We got one!

And she's comin' home!!

My water broke at home, right after writing that last post. So "Eviction Day" ended up being our second day at home from the hospital. Wyatt's sister Eloise is alive and well. Yippeee!

Posted: Eviction Notice

Dr B. has planned an eviction. Nugget’s getting relocated August 4^th whether he/she likes it or not. The rent is no longer being paid and it’s time to move on. Eek! Eviction—sounds harsh, doesn’t it? Hubby’s boss called it that and I thought it was a) funny, and b) appropriate considering they are non-profit lawyers who deal a lot with people getting screwed out of money and/or housing. So anyway, this babe’s got an expiration date and I am a-ok with that. I am quite curious what “real” labor would feel like, so I am rooting to pop before then, but that’s still a week early so I suppose nature says it’s not very likely. However, I have learned not to rule out things which are not very likely, so I keep hoping.

Perhaps the next post will involve good tidings of great joy? Not to compare this wee one with Jesus or anything, but it sure is going to feel like a miracle. Yippeee!

more birthday news

Wyatt’s birthday ended up being great. I had a little boo-hoo toward the end of the day, but mostly it was just a great day of hangin’ with Hubby and Pup and being together. We did some errands, which sounds horribly un-birthday, but they kept us busy. We also went on a hike, seeing a rattlesnake, which is quite exciting and also kept us busy in a different way. Hubs made a deeelicious homemade cake, we put a big “1” candle on, lit, and sang happy birthday around. That was a little sad, but then we ate the cake which helped to make up for it. One Wyatt birthday down, only every other one for the rest of my life to go…

Today is MY birthday. I’d rather have a poopy baby’s birthday to celebrate, but whatever. I actually had a much bigger cry today than I did on Wyatt’s big day. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, right? Only I didn’t really have a party. I did get a massage, go out to breakfast, have a good doctor’s appointment, watch a movie on the couch, and diddle around relaxing and doing whatever I wanted. So that’s good. And of course we made new cake, which always helps. It killed my last year’s birthday, if that matters to you. 

About that doctor’s appointment: we set an induction date. If Nugget BabyHood2 doesn’t come before August 4^th we are going to go in there and get it on out. I can’t wait to find out if it’s a boy or a girl; saying “it” is getting kind of creepy. Oh, and I can’t wait to see a living newborn squiggle onto my chest, hear a living newborn’s cries, look into a newborn’s—my newborn’s—open, confused eyes, and hopefully bring one home. It’s going to be so hard, but it’s going to be so amazing. Extra amazing because of Wyatt. I’ll keep you posted. 

while I don't really care, I wouldn't be
sad if my newborn baby was as cute as this one

Happy birthday!

Happy birthday to my angel baby Wyatt! I can’t believe he would be one year old today! We’re having cake tonight, let me tell you.

So far he has received a donation to the Children’s Hospital, a donation to the Family Crisis Center in Hubby’s hometown, a donation to the Walk to Remember “goody” bags service that helps local families like us when they have sad times for their babies, and a donation to the Denver Children’s Advocacy Center. I sure wish we were buying lots of dumb toys and cute clothes instead, but it makes me appreciate what we can really do to help. We don’t need more stuff, we need love.

More to follow as I see how the day goes. 

Sausage party!

No, not that kind of sausage party. It’s really an individual event, and I wouldn’t say it’s much of a celebration. The kind of sausage party I’ve been having involves my fingers, my toes, 100 degree Colorado heat, and pregnancy. Mix together and poof! Swelling to the max. My fingers literally feel like I imagine sausages feel. They’ve got a tight casing and you can see the insides pressing on said casing (the insides are not spicy, cheesy, Italian-y or otherwise delicious sounding though). They feel so damn tight when I put them in a fist I can barely close my hand.  It’s almost to the point where the tips of my fingers don’t touch when the bottoms of my fingers do. And I can’t even begin to describe my toes…Yikes. Luckily, Dr. B said it would be completely weird if I made it through this kind of weather with my rings on. It’s just uncomfortable. In fact, I want to stop typing now. 

hand me downs

Oh man, we just got a bucket load of hand me downs. It is so exciting. It was pretty fun to go through it all and just see all the cute stuff I never would have thought to buy or never would have bought for myself. There are some REI pants for a 6-9 month old that have those zip-off leg-parts, can you even believe it? Everything is of the “gender neutral” variety too, so we don’t have 8,000 pink things stuffed in the “in case it’s a girl drawer” (which we don’t have anyway). We basically won’t have to buy any clothes or toys for at least a year. At that point I imagine the grandparents will have sent us enough stuff to last way beyond that anyway! It’s also nice not to have to think about shopping. How do I know which toys are age appropriate? How do I know what size winter clothes to buy this baby? I don’t know, and now I don’t have to. Someone just gave me a wide variety, from a baby born just about this time last year, and we’ll see what works. Plus, your very own Average Joey got some sweet camouflage Capri maternity pants thrown in for free. Yipppee!

A very nice aspect of this handing-me-down was the time I got to spend with the mama getting rid of all the stuff. She kept asking me if we had certain things, from Wyatt, and wanted to know about important things like did I already have maternity bras if my milk came in last time--things like that which people either don't know to ask because they never had babies or don't want to ask because they feel sad and weird. It made me feel very justified as a mum, and sharing baby clothes felt like a very normal, mum thing to do too!

conquering newborns!

I did it—not only did I meet and hold the newest baby on the block, but also I babysat her for the first time her mom left her. Not too shabby, right? We were pretty proud of ourselves when we realized mama hadn’t been away from her babe yet. But it was her birthday, and she needed a fun drink, dammit.

Anyway, my newborn anxiety was gone by the time I met her. I think I psyched myself up so much last time that it just went smoothly this time. Even though we never made it over to see her after all that psyching up, it still was effective: it got my jitters out I guess, despite the time lapse. She was just this tiny little girl. She had those newborn white bumps on her face and sounded like a puppy when she slept. She was her own little semi-person and didn’t remind me of Wyatt at all. I guess I just thought it was going to be worse, like I was going to feel guilty and sad and think about all the things Wyatt would have done when he was 9 days old. But I didn’t. Maybe because I’ll never know what he would have done when he was 9 days old, maybe because every little baby is different.  I just sort of held her and let her sleep on my lap, did some homework while Hubby took over, and kind of waited around for our brother and sister-in-law, the original babysitters, to come over. We gave them crap about being terrible godparents, the boys had beer, we read some book about baby poop, and came home after about an hour and a half. I felt so triumphant, so proud of myself. I played it cool though, no fist pumping or anything embarrassing. It was fist-pump-worthy though. And the best part is, now I’ve done it!

Observation

Well, I suppose we couldn’t expect to make it all the way without a hiccup. Our hiccup was stressful nonetheless. We went in to the non-stress test, no “non-stress” test, as usual and ended up in an Observation Room at the labor and delivery ward. Yikes! At the doc’s I got my belly hooked up to the monitors and everything regular and normal like that. But when Dr. B came in to take a peek he kind of poked around, fiddled with some extra paper coming off the chart, and when he finally looked at it turned red and said “Well, the baby’s got a low heart rate so let’s just get you over to labor and delivery for some more observation.” He still had the kind smile, but he was definitely in serious mode. We didn’t even get the pink paper to give the receptionist, and I sure didn’t get to tinkle in the cup because we were being ushered out of there so fast. Talk about unsettling!

On the ten minute drive—thank goodness it wasn’t longer—I basically psyched myself up for an emergency c-section. What’s the big deal about surgery when you can get a living baby out of it? (Once I settled on an emergency c-section being okay I started to worry about everything that could possibly be wrong with Baby2…but that’s another tale). The only reason I didn’t think the baby was dead and have complete hallucinogenic flashbacks of Wyatt’s death was because it was kicking the crap out of me the whole ride. So that was nice. Of course when we got to the hospital nothing was wrong. They hooked me up to some more equipment and we watched HGTV for an hour while they monitored the nugget. Since absolutely nothing was wrong, there was no low heart rate at all, they then let me go (after signing some papers—silly lawyers). So, panicking for nothing—phew—and thankful the doctor is on his toes. And maybe Nugget is just practicing it’s resting metabolic heart rate for when it’s a world class athlete?

newborn anxiety...

New babies are obviously good, but it some ways they are also bad. Hubby’s boss had his baby—they went in to get things going at 8 days late and finally she came out 36 hours after that. Guess she wasn’t really ready! She got to go home 12 days after her due date. Sheesh! Boss-man and his wife are also friends (if you remember, Hubby and Boss are the only two working together and do things like “work” at the ping-pong table, stop for bike-breaks, and visit the beer garden during business hours), so naturally they have invited us over 700 times to meet the baby. Well, I was able to get out of going to visit in the hospital because I was at work (and they would have understood if I was sitting on my couch at home, just boycotting, but still I felt badly), but there’s kind of no excuse anymore now that they’re home and the baby’s staying  there too. Hmm. I got all worked up about it this morning, just thinking about how I haven’t seen a newborn since Wyatt was born. How can I expect myself to go see this little nugget when it’s just going to remind me of all the great stuff I never go to do with my first son? For example: wipe pee off the walls, clean up spit-up from all my clothes, worry about his breathing, curse him for keeping me up, have extreme nipple pain…etc., etc.
But we set a time to go over, and I psyched myself up (it helps to know you can run bawling out of the house and the people inside will totally understand). Then, they cancelled. So now I just hope my jitters are out, even if I haven’t met her yet, or I’ll have to re-psych myself up. It’s like a boxing match for cripe’s sake: I’m sweating, agitated, wide-eyed, rarin’ to go. I hope I don’t get punched in the face too badly. But I’ve gotta start somewhere!

New Goal: Beer

Non-alcoholic beer is not the same, but it tasted pretty damn good the other night. I got the Guinness kind, so I could go around saying “Guinness is good for you” in an Irish accent (and because I figured it would taste at least somewhat decent). I had it ice cold, which is pretty much the point of beer in my mind, and I felt great sipping from a beer bottle again, like any normal summer evening by the grill. Last summer, probably a week before Wyatt died, I bought a six-pack of non-alcoholic beer. I had one before he was born; the rest I only recently cleaned out of the fridge and dumped down the drain with a sad face. I thusly decided it would be courageous and important for me to buy a six-pack and get through it this time. A triumph over beer, if you will. Tomorrow, when it’s 100 degrees, I’m going to sit at my patio furniture in the shade and enjoy another cold beer. For the sake of my goal, of course. 

A journal or two

For Baby Wyatt, a journal’s all I really have. So, it’s pretty important, as you can imagine. I write him letters once in a while. Less often as time passes. Then I feel guilty of course, but I try to catch up and tell him everything he’s missed. Which doesn’t feel like much in the shadow of his little baby angel self. But I recently completed the first journal and had to buy a new one. I felt a wave of accomplishment, signing off on that last page, knowing that I was sticking to something I told myself I would do for him. I know he can’t read yet, gosh, he’d only be 11 months old, but it feels good to share and just feel sad and let the tears fly once in a while. I don’t always cry, but I would say usually I do. There’s too much loss in there because I just wonder what he would be doing if he were here instead of there. I think this journal will help my living children—God willing—understand him better and maybe know him a little more. I dunno. I did get a cute new journal with dogs on it though, so that’s pretty great.

For Baby#2, I started a journal pretty much before I knew I was pregnant. I was kicking myself for not keeping better track of my pregnancy with Wyatt; it’s all I had. I thought it was annoying to see people’s “Month X profile photo”s on Facebook and therefore never even took any myself. I thought I’d jinx myself for doing stuff like that. Well.

So, Baby2’s first journal is on my computer, so it’s not the letter-writing kind, just an update on Baby2 and my life. I put in photos from every week and try to come up with enough stuff to write about that it fills a page. The first few weeks were pretty boring, just about me being nervous. But now it’s getting hard to fit it all on just one page. This also brings a feeling of success: I’ve got stuff to talk about and share again! I suppose this is my plug for journals. Gooooooo journals!

Boob class

Trust me, the boobs in breastfeeding class are not like a nude beach and not even like porn. If they weren’t so science-experimentily intriguing they would be gross. I don’t have anything against boobs, I just never really thought anything of them before. Breastfeeding nipples are like tea-time saucers, complete with full tea-stains, the breasts like enormous water balloons, the skin like stretchy marbled paper. My size A-Bs have not prepared me for this. Apparently you have to hold and squeeze your breast a little, which makes for awkward naked positions (and does look like porn—aggressive boob-squeezing porn). It is fascinating and scary at the same time. I know that my own breasts have the capacity to become quite large, as was evidenced by the week following Wyatt’s birth, and I trust they will do the job when the time comes, but oh dear do I have to look like that? The videos were helpful, I suppose, and we learned a lot of interesting and intelligent ideas about breastfeeding, but I still wanted to laugh and point at a few things. (I know, I was getting all mature with the wills and estate-planning; so I’m backtracking, kill me). Overall, I am quite grateful for booby class though because what the heck do I know about feeding a baby with lumps on my chest? And Hubby can’t be that mad that he got to look at real and fake boobs for two hours, right? Bring it on, milk ducts!

The Back is Back

the "blue steel" look
doesn't really show the pain

Over two months ago I wrote about my aching back. Well, I didn’t complain about it too much between now and then but man, it is time to readdress the painful situation. Perhaps my back is trying to make up for lost time because it’s been pretty awful. It’s like a stab wound right where my hip meets my leg, so by 4pm just getting up from my chair or walking across the room brings a repeated sharp pain. Now I know this is part and parcel of lugging around an ever-growing baby: it’s a combination of hormones that relax all my joints and a general increase of weight and imbalance. I know pregnancy makes people feel different and, usually—at least at some point—crappy. But it’s still annoying. And painful. And I can still complain about it and think it stinks.

I am sure I will be back, complaining about my back again, before Nugget joins us, so I won’t say too much more. But I will say it feels like my added 15 pounds is entirely in the form of little jerky jackhammer guys wailing away on this one specific spot on my body, trading shifts so at no point can I get relief. And that’s a lot of little jerky jackhammer guys. 

Crib strength

We did it: we bought a crib! Baby Nugget will have a sleepy-time home other than at its mama’s breast or in some sling or something. And it’s not even some stupidly expensive, enormous, ridiculous looking contraption that also turns into a toddler bed, big kid bed, marital bed, Cuisinart, and wipes the baby’s butt for you (although that would be a nice perk). It’s simple and normal (and safe). Hooray!

This actually wasn’t as difficult a purchase as I expected. I still think “well, crap, what if we set up this crib and no baby gets to use it…” but I didn’t have a panic attic or start crying when forking over the credit card. I really thought this would be a bigger step for us—making a pretty big purchase for a baby we haven’t met yet—but I played it totally cool. I’m not sure what that means, but it feels good to look back and think my behavior was unexpected in a good way. We’ll see what happens when it’s time to set up said crib, but for now I am the victor!

Wills and things

Here is something grown-ups do: make wills. You can imagine how I felt about doing such a grown-up thing: weird. Since Hubby is a lawyer, he was able to get one of his buddies to help us perform such an adult act (and not F it up). It was even written in language I could understand, so it seemed to be a pretty legit document if I do say so. We brought some witnesses down to the notary and got those wills signed and delivered. So, now they’re real and everything. Baby#2 has a place to go if its world collapses. Our “money” and “assets” have places to be. Even the dog has a home—actually, any dog we have (sorry Puppy#1, but there will come a day…). I feel, well, grown up!

We also did some medical power of attorney documents. I like to call them the plug-pulling papers, but they’re a little more than that (a little). It’s hard to think about having to make ridiculously difficult decisions about Hubby if he becomes “incapacitated,” yet I feel very smart making and discussing such decisions now, under no duress. In fact, I was sitting in some sweats, probably eating a snack. No duress here. But there is a small dark cloud over all the anal planning-ahead going on around here. It’s just that we never got to this point with Wyatt. Poor Baby1 came too early to get any of this special grown-up behavior. He never got to know us as the responsible-on-paper parents we are. It stinks. 

Friends rule!

We just had a ten day visit “back East” to visit family and friends and I already wish I could do it again. I love my friends. I love my family too, but we can talk about them some other time. My real friends are amazing. They look at my new belly and smile but don’t make weird comments about it or look at it sneakily like I would scold them for doing so. They know they can partake in my new life. My real friends acknowledge how hard this must be for me, even if they really have no clue because they haven’t been there themselves. They ask how I’m doing and I know they mean in my heart, not in my uterus. Or if they mean my uterus then I can tell the difference because they make it clear. They want to see photos of Wyatt and tell me how excited they are for another Josephine baby. They don’t say things like “oh, I know you’re going to be fine this time” because that is not true nor does it make me feel better. They ask questions excitedly. They give good hugs. I am glad for my friends and I hope Nugget gets some just like them someday, although I’m not sure how anyone could be so lucky. 

and who doesn't love triplet bear cubs
in their parents' backyard?

More testing!

So I’ve started a weekly regimen of non-stress tests(NSTs). As far as tests go, I suppose they aren’t that stressful. However, I still  dread the day when, for whatever reason, they become stressful. But there’s nothing I can do about that day until it happens, so in the mean time I will tell you about my new friend the NST. My high-risk doctor friend recommended we start NST-time “at the time of your last loss,” and since I am now the most pregnant I have ever been we commence.

Basically, you lie down in an exam room and you get a giant elastic belt strapped around your ever-expanding belly. Then someone lubes up a big paddle which looks for the baby’s heartbeat. Said paddle is strapped underneath the aforementioned elastic. Baby’s heartbeat hopefully fills the room like a wild stallion stampede. You can zone out or listen, whatever you like. But you do have to push a button when you feel Baby move. If you see a doctor who has updated his equipment in the past 20 years then you a) probably have more high tech gadgets than I do and b) might even have an ultrasound do the button-pushing for you by visualizing the actual movements. A chart is automatically filled out which shows Baby’s movements and heartrate (it should go up as the nugget moves, naturally). If you are lucky, like me, Hubby comes and plays on his smartphone in the corner so you are not alone with the stallions and computer that reminds you of playing “Chopper” on a floppy-disk in 1^st grade. The doctor will check the chart after 10 minutes or so, and hopefully you can be on your way because all is well. Since Nugget passed its first test, this was our experience. I hope we can keep it up for 11 more weeks. At least this baby will get some practice and be able to own other babies at NSTs by then. 

The heartburn is back

I am sure I ranted about heartburn when I was pregnant with Wyatt. That was the first time in my life I had experienced such a lovely bodily reaction. It’s like bugs which are on fire are slowly crawling up your esophagus. Yum! I specifically remember driving across the country in our enormous U-Haul (+trailer), eating barbecue chips from the gas station and instantly regretting it. Except they’re so delicious, what’s a girl to do?

Anyway, it’s back with a vengeance. I’ve had to resort to medicine, avoid certain foods, elevate my sleeping position, and try all the tricks. But the bitch is still somewhat unpredictable! Luckily, Pepcid is on the list of “ok” medicines to take while incubating. And luckily, when I found this out, we had some generic Pepcid just waiting for me in the medicine drawer. The fact that we had such advanced science at our disposal (because normally we have absolutely no drugs available except for Walmart Nyquil)  is because of the dog’s mid-winter stomach troubles—just a bonus fun nugget of info for you there. Anyway, I welcome my friend heartburn because it means Baby2 is growing and doesn’t give a poo if it pushes all my organs around and makes that little doohickey in my belly open so the acid can do whatever it wants, including mimicking fire-bugs crawling their way to freedom. You do what you gotta do Baby. 

Super Doctor

She’s not really a super doctor, like some super hero or something, but her office is pretty super compared to our regular one. And she gives tons and tons of information, citing “the literature” and such. The ultrasound machine is pretty super too, but in the end that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that we went back to the high-risk doc (she had the same old, brown, ski racing, hooded sweatshirt on) and all was well. Nugget was measuring exactly, to the day, as it should be. Nugget was moving all around. Nugget still had four heart chambers, two brain hemispheres, a full spine, all the necessary limbs and appendages, and even got the hiccups for us. Good job Nugget! I was told my heartburn medicine is acceptable, I can play golf if I want, and that there’s still no reason to think what happened “last time,” as they tend to say, should occur again.

Since I wanted to throw up on the drive over there, it was an extra good appointment. (Minus the 45 minute wait in the lobby with literally three copies of old Popular Mechanics issues and one pamphlet on menopause to read. And no windows.  But who’s complaining?). 

Mother's Day

What a drag.

The past few weeks have been Mother’s Day this and Mother’s Day that. Every store has some giant poster in the window, every restaurant and spa is offering some deal, everyone is worried they won’t do their mom justice with whatever gift they decide to give. I was more nervous about making it through the day then I actually had trouble once it was here because of this commercial mayhem. Silly build-up.

Unfortunately, in the frenzy, some mothers get forgotten. And some "motherless" children too—they’re sad too, don't forget them. Well, screw that. Happy Mother’s Day to ME. I got sunburned on a snowy hike with my brother, Hubby, and dog, had a Shirley temple while watching some basketball playoff game in a bar, ate gross nachos, and watched a few episodes of Jersey Shore. Maybe nobody was here to give me a present, but maybe someday there will be. That will have to be enough for now. 

Jealous Me vs. Excited Me

I have this problem with other pregnant people: I am super excited for them or I am super jealous of them. I know I’ve mentioned before that there doesn’t seem to be any rationale behind who gets which feeling directed at her; it changes even for the same people. So really I guess the problem isn’t that I have and recognize these emotions but rather than I can’t figure out when which one is going to strike. It’s very confusing. I’ve given up trying to predict how I am going to react though. That would be even worse to get all mixed up every time my mind and heart pulled a fast one on me.  

So here’s an example: there’s a baby shower coming up. Luckily, I had a great excuse to turn down the invitation (I’ll be across the country!) and I didn’t have to spend any time agonizing over my decision and then agonizing over how to share that decision (because let’s face it, I wouldn’t have gone). So, this pregnant lady made me jealous of planning a shower and all the excitement people are having over the afternoon, the registry, and blah blah blah. I’m jealous because I can’t do it, I just can’t. I’m jealous because she gets to be normal about it. I’m jealous because everyone gets to share in her joy and anticipation. I’m not mad at her, just jealous. A little green, if you will. At the same time however, I can enthusiastically and happily and giddily shop for this mama-to-be. Oh yes. It doesn’t seem fair to my wallet now does it? But I spent some time considering the registry options (judging some of the choices, naturally), and I spent even more time perusing the racks at the Carter’s outlet store and making the book-page that was requested as part of one big shower gift. Baby girls’ clothes are way more fun to shop for than gender-neutral-surprise clothes. As a Leo, I am supposed to enjoy giving to other people anyway (I think). But it’s funny, that this shower can make my heart race in trepidation yet allow me a fun afternoon in the mall at the same time. Hmm. 

The Big Nursery Purchase

When you think of a baby nursery, I can guarantee you don’t think of what we have in store for this little Joey. Currently, this second bedroom is Hubby’s office and ski storage area as well as a place for my photo albums, arts and crafts supplies, and a bulletin board where I hang random things I need to remember but never look at. Stuff sits precariously on a too-skinny bookshelf which, I just noticed, is propped up on the uneven carpet with a folded piece of paper. There’s also a crappy old, stained, sea-foam colored swivel chair from approximately 1983; I’m not sure how this got from New England to Colorado but I vaguely remember my father refusing to deal with it otherwise when helping us pack the U-Haul. We do have a small red-painted dresser salvaged from my parents’ flooded basement and passed on to us as cute little baby furniture. It’s been collecting cloth diapers and dust, but not much else as we cautiously navigate Baby #2’s potential imminence. Hub’s clothes, ski passes, important legal documents, coffee mugs, and other detritus litter the floor. About once a week I walk by and notice the mayhem, so I ask dear old Hubby if he is going to clean up “his room.” Sometimes he does. I suppose he’s saving a good cleaning for “some day” when we might actually get to use this second bedroom as, well, a second bedroom.

Exhibit A
(except ours has a baby-saving rim
around the edge because it's awesome)

I am starting to believe, a little, that that day will come. Exhibit A: the changing table I bought on craigslist. Yes, it is used, yes, it was only $50, yes, it is a combination dresser so if we don’t actually get to change poopy messes on it it won’t be so glaringly obvious and sad and lonely and can still be used as something…but a changing table it is. First, I wavered on going to check it out. Then, I wavered on buying it. When I finally bit the bullet, handing over the cash, I felt unexpectedly elated. I was making future plans! I even made the couple selling it load it into my car because I’m pregnant and pregnant ladies don’t have to lift stuff and get to make other people do it. Sure, it then sat in the corner of the room, facing the wrong way for a week and a half before we did anything with it, but yesterday, when we moved it and unloaded diaper-stockpile-madness onto it, we loved it. And even today I love it still. It’s scratched, and needs a pad and all kinds of accoutrements, but it’s there. That has to count for something, right?

The Team Effort Continues

We hosted the most recent support group get together in our puny apartment. Besides not being able to all fit at our table and therefore having to eat dinner off our knees by the television, it was a great visit. It just feels nice to see people healing—actually notice it—and see my own healing reflecting in them too. That first support group meeting in the hospital seems so long ago, yet at the same time if I really think about it I can picture every little detail. Everyone’s nervous, sad face, me (and others) bursting out crying when introducing myself, the kind nurses sharing their own stories and looking so beat that they have to continue running the meetings time after time…I wonder if these will always be with me?

Anyway, we stayed up way too late just chatting, eating (a lot), and eventually attempting to play some dirty game we had previously discussed. It wasn’t nearly as dirty or exciting as I imagined, unfortunately, but we did learn a thing or two about each other that may have otherwise never come out. It’s great to follow their stories (back to non-perverse ones), learn how they are coping and moving through the pain and memories, hear what their options are to bring home a baby. It ranges from adoption to a special diet to not being sure if trying again is the right thing to do. Each one is so devastating and interesting, awful and magical at the same time. How nice it would be to think that babies just happen?! One couple is moving to Chicago, and the burly, bearded, gambling-loving father started to cry when he said the hardest thing about going would be leaving the place where they had and said goodbye to their precious second son. SOB. But we’re in it together, and I always loved a team. 

The growth scan

Does Nugget look something like this?

Well, Nugget is growing on track. Maybe a little small, but not small enough for the doctor to freak me out and not enough to change anything I’m doing. I suppose I could eat more, even though I already feel like I eat every time I’m hungry and then some, but I suppose I don’t need to be making my own prenatal advice. Doc took a bunch of ultrasound measurements (and recorded it on DVD for us—how modern!) and came up with a 23 week 2 day “gestational age.” According to the first “dating” ultrasound, Nugget’s supposed to be 24 weeks old. So it’s not that big of a difference…but every little thing can make me wonder, especially this time around. Anyway, it was cool to check in again on the bones and organs and little profile growing in there.

Apparently, it has Hubby’s head shape, which is long and skinny rather than circular like most babies’. This made that measurement hard to get, and the doctor kind of laughed when Hubby asked “what does that mean?” “Well, it looks like one of you” said the doctor, giving Hubby’s head the once over and not feeding into Hub’s insecurity about his alien-head. Apparently Nugget is an active baby too, so that’s super. The wiggling made it so we didn’t see any private parts and therefore learn about them by accident. Of course we took home the DVD and watched it to see if we had any ideas. Which we don’t. I can’t even tell when we’re looking at a stomach or a placenta, let alone miniature genitalia, really. Doc said he “didn’t really look but has a good idea” so we can’t tell if we think that means there was a penis which is easy to spot, or a lack of penis which is also easy to spot. That’s okay because even if the suspense is difficult to manage it’s fun to have no clue! Everything looks good is really a good enough report. 

I had to...

I drank some wine. Man, I had to. Don’t judge me. Peeps drink all the time when they’re pregnant. I’m not saying I condone it, considering all the damn warnings against it, but I know plenty of kids who came out okay after enduring a daily margarita habit in utero. Again, I am way too scared to believe that’s okay, even if I’ve seen proof, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s been too long, and it was too tempting. I think maybe it could have been a little bit of a triumph too--daring to do something wrong on purpose! Just let me explain.

Hubby’s aunt is straight up French. We’re talking “oh la la” multiple times an hour, making potatoes gratin to the letter, so many kisses on either cheek, and well, just so French, from France. Her sister lives nearby, and Aunt is visiting over her son’s spring vacation. So of course we went to visit them, and of course they had bottles and bottles and bottles of wine. Normally this isn’t a problem in my I’m-a-good-pregnant-lady-even-better-than-last-time state because it’s not worth it to me to feel sad about it. But they started going off about the wine from their village. They weren’t pressuring anyone to have some, but how can anyone say no to that? Their own little village in the Pyrenees! I caved about ten minutes into the drink service. But it’s not like I had a whole glass to myself, as I wish I could have, I just had a sip of each of the white and the red. Unfortunately, it only made me sad I couldn’t have more. Hot dang, it was so good. I hope Nugget liked it. And maybe got a little bit of a buzz because I sure miss that part of drinking wine too. 

The [dreaded] shower

I’m supposed to be a glowing, basketball-bellied, excited mama to be. I’m supposed to be giddy and giggling and have ants in my pants about the unknown. I’m supposed to complain about how much weight I’m gaining, worrying about stretch marks and pooping on the delivery table (some baby magazine said that was the #1 concern of 64% of expectant mothers in one poll!) and oh, how annoying it is to be pregnant. I would say I’m about 50% those things and 50% completely different things. Being pregnant for 7 months and giving birth to a perfect little boy who just happened to not be alive will do that to you next time around I suppose. In fact, 50% might be pretty good, all things considered!

So, I may be wary, nervous, and feel at times like an absolute worry wort (wart?). I may have sad memories and awful predictions as compared to other lucky, naïve moms-to-be. I may get mad that I have to think this way. But one real kicker, really kicking me when I’m down, is: the baby shower. The dreaded shower. Really. Oy. What could be more awful than sitting around with a bunch of ladies, drinking tea, eating decadent snacks, having people fawn all over you, and opening baby presents?

 If it doesn’t sound that bad it’s because it’s not. I mean, people love showers. Especially the people who throw them. So I feel terrible warning people they better not try to throw me a shower—or else. Capital ELSE. I couldn’t take it. I can hardly stand it anyway, being anti-social and uncomfortable in groups, but celebrating something I don’t even have yet seems to be asking for a big slap in the face. And what if I have to pack those presents away because Baby#2 can’t use ‘em? What if I have all these cute photos from the shower and I just end up wanting to rip them to shreds to erase the memories? It’s so totally unfair that this is my point of view, but it is. Alas. I can’t do it. I will have to eat bonbons and buy things by myself. The real pain though is that I feel guilty. People want to throw me a party. They want to buy presents. They want to be a part of this difficult time in my life. Those are not bad things. And I have to push them away and say no. It’s terrible. But this Average Josephine is bucking tradition for the sake of her sanity. You can send me a present later, ok?

Oh, shopping

 Girls are supposed to love shopping, right? Well, for me, especially now, not so much. But online shopping—or at least online window shopping (what’s that called?)—has become a wonderful tool in my “subsequent” pregnancy.  If I get excited about looking for something, I can just do it. I mean, that’s the whole point of online shopping anyway, but for most people it’s the simple convenience factor of remaining on the couch that’s the draw, not the fear factor that’s the repellent (I suppose for some people it’s both). I can shop for baby and mama stuff without having to see smiley, happy, oblivious pregnant people everywhere I go who remind me what it should feel like and how sad it is I can’t feel that way.  Or I can at least online “shop” without buying anything so when I do go into a store I know exactly what I want and I can get out of there ASAP (for the same aforementioned reasons).

Now, we’re pretty conservative in what we think is important to have before Nugget comes (we don’t have any money anyway), but I still want to try to be a normal pregnant lady and have a little fun spending cash and dreaming about cute little clothes and fun , frivolous nursery decorations. The Internet is where I get to be that lady. I’ve braved myself into a few stores, but mostly at curious times of day when they’re not busy and I have errands to run so I can’t stay long regardless of what I find. You don’t have to be brave to type in some web address and look around! Actually buying stuff has become a little easier as time passes…but I’m still holding off on the big purchases. I just can’t do it yet. Sometimes I feel lucky we hadn’t done much shopping for Wyatt—there wasn’t too much stuff to seal away in the attic. But sometimes that makes me sad because he don’t have much we can call “his” and therefore hand-me-down to whatever little creature comes out. So mostly I’m just in a non-buying limbo, thinking about fun stuff we can get ready at some undetermined time in the future. At least it’s good for the bank account!

ps. this is only a dream image of Average

Josephine braving the world of cute onesies 

and other fun, unnecessary things

oh, just more complaining

Have you ever had a bloody nose that just won’t quit? I’m not talking clots and clumps, getting knocked in the face with a basketball, picking some dry, uncomfy flakes only to unleash a torrent, or otherwise knowing the purpose of the nosebleed and thusly that it has an end-point. I’m talking about a steady, thin drippy kind of nosebleed that comes and goes randomly and seems like it’s just not going to stop because where did it come from anyway?  Yeah, well I’ve been having the latter style for well over week now. It’s not exactly ruining the laundry schedule or keeping me from work, but dang it’s annoying. And because this didn’t happen to me in my last pregnancy, I’m still caught off guard every time. (Google images has some weird "nosebleed" stuff: see image on right). 

www.babycenter.com notes that pregnancy brings on expanded blood vessels, more blood, and a greater bodily use of water which equals dehydration and dry noses/membranes.  All these lovely things mean we knocked-up are more likely to get nosebleeds. Luckily they’re manageable, but I’ve just barely avoided dripping on some important stuff (the chair, the computer, my white sweater) quite a few times now. The shower seems to really get things going, so I sometimes have to stand there and wait it out if I don’t want to ruin my towel. What a pain. But again, this baby things’ working if I have so many complaints, so really, I’m not complaining. 

Hello, Klutz

Jesus H, who is this klutzy person taking over my body? Of all Gardner’s intelligences, I am definitely in the “bodily-kinesthetic” genius category, meaning I am über-coordinated and especially dexterous—if I do say so myself. I may not have exceptional “mathematical-spatial” skills (who needs those?) or understand people because I’m so “interpersonally” intelligent (ick, people), but ask me to pick up a random sport or make a craft and I’m your gal. Until now. I’m not sure I can count how many times I have spilled my morning latte this week alone (and there are only 7 lattes in a week, come on!) and I know my feet don’t normally get in the way this much. What is going on?

www.pregnancy.org claims that pregnancy-induced-clumsiness (PIC) is a real phenomenon. This website has got to be kidding me. Except, maybe I have PIC? So I read some more. The combination of relaxin, that pesky hormone loosening my hips (and unfortunately other joints), a shift in my center of gravity, and apparent “psychological stress” (which creates poor decision making and short-term memory loss) stir up nicely to create PIC. I’m not ready to diagnose myself, as that would be admitting weakness, but if things don’t get better I’m afraid I will be a PIC believer and, therefore, sufferer. Maybe I should buy some sippy cups a bit early?

April Fool's!

We played a neat trick on our team today and I was afraid we wouldn’t get to pull it off. A couple of them were quite excited for the day of pranks so we knew it would have to be tricky. That’s why, at our game, we got the referees involved. Before each game, the girls have to pass a “stick check” that ensures their stick is legal; if it’s not they can adjust it, so it’s not actually that big a deal, it’s just annoying. We asked the refs to say they were all illegal (usually 0 or 1 stick is) and they thought it was the best idea ever. Because they are referees, none of the girls dared to question the decisions, even though they thought it was quite bizarre and unbelievable and watched them do the check which, of course, seemed legal as usual. About halfway through the team, the refs started laughing and had to spill the secret and it was ha-larious. The team thought it was a good one, although one girl is still mad about it. Ha!

April Fool’s Day got me thinking about other pranks, tricks, and superstitions. For example, I am looking at flights and had a panic attack when one of my options was Friday the 13^th. I promptly dismissed traveling that day, even though I first thought about how dumb that is (and it could potentially be the best flight and price). I guess I’m not going to take any chances this time around…why take the risk? I mean, some places won’t even have a 13^th floor because it’s apparently so bad for you. Go figure.  

Planning ahead...or not

Merriam Webster says the future is: 1: that is to be, 2: of or relating to a time yet to come, 3: existing or occurring at a later time. Well, I agree—how can you argue the dictionary—but I am having trouble picturing the future of me and my Nugget. I’m enjoying the diaper shopping, don’t get me wrong, but it’s still a foreign idea that some little person is going to get to use said diapers. I don’t really think I took pregnancy for granted last time, but I sure didn’t think I would spend 7 months pregnant and not get a kid out of it. Geez. So my near-sightedness makes sense, it’s just not cool. People allow pregnant ladies to complain, so I am.

At the same time, I feel that familiar curiosity about what the heck is going on in my body; what kind of thing is nature going to throw our way? I know it’s human, since we’ve seen it on ultrasound. I know it’s okay, so far, so that’s good. But what kind of person will it be? Who will it look like? Will it have all its parts? What kind of private parts? What’s its name going to be? Will it even make it out alive? Is it then going to have colic? Is it going to slack off in school? The worry is never going to end. So maybe, for the sake of not stressing out,  it’s better to accept some of my inability to look ahead and enjoy the ignorance. 

Plenty of dumdums have successfully raised children, right? Eek!