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.]

“Pinkles” Put It All Into Perspective

Last night I had the most wonderful dream.

My water had broken. I received a shot of Pitocin. Labor was underway with the help of one of my favorite midwives and the “bonus” was that the lady who had delivered in the room before me left behind an Internet-accessible laptop so I was able to alert all of Facebook friends that our little guy was on his way.

Then reality set in when I woke up at 4:02AM to take my usual “pinkle” (these are the “My-God, it-feels-like-I-have-to-pee-like-a-racehorse-but-only-tinkle” moments courtesy of the 6-pound fetus on my bladder. “Pinkles” can occur anywhere from every 15 minutes to every 2-hours for a pregnant woman. TMI? Sorry.). Needless to say, it was an incredible disappointment.

Now that I am in the midst of my 36^th week of pregnancy, the honeymoon phase of gestation has quickly dissipated and I am SO READY have this baby. The “pinkles” disrupt any form of activity whether it be sleep, housework, grocery shopping, playtime with Caiden—HOLD ON-- yep, and now, blogging. Finding a comfortable position to sit, stand, or sleep is next to impossible. Recently, I have been getting ridiculous rocket-me-out-of-a-sound-sleep-and-make-ya-wanna-cry leg cramps at night. My hips go numb if I am sedentary for more that 30 minutes at a time forcing me to walk like an 87-year-old woman every time I get up. I make stupid, slovenly “ugh!” sounds every time I have to shift positions in bed. I can barely breathe and actually call myself “Fatty McGee” when climbing a flight of stairs because I start to pant. Eating is done solely for prenatal nourishment rather than to satisfy hunger. (Seriously, eating a doughnut should never be considered a chore. So depressing…) I can see my toes, but touching them has become a distant memory. And to top it all off, a symptom that no What to Expect book can prepare any mother for is the amount of guilt she will experience in subsequent pregnancies when she can’t be the momma she wants to be for her existing children.

After my multiple “pinkles” throughout the course of each night, I end up lying in bed wide-awake for at least a good 30 minutes. This leads me to stare absent-mindedly at the clock and think about all sorts of things. It usually starts out with, “Hmmm… what should we have for dinner tomorrow?” Then it morphs into things like making mental grocery lists, new blog topics, and, most recently, solving other people’s problems. Last night after my wonderful fantasy, however, I was struck by the disappointing reality that I was still uber preggo and a month away from where my lil’ one really needs to be. My “post-pinkle pondering” lead me to become conscious of something far more important.

At the age of 20, during my junior year of college, my weight began to fluctuate like a roller coaster, I had severe heart palpitations, bad skin, my abdomen was constantly aching, and I no longer had any “monthly visit” from a particular “Aunt”. I went through a battery of medical tests and was poked, prodded, and pricked for a good month or so. Finally, after many doctors’ visits, blood samples, an ultrasound, and even a radioactive iodine uptake test, results indicated that I had a thyroid disorder and polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS).

The thyroid diagnosis was easy to accept. It was common. I had heard of the thyroid gland. I could “fix” everything easily by popping a pill daily. Over time, it could actually go away. PCOS, on the other hand, was a different story. I had never heard of it and had so many questions. When I heard the answers, they made me feel freakish and thrust me into a state of devastation for quite some time. Although all women actually produce some testosterone, women who suffer from this disorder produce an abnormal amount of the male hormone. This imbalance of endocrinology “tricks” the reproductive system and while the ovaries are trying to do their job, an excess of painful cysts begin to form on them. PCOS is treatable, but not curable. What was most overwhelming to me, however, was that at that age of 20, my doctor told me that down the road, conception, if at all possible, would be very difficult.

That is yet another reason why Caiden was such an unexpected “surprise”—and blessing--for Dan and I. My doctor and midwife called him my little “miracle baby”. After he was born, I was told that my situation was not very common and if we were to want to try for another baby later on, we would need to prepare ourselves for a long haul, a lot of “trying”, and to brace ourselves for some disappointment because it might not happen so easily again. And so we did. We knew that after the wedding it was time for us to start thinking about a new addition. Caiden was at a good age. We were “legal” now. I “got” motherhood (not down pat, but a good grip at least). We decided that after the New Year we would start trying. It took us two weeks.

Two weeks. That’s it. No long haul. No disappointment. Just another “miracle baby”. It literally brings tears to my eyes as I write this because for the past few weeks all I can seem to focus on is how much “suffering” I am enduring during this homestretch of pregnancy; complaining about stuff that will disappear as soon as my sweet little boy is ready to make his entry into the world. And it was a form of this “suffering” that gave me grace and a good ol’ “snap out of it” metaphorical slap in the face. It was a “pinkle”, the inability to sleep, some serious recollection of the distance I have come through the gift of my family, and a HUGE epiphany in the form of absolute gratitude for me to realize that I am SO FREAKING LUCKY have frequent urination, cramping, swelling, and heartburn.

Take your time, Buddy. You are so worth the wait.

Manley Metamorphosis

Caiden decked out in his Tux a Year Ago at Our Wedding Ceremony

There are plenty of reasons why having a child out of wedlock is not encouraged. There is the religious component. There is the money factor. There is also the not so obvious reason that it is nearly impossible to get anything done with wedding preparations and/or post-production thank you note writing with a little one underfoot. One good thing about having a child, however, is that when you are a parent, you know how much things can change in a year’s time as well as how fast that time flies by.

Dan and I just celebrated our one-year anniversary. Although it usually feels like we lead a very mundane existence in the grand scheme of things, it is already amazing to see how much has changed over the course of one year. A weeklong, childfree honeymoon getaway to St. Lucia last January gave us time to just be adults, husband and wife, and not “Caiden’s Parents”. We were able to talk about grownup stuff, sleep in, and relax on the beach without having to worry about someone running off into the sea or eating sand by the shovelful. We were able to sit in silence watching the sunset and eat a full, hot meal without any interruptions or cutting up someone else’s food into itty-bitty pieces. It was wonderful and helped to rekindle a part of our relationship that is sometimes so easily put on the backburner when, normally, our number one priority is keeping our child happy, healthy, and safe. As a result of that getaway, we also added a new member to our family… Over the course of the past year, our home has weathered the wrath of crazy blizzards, debris castoff by tornadoes, and, most recently, serious rainfall courtesy of a hurricane turned tropical storm. It has also withstood the wrath of what an active 2-year-old can procure. Since last August, we’ve added a patio, ripped out some hedges, redecorated two bedrooms, paid off a car, and shared the company of each other as family laughing, playing, and dreaming a whole lot in between. Reflecting upon the past 365 days, I suppose that “change” doesn’t necessarily have to be in your face or blatantly life-altering all the time. Like with your own child, it takes looking back at pictures and remembering all the things that you have done over the course of a certain period of time to realize the growth that has really taken place right before your very eyes.

Seeing that Dan and I are not ones to be slaves to tradition, our first anniversary was spent as a couple, but putting our own spin on things. We lined up a babysitter and went out to a lovely dinner. When we came home, however, most people would assume that we shared a slice of stale wedding cake extracted from the depths of our freezer. Not so much. We knew a year ago that that tradition was not for us. We like cake too much. Knowing this, I carried out a plan that was devised long ago by ordering a new cake from the bakery that made our wedding cake—a miniature version of our “nuptial num-nums” to partake in. We sliced the cake using our engraved knife and server set and shared the delish dessert over chilled milk served in our wedding flutes because, let’s face it, what other occasion will these things be used? (I will say that, originally, those flutes were to be filled--numerous times at that--with a really good champagne that was given to us on our wedding day. Unfortunately, our little “St. Lucian souvenir” made us hold off on that.)

After dessert, I gave Dan his gift. Since the first year anniversary is considered the “Paper Anniversary”, I kept it simple. He got a card. Within the card, however, I wrote him new wedding vows. Once again, the concept of change and growth played a big role in all of this. Although the words I spoke to him a year ago still remain strong and true, events that have occurred over the course of these past 12-months only made me want to promise him more and acknowledge everything that I may take for granted on a daily basis. It was during this writing exercise and time of yearly reflection that I realized many things will remain static and solid over the course of our marriage, but metamorphosis is certainly inevitable. One thing that shall always remain constant, however, is how much I love and appreciate this wonderful man in my life. Knowing that this change is always on the horizon, I cannot wait to see how fast this next year will fly by and what it will bring to our ever-growing family. It is a blessing to experience these everyday acts of “mundane miracles” and creation of memories with my best friend as we continue along this path of life we vowed to share a year ago.