Merry Christmas 2011

Christmas was a merry and tired event for me this year.  I imagined having a newborn would make a holiday celebrating the birth of Christ even more meaningful but, in a way, it made me less aware of the holiday as I was consumed by my own recovery, fatigue and experience.  Thankfully, I had finished my shopping and decorating well before my preoccupation with Daniel and my parents and Jay were around to hype it up and party with the older boys.

Christmas Eve was spent at the in-laws and Jay had prepared a delightful program with Seth, Sam and Henry about Samuel the Lamanite and the day and night and a day with no darkness complete with costumes, song and machetes!  It was followed by singing carols, breaking open a dinosaur piñata and having a bowl of delicious rice pudding with raspberry sauce.

We came home late and opened our Christmas jammies.  I had some super cute ones for Daniel but opted to keep him sleeping instead.




Come morning, the boys oohed and aahed over their Santa gifts and then we all got ready for church.  I hadn’t made up my mind if I was going to go or not and was definitely learning towards the not (I had a six day old, after all) but Daniel blessed me with a relatively good night’s sleep and I wanted to help support the ward choir and witness Seth’s first sacrament meeting solo!  My mom stayed home with the baby and even though people thought I was crazy for being there, and I was, I’m glad I went.

Once home, we opened the rest of the gifts.  As much as I like to think I “kept things simple,” I know I did not.  Like usual, we spent too much money and got way too many things but I know the boys loved the day.  They were so sweet to each other and I loved watching Seth eagerly give his brothers the gifts he bought for them (which he spent too much of his own money on) and cried when Sam gave Daniel a thoughtful letter and homemade ornament.  My favorite gifts were the biography of my grandmother, including pictures and the pen Seth made me with the help of his dad.

Here are some videos of the boys play.  They are kind of long and I’m really disappointed with the upload quality (I have the worst luck with video.  What are your secrets to getting good video and sharing it???)  But, they are pretty cute and if you get to the end, you get to hear some pretty sweet singing.  Plus, in video #2, Nephi Prays, all the boys have swords or machetes.  Real ones.  Jay had a lot of confidence in the boys!






Cup throwing at 1:41!  Followed by adorable singing!


Sharp tools enter the scene at 2:27 minutes!

Seth sings Silent Night in german.

Cute picture of Stephanie, Clark and their boys, Ethan and Caden.

Singing carols with my dad at the piano.

Delanie loves the singing!

Derek doesn’t even pretend to love the singing.

Some bad Nephites.

Samuel the Lamanite

Um...yeah.  That is a machete.   And me nursing in the background.  I hate nursing in public.  I can’t believe I am posting this picture except it’s the only one of the boys holding a blade to seth’s neck:)

Derek is such a softie with babies!

It was pretty warm at Grandmas so I kept Daniel in a onesie.

I was a horrible photographer come Christmas morning!  Here are all of the pictures I have of that day.  Jay reading the letter from Sam to Daniel.

Daniel’s ornament (Heartbreak!  It broke later that morning!)

Henry opening up a gift.

My mom and dad with the pens Jay made them.

I really wanted to get a picture of Daniel inside his Christmas stocking but it never panned out.  I took this in the wee hours of the morning after I fed him.  These are his cute Christmas jammies and stocking I ordered without knowing if we were actually going to name him Daniel.  I took the risk because they were on sale!

Welcome, Daniel

Daniel


As much as I wish it wasn't so, birthing a baby is an unpredictable business.   In spite of my best laid plans, my pregnancy finished its course without any direction from me.  Here's how:

After a week of following most of the "how-to-go-into-labor" remedies I could find on the internet (I avoided ingesting oils and herbs that had any whiff of producing undesirable digestive complications), I sat on the couch on Sunday evening, lamenting to Jay how there was a good chance he'd miss the birth of our son should I go into natural labor the next day as he was scheduled to work at a hospital located an hour away.  Of course, I had been having Braxton Hicks contractions for months and didn't imagine the multiple painless contractions I'd been having all evening meant much because I'd been having similar sensations for months, although not as frequent or as pedictable.

Jay, with his keen eye, watched me as I'd put my hand over my enormous abdomen and look at the large mantle clock every so often.  He asked me if I was going into labor.  I assured him I was not as none of the contractions hurt, though I did admit they felt somewhat different than I was used to.  He suggested we go to bed in case labor was starting so I wouldn't be exhausted during the birth.  I scoffed but followed him to bed. This was a little after10:00 pm.

Mentally, I was quite apprehensive.  What if I was going into labor?  Sure, the contractions didn't hurt but maybe this was how my labors had started in the past and I had just missed or ignored the signals and, in the case of Henry's birth, left for the hospital too late?  I lay on my side in bed, listened to Jay's rhythmic sleepy breathing and picked up my phone to look at the time every time I felt my uterus tighten.  Every twelve minutes.  For an hour.  Then eight to ten.  For an hour.  When one followed the other a mere six minutes later, I got up, put my black stretchy maternity pants on for what I hoped was the last time, and woke Jay up.  It was just after 12:30.

We drove to the hospital and I don't think I had a single contraction, painless or otherwise.  I immediately doubted my instinct to get to the hospital and worried I would just be sent home.  At the birth center, I called the nurse's station through their telephone/intercom system and said, "I think I'm in labor."  They buzzed Jay and I through.

The hallways were dim and quiet.  Four nurses sat at the main desk and I explained how I'd been having regular but painless contractions but had a history of precipitous labor.  The assured me they'd thoroughly check me out and not send me home prematurely.  The nurse assigned to me seemed particularly kind and encouraged me by saying things like, "I'm sure you're going to have this baby soon."  I hoped so but still wondered.

Once in my ill fitting hospital gown (exposed backside, anyone?) I felt the familiar sensation of total nausea and lost my chili dinner.  The nurse took this as a very positive sign and kept saying how women in labor frequently vomit.  I was too tired to explain that I doubted it was so in my case.  After that nastiness was passed, she hooked me up to a fetal monitor and performed an internal check to gauge my labor progression. Wouldn't you know it, my contractions were irregular and I was only dilated to a three.  I felt foolish and frustrated, but she told me I wasn't going anywhere but that she wanted me to walk for at least an hour before she called the OB to get directions.  In my robe and very unattractive black socks and clogs, Jay and I took off for a middle-of-the-night exploration of the hospital.

In the deserted hallways, Jay quietly walked alongside me, stopping occasionally with me to look at a piece of art on the wall.  We didn't talk much.   It was too late and we were both too tired.  I kept worrying about what he was going to do about his work schedule and he kept telling me it wasn't a big deal and he'd take care of it.  I felt in a hurry to have this baby so he could at least call in and say, "I've just had a baby.  Won't be in." instead of driving over in a sleep-deprived state after his wife spent the night in false labor.  I had more contractions but nothing very encouraging so I wasn't surprised when our hour of walking did nothing to change the condition of my body.

Still, the nurse called the OB on call who happened to be my original doctor of choice.  Always one to avoid being annoying, I felt bad that the doctor had even been called and felt even worse when the nurse informed me that she was on her way to the hospital because she knew how fast I could go and didn't want to risk waiting too long.

Shortly after 3 am, the doctor arrived and checked me.  I was dilated to a five but not having regular contractions.  Very kindly, she asked me if I'd like her to break my water.  Tired and with a hint of tears, I responded with an eager, "yes!"

After a few more minutes of monitoring the baby, I decided to walk again.  This time, Jay and I stuck to the labor and delivery floor and did laps around the small wing.  My contractions changed dramatically and every time I rounded the north corner, I had to stop and do some major Zen breathing.  It hurt and I remembered the strength of contractions that sent me to the hospital before.  I knew the baby would be coming soon but still felt so impatient that I'd been in labor so long.  I know...I know.  But, for me, it had already been my longest labor ever.  I started thinking about it at 10 pm and by 4 am, felt like this baby was never going to come.  Sure that these hard contractions had made some serious cervical progress, I asked for another check and was blown away when the nurse declared me still at a five.  WTH????

My nausea has always been connected with how empty my stomach is so I wasn't surprised at all when I got sick again at 4.  Totally exhausted at this point, I complained about the pain and the nurse asked if I'd like some painkiller.  I had already turned down an epidural and felt like taking something would only slow me down more so I decided I could bear the pain.  After watching me wince and grip the side arms of the hospital bed each time a contraction came, my nurse suggested I labor in the bathtub.

As a disclaimer, I must admit that I have never been tempted to have a home birth or a water birth.  My reasons are long and logistical but one that is perhaps less admirable is I have never wanted to deal with or even see the mess that accompanies a birth.  I am quite an affectionado of the hot, soaking bath.  Nevertheless, the thought of sitting in the same water immediately following the birth and discharge of baby and placenta is completely unappealing to me.  I know.  I'm immature.  But, It's what I think about.  So, I hesitated.

Then, I acquiesced.  I told the nurse to make the water as hot as she legally could and was surprised when the water was, indeed, hot.  It was a nice, deep tub and it really was the perfect way to labor.  I could have been a Scientologist the way I was able to silently get through each contraction.  Jay fell asleep in the chair he moved to doorway of the bathroom of the birthing suite and I focused on the same little water droplet just above the faucet each time my uterus coaxed my baby to think about leaving his happy, warm home.  I think I surprised Jay when, after an hour, I said with panic, "Lots of pressure!  I need to push!"

He quickly helped me out of the tub, dried me off and led me to the bed, all the while encouraging me to hold off on the pushing quite yet.  My Scientology instincts went away and my dramatic side kicked it into high gear as pain and exhaustion both had their way with me.  I started to cry and didn't want to do it anymore.  None of it.  Baby could hang out inside me a bit longer, I reasoned.  I didn't want to push.  Didn't think I could.  The doctor came out of her call room and assured me I was ready and could push with my next contraction.

Wouldn't you know it, it was 6:00 am and the nurses had just changed shifts.  My nice, helpful nurse was suddenly gone and I got smoker's breath nurse instead.  She introduced herself to me and assured me I would be done in no time.  I turned my head each time she spoke to avoid the awful smell of nicotine.  With Jay on one side, stinky nurse on the other and my doctor encouraging baby's head out, I was able push him out with much weeping and wailing in about 15 minutes.  While he did stay head down, he added his own dramatic flair by being face up, which makes things harder.

As the OB brought his vernix covered body to my chest, she declared him to feel like a "brick."  Indeed, he weighed 8 lbs and 10 oz and measuring 20.75 inches long and was declared to be born at 6:17 am on Sunday, the 19th of December.  Yes, that is our anniversary but so be it.  He took to nursing right away and seems to get it in a way none of my other boys did without intervention from a lactation specialist.  He is sleepy and quite calm, except when he is fussy.  Sounds like a baby, eh?

It took us about a half a day to settle on the name of Daniel.  I left the ultimate decision up to Jay (which he never believed.  Guess he thinks I'm a control freak or something) and he looked at the baby and at me and said, "He's a Daniel."  It had been a contender for months but had dipped considerably in the name poll after Jay informed me of its annual popularity among boy names.  I let it bother me for a few weeks but, in the end, I thought, "I don't know anyone naming their babies Daniel."  So, while he is at risk for being one of fifty with the same name in a metropolitan phone book, his name stands.  It means "God's judgement" or "spiritual."

In what must be the most predictable statement of the year, I hereby declare my surprise pregnancy/nausea/weight gain/heartburn/emotional fragility/anti-social behavior/mellowed trips/missed trips/sleep-interrupted-by-crowded-bladder all TOTALLY WORTH IT!

I love him.  Completely.  Without conditions.  Forever.

Just like that.




I always mean to have an attractive hospital shot but make-up and combed hair always seems so unimportant after birth.  But, aren't my four boys handsome?

Jay holding Daniel.  He managed to be at the birth AND work as he could read the images from the other hospital on the monitors in the radiology department.  He just had to cancel all of the procedures they had scheduled for him to do.  With a whole night of lost sleep, however, he was so, so tired.  I at least got to nap during the day.



He is perfect.

One Week

It's been one week since I thought I would deliver my son and be done with this pregnancy.  One week since my parents have been here, supplying order and assistance in my life with no cute grandbaby to hold as a form of thanks.  And one week of having what seems to be an endless conversation that usually begins with the line, "Haven't you had that baby yet?"

Last Saturday morning at six o'clock, after I had been up for an hour and a half and after I had showered, dried my hair and put on make-up, I received a call from my OB/GYN.  Even the digitized ring of the phone had an ominous tone to it.  After all, what good comes from a call at six in the morning?  She started to explain that she had been looking through my chart, apparently for the first time, and realized there was a discrepancy in my due dates.  One date, the one she had been basing her decisions on, was December 17th.  That date came from the little cardboard wheel they spin around on your first appointment when you give them the day of your last menstrual cycle.   The other due date was December 26th, which was based on an early pregnancy confirmation ultrasound I had done because, if you'll remember, I hadn't been expecting this pregnancy.

According to my radiologist husband and the OBs in the group, the December 26th date was much more accurate because embryo development is very predictable in its early stages and measurements that come from a six week ultrasound are considered accurate to within a day.  I remember wrapping my head around a Christmas Day due date and thinking, "If I could have this baby one week before Christmas, that would be perfect."  And so my unfortunate tendency to have what Jay affectionately refers to as "Lucy time" got involved.

I think being an OB would be a hard medical specialty.  The group I went to in Denver when I had Seth was established much like this group here in D-town.  They take turns being on call and whoever is on call on the day you go into labor, or schedule a c-section or induction, that particular physician is the one who delivers you.  That means, if you go into natural labor, you really have no control over which doctor you'll get.  As I had planned on an induction since day one, I didn't follow their recommendations and make appointments with each of the different doctors throughout the pre-natal care months.  I asked the PA, who I had been seeing for years for my yearly appointments and really liked but who couldn't deliver me because she didn't have delivery privileges at the hospital,  who best fit my personality and scheduled my next appointments with the three different female physicians she recommended.

The first one, I didn't like at all.  I found her condescending and quickly ruled her out as a choice for delivery. The next one I liked well enough but the third doctor I liked best of all.  Like Goldilocks, her manner and tone seemed just right.

I made all my appointments with her up until two months ago.  When we started narrowing down dates for induction, which I was not doing for convenience but because of the recommendation of my last OB in Spokane who didn't get to deliver Henry because he came so fast, we realized she would be out of town with her family when I reached the magical-and-earliest-they-will-even-consider-induction-date of 39 weeks.  She fished out the call schedule and informed me of which doctors would be working which days and who did I want to deliver me?

Wouldn't you know, of the three doctors scheduled for that week, I hadn't met two of them and one was the doctor I didn't care for at all?  Another of the three was one I had purposely never seen, as he is known in the community to favor population control and perform abortions.  I'm sure he is perfectly competent but, with this being my fourth delivery, I imagined lots of lectures about our precious world resources and my responsibility to protect mother earth by limiting my offspring.  To this day, I still mentally rule him out.  I don't even want him to accidentally deliver me.  As much as I have complained about being pregnant, I still think my body has done a beautiful thing and do not think for a minute that having four children is selfish or irresponsible.  And how can you trust an OB who thinks there are too many babies????

That left a woman who had just joined their group in August and who I had never met.  I scheduled my appointment with her and while she is very young and only fresh out of her residency, she seemed sweet and kind and not lecture prone.

It did leave me weary explaining my history all over again.  But, I did and thought I had included all the details as to the whys and hows of my need to be induced and she agreed with every single one of my points.  "Let's put you on the schedule," she replied.

When she suggested the date December 10th, I did hesitate.  It was an entire week earlier than I had been thinking possible and I brought up during that very first appointment with her, that my ultrasound date was inconsistent with my LMC date and I remember her saying, "Let's just go with this date!"  Maybe she was feeling eager to please, maybe she didn't imagine that the two dates were actually nine days apart, but I was thrilled.  December 10th!  That was lots of time before Christmas and an entire week less of being miserably pregnant.  My mind answered, "Hell, yes!" but I'm sure I simply responded with a smile and a more appropriate, "Sure!"

I remember calling my mom from the parking lot of the hospital with the good news.  She felt as surprised as I did and started making the mental adjustment with me of a week earlier than we had been planning on her and my dad coming out to be with me and help.  There was some guilt in this switch as it meant they would miss some of their own local Christmas festivity but they were willing to come on the 9th and stay through Christmas and that was what I needed.  Their presence.  Their help.  Their love.

I started letting other friends and family know.  At first, the 10th seemed so early as I had been telling everyone I was due right at Christmas.  But, then it just became the day that this boy would be delivered and I never mentally went back.

Then, came the whole breech business.   Already anxious about going into natural labor before my scheduled date, his breech-ness took me to a whole new level of fearful.  I'm not sure I'm capable of adequately explaining my worry and fear about going into natural labor.  Seth and Sam were both born weeks early and Henry was born so, so quickly and the overwhelming memory of that event for me was how out of control and scared I felt when I knew I couldn't hold back his little body entering the world, even though everyone was telling me not to push and there was no doctor and I wasn't even in a delivery room but in a bathroom and then on a stretcher.  Even before learning he was breech, I was very concerned about this new baby's safety as well as my own.  The breech thing cranked up every ounce of my melodrama and suddenly, I had visions of one or both of us dying tragically.  Perhaps I've read too many books or watched too many shows and movies about babies getting stuck, leaving husbands as widowers and children as orphans, but even the 10th of December, two whole weeks before my due date, seemed almost too late to have this induction or c-section.  Besides not wanting a c-section, that fear is really what pushed me to try everything to turn the baby so that he could at least not die if my body went into labor before the 10th.

When he flipped, all the stars seemed to be coming into alignment.  I had a little over a week to go before his delivery and, as long as he stayed head down, I was going to have a brand new baby soon!  Again, never having been induced before and being prone to dramatics, there was some fear about how my body would react to whatever my doctor decided to do to get me going.  Still, I felt in control and safe.  My parents were here.  My bags were packed.  My laundry was done.  My house was clean.  Let's do this thing!

Then, the phone rang.  At six am.  And I knew.  I honestly did.  She explained how she had never seen the 26th date and didn't feel comfortable inducing me at 37 and a half weeks when the baby might not be ready to be born.  She explained how babies that aren't fully developed have more problems controlling their body temperature and glucose and struggle with respiration and of course I didn't/don't want my child to struggle with any of that.  I just thought she knew about the dates!  I felt ashamed that she thought I was trying to "get away with something" and mad that she hadn't bothered to figure this out until the morning I was going to be induced.  Shame and anger translated into a morning of tears.  Lots and lots of tears.

My boys woke up early to see me before I left for the hospital and all I could do was cry and tell them I wasn't going anywhere.  It was too difficult to explain all the ins and outs of the days but I said that I most likely wasn't going to have the baby that day and they just sat there and hugged me and wondered if I would ever stop crying.  Jay tried his best to reassure me that all was well and this was best for the baby (I know!) but I just felt annoyed.  I didn't want to be consoled!  I didn't want him or my doctor to be right or reasonable!  I wanted to be at the hospital delivering this baby!

Eventually, I did get out of bed again.  I explained to my parents what had happened and it began what would be a day of having the same conversation at least fifty times.  Our ward's Christmas party was that night and no one was expecting me to be there.  But, I knew if I didn't go and explain what had happened, people would be pestering Jay at church the next day, or my parents, or Jay's parents and I decided to follow my mother's advice and just get it over with like "ripping off a band-aid."  It would have been easier to have just worn a sign around my neck.

I've had the same conversation dozens and dozens of times this week.  I know I shouldn't but I still feel foolish.  Now, everyone thinks I'm overdue and I'm still a week away from my due date!  Worse, I feel overdue.  I do.  There was a mental end that has come and gone and every day this week has been torture waiting and wondering.  I don't have another induction date scheduled for various reasons.  First, I'm still mad and annoyed at this OB practice.  If I hadn't already paid them for this delivery, I'd seriously consider calling up another group and asking if they'd deliver me.  Second, all of the options now seem bad.  With the 26th as my "official" due date now, my once-decided OB won't induce me a second before December 19th - exactly one week before my due date. Well, the 19th is our anniversary and I know that a child's birthday will forever trump an already difficult to celebrate wedding anniversary.  Besides, Jay is scheduled to work in a town an hour away on the 19th and, I wish I could explain, it is so so hard for him to rearrange his schedule.  That was another very annoying result of having this date switched.  I had explained months ago that I needed a date so that Jay could make sure he could have it off as they do their own group's schedule months in advance.  On the 20th, the abortionist is on the schedule.  No, thank you.  The 21st, the annoying female doctor I saw very first and never again is scheduled.  Jay is on call on the 22nd and so my sweet, young doctor suggested the 23rd.   Really, what's the point?

Lastly, a lot of my fear has subsided with my parent's steady presence.  I now have round-the-clock-on-call child care for my other boys and a guaranteed ride to the hospital in a moment's notice should I go into labor when Jay isn't around.  I know I have several friends and family members who would be more than willing to drop everything and come pick me up, but if this delivery is anything like Henry's, minutes count and it felt risky to depend on anyone who might not be home.

So, I've decided to just wait and see.  It is horrible.  Yesterday, I was so grumpy and moody and uncomfortable.  I want to be done.  I want this little boy, who is obviously an instrument to teach me about humility, patience and the Lord's timeline, to be born!  I alternate between mentally pretending to be O.K with the whole "Thy will be done" and a one-sided shouting match where I murmur, "Can't I catch a break!" to God.    Then, I really do humble myself and know that I am so blessed.  I have a healthy baby who is developing normally and a body that is adequately providing a nurturing environment for him.   I have an amazing support network.  I have a beautiful family that is just waiting to welcome this new person with all the love and glee imaginable.  It's just me and my misery that gets in the way of this being a wonderful thing.

December 17th would be a great day to have a baby.  My doctor checked me at my last appointment and my body is dilating and effacing and preparing itself to deliver any time.  So....could it be today?  Please, please, please?

See?  I haven't learned a thing.  Not one thing.  I am not in control.  I am not in charge.  There is no such thing as "Lucy time."  It is a figment of my own imagination.  I've been learning this very hard lesson for one week now.  I hope admitting it keeps me from having to learn it for another or, heaven forbid, more.

Nine Months

So much for documenting my pregnancy, eh?  I regret not writing more but, it is what it is.  For some reason, whether it be depression, anxiety, boredom, busyness, sickness, fatigue, or just the ease of neglecting a neglected blog, I have not chosen to share the day to day events of my pregnancy or our life lately.  Honestly, I'm not doing much of the things I love to do lately.  I'm barely reading.  Not singing.  Not traveling.  Not spending time with friends.  I'm not exactly sure where all the hours go.  There are always errands to do and I usually need or want to rest following any kind of activity.  There are the endless rides for the boys' activities.  That wears me out.  Mostly, I think I've known that whatever mood I was in when I had time to write wasn't one I really wanted to remember.  In summary, I am glad this pregnancy is over.

Tomorrow, I am scheduled to arrive at the hospital for induction at 7:30 am.  There is a chance that my doctor will send me home and if that happens, it happens.  I would rather the baby be safe and uncomfortable and miserable for another few days or week than expose a baby not ready to be born to a harsh environment he's not ready for.  I really hope that's not the case, however.  I am ready to meet this little guy and while I know newborn life and needs aren't exactly easy either, I'd rather deal with those events than the enormous belly I'm sporting, the heartburn, the nausea and sore hips and back.

I am not really thinking that clearly but I just remembered that I wanted to remember the craziness of having this baby be stubbornly breech for nearly a month.  I did all I could to avoid a c-section, even though I am not morally or ethically against them.  I just knew it'd be harder and longer to recover if I had one so I researched and tried as many remedies as I could find to turn this baby into a head down position.

The first thing I tried was swimming.  I have really enjoyed swimming during this last trimester so it wasn't really trying anything new, just adding a few flips underwater and the occasional handstand.  I wish I hadn't been embarrassed by my efforts, but I was always hyper aware of being watched and looking foolish.  I don't think it worked.

I tried crawling and stretching on all fours.  This was a lot harder than I initially thought it would be.  The added weight of pregnancy made being on my wrists and knees sore and it was very difficult for me to stay in that position for the recommended 20 minutes/3 times a day.  I don't think crawling or being on all fours worked.

I tried placing a bag of frozen peas where the baby's head was (underneath my right ribs) and inverting myself to persuade the baby to turn from the cold and negative slope but I don't think it worked.

I went to the hospital for an ECV (external cephalic version) where my doctor physically tried to manipulate the outside of my stomach and rotate the baby into a head down position.  It definitely didn't work and it hurt.

As almost a last resort, I tried a Chinese homeopathic remedy called Moxibustion.  In this treatment, two cigar shaped sticks are lit and held close to my pinkie toes at the same time for as long as I could stand the heat.  When it got to hot, the sticks were moved away for about ten seconds and then brought back into position.  I did this once at an oriental medical practice and once at home, with Jay holding the moxa sticks.  I really wish I had taken a picture of Jay on his belly, stinky smoke billowing into his face while I sat in the blue recliner.  He only burned me twice but I think his technique (slightly distracted by the TV show behind him) did the trick because the next day, the baby had turned head down.  I also had acupuncture done.  It could have been that too.

Regardless, I am happy that baby is where he should be but nervous about being induced tomorrow.  I have been nervous and anxious this entire pregnancy and I really wish I were serene and calm and cool about it all. The thing is, I have never been induced so don't know how my body will respond.  I don't know if it'll make the whole labor and delivery harder or more painful or really awesome because I am somewhat in control.  O.K.  Not really in control but not out of control like I was when having Henry.

Man, I am rambling.  I really wanted to get one post out before tomorrow - a last hurrah, if you will.  But, I am not into it.  Let's hope my post pregnancy brain is an improvement over the last seven months of blah blogging.

Still....I'm done!  In twelve hours, I'll be leaving for the hospital.  That, my friends, is cause to celebrate.  Just forgive this post:)

Trotting Like Turkeys

Whenever I start to feel guilty that my children prefer cookies over carrots, I remind myself that at least they also like to run.  And bike and hike and play sports and wrestle.  But not swim.  I have totally failed at that.

But they DO like to run!  Remember, no guilt.

Thanks to their father, a runner extraordinaire, they think donning a pair of shorts, t-shirt and a hat on a cold holiday morning and running one or five miles is fun!  They pay for the privilege!

Like many places, D-town puts on a local Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day.  They have a one mile fun run for kids and wimpy adults (kidding.  Sort of.) and a brutal five mile hilly course for those with no other option (ever heard of a 5K D-town?  They’re kind of popular).  Jay, of course, loves the 5 mile distance.  For him, it is a short run.  This year, Seth chose to leave the kids behind and lengthen his own stride but agreed the five miles was a bit too long.  He was tired at the end.

I was proud of all of my boys.  I have done it in years past (well...one) and I’m sure I’ll do it again.  I’ll at least do the wimpy 1 mile with Henry, who would probably prefer something shorter.

Working hard for their turkey dinner.

Goofy boys.

Jay in the pack.  Nice and steady.

Seth a minute later.  Probably started a bit too fast.  His 6:30 minute mile at the school might have given him some false confidence in a distance race.

Sam cheers on his dad and brother with me.

Here comes the leader!

It’s Jay!

Straining.

I love watching him run.

Breathe, baby, breathe.

Form check.

Checking to see who’s behind him.

Finishing strong.

Holy moly.  He just ran five miles in under 30 minutes.

Two cute boys in a tree.

Here comes Seth.

That’s dad in the background who went back to run in with him for a strong finish.  Because five miles wasn’t long enough.

A camera is just the right kind of motivation to finish with a sprint.

Not too shabby!  He said he walked a lot after the first mile so to average 10 min/mile, he must have run fast when he was running.

Sam rocked the 1 mile.

Love this leaping gait!

And.......here comes Henry.  Marching to the beat of his very own drum.

Nope. No one is behind you, buddy.

Who says you can’t race barefoot in Tevas?

Always cute.

Isn’t there a wise proverb about it’s not about the swift?

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Holiday I Hate The Most

A more positive way of naming this blog post might be the holiday I like the least but I really strongly dislike Halloween.  I know it’s fun for kids and if it were just a fun day for kids to dress up and get candy then I’d be hunky dory.  Fun fun!  But, it’s an entire month of looking at skulls and other macabre displays in stores not to mention the ever increasing adult influence with raunchy and embarrassing costume displays.  No thank you.

I skip it as much as I can.  No decorations.  Candy at the last minute.  Simple costumes.  And guess what?  My kids enjoy it just as much.  They get a pumpkin full of candy and a day to be silly and dress up.  And I don’t have to decorate my home with cobwebs.

I know some people love the month.  To each her own.  I’m comfortable with my boo-humbug.

Sam rocks his disco dancing costume.

I’m always curious how kids decide what they want to be.  I know Henry has never seen superman or read any of the books but, obviously, has heard about him.  Superman was a huge costume this year.  I bet there were at least six of them at the school parade.

This was not Seth’s costume.  For the school carnival and trunk or treat, he went as a distance running vampire (very clever, I thought).  He wore Jay’s candy strip running shorts over running tights, a singlet over a long sleeve shirt, a cape, headband and wristband.  He opted against putting on white face paint and blood at the mouth, which is probably the reason he didn’t like his costume when he got home (i.e. no one got it).  Jay ran up the driveway with this getup on and scared the pants off of us and Seth borrowed it for trick or treating.  With the large plastic hands and full face mask, Seth struggled to trick-or-treat.  He was so annoyed that I think I have a Halloween hater in the making.   But the plethora of fun-sized sugar is a pretty powerful enticer to the dark side.