Of Note.

Well look at that. Here we are about to enter Holy Week and it was JUST Ash Wednesday. Ah such is life. Busy. That's what life is. There has been much ado about EVERYTHING here at Chez Burps & Farts. Among which:

1.) My oldest son has finally decided that the only appropriate place to dispense his pee-pees is on the potty. OH YES. Last Tuesday, as I was kneeling down to get him dressed, I commented to him that his pull-up was dry. At that moment I we decided that we should just try sitting on the potty to see what happens. And FOR ONCE OH MY GOSH YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW STUBBORN THIS KID IS he agreed. And he PEED! And then he peed again! And then we pulled out the big boy underwear that have been sitting in his drawer gathering dust for AGES and now he wears them every day. Each morning we sit together while he's on the potty (or the Pot-tay as we like to call it) and we look through every single pair of underwear that he owns to decide which character's face will grace that cute little bum today.  He's doing remarkably well with all of this, even today going into the bathroom twice without my knowing to do his business.  Why yes, my son is a superstar.  We'll talk more later about the sheer DEVASTATION that occurs when we don't quite make it to the potty. It's heart-breaking really. Let's not discuss it.

2.) Son #2 has given up the paci. Well. Unbeknownst to him. We are on night four of Project No Paci and, THANK GOD, he's surviving.  Monday morning he took it out to drink some juice and, instead of keeping it clutched in his sweaty little fist, handed it to me. So I did what any other horribly insensitive mother would do. I set it aside where he wouldn't see it. It wasn't my intention that it be set aside permanently, it's just that we've been trying to make a point to only let him have it for sleeping times, especially now that he's CHEWING HOLES THROUGH THEM. (On a weekly basis. This chewing the paci thing is getting to be an expensive habit.) And I'm afraid he's going to choke. But then I put him down for naptime and realized, as I was climbing the stairs to rejoin the land of the no-nappers, that I had forgotten to give it to him. When he actually SLEPT without it, I figured Hey, let's keep going.  That night was the same. Super sleeper. No problem. Next day? Super nap. No problem. That night? SCREAMAGGEDON. Until midnight I'm not even kidding. While I was debriefing Tim the next morning we pondered whether it was because of the paci or something else. Okay, we figured it was the paci.  But I wasn't about to give in yet. "Let's try it one more night," said I. And now here we are at Night Four. Super Awesome. And, I have to say, I haven't seen him with a paci in his mouth since Monday morning and you know what? He looks like such a different boy. Such a big boy. Let's all pause for a collective sigh over how big my baby Jake is getting.

3.) The sun has come out here in Northern California and thank God for that. This has been a hard winter, what with bringing home the new baby and all. There have been many a rainy day when I would have bundled the boys up and gone out or even played outside (or even in the garage) but you just can't take a newborn out like that. So we've been in the house a lot and that coupled with every other type of stress and exhaustion that comes with new babies has been wearing on me. I've been looking forward to spring and summer so much because it just feels like life will be easier then. Sure enough - the days we've spent outside this week have been awesome. The boys can spend hours digging in the dirt and running around after this ball or that. The weather, combined with that re-energizing that comes after making it through that "fourth trimester" and a few other things have led me to the point where I can feel life getting easier. And that's just what I've needed.

4.) Speaking of son #3. At four months old he is now spending a lot of his days smiling and laughing. And ROLLING OVER onto his side, and almost to his tummy.  He's got the cutest little chuckle and the rolls on his legs are starting to get a little chunkier. While he did torture me for a little while with what I can only guess is a 4-month sleep regression, he is getting to be a better sleeper.  I'm winding up right now to get him started on a daytime sleep schedule, although Chris wasn't a napper at all until he was five months old and I didn't even attempt with Jake until AT LEAST that long. So I'm not too concerned with it at this point.  Chris and Jake have been super big brothers lately, always sitting next to him and trying to make him laugh or get him to stop crying. That alone makes my days easier. I love looking up and seeing them all sitting together in the family room. It drives my brain to ten years down the road when I'll have big floppy boys lounging in that same room, eating me out of house and home.

5.) I have been promising this recipe to people left and right without ever delivering on it. So here it is, JUST FOR YOU.  My mother-in-law's super delicious chocolate bundt cake (bohn? Bonk? Oh!!! A Cake!!) Name the movie and I'll make the cake FOR you.
      1. Blend yellow cake mix with one 3-oz chocolate instant pudding packet and 1/2 c. sugar
      2. Add 3/4 c water and 3/4 c oil
      3. Add 4 previously beaten eggs
      4. Add 1c previously beaten sour cream
      5. Stir in 1/2 c (apparently some people measure their choc chips. not me.) choc chips.
      6. spray bundt and lightly dust with sugar
      7. Bake 45-55 min @ 350 degrees
      8. Before you pull it check to see if it jiggles. If it does PUT IT BACK. It's not ready.
       9. Before serving, dust some powdered sugar over the top.

6.) MMMMMMM. Trust me. MMMMMM. Now, Shelby has made this cake and poured a ganache over the top, which I can only imagine was chocolate deliciousness covered in chocolate heaven. Especially if you don't measure the chocolate chips. Really, friends, the more chocolate chips the better. Just keep pouring. You won't be sorry.  Another thing I've been wanting to try with this cake is to make it with a lemon (or yellow, I suppose) cake batter and white chocolate chips. I think that would probably be nice and light for spring. And you know, really good.

7.) Last. And certainly Least. For the last three weeks I have been TOTALLY CAUGHT UP on my laundry. Like, to the point where I'm finding myself looking around to find something (anything!) to make a full load. Don't you just hate me? Sorry. I'm just super proud of myself for being so on it. And I totally know that as we start spending more time outside this will all go to pot, so I have to mention it now.  I credit my new Three Basket System, courtesy of the multi-hued laundry baskets that I just can't seem to stop buying at Target.  I'd tell you more but I just finished writing a mile-long comment about this very thing over at Amy's and I'm all laundried out. But let me just say for now - tomorrow I'll fold my last load of laundry FOR THE WEEK and then? Laundry room is CLOSED.  Now that's what I call a nice weekend.

More Quick Takes here.

Ash Wednesday. Again. Already.

This life-sized creche was my favorite place on my university's campus - just sitting there in front of the Holy Family, pondering the beauty of that moment - the moment of the birth of our Lord.  Gazing into the face of the Blessed Mother - so at peace. So humble. So loving.  Examining the life of Saint Joseph - so strong. So courageous. And looking at that precious baby laying so innocently in the hay.  I used to sit there, in the company of that Most Holy Family, and beg God to bless me with a family of my own.  It was my life's dream. My heart's desire.  The Virgin Mary was (and is) what and who I wanted to be. I've often said that what I want for my life is to "be" Mary to my own Joseph. To my own baby Jesus.

Perhaps if you're not a person of faith, this seems odd to you.  It could seem odd even if you ARE one.

I don't know who designed this particular creche. I don't know if it was intentional or accidental.  I don't know if others have seen in it what still strikes me. But on the back wall of the stable there is a beam that holds up the roof with a structural cross-beam attached.  So when you sit there and gaze upon that sweet baby Jesus laying in the hay at the beginning of his earthly life you are instantly confronted with what will happen to him at the end of it.  How powerful to gaze upon that sweet baby and SEE HIM up there on that cross - that precious baby who was born so that He could die.

I don't often think of Jesus in his child form. My Lord, my friend who I have come to know is Jesus the adult. Jesus the preacher. Jesus the friend. Jesus the story teller with the sarcastic flare and sharp wit. Jesus who healed the blind man. Jesus who wept at the death of his friends. Jesus the miracle worker. Jesus the forgiver.  Jesus the prophet. Jesus the priest. Jesus the king.

Jesus the victim. Jesus the sacrifice.

Today is Ash Wednesday.  Catholics the world over have been walking around all day with big black smudges on their foreheads and non-Catholics have been looking at them quizzically trying to figure out why we can't all just wash our faces already.  I love this day. I love the looks. I love the humility of it all. I love approaching the priest and having him say to me, 

"Remember that you are dust and unto dust you shall return."

I use this season for the purpose of preparing my heart for the death of my friend and what that means for my soul.  The thing is that now, and for the past three years, it is no longer just my soul that needs to be prepared. I now have three little souls whose (very heavy) weight rests on my shoulders.  Today as I approached our priest for the blessing of these ashes, I carried my darling newly baptized baby in my arms. Perfect. Pure. Sinless.

"Nathaniel, Love Jesus with all of your heart."

And as we walked back to our pew, I wasn't the only one with that big black cross on my forehead.  I find that right now, as I type this, words fail me. (Not good, I realize, as I'm putting this all in writing...but let's face it. If I don't write it tonight it won't get written.) My eyes welled up with tears. My heart broke a little because, just as I would gaze upon that creche and see the dichotomy of that little baby resting in front of the instrument of his death, there in my arms was my little Innocent marked with the reality of his sinful fallen nature.

I don't know why it is that Lent has always been such a powerful season for me.  I don't know why I can't make it through a reading of the Passion on Palm Sunday and Good Friday without tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.  Part of it, of course, is that in my heart there has always been this deep abiding love for the person of Jesus and gratitude for his tremendous sacrifice that I so clearly, each and every day, do not deserve. 

But you know what? Holding my Little Precious today? I made a discovery. Now, as a mother to my own  boys, I walk through this season in the Mary's sandals.  I hold in my heart those things that she pondered.  Every night in my prayers I thank God for the gift of my children. I ask him to give me the graces to choose the right for them and the courage to raise them well for the time that he has entrusted them to my care, knowing that he chose to give them to me at a specific time and for a specific time. And that realization opens my heart even more to what it is that Mary experienced as she watched her own sweet baby endure the weight and the ramifications of my sin. Then my heart breaks a little more, as it ponders my role not only in the suffering of Jesus, but in that of Mary as well.

So this Lenten season, I will endure my chosen sacrifices. I will persevere in my added devotions. And as I walk hand-in-hand with my Lord on his journey to the cross, I will open my other hand to that of his mother and ask her to show me how all of this looked through her eyes.

I Do Believe We're Due For A Rant From My (Self) Righteous Soapbox.

Several years ago (back when I was young and carefree, living in San Diego with my fabulous roommate) there was a notepad-sized piece of yellow paper affixed to my bathroom mirror on which was A List. The List contained bits and pieces of conversations with others that, when taken out of context, could be deemed as nothing better than completely inappropriate for mixed company. Or any company, for that matter. One of the items on said List was spoken by yours truly, and I believe it said something to the effect of:

"You know, Shelby. You should really try to be more like me."

Ha! I remember exactly where I was when I said that. And I remember it being added to The List almost immediately as it really was said in jest. Who can remember the original context? Not I. And that's not what's important here. What's important is that, lately, this has really come back to haunt me. The difference? Now I'm dead serious.

I said it to Tim the other day. "You know, my life would be SO MUCH EASIER if people would just think the way that I do and then BEHAVE PROPERLY." Being the loving, obliging husband that he is, he agreed with me and we moved on. (I married a very smart man.) I'll admit that I did feel a bit snobbish after uttering (okay SPEWING IN FRUSTRATION) these words and figured that perhaps I should examine my own self before declaring myself Miss Manners And Good Behavior. So, after a good deal of self-reflection, I've figured it out. It's not that I wish people would think more like me (well. okay. I do, really. But read on.) but rather that I feel as though the ways that I think and the manner in which I behave are deeply rooted in common sense. And common courtesy.

Two things that, frankly (and I don't care if you're name's not Frank.) aren't that common anymore.

CASE IN POINT:

Today I filled my car up with three sick, almost sick, and very sick little boys for an impromptu visit to the pediatrician. Christopher has been alternately hacking up his left and then his right lung for a week now, Jake started in with the cough yesterday, and little Nate is on day three of the saddest sounding little cough you've ever heard. It was one of those mornings that I was watching the clock hit 9:00 so that I could call to get the in as early as possible; and yet, I was dreading this call as well. DREADING talking to the receptionist who has never gotten a single appointment scheduled correctly for me. Never. (Honestly, I'd rather pull out my own teeth than deal with this woman.) (I'm sure she's a lovely person, but she can't schedule an appointment to save her life.) (Really.) Lucky me, I called the advice line and when the nurse did end up recommending that we come in, she scheduled me herself.

I will be doing all of my scheduling through the advice line from now on. One way or another I'll find an excuse to do it.

When we arrived for our 10:30 appointment at 10:28 (!!!!ontimewiththreekids!!!!) I had the boys wait outside the door while I popped my head in to say that we were there. They have a sign on the door requesting that any families with flu-like symptoms come in through the back door, and while I was confident the boys don't have the flu, I also didn't want to get any of the other babies in the waiting room sick. (See? Common Sense! Common Courtesy!) Unfortunately for me, of the two receptionists, the only one at the desk was She Who Cannot Schedule. And, no surprise, she was dealing with another mom and clearly was in the middle of Something Confusing. (I will refrain from commenting on the "confusing" in the interest of being charitable. Mmmkay?)

Clearly she was busy. So, I made eye-contact and then closed the door and stood outside the window in the cold with my three snot-faced babies. Certainly they could hear the coughing from inside. Moms with kids went in. Dads with babies came out. Everyone exchanging pleasantries. "Oh what a cute baby! He's just a week older than ours!" "Oh thank you for waiting for the other door. We really appreciate it." "Oh there's another door? I didn't even know!" (First timer.)

Did I mention that it was cold outside? Did I mention that my kids were sick? Did I mention that Receptionist SAW US STANDING OUT THERE as I repeatedly stuck my head in the door?

I was getting angrier and angrier with each passing minute. I really felt that it would be wrong to take my germ-laden kids into the waiting room where they could get the other kids sick. But you know what? MY KIDS ARE SICK AND THEY'RE STANDING OUT IN THE COLD. What a conundrum. Finally, Receptionist Who Gets Things Done, returned to the desk. It was 10:35. All I had to do was say hello before she knew who we were and was hopping back out of her chair to run over to the back door to let us in out of the cold. You see, friends? Common Sense. Common Courtesy. Sick kids inside a warm doctor's office.

WHY ARE THESE THINGS SO HARD FOR SOME PEOPLE TO FIGURE OUT?

This whole common sense thing has been nagging at my brain for the past couple of weeks. It didn't just start today with my poor little children standing out in the cold with snot icicles dangling from their noses. The pressure is starting to build within me, though, and I'm afraid that my Common Sense volcano is going to erupt one of these days just because someone leaves an empty glass on the counter rather than putting it in the empty sink.

Ah, pet peeves. Aren't they delightful? What are yours?

*****

By the way, we came out of that visit $90.00 poorer, but three kids healthier. Chris has a cold along with his first ear infection and a prescription for Bubble Gum Medicine (amoxycillin), Jake's already downed his second dose of cough medicine, and little Nate was sent home with a nebulizer with saline solution that steams up in his face and makes it look like he's taking a little smokey tokey. Hey, you have to find the humor in this somewhere, right?

So Much For Installments...

It's time to be done with this whole "birth story in installments" thing. I'm just too infrequent a poster to actually make that happen. So let's get on with it.

We woke up bright and early on the 12th with Christopher asleep between us in our bed. This is nothing new - he's been showing up a lot since we moved to the new house. It's a disruption, and often it's frustrating, but the good thing is that when we wakes up (even the very first night we were here) he just gets out of his bed, runs down the hallway and up the stairs, and just climbs right in. No crying or screaming from his bed requiring us to make that journey in reverse. So we have to keep the complaining to a minimum. Anyway. As frustrating as the day and night before had been, the morning came early but went smoothly. Chris did wake up before we left, allowing me to take a couple of photos with him - cute ones too, as he showcased his little tiny belly right alongside my big huge one. (You know we don't do photos here, but you can see the evidence of this on facebook.) Jake was still sleeping and, to be honest, it was heart wrenching for me to leave without saying goodbye to him. But leave we did.

Checking in and getting settled at the hospital was a breeze, and before I knew it I was all gowned up and resting comfortably in my bed waiting for the variety of nurses and doctors to come and give me all of the info necessary for the day. I felt calm and comfortable. This c-section thing really is old hat by now. The one thing that did have my blood pressure on the rise was the prospect of having the IV placed. Last time it took four nurses FIVE separate attempts to get that thing in. As a matter of fact, they had to call an anesthesiologist to get the job done. It was AWFUL. So when the nurse came in this time I pulled that whole "be your own advocate" thing and told her, in no uncertain terms, that we were not doing THAT again. She was awesome. So awesome that she immediately called in the nurse on the floor who she considered The Best at this whole IV thing. And you know what? She really was The Best. No problems whatsoever.

With that done, I thought my worries were behind us. I had been informed from the very start that my 10am reservation in the OR had been postponed, as they'd had an emergency c-section early in the morning, bumping the 8am and therefore bumping me. No big deal. I've been the girl having the emergency c-section and bumping the others out. What goes around comes around. They told me we'd be leaving my room for the OR at 10:55. "They" being this awesome nurse...hmmm what was her name? Oh yes, NANCY. I LOVE NANCY. She must have been about 65. She was tough. But not scary tough. She was one of those nurses who knew what she was doing, (she was training a nursing student and every other word out of her mouth was "this is how you have to do it. It's not how *I* do it, but this is protocol and this is how you do it." Hmm. I suppose that sounds bad now, but it was just because she has been doing this for so long that there are things that she just KNOWS you know?) had the tender heart of a nurse, but also had a sense of humor that could carry you through any anxiety that you might have.

So. They were supposed to come get me at 10:55. At 10:50 Nancy pops her head in and says that it looks like we're going to be delayed again. There was a girl down the hall who had been laboring all night, was 100% dilated and effaced and blah blah blah, had been pushing for however long, but the baby just wasn't coming. They were going to take her in and get the baby out pronto. My heart fell for that girl. How horrible to make it that far. To work THAT hard and then to have to go into the OR. I know how that feels - actually, I don't. I didn't get nearly as far as she did. With Christopher I only got to 6cm before they took me, and I was STILL frustrated. So they took her and that was fine with me. I had my IV. I had my husband and my mom with me. I had my cell phone keeping me connected to all of my lovely friends sending me encouraging texts and tweets. No worries. No worries at all.

And then my doctor came in. For the record, he came in with a Starbucks in his hand. To a fasting pre-op pregnant mama who is already having to sit there and watch her husband gobble down a fresh donut, this was torture. And I told him so. As it turns out, I know NOTHING about torture.

His first words as he walked in the door? "We're screwed." He began explaining about the scheduling problems that had taken place that morning and how we just keep getting bumped and bumped. He went on to tell me that he didn't know if we'd be able to "do this today." The fact that it was only 11:00 had me a bit baffled, and I told him so. His response? "But I'm going to the 49er game."

OH YES HE DID.

Now, I have to tell you that this did not come out of thin air. He had told us at my pre-op appointment the day before that he was going to the game. He even made some kind of comment about how he hoped the hospital was running on time because of said game.

I THOUGHT HE WAS KIDDING.

HE WAS NOT KIDDING.

So there he is telling us about this game and I swear to you this was one of those times when if looks could kill he was lucky that we were in a hospital. Between me, Tim, and my mom it's really a miracle that the guy was still standing for the daggers shooting across the room. I don't remember the whole conversation at this point, but I do know that I asked him if he was going to send me home or if I'd stay over night. To be honest, neither was really an option in my mind, but the thought of going home and living the entire Day Before The Surgery AGAIN was already making me want to pull out every single hair on my head one by one. The answer, of course, was that YES HE WOULD be sending me home.

I looked at Tim. He's always the one I look to when the truth needs to be spoken. He is my support. He is my advocate. He is the one who is not afraid to ruffle any feathers. He asked the doctor how long this c-section was really going to take, knowing that the game wasn't going to be starting any time too soon. "Aren't they pretty quick?" we asked him. It's pretty well known in our hospital (as I'd been told many times that morning...as well as during my previous hospital stays) that my doctor is not only an excellent surgeon, but that he is also remarkably fast in the operating room. He runs a tight ship. He doesn't mess around. He gets the job done. So his response to our question was, "well, MY c-sections are pretty fast, but I'm not the one doing the c-section."

And then my brilliant husband spoke up and TOLD him that he'd be assisting with this first surgery to ensure that I could get in for mine. Okay. Well. He didn't really TELL him the way I made it sound, but he did it in his only gentle way that I knew exactly what he meant but the doctor didn't get pissed off and send us home immediately. He left us saying that he would go and offer to assist the other doctor, thereby hurrying things up a bit, so that we could meet our boy today.

When Nancy came to check on us several minutes later, I asked her if I was going to be having a baby that day. She had seen him heading toward the OR but knew nothing beyond that. I took that to be a good sign while she went to find out whatever she could. When she finally returned, she walked into the room quickly with a Strictly Business look on her face.

"Let's go." She said.

HOORAY!!!!!!

She put my little blue grippy socks on my feet, wrapped a blanket around my naked bum, and off we went to the operating room. For those of you who have not had the experience of walking yourself into your own surgery, let me just say that it is one of the most surreal experiences of your life. I've had three c-sections, two of which I have walked myself into that room. It's so casual - you walk all the time, you know? Walk to the park. Walk to the mailbox. Walk to the kitchen. Walk into a completely sterile room where they will paralyze you from the waist down, cut into your abdomen and remove a new person from your body. No big deal, really.

RIGHT. NO BIG DEAL.

I left Tim and my mom in the hallway, and Nancy brought me to the operating table. My memory of doing this with Jake was so much different than what I experienced this time. With Jake, everything was ready. I went in, they gave me my shot while I cried into the nurse's shoulder, they laid me down and got me ready, Tim came in, Jake came out. This time, I suppose because that room had seen so much action already, nothing was prepared. I sat there on the operating table for at least ten minutes while I watched the different nurses and technicians set everything up. I find it surprising (even looking back after the fact) that it was not nearly as nerve-wracking as one would think. I sat there and studied the room around me, looking at all of the supplies that lined the walls, asking questions about what's this and what's that, watching the tools being laid out and the baby station being set up. It was rather fascinating. My doctor came in and HE was the one who had me curl into his shoulder while they gave me my spinal. He chatted with me the whole time and even though I was still remarkably PISSED OFF with him, he made me feel comfortable in the situation. After all, he was the only person in the room who I'd known for longer than a couple of hours, so I figured it was better to be appreciative of his presence than anything else. After all, we'd passed the point of no return. I was definitely having a baby that day.

Once they got me all set up and pulled that curtain up over my face, Tim came in. It made me cry to see him. Suddenly, I was anxious. It's such a strange experience - I know I've said that before, but it really is. Being awake to hear all of the Doctor Speak, to feel the tugging and pulling, to hear the suction, to smell the cauterizing. Ugh. There is a reason I'm not a nurse.

And then. All of a sudden. THE SQUAWKING.

If I wasn't crying already, it definitely started at that moment when I heard that very tiny but very loud SQUAWK. I remember looking at Tim and asking if he could see him. I remember waiting to hear FOR SURE that "It's a boy!" I remember my doctor saying, "he looks good, Anne" just as he's done twice before. I remember being aware this time that I could not stop crying. Sobbing. There was nothing I could do to stifle my sobs. Nor did I have any interest in doing so.

Although I couldn't see over the curtain, I was aware of the fact that they were carrying my little Nathaniel over to my right to where the baby station was set up and in the flurry of activity taking place around my own table I suddenly heard a hearty laugh spread throughout the room. I knew what happened because my Jake had done the same thing. I looked at Tim and asked, "did he pee?" Boy did he. He peed all over that operating room. I joined in the laughter in between my sobs.

Nancy pulled the curtain away just enough that I could see that little slimy naked baby. They held him up and there he was. My boy. My Nathaniel. My baby who looked EXACTLY like his oldest brother....except for the fact that he weighed nearly three pounds less. Yes, my friends, THREE POUNDS. Weighing in at 7lbs, 14oz, little Nate had the stats of his brother Jake and the face of his brother Chris. A true combination.

I could not take my eyes from him. And I could not stop the sobbing.

I cried more with this delivery than, I think, I did with either of the other boys. Don't get me wrong - there were tears shed with my big boys. Lots and lots of tears. But these were different These were cries of joy, of course, but I think the real cause of the tears was relief. This was a hard pregnancy that ended with so much activity and so much "to do" that I felt like now we could finally get on with things. We could finally just start loving our boy.

They let me hold him before they took him off to the nursery for all of his tests. "Hold" is really a relative term when you're strapped down to that operating table and you've got narcotics screaming through your system. The nurse laid that little hat-wearing burrito on my chest while Tim held him in place. And I kissed him. And I cried. And I remembered, once again, that any anxiety I had over how to love ANOTHER one wasn't worth any of the time that I'd wasted on it. I loved him. Plain and simple. Son number three hasn't pushed the other two out of the way. He doesn't take more love from me at the expense of the others. He just slides right into place, filed in my heart next to his two brothers and his daddy. Right where he'll always be, and really, right where he always has been.

You Should Have Known I Wouldn't Be Back In Just One Day (aka Nate's birth story, part deux)

Ah friends. Let's see...where did I leave off? That's right - I didn't really start. So let's get this party started.

The craziness of the move and move-in was eased when my Mommy arrived on the 9th. I cannot express to you the joyful anticipation with which I awaited her arrival. I felt like once she got here everything would just get easier. And you know what? It did. We still had a lot of stuff to get out of the townhouse, and my intention had been to turn in the keys the next day. But it just wasn't happening. And I was EXHAUSTED. And cranky. (I know. Imagine that.) Everyone was telling me to take it easy. To not push so hard. To stop with the moving already and let everyone else finish up the job. The problem with this is that I am a little bit freaky over letting go of control. Okay. Perhaps more than "a little bit." A lot bit, okay? A REALLY REALLY LOT BIT. So I pushed and pushed - pushed myself, pushed my family - to get everything finished by this arbitrary, self-imposed deadline. I was probably driving everyone crazy but if there's one thing I've finally learned about myself through this process is that Being In Control = My Crack. Seriously. I'm addicted and I need to stop it. I didn't realize this, of course, until I was talking to Shelby and sharing with her a bit of my frustration over "everyone" not following my commands. Perhaps I mentioned that I have a hard time not being in control. And, just perhaps, Shelby's response was a knowing "I KNOW you do."

Hmmm. Now that can get a girl thinking. When your best friend confirms something that you really just said jokingly, and does so with that tone in her voice that tells you that this just might be One Of Those Things. (You know what I'm talking about. One of Those Things that you need to work on about yourself.) You'd better do it. Blast. But! I heard it in her voice and it finally clicked! I finally understood - I had done ENOUGH. It was okay to ask everyone else to do the rest. So I did! And that was, by far, the most freeing moment of the entire experience. Simply lovely. I let go. I never went back to that townhouse. I gave Tim all of the keys and I erased it from my brain. Simply lovely.

Now I tell you all that simply to say that, even having let go of the entire experience, the night before I went in to the hospital I was still beyond exhausted. I had been hoping that my last day as a mom of two would be relaxing. That I would have time to just prepare myself - mentally, physically, emotionally. Perhaps I'd actually pack my hospital bag. Maybe I'd get a few things in order at home. I could have a leisurely meal with my family. I could talk to some friends. I could write out some instructions for my mom and sister-in-law who would be doing the bulk of the babysitting.

Uh, yeah. Right.

At this point I don't remember what filled up that day. But I remember that it was busy. I remember that the Little People were very VERY needy. I remember that my mom was buzzing around here like a bee getting things put away (we were deep in the midst of kitchen set-up that week) and while that was helpful, I've learned that what I really needed her to do was to help me by taking the boys so that I could handle my own stuff. (This is a post for another time, but the whole experience really did teach me that when someone is helping you, it really is okay to clearly articulate what YOU need...rather than just being grateful that they're helping at all. AND I actually did get to the point where I did it. AND!!! It works. Imagine that.) I remember that Tim was busy working, knowing that he, too, was going to be out of commission for the next few days. I remember that the phone was ringing OFF THE HOOK. Friends and family members checking in, wishing me good luck, assuring me of their prayers.

By the time dinner, bath and bedtime were upon us, I was DONE. And, yet, "done" wasn't an option. I still hadn't packed. I still hadn't made my lists, which was particularly troubling because I KNEW that my mom and sister-in-law were kind of hanging out waiting for some instruction from me that I hadn't been able to provide for them. Hadn't even been able to THINK about. And unfortunately, having the baby STILL felt like just another item on the To Do List.

I think we had finally gotten Christopher to sleep, or at least snuggled in with my mom, when my dear college roommate called from Toronto to check in. As soon as I saw her name on the caller ID the tears started to flow. I cried because I was exhausted. I cried because I was frustrated. I cried because I was nervous. But most of all, I cried because I knew that she knew EXACTLY what I was going through. (She has four girls of her own....and she didn't get the luxury of scheduling a labor-free c-section at the end of all of her pregnancy exhaustion.) As always, she calmed me, encouraged me, and made me laugh. My closest girlfriends always seem to call at the perfect time. How is that?

By the time I hung up the phone, my little Jake was asleep on my bed next to me. It was, by far, the easiest bedtime he'd had since we moved in. (I should have talked to all of my girlfriends that week - boy would it have spared me some bedtime frustration!) Although I was calmed, the stress and the drama of the overall day continued well into the night. It was a challenging and frustrating day to the very minute that I fell asleep. And, just as it was the night before Jake's birth, I laid in my bed in joyful anticipation of meeting my new son coupled with the recognition that I'd be leaving my two big boys behind and when I returned life would never be the same for us. We'd never be our little family of four again and there were going to be some big transitions to deal with.

And! Most of all? I lay there PRAISING GOD for the fact that, for the next four days I would not be responsible for a single thing in the whole wide world. And THAT, my friends, helped me to sleep veeerrrryyy soundly.

**Next Time: Clearly The San Francisco 49ers Are More Important Than My Baby.**