even the weather played nice, giving Toivo a week full of the chilly evenings that enjoyed so much.  He'd lay outside by the back door, curled up, dozing until we would call him in for bed.  It was a good last week.

. . . .

The words were few as we said our final goodbye to him.  As he drifted away.

You're a good boy, Toivo.  

You're a good boy.

Settling in to a new normal

While I didn't have those overwhelming maternal feelings right off the bat, it didn't take long for me to fall totally and utterly in love with Archer.  I would find myself staring at him, completely enchanted with his tiny features and sleepy demeanor.  As he was born early Sunday morning, the hospital told us we were welcome to stay until sometime on Tuesday.  Zac and I talked about it.  All things considered, I felt good and Archer was healthy.  Staying in the hospital for another 24 hours wasn't going to speed up my healing or Archer's development, so we decided to leave a day early.  If I was going to be sleep deprived, I wanted to be sleep deprived at home where I could actually sleep when I had the time.  Simply, Zac and I were more relaxed at home.  It was quieter and we could move at our own pace.  Besides, we figured it was time to jump in to the deep end of the pool.  Time to figure out this parenting thing.  The hospital isn't real life - home is.

The first four weeks of Archer's life were a blur.  I know I've talked about living life two to three hours at a time, but it's hard to convey how disorienting that is.  You can't think of anything that is supposed to happen later that day, or tomorrow, or next week.  You're just moving from one feeding to the next, with naps where you can get them.  I had trouble breastfeeding for the first three weeks (a future blog post) and during that time most of my life was consumed with pumping breast milk, prepping and feeding a bottle to Archer, burping him, changing his diaper and then washing the bottle and pumping equipment.  (My hands have never been so dry in my life, as they are in hot soapy water every two hours and I constantly forget to put hand lotion on.)  Zac would help by giving Archer his bottle, burping him and changing his diaper, but even working together the whole process could take 30-45 minutes.  And as soon as we would finish we would look at the clock and realize that we would have to start all over again in about 180 minutes.

Zac was able to take leave to be home with me for 10 days following Archer's birth.  Knowing what I know now, I am so incredibly thankful that Zac was at a command where he was able to be there for the birth and for the first few days of Archer's life.  I cannot imagine how other military wives have a baby (especially their first baby) while their husband is deployed.  I know that often times they have family available to support them, but it seems like there is something important about going through that initial struggle together. Being sleep deprived together, being clueless together, trying to figure out the different cries together, supporting one another.  One person comforting and tending to the baby while the other person simply relaxes for a few minutes.  I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that I love my husband even more than I did five weeks ago.  The way he has been there for me, for our son, and the way that he and I have worked together as a team has made our marriage even stronger than it was.

While Zac was able to be there for the first 10 days, he had to leave us on day 11.  Zac was required to attend a school a couple of hours north of our house for two and a half weeks.  Zac was distressed and sad about leaving us, but my parents had arrived a couple days before so at least he didn't feel the guilt of leaving us alone.  As Zac was getting ready to leave he admitted that he was sad that he was going to miss out on the next few weeks, knowing that Archer was going to change even in that short period of time.  He also didn't like leaving me while I was still having trouble with breastfeeding, knowing that I was feeling disappointed, guilty and sad about the struggles.  (Again - another post.)   I promised him that Archer and I would be fine.  We were, thanks in no small part to my folks.  My parents were wonderful, as I knew they would be.  They were patient and understanding and helped in all sorts of way, big and small.  My Dad had to go back to MN after a few days, but my Mom was able to stay for a week and a half.  It meant a lot that my parents were able to come out and support me, Zac and Archer. I am so fortunate to have parents that have the time and means to fly half-way across the country to help.  I love that my parents are helpful, but not hovering.  They supply advice and wisdom when asked, or they dispense it at judicious, pertinent times without coming off as preachy or patronizing.  They understand that Zac and I need to find our own way, figure out how our family is going to work.  Their presence was a huge help.

Mom left on a Sunday and I had until Friday afternoon until Zac got home to try being a single-mother.  Zac is going to be deploying at some point later this year, so I figured it was as good a time as any to practice.  After all, hopefully by the fall we will have some sort of routine and Archer will be eight or nine months old and I will be getting larger chunks of sleep.  If I could be a single parent while getting two hours of sleep at a time, I should be able to handle it down the road when I'm getting six, maybe even seven. 

Overall the time alone with Archer was a success.  Luckily I didn't have anywhere to be that week.  No appointments, meetings or other obligations.  It allowed me to be flexible with napping, feeding, dressing and bathing.  (For both Archer and me.)  The evenings were a little tough as Archer would have a bit of a "witching hour" sometime between 6:00 and 8:00pm.  He'd be fussier than the rest of the day, refusing to be consoled unless he was being held and I was moving.  He was fed, dry and not over- or under-dressed.  He was just unhappy.  If I held him and paced around the house, he was crabby, but not crying.  If I tried to set him down he'd start to scream.  There was one night that I had to walk and bounce and walk and bounce and walk and bounce for 90 minutes before he finally fell asleep.  That was a rough experience, and it reinforced to me how lucky I was to have Zac around to help out most of the time.  Sometimes you simply need to tag someone else in, like you're professional wrestlers.  Ok, I've gotten my butt kicked long enough - it's your turn.

Archer and I survived the few days together.  Dare I say, we even thrived.  Each day I was able to get us out of the house for a brief time, whether it was to run to the post office or pick up some items at Target.  Despite our small victories, I was delighted when Zac got home from school on Friday.  I was able to show Zac that I successfully took care of myself and the baby in his absence, which gave him a sense of relief knowing that he hadn't abandoned us to suffer, alone.  Of course, Zac was happy to be home with me and his son.  I don't think Zac put Archer down for the first 48 hours.  It was nice to have my parenting partner back and the three of us spent that weekend simply hanging around the house, spending time together.

That weekend there was one moment where the three of us were laying on the floor, talking and playing, and I was able to mentally take a picture of how happy we were.  Our life is so good.  Even when we're sleep deprived, even when we don't get to have the same flexibility of schedule that we used to have, even when there are times apart, our life is beyond good.  We're a happy little family, us three.  So very happy.

Month 1

Let the adventures in parenthood begin

At some point this blog became 95% about my journey through infertility.  I didn't intend for that to happen but it was the subject that motivated me the most to write.  Now that Archer has arrived, it seems likely that much of my blog will now be reflecting on my new adventures through parenthood.  Certainly the first four weeks of Archer's life have been all consuming of my time and emotional capital.  I haven't had any time to write a blog entry because my life is currently being lived in 30-180 minute increments.  Living on a 24-hour clock, never getting more than two hours of sleep at a time, makes the days run together.  I can't quite tell if I feel like I've been a mother forever, or if I feel like it's flown by.  And, truthfully, I still have moments where I look at Archer and think, "I wonder when his parents are coming to pick him up."

So, how did we get here?  What's our birth story?  (That's what most people want to know.)  Archer was due on January 17th.  At my appointment on the 16th, the OB (not my usual doctor, who was on a week's vacation) announced that he thought I should get scheduled to be induced the following Saturday.  That caused me all sorts of stress that subsequent week as I prayed to go in to labor naturally.  I watched each day pass on the calendar with increasing dread.  I know plenty of women who have been induced, but I wanted to avoid it if I could.  On Thursday I called my OB (back from vacation) and expressed my concerns and anxiety about the Saturday appointment.  My OB explained that I was still in the window of having a normal, term pregnancy and that if I wasn't ready to be induced on Saturday, then I shouldn't be induced.  (I need to reiterate how much I adore my OB - he is exactly the type of doctor that I wish everyone could have.  If we were to have a second child I would need to have him as my OB again because I don't think anyone else could measure up.)  He suggested I keep the Saturday appointment at Labor and Delivery (L&D) as more of a "check-up" just to see where I was at.

Saturday morning Zac and I packed the car as if we were going to the hospital to have a baby, just in case.  On the way in to L&D I told Zac that I needed to pee.  Now.  I barely made it into a nearby bathroom and almost peed all over myself.  The urge to pee wasn't new - I was 41 weeks pregnant, after all.  I just figured it was only inevitable that at some point I'd wet my pants.  While I was a bit mortified and exasperated, I didn't think much of it.  At the appointment the doctor examined me and announced that I hadn't dilated any more than the last two appointments.  (Still sitting at 1cm.)  He suggested that we go home and wait until Monday or Tuesday to come back in to see where I was at, but needed to check a couple more things before he let us leave.  He pulled out the ultrasound machine and looked around my belly to check on amniotic fluid.  His brow furrowed as he searched and searched.  He looked up at us and said, "You really have no amniotic fluid left.  You haven't experienced or noticed any leaking?"  Zac looked at me and said, "Are you sure that wasn't your water breaking in the bathroom?"  Turns out, it was.  I don't know what I expected my water breaking to be like, but I was expecting something more than the sudden urge to pee.  (And it certainly wasn't like anything I've ever seen on "General Hospital" where the breaking of the waters usually is accompanied by a natural disaster, vehicular collision or at a remote cabin in the woods with no medical personnel.)  The doctor, who had a moment earlier said that we might be going home, shrugged and said, "Well, looks like, 'Welcome to Labor and Delivery'."

Our appointment was at 9:00am on Saturday.  Archer arrived at 5:23am the following morning.  I can't complain about the 20 hours that it took for him to arrive.  I was able to be up and walking around for most of Saturday.  My biggest goal was to stay out of that darn hospital bed as long as possible.  Even when the evening rolled around and I had to be tethered to some monitors at all times, the 10-foot cords allowed me the ability to stand near my bed, pace a little, do a few squats and sway.  Zac and I used these early evening hours to finally decide on a name for our baby.  (Nothing like the pressure of the last minute to force you to make a decision.)  They continued to gently increase my Pitocin each hour or so and the contractions settled into a nice, steady increase in frequency and intensity.  Finally as we got closer to midnight, Zac fell asleep on the fold out chair in the room.  I dozed a little, but finally around 12:30am I decided it was time for an epidural.  I had made it to six centimeters and the pain, while not unbearable, was tough to get through.  I had heard that the intensity level of contractions doesn't increase much after about the five centimeter mark, but that the increased frequency is what made the perception of pain feel overwhelming.  I decided I didn't need to be a hero.  I was tired.  I hadn't slept well the night before our appointment - the anxiety of the potential inducement had kept me tossing and turning.  Now it was approaching 1:00am and I knew we still had a ways to go.  I wanted some rest, to put myself in the best position possible to do the hard work that was coming.

When the epidural team came in, Zac was a bit startled.  Granted, that was mostly because he had been asleep and suddenly an additional three to five people were coming in and out of the room.  He helped me breathe through the contractions so I could be as still as possible for the insertion of the epidural.  The procedure was successful and, as my lower half numbed, Zac and I went back to "sleep" as we waited until I hit the magic 10 centimeters.  The epidural guys did a great job.  I was numb, but could still feel when I was having a contraction and still had some control over my muscles.  Basically the pain was gone, but I had enough sensation to have an idea of what was going on.

A little after 4:00am the nurse visited to check on my progress.  She announced, "Oh my, you're ready to go."  That surprised me.  I assumed that the epidural would slow my progress down, but I had continued to dilate about a centimeter an hour while I had slept.  I was equally pleased to know that the end of this part of the process was almost done but I couldn't help but be a little nervous at how the pushing was going to go.  I had heard horror stories of women pushing forever, only to end up exhausted and needing a C-section.  I also knew there were still plenty of opportunities for complications.  Hemorrhaging, the cord around the baby's neck, etc.  But I was ready.  I spent almost my entire pregnancy working out to keep my body strong.  I had experienced a charmed pregnancy and first part of the labor process.  I was cautiously optimistic that perhaps my good fortune would continue.

My conversation with the examining nurse had roused Zac from his slumber (bless his heart, that man can sleep like the dead anywhere at anytime) and I could tell that he was nervous when he realized that it was time to have a baby.  The nurse called for the doctor and while we waited she showed Zac how he was going to help me push by holding my legs.  The nurse explained how she wanted me to breathe and push.  It sounded simple enough.  Big inhale, push, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, quick exhale, quick inhale, push, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, quick inhale, quick exhale, push, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, big exhale.  Wait for another contraction.  The nurse cautioned Zac and I that the pushing part sometimes takes quite awhile.  She said that it wasn't uncommon to need to push for an hour or so.  Somehow in the back of my head I thought, "An hour, eh?  Doubt it."

We practiced pushing twice.  That is, the nurse and Zac each grabbed a leg and I pushed with all my might. After the second push the nurse said, surprised and a little alarmed, "Um, okay.  Stop pushing.  The baby is right there and we need the doctor to get in here."  Quickly the doctor and a host of supporting personnel flooded the room.  The doctor got set up and everyone took their ready positions.  The nurse and Zac grabbed my legs and the doctor gave me the okay to resume pushing.  One push cycle.  A few breaths.  Another push cycle.  A few breaths.  "One more should do it," the doctor assured me.

Big inhale

Push, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. . . .

Baby.

Baby crying.

A boy.

Our boy.

Archer.

I looked at Zac and he looked at me.  Our son was here.  We said nothing.  I think we were too stunned to speak.

They placed our baby on my belly and wiped him down as he cried.  There was no worrisome pause, waiting for the baby to cry.  He came out, loudly announcing his arrival.  He looked amazing.  Pink.  Healthy.  Strong.  

After a few minutes of staring at him, they took Archer over to the warming crib next to me and started all of the assessments and procedures that needed to happen.  Zac went with the baby, taking photos and helping the nurse as needed.  I lay there, overwhelmed.  I had expected to feel a flood of maternal love upon seeing our baby.  I expected to feel something primal, something instinctual that would link me to this new little life that was equal parts me and my husband.  But I didn't.  I felt . . . scared.  I was scared that we wouldn't know what to do.  I was scared that we had made the wrong decision by pursing fertility treatments.  Maybe we weren't supposed to be parents.  Maybe we wouldn't enjoy being parents and end up resenting our son.  I was overwhelmed with the knowledge that my life as I had known it was over.  I instantly felt ashamed that I felt that way.  What was wrong with me?  Why didn't I hear the call of maternal love and connection to my son immediately?  Wasn't I supposed to be ecstatic and crying tears of joy?  

When they brought Archer back I couldn't take my eyes off him.  He was staring up at me, with giant, dark eyes. He seemed incredibly calm for someone who had just been squeezed through a birth canal.  If I hadn't immediately feel a maternal tug inside of me upon his birth, I certainly felt sympathy for the little guy at that moment.  All three of us, Zac, Archer and me, we were all dazed and confused.  We were all new at this.  New dad.  New mom.  New person.  New family.  None of us knew how this family thing was going to work.

"But I promise you this, little guy," I thought to myself, "your dad and I will try our best.  So I guess we've got that."

Hello world

Boy, oh boy.  Look what the stork delivered on Sunday, the 26th.

Archer.

Stories to come, once we're in a routine and more rested.

Fortune Cookie Madness

Admission:  I have gone out for Chinese food two times in the last three days.  (Of course that's only if you count Panda Express as Chinese Food.)  This was the fortune I received on Thursday:

I laughed out loud when I read this one and promptly emailed this photo to Zac.  (Which resulted in Zac laughing as well.)  My labors?  Yeah, I've been trying to get those to start for a week now.  But it was nice to know that when they did happen I'd bear sweet fruit, which I read to mean a healthy baby.

Today (Saturday) is one day past my due date.  I've been growing impatient for the aforementioned "labors" to kick in.  Impatient, frustrated and antsy.  So when I got this fortune this evening, all I could do was laugh again:

Seriously?  Is this some sort of coordinated fortune cookie joke?  

Waiting, waiting

I'm less than a week away from my due date.  I had an appointment last week with my OB to see where things stood.  He was happy that things were moving along and he didn't think we would make it to my due date.  Looking at the statement now, I wish he hadn't said that.  I've spent the last four or five days hoping that labor would kick into a higher gear but it hasn't happened.  As a result, I'm kind of at a loss as to what I should do with myself.  I've already put myself on maternity leave from my job.  If I would have known I had almost another full week of work availability, I would have kept on earning a paycheck.  However, I didn't want to be half-way through an assignment only to have the baby and then stress out about finishing before the end of the month.  So without employment to consume my time, I've been using the last few days to "nest" which hasn't really been compelled by some sort of instinctual motivation but instead by simple boredom.  

Today I made scones for breakfast because at least that killed some time.  The house is prepared.  The baby's room is ready.  The Christmas decorations are back in storage.  (Save a few "winter" decorations that I like to have out that remind me of the time of year.)  The laundry is washed, folded and put away.  The bathrooms are clean.  The kitchen is tidied and mopped.  And I don't need to vacuum again.  In the evenings I've been working on a cross-stitch piece that has been an on-and-off project for a couple of years.  I finally cleaned, starched and blocked some crocheted snowflakes that have been sitting around.  I sewed some liners for the baskets underneath the diaper changing table.  I rearranged things in the guest room, knowing that we will have a parade of company starting in a few weeks.  I went through my clothes (and had Zac do the same) to purge things to be donated or simply thrown away.  

I'm actually at the point where I could attempt to organize or do something with the boxes of photographs I have stacked in the closet, but there really isn't any level of boredom in this mortal realm that could motivate me to tackle that undesirable project.  Maybe I'll just keep on working on the cross-stitch.

As each day passes and I get more and more impatient.  Last night a friend asked me if I was nervous about the process of having the baby.  No, not nervous.  Sure, I've had absurd anxiety dreams the last few nights (e.g. baby is born and for some reason Zac and I forget to feed the baby for 24 hours) but during the day I don't really think about the labor and delivery.  In this case perhaps ignorance is bliss.  You don't know what you don't know.  I have no reason to fear labor and delivery because I have no idea what it's like.  And even if this was my second or third child, each delivery has the potential to be an entirely different experience.  I simply want to come through the process with a healthy baby and a healthy me.  How we get there isn't really important to me.  I'm just ready to get there.

I wonder what else I can bake/cook this morning . . .

It's a new year

Back when I was in K-12, my parents, sister and I regularly went to our cabin to celebrate the New Year.  Some years our aunt, uncle and cousins came with.  Some years we asked a friend from school to come with instead.  Every year there was some junk food and snacks, card games, cold weather, and some possibly illegal sparklers and/or fireworks. The cabin was heated by a old Ben Franklin wood burning stove and often in the evenings we would sit around it for awhile, being cozy and warm.  I remember being at the cabin for New Year's Eve, 1989, and saying aloud, "1990 doesn't even sound like a year."  It was strange to my ear,  "The 1990s."  This is probably because my entire conscious life had been in the 1980s.  The recognition of the changing of a decade was new to me.  There have been a few decades that have passed since 1989 - heck, we even moved into a new century - but I feel like this New Year will be a bigger change than most that have come before.  My due date is in about two weeks.  Babies tend to show up when they're good and ready, but in the end there is no way we're completing first month of 2014 without becoming parents.  It is hard to wrap my mind around.

As I put together our Christmas Cards this year I spent time going through our photos and our calendar, reminding myself of what all we did these past 12 months.  Of course, just like the last three years, the wall calendar in the kitchen reflected the voluminous medical appointments associated with our journey towards parenthood.  We had done an IUI in January 2013.  It wasn't successful.  We spent the first part of the year trying to figure out when we were going to stop trying, how many more IUIs we were willing to attempt.  I started acupuncture around that time, my Hail Mary, my "at least I tried just about everything."  In April, Megan and Paul came to visit.  Right after they left, we tried another IUI.  This one seemed to work.  We waited, not trying to spend too much time wondering if we'd make it past the six-week mark.  Well, we're past the 36-week mark at this point.

On one hand I feel like I've been pregnant forever.  I remember those first weeks and months:
The first few ultrasounds, and steeling myself for potentially bad news each time but trying to be hopeful.  
Going camping, laying in a tent in the woods, wondering when (if?) the morning sickness would kick in.  
One of my girlfriends figuring it out early on when I waived off a glass of wine, and my inability (or desire) to lie to her.  
Zac coming home and telling me that he had told his boss about the pregnancy in order to make sure he was available as possible for doctor's appointments.  
Attending a family wedding over Memorial Day weekend, wondering if we'd be able to keep our secret - not wanting to distract from the focus of the wedding and not wanting to tell our families just yet.

The first few months were spent slowly disseminating the information about the pregnancy to maybe one or two people at a time, depending on the circumstance.  Finally we were able to tell our families, and announce it on Facebook.  The flood of love and support was overwhelming and I settled into being pregnant.  Weeks pass.  Months.  A full three-quarters of a year.  And now here we are, really any day from bringing this baby into the world.  A lot of life happens in nine (really 10) months - Zac and I went places and did things all while my body changed and the baby grew.  At this point I feel I have forgotten what is like to NOT be pregnant.

On the other hand, how can it be that it's already time to have the baby?  It went so quickly.  All of those events that happened on the calendar are still fresh in my mind.  Why does time seem to elapse more rapidly with each year?  That seems to be my adult life in a nutshell - I blink and months go by.  I can only imagine that will continue once the baby arrives, when every day brings something new and amazing.

I wish everyone a happy and healthy 2014.  May you know prosperity and peace in your lives and, most importantly, joy.  I wish you all the most joy that your hearts can hold and then some.

Class is in session

Approximately 35 weeks along . . .

Two weekends ago was all baby, all the time.  We started out on Friday taking a tour of the Labor & Delivery (L&D) unit at Navy Medical Center San Diego (NMCSD).  It was an opportunity to see the facilities and meet some of the staff that may be around when it comes time to deliver.  NMCSD seems like a nice enough place and the staff seems to genuinely enjoy their jobs.  As someone who has never been admitted to a hospital, or really even spent much time in a hospital visiting others, I was surprised at how impersonal it seemed.  Yes, they tried to decorate L&D to make it more relaxing and "homey" but it still felt . . . sterile.  In more ways than one.  I understand that it's the nature of hospitals, but the antiseptic smell that permeates everything doesn't make me feel "healthy" or "natural".  There's really nothing soothing, relaxing or healing about chemical smells, fluorescent lighting and the constant sound of electronic monitors going off.  At least the actual birthing rooms have lighting that's less harsh.  I can certainly see the appeal of a home birth or those high-end birthing centers after visiting NMCSD.  Yes, having all of that technology and specialists around in case something goes wrong is great but it certainly seems to come at a cost.  Cost of what, I can't quite articulate.  I'm sure I'll have other things on my mind when the time comes to deliver and the subsequent 24 hours, but I can understand why moms would want to leave the hospital as soon as possible after having a baby.

On Saturday and Sunday Zac and I attended a birthing class at a different San Diego hospital.  I discovered much too late into this pregnancy that many birthing classes are anywhere from six to twelve weeks long.  Truthfully, I'm glad we went with the two-day class.  I've talked to other friends who have taken the longer classes and frankly the additional hours of class work are mainly devoted to practicing breathing and relaxation.  While that's what some people want, neither Zac nor I would have enjoyed that many sessions of the same thing over and over.  Our two-day class hit the major topics: stages of labor, breathing, pain relief and epidurals, Cesarean sections, breastfeeding, postpartum care, plus a few others. 

There were 10 other couples in the class, all of us first-time parents.  It was a friendly group where everyone seemed to have a pretty good sense of humor about the absurdity of what we were all about to go through.  Unfortunately there was one woman in the class who was the quintessential Negative Nancy.  Apparently every single one of her girlfriends had nightmarish delivery experiences.  Everything that could go wrong with late-term pregnancy and delivery had happened to the women in her life.  She seemed to relish sharing each and every horror story about evil doctors, bitchy nurses, rare complications and gruesome happenings to moms and babies.  Luckily most of the people in the class didn't pay her fear-mongering much heed.  By the end of the two days, most of us simply rolled our eyes each time she started in on one of her stories.  I felt bad for the nurse who taught the class - she did the best that she could to contain Nancy's negativity.  On the one hand the nurse had to acknowledge that yes, sometimes there are complications and, yes, sometimes you don't always get along with the staff on hand, but she adeptly countered that most of the time things go smoothly and that you can always request to have another doctor or nurse.

It was certainly a worthwhile two days.  I was moved to tears on at least three separate occasions, all of which were caused by video clips we watched in the class.  At the beginning of the first day we watched a clip from Bill Cosby's epic 1983 comedy routine "Bill Cosby, Himself."  He spent a good 10 minutes or so describing the experience that he and his wife had for the delivery of their first-born.  I was almost afraid I was going to go in to labor simply from laughing too hard.  Everyone in the class was roaring.  Bill Cosby really is a comedy genius, and I would seriously consider watching his routines while I work through labor.  (Although I'm not sure how my laughing would interfere or aid my breathing.)  The other two times I got a little misty was at the end of two hospital-produced video clips relating to child birth.  In one of them the father spoke of his feelings about being there for the process and meeting his child for the first time.  He talked about how proud he was of his wife and how quickly he fell in love with his child.  In the other video, the new moms talked about the experience of childbirth and how, regardless of how they had their child (c-section, natural, epidural) they felt an amazing sense of accomplishment and joy.  It was hard not to have my hormonally super-charged emotions get the best of me and so a few happy tears rolled down my cheeks.

At this point I'm awaiting my 36-week appointment to see where I'm at.  I believe at this point I start going in every week to check on things.  I suppose Zac and I are as ready as we can be.  There's a place for the baby to sleep, I've got a pair of breasts and there's some formula in the cabinet if breastfeeding doesn't work out.  There are diapers and drawers full of clothing awaiting the wee one.  We also have running water and soap.  That seems to cover the main requirements of feeding, clothing, diapering and cleaning the child, so whether Baby arrives in one week, three weeks or five, we're set up to welcome a baby into our home.  There is only so much classes can do for new parents - most of what we will learn will be on our own, through trial and error.  But I am optimistic that we will try our best, and that's a good place to start from.

So for now we spend most of our evenings enjoying the quiet and relishing sleeping in on the weekends, luxuries that will soon be a thing of the past.  A sense of calm has descended on the house.  Most of it is probably attributable to the Christmas tree which twinkles happily in the living room.  It's hard not be relaxed and happy when bathed in the glow of Christmas lights.  Zac's work schedule is slowing down for the holiday season and we're now able to spend more time together, which is the best gift of all - especially this year.  Baby will be here before we know it.

Fa la la la la, la la la la

'Tis the season to be busy.  At least the volunteering piece of the pie is light these last 10 weeks of the year, meaning that there is some available time/energy for holiday and baby-related stuff.  We hosted Thanksgiving at our house a couple of weeks ago.  Two families came over and the house was filled with friends, laughter and delicious food.  It was a surprisingly relaxing evening, despite having hosting duties.  I have converted to the idea of cooking and carving the turkey well before the company arrives.  Instead of frantically trying to find counter space to carve the bird while greeting people and making small talk, Zac and I were able to sit back and have apple cider for the couple of hours before people arrived and go straight to eating when the guests came through the door with their side dishes.  It alleviated a lot of stress.

Last week we had Zac's command's Holiday Party.  I was about two deep breaths away from a complete, tear-soaked pregnancy meltdown before we left.  Up until the last two weeks or so, I haven't felt that foretold hormonal chaos that some women experience.  But starting sometime early last week I found myself more easily moved to sad, sentimental or angry tears.  This, despite my rational brain telling me to chill out and that I'm overreacting.  It's a bizarre feeling, not being quite in control of my emotions.  I have found that in order to cope, and save Zac some grief, I really have to focus on what is truly making me upset and breathe deeply.  For example, the other day I had Christmas music on.  I love, love, LOVE Christmas music.  As I was listening to the songs I haven't heard since this time last year, I realized that next Christmas (2014) Zac will be deployed and Baby and I will be celebrating Christmas without him.  That started me thinking about setting up the tree alone and buying a "Baby's First Xmas" ornament without Zac.  And then I started thinking about taking pictures of Baby in some sort of cute holiday outfit and sending them to Zac while he's half-way around the world and quickly I deteriorated into the throws of Karen-Carpenter-Merry-Christmas-Darling fueled tears.

After going through two tissues, and some deep breaths, I got a hold of myself.  I'm crying about next year's Christmas?  Seriously?  I have this Christmas with Zac, and he'll be here for the first nine months or so of Baby's life, a luxury in military families.  He will be here for the initial heavy lifting, learning to be a parent alongside of me and bonding with his child.  Yes, he'll miss Baby's first Christmas.  But Baby won't remember Baby's first Christmas.  Hell, the three of us could celebrate Christmas in the late spring when Zac gets back and kiddo would be none-the-wiser. If I spend the next few weeks feeling sad about Xmas 2014, I'm going to lose out on the joy and the fun of Xmas 2013.  I settled myself down and by the time Eartha Kitt purred "Santa Baby" on the radio, I had regained my emotional footing.

Getting back to the Holiday Party's (almost) melt-down, I had been looking forward to the Party for the last month.  Usually people get fairly dressed up - think semi-formal or cocktail attire.  Girls in sequined, shimmery party dresses and guys in slacks and vests.  Everyone all dolled up, enjoying a glass of wine and dinner and the camaraderie of their fellow sailors and spouses.  I bought a cute, semi-formal maternity dress back in September for the Khaki Ball and had intentions of wearing it again to the Holiday party.  As it was a knee-length dress and strapless, I knew that I'd be chilly wearing it as it was going to be in the high 40s at the time of the party.  (And I never know what temperature the room at an event will be.)   The day before the Party I went out to the mall to purchase a black shrug or bolero to wear over my dress.  (Bolero - a short, little jacket - designed to cover the shoulders and upper back.)  I have seen these many, many times in different stores and figured I'd find one easily.

I spent three hours at the mall and found nothing.  Not a one.  I was incredibly frustrated.  75% of the non-pregnant time I hate shopping and lately I hate shopping even more knowing that if I find a cute deal on a sweater I can't even try it on to see if it "fits".  So not finding the item I wanted to purchase pissed me off.  I walked out of the mall, thinking that I would be able to find something at home to make the dress work, somehow.

I got dressed that night and as I put on the dress I realized that despite it being a maternity dress I am larger than I was in September.  In particular I noticed that it was tighter across the chest.  On the one hand, woo hoo!  Boobs!  On the other hand, I felt bloated and chubby and my puffiness was flowing over the dress especially near my armpits.  I couldn't wear the dress without something covering up my shoulders, I was simply too self conscious.  I had to find something else to wear.  My sister had lent me a black maternity dress that I could have worn, but it didn't fit quite right.  And with that dress I still faced the issue of trying to find something to cover up my shoulders.  

This meant that I wasn't going to be wearing a dress to the Party.  I had been feeling so awkward in my body lately that I was looking forward to dressing up and feeling cute, maybe even attractive.  The disappointment of having to wear pants weighed on me.  I had a pair of black, dressy maternity corduroys I could wear with my heels, but I didn't have any sort of fun, sparkly, shiny holiday top to go with them.  I ended up wearing a plain red top, clinging to the idea that maybe because it was red it was festive, but all I wanted to do was cry.  I didn't look like I was going to a Holiday Party.  I looked like I was going to work, to a staff meeting.  For me, the Holiday Party had gone from semi-formal to work-casual, and I was miserable.  Zac assured me that I looked lovely and that I would fit in at the Party.  I appreciated his support, but I knew what was coming.

Sure enough, we walked in to the event and every last woman was wearing a dress.  Sparkles, sequins, shimmer, bright colors, gold, silver, LBDs (little black dresses) everywhere.  My eyes welled up with tears.  All I had wanted that night was to look attractive again - to not look like a pregnant female mammal, but a woman.  I had been forlorn in the car on the drive to the event, and now my disappointment had flipped over to a seriously negative, acrid attitude and unfortunately Zac was caught in the crossfire.  After wallowing in self pity for the first 15 minutes of the Party, Zac wisely(?) turned to me and said with exasperation, "If you're going to be in this foul of a mood, we should just go home."  It was what I needed to realize that I was really acting like a pill.  Fortuitously at that moment I ran into one of my good friends, who is about four months pregnant.  She and I paired off while Zac went off to find some friends that weren't pouty.  After she gushed about how cute I was, I admitted to being on the verge of tears and was sad that I couldn't wear a dress that night.  She laughed a knowing laugh (she has a two-year old) and told me she understood.  She, too, had narrowly avoided totally losing it while getting ready for the party as well.  Over something silly and relatively insignificant.  I sighed, took a couple of deep breaths and decided that not being able to wear a dress wasn't the end of the world.  Yes, I still felt like an asexual being in the large scheme of things - but as far as my attire for the evening, it wasn't that bad.  It might have been work-casual, but at least it was nice work-casual.

And truthfully, when I took a hard look at it and why I was truly angry, most of my frustration could be traced to the fact that I waited until the day before (and day of) the Holiday Party to figure out what I was going to wear.  If had tried on the dress a week earlier I would have known it wasn't going to work.  Had I hit the mall earlier I would have had a better chance of finding something to modify the dress or to buy something else to wear.  It was my lack of foresight and planning that caused me to have limited choices of apparel that night.  I took a second to myself to compose myself and found Zac.  I apologize for my snarky, negative attitude of the last few hours and admitted that I was angry at myself for not planning ahead and I was uncomfortable because I didn't feel like his attractive, sexy wife anymore.  He kissed me, told me he loved me and that I was beautiful.  I believed him, and we proceeded to have a great evening.

So I guess in pursuit of "Tis the season to be jolly," "Don we now our gay apparel" can include pants and a plain red shirt.  But if I've ever pregnant again during the Yuletide, I am getting something with sequins.

Bidden or not bidden, parenting judgment is present

31-ish weeks . . .

*sigh*  Why is it when we don't follow our gut instincts, so often things turn out poorly?  I'm not talking about large-scale, life-altering decisions.  I'm talking about following the instructions of a magazine recipe that say that greasing a Bundt pan with non-stick spray will work.  I knew it wouldn't work.  I knew the cake would stick.  I always grease (and flour) my Bundt pans by hand but this morning I was lazy.  I didn't want to take the couple of extra minutes to make sure every nook and cranny of the baking pan was appropriately coated.  The instructions assured me that non-stick spray would work, so against my better judgment, and my internal baker's voice screaming, "NO!  IT'S A TRAP", I tried using their suggested shortcut.  And guess what?  The cake stuck.  Not a lot of it, but unfortunately the elegantly angular top of the cake.  I'll probably just slice off the top part to make it level and then either frost it or coat it with some powdered sugar -it's not a total loss.  I'm just kicking myself for letting myself be wooed by promises that I knew were lies.

Yes, that's that the extent of the drama and excitement around here.  I'm starting to resemble a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, but all is well.  Another normal OB appointment is in the books and I officially have a "Stork Parking Pass" for the hospital.  I feel sort of silly having it.  I'm perfectly capable of walking comfortably from the hospital's usual parking structure to the OB office, but I'm sure in a month or so I'll be happy to be able to park mere yards from it.  I also started filling out my patient admission packet of paperwork for when delivery comes along.  It also includes some paperwork that is to be filled out after the baby arrives: Date of birth, Name, etc.  I looked at those empty boxes on the form for a long while.  Holy crap, we're going to have a baby.  And we're going to have to name it.  Oy.

As much as I'm looking forward to meeting our baby in mid January, I'm staring to freak out a little bit about how radically life is going to change in about eight weeks.  Things have been so normal around here - I work, Zac works, I volunteer, we eat three meals a day at their scheduled times.  We clean the house on Sundays, socialize with friends on the weekends.  I work out twice a week in the evenings.  We're in bed by 10:30 and up each morning after at least seven hours of (basically) uninterrupted sleep.  Errands take little to no effort, grocery shopping is a piece of cake.  All of this will get turned on its head in less than two months.  I like our normal and I find myself trying desperately to cling to, and appreciate, the routine we have right now.  We went out to dinner the other night and at one point in the meal I paused and said to Zac, "This eating out?  This is going to be damn near impossible soon."  Zac nodded in acknowledgement.  I like eating my food when it's hot.  I enjoy eating my food at the same time as my husband.

Of course this is the part of the tirade where current parents cut me off to say things like, "Oh, but when that baby smiles at you, all the sacrifices are worth it," or, "But, the love and amazement you feel as a parent is the most awesome feeling you will ever experience."  Ok.  That may be true.  But apparently you forgot about how last week you were complaining that you hadn't eaten a hot meal in two months because family "meal" time is really "two parents focused on a loosing battle of trying to get more food into the child than on the floor" time.

I think I'm also a little cranky at the amount of judgment that Zac and I have been experiencing lately as impending parents.  Everybody has an opinion and everyone wants to share it, whether bidden or not.  The same way many people seem to think my pregnancy is open for public commentary and inquiry, parenting questions and advice have been flowing from strangers, acquaintances, friends and family.  Luckily family and friends have, for the most part, been respectful and tactful with their input.  But the same way I got irritated with, "It [pregnancy] will happen when you just relax and don't think about it!", I'm getting really tired of some of the following:

-What do you mean you're not decorating the nursery for the baby?

Well, the baby has a cradle for now and will have a larger crib in a few months when it is warranted.  It seems that a quiet, clean room at the appropriate temperature with a place to sleep is really all the baby needs.  No, we don't have cute decorations or a theme for the room.  Well, actually the theme is "Things that were hanging on the wall before we found out we got pregnant and are staying up because I don't think my child will feel unloved if there aren't hand-painted murals on the walls with matching curtains and bedding."  If decorating your baby's room is an expression of love towards your child, that's awesome.  Then decorate the room and express your love!  You will probably find peace and happiness when you go in to that room which your child will undoubtedly pick up on.  Us?  We love our little house and we don't need that particular room to be the place of calm and serenity - we've got that in every room.  And yes, the baby's room is our office.  Our infant will share a room with the printer, a desk and crafting supplies.  The horror!  Put Child Protective Services on speed dial, folks.  When our child is able to focus his/her eyes for the first time skeins of yarn might be the first thing he/she sees!

-You're going to try cloth diapers?  Ugh, I can't imagine carrying around a dirty diaper with me when I'm out and about.

Yes, we're going to give it a try.  1.)  Because it worked for babies for thousands of years, 2.)  In the long run it's cheaper, and, 3.) Because I can imagine a world where landfills are chock full of disposable diapers.  I know that cloth diapering takes a certain amount of additional time and logistical planning, but it's a challenge that I'm looking forward to (hopefully) mastering.  If disposables are the choice you made for your family, that's great.  I understand the convenience and practicality of them, and I'm not saying that I'll never use one.  As a matter of fact, I can pretty much guarantee that we will use a disposable here and there.  But when you tell me you use disposables I don't lecture you on your choice or purr, "Well that's an . . . interesting choice."  

-How are you going to know what kind of clothes to buy the baby if you don't know if it's a boy or a girl?

This one always wants me to beat my head against a brick wall.  I honestly don't think that we will disrupt our child's sense of gender or self if we put the baby in white or gray or yellow onesies for the first few weeks of life.  Yes, there are lots of adorable little "boy" and little "girl" outfits out there in the world.  They don't need to be purchased before the baby arrives in order for them to work their gender-assigning magic.  Boys can wear pink, girls can wear blue.  The planet doesn't stop spinning if that happens.   God forbid if a little boy has an outfit with a flower on it or a little girl has a football on hers.  While I'm in a tizzy about gender roles, Zac and I went to go see Alton Brown's (of Food Network fame) traveling "Edible Inevitable" tour a couple of weeks ago.  It was a stage show consisting of food science, cooking, music, humor and belching sock puppets.  One of the things that Alton Brown drew attention to is how much he loved playing with an Easy Bake Oven when he was a kid, even though they were "supposed" to be for girls.  This young boy who liked to play with a "girl's" toy grew up to be a successful video/tv producer, food science geek, husband, father and (shock!) straight. And yet in 2013, THIS is what you see when you go to Hasbro's website for the product.  God help me if I have a daughter and she sees stuff like this.  And God help me equally if I have a boy who sees it.  It's not a message I want either one internalize and adopt as a worldview.  

There are plenty of other regularly dispensed comments out there, including ones about how I'm "crazy" if I don't go straight for the epidural, I'm a weird hippie because I'm trying to learn how to use a Moby wrap, and I'll be regretting every day of my mothering life for picking a convertible car seat instead of an infant car seat with the detachable base.

Back in Hawaii, I heard one of the military chaplains say, "Different isn't necessarily wrong; sometimes it's just different."  That has always stuck with me.  Sometimes different is, indeed, wrong.  Causing injury or harm to self or others is wrong.  But most often, "different" achieves the same goal, just not in a way that you prefer or makes you comfortable.  Maybe it's not the car seat you picked for your kids, but will our child be safe in it?  If yes, then what's the issue?  Does the diaper keep bodily waste from going everywhere?  If yes, then why does it matter if we choose cloth diapers over disposables?  Zac and I will figure this parenting thing out, I promise you.  There will be missteps and changes of course, but we will figure out what works for us and our child as we go along.  You got find your path at some point, please give us the same courtesy.

Moving right along

27 weeks or so . . .

My latest OB appointment happened earlier this week.  My doctor was pleased with how things were going.  I should have gained 60% of my pregnancy weight by now – Lo, I had gained 60% of my pregnancy weight.  I should have a fundal height of X centimeters – By golly, I had a fundal height of X centimeters.  Baby’s heart rate should be in a certain range – Woo hoo!  Baby’s heart rate was squarely within that range.  At this point in my pregnancy I get an “A” for average, which is comforting.  At this appointment I also got a couple of shots and had to take a glucose test to check for gestational diabetes.  I really wasn't looking forward to the glucose test, as simply the thought of sugar water makes me gag.  Much to my happy surprise the sugar water was orange flavored and resembled something more like Gatorade than straight sugar-water.  I’m not a fan of sports drinks, but at least it was palatable.  I had to chug 10oz or so quickly and then wait for an hour to have my blood drawn.

I spent the hour pouring my new copy of the DoD’s publication “Pregnancy and Childbirth”, more commonly known as “The Purple Book.”  (If you’re interested in looking at the 230+ page publication in PDF, you can find it here.)  I have to admit – for a government publication it wasn't nearly as dry as I had expected.  It was a little myopic in that the authors wrote from the premise that babies are only born to heterosexual married couples, but at least it did a decent job of covering the physical and emotional aspects of pregnancy and childbirth.  Now that the DoD has repealed “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” maybe the book will be revised to include families that aren't married and/or (sarcastic gasp!) homosexual.

As I've been moving through this pregnancy, I've continued to take a boot camp-style exercise class two times a week.  I try to get a couple of yoga classes in there too, but lately it seems like I always have scheduling conflicts with the yoga classes that I like to attend.  I like the boot camp classes because I enjoy the variety of exercises and I work out best when I have someone else design the workout and tell me what to do.  Despite years of going to a gym, paying for a trainer and even having friends that are certified personal trainers, I am that person who goes to a gym and stands there staring at the Bosu balls and free weights, jump ropes and medicine balls, clueless and directionless.  (I don't do machines.)  These boot camp classes are a lot of fun - the people that show up are friendly, the instructors are motivating without being too tough, and it's never the same workout twice.

Working out with extra weight on my frame, coupled with a change in my center of balance, has made working out increasingly tough, but I continue to do it because it makes me feel good.  If I go even three or four days without working out I feel sluggish and out-of-sorts.  At this point in my pregnancy the instructor has me modify more than half of the exercises we do, but I'm still huffing and puffing and sweating by the end of the hour.  Of course, I'm the only person who attends the class that is currently gaining weight instead of losing it.  That's an odd feeling.

The other people in the class (mostly women) are really supportive of my pregnancy, which is appreciated.  Often times I feel like I'm "getting off easy" with my modifications while they're busting their butts doing the real deal.  I've gotten lots of compliments on being so committed to be being a healthy mom.  I've had some women tell me how impressed they are by my hard work.  One lady even called me a "badass", which I wear in my head as a badge of honor.  Last week in class the instructor praised one of the ladies in the class for doing one last squat at the end of the circuit.  The lady laughed and said, "Well, I have to keep up with preggo over here."  Many of the ladies in the class are moms as well, and all of them have agreed that exercising now will put me in a better place for labor and deliver in January.  They urge me to keep moving and working on my strength, whatever form that may take as the weeks go on, in order to help myself and the baby down the road.

I plan on continuing to work out as long as I'm able.  I have noticed in the last couple of weeks that I really do need to dial some of my range of motion on exercises.  My body is producing a lot of hormones, including one aptly named Relaxin, that causes my ligaments to stretch.  I find that my hips, in particular, are subject to a sensation of slight pulling and stretching lately.  According to my trainer, if I modify my squat and lunge depth I will still benefit from exercising without potentially injuring myself.  I've pulled muscles from working out before - the idea of pulling a muscle (or ligament) while pregnant and 20lbs+ heavier doesn't sound appealing at all.  

So here's to staying healthy and active as I move into the last 12 weeks of this part of the journey . . .

Showered with love

Zac and I spent about a week in Minnesota at the beginning of October.  It was a great time of year to visit.  Yes, there was some rain and some cool temperatures, but it's to be expected as the state moves fully into autumn.  The leaves were changing color at such a rate that even in the space of six days I could see a noticeable difference.  We've spent the last six autumns in either Hawaii or San Diego, and both Zac and I miss fall.  I miss the changing weather and the changing menus and ingredients.  It's hard to want to put on a crock pot of beef stew while baking home-made dinner rolls when it's 85 and sunny.  (Apparently while we were in MN the weather in San Diego shifted and it feels like SoCal may have turned the corner into fall as well.)  I'm looking forward to the next six months of mostly lovely San Diego weather.  At least living in San Diego I won't have to worry about trying to get to the hospital in a possible blizzard come January.

My sister and mom threw me a baby shower while I was home.  It was an amazing afternoon.  One of my biggest regrets I have each time I go home is not being able to see as many people as I want to.  The shower was a perfect opportunity/excuse to get 20+ women whom I love and admire into the same place at the same time.  Did I get as much time talking to individual people as I wanted?  No.  But at least I got to give everyone an enthusiastic, prolonged hug .

We went around the room at the beginning of the shower so people could introduce themselves and how they know me.  It blew my mind the wide cross-section of women that were in attendance.  They included:

*My mom

*My sister

*My grandmother

*My aunt

*Cousins

*My mother-in-law

*High school friends of my parents, who have known me since birth

*Members of my church who, again, have known me since I came into the world

*One of my parent's neighbors whose children I used to babysit

*One the aforementioned children (who is now in her early 20s - yeesh)

*Children of my parent's high school friends that I've grown up with

*One of my mom's co-workers (of 25+ years)

*My brother-in-law's mother

*Law school friends

*Former co-workers
*Friends from high school

Some people knew me as an infant.  Some have only known me as an adult.  But all of them were there to share in the joy and excitement of me becoming a mother, and that meant everything to me.  It sounds cliche, but while the gifts were lovely and generous, I simply wanted to spend the afternoon with them.  There were stories, jokes, a couple of emotional tears (mostly mine) and lots of laughter  When it was done I was equally energized and exhausted.  The shower was my reminder that when the time comes, and I'm finding my way as a mother to our new baby, that I have a strong support network behind me who I can draw on for advice and understanding.  I couldn't have asked for a better way to spend an afternoon.

And did I mention that there were four different kinds of bars laid out for dessert?  It's not a Minnesota party without a pan, or four, of bars.