I'm Not Ready (The Hard Things)

Hard parental discussions are framed in my head by children than are ages 10 years old and older.  I figure my crowd, the under 5 crowd, should be filled with questions about where candy comes from, when can we ride a tractor and when can I get married.   Can I get an amen on this one?

Things I didn't bargain for?  A 4.5 year old that is far too perceptive and inquisitive for his own good.  So perceptive, in fact, that he asked me yesterday morning in the car why there were so many flags out.  Seriously?  This is where my commitment to be honest about all the things to the point it's appropriate seems questionable (I'm looking at you Mom, Ms. I-don't-know-what-bastard-means).  Turns out 9-11 is a tricky thing to explain to an anxious, perceptive, sensitive kid.

Time will tell on if I gave the right, or enough, or too much, information.  I told Ell that some bad guys killed a lot of people because they didn't like our country and that the flags are the way we can remember them. He accepted this, we moved on to discussion of Goofy throwing up in my car. . . until this morning.

"Mommy, why do some people have to die before us?"  Death is a common source of questions in the mind of a 4.5 year old, so I answered that we are all going to die someday and no one knows when that might be.  "Why did those bad guys have to kill all those people? What happened to the bad guys?"  Twenty-four hours later and his wheels still turning, trying to make sense of the unreasonable.  Raising children in a world of uncertainty is tough, but the world is no more uncertain than it has always been.  The question is how to balance protection and honesty, to raise bold & brave children not cowed by fear of coulds and might happens?  Right now my answer is simplified honesty.  I don't know that it's right, but it's right for right now.

Arrivals

Our sweet Kellen Paul made his arrival early Sunday morning.  3:54am, to be exact.  I had lived on pins and needles for the sign that would signal his impending arrival.  I had contractions off and on all night Thursday and  most of the day on Friday, only to have them come to a halt when I finally put my feet up to relax and do as little as possible, as suggested by my doctor.  Saturday was more lounging on my part--Chris let me sleep in, we went to the pool, I took a nap with Elliott and we went to dinner with my parents to celebrate my dad's 65th birthday.  I felt good.  I felt relaxed.  A little crampy, maybe, but nothing like the contractions of the day before.  We decided to take advantage of my parents' offer to have the kids spend the night based on all of the "what ifs?" surrounding me and labor.  Quite frankly, I figured this was all overkill, even though Dr. White had predicted labor within 24 hours on Friday around noon.

At around 1:20am, I got up to use the restroom and felt a contraction.  One that hurt a little, even.  "Could just be because I needed to pee," I thought.  I laid back down with some nervous energy fizzling down my spine.  I closed my eyes, determined to go back to sleep.  Contraction #2.  My eyes flashed open.  Maybe? When contraction #3 struck by 1:45, I knew.  I shoved nudged Chris awake and told him that I was certain I was in labor.  We got up with relatively little words and gathered our things, I knew with rooted certainty that I was having a baby.  Soon.

To the car.  I blasted the a/c.  Called my mom.  Called Stephanie.  Put in my earbuds and channeled some inner-calm with the Hypnobabies track for the first stage of labor.  I opened my eyes just a couple of times the entire trip, none of the clinging to the handle above the passenger seat as before.  Just calm.  Focus on breath.  On opening.  On excitement to meet my baby.

Sometimes things go just as they should, or just as one might hope.  That was certainly the case with my nurse for this labor and delivery--Whitney.  She was undaunted by my desire to have a natural childbirth, only providing corny jokes and a calm attitude.  I donned my hospital gown, focused inward as conversation between the nurses, my husband, Stephanie & my mom swirled around me.  IV in.  Fluids started.  Questions answered by Chris.  I labored quietly, remembering to focus on the word "peace," to keep my jaw relaxed and to focus on the good work my body was doing to bring this baby into the world.

After many promises of being able to get up "soon," it was finally deemed enough time on the monitors.  I used the restroom.  I faced contractions by standing, hands braced on the bed in front of me, swaying my hips.  Movement, so important.  No reclining.  I sat and rested in between contractions.  This continued. . . for a time?  Time was not quantifiable in this period.  It just was one contraction at a time.  Chris provided pressure on my back.  I had to make noise.  Words of encouragement from Whitney, nurse divine.  "Stupid," I thought.  "What made this seem the right path? Why did Ina May lie about this just being pressure?"  Oh the self-doubt of transition, that stage of final opening from 8-10cm.  I tried to cling to the words of my friend, Kim, "Just when you think you can't handle anymore, it's time to push."  "Oh, please let this be true," I thought desperately to myself.

I remember the urgent question of Whitney:  are your contractions more intense?  do you feel pressure?  She knew.  I climbed back into the bed to be pronounced complete--10cm.  Perhaps a few minutes before they had called the doctor?  Nurses rushing around.  Whitney telling me not to push yet.  Impossible, I told her.  Too satisfying and much like telling the Earth to stop rotating.  This was happening.  An internal pop and a geyser of fluid soaked the bed, the floor, the nurses.  So much fluid Stephanie had to mop up the floor with towels for safety.  Relief, followed by pressure.  "Hold your knees together," Whitney commanded.

"I.CAN'T.HOLD.IT!" I grunted/screamed.  Two pushes.  And with that, Kellen made his way into the world.  Right after I commanded someone to catch my baby.  No doctor.  He was quickly placed upon my chest, after emitting one single cry.  Such relief.  Calm. Alert. Perfect.  Okay, maybe a little gurgly, some suctioning was needed.

Eventually the moment came to weigh this sweet boy--he tipped the scales at 9 pounds, 4 ounces.  The nurses tossed the term, LGA around.  Large for gestational age.  Ha.  Yep.  "Well-insulated," Dr. White had deemed him at the 36-week ultrasound.  He was a nursing champ.  The doctor finally arrived for the less-glamorous work--placenta arrival and stitches.  The placenta was giant and immediately provided a final wave of relief with its delivery.

THIS.  These are the moments on constant replay in my mind, just as with the previous two births.  The high.  The careful attention.  The power of a woman's body to give life.  The power of MY body to give life.  I suspect this would never get old to me, even as my body tires with life with a newborn.  I want to sear these memories so deeply into my brain as to remain until they are the last muted-colored photos pulled forth at my end.


Childbirth.  Often spoken of in hushed horror.  Pregnancy.  Often spoken of in tones of wonder.

I defy the standards.  Pregnancy?  It is okay, miraculous, but overall brings lots of aches and pains in conjunction with all of the anticipation.

Childbirth?  I love it.  It is a gift of immeasurable worth.  To experience it three times, so lucky.

Welcome, Kellen Paul.

Any Day. For Reals.

Full-term.  Officially that was last week, but since I'm chronically behind these days, I'm just now blogging it to make it official.  So that means roughly hours-two weeks before Baby Kellen arrives.  Yep.  The answer any day freaks my sh*t out.  But I will say sometimes that fear is a good thing because it can spur action.  Specifically, I now have a suitcase in my room to pack & the base to an infant carseat in my car.  Oh, and I managed to register for the hospital.  Progress, people.  Get this:  I've even washed the coming home outfit.  I'm that awesome.

Yeah.  As for the answer to the question, "Are you ready?," my response continues to be, "It depends on how you define 'ready.'"  And the truth is, does it really matter if I'm ready?  Not at all.  But for the record, I'm very excited to meet this wee little boy and to not be pregnant, the realities of little sleep?  Not so much ready for that.

When You're Married to a Bald Guy. . .

There are things that seem like common sense, but then you realize maybe not so much.  The latest was this week when, for the first time we were forced to use conditioner on Brook-Brook's hair.  She has some serious ratty-frizzy-turned-curly hair on the back of her head.  The matted-hair-look is not in, so conditioner it is.  Well, since I'm roughly the size of a blimp (as noted by the repeated "How many babies are you having?" comments), Chris was in charge of conditioner administration because blimp-people don't reach into a tub so well.  Imagine my surprise when he vigorously scrubbed the conditioner into her hair, only furthering the matted-hair situation.  I put the brakes on that and he turned to me saying, "Oh.  I've never used conditioner before."

Being that the girl inherited her ratty-frizzy-turned-curly hair from me, I could only stare in confusion.


P.S.  If you're married to a bald guy and the shower drain is stopped up, it's always your fault.  Always.  Even when you hate drain hair more that just about anything.

10 Things I Know

I never know how much to share about the trials joys of pregnancy.  Especially at the end.  I mean, it's a lot of up-close and personal bidness.  I have posted before how everyone, and I mean everyone, has an opinion on how a pregnant woman looks.  In the span of a couple of days, I had people tell me that I looked great and then someone ask, "how many babies do you have in there?"  Here's what I know:

1.  It's really effing hot (today it was roughly 109 degrees--that's one step from hell, if you were wondering).  Chronic sweating makes me cranky and icky smelling.
2.  Being hugely pregnant is much harder when it's one-step-from-hell hot than it was when I was hugely pregnant in February and May.
3.  I am anti-social as the end of pregnancy nears.  Even with my dearest friends.  The question, "What do you want to do?" is answered in my mind with, "Hibernate."
4.  I have approximately 5 shirts that are sufficiently long enough so that my stomach doesn't hang out.  I've never been the mid-drift exposing kind of girl in the best of times--I mean, I've had maybe three 2-piece swimsuits in my life and they were all worn 5 times or less. 
5.  There are a lot of really stupid people in the world.  Temptations to comment on this stupidity make my hibernating desire the safest option. 
6.  Pelvic Symphisis Dysfunction is some kind of painful.   The end of pregnancy is made bearable for me with a combination of massage, chiropractic care and acupuncture.  I'm not sure I could walk without their help.
7.  I look like a 90-year old woman when I hobble to the bathroom in the middle of the night. 
8.  I get the best sleep from 4:30am to 6:30ish.  That this coincides with my husband leaving for work, might or might not be coincidence.
9.  I want my house to be clean and organized, but have zero energy to make it happen, unless that includes making honey-do lists for my husband.
10.  I still haven't pre-registered for the hospital.  That's how sure I am that this baby won't be here until my due date.  Or after.  Which will make me a really hateful person.  Fair warning.

I am Prepared.

In my head, I am nesting.  It's true.  In reality?  Nope.  Unless you count my husband bringing down the one box of newborn boys clothes we have currently.  And those are still in the garage.  Unwashed from when they were packed away two years ago and G$ wore them.  And these are only the clothes my sister deemed possibly unisex.

Newborn diapers?  Nope.
Coming home outfit?  Nada.
Pre-registered for the hospital?  NO. (this is one of my more brilliant choices)
Crib bedding?  Huh-unh.

I am prepared.  Poor third baby.

And on a Radically Different Note. . .I Stink

Pregnancy is a hormonal ride, most of the attention seems to be focused on mood swings, but I am here to tell you that I smell.  Generally not in a good way, more of a teen-aged-boy-funk kind of way.  It seems that this is true:

Courtney + Ninety-degree heat + Extreme humidity +Third trimester of pregnancy = Stank

So if you choose to sit next to me at dinner, go in for a hug or have me participate in an activity that requires me to raise my arms--Beware.

A Public Declaration. . . with one teeny-tiny exemption. . .

Pregnancy brings a lot of soul-searching.  It's inevitable.  By number three pregnancy, just a short time after number two pregnancy, it seems like old hat.  Only every child deserves their own period of wonderment, special moments of planning and agonizing over names, nursery bedding and coming home outfit.  I do think that pregnancy also brings searching for how this child shall come into this world, or how the parents hope the child comes into the world barring any unforeseen complications.

I have referenced my attempts of being a more hippy, natural, granola mom.  But my previous two births have been pretty standard American fare--in a hospital, epidural, one an induction.  I've done a lot of thinking, a lot of researching and this time, this final time, I hope that this boy can come into this world without an epidural.  I've secretly wanted a medication-free birth forever, but never thought I had the strength to pull it off (or out, for an inappropriate reference).

Then there was Brooklyn's labor.  The one where I checked into the hospital at 9:21 and she was delivered at 10:59.  I got the epidural, yep, sure did.  But the thing is, I got that epidural when I was probably at 9cm, when the goal was 10cm.  It felt like hell.  I looked at Stephanie in a moment of raw pain and said, "I can't do this." But I survived.  Partially because of the epidural, partly because it was fast, but mostly it's because that's what women have been doing for centuries.  I am well-aware that there is no award for forgoing pain-relief in labor.  I am well-aware most people will think I've lost my sensible mind.  That's okay.  I just need my husband, my Stephanie and my doctor and lots of relaxation practice on my side.  It really helps that time is on my side.  Evidently, labors get faster with successive pregnancies AND labors get faster with closely spaced pregnancies.  I am fairly certain we should all just be praying that I'm not on the news for Chris delivering the baby in the car.

So there you have it: a public declaration of my insanity intent to have a medication-free birth.*

(*Please note the exclusionary clause for inductions.  I will be the first to say that Pitocin=epidural.)

Freedom of Speech?

There is an unspoken horror to being pregnant.  It is the freedom with which people choose to comment on your size, the baby's name, how you should parent, and on an on.

This week?  The receptionist at my OB's office said in confusion, "You're not due until September?! And it's just one?  Hey, Suzie--Look, she's not due until September!"   A parent of patient said something along the lines of, "That baby is really growing! I'm surprised you're still getting around so well!"

Both times, I stuttered and stammered to explain that's what happens when you're pregnant with your third child  only 7 months after your second.  I'm not good on the spot.

Take away lessons:
*Only comment on announced pregnancies--nothing worse that being asked when baby is due when baby is 4 months old.
*The ONLY acceptable comment to someone's pregnant belly is, "You look GREAT."r

Is this Acceptable?

Remember how I said I was determined to not buy any more maternity clothing items?  I think I lied.  But I need your advice, dear readers. 

Fat girl+maternity shorts+Texas in the summer=????

Is it totally wrong?  I mean, mostly for wearing around the house, playing in the backyard and walking my 'hood.  Now to find some that don't cost a fortune. . . at least, if I get the thumbs-up. . .

Perpetual Boobstains

I would like to claim this affliction came with pregnancy or motherhood, but truth is I have had boobstains since before I had boobs.  My mom likes to say that as a child she knew what I had for lunch upon me reaching the pavement after the last step on the bus.  The sad truth of my pregnancy wardrobe is approximately 92% boobstained.  Don't judge.  Just know I'm cheap.  It's the third time I've been pregnant and I am resisting buying more maternity clothes.  I just keep hoping no one notices.  Or calls me out.  Those are kind of the same thing, right?

Lazy Bargain Hunting

A bargain is a total rush for me.  But I also really don't love to have to work for a bargain.  I'm lazy.  Lazy and cheap.  Sometimes this works in my favor, mostly by accident.  I'm convinced that the huge consignment sales are geared to me--I'm the perfect customer.

With the impending arrival of Jose (Tres, for some), came the realization we need just a couple of important items--a double stroller and a pack-and-play.  And y'all, it's consignment season.  I hit two today.  Despite my $8 entrance fee ($5 for parking and $3 for shopping), the first stop was a bust.  I had sweet Brook-Brook with me and one look at the lack of furniture and then no stroller that was fitting, along with the line wrapped around the room convinced me to cut my losses.

Enter sale number 2.  Turns out that many were swayed by the lure of the big sale and the smaller one was calm and fully stocked.  Ha!  There it was, the double stroller.  One hundred dollars cheaper than retail.

It has a little bit of wear and tear, the seats need to be cleaned up, but it will accommodate an infant seat and sweet Brook-Brook with no problemo.  Now, it's not the uber-fancy stroller that I took for a test drive today in buybuy Baby, but remember how I'm cheap?  Yeah.  So the price tag of $375 +tax, I had to walk away from that five-foot long dream monstrosity.

To top off the score, I got some adorbs hairbows on super-sale, 3 pieces of work-worthy maternity clothes for $12, 2 cute polos for the Ell-monster for $5, a Hanna Andersson dress for $6 and a couple of other fab spring outfits for next year for B-B.  

It was a successful day. . . until I spent 20 minutes wrestling that damned amazing stroller into my car because I couldn't figure out how to make it fold up.  I kept hoping someone would take pity on me and come to help, but no such luck.  I think I don't look pregnant enough yet.  I mean, because people are much more likely to help a super-pregnant lady, right?

Escapism Anyone?

I really love reality tv.  Sometimes the 45 minutes (we DVR and fast forward through those pesky commericals) I spend with my husband on the couch breathing the same air and watching the same (ridiculous) shenanigans is what I look forward to ALL. DAY.  Parked on the couch, staring blankly at the tv, taking in The Amazing Race, Survivor, Top Chef, Project Runway, America's Next Top Model, etc.  Those last two watched after Chris is in bed--he just can't go there.  All of that is build-up for the penultimate reality show for me--So You Think You Can Dance. . . I heart that show.  Big times.

I find I'm wading through some serious exhaustion these days.  This makes me either the laziest person on the planet or the full-time working mom of a three-year old, a nine-month old and finishing up my first trimester of my last pregnancy.  When my OB asked how I was doing and I replied tired, he said it must be because I'm not taking my vitamins.  Sure.  That's why I'm so tired that even uploading pictures and editing them on my computer seems too much.

Clicking the remote?  Totally doable.  So that's where you'll find me these days.  Upping my IQ with the boob tube.  I mean, I do DVR Jeopardy and Private Practice.  Okay, so the last one doesn't really help the IQ, but it's so darn goooood.

Run-Away Day. . .or Life

Sometimes life gets away from you.  You're all, we make dinner, we save money, look at our kids, aren't they great?  Then the universe slaps you back into reality--you know, unplanned pregnancy (at 35) and then chronic exhaustion, husband has to work late, three doctor appointments in one day (we're all fine, don't worry) and you are back in check.  Hell, I was even behind on reading my blogs.

Now I'm all, there are piles of laundry everywhere, dirty dishes in the sink, endless whining of a three-year old, we ran out of homemade baby food, and had to order in 2 times this week out of necessity.

(As for the 3 doctor appointments, B had a follow-up GI appointment (she's doing great), I had an OB appointment, Jose [Baby Three], is doing well and then Brooklyn had a visit with the pediatrician because she's got a cold/ear infection. So nothing major, but it was quite a day).

I get it Universe.  I get it.  Consider me warned.

Three Year Old Logic

Ell:  Mommy, you got a baby in your tummy?

Me:  Yes, I do.

Ell:  Why? (he asks this of everything0

Me:  I just do.

Ell:  It's Minnie's baby.

Me:  Noooo, it's not Minnie's baby. (said through church giggles)

Ell:  Why?

Me:  (stumped)

Two Things That Should NOT Go Together (Adventures in Poop, Vol. IV)

First trimester pregnancy and potty training.  Let me be more specific:  first trimester pregnancy and those potty chairs that require dumping of the matter into the actual toilet and then sanitizing (by. hand.) the pot.  My nemesis.  The Ell-Monster would prefer this little chamber pot (who knew I would ever have a use for this term in my for-real life?) because his feet touch, but selfish mommy has now hidden the insert for the chair because I.can't.handle.it.  I'm pretty much an awesome mom.

I may have mentioned these things not belonging together a time or two in previous blog posts, but I feel like I need to reiterate just in case anyone might be wondering.  I would not recommend it.  I could have written tonight about the amazing book I'm reading, birthday party adventures or even my craptastic day at work.  But somehow the lure of poop and pregnancy was calling again.

Sometimes the Universe Laughs. . .

and you have no choice but to sit back and grin.  Even when your first reaction was the F-word.  Yep.  That was me.  You see, I'm a planner and when things don't go according to MY plan, then I say the F-word.  A lot.

Well, about a month ago when the pregnancy test showed two lines and then again when the second and third test showed the same, I was saying that word a lot.  A third child was NOT in our family plan.  This is where that 'universe laughing' thing comes in.

I've stopped saying the F-word.  Sure, I'm worried.  Having 3 kids under three and a half is quite a daunting thought, but at this point, I know we'll survive.  What's one more in the chaos, right?