RenovationGirl

A Year Ago Today

It is now past midnight.  The date has turned to April 9th.  Upstairs, asleep, are my two children.  Two. It is only in the past month or so that I can say "children," plural, and not feel awkard or uncomfortable.  I have multiple children.  Not one. Two.  It's crazy. Not a day has gone by during this past year where I haven't marveled at this fact.  Not a day has gone by during this past year where I haven't thanked God for these amazing gifts.  It has been an amazing and joyous year.

Dear Baby,

It is 12:34 AM on April 9th, 2014.  It's your first birthday!  A year ago today, we were all wondering when you'd make your big entrance.  I was four days late, bigger than a house, and so very ready to meet you.  I went to bed the night before anticipating meeting you.  Somewhere in the middle of the night, mild contractions started.  Enough to disturb my sleep, but not enough to wake Daddy.  (Really, does anything wake Daddy?)  My contractions were getting stronger and by 5 AM, I couldn't stay in bed anymore.  I took a careful and quick shower and then got back to bed.  I started timing things and realized that this was probably game time.  I had one goal in that morning-get your brother to school without knowing we were headed to the hospital.

You see, after almost nine whole years of being an only child, your brother wasn't so thrilled by the idea of you. He was confused and worried about how life would change for him, for us, once you arrived.  He's a worrier, that brother of yours!  So, we just wanted him to go to school and not worry all day.  Somehow, through the onslaught of intensifying contractions, we got your brother to school and he had no idea!

Once brother was at school, mommy called your yaya  to let her know we'd need her to pick up your brother.  Being the worrier she is (see, your brother comes by it honestly), she left the house immediately, even though she wasn't needed for 6 more hours!  In the meantime, we called the doctor who let the hospital know we'd be on our way.

At this point, mommy's contractions became more sporadic, so daddy and I took our time getting things ready and leaving for the hospital.  Even though we had done this before, we were still scared and worried and nervous.  Our lives were about to change yet again and we didn't know what was in store for us.  When we got to the hospital, instead of mommy getting a wheelchair to go up to the labor and delivery floor, mommy decided to have daddy park in the regular parking lot and walk the whole way.  I can remember the looooooong hospital hallways and having to stop regularly to breathe through a contraction.  I remember a hospital volunteer offering to get us a wheelchair.  But then the contraction would pass and off we'd go again.  

As we headed into the last stretch, the nurses saw me coming and called out my name.  They didn't know me, but they heard I was coming-and I was to get special treatment.  The head daytime nurse was the mother of one of my friend's and she had told everyone to treat me well.  It felt special and comforting and welcoming.  They marveled at the fact that I had walked the entire way and this felt very affirming to me.  This was around 11:00 AM.  They got me into a room and began to get me hooked up to monitors to see what you were up to.  

Not much.  You had decided to take a break.  I was not having regular contractions, although the monitors showed they were pretty intense when they happened.  I was working through them well, so it appeared that they might be sending us home.  The doctor ordered that I walk for awhile and then see if things progressed.  If not, home we would go.  We walked and looked at all the construction (the maternity wing was being remodeled) and once back on the monitors, things were still status quo.  They consulted Dr. L. about me and she asked me if I'd like her to break my water.  I was four days late, I was 40 years old, I said yes!  So, although I'm not sure of the order now, they started the epidural, hooked up just a little bit of pitocin, and broke my water.  At this point, it was now around 1:45.   I asked the nurse about how long they thought everything would take (I was worried about your brother) and they assured me it would probably take about an hour per cm and I was only 3-4 cm (and that was being generous).  So we settled in to wait.

About 40 minutes later, I felt some serious pressure.  I mentioned it to daddy who kind of shrugged it off.  With the next contraction, I felt that serious pressure again.  Again, I mentioned it to daddy.  Again he kind of shrugged it off.  On the next and third contraction, I knew this wasn't normal pressure-this was getting urgent.  I knew I was going to need to push very, very soon.  I asked daddy to get a nurse, and warned him that she would probably poo-poo him, but to tell them I still wanted them to check me.  They came in to check with an air of appeasement and a look of surprise crossed the face of the nurse.  In that short time, I went from 3 cm to 10 cm.  It was go time!

They called Dr. L, who had left to go run errands (she was at the post office when they called her)-after all, we all thought it would be hours!!!!-who gave one instruction-Don't push!  The nurses set the process into motion-transforming by room into a delivery room-as we waited for the dr to get there.  I was worried my friend's mom wouldn't make it, but she arrived shortly before the doctor did and her presence was calming and comforting.  Dr. L swooped in and quickly checked me.  She was surprised, but pleased.  Without even putting on a surgical gown, she began to give me instructions.  First push.  I could tell I was pushing wrong.  It had been awhile since I'd done this and we hadn't taken a refresher class.  Next push came along, I worked hard at pushing correctly and out slipped your hand over your head.  Daddy loved that!!  One more push, and out you came.  Boom.  Three pushes, less than 40 minutes of tough labor, and there you were.  

to be continued...

In the Quiet

It's quiet right now...save for the hum of the baby monitor...and the occasional banging of wood from the workshop below as Remodel Man crafts posts for our front porch...and the soft laughter of Builder Boy and his friend playing Legos two rooms away.  It's nice...

I've been dwelling on the idea of quiet a lot during the past six and a half weeks since my daughter was born.  It started out when I realized that when she and I are home alone, there is often a lot of quiet during her awake times.  When Builder Boy was an infant, I talked to him nonstop.  I was nervous and worried that I was doing everything wrong, so I read parenting books and heeded their advice to just talk as you go about your daily routine.  So talk I did.  Constantly.  (At nine years old now, guess what Builder Boy does?  Yep, talks. Constantly!) This time around, I'm okay to let their be silence in our days.  She actually seems to relish this quiet time.  She kicks her legs and checks out her surroundings.  Often I find her smiling.

This quiet started at the hospital.  I was tired of having been pregnant and tired from delivery.  We were often alone (Did this happen with everyone's second child?  No one really came to visit in the hospital...it was weird and I tried not to be offended by it.)  and during this alone time, we would sit quietly, gazing on one another.  When I took my first shower post-delivery, I remember what a friend said about how lonely she felt in that first shower.  All of a sudden, after nine months of always having "someone" with you, here you are, alone. I felt that loneliness, although I willed myself to not dwell on it.  Hyper-aware of postpartum depression, I didn't want to think about such a sad thought,  yet it would creep in during other showers. 

Once home, pensive quiet would continue.  I would find the slippers I took to the hospital, the booties she wore, or event he spritz bottle for my sore girl parts-and in those moments, I was intensely aware of the silence.  I was watching to see if I was slipping into a depression, once again willing myself not to feel the intense sadness I encountered the first time around.  Thankfully, almost seven weeks later, I have not sunk into that horrible pit of postpartum depression and I thank the Lord daily for this.  

This time around, when I find myself pensive, thinking on the moments that can cause intense sadness, the falling off of the umbilical cord, the packing away already of newborn clothes, the awareness of how fast she is already growing and how much better she fits into her car seat, instead of reprimanding myself how I am wasting valuable time, missing precious moments, this time, I just enjoy.  I enjoy the momentary wistfulness of the passage of time.  I allow myself to experience the bittersweet.  This time around, I know that even with the passing of time, from newborn to toddler to preschooler to grade schooler, new and exciting experiences await her-and I get to watch.

The quiet has taught me so much this time.  So has experience.  So has the fact that she is a content baby.  Or maybe the fact that she is so content stems from my peacefulness.  Who knows?  All I know is this...I am enjoying the quiet.  

 

 

Happy 2nd Week Birthday

Dear Baby Girl,

Today, at exactly 2:51 PM, you  turned two weeks old...in the grand scheme of your life, this is just a blip of time.  To us, your parents, it is a time of celebration.  It is eight years of waiting.  You have already filled our lives so full that is seems like you have always been with us.  I suppose, in a way, you have.  With every negative test, failed cycle, and loss, the Lord had you waiting for us.  Waiting for YOUR time, the RIGHT time. While we will never forget our 5 little angels, you have filled our hurt a bit and our hearts are overwhelmed with joy and love. 

In the past two weeks, you have taught us much about ourselves...you have taught us that just like that mean ol' Grinch, a heart really can grow many sizes in a short period of time.  You have taught us that we are, ahem, older, and that helps us and hurts us.  Bending over that changing table to change you only to have you pee on your sleeper mid-change, then explosively poop on mommy before she can get that diaper on, lets us feel every creak in our middle-aged bones.  But having the life experience of 40 years behind us?  Well, that has filled us with patience beyond compare.  We know exactly how blessed we are and how lucky we are to have you.  You have taught us that teamwork counts and that big brothers are slow to fall in love sometimes.  You have taught us that our friends and family are amazing people who love you almost as much as we do, recognizing the precious gift you are to us.  You have taught us that even after so much pain, joy is possible, boundless joy.  

In the past two weeks, you have already shown your personality.  You are a good baby who actually sleeps.  I had heard these types of babies existed, but I always thought they were the stuff that stories were made of.  But no, you sleep.  You are rarely fussy, but when you are, there's always a reason.  Sometimes, you get yourself so worked up that when you cry, you sound like a little lamb bleating.  And while this should upset us, it's so stinking cute, we just smile and hold you tighter. You love your hands and constantly have them at your face.  You actually came out of mommy arm first before your shoulders.  Sometimes, the way you hold those hands around your face, you look angelic.  Other times, with a slight gassy grin, you seem to be plotting your first evil plan.  (Perhaps to pull the cat's tail?)  You love to snuggle up on someone. but at night, it's mommy.  You love sticking your butt in the air and nuzzling on mommy's chest nice and tight.  (Mommy loves this, too!) You are a good eater and took to nursing right away.  Unfortunately, you also have a tendency to spit everything up, but no worries-you're gaining weight (13 oz in 10 days!) and mommy and daddy comfort you when this upsets you.  You make a ton of noises, whether eating or sleeping or just hanging out with us.  You have the brightest eyes we've ever seen that seem to see deep within us and you follow the sounds of our voices with those beautiful eyes.  When we change you, your legs never stop moving.  Your right leg often sticks straight out and hangs out mid-air, until we're ready to put that diaper on you, and then BOOM, it curls back up again.  Sometimes, it looks like you're bicycling  as fast as you can.  You like a little "me time" in your pack and play sometimes.  It soothes you.

Baby girl, in just two weeks you have stolen our hearts and the hearts of many.  You have fulfilled our dreams and we spend many an hour gazing on your sweetness, in awe of this gift we have been given.  We love you.  Happy two week birthday!

She's Here!!

Our miracle baby girl arrived on April 9th after being almost 5 days late.  It was an easy and fast delivery and so far, she is an easy and sleeping baby.  We are beyond thrilled and in love!  I'd love your input on what blog name she should have...

Pictures and more to follow...

 

I'm Still Here, Just Bigger

Hi. I'm still here.  Doubtful that many of you are.  I've committed a grievous sin in the blog world: I have left my blog unattended for months and months.  But I am still here. Hi.

Right now, I'm having trouble typing on my Chromebook.  Even with it's little size, the computer is still too big for my significantly smaller lap.  This is a pain, one that my cats (who are on the "pleasantly plump" side) are very upset about.  But I'll take it.  

I am in the home stretch, friends.  I am over 36 weeks pregnant now and we are all doing well.  It would be a lie to say this was an easy pregnancy-being 40 as opposed to being 31 has proved much more difficult than even I thought.  While we've had no complications, things have been tough.  My exhaustion is more intense this time around.  I have not yet had the lovely "nesting" syndrome that hits pregnant women.  There was no "Superwoman" second trimester phase.  Since week 16, my feet and ankles have remained swollen in an alarming manner. (No worries, blood pressure is fine.)  My back aches constantly.  I haven't breathed through my nose easily since we conceived.  And while I know this sounds like complaining, it's not.  I delight in it, even when I'm uncomfortable and out of sorts.

I have lots more to share.  Like how Builder Boy reacted to the news of becoming a big brother and how he has come to accept it and possibly even be excited by it.  Or all the things I had forgotten about being pregnant-good and bad. About the people praying for this baby and how incredibly blessed this baby is.  And how my house right now has been overtaken by all things pink.  :)  But we'll save that for a later date.  Just know I'm still here, just bigger, and a lot more quiet than I've been in a super long time.

Let's Bake Some Damn Gingerbread Pirates

Today is our last day off after Thanksgiving. I am always grateful for this extra day. Since I worked Black Friday (and by Black Friday, I actually mean Thanksgiving night as we head to clock in by 11:45 to work the opening midnight shift...another post on that to follow...), I spent all of Friday recovering. Apparently, my body can't handle a 24 hour day like it used to! Builder Boy and I are both off today, and after a weekend of work, recovery, cleaning, and more work, I set a to-do list that included mostly things we do together, and with as little television as possible. On my list was read together, work on his homework, and study for yet another test (did I mention that he has a test almost every day of the week???). On his list was bake gingerbread pirates. Yay! Get some holiday baking done, spend some time together, and have him removed from the television for a few hours-it was win/win.

Our day had been going well...shortly after he got up, he asked to watch Empire Strikes Back. I was still finishing up some grading I was working on, so I put the movie on, made him some popcorn, and knocked a few things off of my list of to-dos. We had lunch and then settled in to bake some cookies. During a conversation, I answered a question he asked (when can he start using his advent calendar?) and he was not pleased with the answer (Thursday). "But Dad told me advent started Wednesday!" Me: "Well, he must have not looked at the calendar...December 1st is Thursday..." BB: "No, it's not. Dad said Wednesdsay." Me: "Well, buddy, I'm looking at a calendar and it says Thursday." BB: "Well, it's wrong. Dad said..." We went round and round like this for awhile until I hit my breaking point.

This happens a lot around here...Dad is always right, mom is always wrong, and stupid, and not as smart as a teenager (Builder Boy's words, not mine...). I have told him before how hurtful these words are. I've asked him to imagine what it would feel like if someone said that to him, but he doesn't get it. I'm his mom, a metaphoric punching bag for him. I get it...he and his Dad are the best of buds...a lot of that comes from the common interest in all things boy. But a lot of it comes from the fact that I am always working. Always. If I'm home, I'm cleaning, cooking, paying bills, working my cyber teaching job, grading papers. Or I'm at school or my retail job. Dad is here in the morning to get him off to school. He's here on the weekends and nights when I work my retail job. He's here to play with while I make dinner or make calls for work. Dad is here. Mom is not. To say I am okay with this would be lying.

I see the major divide. Them versus me. The boys against the girl. I have no other children to take to a movie or read with or be stupid for. When Builder Boy hangs out with Remodel Man, I am alone. Just me. By myself, existing in all the failure I see surrounding me. Being reminded of my infertility. Forcing me to acknowledge how I've failed to reproduce and even worse, failed to be the mom I wanted to be to the child I do have. Friends are too busy or too far away to fill the void. Just me.

So today, as I informed Builder Boy in no uncertain terms that I am NOT stupid and it's hurtful when he says that, I turned to him and said, "Now let's bake some damn gingerbread pirates!" Yea, how's that for some good bonding time with the world's greatest mother. Perhaps I should just find a fourth job to take...

Approach With Fortitude Then Run Away Scared

I did it today...well, part of it.  I've dreaded it for years now.  The thought of it made me physically ill and created panic attacks of epic proportions.  But I put on my big girl panties, walked up those flights of stairs to our third floor and walked right up to those boxes and bins.  I walked up to them, determined that I would show them who's boss around here.  I waded through piles of stored items until in the farthest corner of the room, buried deep amongst Christmas wrapping paper, newly put away preschool toys, a play kitchen, and cookie tins, there they were in all their glory.

It was a bit of a showdown...I stared at them, and they stared right back in all their dusty glory.  I would not be deterred, no sir.  I dropped my hand right into their midst and grabbed the first thing my hand felt-a small bag. I whisked them away from their counterparts, bigger and fuller boxes and bags, and marched back downstairs, threw them on my bed, prepared to show them that I meant business.  I ripped open that bag and the items scattered across the freshly made linens. 

Oh...

It took my breath away.  Literally stole the breath from my body.  Out tumbled pastel fluffiness.  And I thought my heart might break. 

In this small bag of items that had been forgotten when the initial box of baby items had been sent into storage seclusion was a mishmash of babyhood.  A few small changing pads, a few bibs, a couple of hats, and a sheet for the pack and play.  That's it.  Nothing more.  No cute socks, or a favorite outfits, or cuddly blankets.  Nothing that held any particular memory.  Yet, that mishmash of forgotten items with no particular memory instead held all the memories.  All the things I have feared facing as we end our journey. 

I have left all of Builder Boy's clothes, toys, and linens untouched.  We have had no need for the space, and so there has been no need to purge any of the baby things.  I kept them at first for our next baby.  When the next baby alluded us, I kept it for the "just in case baby."  But "just in case" baby has become "never gonna happen baby."  It's time.  I feel it.  It's time to let go...of the journey, or the dream...and all of the baggage that goes with it.

In the midst of writing this,  reliving that brief moment, I had to stop.  On the verge of hysteria, my only thought was, "Call PorscheNut."  We spent some time crying on the phone together...she's already done this purging of baby items...and talking about how it was the memories that mattered, not the things, and that this parenting step was so incredibly hard.  Now still feels like the right time, though.  With Black Belt Mama expecting her baby boy soon, now is the time to move on, let someone else use the precious items.  It seems a whole lot easier to give them to someone I love instead of packing them up in garbage bags to be sifted through at Goodwill. 

I ran away from that little bag upstairs.  It's all waiting for me on my bed.  I will have to confront it at some point before bedtime.  Then again, I can always sleep in the spare room...

While Everyone's Asleep

Everyone is asleep in the house.  The cool, night air, a welcome relief from the glaringly hot day, laps into the house.  I sit, in the kitchen.  The place where I spend most of my days at home.  It is a mess and I should be cleaning.  But it can wait.

For now, I focus on the positive.  The fun summer times we are having as a family.  How our summer focus is on family and not the house.  Bike rides and trips to the zoo and a visit (twice) to a historic village in town and lots of days and nights at the pool. Play dates with friends and long conversations with kindred spirits who are too far away.  Breathing in the clear nights and allowing the sun to soak into the skin.  A birthday celebration and time with family and a trip to the sandy beach soon.  A mother who gives her everything and more for her family and a grandfather who loves spending time with his grandson at a coffeehouse under a shady tree.  Watching the Stars Wars movies, starting with 1 and working our way to "our" Star Wars movies.  Ice cream and homemade popsicles and eating dinner on the patio.  Veggies and  potato packs on the grill and fresh cherries we could eat by the poundful.  Reconnecting with close friends and making new ones. 

What I will not focus on is my mammogram tomorrow or my aunt's fatigue after her first round of chemo.  Builder Boy's breakdown earlier today or Remodel Man's stress.  My sister's loneliness or my mother's concern for her family.  Our financial stresses or the overwhelming work schedule this week.  A school year that has already started with drama and stress and a little bit of comedy.  Buying school supplies in mid-July.

No, for tonight, I will focus on the quiet of the night.  I will focus on the life we live now.  I will focus on the family I have been blessed with and the friends who support us.  Because while everyone's asleep, the mind can take me to the bad places, but there is time for those places...or not.  I'll focus on the not...

The Girly-Girl With The Muddy Toes

We've been trying to get together for months now, PorscheNut and me.  Our kids enjoy playing together and we need the friend time.  So a couple of days ago, our schedules aligned and we set about making plans for the day.  Since it's summer, I'm all about outdoor, summer activities,  but neither one of us is very outdoorsy.  We're suburban girls who believe that "roughing it" means a three-star hotel, so an outdoor activity usually involves a park, playground, or swimming pool.  Until a couple of days ago when I happened to check a local farm's website and found that they had extended their strawberry-picking to, what's that-yes, just until that day we were looking for something to do.  It must be fate!

 

So we packed up and headed out, meeting for a should've-been-quick-but-ended-up-being-a-looooong-lunch before heading out to the farm.  That's when I realized...I had left my sneakers at home.  Here I was, sporting my usual summer footwear-flip-flops. I have spent a bit of time on farms and know that flip-flops aren't exactly proper footwear attire for farm life.  Oh well, what can you do.  So off we went to the farm. 

As we piled out of our cars into the blazing hot sun, PorscheNut commented that she had forgotten the sunscreen.  Uh, yes, well...so had I.  But what could we do?   Here we were, at the farm, ready to pick some yummy strawberries.  So off we went. 

 We picked our baskets and into the fields we went. 

 
It truly was a glorious day...warm and humid the way a good summer day should be.  But we've had lots of rain over the past few months and the ditches in between the mounds of strawberry plants were wet.  Okay, they weren't just wet...they were a soupy, muddy mess.  Soon, we were cackling as we slipped in the mud, arms flailing, trying to keep our strawberries in our baskets, but not falling on our butts into the mud. 

 
As we stooped and slipped, trying to find perfect strawberries, shouts of "I'll never complain about the prices of strawberries again," or "I never would have made it as a pioneer wife!" could be heard over the field.  And PorscheNut said not just once, "Whose idea was this, anyways?!"  But we looked out over the fields,

 
at the beauty of the day, and place, and the relationships joined there, and all of a sudden the mud and the burning sun and blown-out flip-flops and muddy sneakers just didn't seem to matter anymore.  

 
Because there were smiles at funny strawberries...

 
and friends helping friends carry heavy baskets laden with red wonders. And then, of course, there was the reason we came:

 
 which turned into this:

 
and this:

 
(my Portmeirion plates, although lovely, do not photograph well!)

As we were packing up to head home, I told PorscheNut how honest this all seemed.  How true.  That this type of work, this type of labor felt so real.  Not that teaching isn't a noble career, and certainly not that I wanted to begin a life of farming, but even just the short time we spent in the fields, with the strawberry plants and mud and the lake just beyond, I felt lighter and freer and more connected.

Girly-girl from the suburbs or not, I think I'd do okay with a house surrounded by a lot of land to gaze upon.  Even if it means wading through muddy fields with my flip-flops on.

 

Elbow Deep in Vomit

On Friday night, I turned to Remodel Man and commented, "It hasn't even started and I feel like the weekend is over!"  With a birthday celebration, a holiday family party, and a baptism, we had no weekend left.  For someone who works as much as I do, two days together free of commitment makes the chance of me being committed a lot less likely.  This weekend, however, was not a free one.

We got through our busy Saturday and were looking forward to welcoming a new baby into our faith community...a very special baby (and adorable to boot!) and Remodel Man's newest goddaughter.  As I stood in the laundry room grabbing some clothes Sunday morning, a sleepy Builder Boy exited his room and I gasped, "Builder Boy, what's all over your shirt?!"  I thought it was the chocolate ice cream he had right before we headed home from our party that he had wiped on his shirtsleeve (yep, I let him sleep in his shirt!).  "Can we go in there and I'll tell you," he said shakily pointing to my bedroom.  Uh-oh...

Turns out, Builder Boy had  thrown up multiple times during the night and was "too sick" to call for us or come get us. Oh my!!!  My first instinct was, "How sweet!  What a brave boy to be so sick and not need us or get us!"  My second instinct as I walked into his room was, "GAG, dear Lord, I wish he would've come get us!" 

Needless to say, I spent the day taking care of a very sick little boy and doing loads and loads and loads of laundry.  Remodel Man headed to the baptism and enjoyed a nice day of celebration.  Me?  I still smell puke even though there can't be any smell left.  My hands are raw from scrubbing puke out of the linens and washing my hands in the futile hopes that I will not get whatever Builder Boy has.  I am exhausted.

And yet, I felt like a woman with a purpose today.  My child is sick-I must take care of him.  In his sick sweetness, he would murmur, "I love you, Mama."  It warmed my heart as I was walking miles and miles between the kitchen and living room with crackers and popsicles and ginger ale.  For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was the favorite parent.  I'm the mom, that's the way it should be,right?  But it's not.  Builder Boy loves his Dada.  They are buddies. But today, it felt different. It felt like old times when Builder Boy was all about his Mama.

Just as soon, though, as it started, Dada walked in.  Things went right back to normal.  Mama the servant, housekeeper, bill payer, provider, chef.  Dada the fun one, the one you snuggle with, the buddy.  In an instant, even though things had been cleaned up for hours, I felt elbow deep in vomit again.