I blog to avoid the internet.

Fifteen minutes tonight filling out permission slips and volunteer forms and her reading log - I feel so grown up!  There's never a moment I drop the responsibility, never a moment their care isn't a live current running underneath everything else happening in my brain, but sometimes, when I have a quiet moment to sit and really think, it blows my mind that I am a mother, responsible for the lives and well-being of two other entire humans.  What they eat, what they wear, when they bathe, how they play - I have a say in all of it.  Not just a say - I damn-near control it entirely.  It's crazy to me that someone let me have this much responsibility without checking to make sure I'm qualified in any way for this much power.  No Pressure.

G had her first parent/teacher conference today, and it lined up perfectly with C's follow-up pelvic ultrasound, so Jimi took the phone conference in the car with G in the backseat while C and I went inside for her appointment.  They were done with her so quickly, we were back to the car in time for the last part of the conversation.  Basically, she's awesome.  She's reading and writing at nearly a first grade level, which is awesome.  She's ahead of most of her class in math, but she needs to keep practicing on her counting (that jump from 29 to 30 fouls her up every time).  She's a little ray of sunshine, a joy to have in class, friendly and helpful to all of her peers.  I heard the part about how they had to move her to a new table because she was too social, and how they expect they'll have to move her again eventually when she gets social with this table too, and I grinned because, yep, that's my girl.

They told us not to expect C's results for a few days.  The technician took the pics, the radiologist "reads" them and sends results to our doc, then we should hear from our doc in a few days.  I want to hold a goshdang Kaizen event to get these people in line - can't we remove a step or two here and multitask to improve turnaround?  For gosh sakes.  Anytime you're in an ultrasound of any sort, you desperately just want to know, "Does everything look normal?"  She didn't halt the test and go get a doc for a second opinion or anything, so there's that, but when she was done, she did say that she needed to check with her doc and asked us to wait for just a moment.  I felt a small pit of dread drop itself into the center of my stomach, but she came back within a few minutes and said we were all set, good to go.  That doesn't answer any questions, though.  So we wait.  And keep sending out into the universe good vibes for no big deal.

My head is a mess, guys.  I'm so sad when I scroll through my social media pages - pictures of new babies and family gatherings sandwiched between horrid tales from sexual assault victims and memes joking about sexual assault survivors posted by men I previously believed to be Good Men.  I want to stay informed, but I've realized my desire to be informed is not so much keeping me abreast of current events so much as depressing the fuck out of me.  I can scroll for hours in twitter and facebook and Instagram, but I'm not gaining any new knowledge or enlightenment from it - I'm just following the crowd into the hole of chaos and awfulness.  I tried to step back last night; I drew myself a warm bath, threw in a bath bomb, turned on a YouTube meditation video to help with stress and anxiety, and tried to let it all go.  When my bath was over, I didn't feel any better, I felt lost and still so sad.  I asked Jimi if he would hold me; I just needed to lie in bed with his arms around me and feel safe.  He did, and I cried and cried until I couldn't breathe through my nose anymore.  I sobbed the big shaking sobs you cry when you're heartbroken, because I am heartbroken.

"I want to live in a world where everything is fair, where everyone is treated equally, where everyone has to follow the same rules."   Why is that too much to ask?

I am aghast at the state of our nation today.  I am appalled.  But I've been doing a little learning, and I'm learning that I shouldn't be all that shocked.  To paraphrase a post I saw somewhere by someone on some social media something:

The United States 

was formed by 

wealthy white supremacists 

to promote their interests and agenda.  

The system is working 

exactly as it was designed.  

In-fucking-deed.  

So yeah.  I'm having a hard time over here, but I'm taking steps to get better.  A social media hiatus between now and election night is on the agenda. I'm even avoiding some of my favorite podcasts, because they're political and informative and the facts they give stress me the fuck out.

Self care, right?  That should be the word of 2018.  It's the only way most of us will survive it.

a day in the life...

The girls lost TV privileges last night for not listening.  For three days, because that's the number that came out of my mouth with exactly zero forethought or consideration when I was doling out their punishment.  They're actually being punished because they poked a hole in Daddy's air mattress, by jumping around on it when they'd been told over and over not to do that, to lie down and watch their movie or we'd put it up.  It was patched easily, but still, when you don't listen and you break things that belong to other people, there needs to be repercussions.  Television and candy are the only currencies my children recognize and in my efforts not to give them food issues I'm trying really hard not to give them candy and treats as a reward for good behavior and, as such, I don't withhold those things when they've been naughty, either.  But TV, that magical rabbit hole, I can take it away and they feel it to their core.  They're like little junkies, and those first few hours without are always rough, but even more so if you don't have something else planned, which, of course, I did not last night as I capriciously bellowed out their sentence.  But whatever.  It's not like I planned the second kid, either - living life by the seat of my pants over here.

Cora is in a phase.  She'll be 3 in two short days, so I'm going to rely on the old fall back and straight up blame her wild behavior lately on her tender age.  She is wild, though.  WILD.  If you're reading this, maybe you've noticed the Instagram feed over there on the right - did you catch the picture of her covered in enamel model paint?  She'd been upstairs for a few minutes.  Geneva was up there too, but it's a large space for two little girls, and it's not unusual for them to play separately.  I don't know what I was doing downstairs - laundry, dinner, cleaning, drinking - but I realized I hadn't heard from her in a few full minutes.  I started up the stairs as I called her name, and I smelled it immediately - you know the smell, that fumey paint smell.  Oh shit was my only thought, and then she came around the corner and I said it out loud, "Oh shit."  Her right arm was a swirl of sticky purple and red and white and black enamel paint, the sort that comes in tiny glass jars to be applied to miniature figurines with tiny little brushes; her left hand was the same, up past her wrist, and her chin and cheeks were similarly styled.  Cora had found these 10 year old glass bottles on a shelf in a closet, unscrewed the lids, and had, I can only imagine, poured the paint into her hands and rubbed it onto her face and arms as if it were lotion.

In a blur, I checked her over with my hands and eyes the way a mom will, making sure she didn't have it in her eyes, her nose, her mouth - somehow, she didn't. I was yelling for Jimi at the same time, thinking in the back of my head, "He'll know what to do, he'll know an easy way to fix this, he knows something about everything."  When he put his head into the stairwell and saw us there, saw colorful Cora, I saw the oh shit in his eyes, and his words only backed that up - he had no idea was to do, and he sounded a little higher pitched than normal.  I don't want to say he was panicking, but he was close - he was scared, and that scared me too, but also, strangely, it made me calm down nearly immediately.  I used my calm serious voice, the one that is very matter-of-fact, and as he stripped her down in the bathroom, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed the Dawn dish soap and my phone and delivered the Dawn to the bathroom as I googled "how to remove testors model paint from skin".  The answer, if you're not interested in googling, is vegetable oil and glycerin soap.  We had vegetable oil, and the CVS up the road had glycerin soap I figured, so I left Jimi and the paint-covered child in the bathtub with a gallon-bottle of Crisco Vegetable Oil and headed to the CVS.  They had glycerin - not soap, but in a little squeeze bottle.  I figured it would work well enough, and it did, with the Dawn, and with poor Jimi rubbing and sudsing for nearly an hour.  He even got it out of her hair.

That's sort of the way it is with her right now.  The Friday before the paint incident, thirty minutes after I'd left to head over to visit a friend, she apparently decided to try to change her own poopy pull-up and covered the bathroom in shit.  I missed that completely, thank goodness.  Poor Jimi.

But yeah, 2 days before 3. She's sunshine and rainbows and silver linings - she wakes up happy every single morning; she's quick to tell me she loves me and that I'm her favorite and that I'm beautiful; when she gets in trouble she says "I'm so sorry, Mommy.  I'm so so sorry." But she's also into everything, like a little tornado.  She bounces from one thing to the next without a break in between.  I'm regularly surprised to find myself cleaning one mess while she makes another mess, again, for the 4th time, and we've only been home for an hour.  I should stop being surprised, probably, but how realistic is that?  I'm still ever the optimist, thinking all day at work about how much I miss my precious little angels and how they are going to be so sweet and loving and well behaved once I pick them up from daycare and we head home to a fabulous evening of family dinner, a game or two, maybe a walk around the block, then bath, story, bed...and then I actually pick them up and one of them is in a shitty mood and the other just wants to play but it's at the absolute most inopportune time because we're in a parking lot and there are cars and also other parents but I don't give much of a fuck about what they think but I do still care a little because i'm not going to yell "get the fuck over here right now!" the way I'd really like to do.  And then the pouty one pouts her way into her carseat as I wrestle the playful-turned-screaming-banshee one into hers and by the time I'm buckling myself into my seat I'm angry and my heart is racing and what the fuck I looked forward to THIS all day?!

But I am still an optimist, because some nights are nights like tonight, when Geneva had a good report from her teacher and was giddy with the praise, and Cora ran into my arms and hugged me and said "I missed you so much!"  We laughed our way to the car, the three of us, and got buckled without any breakdowns. Cora is newly forward-facing, so she can talk and interact in a brand new way.  We talked and sang the new Taylor Swift song on the drive home, then we danced to Katy Perry and Psy in the dining room until it was dinnertime, when we changed the playlist to The Avett Brothers.  Dinner was delicious, and so was the piece of Halloween candy they each got to choose from their stashes after dinner. 

They wanted to paint, so we made it happen.  Cora had a shower, then we played Baby Store.  We can't watch the store being built, aka them getting naked down to their underwear/pull-up (presumably because new babies are naked under their blankets?)  and into their blankets, so if we don't hear them the first time they call us to come shopping, or if we don't come to the store quickly enough, Geneva - who up to this point has given instructions to us in her lilting sweet voice "Pretend you wanted two little girls who were perfect for you but you had to go to the baby store to buy them and me and cora were the babies you buyed" - will break character and scream out in her angry voice "Mom!! You have to come buy us!"  When we go into the store (usually the living room), they'll be laying on the floor or on the couch in pretend baby beds, wrapped in bedsheets or quilts that have probably been found in the basket of clean blankets and sheets I've just carried up from the laundry room, where said blankets and sheets were just as likely to have been washed because they'd been drug across the floor by these two versus having actually been used as bedding on a bed.  They'll be goo-ing and ga-ing and making little baby-like noises, and my job as the mom is to walk up to each one of them, fawn over how precious they are, and then ask them if they want to come home with me and be my new baby girl.  They always say yes, and I never have to actually pay anyone - I just pick them up and carry them to whatever part of the house Geneva has designated our pretend home, and then we either play kitchen or start all over.  Sometimes Cora is already my baby and she and I go to the store together to buy her a sister.  Tonight the game was Jimi didn't want any babies, but said I could have some if I wanted them. I went to the store, picked out each baby individually, then carried her to her daddy, who cooed and gooed over each girl in turn. 

They were both thrilled with their game of make-believe, and didn't argue a bit when I announced bedtime/story time.  We read a PeppaPig story about George and his dinosaur balloon.  I held Cora a moment and snuggled her, but she wanted down - and promptly climbed over the rail and into her crib, where she covered herself up and said, "Goodnight, Mommy, I love you."  Jimi came in to pat her as he sang to us all. Geneva was mad when I said I was going to sit with her rather than lie down in her bed - I've slept in there a lot the last few nights at her request and my back is a wreck because of it.  She pouted, but I held her until she was over it and she let me tuck her back in without argument.  She told me she loved me, I fluffed her blanket three times, and the night, that part of my night, the awake electric bright white part of my evening, was over.

And here I sit with the dregs of hot tea turned cold, surprised at how long it took to tell you those things and at how good it felt.  At how good it feels.  These are the days I want to remember.  These are the stories I want to tell. 

Also:  Last night, Cora fell asleep early, so we sat at the table and ate dinner as a family of three.  We were probably 2 hours in to our television moratorium.  Geneva loved the mashed potatoes and asked for seconds.  She loved her family.  She was so happy to be eating dinner as a family.  She liked the green beans a little.  (These are all things she told us, verbatim.)  She and I played Go Fish after dinner until bedtime - we tied once and I won once.  She didn't even pout - she kept proclaiming how much fun she was having.  There's seriously something to this no TV thing.  I think our Netflix is suddenly broken...

Today is a good day.

I rode my bike last night.  Only for 20 minutes or so, but my butt is sore this morning, so it totally counts for something.  It felt so nice outside, and feeling that breeze on my face as I pedal along - I really love that feeling.  I told Jimi last night I wanted to get up and go to the gym this morning - some mornings he stays in bed while I get up with the girls, and I wanted to make sure he knew I had a plan for the morning and it required him to be up and at 'em.  (He's so good to me, I am trying really hard to not set him up for failure, and I know that if I hadn't said anything, and he tried to catch a few more minutes of sleep, I'd end up pissed at him for ruining my plans I made in my head and never shared with him.  That's not very fair, and he never does that crap to me but I do it to him all the time.  So I'm working on it.)  Cora had us all up by 6, and she and I were both super congested and coughy.  I nearly talked myself into skipping the workout, but dammit, that's what I do every other day.  If I want to feel better, to do the things I enjoy, like working out, I have to stop making excuses and skipping shit all the time.  I'm 37 and I've never stuck with anything I've started except this marriage and parenting these girls and I'm probably only sticking to these things because Jimi is just amazing and parenting isn't one of those things you can just quit doing.  So I went to the gym. I walked Finn first, even.  And then I went to the gym, and it was as awesome as I remember.  I felt strong and got sweaty and my muscles got that awesome shaky feeling - I love everything about working out except trying to get myself to go do it.

The girls are sweet today.  Loving and laughing and playing together without fighting and not whining.  I bought mini ice cream sandwiches and some fruit snacks at the grocery yesterday - they are a hot topic of conversation today.  Geneva has been asking for fruit snacks and trying to negotiate her way into some all day - the final agreement is she can have some with snack, at 10 a.m.  She has to eat her carrots first, though.  (She chose carrots - the other options were broccoli and cauliflower, but carrots won out.)  That's good - she eats carrots by themselves.  Broccoli and cauliflower require Olive Garden Italian Dressing for dipping, as does salad.  But they eat veggies, dammit.

Looks like we have a Costco trip in our future today; Cora needs more Claritin. I still need to address that laundry.  Oooo!  Tonight is Game of Thrones.  I love Sundays.  I love today.  I love this silly little life.

If you were all I had, I would have it all.

I'm holding tightly to the last few moments of this extended weekend, drinking hot tea with spiced rum, reading reddit, trying to get a few more of these gushy feelings out into the world.  I took a hot bath laced with Epsom salts and essential oils and nearly fell asleep.  My hips feel better, though, and my entire body is super relaxed and loose, with that delicious still-warm feeling my skin gets after soaking in too hot water, all soft and moisturized. 

Jimi's watching some series on Netflix.  I wonder what it would take to distract him...

We spent our day cleaning and grocery shopping and meal planning and playing and laughing.  Jimi got the gears on his bike adjusted, I took my time at the gym.  We ate well, healthy.  Tonight we took the girls up to the park for an hour or so, letting them run out all that energy.  Our house is not nearly as clean as I'd like, our laundry not as caught up as I'd prefer, and I only made it as far as the hallway with the vacuum. 

I'm so fucking happy.  I got the living room, hallway, and girls' bedroom vacuumed.  The girls helped clean up/pick up without argument, and did a good job.  We have clean clothes for tomorrow, at least - and the rest of the week, too, once we get through that folding; there's always tomorrow for that. (Do you fight with your laundry, too?  Live out of baskets full of clean clothes, use your dryer as an iron?)  I have lunch made for the week for myself, healthy lunches at that.  I'm pretty sure of what I'm going to feed my family for dinner all week.  I don't even mind that we have to go back to work tomorrow - it's not like we hate our jobs.  My only hesitation is that I'm afraid I'll brag too much about how awesome this weekend was, how awesome my husband is, how awesome my life is...

I'm on top of the world.  Everything is awesome.  All of it.  Even the hard stuff. 

Chicago - a whirlwind weekend

This weekend has been amazing.  I was going to put "was" amazing, but it's not over yet.  We're home from our trip, but we still have the whole day tomorrow together, so the vacation isn't over just yet. 

He took me to Chicago.  As a surprise.  For a night.  To see a play, a musical, in a little independent theater.  He kept the surprise for weeks - and would've kept it longer, but yesterday/Saturday, after we'd dropped the girls with Mom, we stopped at the Waffle House to get some breakfast before heading out, and I told him, "Okay, tell me," and he did.  Chicago.  A swank hotel in the middle of the city.  A musical called Thrones!, a parody of Game of Thrones. 

The hotel is Acme Hotel Company, and it was fabulous.  Hip and trendy, with album covers on the walls of the elevators, a chalkboard hanging from your front door, a giant zipper on the black wall in the living room, orange orbital chairs, a giant hand on the bedroom wall at the head of the bed, glowing red lips on the bathroom mirror.  A dozen roses on the table waiting for me, with a card - "10 and 4 with the love of my life".  A mini bar with $5 beers and $5 M&M packs.  A view of the city from the 10th floor.  A bed with 4 pillows and no children.

We didn't sleep the night before. You know, kids.  And then we drove 5 hours to get there.  The show started at 9:30.  The plan was to nap before the show, but that didn't pan out. *wink, wink*

I was worried about getting to the theater on time, and figured if we arrived early, there would be time to walk around and grab a drink or something until curtain. We decided to take an Uber - our first time.  Neither of us knew how it worked, so my overly-cautious scheduled pickup got us to the theater more than an hour before the lights were scheduled to go down.  And there wasn't a lot happening right next to the theater - a few restaurants and a liquor store, but no good places to sit and have a drink.  The box office was open early, though, and so was the theater's bar, so we sat in the mostly-empty lobby and waited, giggling and taking pictures of each other.  I drank two little bottles of prosecco.  Well, one.  Most of the second I spilled on the carpet under my theater seat.  Oops.

The show was good.  Musical parody theater isn't necessarily my favorite variety, but I love a good show and the energy you get from the actors.  We were in the second row, practically on stage ourselves, and the theater was small and intimate.  Mid-way through the second act, it's time for Circe's Walk of Shame, and it was so hilarious I laughed until I cried for several full minutes.  Everyone in the theater did. 

I hoped we'd have the energy after the show for nightclubs and rooftop bars and nightcaps, but there was only enough energy for a forced nightcap at the hotel bar - and that only because they'd given us tickets for free drinks when we checked in.  I drank my free drink and went to bed, sad because the night was over, wired because of the excitement, thrilled to finally be going to sleep, and so in love with my dear sweet husband. 

It was after 9 a.m., Chicago time, before I got out of bed this morning.  That's 10 a.m. local time.  I slept in until 10 a.m.!  We got up and showered and had coffee and packed up - checkout was at 11, and I was starving.  For lunch, we hit Quartino, based on a recommendation from a friend who knows about these things.  We were not disappointed - sangria, dates stuffed with gorgonzola and wrapped in prosciutto, pasta with braised beef and tomato sauce, all served outside on a beautiful sunny Sunday morning.  It was decadent. 

We walked to Navy Pier, because we needed to do something touristy that wasn't shopping.  It was a beautiful weekend for walking in Chicago - the temperature was perfect in the mid-70s, with a light breeze.  Too quickly, it was over, time to go back to the car and drive home. 

That husband of mine.  How did I get so lucky?  He keeps me safe, he works so hard to keep me happy, he does his best to help me stay sane.  He is a devoted and loving father, an equal partner, a generous lover.  I am so fortunate, lucky, blessed, smiled upon to have him by my side. 

When we first met, my brain told me to back away slowly and not get close.  Heartbreak and sadness and disappointment were inevitable if I pursued him - he as much as told me.  He was coming off a heartbreak of his own, much more recent than my still-recent divorce, and he wasn't ready for anything that resembled a relationship, he said.  He couldn't get involved with anything of any seriousness, he warned me.  I pursued him anyhow, followed him around so much he began comparing me to a puppy, tagging along at his heels.  I told him I loved him, knowing he wouldn't say it back, and he didn't.  Not that time, at least.  But what he gave me, along with all of these warnings, was attention and kindness and a safe place to land at the end of each day - a place where I could just be the Natalie I was, the Natalie I wanted to be all the time but had always, until recently, been too scared to be.  He made me feel safe.  I cannot overstate that.  When I was with him, all of the bad scary things out there in the real world disappeared and stopped mattering.  That's why I followed him around and pursued him, because it felt like I at least knew where I stood, and the good was so good, it was totally going to be worth it when the bad finally came.  You can't live your life afraid of things, right?  I couldn't walk away for fear that he would never love me, because I'd miss out on the way he, at the very least, thought very highly of me. 

And now look at us.  We're crazy about each other - my, ehhem, doggedness, resulted in him falling head over heels for me within just a few months, and we've been inseparable ever since. We're living our happily ever after.  It's not all rainbows and unicorns, sure, but that's what makes it so good.  Because even when life is hard, it's not that hard, because we're getting through it together. 

10 and 4, baby.  10 and 4.

Wherein I gush more about my husband.

I cut my gym time short tonight so I could come home and write.  Then I got here, and I don't know what to write about. There was more sleep last night, more than the last few nights.  Then Cora puked on the way out the door this morning.  Then G told me a story about how she snuck into my bedroom last night while I was asleep and took my keys and my purse and my glasses and my phone and my necklace and got in the car and drove to the market by herself because she was a very naughty girl.  And then she told a story about her "superhero Mom Natalie, and superhero Daddy and superhero sister and superhero puppy".  She thinks we're all superheroes.  If we're not doing anything else right, I think we're doing this parenting thing pretty okay.  The girls are happy and loved and loving...the kids are alright.  We're doing just fine.

I feel better when I talk to other women and realize that while I thought they totally had their shit together, they're actually treading water or semi-drowning, just like me.  I don't feel better because I want them to have a bit of the same crazy I have - but yes I do.  I am so relieved and glad that I'm not the only one.  Especially when it's women who look like they really know what they're doing - then you find out they haven't done laundry in 4 months, they just buy new clothes for everyone every few weeks and charge it on the secret store card their husband doesn't know about.  I don't actually know anyone in that situation, but if I ever write a book, she may make an appearance. 

I'm falling in love with my husband again.  I never stopped loving him or being in love with him, but you know, it's hard when you have kids and jobs and dishes and laundry and a dog.  Saturday is our fourth wedding anniversary - next month, 10/19, is ten years since the night we "met".  We'd been introduced previously, but that Thursday night in October was when we each learned the other's name.  I'd had some vague plan in the back of my mind for years that I wanted to do something special to celebrate "us" this year, but, you know, life is hard.  That was a ball I dropped. 

Jimi, though.  Jimi always picks up where I leave off, or begins when I can't. 

I dropped the ball when it comes to planning a trip for our anniversary, but I didn't slack or forget to bring my A game.  Life is hard, but goddammit, this thing we've got is good, and I'm going to try to show him that I appreciate him.  Months ago, I discovered a thing called Battlbox.  It seemed like it would be right up his alley - something he would really love, that appeals to the camper/prepper/hunter/protector in him.  I waited until I thought I timed the box to arrive just before September 17th, then planned to run the subscription through December if he liked it - you know, for his birthday and Christmas.  Because I am lazy and also when I find something I like, I really like it a lot until I don't like it anymore because I've worn it out.  Long story short, he fucking loves it, said it's the best gift I've ever given him, and that was just the first box.  Awesome!

Because he loved this awesome gift so much, and because he loves me, or because he's just the most amazing man in the history of ever and just can't help being so fucking awesome, for our actual anniversary weekend.....

I don't know.  He told me to take off work on Friday and Monday.  I don't know the plan beyond that we're dropping the girls off with Mom and Dad at 9 a.m. Saturday morning, and that we'll be in the car for a couple hours, he said. 

I can't fucking wait.  Even if the few hours in the car part is bullshit and we're just coming back home to sleep and eat and screw in peace and quiet (or not), I'll be thrilled to have the time alone with my sweet husband. 

That sweet sweet man.  The one who for a decade almost has been my safe place, my comfort zone. The one who has made all of my dreams come true.  The best part of my life started when I met him.  Ten years in, I am still just aflutter and completely smitten. Moreso, even.  It's been ten years worth of amazing.  10/10, would do again.

Full of awesome and vinegar (chips).

I pretty much love everything about life right now.

My husband is awesome.  My kids are awesome. My job is awesome. There's a lot of awesome.  Guys, my kitchen sink is clean.  My husband did that, cleaned up the dinner dishes after he emptied the dishwasher.  I mean, how much better can it get, I ask you?

As low as I was over the holidays, that's as high as I am right now.  I'm weightless.

Except that i tend to eat when I'm happy and im currently close to 20 pounds heavier than I was in October.   D'oh!  Whatevs.  I'm gonna go eat this pie and ice cream and drink a beer and watch zombies.  With my dish-washin' husband.

Fuck yeah.

The Best Parts of the Week

The Best Parts of the Week were, in no particular order:

Geneva told her sitter's husband this afternoon: "My mom is pretty."  I'm not sure where that came from, but man, it sure felt good.

Know what was even better though?  Last night, she and I went for a walk around the block.  "I love you, Mommy." and "I love walking with you, Mommy."  Wow.

This morning, Geneva was reading a book to Cora.  Those girls.  Geneva loves Cora so much, and Cora searches for Geneva constantly, her face lighting up in a huge two-tooth grin when she finds her sister.  Watching them together makes me feel like maybe I understand my purpose in this life.

Geneva and I went swimming Sunday and Monday nights.  The whole fam-damily went to Columbus OH for three days so I could do some training with my counterpart in that office, and the hotel we were in had an indoor pool with so much chlorine the water had a film over the surface and my skin started to burn after fifteen minutes.  G gave zero fucks about her burning eyes and skin, though - she was SWIMMING!  We took turns being sharks, holding our hands up like fins above our heads and saying "Do do, do do, do do" as we moved in for the tickle attacks.  I wish sometimes I had a videographer who could follow me around and record all of these precious moments i'm going to forget in the next twenty minutes.  I'm adding that to my list of shit to buy when I win the lottery or come up with a multi-million dollar idea.  Videographer.  I'll build them an addition on the back of the house so they can live on-site.

Full length mirrors.  I'm almost back to my pre-pregnancy weight - thanks only to the tandem breastfeeding and poor nutrition that comes from being a full-time working mother of two because I sure as fuck can't get my ass to the gym - and my body is something that gives me good thoughts more days than not.  I don't know how I look to other people, but when I see me, I see a strong woman who's given birth and life to two amazing little girls with this body...gotta respect it, you know?  And I recently bought some new clothes that make me feel a little more sophisticated than my usual uniform of yoga pants, nursing tank, light casual cardigan/blouse.  A few of the guys around the office have made some comments that tell me I'm not looking half bad for a 35 year old mother of two - a cheap thrill, sure, but a thrill nonetheless.  (she says as she slugs another mouthful of refrigerated cabernet sauvignon from the 375ml bottle her husband bought for $20 in the hotel lobby and they never got around to drinking together because the kids never go to sleep early enough for the grownups to enough energy to have grownup time...)

I'll get a check for a couple hundred bucks for my mileage for the trip at the start of the week.  Extra money is always good.

My husband is so awesome.  Wednesday was sort of, well, really hard for me.  For no particular reason, just because sometimes life is hard, even if the difficulty is of your own making or even in your own head.  Hard is hard.  I cried the entire way to work that morning.  I was miserable all day.  I got home that night and our conversation had me in tears again.  He  did what he's always done - he listened, and then he offered a couple of logical solutions, each with their own pros and cons he was patient enough to weigh out with me.  He listened to my pipe dreams and pretended with me that there was actually a way to make them reality.  He promised me that if I needed to follow through with those pretend fantasies, he'd work with me to ensure our success.  I can't make the sort of changes I'd really like right now, but it's so reassuring and comforting to know that my partner will be by my side to help me work out viable solutions to my problems every step of the way.  I love my Jimi.  For so many years now he's been my safe place, my confidant, my best friend.  The new and the shiny has long since worn off, but man, what we've got here, this beautiful thing we're still doing...we've got a special thing going, I think.  one that seems it had to have been inspired, on purpose, intended, fated, destined, meant to be.  Lucky, lucky us.

I have so many people who love me.  I posted on facebook Wednesday:  I'm struggling today with a lot of anxiety and feelings of inadequacy. My friends and family rallied to give me kind words of love and support.  They made me cry happy tears.  Sweet friends.

I harvested my first zucchini last night.  Jimi sautéed it with garlic, olive oil, then squirted it with lime juice.  Oh my goodness, it was so yummy.  I sure hope we get another one.  My eggplant flowered, I harvested one little pea pod that had the two most delicious peas I've ever tasted, we have about 8 tiny watermelons growing, and I think my seeds from Australia are actually growing.  The sweet potato vines seem to be doing well, my beans and cucumbers are flowering - even the black beans! Did you know black bean flowers are pinkish/purple?  They're so pretty. 

I made it to Friday.  Tomorrow's Saturday.  YAY Weekend!

What was the best part of your week?  And can you guess what this post was originally going to be about?

I'm going to be a farmer when I grow up.

I've started a garden.  The rabbits and squirrels must think I've put out a buffet.  They're eating my potatoes, my watermelons, my radishes, my turnips - i have my spinach and lettuces and tomatoes covered, and they've been safe so far.

Shit.  I was supposed to water tonight.  I'll get up early and do that, I guess.  I put soaker hoses in my raised bed, and they work okay, but i think maybe the fact that i didn't really know what i was doing, or bother to actually research so i could have an idea of what i was doing, has maybe resulted in me not putting the hoses in the best possible places to keep my garden watered properly.  But you know what?  It gets watered.  And I'll have a better idea of what I'm doing and how best to do it next year.  Who knows, maybe I'll even do some book learnin' and find out how the professionals do things.

This garden has been a bit of, well, it's sort of...

I almost criticized it.  My garden is awesome.  The power of words, people.  I was telling Jimi the other night about the time, when I was about 8, my girlfriend's mom criticized a new outfit I'd been so proud of - she said it looked like i was wearing a garbage bag.  I was devastated, and the outfit I'd adored just a moment before was suddenly so embarrassing for me.  I took it off as soon as i got home and hung it back in the closet and never wore it again - forever feeling guilty because it'd been pretty expensive and I'd begged my mom to buy it for me.  And I was sad every time I saw it hanging there, because I'd loved it and that ugly mean woman had ruined it for me.  Who says something like that to a little girl?  Anyhow, back to the garden - so, someone close to me may have made a statement or two that lead me to interpret that this person finds the placement of my garden distasteful and unsightly.  And maybe enough people have slowed down while driving by to check out what I've got going on there in my side yard that I've taken notice and can't decide if I should beam with pride or cower with embarrassment.  I'm trying really hard to beam, people.  I love my garden so much.  And you know, I've had 5 neighbors ask me about my little would-be at-home grocery, but not one has offered anything that sounded like a complaint.  In fact, two shared stories of their own gardens (safely hidden away in their back yards, of course), one offering any help or cuttings, and the other actually bringing me 4 heirloom tomato plants she'd started from seeds given to her by an Amish farmer.  They're supposed to be pink.  I hope those fucking squirrels leave them alone.

I love my garden.  I go out every day and check the progress of each plant, talking to them, plucking any weeds that may have sprouted up (at first, i thought i had the fastest growing lettuces in the world!), snapping a few pictures of their progress with the intention of creating a collage I'll probably never realistically get around to, but whatever.  G digs in the dirt with me (and dug up the first batch of radishes and turnips we planted within days of us putting the seeds in the ground).

"...Maybe next year you can just move it around back."  The implication of the words is that I've put my little labor of love in an inappropriate spot.  It makes me feel small and embarrassed and I sort of want to just turn my back on the entire project and ignore it completely and let it overgrow and forget about it and just pretend it isn't even there any more.  I have a history of doing that with things.

"Yeah.  Maybe I'll move my boxes and bags and things, but leave the dirt, because dirt is heavy as shit and I'm not moving all that dirt.  I'll buy new dirt.  But I could plant flowers there next year."

"Yeah!  You could plant some shrubs and some rose bushes and some pretty ground cover..." she latches onto the idea, and you can almost hear in her voice the relief that maybe next year I won't have a 4x12 raised bed right smack in the middle of my side yard, all out in the open between the house and the street.  Or maybe it's the 9 coffee bean bags full of dirt growing potatoes and carrots and squash and pumpkins and watermelon that she finds more offensive.  probably the bags.

But here's the thing.  When I started plotting this garden back in December, all full of new-baby hormones and love and free time and shit, I spent a lot of time looking out my windows, watching which parts of my yard get the best sun during the day.  My side yard?  Sun, all day.  ALL day.  Sunny in the morning, sunny in the late afternoon, sunny in between.  That was my spot, that spot right there.  I was going to grow us some mother eating vegetables.  I have a buddy who does a compost thing at the local university, and when i asked if there'd be any to spare, she said i could have a truckload or two of compost, free of charge.  Score!  And we could get pallets from work to build the boxes.  I planned to do four 4'x4' beds, with a concrete block border (planted with herbs and bee-attracting flowers) and mulched pathways.

Um.

Okay, so, I need to stop for a moment and remind you that when I made that plan, I was like 4 weeks postpartum.  I was taking placenta pills every day.  I was nursing for 12 hours a day, but i was sleeping most nights. My toddler was cool - she was watching the fuck out of some Netflix.  I was high on life.  And apparently, living in a fantasy land.

First. Two little girls under two.  The amount of time it used to take to do something, it now takes 5 times as long.  I'm not really exaggerating.  I feel a lot of the time like I'm trying to run in quicksand.  We're in a hurry, we have to get out the door, but oh my god, first we have to change the baby, then change G, then find G's shoes, then get G's jacket, while someone's getting the baby into her seat and now G's lost Meow and we have to find her, where was she last?  In the bedroom, go get Meow, okay, we have lunches, diaper bag, laptop, coffee, let's go - GODDAMMIT Finnegan!  You cannot go to work today get back in this house!

I decided pretty quickly that us taking apart and re-appropriating pallets probably wasn't something that was actually going to happen.  I know that there are a lot of people out there who are good at doing projects like that while also having children, but we are not those people.  I feel really proud of myself when a night like tonight happens - we made it to Friday.  So I planned to buy some lumber and build boxes.  I even looked up tutorials.  I had a plan.

By the time the snow had stopped and the days were getting warmer, I'd long since been back at work full time.  My days start at 5:30 a.m. and I don't get to sit down and take that deep "I've done everything I'm supposed to do today and no one needs me at this moment and now I can take a minute to do what I want to do and just breathe" breath until after 10 most nights. (This is why I haven't blogged in 7 months - who has the time?!)  And then everyone started getting sick.  Thanks, Ohio Valley.  And then it was raining for like 4 weeks in a row.   Did I mention I also don't own a truck with which to pick up a truckload or two of compost?

I had a Kroger bag full of seed packets and a couple of Walmart bags full of bulbs and shoots and vines and roots and whatevers - I'd get them out every few days after the girls had gone to bed, or maybe on the rare occasion that they were both napping at the same time on a rainy Saturday afternoon, making notes on a little yellow notepad about how many plants I'd need of each type, how they'd be spaced, how many days to harvest.  I'd started my seeds and it was getting to be time to get them planted.  But I had no dirt and no raised bed boxes built.

Lowe's had some raised beds on sale.  We are lazy.  I bought two, along with 10 bags of garden soil.  Then I bought 10 coffee bean bags from the local roaster down the way.  I filled the bags a quarter full of dirt and seed taters and set them out in the sun, where I'd planned.

It turns out, trees grow leaves in Spring.  I'd not accounted for that when I plotted my garden.

I still get a good solid 7 hours of sun, but I'd forgotten all about the two huge trees at the head and end of our garden patch. And, as it turns out, my back yard, that was all shady all winter, is full of sun in the summer.   And I never did get a truck to go scoop compost, so i ended up buying some garden mix soil and having it delivered.  It wasn't cheap, but at this point, who cares?  (Did I mention the tiller we bought?)

In the end, it's gong to be awesome.  Most things are growing well, and if i can keep the critters away, we should have a good crop come in.  I'm hoping i can keep G interested in helping and learning as the summer progresses and our produce starts showing up on the dinner table.  And I'm trying really hard to not be that 8 year old girl hiding away and ignoring something she loves because someone else can't quite see the same beauty I see.

I asked Jimi, "Is my garden ugly? Is it an eyesore?"

"Yeah, kinda.  But all gardens are.  You put yours there because that's the best place for it."

"But you didn't even try to stop me!  You didn't say one word about me putting out coffee bean bags full of dirt and you even built the bug-net tee pee for me!"

"No, why would I?  You're trying to grow us FOOD, to feed our family. And it's making you so happy.  Why would I say anything to discourage that?  If anyone has a problem with it, I'll tell them to go fuck themselves."

And there you have it.

New Year, Same Day

We were watching a movie at midnight - we knew it was midnight because we heard the fireworks being set off by our neighbors.  Not our direct neighbors, but those other unnamed, unknown neighbors.  The ones who let off fireworks and shoot guns at midnight on New Year.  Also when the local football/basketball team wins a championship.  Or a game.  This is the South End, after all.

We heard the fireworks and we said Happy New Year and we kissed and we went back to watching our movie.  We'd bought a bottle of wine and a bottle of champagne to celebrate - the champagne was never opened and the wine, well, I had one glass, then poured another and kept the bottle out in anticipation of having a third.  This morning, the second glass was still there and so was the bottle, warm now of course.  I put it back in the refrigerator anyhow.  I'm drinking it now, in fact.  Mixed with some of the champagne.  We never did ding our glasses together. 

I accomplished everything on my list today.  Well, everything but one thing, and I hadn't really planned on doing that today anyhow, so I'll call the whole list complete, and that's a great way to begin a new year.  My list included things like dishes, laundry, vacuuming, but also fun things like taking a walk and pushing Geneva on the swings at the park.  And I'll be honest, I'm at a point in my life where things like dishes and laundry and vacuuming are fun because I can make Jimi keep an eye on the baby while I do them, and also because they get my house cleaner and it feels so good to have a clean house.  At least, I'm pretty sure I remember that it felt that way.

I have 2600 pictures on my phone and can't bring myself to delete them even though they're backed up on the computer.  And Facebook. And Instagram.

2014.  Welcome.

The Birth of Geneva Aibhilin - The Conclusion...Finally. Sort of.

My beautiful daughter is 8 months and 1 day old.  I've not yet finished telling her birth story, and I'm ashamed of myself.  The details are fading in my memory - they aren't as sharp as they were in the days and weeks that followed.  Everything in my life now feels as if it is coated in a haze - like the glare that seems to always be in pictures taken on a sunny day, yellowish-white fingers that reach into the scenes of your memory and soften the edges and block out a few, just a few, details in the corners and edges of the frame.  It's a happy haze, but a haze nonetheless. 

So I need to finish telling the story of her birth.  For her, and also for me, because, let's face it, that was the best, most challenging, most mind-blowingly amazing thing I'll ever do - probably the only miracle in which I'll actively participate. It's sort of a big deal.

WARNING:  Below contains some pretty yucky graphic descriptions of the real stuff that happens during the birth of a human.  Don't say I didn't warn ya.

When we left off of Part One, I was heading into transition, still riding those waves in the tub, thinking about how I was going to make sure the world knew Jimi called me a manatee while I was trying to birth his baby.  Bless his heart, though - the things he saw that day.  When the nurse checked to see if my water had indeed broken, she released a flood of yuck, so I'm told.  I can only imagine.  I was unaware of said yuck, and had no hindrance when it came to dunking my head and face under the water for relief between waves (contractions).  At one point, I vividly remember leaning my face up to kiss Jimi, and he sort of pulled back and urged me to wait while he wiped something off my forehead with a washcloth.  Eww.  And that was just the beginning.

When I started feeling the urge to push, I was nearing 9 cm dilated, and it was time to get out of the tub. Oh, how I dreaded getting out of the tub.  I just knew the pain would be too much.  My wonderful nurse brought huge heated blankets to wrap around me, and helped Jimi lead me to the bed.  I think I lay on my side for a while, but the waves were so strong, and I just knew that if I could get on all fours, they wouldn't hurt as bad.  So that's what I did, for a long while.  I don't know how long I pushed - time was sort of irrelevant.  I remember shivering through transition, and I heard Jimi ask the nurses and midwives if I was okay, and hearing them reassure him with the answer that I already knew but hadn't fully come to realize was happening to me at that moment - the time was so near!  They told me I could push whenever I felt the need, and I did, there on the bed, on all fours, covered for a while with those now-cold warmed blankets, then with my bare ass shining out for all to see.  I remember looking down and seeing the bloody mucus hanging - oh my goodness, there were four women staring at my ass as I slowly dripped yuck.  And my husband!  He was seeing this too!  In talking with Jimi later, I think he missed a lot of that because he was up with me, at my head, reminding me to breathe, and release, and relax.  He was calm and gentle and strong and wonderful, and at one point my audience, comprised of two nurses, my midwife, and her student midwife, was heard to whisper - "His voice is so soothing, I feel like I could go to sleep."  I can hear you!-I thought.  A good chuckle was had by all. 

I pushed for a good long time, but nothing was really happening, at least not that I could tell.  So I turned around and used the bar at the foot of the bed to support myself as I squatted and pushed.  Jimi just reminded me the midwives kept saying "good sounds, good sounds", as I moaned and aaahhed my way through my waves.  If I hadn't been so otherwise engaged, I would've had a hard time controlling my giggles and the peacenik hippie images they brought to mind - I saw myself in the same position in the center of a green field, surrounded by women in long skirts and flower wreaths circling their heads atop long flowing manes of blonde hair.

The squatting wasn't working, and I was becoming less and less concerned about my naked ass in front of these women, and more and more concerned with the fact that Geneva hadn't arrived after a couple of good pushes.  It felt like nothing was happening. 

So back on all fours I went, again, for another good long while.  (All told, I think we've pieced together that all of these good long whiles lasted a total of probably 2 hours, maybe slightly longer.  They seemed an eternity at the time.)  Progress was slow, and I was tiring quickly.  My midwife could tell, and encouraged me twice to lie on my side, which I refused, fearing it would make the pain so much worse.  Finally, she insisted we try it, and I was so tired, so desperate for this to be over, I relented and flopped over, allowing the student midwife, Jimi, and the nurse to prop various parts of me with pillows before the next wave came on.

It was the right thing - the next wave was intense and I could feel Geneva moving down inside my body.  I felt very full in my hips - I guess now her head hung out there between my pubic bones for a while, as I pushed good and hard a couple times, but stopped short at the last second because (I thought) I could feel myself pooping.  Despite everything else these people had seen of me in the few hours we'd been acquainted, I was concerned enough about my dignity that I did not want them to see poop come out of my butt.  The third time, though, the phrase "fuck it" when through my mind, and I pushed and didn't pull back, I followed through.  I still don't know if I pooped - I think I did, and Jimi says he couldn't say for sure, that if I did, they had me cleaned up immediately so no one could've noticed.  He says that because he loves me.  It seems so ridiculous now, knowing what came next.

So, after the poop push, Geneva was right there, you could almost see her head.  I pushed again, but I could feel myself stretching, at the top of my vagina, and I was so afraid I was going to tear, so again, I held back at the last second.  Poor Geneva. They said her head was RIGHT THERE, and asked if I wanted a mirror to see - "No!  I just want her out of me!!"  I was so poetic that night.  I wasn't going to be able to hold back again - it was time for her to be born, and this thing was going to have to happen. With the next wave, I pushed with everything I had, and when I felt myself start to tear, I again thought "fuck it", and pushed harder -

And she was here.  She slid out of me like a slippery fish and was flopped onto my naked belly.  I was so dazed at first - I looked at her and she was purple and so small and she has hair and she's SO BEAUTIFUL.  Oh my goodness, my daughter was bruised and scuffed and had bloody rings around her irises for days because of the cord that was around her neck once and the time she spent in the birth canal as I tried not to poop or tear my vag - but she was the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.

I shamefully remember thinking "My daughter is so small and petite! I have a petite daughter!  Holy crap, Jimi and I made a petite daughter! How did that happen?"  I say I remember that shamefully because I absolutely do not want my daughter to equate her self worth with the size of her jeans.  I do not care if she is a size 2 or a size 20, so long as she is healthy and happy with herself.  But our society values small sizes, and a lifetime of indoctrination that slim = good overcame me in that moment.  But seriously, how did Jimi and I make a small baby? 

I'd sought an all-natural childbirth for several reasons, but one was that I'd heard an awful lot about that high that hits you once your child is born - I was totally trying to get high on life.  I read about waves of euphoria washing over you once you see your child's face, the immediate endorphin rush that makes all of the unpleasant things that immediately follow birth - delivering the placenta, getting stitched back up - not quite so bad, or even noticeable, really.  I think the women who tell those stories might be liars, but i'm not sure.  As I stared at my beautiful daughter, thoughts of "I thought it was supposed to stop hurting now" and "Oh my god, my vag stings so bad!" kept crowding in on my awe and adoration of Geneva.  Her umbilical cord was stretched taught, it felt like, and its path from me to her lie directly in the tear she'd made on her way out.  It stung like a sonofabitch.  Finally I couldn't take it anymore and I reached down to move it - "No No No!" The midwives stopped me immediately.  "But it stings!" I complained.  Moments later, it was time to cut the cord - I'd decided

********************

I wrote all of that LAST Tuesday night.  It's Tuesday again, and Geneva is another week older, and her birth story still isn't posted.  Shame, Mother, Shame.  Anyhow...

So I'd decided to let the cord stop pulsing before it was cut, a decision I thought wise and well thought-out pre-birth.  We'll come back to that - it was time to cut the cord, and Jimi couldn't do it.  He'd told me in prior discussions that he wasn't sure if he'd be able to handle the, um, texture of it.  I totally understand what he means - the way I can't handle killing any bug that crunches.  So someone asks Jimi "Dad, do you want to cut the cord?" and he hesitates, but finally he calls it and declines - saying "I just can't do it."  "I'll do it!" I piped up, "I don't give a shit!"  SO Eloquent, Geneva's mother is. And so with my new daughter on my belly, I reached around and below her and took the scissors they handed me, and aimed where they pointed me, and I severed the physical connection I'd nurtured for so long. 

My daughter was born.
 

*****************

I started this effing blog entry 4 weeks ago.  Four!  It's the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and next week Geneva will be 9 months old. 

There's more to tell to this story - the people who were there before and after, a 24-hour stint in the nursery for observation because of G's "thick" blood, our extra night in the hospital that was on the house - but for now, this will do. 

And there you have it.

13 weeks 2 days - The sleepy dance

Nurse, poop cleanup, bath time, nurse, swaddle, swing to Bluegrass music on the Pandora - this is our routine tonight.  The poop and bath are options, appearing every other night or so, but the rest is becoming somewhat normal for us.  We're figuring it out.  She's usually asleep by midnight, but because I just wrote that, she'll be up until 1 tonight.  She's usually good to sleep for a solid 7 hours, but because I just wrote that, she'll be up every 2 hours tonight.  (Please let me be wrong about that.)  Once she's asleep in the swing, we'll move her to her bed, turn on the monitor, tiptoe out the door, and breathe a sigh of...something.  The feel of the house changes when she's down for the night.  It's not relief, though it sort of is.  I miss her when she's asleep, but when that door latch softly clicks into place as I leave her room, I feel like I used to when I worked the late shift at the liquor store and I'd finally turn off that neon "OPEN" sign. Like I'm able to take off the Responsible Mom hat I wear, if only for the few minutes between her bedtime and my own. 

I've got new stretch marks on my breasts, and this realization hit me kind of hard, mostly because I know it's my fault for not wearing a good supportive bra at night...or on those days I'd rather just wear a nursing tank.  I hate every piece of clothing I own.  Every. Single. One.  I feel frumpy and unattractive and tired and like a hot mess.  I need to take better care of myself - shave my legs, take the time to lotion my skin, blow-dry my hair - but who has the time?  I could make the time, I guess, but then it seems like so much work...

Jimi is an awesome babydaddy.  He packs her diaper bag every morning, while I'm nursing her.  He washes bottles, he folds baby laundry, he stuffs pocket diapers, he makes the solution for the flannel wipes.  He sings to her and plays songs for her on the ukulele and gets her dressed for bed after bath time.  He sprays out every single poopy diaper...that right there should earn him blowjobs for life.  Don't tell him I said that.  He brings me water and snacks and the Kindle and has only snapped at me once for bossing him around.  He's been amazing, and I couldn't have made a better choice for a life partner and co-parent. 

I can't believe how lucky I am that this is my reality. 
Life is so fucking beautiful. 

She's asleep - time for the swing to crib transfer.  Wish me luck. 

4 weeks - Babies are hard, but awesome.

One of these days, I really will finish her birth story.  I keep waiting for it to be the weekend...and then I realize, again, that there is no weekends off from this new job.  Full time means FULL TIME.  All the time.  Always.  24/7. 

Except for Friday afternoon, when Jimi came home early from work.  I'd just finished feeding Evie, and she was happy and content - we were having a good day.  Jimi told me he was taking baby duty for the afternoon and that I should get out and enjoy the beautiful afternoon.  It was beautiful outside - I hadn't noticed.  I've not paid much attention to the weather for the last 4 weeks, and have left the house only a handful of times.  I was so overwhelmed at the idea of not being in charge of a little baby, I didn't know what to do with my newfound freedom.  Where would I go?  I'm sure I could've found someone to meet me somewhere for a drink or something, but that seemed like a wild idea, too wild, so instead, I did laundry, vacuumed Evie's room, cleaned up the kitchen, and went grocery shopping for an hour.  (I really do love grocery shopping, so that was a real treat.) 

She hasn't pooped in nearly a week, and apparently that's normal.  I'm obsessed with her bodily functions. She farts all the time, mostly upon waking and stretching.  They stink and are loud like her Daddy's and are absolutely hilarious and adorable and the best things ever.  Her doctor is on vacation this week, so we won't get her weight and length updates until next week - but I can tell how much she's growing.  Her little legs and cheeks are starting to fill out and plump up, and she's got the beginnings of a double chin.  Her legs are getting longer and are so strong - she kicks and kicks and tries to stand and uses her legs to launch herself off your chest.  Her little neck is strong, too - she holds her head up and bobbles it around, trying to see it all.  She loves bath time, cooing and watching everything going on around her...until bath time is over, at which point she gets cold and gets pissed off.  Much screaming oft ensues, though she can be calmed a bit by a full-body coconut oil massage.  Is there anything better in the world than a little naked baby?  She's so soft and little and sweet and adorable.  And she smells so good; I love smelling her little head when I hold her close, her fine little hairs tickling my nose. 

She got her first bottle late last week, and my nipples rejoiced from the respite.  Suddenly we've got the makings of something that could be a schedule (though I don't want to say that too loudly, lest I tempt fate) - Momma's gotten lots of good sleep in the last few days.  Of course, Daddy taking the middle-of-the-night shifts over the weekend was a huge factor in that.  I love that he can feed her now, and he really loves it too.  He's over the moon for her - it's a beautiful thing to watch. 

We went to the mall Friday night to buy her an Easter dress.  Not that we were going anywhere, just to my Mom & Dad's, but we wanted to have something pretty to put her in, and something that fit - all of her clothes are too big, sized 0-3 months, and she really needs to be wearing newborn right now.  We'd been through Macy's and Dillard's, found nothing, and were headed to JC Penny.  I was admiring the Vera Bradley diaper bags by the exit, and it hit me - "Jimi, did you bring the diaper bag?"  No, he didn't.  We'd come to the mall with an infant with just a carseat and a moby wrap as accoutrement.  Not a single diaper or wipe or change of clothes.  We laughed a nervous laugh and shrugged our shoulders.  Oh well.  Cross our fingers and hope for the best.  She slept the entire time, nearly 3 hours, waking only because I dared move her from the warm moby into the cold carseat - and then she screamed the entire way home because there wasn't a boob in her mouth.  Sweet baby. 

 I really love being her mom.  She's so neat. 

41.5 - Happy Birthday Geneva!

Our beautiful daughter, Geneva Aibhilin, was welcomed into the world on Monday March 4, 2013, at 11:34 p.m..  She weighed in at 7 pound 8.7 ounces, measured 20 inches long, and is absolutely the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on. 

I was 41 weeks, 5 days, and had been at 3 cm, 60% effaced for the previous two weeks and was frustrated and facing a very-much-not-wanted induction on 3/5.  I was scared of pitocin - I was afraid it would make the contractions more than I could stand, and scared it would lead to an epidural or c-section.  Fortunately, Geneva decided to arrive on her own terms, and I felt my first contraction around 2:30 in the morning.  I remember thinking "that's probably what a contraction feels like" - I'd been wondering how I'd know, but what other women had told me held true - you can tell.  To me, it felt like a strong, though brief, menstrual cramp.  I made note of the time, and then went back to sleep.  I felt several more as the time passed, and when my husband got up for a restroom visit at 4:30, I mentioned to him how I'd been contracting for a couple hours.  That was all she wrote for our sleep for the night - I'd spoken the magic words, and they officially woke us up.  I started timing - we stayed in bed until around 6, and with the contractions around 7 minutes apart, I realized this was probably the real thing, so I got up and took a shower.  Jimi made us oatmeal for breakfast, and I made a pan of brownies for the nursing staff.  When my midwife's office opened at 8 a.m., I called and gave them the scoop - because I'm group b strep positive, they told me to head on to the hospital.  This was it! 

Check-in went quickly, and because I was so overdue already, I was put directly into a room - they reassured me that I wouldn't be leaving the hospital without my baby.  I was told to change into a hospital gown, was strapped to the monitors, and an IV for antibiotics was started.  In other words - things were starting off in exactly the way I hadn't wanted to labor.  I felt like a sick person, but I wasn't sick!  I was just in labor!    When the nurse checked me, I was still only at a 3 - I assured her I hadn't been making up the contractions.  She smiled at me and told me she knew, and not to worry because if things didn't speed up on their own, there were things that could be done to make things happen.  That was the closest anyone came to offering me medications, and it wasn't an explicit offer by any means. 

After my first round of antibiotics was complete, my midwife came in and unhooked the monitors and IV so I could change into my own clothes rather than the gown - I felt much more human and less sick wearing my black maternity dress.  When they checked me again and still there'd been no progress, they brought me a breast pump to use to try to stimulate more contractions, and boy did it work.  When we started, I was able to breathe easily through each wave, rocking on the birth ball or leaning over the side of the bed.  After one 15-minute session with the pump, I was needing to get down on all fours to rock myself through the waves.  I spent the next 3 to 4 hours pacing my room and and getting down on the floor or up into the bed onto my hands and knees each time a wave hit.  I did manage to lie down and nap briefly in that time, maybe for 30 minutes. 

My midwife came in after office hours and we discussed my options - did I want to be checked?  What were my options if I hadn't progressed?  She mentioned a balloon catheter, maybe more pumping...I decided I wanted to be checked - i needed to know if things were moving along.  She did, and they were - now I was between 5 and 6 cm.  Thank goodness!  I was so relieved to know things were happening, that the last few hours hadn't been for naught.  I continued my rocking for another hour or so, then asked to move to the tub.  Jimi ran me a warm bath, and I climbed in.  The water didn't offer the complete pain relief for which I'd been hoping, but it did make the waves more tolerable, more bearable. 

I'm not sure of the timeline that followed after - at one point, I felt what was almost a pop inside my belly, followed by a whoosh between my legs.  I was pretty sure that was my water breaking, but I was submerged in water, so I couldn't be sure.  Jimi was sitting on the edge of the tub, reminding me with each wave to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, to "Relax" (a cue from Hypnobabies reminding me to let my body go limp).  At one point I asked him to sing to me; he sang "Sweet Baby James" and "Raspberry Beret".  He also called me "Momma Manatee" as I flopped from side to belly to side in the water - in another time and place I would've laughed, but in the moment I could only think incredulously, "He just called me a fucking manatee."  I was starting to get vocal, too,  Ooohing and Aaahing through each wave, remembering what I'd read, that relaxing the jaw and vocalizing can help with pain control.  I don't know if it made anything feel better, but it did make me feel better to let out some sign of what I was feeling.  The waves started at the middle of my belly and radiated out across my waist and around to my back, almost like a wide belt of strong menstrual cramps, but much deeper and more intense and stronger than anything I'd ever felt before.  I began to lose myself - I didn't have much interest or concern for anything outside of my body, I was just following the cues, doing what felt right and offered the most relief. 

This will have to be a Part 1 - there's so much more to tell, and my sleeping baby time is so short...

But here's a hint - the story ends with a beautiful little girl safely in my arms.  It's the most beautiful ending beginning. 

2012, A Year In Review

What a year it's been.  Wow.  My Notie Kari said this would be my year - I hoped she was right, but I doubted her.  Sometimes it seemed like too much to hope for, the idea that all my hopes and wishes would come to fruition.  But she was right.  2012 was my year.  My best so far. 

It started off with me in a funk.  I was sad and depressed - there'd been no proposal from Jimi at Christmas, and I wasn't pregnant.  I didn't see either scenario changing any time in the near future, and I sank into a quagmire of feeling sorry for myself.  My body was broken and my sweetheart wasn't in any hurry to make me his wife.  Woe was me.

Winter wasn't all bad, though.  Stacy had a baby in January, and watching her grow has been amazing. We babysat her when she was just over six months old and starting to move around, and in a true dumbass moment, we left her alone on our bed - and she rolled off of it onto the floor. *facepalm* She survived without damage, though. Thank goodness. A few weeks ago, I got to be the first to hold her one Saturday morning, and she wrapped her little arms around my neck and hugged me so tight - my heart melted all over the floor. If it felt that amazing to get that love from my niece, I can't imagine how it'll feel to get the same from my own child.

In February, I spent a weekend in Nashville with Kim, Tracey, and Angela.  It was the first time I've done a girls' weekend, and it was a total blast.

I don't know exactly when my mood started to lift, but when I look back on the year, it feels like the sun came up at my birthday.  Jimi knocked it out of the park - a great gift (Kindle Fire) that was completely unexpected, and a surprise overnight trip to Indianapolis to stay at a swanky adults-only hotel specifically designed with lovin' in mind.  (Sybaris - if there's one near you, GO!  I can't encourage it enough.  It's amazing.)  It was only one night, but it's amazing what one full night of concentrating on nothing but your partner can do for a relationship - it felt like we reconnected.  I think my mind reset itself, and remembered to focus on the awesome that we have together every day, rather than the idea of how I'd come to believe it had to be in order for complete happiness to exist.  I felt the stress fall away, the pressure fade, and I fell in love all over. 

During the winter and spring, I attended boot camp classes, the last round with Melinda, and as I saw my body changing, I started to gain some self-confidence.  If I couldn't get pregnant, I could at least get a rockin' hot body.  I was becoming comfortable in my own skin, moreso than I'd ever been in my life, and I felt good.  I felt strong. 

In May, we went to the Kentucky Derby with my Daddy, and I cashed my first-ever winning ticket.  I was saddened by the state of my Daddy's health - I hadn't realized before then how hard it is for him to breathe well - but we had a good day and I enjoyed it very much. 

At the beginning of June, we went on our first (of two) canoe outing of the year - a six-mile float down the Elkhorn River.  I'd sworn the previous year I'd never canoe the Elkhorn again, and I should've followed my first impression - the water level was terribly low and we probably carried our boat 3 miles out of the six.  It was a long, exhausting day, but I was strong from boot camp and felt like a badass hauling that boat around the rocky dry river.

Days after our canoe trip, I got the shock of a lifetime.  The night before I expected my usually-regular period to arrive, I put my hand on my lower belly and thought about how much I would love to find out I was pregnant, and I felt something.  It wasn't a physical movement or anything, but more like a mini-explosion inside the spot where my hand lay.  I don't know how to describe it.  If you could imagine the way it'd feel to be touched with a magic wand, maybe that's what it'd be like.  I fell asleep thinking maybe this month would be it, but I didn't dare allow myself to get hopeful.  When I woke the next morning, Jimi was in the shower downstairs.  I couldn't resist - I took one of the pregnancy tests I kept on hand out of the bathroom closet and went to the upstairs bathroom to do my monthly pee-on-a-stick routine, not expecting results to be any different than they'd been each month for the previous year.  When that second faint line showed up, I couldn't believe it.  No Fucking Way!  I kept staring at it, waiting for my vision to clear and my eyes to right themselves and show me that my wishful thinking was causing me to imagine things, but that second line stayed.  My stomach turning and heart racing, I made my way to the downstairs bathroom, where Jimi was still in the shower.  "Baby?" I said as I opened the shower curtain and held out the stick, "I think maybe I'm pregnant."  He wiped the water out of his eyes to look at what I was showing him.  I think we were both afraid to get too excited - we'd been through this before and it had ended in heartbreak.  But this was different.  This time wasn't that time.  I'm sitting here typing this with aching wrists and numb fingers caused by pregnancy-induced Carpal Tunnel, occasionally patting or rubbing my swollen belly where I'm growing our baby girl, and I'm reminded just how very different things are this time. 

The next few months passed in blur - I spent longer than I should have terrified of miscarriage, so I stopped working out (I didn't want to take any chances, and sitting on my ass seemed like the best way to not shake her lose from my womb) and tried my best to make the right choices for the child I was desperately hoping to carry to term.  I thought of our baby as a conditional maybe, not a sure thing.  That mind set started to shift once we saw her heartbeat on ultrasound at 9 weeks, July 19, 2012.  She already had arms and legs, and Jimi swears she did the cabbage patch while on camera.  At 18 weeks, in the middle of September, we saw her profile, her heart and brain, and learned, to my surprise, that she's a girl.  Getting a clean bill of health that day, and learning that all of her pieces and parts were accounted for and working properly gave me permission to stop thinking of her arrival as a possibility and instead start focusing on the fact that I'm finally going to be a Mom, and I'm still blown away by the fact of it. 

My pregnancy has been a dream.  I had no morning sickness, and until the last few weeks, I hadn't experienced any negative side effects at all.  I had a few weeks early on where I was an emotional wreck at work - I spent some time each day out in our parking lot, crying amongst the trailers - but after that passed, my disposition mellowed and I've been happy and content.  Jimi even joked with his sister once that I've been so happy and pleasant since becoming pregnant, maybe he'd just have to keep me knocked up all the time.  It's the relief, though, that's made my mood better.  I'm not broken.  My body works the way it's supposed to - I can get pregnant and make a person!  The weight of not knowing that fact was so heavy, it tainted every part of my personality, and altered my normally-cheerful disposition so subtlely, yet so completely, it was like night and day when the weight was finally gone. 

Finding out we're expecting was the only the first of two awesome, life-changing events that happened in 2012, though.  Knowing we were about to become parents, of course the topic of marriage came up again.  One night in August, I asked Jimi about his intentions - "I thought you said you wanted to wait until after the baby?" he replied.  "You obviously misheard me, then.  I want to get married before this baby comes - I want us to all have the same name.  It's very important to me."  We set a date, made some quick plans, ordered some custom bands, and in the middle of September headed off to a cabin in the woods of Gatlinburg, TN for a week of rest and relaxation - and got married on our first full day of vacation.  We were married by a preacher, in a gazebo in his backyard, at his house in the mountains, with our dog at our side, and raindrops falling at a steady pace all around us.  Finn desperately wanted to check out the woods and strained at his lead the entire time; his back end is all you see of him in the few pictures the preacher took with the camera we borrowed from Stacy.  Our vows were not traditional, but covered all of the bases, and we were given a copy and told to re-read them to each other each year on our anniversary, so that we don't forget the promises we've made to one another.  The rest of our vacation/honeymoon was terribly relaxing and exactly what we needed.   We spent lots of time in the hot tub, enjoying the contrast of the warm water and the cold raindrops.  We shopped at the outlet malls and spent a full day driving in the mountains, exclaiming over and over again at the breathtaking views.  We shared an apple dumpling on the main drag in town, and explored the Ripley's Believe It or Not museum.  We visited Alewine Pottery, where Jimi bought me a cookie jar, and stopped in Berea, KY on our way home, where I bought him a thumb piano; these were our wedding gifts to each other. 

What more is there?  There's plenty more, really.  I've forgotten most of it, or it passed in a blur and I didn't take the time to notice it when it happened.  2012 will always be a year I remember with a smile.  All my dreams have come true. I'm married to the man I love, and we've made a baby together.  After that, there wasn't much left for the year to accomplish. 

The anniversary of the birth of my sweetheart - a review.

Yesterday was Jimi's birthday.  I wanted to write something to record how special and important he is to me, but I never made it here to do so.  A day late, as usual. 

I bought him a juicer for his birthday.  I wasn't sure what to get him - he really wanted a shotgun, but who's got an extra $700 sitting around for firearm purchases this holiday season?  Not this pregnant girl. If I had that sort of cash to spend, I would've bought a recliner and claimed it was for him while secretly plotting to use it each and every day of my maternity leave.  Instead, I scoured his Amazon Wish List and kept coming back to the juicer he picked out months ago.  Lately, whenever we're browsing in Target or Walmart, he beelines to the housewares section and checks out their juicing offerings, specifically, the Ninja.  The Ninja is not what was in his Wish List, though, so I hope he wasn't secretly pining for one of those.  I don't remember the name of the one he ended up with, and it's in the kitchen and I'm too lazy to get up to go look, but if it turns out to be super awesome, I may come back and talk about it more later.  In anticipation of a night of juicing excitement, I went to the Kroger today and stocked up on produce: kale, spinach, carrots, oranges, apples, bananas, strawberries, blueberries, peaches.  JUICE FOR DAYS!!!  And once all of this produce is gone, I've got five bucks that says we never use the damned thing again, but I could be wrong.  This one makes pasta and nut butters and baby food too, so we'll see.  It could have a longer usable life than I anticipate. 

We had breakfast at the Cracker Barrel (his choice) and sat at a two-top table in front of the fireplace, enjoying the warmth while we played checkers and sipped our coffee, waiting for our meal.  He was really happy about the fire, and the checkerboard table; his bright eyes and sweet smile warmed my heart more than the crackling logs.  After breakfast, he worked on cleaning out his garage to make room for the dresser we're refinishing and turning into a changing table/dresser combo.  (See how thrifty we are?  Saving money left and right, yo!)  While he worked, I baked him a from-scratch devil's food cake.  I used a can of cherry pie filling between the layers, and we frosted it last night with homemade cherry icing - I'll let you know tomorrow how it tastes; somehow we managed to have a cake in the house and not get around to eating any of it.  I'm just as shocked as you. 

His brother stopped by with Christmas gifts for us both, and Momma brought him a card.  Mom was just getting up to leave when Daddy walked in, so she sat back down and we all visited for a while.  Unfortunately, our topic of conversation was awful and heartbreaking (but this is not the post where I can talk about that in detail).  After they left, I tried to maintain the happy-go-lucky mood I'd been in all day, but the sadness was overwhelming, and eventually Jimi said, "Honey, maybe you should just go ahead and cry and let it out," so I did.  I curled up with Finn on the bed and bawled, and Jimi came in and held me, and after a few minutes, I felt better.  I hated to be so down on his day, but I guess sometimes life just works out that way.   

We finished our night with pizza and a zombie movie, in true Nat/Jimi fashion.  I think it was a good day, though I wish I would have done more to make his day extra special.  Of course, he says I did more than enough, but he always says that.  I just want to show him how much he means to me, how much I adore and appreciate him, and I feel like I always fall short of the standard I set in my head for doing that. 

He says I talk him up too much, that I put him on a pedastal and hold him to a standard much higher than that to which I hold others.  He feels like I brag about him here and when in conversation with others.  He says he's not that good, not that special, that he's just a man.  He is just a man.  But he's the man who changed my world; who makes my life complete and full.  He is the man who returns every bit of the love I give to him, without question and without condition.  He comforts me and supports me and encourages me in all things, in all ways.  He makes me feel safe and protected;  I no longer fear the judgment of others, because they don't matter - Jimi loves me, all of me, and that's all that matters.  He's shown me how to be compassionate when I want to be scornful.  He's shown me how to forgive when I want to hold a grudge.  He's just a man, but he's the man who helps to make me a better woman.  And, of course, he's made me a mother.  I didn't think my love for him could grow any more, but these last few months have made my heart grow way more than the Grinch's heart grew on Christmas morning. 

I'm awfully lucky. 

29.4 - A lovely Sunday

We started off straightening and cleaning the house, rearranging living room furniture, making the house liveable again.  Then his brother came over, followed shortly by Momma and Daddy.  The men-folk headed off for an afternoon showing of "Lincoln", leaving Momma and I behind to make a couple of batches of peanut brittle and a few hours of conversation.  It was wonderful to spend the afternoon with her - I don't spend nearly enough time with my Momma, and lately I have a nagging sense of guilt over that fact.  She lives so close, I have no excuse for not making time with her more of a priority.  Lately I feel a sense of urgency, like I NEED to be in her presence more often.  Impending motherhood is to blame, I imagine, and the realization that she's not going to be here forever and I sure as hell better appreciate her while she is. 

After the candy-making, we sorted through a couple boxes of baby clothes passed down to me from Stacy - we oohed and aahed over the tiny pastel outfits, sorting by size and saying over and over again how no one needs to buy us any more, we've got plenty to get us through at least the first six months. 

In between the candy-making and clothes-sorting, I picked apart the beef roast I'd been simmering in the crock-pot all day and turned it into veggie beef soup - it's finishing its cooking on the stove now while I'm lying back on the new chaise and Jimi watches the latest Batman flick. 

It's been a perfect day; I'm happy and content.  Life is good.

I'm back, baby!

I've finally purchased a new laptop - I can blog at home again!  YAY!  I'm pretty excited about this purchase - it's a great computer, and it was extremely affordable.  It'll be nice to have a working computer in the house again - my Kindle has done a great job keeping me connected to the internet, but it doesn't replace a laptop. 

Thanksgiving was wonderful and exhausting all at once.  We spent the day getting ready and making a sweet potato casserole (why can I never remember that sweet potatoes leak?  You have to put something under them, Natalie, or they'll spooge all over your oven!), then headed for his cousin's house around 3.  They had an amazing, delicious spread, and I ate until my little heart was content.  (And then Laura Jo and I went for a walk, because I was going to die if I didn't get some of that food settled.)  I missed out on eating pie because I was too full, but Tracy was kind enough to send some home with us - a piece of apple and pecan.  Two days later, it's still in the kitchen waiting for me, but today may just be the day. 

Our evening was spent over at my Aunt Melissa's, where we played cards and perused Black Friday ads until one in the morning, at which point I was completely wiped out and finished and told Jimi, "We have to leave NOW."  Pam said I was getting grouchy - I wasn't grouchy, I was just done.  I'd socialized as much as I was physically able to socialize, and I needed my bed. 

I feel as though I've officially been welcomed into the world of Motherhood.  Jimi's cousins' wived descended upon me as soon as we arrived and started asking questions about my pregnancy and birth plans, and regaled me for hours with their birth stories and experienced mom-talk.  My aunts did the same.  It was a noticeable change - usually we all exchange pleasantries and catch up, then I flit around from group to group, mostly following Jimi around and talking to the menfolk.  Not this year - I was stuck to my seat as my birth preferences were questioned and doubted and poo-poo'd, as horrible scary NICU stories were told, as tales of mastitis and clogged ducts were shared.  If I never hear "Just wait and see - you'll change your mind" again, it'll be too soon.  I heard that on every subject - especially when I made the mistake of admitting I'm aiming for an unmedicated childbirth.  (Cloth diapering got its fair share of laughs, too.)  Why do we (women) do that to each other?  Experienced moms should know better than anyone how scary this time can be for a new mother.  I'm looking for support and encouragement and advice, and instead I get a snicker and a pat on the head as if I'm a fool for thinking I can do this any way other than on my back with a needle in my spine. 

I don't mean to bitch, I know their intentions are just to share their experiences.  I reminded myself over and over again that my pregnancy bares no resemblance to theirs - no scares, no bed rest, no complications for me, so far.  (Fingers crossed it stays that way.)  As I told them, this has been the easiest, most uncomplicated thing I've ever done, and that's completely contrary to what I expected.  If my body can handle pregnancy this well, I'm inclined to trust that birth is something it can handle well, also.  I trust my body, and I honestly feel that an unmedicated birth is the way it's supposed to happen, and that if I let it, my body can do this on its own.  I am not crazy for thinking this way, dammit!  Women birthed babies this way for thousands of years before doctors started strapping them to tables on their backs.  I can do this, and not because I'm a martyr or tough or want bragging rights, but because it's the way nature intended and I don't see any reason to fix what ain't broke. 

Okay, I'm off my soapbox. 

We're going shopping today for fabric and paint for baby girl's room, and planning to start her room transformation tomorrow.  I need drawer pulls and switch plates and a colorful rug.  I can't wait to watch this room come together; I can't wait to fill it with diapers and onsies and soft things for my daughter. 

My daughter.  If I think on those words just a second longer than it takes to say them, my eyes get misty.  I love her so much already.  It still fills me with a sense of disbelief that this is all happening to ME!  I have a big ol' round belly full of baby.  I can feel her flip and flop and kick and punch.  I've dreamed of and imagined this for so long, and now it is my reality, and that just blows my mind.  I'll never stop being in awe of this miracle we've created. 

Speaking of my big ol' round belly full of baby, clothing options are becoming more and more limited by the day.  It's still not awful - one day last week I wore and outfit comprised completely of pre-pregnancy clothes; proof that Jimi and Kim may be onto something when they say I buy my clothes in too-large sizes.  I'm still wearing two pair of pre-pregnancy pants, but they hardly count, as they're designed to be stretchy, what with their elastic waistbands and and polyester blends.  I have two pre-pregnancy sweaters that I wish I could wear every day, but the rest are too short now and don't fully cover my belly.  I've got a great flowy red shirt that's not maternity but totally could've been, so it's worked into the rotation regularly.  I had a couple of button-ups that still fit two weeks ago, but I fear that will not be the case the next time I try them on - the buttons were a bit strained last time I wore them.  Momma's bought me two maternity shirts (but I hate one - don't tell her - it is too low-cut and doesn't completely cover my dumb ol' bras) and I am now the proud owner of one pair of big-front-stretchy-panel jeans (that are actually really cute so long as you're not checking out the stretchy panel) and two pair of maternity yoga pants, which are going on the list of "Things That Prove God Loves Us".  I'm going to have to break down and buy some more long-sleeved warm shirts, but I think I'm going to be able to make my britches situation work until the very end.  I don't know what I'm going to do about a coat - mine still zipped last week, but that won't last much longer.  I'm not buying a new one, so I guess I'll just have to  hold it closed and hurry from the car to the office. 

Baby showers are being planned - looks like we're having two back-to-back in January, one hosted by the infamously sweet Maggie, the other by my Aunts.  (Stay put, little girl - no early appearances, okay?  I'd hate to miss a party thrown in our honor!)  Momma & Daddy are buying the crib (sort of a family tradition - Granny and Papaw bought the cribs for nearly all of their grandbabies), and Stacy and Jessie are passing down to us tons of baby things, so we won't have to register for a lot of big items.  (That hasn't stopped my wonderful research-driven husband from registering us for a $300+ stroller, though.  I fully expect we'll be purchasing that one on our own.)  I've been told we should start registries EVERYWHERE, as apparently there are tons of freebies and goodies given out for doing so, and plus, using that little scanner gun is fun.  I guess we need to get going on that pretty soon. 

It's all happening so very fast.  That second pink line showed up in June and it felt like it'd be forever before I had a symptom or a sign that it was real.  Now all I can think is "how will we get this all done in only 12.5 weeks?!" 

My left leg is starting to ache.  I think it's the way I'm sitting in this chair; I should probably get up and do some yoga stretches.  My hips hurt all the time - and what's up with the sore knees?  I sound like an old woman trying to get up or down into a seat, and getting out of bed the half-dozen times now required each night is an acrobatic feat.  Poor Jimi - he's sleeping on a sliver of mattress, pushed all the way to the edge by my belly and its accompanying island of pillows.  He's said that he'll need to break out the camping mattress any day now - his plan is to sleep there, with it pushed up next to our bed, so I can have the space I need to be comfortable.  I hate the idea of him being exiled from his bed, but I love him for understanding that drastic measures may be required some time in the next couple months. 

He's just the best man in the whole world.  I can't express enough how good and sweet he is, how loved and adored and appreciated and special he makes me feel.  We've been carpooling for the last two months or so because his truck is down, and when we get home each evening, I head for the heating pad while he stops in the kitchen and begins making dinner.  He's pulling more than his weight when it comes to household chores and cleaning, and encourages me to rest and take breaks when we're working on projects together.  He's a dream partner in this pregnancy, and I feel so fortunate that I have have him by my side. 

(Sometimes I find myself shuddering inside, imagining how my ex-husband would've compared, had we managed to get pregnant in those months that we tried.  I really dodged a bullet, man.) 

Okay, gotta go, it's shopping time.

(I'm so glad I made this purchase - it's good to be back to my blah blah blahing.  I want to have a record of this experience - I mean, it's only the neatest thing I've ever done.  Ever.)

Be Back Soon...