“F” Is For…

(Author’s Note: This post was originally composed in October during the week of the nasty Nor’easter that hit our area. With a week lacking power and two small children underfoot—the youngest being only 3-weeks-old at the time—there was plenty of time to sit back, reflect, and come up with a blog entry. 6 weeks have since passed and not much has changed so I still feel that the post is worth sharing, if not for the therapeutic benefits of venting, but for the humor of it all.)

With the recent addition of Ryan to our family, our household is currently in a state of utter upheaval, adjustment, and lack of routine. As I am busy trying to manage daily household tasks, diapering two children, nursing, and racing to the telephone to interrupt calls before they wake up my husband (who needs to sleep during the day after working 3^rd shift), it sometimes feels as though the only predictable element of our lives is the television lineup. Since Ryan feeds every 2 hours, I often find myself allowing Caiden to watch TV in lieu of more creative outlets because I know that it will maintain his attention and keep him put in a safe spot. As a result, Thomas and Friends, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and Curious George have provided entertainment for Caid while Sesame Street gave me some inspiration for this blog post. You see, every episode of this classic series still focuses on a number and letter of the day. During an episode from last week, as Elmo, Grover, and Cookie Monster informed my eldest that “F” was for “forest”, “freckles”, and “frozen”, I started to think about what “F” stood for in my life.

“F” is for Friends. It is amazing who comes forward once a new baby arrives. Friends from near and far have blessed us with acts of generosity and kindness. From mailing us a congratulatory card to dropping off gifts for the baby and the family (one of the best things we received was the gift of time when my friends took Caiden for an afternoon and I could rest and devote some treasured, quiet moments with Ryan), we have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support and feel so very lucky to have these people as part of our family’s lives.

“F” is for Fortunate. This, for obvious reasons, goes hand-in-hand with “Friends”. An extension of this is geared, however, specifically for the generosity of new friends whom I have made through the MOMS (Moms Offering Moms Support) Club in town. These women, relative strangers to me, stepped forth immediately after Ryan was born and brought over wholesome home cooked meals, hand-me-down nursing garb, and even a present or two for Big Brother Caiden (so that he didn’t feel left out). How could I not feel fortunate to have them around?

“F” is for Fatigue. I haven’t slept since October 8^th, 2011.

“F” is for Feedings. Whereas Ryan eats constantly around the clock, many days I forget to eat meals myself. Breakfast for Caiden is often a scenario of him eating dry Cheerios straight from the box with a sippy cup of milk on the side. And then there is dinnertime. Caiden loves to cook. His mother, however, does not. See the following subcategory.

“F” is for Friendly’s, Fazios, and Fast Food. Without the assistance of the MOMS Club meals and these local institutions of cuisine, my family would starve.

“F” is for Frazzled. A typical “day in the life of Laurel” would include the phone ringing off the hook, the dog barking, the baby crying, the UPS man at the door, and Caiden running around half-naked. Enough said.

“F” is for Focus. Perhaps this is just an extension of “Frazzled” and “Fatigue”, but I seem to have completely lost focus on just about everything. I start something, get sidetracked, start something else, get sidetracked from that, and then look around and say to myself, “What the hell happened around here?”

“F” is for Fibbing. Whoever said that breastfeeding was easy, LIED.

“F” is for Feet. I can finally see and reach my own tootsies, so one of the first things that I did for myself postpartum was give myself an at-home pedicure. It was fabulous, so “F” can stand for that as well.

“F” is for FedEx. One of the things that I forgot about with regard to the early days of bringing Caiden home is the unquenchable desire to do online shopping and, even worse, make purchases from QVC. I blame it on the baby’s feeding schedule. There is not much on for entertainment during the wee small hours of the morning and, therefore, I often find myself tuning into home shopping stations that take advantage of my sleep-deprived state in order to convince me that I need these items. (Although I haven’t stooped low enough to buy a set of Forever Lazy, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were on the horizon. They do look quite comfortable and I am sure that the fabric it is made from is absorbent enough to even handle the rivers of spit up my kid produces…) Especially with the holiday season quickly approaching, the FedEx Man is hiking it up our hill almost daily in order to deliver something to us.

“F” is for Funky. This is probably how I smell since squeezing in a daily shower is a task unto itself. With the ability to shower at the gym, I have recently been contemplating bringing my gear to there just so I can clean up after my workouts without any interruptions involving a wailing infant or my toddler playing peek-a-boo with me using the shower curtain.

“F” is for Frumpy. In general, this is how I look and feel. Even when I successfully work my way into an outfit that doesn’t contain a strand of Spandex in it, I usually have to change it immediately because of hands covered in grape jelly or the wrath of Ryan’s reflux gets the best of me. And on a side note, there is no such thing as a sexy nursing garment.

“F” is for !@%$#%@. Yes, you read that correctly. Since Caiden repeats EVERYTHING, I don’t actually say this word aloud, but forms of this obscenity go through my mind daily. Examples include (but are certainly not limited to):

· Hearing Caiden in another room rummaging through something that he shouldn’t be rummaging through. “What the !@%$#%@ is he into now?”

· Changing Ryan’s diaper for the zillionth time, snapping, zipping, swaddling, only to finish and hear him squeeze out another rip-roaring deuce. Repeat the previous steps of changing, snapping, zipping, swaddling and then realize that he has spit up everywhere. “You have got to be !@%$#%@ kidding me!”

· Putting Caiden to bed. Then feeding Ryan. Then hearing Caiden get out of bed. Wrangle him back into bed. Get ready to turn in myself. Finally settle in. Look at the clock and realize that it is time to feed Ryan again. “!@%$#%@...”

· During a late night feeding I burp Ryan. He’ll spit up over my shoulder and onto my pillow. Do I change the bedding now? “Eh. !@%$#%@ it.” (Flip the pillow over. It can wait ‘til tomorrow.)

“F” is for Family of Four. And despite some of the inconveniences and hardships that sometimes arise as a result of that, I am, undoubtedly, Fulfilled.

Dirty Little Secrets

(Author’s Note: The following entry was written back in October during what I refer to as “Snowmaggedon”. Being without power for 7 days straight allowed for many hours of thought and writing, but actually being able to type, edit and post said writing took a little more time…)

A few weeks back I was hanging out with my good friend, Jenn. She, too, is a “new mom of two”. We first met back when our firstborns were, well, first born. Her eldest is 3 days younger than Caiden and her newest is 2 weeks older than Ryan. She is, in many ways, my mirror image when it comes to parenting and without her friendship I would truly be lost in the stormy seas of toddler tantrums, endless diapers, and late-night feedings. During this visit, we were sharing our “secrets” regarding the new “norms” in our homes. Usually, I would keep these facts quiet and to myself—feeling guilty and ashamed of what my current reality is—but with Jenn, there is no shame, nor hiding. Hell, it’s not even like I share it in confidence (although I know she wouldn’t be shouting my inadequacies from the rooftops if I had asked her to keep them hush, hush). With Jenn, I can just be myself and, in turn, learn that I am not alone on this ever-changing journey of motherhood. After talking with her for a few hours about how crazy and exhausting life now seems with the “simple” addition of another tiny human being, I now feel empowered by the raw honesty of it all and want to share all of my “dirty little secrets” with the world in the hopes of letting other moms feel normal. So here it goes…

DLS #1: I hate breastfeeding. So many outlets of society make this act look easy, loving, and even beautiful at times. Like it is a walk in the park and one of the best things about being a mom. YUCK. Not for me. Perhaps I lack some sort of maternal gene, but I find it to be hard, painful, time-consuming, and messy. The sensation of “letdown” feels like I am being punched in the chest by a set of brass knuckles encrusted with thumbtacks and no one ever warned me that my mammary glands could rival Ol’ Faithful once my bra was removed. (TMI? Sorry.) Everyone around me tells me that it will get easier and, although it has, I have yet to have that “Ahhhh, what precious time this is” moment. This less than desirable attitude towards breastfeeding makes me feel insensitive, nonmaternal, and downright terrible at times and I am sure that there will be some women out there who read this and think that there is something wrong with me. But regardless of anyone’s’ opinions (including my own), I will continue to stick with it because I do have a healthy, happy baby boy as a result of this feeding method. And it’s cheap.

(Ryan at 8 weeks old. His right eye gets all squished up when he's smiles just like mine does.)

DLS #2: I have a new babysitter. His name is Elmo. Since the arrival of my “itty bitty”, my big kid now lives in front of the television. It seems as though it is the only way that I can ensure that he is safe and in one spot while I get stuff done. I try to justify the endless hours in front of TV by saying that, “Hey, at least it’s educational programming”, but it never fails to make me feel like a parent who can’t balance her new responsibilities. I have every intention, day after day, to be the mom who wakes up, grabs her cup of coffee, feeds and changes her baby, then wakes, feeds, and changes her eldest, runs off to the gym, does the dishes, throws in a load of laundry, runs errands, and comes home to read books, bake cookies, and complete an afternoon craft with her eldest. But then 7am rolls around (aka: “REALITY”) and Ryan begins fussing because HE. NEEDS. FOOD. NOW!!!!!!! Then he proceeds to spit it all back up on me. Caiden runs downstairs and starts to take out every item in the Tupperware cabinet, the dog is barking at the FedEx guy, the phone is ringing off the hook, my breakfast is burning, milk is spilling, diapers need changing yet again, Caiden starts to chase after the dog with a broom, the sink is overflowing with crap, and God damnit I STILL haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet! So enters my good friend, Elmo, who can captivate my toddler’s attention for at good hour while teaching him his ABCs—in Spanish nonetheless—and I can at least pacify Ryan, rinse the baby residue out of my hair, and maybe vacuum the first floor. (On a side note, I sat nursing Ryan the other day with Caiden next to me in a “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Induced-Coma” thinking, “Hmmmm, this certainly gives a new meaning to the term ‘boob tube’…”)

(Evidence of a typical morning in the Manley household including PJs, Mom's bed, and an episode of "Curious George")

DLS #3: I let my baby sleep snuggly in the Boppy at night. I could defend this practice by saying that I do so in order to keep him at an incline after eating so that his acid reflux is kept to a minimum. This fact is, indeed, true, however my real intentions rest in the reality that it also aids in me scoring a few extra hours of uninterrupted sleep. I am sure that the American Association of Pediatrics and SIDS gurus would be cringing at the airing of this tidbit of information, but seeing that I am usually solo for the night shift in my house and still have to run the day shift here, I see no problem in having the babe-o sleeping away soundly in his U-shaped pillow/my saving grace (thinking that he is being held) in order to provide us BOTH with a good night’s rest.

DLS #4: My kids usually aren’t out of their pajamas until lunchtime. You just read about what mornings are like here. Do I need to paint a clearer picture nor explain this further?

DLS#5: I am not usually out of my pajamas until—well, ever. (Author's Note: Since the original composition of this post, I have now graduated to getting dressed--after lunchtime, of course-- but it's usually in yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts.)

DLS#6: The interior of my home looks as though it could qualify for FEMA Relief despite all efforts to keep up with the laundry, dishes, and my eldest child. I seriously forgot about how much dirty laundry a 10-pound human being could produce. Granted, this is a child who suffers from GERD (gastro esophageal reflux disease), but hoooooolllllly moooollllly is there a lot of washing to do! And loads of his laundry are quite deceiving. New/Prospective Mothers Beware: One load of cute little baby clothes is actually the work of the Devil in disguise. When it reemerges from the dryer you will find yourself in a never-ending barrel of onesies to be folded and teeny tiny socks to be matched up. Keeping up with the dishes in the sink is an issue because we are in that phase of life with a new baby that involves everyone eating in shifts so there is always a plate to be rinsed and a pot to be scrubbed. (Thank God for our dog who is a gem when it comes to “pre-treating” all the dirty dishes. She is also like a furry little Hoover when it comes to flying Cheerios and exploding juice boxes. So for Mollie, I am thankful.)

(Woof.)

DLS #7: I sometimes resent the fact that my husband can go to work every night. I am completely blessed to be in a situation in which we can afford to have me be a stay-at-home mom and I am incredibly grateful to my hardworking hubby for all that he does outside of our home. In addition, there is not much that he can do here during the nights. Caiden is fast asleep and doesn’t need our attention and I am the only one able to feed Ryan. The resentment lies in the fact that he can go out, interact with other adults, use his education, provide for his family, and just simply get out of this house ALONE. Perhaps “resent” is a poor choice of word. “Envy” is probably more appropriate, but nonetheless, it is something that I have embattled now for 2 ½ years now and is a feeling that is a bit more exacerbated due to being run-ragged and reeking of spit up.

I know that some, if not all, of these dirty little secrets are shared within the hearts and minds of other moms out there. Perchance you are one of those parents who can say aloud, “Oh my God, ME TOO!” Either way, I hope that by venting these concerns and truths about my own life, those struggling with the difficult adjustment of a newborn coupled with their own sense of perfectionism can give themselves a little slack knowing now that they are certainly not unaccompanied on this journey. Good parents are not always going to be dressed to the nines by noontime and happy-go-lucky 24/7. Good parents are honest and use that honesty united with a bit a humor to learn, move on, and laugh at themselves. If you share one of these dirty little secrets with me, you are not a bad parent. And you, more importantly, are not alone.

We Plan. God Laughs (Part Two)

WARNING: The following blog post contains the details of a birth story. They are not gory details because a.) I wouldn’t want you to think about them, and b. ) I wouldn’t want to think about them either. Nonetheless, read at your own discretion.

Early in the morning on Saturday, October 8^th I woke up to take my usual 3am “pinkle”. I hopped back into bed and lay there wide-awake. The grocery shopping had been done for the week, the house was pretty much in order (as far as “order” goes around here), and the calendar was basically cleared of all activities. So what the heck could I think about to lull me back to sleep? Feeling uber pregnant and begrudgingly realizing that I was now 5 days overdue, I started to convince myself that this baby was never going to come on his own and I should just accept the fact that he would arrive via C-section on the 17^th. [Being the last day of my 42^nd week, this date was set in advance with my OB as a last resort. I referred to it as “Evacuation Day”. If I was potentially going to still be pregnant by mid-October, hell, they pull him out through my right nostril for all I cared…]. Coming to terms with this, I began to mentally pack my hospital bag with a few extra items for a longer hospital stay. I’ll need that black nursing cami and my postpartum pressure belt… Don’t forget the iPod… I’ll grab some magazines tomorrow… Ugh! Stupid cramping again. Eh, I felt this a week and a half ago with false labor. It’s nothing. Besides, I am going to have another section anyway.

We Plan. God Laughs.

Three hours later I awoke to a pretty strong contraction. Hmmm... No biggie. I figured that it was another Braxton Hicks pain and disregarded it until another one came about 10 minutes later. And then another one 10 minutes after that. Since Dan was due to be home from work within the hour, I decided to hold off on calling or texting him. No point in him racing home to wait around a few hours while the steady contractions got stronger and closer together, right?

We Plan. God Laughs.

7am: Dan walks in through the door and I am holding myself up with the kitchen counter. “Brace yourself, Babe. Pretty sure we’ve got a long day ahead of us.” We began timing the contractions in order to get the “go ahead” with the midwives. They were coming 5-7 minutes apart and at 8 am we were told to head on down to Baystate. My mom hurried to our house to watch Caiden and by 9am I was admitted to WETU (the evaluation unit). Upon my first check I was at 8 cm dilated. 8 centimeters?!?!? Yep. It’s baby time. [Except this is not the wording that I used. What I actually said was HOOOOLLLLLLLY SHIT!] I was whisked away to the Labor and Delivery Unit where I was immediately able to receive an epidural. When I had Caiden, this portion of the birthing process was a cake walk so I wasn’t really nervous when anestheosilogy walked in.

We Plan. God Laughs.

Two tries later (after getting the epidural in a vein the first time—yeah, that is pain that actually rivals active labor contractions), I was completely numb on my right side with some sensation still remaining in my left. [This would prove to be a blessing in disguise later on.] Despite some panic because I could still feel part of my lower half, I was able to rest and relax for the next few hours. Dan was able to catch some shut-eye on the pullout couch as I psyched myself up for the work ahead of me while simultaneously watching a “Law & Order: SVU” marathon. Around 3pm my midwife broke my water to get me to that last centimeter that I needed and by 4pm it was “go time”. [Insert another HOOOOLLLLLLLY SHIT! here.] It was at this point that I literally was regretting my whole “let’s go VBAC” decision. This is going to hurt! The process of pushing, however, wasn’t as traumatic as I anticipated. Because I still had some sensation remaining in the lower left quadrant of my abdomen, I was able to tell when a contraction was coming on and didn’t have to rely on a nurse reading a squiggly line on a monitor. This allowed me to really jump on each opportunity to get this little man out. And it worked. Screw you C-section. I am woman. Hear me roar!

From the first contraction to the last push, the entire process took only 11 hours. Ryan Patrick entered the world at 5:06pm weighing in at 7 pounds 6.4 ounces and was 21 inches long. The second he was placed my chest I began crying. Dan kissed my forehead and told me what a good job I did and how the little guy was really, actually, finally here. My tears weren’t for how sweet this little baby was though—that would be saved for later. In that moment, those tears were for ME. And the fact that I had set my mind on something 9 months ago that I so desperately wanted to achieve. And I did it.

God wasn’t laughing then. I think that He was smiling and nodding in contentment, too.

The Waiting Game

“… all the time we wondered and wondered who is this person coming/growing/turning/floating/swimming deep, deep inside.”

~ Crescent Dragonwagon

Pregnancy is a waiting game. It begins from the very first second you pee on an EPT stick and anxiously count down the seconds until your fate is determined by one or two blue lines. If you see a positive test result, you then anticipate the first OB visit where your doctor gets to tell you how much longer you have to wait until your baby is due. Then you get to wait for the doctor’s appointment in which you hear the baby’s heartbeat for the first time. That is usually followed by waiting to see the fuzzy images on a small screen at your first ultrasound that they say resemble a fetus, yet my own personal jury is still “out” on that one. Then you get to wait for your next doctor’s appointment to hear about how good you are at growing babies. Oh! And then there is that (what seems to be the most) excruciatingly long period of time that you have to wait until you get to go to your second ultrasound in which the baby’s gender can be disclosed. (Aside from the actual due date, waiting for that particular ultrasound is what eats away at mine and Dan’s patience the most.) It is almost as if as soon as you learn that you are pregnant, an invisible clock forms around your growing abdomen and sounds louder by the day.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Let me tell you, from experience—TWICE now—that that clock becomes nearly deafening when your baby decides not to arrive until after their due date. Our family continues to await the arrival of out new little “bundle of boy”. I had mentioned in my last blog entry that we were in anticipation of the results of an ultrasound, and since I received a resounding amount of support, maternal wisdom, and well wishes from so many, it only seems fair to share what happened at that appointment. Baby Manley is still measuring small—they are thinking he is about 6 lbs. 11 ozs.— but all his pieces and parts are right on point with regard to development. He is, indeed, a full-term baby, just a small guy. (No complaints here.) His heartbeat is strong and steady as are his movements. (I believe that he is a budding ninja.) He continues to float in plenty of amniotic fluid and there is no deterioration of the placenta at this time. The best news that we received was that he is currently lying in a sideways position. Although there is a chance that he could decide to flip and face posterior again during delivery, our obstetrician was still very encouraging and supportive of persuing the route of a VBAC. Seeing that “No-Name” Manley is predicted to be on the smaller size, delivery could be on the “easier” side (ha ha—“Easy Labor and Delivery” just seems like an oxymoron to me…). Our doctor said that if he does flip back into a not-so-desirable position, she would continue to work with us to achieve the birth that we desire, but allow us the option early on to elect a surgical route if needed. So, all in all, it was good news! We were also lucky enough to get a headshot of the little guy in utero. He has a tendency to always have one of his hands in front of his face, but he is really going to have to get over his camera-shyness if he is to survive a childhood with me as his mother…

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

So here were are, now two days post-due date, and the Manleys are becoming connoisseurs at playing “The Waiting Game”. My feelings about it change by the hour. One minute I am doing everything known to man trying to induce labor. Walking. Jogging. Squats. Exercise ball. Evening primrose oil. Spicy food. Praying. BEGGING. The next minute I take a look at what is around me and relish in the routine and predictability of it all. Then I think, “We got this down pretty pat. Why hurry to turn it all upside down?” In order to get through this latent period, we just focus on keeping busy. Dan, the “do-what-really-only needs-to-be-done-outside” kinda guy, has made sure that our mums and pumpkins have been purchased and has even dug up some flower beds and planted bulbs. The other day I actually found him chopping down a tree on the side of our house. No joke. I, the anti-cook, have prepared meals to throw in the freezer and even attempted to embark upon some new recipes. (There is a crustless apple pie that is in my oven as I write… I don’t think that will make it to the freezer though… Hell, it probably won’t even make it to suppertime.) Our home is constantly being tidied even though I know that my two-year-old tornado will immediately run his course through the area. I go to the gym daily and have carried on with scheduling appointments, playdates, and other activities to fill up our calendar. “The Waiting Game” becomes inevitably painful—physically, emotionally, and mentally—if you just sit there.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

In addition to keeping busy, I’ve been trying to focus on the positive side of stuff. At the forefront: Hey, at least I am not doubled over in pain, confined to a hospital bed, and dead below the waist. Hmmm, I’d say that could be categorized as “positive”, right? Then I look at bonuses of not being a mom of two right now. It means that I am changing half of the diapers, laundering ¼ less clothing, bottles and miniscule pump parts are not in need of washing, I know where my youngest is at all times and have him under control, I can feed myself and the baby at the same time by tackling a burrito (Spicy, of course), and can achieve consecutive hours of sleep without any interruption. The last component to my outstanding stamina with regard to playing “The Waiting Game” is a reliable good ol’ sense of humor. I have created a mental list of reasons why Baby “No-Name” has yet to make his debut.

ü He still has no agreed upon name and the idea of having to grow up being called “Captain Hand-Me-Down” is completely unappealing to him.

ü He hears me yelling at his big brother all the time and is wise enough not to enter this warzone.

ü In the event that he has blonde hair, he is working really hard to change it to brown so that at least one of my kids resembles me in the faintest of ways.

ü There are already too many birthdays on dad’s side of things being celebrated within a 2-week period.

ü He has survived on ice cream for the past 9 months. What’s the point of living if Friendly’s declares bankruptcy?

ü Let’s face it, he knows how happy maternity yoga pants make me.

And, so, despite all of the coping mechanisms “The Waiting Game” continues. If, eh hem, I mean, when our son arrives, he will be perfect in every way (even if he does have blonde hair) and it will have totally been worth the wait. And, in all reality, I can’t stay pregnant forever. RIGHT?

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

We Plan. God Laughs. (Part One)

This is the phrase featured on a magnet that graces a family friend’s refrigerator and I have always been drawn towards it. We plan outdoor parties. It rains. We plan the perfect outfit. We spill our morning coffee on it. We plan the ideal gift. The store is out of stock. The birth of a baby is no different.

Caiden’s pregnancy and delivery was the epitome of that saying. I learned that I was pregnant right after I had registered for the two hardest courses in my Masters’ program, was in the midst of planning our wedding, and I was in the process of seeking out a new teaching position. We Plan. God Laughs. Despite the tailspin I was in discovering the news that my firstborn was on his way, I prepared for his arrival by the book. I completed every checklist, followed all of my doctors’ recommendations, journaled my experience during the 9-month “adventure”, took my vitamins, attended childbirth classes, spent every Saturday morning driving to Holyoke to take prenatal yoga, read every best-selling parenting book, and practiced my breathing techniques religiously. If I was going to have a baby, I was going to do it “right”. We Plan. God Laughs.

Without going into gory details, Caiden’s actual birth story was less than ideal from a mother’s perspective. To start off, he came into this world during a blizzard. A legit, close-Western Mass down, crazy accumulation blizzard. I started early labor around 2:30am and decided to wait to call the midwives because I had a scheduled appointment at 11am. Dan and I braved the storm driving about 15 mph to the West Springfield office only to be met by a receptionist saying, “Oh. We probably should have called you. We have canceled all appointments for today.” Back into the car we went. When we got home, the snow was so deep that we couldn’t get our car up the driveway. As I attempted to walk up the slick incline, I ended up collapsed and on all fours having incredibly strong contractions. I thought I was going to have to give birth in my kitchen. Around 1:30pm that afternoon we received a phone call from the midwives’ office saying that since the snow had slowed down and roadways were clearing they would be able to see me. Needless to say, we took the appointment. I got checked and was told that I should head to the hospital in a few hours (I’d dilated, but not “enough”. Due to the frequency of the contractions though there was no doubt that he was on his way.) After laboring hardcore at home, we were finally admitted into Baystate by 9pm that night. At 7am the following morning, it was time to push. I pushed. And pushed. And pushed. And continued to push until 2:30pm. Let’s put it this way: I had been laboring in that hospital for so long that I went through the shift-changes of 3 different midwives. Caiden was in a posterior position (face-up when he should be face down towards my back) and physically could not get out. I was beyond exhausted and finally an obstetrician was called in and ordered an emergency C-section. The postpartum period was also less than ideal for me. I felt like the sorriest excuse for a mother. I believed that I was a failure in the “delivery department”, contended with something beyond the normal “baby blues”, couldn’t breastfeed, and healing from the surgery itself was a long and painful process. We Plan. God Laughs.

This time around, with regard to pregnancy and delivery, I know not to plan too much. However, some days, I feel like I have taken it to the opposite extreme. Preparations have been kept to a “what’s necessary” basis. I have maintained a pregnancy journal, but did a weekly check-in on baby’s progress rather than a day-by-day development lesson. Baby’s clothes have been put away, but not on color-coded hangers denoting size. The bassinet it out, but often serves as a place to hang my towel after a shower. My hospital bag is packed. Sorta.

It is certainly not the case of caring less about this baby. Part of it is the lack of time. Part of it is the lack of energy. Part of it is being a “seasoned mom”, knowing what I can live with and without. But there is also a part that I really don’t like to acknowledge: “Part Unknown and Anxious”.

Seeing that Caiden’s birth ended up in a C-section, I have the option of just going ahead and scheduling another section for this baby. I have thought long and hard about this. I have done hours of research on the alternatives, the pros and cons of repeat caesareans and VBACs (vaginal births after caesarean), talked to doctors, midwives, and other mothers, and I have lost many hours of sleep over the decision. After all of this, however, I decided to attempt a VBAC. I have asked the midwives at every prenatal visit if this baby is in a good position for delivery and not posterior. So far, so good. He’s measuring a bit smaller than his big brother, which is a “plus”. So although a scheduled C-section has a number of positive points such as I would know exactly when my baby would be here, I could solidify childcare for Caiden, I could anticipate the length of my hospital stay, and I wouldn’t have to labor at all, I think that I owe it to myself to at least try to deliver this baby naturally. With drugs, of course. Lots of drugs. But, yet again, We Plan. God Laughs.

I woke up at 3:09am on Tuesday with cramping and contractions. After timing them for a solid hour, the frequency and duration of them met all qualifications to make “The Call” to the midwives. I was told to go to the hospital and had checked-in by 6:30am. My mom rushed over to our house to watch Caiden, my bag was tossed into the trunk of our car, and Dan grabbed a giant coffee to prepare himself for a long day. Lying in the WETU ward of Baystate, however, everything slowed down and I was discharged 4 hours later. Upon examination, though, we received news that the baby had started to shift and was now starting to turn into a posterior position. Great. For the past 9 months he has been exactly where he should be. Head down. Face down. Nice and compact. A perfect contender for a VBAC! And now days before his due date: This. We Plan. God Laughs.

I have a regularly scheduled prenatal appointment tomorrow morning that is accompanying an ultrasound. After months of mentally and physically preparing myself for a VBAC, if we learn that this baby is, indeed, face up and is not likely to turn on his own, I believe that am going to ask to schedule another C-section ASAP. Honestly, I have no idea as to what to expect from all of this. So I am trying my best to not expect anything at all. There is an army of clichés that echo in my mind when I think about it. Prepare for the worse and hope for the best. It is what it is. Focus on the positive. I must remember that we plan and God laughs, but also—and more importantly-- keep in mind that He never gives us more than we can handle.

To be continued…

Perfection Isn’t in the Pillows

This past summer Dan and I invested in a new bedroom set. This collection of furniture is my “Big Girl Set.” The “We’ve Made It Set.” The “We Are Adults Set.” It consists of a beautiful mahogany sleigh bed, a top of the line mattress, and all of the matching pieces sit proudly without any water rings or “we’ve been moved about 1,000 different times” dings and scratches on them. When the furniture was delivered, I even went out and purchased beautiful new bedding to go on it with shades of aqua, ivory, and chocolate brown with the intention of creating, not just a sophisticated master bedroom, but also a serene retreat. I seriously love this set of inanimate objects.

When I made my bed this morning, I was sure to smooth out all of the wrinkles in the comforter and fluff all 10 pillows (Yes, you did read that correctly. This bed is worthy of a photo spread in Better Homes and Gardens). I straightened out all of the books on the nightstand, cracked open the windows a bit, sprayed a shot of Febreeze Air Effects to add that finishing touch and smiled a deeply satisfying smile as I looked around my sleeping sanctuary. Ahhhhhhhh……

Then the phone rang. I left the room to answer it and, within minutes, Caiden quickly ran into the bedroom, jumped on the bed like it was a WWE wrestling ring, tossed all of the pillows off of it (with the sound effect of “Crrrrr-waaaaash!” each time one hit the floor, I might add), and simply shrieked with toddler delight and enthusiasm as he destroyed the one spot in our home that is supposed to be "kid-free". My Ahhhhhhhh... had now turned into an Aaaaaaaah!!!! Out of pure exasperation, I actually caught myself saying, “UGH! Why can’t I have nice things with you around?!?!”

I want “nice things”. Not necessarily expensive things, but items that would make my house a home—a place that is warm and inviting. A place that you would want to come to visit, or, perhaps, even live in yourself. I want to have “nice things” around like scented-candles burning, beautiful linens throughout the place, matching plates in my cupboard, and rooms that are clutter-free.

Now flash forward to a “snapshot” of our home. The beds are made, but trampled upon (usually you can also find hidden toys under the pillows—aka: “tunnels”). Despite all honest efforts, there is always a dish in the sink, handprints on any shiny surface within 3 feet of the floorboards, pet hair floating around, and dust bunnies breeding in corners. There is the occasional work of art on the walls (crayon is Caiden’s preferred medium), while Hot Wheels, trains, and blocks become scattered throughout the ENTIRE place. (This is especially true in areas that I have just spent time “perfecting”. Apparently, clean spaces are actually magnetic force fields for toddlers.) Framed photographs are even no longer safe here and slowly migrate their way onto closet shelves where they will remain until my children no longer stand on the furniture, remove them from the walls, and point out everything and everyone that they see pictured. Obviously, our home is not a haven for “nice things”. Don't believe me? Take a look at the photographic evidence below:

(Exhibit A: "Mealtimes." Notice the plastic seat covers we purchased to put on the white upholstered chairs "Just In Case")

(Exhibit B: Let's Just Call This "Any Given Tuesday". Always be weary when you hear your child declare, "Momma! I cook!" )

(Exhibit C: "Craft-Time". Although this was supposed to be a messy project to begin with, finger painting turned out to be total body painting...)

Maintaining a beautiful home feels like a never-ending battle. I feel extra pressure to do so because I am a stay-at-home mom. Granted, this is a lot of self-inflicted pressure, but I do feel that since being at home is my job, somehow I am supposed to find the time to dust the chotchkies in the China cabinet between nursing boo-boos, planning dinner, running errands, and attending playdates. (Thank GOD for Curious George because without him, the little “perfection” that I do achieve would never be possible!) This pressure for attaining perfection is even more exacerbated now that I am in a nesting phase during these final weeks of pregnancy.

Now flashback to my wreck of a room this morning. Frustrated by the chaos of my home and my fruitless attempt of “niceness”, I decided to just leave the pillows on the bedroom floor and fix them later during naptime. (Hey, then they would look pretty for at least 2 hours of the day, right?) I called up a friend and made plans to meet up for a walk around the neighborhood. At the end of our walk, I allowed Caiden to get out of his wagon and run the rest of the way home (Don’t freak. He runs on the grass and it is the length of two houses. He gets a kick out of the independence though.). He stopped in our next-door-neighbor’s yard to pick “flowers” (aka: dandelions). He refused to move on to our own property until he had a big handful. Proud of himself, he raised the “flowers” to his nose, declared “Ooooh! Piddy!” and then marched them over to his Momma. It dawned on me then that it is a simple touch like THAT that makes my house a home. My son’s loving gesture of picking me a bouquet of dandelions was one of the “nicest things” in my life.

Later in the day, I was looking at my freshly picked spray that will sit on my nightstand tonight. Caiden was sitting quietly next to me coloring a picture of Lightening McQueen. He would occasionally peer up just to shoot me a smile or tell me what color he was using. I realized in that peaceful moment that a.) He doesn’t care what my house looks like. Home is where his Mom is, and, b.) I can have my “nice things” down the road when my children are all grown up and have moved out. But then, it won’t matter. In fact, it will probably break my heart because in the silence of my empty nest, when the pillows are all in place and the candles flicker and the tiny handprints have faded off of the mirrors, I will surely miss days like these.

Letters from Laurel Land

My recent blog posts have been inundated with sentiment and emotional depth, which, although sincere and interesting, puts a lot of pressure on this wannabe writer. This week, I figured that I would give my readers a sneak peek into what seriously runs through my brain on a daily basis. It certainly isn’t emotionally provoking, nor will it offer any insight into the meaning of life. But it is a reflection of my life. And it definitely is somewhat humorous and blatantly honest.

Being a stay-at-home mom can be quite lonely at times. This is especially true if those that you are home with have a very limited vocabulary and/or mediocre conversational skills. In times of such social seclusion, I often find myself writing little mental Post-It notes to the world that help me focus on the funny, rather than the frustration of it all. They usually end up as entertaining Facebook status updates, but as of late, there seems to be an abundance of them so I decided to create a log of them just to demonstrate the chaos that can ensue over a week’s time living in my home.

Dear Caiden,

I do not launder your clothing in skin-activated acid nor will you die by wearing pants. Believe it or not there is a social standard with regard to wearing such garments. Until you are old enough to Google where the nearest nudist colony is, let’s try not to fight about this.

Love,

Momma

Dear Baby No-Name,

Ouch. Knock it off. I know that it’s cramped in there, but, trust me, in the grand scheme of things I can guarantee you that it has been more uncomfortable for your Ol’ Lady.

Love,

The Woman You Keep Kicking in the Ribs

Dear Charter,

I really shouldn’t have to reboot my entire cable system every time I want to watch something On Demand. Your services suck and if I didn’t rely on the television right now to keep my kid entertained while I wallow in uber pregnant-dom, they would all be cancelled.

No Love,

Laurel

Dear Hips,

I miss you.

Love,

Laurel

Dear Mother Nature,

Any chance you could take a break from dumping rain on us just long enough so that I can run out to purchase supplies for my ark?

Sincerely,

Sick of the Storms

Dear Dan,

Your mistress is on the phone again. She answers to the name “Overtime”. No, no. Don’t feel bad. I, too, fall victim to her alluring nature. Just don’t be pissed when you see the Target bill.

Love,

Laurel

Dear Baby No-Name,

Seeing that you are still currently specifically unidentified, I wanted to let you know that, as of this week (one that was spent preparing for your arrival), the title “Captain Hand-Me-Down” may appear on your birth certificate.

Love,

Mommy

Dear Caiden,

Today I had a fleeting moment of pride and accomplishment reveling in the fact that “Mount Washmore” (the giant pile of laundry downstairs) was now “No More”. Then, while I was busy folding said laundry in the basement, you were busy re-potting a spider plant in my bed. Thanks.

Love,

Momma

Dear Heart Rate Monitor,

It is really annoying when you pick up the heart rate of the super fit guy sprinting on the treadmill next to me while at the gym because it messes up my own workout and stats. Don’t get me wrong, though. I am totally going to claim the “calories burned” that you are calculating using his rapid heartbeat.

Sincerely,

The 9-Month Pregnant Waddling Walker

Dear Full-Night’s Rest,

Where you at?

Love,

Preggers

Dear Self,

If you continue to write imaginary notes to everyone, it may be time to consider therapy.

Love,

Self

Dear Caiden,

This afternoon we went for a walk around the neighborhood. As usual, during the last stretch I let you get out of the wagon and run home all by your “big boy self”. Watching you so free and happy made me smile ear-to-ear. Literally. I may not use the exact words or say them aloud, but I thank God for you each and every day.

Love,

Momma

[Okay. So maybe there is an occasional bit of sentiment to my daily existence. But if you live in this house and want to survive, you gotta know how to laugh.]