Just a note to let you know that posting will be scarce for the next couple of weeks. On Tuesday, the Winslows -- minus the pug, who will stay happily with the vet -- are loading up the CR-V and embarking on an epic road trip. We'll stop in Bozeman for a couple of days first (Burger Bob's! MacKenzie River Pizza! The Leaf and Bean! And...some hiking, to prove that I do more than eat!) before we continue to our old stomping ground of Fargo/Moorhead and then to Pleasant Pines, where we'll spend some lovely days enjoying lots of relatives, lots of food (again with the eating!), and lots of swimming in the lake and relaxing on the porch.
I will tell you right now that there are few drives I love as much as the one between here and Minnesota. I hope I can write about why when we return.
Until then, I'll be cleaning the house (my need to return from vacation to a clean house is one of my quirks that my husband just doesn't understand; rather, he doesn't understand that it would actually really bother me on vacation, that I would actually think about the floors I didn't vacuum or the bathroom I didn't clean) and packing and trying to decide just which books I'm going to need for the trip (versus the ones I think I might like to have along but might not, in actuality, get to).
Tonight we're throwing some meat on the grill and trying not to melt, and I'm just relieved that we're leaving before temperatures hit 96 on Wednesday. And I'm praying for a good Midwestern thunderstorm sometime during this trip. I miss those.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Operation Let's Wear This Child Out, Day 2
I haven't ever been good at taking naps when my child does unless I'm really exhausted, and lately I'm learning that I really should if I want to be any use at all in the evenings. If I don't get something resembling rest in the middle of the day, I can barely move after eight o'clock at night. I've gone to bed before my child on a few recent occasions simply because I made the mistake of lying down "just for a minute." And yet, here I sit -- in my blissfully quiet, cool house, not napping. Suzannah is in her room, also not napping, but I'm still holding out hope that she'll give up and sleep. She should be exhausted. I'm exhausted -- but in a good way, mostly. We've had a week full of perfect summer activities -- playing with the hose and sitting in her wading pool, making a trip to the Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle, spending a morning with a friend of mine and her two children, swimming and taking a Creative Movement class at the YMCA. All very fun things that should leave my child happy and tuckered out.
Apparently, I'm the only one in this household who qualifies as "tuckered out" and would gladly embrace a mandatory naptime. Still, Suzannah seems happy enough chilling in her room at the moment, so I'm enjoying some semi-quiet time, even if I'm not napping. Let me be totally honest here: her naps are good for her, yes, but they're essential for me.
Yesterday, Suzannah's daycare had its annual summer field trip, this year to the Woodland Park Zoo. I'm still sending her for a few hours a week to make her transition into fall a little easier -- that and she just plain loves it and would miss her little group of friends, most of whom she has grown up with since she was nine months old. Anyway, I never, ever miss field trips, even if I have to play hooky from school. I have little angst these days about finding a balance between working and mothering because our situation works so well for us (I think I worked that one out a long time ago -- who knows how I'll feel after two children, but that's another entry), but on those extra-special days, the ones we remember, that cause us to say, "Remember last year when..." everything else goes on the back burner if it's at all possible. I'm that mom, the one who immediately offers to drive and chaperone. So that's how I found myself zooming up the freeway yesterday morning with three kiddos in the backseat of my car and a cooler full of snacks and water bottles. Aside from a horrifying moment when Wild Child #1 shimmied out of his seatbelt and tried to open the door of my moving car on a busy road, the trip was fairly uneventful. Bonus points to me for not killing him on the spot, by the way. Apparently he does this all the time in his mom's car and she "doesn't mind." (It's particularly unfortunate that my sweet little girl -- who has never attempted to shimmy out of her seatbelt or open the door of a moving car -- is so enamored with him, but alas, she absolutely adores him. I have very little faith that she can reform him because it NEVER WORKS THAT WAY. Therefore, all of their interactions must be strictly supervised or he will PULL HER TO THE DARK SIDE. See? Matt and I will totally be able to handle her when she's a teenager.)
It was a long day, but it was a good day. We had one adult per 1-2 kids, it wasn't terribly hot, the kids were (mostly) well-behaved and cheerful, and when they got tired and cranky we gave them squirt bottles filled with cold water and let them spritz each other's faces. Suzannah loved the "stinky elephants," the penguins, the monkeys, and running around the picnic area with the boys at lunchtime. (Sigh.) I loved the cheeseburger I had for lunch even though I paid too much for it (have I mentioned how much I crave meat during this pregnancy?), all the animals (because I...just love them), the way the day started out so peaceful and cool and gradually warmed to a beautiful sunny summer afternoon, and watching my daughter take it all in. I love the sound of her laughter, her beautifully flushed face and wild halo of blonde hair, the way she so unselfconsciously throws herself into playing and running and just being so wonderfully three.
She didn't even nap on the drive back. At home, she played with every toy she owns until Matt came home, at which point she announced that she would like to go to the park, please. So he took her, and I collapsed for awhile. On the plus side, she was sound asleep just past 9:30 last night, which is a heckuva lot earlier than she's been going down.
Today we were back at it, meeting one of my friends and her kids for a morning of swimming and Creative Movement Class at the YMCA. The swimming was supposed to just be a little time-filler before the class, just a dip in the little 2' pool, but that ended up being Suzannah's very favorite thing ever. She was so excited to go swimming, and although it took her awhile to work up the nerve to get in the pool, once she realized that she could touch the bottom and I was right there, she bounced around joyfully and, predictably, didn't want to get out. I enjoyed it, too -- sitting or kneeling in all that water felt so much more relaxing to my pregnant legs and feet than walking for six hours. We talked about the pool all the way home after lunch, and I know she'll be excited to tell her daddy that she "went swimmin' in the water!"
Driving home, she struggled to keep her eyes awake. She even said, "Mama? I wanna take a nap." It was the most beautiful sentence she's spoken all week -- certainly better than the chock-full-of-attitude "I don't wanna sleep, Mom" I heard on Tuesday. (Mom?) Sadly, it was also a lie, because she is most definitely still not sleeping; she's rearranging her entire bedroom, from the sounds of it.
But it's a cool afternoon, and Matt is bringing home pizza for dinner. Ah, summer.
Apparently, I'm the only one in this household who qualifies as "tuckered out" and would gladly embrace a mandatory naptime. Still, Suzannah seems happy enough chilling in her room at the moment, so I'm enjoying some semi-quiet time, even if I'm not napping. Let me be totally honest here: her naps are good for her, yes, but they're essential for me.
Yesterday, Suzannah's daycare had its annual summer field trip, this year to the Woodland Park Zoo. I'm still sending her for a few hours a week to make her transition into fall a little easier -- that and she just plain loves it and would miss her little group of friends, most of whom she has grown up with since she was nine months old. Anyway, I never, ever miss field trips, even if I have to play hooky from school. I have little angst these days about finding a balance between working and mothering because our situation works so well for us (I think I worked that one out a long time ago -- who knows how I'll feel after two children, but that's another entry), but on those extra-special days, the ones we remember, that cause us to say, "Remember last year when..." everything else goes on the back burner if it's at all possible. I'm that mom, the one who immediately offers to drive and chaperone. So that's how I found myself zooming up the freeway yesterday morning with three kiddos in the backseat of my car and a cooler full of snacks and water bottles. Aside from a horrifying moment when Wild Child #1 shimmied out of his seatbelt and tried to open the door of my moving car on a busy road, the trip was fairly uneventful. Bonus points to me for not killing him on the spot, by the way. Apparently he does this all the time in his mom's car and she "doesn't mind." (It's particularly unfortunate that my sweet little girl -- who has never attempted to shimmy out of her seatbelt or open the door of a moving car -- is so enamored with him, but alas, she absolutely adores him. I have very little faith that she can reform him because it NEVER WORKS THAT WAY. Therefore, all of their interactions must be strictly supervised or he will PULL HER TO THE DARK SIDE. See? Matt and I will totally be able to handle her when she's a teenager.)
It was a long day, but it was a good day. We had one adult per 1-2 kids, it wasn't terribly hot, the kids were (mostly) well-behaved and cheerful, and when they got tired and cranky we gave them squirt bottles filled with cold water and let them spritz each other's faces. Suzannah loved the "stinky elephants," the penguins, the monkeys, and running around the picnic area with the boys at lunchtime. (Sigh.) I loved the cheeseburger I had for lunch even though I paid too much for it (have I mentioned how much I crave meat during this pregnancy?), all the animals (because I...just love them), the way the day started out so peaceful and cool and gradually warmed to a beautiful sunny summer afternoon, and watching my daughter take it all in. I love the sound of her laughter, her beautifully flushed face and wild halo of blonde hair, the way she so unselfconsciously throws herself into playing and running and just being so wonderfully three.
She didn't even nap on the drive back. At home, she played with every toy she owns until Matt came home, at which point she announced that she would like to go to the park, please. So he took her, and I collapsed for awhile. On the plus side, she was sound asleep just past 9:30 last night, which is a heckuva lot earlier than she's been going down.
Today we were back at it, meeting one of my friends and her kids for a morning of swimming and Creative Movement Class at the YMCA. The swimming was supposed to just be a little time-filler before the class, just a dip in the little 2' pool, but that ended up being Suzannah's very favorite thing ever. She was so excited to go swimming, and although it took her awhile to work up the nerve to get in the pool, once she realized that she could touch the bottom and I was right there, she bounced around joyfully and, predictably, didn't want to get out. I enjoyed it, too -- sitting or kneeling in all that water felt so much more relaxing to my pregnant legs and feet than walking for six hours. We talked about the pool all the way home after lunch, and I know she'll be excited to tell her daddy that she "went swimmin' in the water!"
Driving home, she struggled to keep her eyes awake. She even said, "Mama? I wanna take a nap." It was the most beautiful sentence she's spoken all week -- certainly better than the chock-full-of-attitude "I don't wanna sleep, Mom" I heard on Tuesday. (Mom?) Sadly, it was also a lie, because she is most definitely still not sleeping; she's rearranging her entire bedroom, from the sounds of it.
But it's a cool afternoon, and Matt is bringing home pizza for dinner. Ah, summer.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Rules
I was thinking this afternoon that despite the awful heat (I think the weather report said 87 degrees; clearly, I am not cut out for warmer climates) it is pretty wonderful to be pregnant during the summer. At least, it's wonderful to be in my second trimester during the summer. The worst of my sickness has more or less passed, but I'm not so huge and uncomfortable and swollen that I can't enjoy my favorite summer activities -- hiking, for instance, or making weekend trips to Seattle, or hanging out in the backyard wading pool with Suzannah in the afternoons.
I realized it's also nice not to be surrounded by coworkers who comment all the time on various aspects of my pregnancy. When I was pregnant with Suzannah, I wasn't quite prepared for the extent to which casual acquaintances would feel entitled to tell me how huge I was every day. The break has been nice. But it got me thinking about how people seem to feel so entitled when it comes to pregnant women; they lose their filters, or something. So, just for fun, I made a list of Rules For Dealing With Pregnant Women. See, to me, this is all just common sense -- or common courtesy. But pregnancy turns perfectly nice people into very thoughtless people sometimes, and I'm not talking about the pregnant women here.
(This is mostly based on my experiences of being pregnant with Suzannah; this time around I'm more sheltered -- because it's summer! -- and I have better comebacks for situations that previously left me with my jaw hanging stupidly open, so I'm less bothered in general.)
1. There is only one appropriate comment to make regarding a pregnant woman's body: "You look great!" (Or amazing, or awesome...you get the picture.)
I can pretty much guarantee that every pregnant woman, no matter how large or not-large she is, no matter how she's carrying, no matter how far along she is, will be subjected to the following:
"Wow, you're HUGE."
"Are you sure there's only one baby in there?"
"Your boobs are huge!"
"You're never going to make it to your due date!"
And also, bizarrely, "Wow, you're really small for how far along you are." (This doesn't feel like a compliment, so don't try to make it into one. It feels like a suggestion that there is something wrong with the baby. Is that overreacting? I don't know, maybe. But come up with a better "compliment" (see above).
You get the idea. I heard every single one of these and more when I was pregnant with Suzannah. I heard you're really huge/you're really small on the same day, even. I find it kind of astounding how people feel entitled to comment on women's bodies just because they're pregnant. Would you honestly comment on a woman's size -- especially to her face -- if she weren't pregnant? I'm guessing not unless you want to get punched.
2. It is not appropriate to touch a pregnant woman's belly without her permission.
Okay, I'll admit to being less sensitive about this than some women are. I never minded when people touched my belly when I was pregnant with Suzannah, and I don't think I will this time around, either. It feels very life-affirming to me, somehow. And I love pregnant bellies! They're awesome! And it's amazing to feel babies kick -- that's my favorite part of being pregnant, and I love sharing that. If you're a good friend or a family member, I'm probably not going to mind your touching the belleh without formal written permission or whatever. I've never had a stranger try, although I know it happens, and that is just creepy. So...don't rub pregnant strangers' bellies, okay? Sheesh.
Also, a lot of women simply don't appreciate uninvited touches. You wouldn't grab a woman's stomach when she's not pregnant, right? Newsflash: it's still her body. Pregnancy doesn't turn it into public property.
3. It is never okay to share horror stories concerning pregnancy or childbirth with pregnant women.
Unfortunately, I don't know a pregnant woman who hasn't been subjected to this at some point. For some reason, people feel compelled to share stories of "people they know" who suffered terrible things during pregnancy and childbirth, and they feel compelled to share them with pregnant women. Don't tell a pregnant woman about your friend who miscarried, a friend who lost her baby during childbirth, a friend of a friend who knew someone's cousin who had a baby that died only a week before her due date. There is a time for sharing these stories, and I certainly don't mean to minimize the pain of these tragedies, but talk about them with your non-pregnant friends.
True story for you: When I was in my fifth month of pregnancy with Suzannah, a coworker stopped me in the office and asked how far along I was.
"About five months," I replied.
"Oh. I knew someone who lost her baby in the fifth month."
I know what you're thinking, if you're a reasonably sensitive person: Who says that kind of thing? Unfortunately, pregnant women hear these types of things all the time. Believe me, I know about all the horrible things that can go wrong in a pregnancy. I'd go so far as to say I'm far, far more aware of such things than anyone who is not currently pregnant; every fear I have is pretty much wrapped up in this kind of "what-if." So even if your friend's horror story has a happy ending, save it for a time after my baby is in my arms.
4. Along the same lines, don't tell a pregnant woman all the circumstances that would cause YOU to consider terminating your pregnancy.
I need this to not turn into a pro-life/pro-choice, thing, okay? It's not about that, it's about sensitivity. Matt and I chose to decline all genetic tests, screens, etc. because the outcomes (many of which are often only risk assessments and not definitive results anyway) would not, I hope, cause me to terminate my pregnancy. Some people would rather be prepared, even if they chose to continue the pregnancy, and I completely respect that; in my case, I want to enjoy and appreciate my pregnancy as much as possible without the fear of "what-if" or without being pressured into additional, more invasive testing if our risk ratio came back a little "high." Again, that's just my choice. Don't ask me about it, though, and then tell me that you would definitely not carry a pregnancy that [fill in the blank]. First of all, good for you, and second of all, I think it's pretty impossible to know what you would do in such a situation until you're living it yourself. Anyway, it's insensitive and upsetting to me, so I imagine this might be true of other pregnant women as well.
5. If a pregnant woman shares her name choices with you, unless she specifically asks for your opinion (and you are quite sure she actually wants it), there is only one appropriate response: "I love it!" or "That's great!" And for crying out loud, don't suggest alternatives if you don't like it.
We knew that if we had a girl, her name would be Suzannah. Sometime, maybe I'll write the story of her name and how it came to us, but for now, just know that it was a.) special to both of us and b.) one of the few names we actually agreed upon -- so, naturally, I was excited to share it when people asked. Many people were enthusiastic, but I also heard, "Oh, you don't want to name her Suzannah. People will call her Suzie. Ugh." (For the record, no one calls her Suzie. We don't call her Suzie. She's Suzannah, or Zannah. Or Bug.) I didn't particularly care what anyone else thought of our name choice, but it's not a wonderful feeling when someone poops all over something you love, is it? Anyway, I learned my lesson. Matt and I are not sharing our name choices this time around; I really feel that it's something intensely personal and private for now. Besides, I'm looking forward to introducing our baby to the world -- announcing that we have a son, or a daughter, and his or her name is____________. That's going to be a sweet, sweet moment!
6. Don't tell a pregnant woman to enjoy sleep while she can because after the baby comes, she will never sleep again.
I confess, I've probably done this from the depths of my own sleep deprivation hell. But it's just about the stupidest piece of advice ever. It's not like you can store up all that extra sleep anyway, and also: Duh. (Funnily enough, no one is saying that to me this time around. I guess it's less common to hear when you're pregnant with your second child, especially when your first child has been battling a SLEEP ALLERGY for her ENTIRE LIFE. Oh, you know I'm exaggerating. A little.)
7. As a matter of fact, all sentences that begin with "Enjoy_________ while you still CAN!" are kind of annoying.
Don't tell a pregnant woman that her life will be forever changed (especially when you obviously mean DESTROYED) after the birth of her child. She'll figure it out. And maybe she'll be just fine.
8. If a pregnant woman happens to have -- gasp -- a strong opinion! please do not assume that it is because she is all pregnant and hormonal.
I mean, please. If you know me at all, you know that I can be pretty opinionated when I'm not pregnant. My sophomores can get away with stupid assumptions because they are fifteen ("Oh, that's why you were mad at us for no reason a few weeks ago!" "No, I was mad at you because your essays were bad enough to make me want to stick my pen through my eye, and you obviously didn't read the book well enough to have a decent discussion about it, and that is why I made you write instead"). If you're not fifteen, don't be a jerk. And if you really think that my opinions are simply pregnancy-induced, you probably think I'm just an irrational woman the rest of the time anyway. If you want to know how many hormonal fits I've thrown during my pregnancies, ask my husband. Actually, he'd probably lie because he's smart like that, but the truth is that I've been too busy throwing up to throw things at his head. Tee hee.
I realized it's also nice not to be surrounded by coworkers who comment all the time on various aspects of my pregnancy. When I was pregnant with Suzannah, I wasn't quite prepared for the extent to which casual acquaintances would feel entitled to tell me how huge I was every day. The break has been nice. But it got me thinking about how people seem to feel so entitled when it comes to pregnant women; they lose their filters, or something. So, just for fun, I made a list of Rules For Dealing With Pregnant Women. See, to me, this is all just common sense -- or common courtesy. But pregnancy turns perfectly nice people into very thoughtless people sometimes, and I'm not talking about the pregnant women here.
(This is mostly based on my experiences of being pregnant with Suzannah; this time around I'm more sheltered -- because it's summer! -- and I have better comebacks for situations that previously left me with my jaw hanging stupidly open, so I'm less bothered in general.)
1. There is only one appropriate comment to make regarding a pregnant woman's body: "You look great!" (Or amazing, or awesome...you get the picture.)
I can pretty much guarantee that every pregnant woman, no matter how large or not-large she is, no matter how she's carrying, no matter how far along she is, will be subjected to the following:
"Wow, you're HUGE."
"Are you sure there's only one baby in there?"
"Your boobs are huge!"
"You're never going to make it to your due date!"
And also, bizarrely, "Wow, you're really small for how far along you are." (This doesn't feel like a compliment, so don't try to make it into one. It feels like a suggestion that there is something wrong with the baby. Is that overreacting? I don't know, maybe. But come up with a better "compliment" (see above).
You get the idea. I heard every single one of these and more when I was pregnant with Suzannah. I heard you're really huge/you're really small on the same day, even. I find it kind of astounding how people feel entitled to comment on women's bodies just because they're pregnant. Would you honestly comment on a woman's size -- especially to her face -- if she weren't pregnant? I'm guessing not unless you want to get punched.
2. It is not appropriate to touch a pregnant woman's belly without her permission.
Okay, I'll admit to being less sensitive about this than some women are. I never minded when people touched my belly when I was pregnant with Suzannah, and I don't think I will this time around, either. It feels very life-affirming to me, somehow. And I love pregnant bellies! They're awesome! And it's amazing to feel babies kick -- that's my favorite part of being pregnant, and I love sharing that. If you're a good friend or a family member, I'm probably not going to mind your touching the belleh without formal written permission or whatever. I've never had a stranger try, although I know it happens, and that is just creepy. So...don't rub pregnant strangers' bellies, okay? Sheesh.
Also, a lot of women simply don't appreciate uninvited touches. You wouldn't grab a woman's stomach when she's not pregnant, right? Newsflash: it's still her body. Pregnancy doesn't turn it into public property.
3. It is never okay to share horror stories concerning pregnancy or childbirth with pregnant women.
Unfortunately, I don't know a pregnant woman who hasn't been subjected to this at some point. For some reason, people feel compelled to share stories of "people they know" who suffered terrible things during pregnancy and childbirth, and they feel compelled to share them with pregnant women. Don't tell a pregnant woman about your friend who miscarried, a friend who lost her baby during childbirth, a friend of a friend who knew someone's cousin who had a baby that died only a week before her due date. There is a time for sharing these stories, and I certainly don't mean to minimize the pain of these tragedies, but talk about them with your non-pregnant friends.
True story for you: When I was in my fifth month of pregnancy with Suzannah, a coworker stopped me in the office and asked how far along I was.
"About five months," I replied.
"Oh. I knew someone who lost her baby in the fifth month."
I know what you're thinking, if you're a reasonably sensitive person: Who says that kind of thing? Unfortunately, pregnant women hear these types of things all the time. Believe me, I know about all the horrible things that can go wrong in a pregnancy. I'd go so far as to say I'm far, far more aware of such things than anyone who is not currently pregnant; every fear I have is pretty much wrapped up in this kind of "what-if." So even if your friend's horror story has a happy ending, save it for a time after my baby is in my arms.
4. Along the same lines, don't tell a pregnant woman all the circumstances that would cause YOU to consider terminating your pregnancy.
I need this to not turn into a pro-life/pro-choice, thing, okay? It's not about that, it's about sensitivity. Matt and I chose to decline all genetic tests, screens, etc. because the outcomes (many of which are often only risk assessments and not definitive results anyway) would not, I hope, cause me to terminate my pregnancy. Some people would rather be prepared, even if they chose to continue the pregnancy, and I completely respect that; in my case, I want to enjoy and appreciate my pregnancy as much as possible without the fear of "what-if" or without being pressured into additional, more invasive testing if our risk ratio came back a little "high." Again, that's just my choice. Don't ask me about it, though, and then tell me that you would definitely not carry a pregnancy that [fill in the blank]. First of all, good for you, and second of all, I think it's pretty impossible to know what you would do in such a situation until you're living it yourself. Anyway, it's insensitive and upsetting to me, so I imagine this might be true of other pregnant women as well.
5. If a pregnant woman shares her name choices with you, unless she specifically asks for your opinion (and you are quite sure she actually wants it), there is only one appropriate response: "I love it!" or "That's great!" And for crying out loud, don't suggest alternatives if you don't like it.
We knew that if we had a girl, her name would be Suzannah. Sometime, maybe I'll write the story of her name and how it came to us, but for now, just know that it was a.) special to both of us and b.) one of the few names we actually agreed upon -- so, naturally, I was excited to share it when people asked. Many people were enthusiastic, but I also heard, "Oh, you don't want to name her Suzannah. People will call her Suzie. Ugh." (For the record, no one calls her Suzie. We don't call her Suzie. She's Suzannah, or Zannah. Or Bug.) I didn't particularly care what anyone else thought of our name choice, but it's not a wonderful feeling when someone poops all over something you love, is it? Anyway, I learned my lesson. Matt and I are not sharing our name choices this time around; I really feel that it's something intensely personal and private for now. Besides, I'm looking forward to introducing our baby to the world -- announcing that we have a son, or a daughter, and his or her name is____________. That's going to be a sweet, sweet moment!
6. Don't tell a pregnant woman to enjoy sleep while she can because after the baby comes, she will never sleep again.
I confess, I've probably done this from the depths of my own sleep deprivation hell. But it's just about the stupidest piece of advice ever. It's not like you can store up all that extra sleep anyway, and also: Duh. (Funnily enough, no one is saying that to me this time around. I guess it's less common to hear when you're pregnant with your second child, especially when your first child has been battling a SLEEP ALLERGY for her ENTIRE LIFE. Oh, you know I'm exaggerating. A little.)
7. As a matter of fact, all sentences that begin with "Enjoy_________ while you still CAN!" are kind of annoying.
Don't tell a pregnant woman that her life will be forever changed (especially when you obviously mean DESTROYED) after the birth of her child. She'll figure it out. And maybe she'll be just fine.
8. If a pregnant woman happens to have -- gasp -- a strong opinion! please do not assume that it is because she is all pregnant and hormonal.
I mean, please. If you know me at all, you know that I can be pretty opinionated when I'm not pregnant. My sophomores can get away with stupid assumptions because they are fifteen ("Oh, that's why you were mad at us for no reason a few weeks ago!" "No, I was mad at you because your essays were bad enough to make me want to stick my pen through my eye, and you obviously didn't read the book well enough to have a decent discussion about it, and that is why I made you write instead"). If you're not fifteen, don't be a jerk. And if you really think that my opinions are simply pregnancy-induced, you probably think I'm just an irrational woman the rest of the time anyway. If you want to know how many hormonal fits I've thrown during my pregnancies, ask my husband. Actually, he'd probably lie because he's smart like that, but the truth is that I've been too busy throwing up to throw things at his head. Tee hee.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
And don't let the bedbugs bite...
Miss Suzannah has never been the greatest sleeper, and lately we've been having some challenges a.) getting her to nap and b.) going to bed at night. She goes through these phases every now and then, and I'm always sure it will kill me. Then, right as I reach my breaking point, she chills out a bit and things return to whatever we consider normal at the time. (For instance, right now "normal" means she's in bed asleep by ten o'clock. We have a party if she's asleep any earlier. And "normal" means she actually falls asleep during her afternoon nap. The napping issues have been particularly difficult for me to deal with, because even when she hasn't been interested in sleeping at night, she's always been a pretty good napper.)
When Suzannah and I were in Bozeman a few weeks ago, she slept in my old bed while I slept in the guest room (which is really Aaron's old room, as evidenced by the airplanes hanging all over the ceiling). At least she did some of the time. The first night, she slept in bed with me -- pressed right up against my back and snoring in my ear, of course -- and the last night, she called for me at four o'clock in the morning and made me crawl into bed with her and stay there. Where she pressed her feet against me and snored in my ear for the next couple of hours.
I greatly enjoyed sleeping with her when she was a baby. It's not quite as peaceful now.
Suzannah did actually sleep on her own to some extent, though. Our first full day there, she took a nice long nap all by herself in my old bed, tucked in with about eighty-five of my stuffed animals. (That's only a small exaggeration.) Then, she developed a strange fixation with towels. As in, bath towels. Hand towels. Washcloths. Beach towels. She started by snatching the towels in the bathroom and dragging them up in bed with her, while she snuggled with them like they were beloved old blankies. Then she moved on to the towels we used after playing in the backyard sprinkler. And then, well, it was every towel she could get her hands on. On the long drive back home, she refused to nap unless she could hold one of the spare towels we'd brought along for Blondie.
She seemed to more or less forget about her towels after we'd settled back into our routine at home, until we returned from a trip to Ocean Shores on the Fourth of July. We packed towels galore, and when we unpacked them, she marched them straight into her room and piled them into her bed.
I should also mention that she discovered a large toy chest in the corner of her room, one that is filled only with blankets and stuffed animals. It has gone unnoticed by her for her entire life, but last week, during a particularly unsuccessful attempt to get her to nap, she dragged out all the teddy bears and stuffed doggies and puppets and other fuzzy friends and piled them in her bed as well. Then she found an old blanket that was originally part of her crib set. Then she found my Snoogle, which I would actually REALLY LIKE TO SLEEP WITH MYSELF right about now, since my hips are starting to ache. (I took it away and the screaming continued for about three days. Either she stopped or I went deaf. The Snoogle is currently hidden in our closet, and I'm a little scared to get it out, lest she see it and remember that she NEEDS IT.) Then she found my boppy nursing pillow. If you think that there must be no room in the bed for a little girl to sleep, well, you'd be right.
For a few naps and a few nights, when I peered in to check on my sleeping child, I had a hard time actually locating her. Then she decided that a better option would be to create a nest on the floor and sleep there. Her nest consisted almost entirely of towels (she discovered the linen closet, and she cleaned out the entire bottom shelf) and occasionally a pillow, along with a smattering of stuffed animals. (For the first time in her life, we've had issues with picking up her room!)
This is "normal" these days:
When Suzannah and I were in Bozeman a few weeks ago, she slept in my old bed while I slept in the guest room (which is really Aaron's old room, as evidenced by the airplanes hanging all over the ceiling). At least she did some of the time. The first night, she slept in bed with me -- pressed right up against my back and snoring in my ear, of course -- and the last night, she called for me at four o'clock in the morning and made me crawl into bed with her and stay there. Where she pressed her feet against me and snored in my ear for the next couple of hours.
I greatly enjoyed sleeping with her when she was a baby. It's not quite as peaceful now.
Suzannah did actually sleep on her own to some extent, though. Our first full day there, she took a nice long nap all by herself in my old bed, tucked in with about eighty-five of my stuffed animals. (That's only a small exaggeration.) Then, she developed a strange fixation with towels. As in, bath towels. Hand towels. Washcloths. Beach towels. She started by snatching the towels in the bathroom and dragging them up in bed with her, while she snuggled with them like they were beloved old blankies. Then she moved on to the towels we used after playing in the backyard sprinkler. And then, well, it was every towel she could get her hands on. On the long drive back home, she refused to nap unless she could hold one of the spare towels we'd brought along for Blondie.
She seemed to more or less forget about her towels after we'd settled back into our routine at home, until we returned from a trip to Ocean Shores on the Fourth of July. We packed towels galore, and when we unpacked them, she marched them straight into her room and piled them into her bed.
I should also mention that she discovered a large toy chest in the corner of her room, one that is filled only with blankets and stuffed animals. It has gone unnoticed by her for her entire life, but last week, during a particularly unsuccessful attempt to get her to nap, she dragged out all the teddy bears and stuffed doggies and puppets and other fuzzy friends and piled them in her bed as well. Then she found an old blanket that was originally part of her crib set. Then she found my Snoogle, which I would actually REALLY LIKE TO SLEEP WITH MYSELF right about now, since my hips are starting to ache. (I took it away and the screaming continued for about three days. Either she stopped or I went deaf. The Snoogle is currently hidden in our closet, and I'm a little scared to get it out, lest she see it and remember that she NEEDS IT.) Then she found my boppy nursing pillow. If you think that there must be no room in the bed for a little girl to sleep, well, you'd be right.
For a few naps and a few nights, when I peered in to check on my sleeping child, I had a hard time actually locating her. Then she decided that a better option would be to create a nest on the floor and sleep there. Her nest consisted almost entirely of towels (she discovered the linen closet, and she cleaned out the entire bottom shelf) and occasionally a pillow, along with a smattering of stuffed animals. (For the first time in her life, we've had issues with picking up her room!)
This is "normal" these days:
Friday, July 10, 2009
A beautiful mystery
One thing I need to address before I confuse any more people: I tend to use feminine pronouns when I talk about our baby -- perhaps I'm simply used to having a girl, I don't know -- but we are not actually going to find out the sex before the baby is born. I don't even have particularly strong "girl" feelings; it's just that I don't like to write he/she or his/her all the time. (That said, I would love another little girl, for a million reasons. However, little boys really love their mamas and they're just awfully sweet. Either way, I win!)
We didn't find out that Suzannah was, in fact, Suzannah, until she was born either. It's funny, because before I actually got pregnant, I figured I'd find out -- partly because I'm very organized and I like to plan things, but also admittedly because a friend insinuated that I would not be able to fully bond with my child unless I could call her (or him?) by name. I gathered that I'd feel no more attached to my pregnancy than I would to a sack of potatoes bumping around underneath my shirt. That could not have been further from the truth, as I felt deeply connected to the little life growing inside me from the beginning, and to be honest, while I loved seeing our baby move and kick and suck her thumb on the ultrasound screen, the ultrasound itself certainly did nothing for our bonding. If anything, it was a barrier. I had always felt that I was learning things about our baby every day, that she was communicating with me on our own special wavelength (call that corny, but there you have it), and suddenly there was a gray TV screen and a stranger telling me things about our child -- suddenly someone else was the expert. I won't call it invasive, exactly, because it was fun and I loved our technician (we'll have the same one this time!) and I'm looking forward to the "big ultrasound" with this baby as well, but I know now not to expect that to make me feel closer to the baby. At least, I know I don't need to rely on it. This is the only time in our child's life in which her (his/her?) sex truly doesn't matter, and our relationship transcends that. I love it. She'll have the rest of her (his? his/her? See how confusing this gets?) to be treated differently.
Anyway, I'm definitely not a paint-the-room-pink kind of person, so from a purely practical standpoint, it doesn't matter at all. In fact, blue is my favorite color. We decorated Suzannah's nursery exactly the way I would have if I'd have known she was a girl. (The new baby will inherit all of that stuff, and now we will add more of a girly touch to Suzannah's room with a girly new bed set, complete with accessories, as a belated third birthday gift. Flowers and butterflies and everything.) I didn't want a pink car seat or stroller, and other than that, clothes are really the only gender-specific items we needed...and I'm pretty confident that we won't have much trouble dressing this baby.
But that's not to say I don't understand why people find out, and I definitely understand the temptation, especially the first time around. I think it must just feel right for some people to know whether they're carrying a girl or a boy. We're certainly not waiting until the birth to prove our superiority as parents or because we feel that people who find out are "cheating." It's not even about the "surprise" for me, as I would imagine you're surprised whether you find out at 20 weeks or at birth. It's just that our baby's birth feels like the right time for us for that beautiful mystery to be revealed. And when I remember that cloudy Sunday morning three years ago when I heard Matt cry, "We have a girl!" I'm not even tempted, because it was the very finest moment of my life.
We didn't find out that Suzannah was, in fact, Suzannah, until she was born either. It's funny, because before I actually got pregnant, I figured I'd find out -- partly because I'm very organized and I like to plan things, but also admittedly because a friend insinuated that I would not be able to fully bond with my child unless I could call her (or him?) by name. I gathered that I'd feel no more attached to my pregnancy than I would to a sack of potatoes bumping around underneath my shirt. That could not have been further from the truth, as I felt deeply connected to the little life growing inside me from the beginning, and to be honest, while I loved seeing our baby move and kick and suck her thumb on the ultrasound screen, the ultrasound itself certainly did nothing for our bonding. If anything, it was a barrier. I had always felt that I was learning things about our baby every day, that she was communicating with me on our own special wavelength (call that corny, but there you have it), and suddenly there was a gray TV screen and a stranger telling me things about our child -- suddenly someone else was the expert. I won't call it invasive, exactly, because it was fun and I loved our technician (we'll have the same one this time!) and I'm looking forward to the "big ultrasound" with this baby as well, but I know now not to expect that to make me feel closer to the baby. At least, I know I don't need to rely on it. This is the only time in our child's life in which her (his/her?) sex truly doesn't matter, and our relationship transcends that. I love it. She'll have the rest of her (his? his/her? See how confusing this gets?) to be treated differently.
Anyway, I'm definitely not a paint-the-room-pink kind of person, so from a purely practical standpoint, it doesn't matter at all. In fact, blue is my favorite color. We decorated Suzannah's nursery exactly the way I would have if I'd have known she was a girl. (The new baby will inherit all of that stuff, and now we will add more of a girly touch to Suzannah's room with a girly new bed set, complete with accessories, as a belated third birthday gift. Flowers and butterflies and everything.) I didn't want a pink car seat or stroller, and other than that, clothes are really the only gender-specific items we needed...and I'm pretty confident that we won't have much trouble dressing this baby.
But that's not to say I don't understand why people find out, and I definitely understand the temptation, especially the first time around. I think it must just feel right for some people to know whether they're carrying a girl or a boy. We're certainly not waiting until the birth to prove our superiority as parents or because we feel that people who find out are "cheating." It's not even about the "surprise" for me, as I would imagine you're surprised whether you find out at 20 weeks or at birth. It's just that our baby's birth feels like the right time for us for that beautiful mystery to be revealed. And when I remember that cloudy Sunday morning three years ago when I heard Matt cry, "We have a girl!" I'm not even tempted, because it was the very finest moment of my life.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Sixteen weeks
Yesterday morning I had my monthly prenatal visit (16 weeks!) and Matt and I heard our baby's heartbeat on the doppler for the first time.
I remember that moment so well with Suzannah (of course, we didn't know she was a Suzannah yet). I sat in that freezing cold room for what felt like hours, wondering if there was really a baby in there. Matt tried to reassure me, but he was distracted by a visual aid showing a fully-dilated cervix on the wall. When my midwife showed up and suggested that we listen to the baby, my heart nearly pounded its way right through my shirt -- and when she caught that little whompwhompwhompwhomp I couldn't stop laughing. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
We heard this baby's heartbeat on the ultrasound machine about five weeks ago, a strong, healthy 176 bpm. So this time I wasn't exactly doubting that there was, indeed, a baby in me. But five weeks is a long time to wait, and so far I haven't had any concrete second-trimester proof that she's alive and thriving (except, of course, for the fact that I've already begun to feel those goldfish flutters, and nevermind my ever-expanding stomach). So it was still with some trepidation that I sat there yesterday, waiting for what felt like forever.
Matt was unfazed by the fully-dilated cervix on the wall. He's seen the real thing up close now. Plus, he brought a magazine.
"Gee," I said. "It's so great that we have this unexpected chunk of time together this morning! I mean, we don't always get to just hang out and talk every day, right?"
He reached over and absently rubbed my back. He didn't look up.
"I'm queasy," I complained. "That's kinda making it worse."
"Sorry," he murmured, turning a page. He patted my knee instead.
"Wow," I said. "Look at that. That's how big my cervix has to get, you know. To fit a person through it and all."
"Yes, Baby," he replied mildly. "I know."
"Remember when that used to freak you out?"
"Yes. I'm blocking it out now."
"Or you're ignoring me."
"I'm not ignoring you."
"I'm actually, at this very moment, strongly considering just grabbing that magazine out of your hand and flinging it at that wall."
"Sorry! It's just -- it's a really interesting article!"
"I'm so glad it's more interesting than your wife's cervix and the fact that I have to push a person out pretty soon. I shouldn't have bored you by making you come."
He put down the magazine. "Baby," he said.
"No, really, it's fine. Finish your interesting article."
(This is another test to see if Matt reads this blog ever. If he does, I'm sure I'll hear about it.)
My regular midwife is out of town, so I met one of the others in the practice. She was very nice, but all I really wanted to hear were the words, "Let's listen to Baby!" I hopped up on the table and felt my heart begin to pound. Please, please really be there, I thought.
Within seconds, we heard the whompwhompwhompwhompwhompwhompwhomp I've been waiting for.
"That's the baby's heartbeat?" Matt asked.
"Yep. Everything sounds great!" the midwife smiled.
And it does. It's right up there with the sound of my daughter's laughter -- one of the most perfect sounds in the world. I'm so grateful for it, because this week has brought some terrible reminders that there are no guarantees, not even after the magic twelve-week mark that every pregnant woman anxiously awaits. I belong to an online community of women who are all due in December, and this week, two of them received news that every mother dreads. One went in for her anatomy scan at eighteen weeks, hoping to find out the sex of her baby, and instead she learned that her baby has bilateral renal agensis -- a fatal condition in which the baby develops with no kidneys. The pregnancy will likely progress as normal, but if the baby survives until birth, she'll live only moments. The mother has decided to carry the baby to term anyway, just for the chance to hold her for those few moments and say goodbye. It's more than I can imagine -- I have no idea what I would do in her shoes -- and I think she's so brave in the face of such staggering heartbreak. The other woman learned at fourteen weeks that her baby has died, probably in the last day or two. Meanwhile, I'm growing rounder, feeling these flutters, and our baby's heart beats strong inside me. All I can do is pray and pray that we'll be allowed to keep her and continue to find the joy above the worry.
I remember that moment so well with Suzannah (of course, we didn't know she was a Suzannah yet). I sat in that freezing cold room for what felt like hours, wondering if there was really a baby in there. Matt tried to reassure me, but he was distracted by a visual aid showing a fully-dilated cervix on the wall. When my midwife showed up and suggested that we listen to the baby, my heart nearly pounded its way right through my shirt -- and when she caught that little whompwhompwhompwhomp I couldn't stop laughing. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
We heard this baby's heartbeat on the ultrasound machine about five weeks ago, a strong, healthy 176 bpm. So this time I wasn't exactly doubting that there was, indeed, a baby in me. But five weeks is a long time to wait, and so far I haven't had any concrete second-trimester proof that she's alive and thriving (except, of course, for the fact that I've already begun to feel those goldfish flutters, and nevermind my ever-expanding stomach). So it was still with some trepidation that I sat there yesterday, waiting for what felt like forever.
Matt was unfazed by the fully-dilated cervix on the wall. He's seen the real thing up close now. Plus, he brought a magazine.
"Gee," I said. "It's so great that we have this unexpected chunk of time together this morning! I mean, we don't always get to just hang out and talk every day, right?"
He reached over and absently rubbed my back. He didn't look up.
"I'm queasy," I complained. "That's kinda making it worse."
"Sorry," he murmured, turning a page. He patted my knee instead.
"Wow," I said. "Look at that. That's how big my cervix has to get, you know. To fit a person through it and all."
"Yes, Baby," he replied mildly. "I know."
"Remember when that used to freak you out?"
"Yes. I'm blocking it out now."
"Or you're ignoring me."
"I'm not ignoring you."
"I'm actually, at this very moment, strongly considering just grabbing that magazine out of your hand and flinging it at that wall."
"Sorry! It's just -- it's a really interesting article!"
"I'm so glad it's more interesting than your wife's cervix and the fact that I have to push a person out pretty soon. I shouldn't have bored you by making you come."
He put down the magazine. "Baby," he said.
"No, really, it's fine. Finish your interesting article."
(This is another test to see if Matt reads this blog ever. If he does, I'm sure I'll hear about it.)
My regular midwife is out of town, so I met one of the others in the practice. She was very nice, but all I really wanted to hear were the words, "Let's listen to Baby!" I hopped up on the table and felt my heart begin to pound. Please, please really be there, I thought.
Within seconds, we heard the whompwhompwhompwhompwhompwhompwhomp I've been waiting for.
"That's the baby's heartbeat?" Matt asked.
"Yep. Everything sounds great!" the midwife smiled.
And it does. It's right up there with the sound of my daughter's laughter -- one of the most perfect sounds in the world. I'm so grateful for it, because this week has brought some terrible reminders that there are no guarantees, not even after the magic twelve-week mark that every pregnant woman anxiously awaits. I belong to an online community of women who are all due in December, and this week, two of them received news that every mother dreads. One went in for her anatomy scan at eighteen weeks, hoping to find out the sex of her baby, and instead she learned that her baby has bilateral renal agensis -- a fatal condition in which the baby develops with no kidneys. The pregnancy will likely progress as normal, but if the baby survives until birth, she'll live only moments. The mother has decided to carry the baby to term anyway, just for the chance to hold her for those few moments and say goodbye. It's more than I can imagine -- I have no idea what I would do in her shoes -- and I think she's so brave in the face of such staggering heartbreak. The other woman learned at fourteen weeks that her baby has died, probably in the last day or two. Meanwhile, I'm growing rounder, feeling these flutters, and our baby's heart beats strong inside me. All I can do is pray and pray that we'll be allowed to keep her and continue to find the joy above the worry.
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