The thing about boys...

So I'm still learning about boys. Like how changing a boy's diaper is different from changing a girl's diaper.

I know, this should be obvious. It's something I understand in theory, and most of the time both Matt and I are good about keeping a spare diaper handy for strategic placement when the DANGER ZONE is left uncovered. But we're prone to careless moments, because we are human and because we are not getting a great deal of sleep these days. And you know perfectly well that any child of mine is going to take advantage of those careless moments, even a sweet little babe like Isaac. So we've had those sudden little fountains erupting in the middle of perfectly ordinary diaper changes, and so far they've just made us laugh.

Until this afternoon, when I was trying to change Isaac and give Suzannah the attention she needed and get the dog fed so she'd stop barking angrily at me because I was five minutes late doing that. I settled Suzannah at her little work table with her new stamps and ink pad, got the dog fed so she'd stop bothering Suzannah who would in turn bother me, and rushed through a diaper change. Rushed too much, as it turns out, because I left my little man not only uncovered but stark naked on the changing pad in his crib while I rummaged around for a new diaper and some new jammies.

Not only did he manage to pee straight up in the air, all over me, over the side of the crib, onto the floor, and back on to his own belly, but he chose that precise moment to shoot a violent stream of seedy yellow newborn poop out of his darling little bottom. That stuff managed to get smeared all over his back while I grabbed a handful of his cloth prefolds to mop it up. (Sidenote: I love our cloth diapers so much. We started with disposables to get us through the icky meconium phase and to get used to using the cloth in general, but I won't miss those at all. I have not had one single leak with our cloth diapers. Plus, they're so much cuter.)

Suzannah appeared in the doorway and regarded us with mild interest.

"Well, your brother needs a bath before you do tonight," I told her. "Want to help Mama clean him up?"

She considered this for a moment and then replied, "Okay."

Isaac takes his baths like a man, so that was pretty uneventful. He wasn't pleased about being suddenly UNSNUGGLED and PUT IN WATER, but he settled down quickly afterwards. When I emerged from the bathroom with my swaddled little boy and his Dangerous Equipment, I finally noticed that my other child was covered in smeary pink ink from her new stamp set. She had hot pink fingers and colorful smudges all over her pants and sweatshirt. Her table was all inky, and I found myself thanking God that I'd put an old towel underneath it over the carpet because that was decorated with hot pink smudges as well. Normally, Suzannah is almost freakishly neat and tidy, but perhaps I still shouldn't leave her unsupervised with art supplies. (Which is obviously something else I understand in theory, but this is the girl who didn't even need a bib as a baby because she so disliked being messy. I'm sure Isaac will be the child who gives himself a mohawk with sweet potatoes.)

Next week I'm officially a stay-at-home mother of two children, all on my own, for the next eight months. Say a little prayer for me.

(And good grief, I haven't even changed my shirt yet. For some reason I thought it'd be better to rush in here and share this with the world first.)

This girl, this boy

(From one of my favorite poets)

Looking at Them Asleep
--Sharon Olds

When I come home late at night and go in to kiss them,
I see my girl with her arm curled around her head,
her mouth a little puffed, like one sated, but
slightly pouted like one who hasn't had enough,
her eyes so closed you would think they have rolled the
iris around to face the back of her head,
the eyeball marble-naked under that
thick satisfied desiring lid,
she lies on her back in abandon and sealed completion,
and the son in his room, oh the son he is sideways in his bed,
one knee up as if he is climbing
sharp stairs, up into the night,
and under his thin quivering eyelids you
know his eyes are wide open and
staring and glazed, the blue in them so
anxious and crystally in all this darkness, and his
mouth is open, he is breathing hard from the climb
and panting a bit, his brow is crumpled
and pale, his fine fingers curved,
his hand open, and in the center of each hand
the dry dirty boyish palm
resting like a cookie. I look at him in his
quest, the thin muscles of his arms
passionate and tense, I look at her with her
face like the face of a snake who has swallowed a deer,
content, content—and I know if I wake her she'll
smile and turn her face toward me though
half asleep and open her eyes and I
know if I wake him he'll jerk and say Don't and sit
up and stare about him in blue
unrecognition, oh my Lord how I
know these two. When love comes to me and says
What do you know, I say This girl, this boy.

Those four-letter words...

He's four days old, and we think we'll keep him.

I have to admit that it's a bit of a struggle to write here, not so much because I could really use a few extra arms (although that's part of it) but because it's almost impossible to complete a sentence in this household that doesn't include the words boobs or poop. These things consume our days around here. Any update I could possibly write at the moment pretty much has to include them.

We began our morning with a nice long nursing session, followed by Isaac pooping enthusiastically through his jammies and all over me. He sighed and seemed quite satisfied after that.

Little Man is nursing really well -- his big sister had a much harder time of it and we had to struggle with it for a long time before it was remotely "easy" for either one of us, so despite the inevitable discomfort of the first days of breastfeeding, I'm just thankful that he's eating well and happily filling his diapers.

We took Little Man back to Nancy on Wednesday. He promptly had his first diaper blow-out, and while I'd brought along extra diapers and wipes and blankets, I completely neglected to bring any extra outfits (clearly, I'm out of practice -- sheesh). She cheerfully scooped him up and changed him herself and pulled out a spare onesie, like this is something she does every day. Which she probably does, actually, but I laughed at the thought of our regular pediatrician (who we quite like, and who we'll be seeing at some point) just scooping up the kiddo and changing him for me.

He's lost the appropriate amount of weight, and he's eating well, so I'm not worried there. He also has not one hint of jaundice, which I admit to worrying about, even though in full-term babies it's both common and usually not something to worry about. (Suzannah, as some of you may recall, was very jaundiced within a day of birth and she quickly became dangerously dehydrated -- which was terrifying, and also contributed significantly to our nursing issues. It's amazing how much easier this feels without that added worry -- or the added round-the-clock pumping sessions.)

It was a little surreal to go back there with him and sit in the same room where he was born. I'm actually nostalgic for labor and a little sad that it's over -- which might sound crazy, but there it is. I actually got a little weepy over it, even, because I miss his little kicks inside me and labor was such a fabulous experience this time and now it's all done, it's ALL DONE, and aahhhhh. Tears.

But that's the extent of my hormonal meltdowns so far. I mentioned to Matt that hey! I'm crying a lot less this time! And right away he said, "Yeah." Poor man. When Suzannah was born, I'm sure he felt like he had a new baby and a new wife, and he only liked one of them.

But check back with me after Christmas, when Matt will be back at work and all the grandparents will have gone home and I'm alone with two children and lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

And finally...

After an absolute thrill ride of a labor, we are so happy to announce the speedy arrival of our son, Isaac James Winslow!

The basics:

Birthday: Monday, December 14th, 2009
5:05 a.m.
8 pounds, 9 ounces, 21.75 inches long
Born at the Lakeside Birth Center with midwife Nancy Spencer and doula Patti Ramos
Caught by his daddy after less than four hours of labor and only two pushes (TWO!)

...pretty much perfect. We arrived at the birth center shortly after two in the morning, and we were home again before Suzannah finished having breakfast with her Auntie Morgan.

I'm looking forward to writing up the entire birth story, but for now, I'll simply say that it was more than I could have hoped for, and so is our son.

Another Still Pregnant! post

This is not a Birth Announcement. This is not even a Labor Announcement. I should just go ahead and get that out of the way, because every time I talk on the phone or send an e-mail these days the first thing I have to say is I AM NOT IN LABOR! And then I become decidedly less interesting.

Once I bypassed the crucial 37-week mark and realized I probably wouldn't be giving birth immediately, I actually wanted to stay pregnant until at least today, more than two whole weeks past the 37-week mark, because today was supposed to be Suzannah's first Christmas program at church and I really, really wanted to see her in it. The good news is that as far as I can tell, I'm not in labor yet. The bad news is that Suzannah came down with a cold late last week, and while she seems to feel a bit better than she did two days ago, she has almost completely lost her voice. She sounds, I think, a lot worse than she feels, but we decided to keep her home. She's touchy and croaky, and while I would love to see my little girl up there with all the other kids, I decided it wasn't fair to drag her out when she wasn't feeling great just for my sake. And anyway, she's three; she's not really the glue that holds the program together. There will be other Christmas programs, right?

Still, I'm in a bit of a funk over this, and I'm second-guessing our decision as well, since our daughter is not resting -- she's being an absolute pill this morning. I just love that stage where kids are too sick to go out but they're not sick enough to snuggle on the couch with movies or books; they're stir-crazy and prone to fits of whining. Fun times. Right now Matt is concocting some kind of delicious French toast brunch creation with cream cheese and apple slices, and I suppose that will help me cope.

So anyway, 39+ weeks pregnant is a lot different than 36 or 37 weeks pregnant. I know I felt uncomfortable a couple of weeks ago, but was it really just a few days after Thanksgiving that I could waddle up the street in Seattle and browse through Elliott Bay Book Company? And go to dinner afterward? I haven't left my house since Thursday, and I can hardly waddle between the couch and the bathroom. I have contractions all the time, but they have yet to settle into a pattern or otherwise do anything.

I never got to this point when I was pregnant with Suzannah, which makes sense since she was nearly a month early. I mean, I was uncomfortable. Of course. That's what happens before you go into labor. But I taught three junior classes and two sophomore classes until the day before I went into active labor. I cleaned my house, I did laundry, I drove my dog to the vet, and when I was done with all that I reorganized all our bookshelves, learned how to knit, and drafted my own plan for healthcare reform. (Just kidding. I totally can't knit.)

Now, though, my brain has turned to mush. Two weeks ago, I read South of Broad and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo in rapid succession, but I've been unable to read more than a hundred pages of The Plague of Doves in a week -- and I love Louise Erdrich. I have all these beginnings of journal entries that just sort of fizzle out. I can hardly even finish an episode of Gilmore Girls, and it's not like that takes a great deal of concentration.

It doesn't exactly help to tell myself that my brain is probably going to be pretty mushy for quite some time.

But based on a few gory details I won't write about here (much to my mother's disappointment, I'm sure), I don't think it will be long. And for the most part, I'm okay with that, because I think babies know better than we do when their birthdays should be. I think it must be getting crowded in there and life might be nicer on the outside, but then again, if Baby is comfortable and healthy and wants to just chill out for awhile longer, that's okay with me.

HAVE YOU HAD THAT BABY YET?





(Thanks to Anne for the link.)

Waiting...

This whole waiting to go into labor, expecting it, is totally new for me.

When I went into labor with Suzannah, I was very much not expecting it. I rationalized everything, telling myself this is just what it feels like to be really pregnant, I guess. Finally, when I couldn't even walk to the bathroom without dropping to all fours in the hallway and panting through a contraction, I realized I had to come to terms with the fact that I was actually going to have a baby. Imminently.

I'm just over 38 weeks pregnant now, and I've already started my maternity leave, so that leaves me all this time to do the following things: OBSESS and OVER-ANALYZE. And hey, guess what! I'm super good at both of those things already! Excellent. Seriously, though, at least once a day I am utterly convinced that I'm going into labor within the day. On the flip side, at least once a day I freak out about how this baby will go to college in my belly and Matt will have to help me put on my pants for the rest of our lives. What a lucky man.

Well, I hear all babies have to be born eventually.

My guilt over not working anymore is ebbing, though, because I'm pretty wickedly uncomfortable. That, and I absolutely reached my limit of what kinds of comments I could endure and still respond in a civilized manner. I grew resigned to the usual barrage: Are you sure you're not having twins? You look like you're ready to POP, you're HUGE! No way will you make it to your due date! What is your due date? No, your EXACT due date? You're definitely having a boy. You're definitely having a girl. You're huge. You look incredibly uncomfortable. You've dropped. J., you've had four kids, look at her -- hasn't she dropped?

But the last one I heard on my way out the door WINS.

On the day before Thanksgiving, I had to swing through the office to sign some paperwork on my way out. The worst offender, the one who always makes the most bizarre and inappropriate comments (and is also a woman I really don't know, which makes her comments even more bizarre and inappropriate), walked over to me and grimaced.

"You look like you're dilating," she said.

Blink.

Blink blink.

What?

"I mean, have you gone in and gotten your cervix checked?" she asked.

I was literally speechless for a moment, and then the tiny Shari in my head screamed at her, "How can I possibly LOOK like I'm DILATING?" Finally, I just said, "Uh, no, and I'm not planning to, ever, because I don't think that information is at all relevant." Seriously, there is only one number that matters, and when I get to that number, no one will need to tell me. (I probably should have followed that with, "And how is this at all an appropriate thing to ask someone you hardly know? In an office?")

She continued to gape at me, then said, "Well, have fun," in a tone of voice that suggested I was somehow either stupid or crazy. For what, though, I'm not sure -- for dilating without checking? For being pregnant at all?

I just -- I really don't even know. I look like I'm dilating?

I ran into one of my colleagues on my way to my car.

"L. told me I look like I'm dilating," I said. When my colleague managed to gain control of her hysterical laughter, she asked, "Where -- uh, where was she looking?"

This little encounter is perhaps all I need to think about when I question whether or not I should have stuck it out at school a little longer.