on due dates (and our doula)

I've always thought of Daniel as the one who "waited" 12 days past his due date to come out, as if he were a "stubborn" little bun in the oven, or maybe just so attached to his mama that he was in no hurry to come out — and Ben as the one who came a week early, as if he were eager to see the world or be the "easy" baby, wanting to make his mama happy. Or something. Somehow, I've managed to attach (or project) personality traits to their "lateness" or "earliness."

But in truth, I know each of them was right on schedule. Neither of my sons was born early or late, but within the normal range of when babies are born. I learned that from our doula, Rebecca, who sometimes comments on this blog and writes about her own lovely family on her own blog. (Up until now, I've kept our wise and wonderful doula's identity a secret here, so now I'm introducing her!) One of Rebecca's recent posts is about one of her pet peeves — those pregnancy counters that people put at the top of their blogs that count down to that magical date when their baby is due to arrive. Of course, it's not such a magical date. As Rebecca points out: "Babies are considered full term if born between 37 and 42 weeks. That's a five week window. You can have your baby three weeks 'early' and be on time. You can have your baby two weeks 'late' and be on time. It's more like a due month."

I knew this, of course, as Rebecca gently reminded me of it during those waiting days with Daniel. Yet I find it interesting how we fixate on the day anyway and assign all sorts of meaning to when the baby decides to come. That's a lot of pressure around one day. I know some women who play it vague when telling people their due dates. "Oh, sometime in early June." I think that's a good idea. They might have it circled on the calendar in their mind, but at least the rest of the world doesn't have to jump into the fray.

When I was pregnant with Ben, though, and there were two possible dates when he could have been conceived, the midwives did want to pin down a due date, as most OB care providers probably do. They wanted to be sure that if he did head into the 42-week area, they'd have a pretty good idea of when they'd need to start taking action, especially since he was a VBAC (vaginal birth after caesarean) baby. The pregnancy calculators ranged from March 31 to April 2, so we took the happy medium, April 1. I imagine some women prefer to take the latest date they can so they can let their baby gestate as long as possible without having to talk about inducing. (Any thoughts on that, Rebecca?)

a spiritual birth

Our doula is going to be out of town on business for a couple of days around my due date, so she's given us a list of potential backups whom she likes and trusts — just in case the baby decides to be born on time. I called a few of them this morning, and one of them — an older woman who just became a grandmother — has been making me think about a component of this upcoming birth that I hadn't really considered in very much detail.

In addition to having a very calm presence over the phone, she also seemed very spiritual, so I asked her about that. She told me about how she is very much in tune with a sense of a larger presence in the room when a woman is giving birth, and she has had a few clients who incorporated religious rituals in their labor. One Jewish woman used a menorah as a focal point during her contractions. A Catholic mother said the Hail Mary through hers, timing each contraction by how many Hail Marys it took. Another Catholic woman had written a series of affirmations that she read, or that the doula read to her when things got intense — things like, "I am a wonderful mother," and "God's grace is flowing through me." Those phrases really struck a chord with me, and so did the doula's suggestion to incorporate spiritual elements through other senses — scents, music, images, etc. (The "smells and bells," as we Catholics like to say of our sensory rituals.)

I've been thinking a lot about how to create a calm, homelike setting during this birth, and I think I also will try to incorporate a spiritual atmosphere in that. Maybe it will help alleviate some of the stress I feel around being in a hospital again, surrounded by machines and protocols. I have been thinking in particular about music that touches my soul, remembering especially how certain hymns and pieces of sacred music brought me such comfort when I was facing my cancer surgery. I am going to go take a look through my CD collection and pull a few favorites that I think might take me to a more spiritual, prayerful space while I am laboring. I'm not sure I want anything too rousing this time around — I'm imagining something calm and intimate that can help transport me to a different place. Maybe this one by Ralph Vaughan Williams, which my friend Liz introduced me to years ago. (Any other suggestions, musical friends and sisters?)

I recently wrote a column about one of my favorite images of God — a comforting pair of hands, cupped together, in which I rest and feel completely cared for — and how carrying that image has become important to me lately as I prepare to have this baby. I wonder if there is a way to incorporate that image into some kind of mantra or focal point as I labor, as well. Anyway, I am feeling more ready now, and more confident that my body will be able to do what it needs to do. I hope I can hold on to this feeling for the next couple of weeks, or however long it takes for this little one to show his face — let's hope he's a little more prompt than Daniel was!

two weeks to go

And it couldn't come sooner. That's all I really have to say. Oh, except to report that my hip (and lower back and, now, adjacent knee) are feeling worse than ever, thank you very much. At this point, I'm lucky if I can carry Daniel down the hall without twisting my hip in a way that yields a stabbing pain. ("Mommy hurt," he says sympathetically when I yelp.) I can lift him up fine in a standing position, but walking is the tricky part. (I'm embarrassed to admit this, but we actually went to Walgreen's two weekends ago and bought me a cane. Don't laugh; it helps.) And sleeping is getting pretty challenging, too. I got a short, directed massage last week at my chiropractor's office; it was blissful, and I plan to repeat it again weekly until the baby is born. My half-hour slice of heaven.

P.S. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

spring stirrings

The new spring clothing catalogs have been pouring in since January, and I love paging through them. The prospect of buying cute, new clothes has taken a back seat since last summer — except for cute, new maternity clothes, but I've tried not to go overboard with those. It feels like I've spent the entire winter rotating among half a dozen maternity tops, two or three pairs of jeans (only one of which is big enough to fit me comfortably now) and an uber-large, uber-soft pair of black yoga pants that I found at a Lands' End outlet and wear almost every day now. And the same old pairs of faded underwear and stretchy bras that I wore when I was pregnant with Daniel. Right after he finished breastfeeding, I had splurged on some pretty new bras to celebrate; now they're sitting in the back of the drawer, too small again. So I flip through the catalogs, and I feel the stirrings: These are clothes I might actually be able to wear this spring! Normal clothes are on my horizon again, and I can't wait to go shopping. I know it's going to take some time for my body to settle back into shape — and, true, I'm looking at clothes like tunic tops and loose dresses that will cover my post-partum belly for a while, but oh — to have my body back. I can't wait.

This weekend, I gave my toenails a little touch-up. I last had a pedicure in mid-January, around my birthday, and it had pretty much given way to chippy paint and unshapen nails. So I touched them up with a nice pinkish-nude color and felt so much more pulled-together than I have in a while. Then I had to laugh Sunday night when our doula came over to talk about birthing stuff. I was musing aloud about whether I had the time or inclination to fit in a bikini wax before the Big Day, and she said many women she sees tend to paint their toenails before they go to the hospital. Ha — guess I'm ready, then!

c-section reflection

I have always wondered in retrospect if there was anything we could have done to prevent the c-section I had when Daniel was born. At the time, we felt we'd done all we could, but time gives a thinking woman plenty of time to ... well ... think. I've spent many hours looking up what went wrong, querying other people about things like asynclitic head positions and stubborn cervical lips that refuse to dilate completely. At first, in the months after Daniel was born, I lay awake in bed tearfully regaling Steve with my feelings of anger and regret and doubts. I'm mostly over the anger and regret now, but the doubts are still there. Just this morning, the midwife asked me about the part of my cervix that wouldn't dilate to a full 10 centimeters: "Did they try smoothing it back while having you try to push?" "No," I said. "I was never aware that was an option." She quickly assured me that it doesn't always work, then changed the subject, but there it was — another piece of ammunition to make me think I might have had an unnecessary c-section. And with the national c-section rate at over 30 percent (compared to the 15 percent recommended by the World Health Organization), it's quite possible.

So now I'm preparing for what is commonly known as a VBAC (which stands for "vaginal birth after caesarian" and is pronounced VEE-back). And I'm understandably nervous. I want so much to be able to let go and put it all in God's hands and the hands of my caregivers, but I'm nervous about laboring with this bad hip, and I'm nervous that what happened last time might happen again. Any number of things: The cocked head and stubborn cervix. The added stress of a hospital environment and the things I'm required to do according to protocol. Today I asked the midwife if I could decline having an IV port put into my hand until it became absolutely necessary, and she said it's something they insist upon with all VBAC patients. "I can't decline it?" I asked. "You can decline it, but we can then decline to keep seeing you as a patient," she said. And this is from a midwife in the most VBAC-friendly clinic in the area, one I chose solely — despite the half-hour drive to get there — because I knew I had the best chance of successfully having this baby the way I want to.

Last night (which happened to be the day I hit 37 weeks — full-term, baby!), I went to a meeting of the local branch of the International Caesarean Awareness Network to see if I could find some support and more information about what's ahead. I felt like I didn't really fit in, though. I sat in a circle of about a dozen rather earthy mamas, all of whom were bound by nothing but a scar across their lower bellies and the accompanying story of anger and regret. In a way, it was comforting to hear other women talk so openly about their c-sections, and it was inspiring to hear stories of successful VBACS. But at one level, it felt really wierd — some of the women seemed so angry, like they had never managed let go of the bad energy surrounding their c-section births. (And I have to say, Daniel's birth itself was not a negative experience for me; it was actually joyful.) I mean, here's a group that meets monthly to dwell on this particular part of their identity as mothers. Maybe it feels empowering to them. Some of them certainly seem to have embraced the "joy of childbirth" rather fiercely, so good for them. But I wondered, don't any of them get sick of it and decide to move on? Regardless of my feelings about my c-section, it takes up relatively little space in my psyche compared to the energy I give to actually parenting Daniel these days. And I like it that way.

Some of them seemed really strident in their attitudes toward hospitals, and when I shared some of my feelings about my baby's upcoming birth, they were pushing me to places I didn't want to go. "Go in armed with your research," I was told. "Learn these words: I do not consent," said one woman. "Well," I said hesitantly, feeling like I was coming across as an idiot, "I don't want to be that difficult person. I don't want to be so adversarial that I put off the very people who are supposed to be helping me." Well, several of them rolled their eyes, and I could see them biting back the words they really wanted to say. But it's true. Even though I have strong desires for how I hope this birth will go, I'm not, at heart, an adversarial activist. And I especially don't want to be one on a day when I need to focus entirely on myself. I just want to know that I am in good hands (like Steve's and the doula's and the midwife's and God's) and to let go of my need to control things. Kind of like on my wedding day. I did a lot of planning and organizing ahead of time so that everything could fall into place on the day, allowing me to glide along in my altered state and not worry about anything. Not worry. And I don't want to worry on the day the Lemmondrop is born, either, even though I'm doing a lot of it now.

So I don't think I'll be going back to the ICAN meetings, even though I did find some comfort in some of the women's VBAC birth stories and appreciated the chance to ask some questions. I just don't think this is a place within myself where I want to dwell on such a regular basis. I do hope the Lemmondrop's birth goes smoothly, and if I end up with another c-section, I'm sure there will be some more tearful nights, and I'll have to deal with that. I keep reminding myself to let go, to put this in God's hands — something that doesn't always come easily to me. Ultimately, what's important to me is to be a good mother, and to be healthy. And whatever happens in three weeks (give or take), most of all, I just want to have a healthy baby.

hanging in there

Steve has taken Daniel to ECFE class, so I have a few hours to myself tonight, which I really need. American Idol is on soon, so I'm going to go fix a pot of tea and find out which four are getting sent home. (I can't believe I've become an American Idol fan.)

I'm having a less comfortable week than usual because of a procedure I had at the doctor's office Tuesday. I'm not going to go into detail here (to protect the sensibilities of my more squeamish readers — yes, I'm thinking of you, Adam — and because it's rather embarrassing and gross), but suffice to say, it's so uncomfortable that it makes my hip pain seem more tolerable in comparison! On the other hand, I was up at 3 a.m. last night because with all the pings, pangs and aches in my body, I just could not sleep. The discomfort should be gone in another few days. In the meantime, I'm just in survival mode, and that means lying on the couch a lot and, in the case of today, spending the entire day in my pajamas and robe. At least my spirits are relatively stable. Most of the January funk that spilled into February seems to have lifted, leaving only residual traces of occasional melancholy and crying. Now I'm just setting my sights on getting through the next three and a half weeks — which is how long I have before I hit my due date.

I can't decide if time is moving slowly or quickly. I feel like there's so much on my calendar: two columns and a major article to finish up, a tour of the hospital so we know where to park and go when we get there, last days of my WomenVenture class and Daniel's Music Together class, a meeting to help me prepare for my hoped-for VBAC (which stands for "vaginal birth after cesarean," if you aren't up on the terminology), another meeting with our doula, install the infant seat in the car ... and, oh yeah, there's Holy Week and Easter. The fact that it's Lent right now has been so far from my mind.

Baby Lemmondrop, of course, is oblivious to it all. He's been rocking and rolling all over my belly and seems to be having a good time in there. On Monday, he'll be at 37 weeks of gestation, which will make him full term. I can't believe we've come so far. I can't believe he's almost here. Yet we are slowly getting ready for him. This weekend, I washed and folded all the sweet little baby clothes Daniel used to wear (was he really so tiny once?!) and put them in the newly reorganized dresser drawers in the nursery. We bought a new crib mattress last week, and we're remaining optimistic that at least one member of this family will sleep in the crib. (!)

Well, Ryan Seacrest is on, so I'll wrap this up. More soon!

connecting

I don't know how well he understands, but Daniel likes to lift up my shirt and put his hand on my belly and say, "Baby ... hi!" I've placed his hands there when I can feel the baby kicking, but I'm not sure if he felt anything or knew what he was feeling. Maybe more than we give him credit for? Anyway, I took this picture today by holding the camera out by my side while sitting on a chair, my far leg tucked under me, and shooting blind. It's totally blurry, and that's probably the only reason I'm posting it here; I'm typically not one for displaying the big, bare belly shots!

it could be worse

It seems my hip and lower back discomfort (to put it mildly) have an official name — or two, depending on how I understood my physical therapist and chiropractor: Symphysis pubis dysfunction and sacroiliac joint dysfunction. (I'll let you click the links to Wikipedia if you feel like learning more.)

A printout the physical therapist gave me says: "This painful disability frequently results in the woman experiencing great difficulty caring for her family, social isolation, depression and relationship difficulties." Maybe not so extreme, but it's true that I have a lot more trouble getting around and carrying Daniel. It goes on to advise caregivers not to dismiss the condition as "the aches and pains of pregnancy" or to use words like "separated" or "broken pelvis." Yikes, was my first thought when I read that! The "client" should: "Reduce non-essential weight-bearing activities, e.g. stairs, shopping, lifting and carrying." Right. Like that's realistic! I also should be avoiding straddle movements and standing on one leg. Yep, those do hurt. And during labor, my "team" should "keep separation of legs to the minimum" and in particular avoid the feet-in-stirrups position for giving birth. Fine by me! Just as long as I don't have to squat ... because I'm not supposed to do that, either.

I fervently hope that this condition will ease up considerably after I have the baby, though I hear muscle laxity continues on through breastfeeding, too. This has been a pregnancy challenge I didn't expect, but I am glad I am not completely unable to take Daniel places or carrying him around, as much as it might hurt. The belt helps a little, and proper pillow support at night does, too. (I do dread those multiple middle-of-the-night walks to the bathroom.) I have a feeling I'll be handling this a lot better once the deep freeze lifts for good. Spring is just so good for my spirits. And spring, at least this year, means a new baby! Six weeks to go ...

33 weeks, 15 pounds, 2 inches

Here I am at 33 weeks of pregnancy. And check out these pictures from when I was 33 weeks pregnant with Daniel. I don't know if you can see much of a difference, but in that 2006 post, I reported that I had gained 40 pounds thus far in my pregnancy. With this one, I have put on just 15. And here's a little piece of trivia you won't see in any pictures: My uterus has stretched my scar out to just under 14 inches long. Right after my surgery in September, it measured just under a foot. Wierd!

not bulky under garments!

I went back to the physical therapist yesterday, and it was a much better visit than last week's nightmare. I even got a very nice massage around my lower back and right hip, where I've been suffering ever since I overextended my hip flexor muscle while climbing over a baby gate in December. (Note to pregnant-ladies-to-be: It's true what they say about your muscles being a lot more lax during pregnancy. Beware of this! Don't go trying to do the splits just for the fun of it.) The therapist seems to think my pelvis is cocked, too, so I have exercises to do at home to try to stablize it.

Aaaand ... I'm sporting a stylish new belt under my clothes! It's the two-part Maternity SI-LOC, designed to help support the three "bony parts" of the pelvic region: the left and right ilium and the sacrum. (Do I sound impressive with my medical talk?) I have to say, ugly as it is, I do feel more stable, and it's less painful for me to walk around and hold Daniel with my weight on my leg. I do still find myself hoisting my leg up with my hand when I get in the car or climb into bed, but hopefully this will tide me over until the baby is born. I wonder, though: Why does this show a $33.55 retail price on the manufacturer's Web site, and I had to pay $50 for it at the doctor's office?

ms. moody

I wish I had something thought-provoking or even funny to write about this week, but all I can do is reflect on how &*#% hormonal I've been for the past few days. It's not fun for me, and it's not fun for Steve, and I'm sure it's not much fun for Daniel, either. Even though I try not to let it show when I'm taking care of him, I'm aware of being just a little quicker with the sharp tone of voice if he won't go down for his nap (for example), if he insists on pulling on the beads on the lampshade or pulling all my bottles of foot cream out of the nightstand drawer. As for Steve, well ... I don't like to play out the inner workings of our relationship on this blog, out of respect for him, but let's just say it hasn't been a stellar week for us. He mistakes my moodiness for anger at him, and maybe some of that isn't imagined. I'm holding on to resentments that probably aren't that big but feel big in the heat of it. Little things irritate me. Even if they have nothing to do with him, I end up taking it out on him in, and he's confused, walking on eggshells. I don't know what to do.

Yesterday was awful. I was crying about everything. I had an appointment with a physical therapist, and I'm sure she and her staff wrote me off as a complete basket case. I cried when I had to sign a form saying I'd pay for my treatment even if my insurance didn't cover it. I cried when I tried to make a quick call to the insurance company to double-check on my benefits because they are so ridiculously unhelpful. I cried when filling out the paperwork made me late for my appointment and the therapist told me I'd have to have an "abbreviated" visit because she had another appointment in 20 minutes, as if they think I have nothing better to do with my time than arrange for childcare and drive 20 minutes each way to Maplewood. I cried when the babysitter called in the middle of the appointment and told me Daniel was inconsolable, and I could hear his cries in the background and over the phone when she put him on for me to talk to him. I cried after I got off the phone and the physical therapist said, "Well, you have to take care of yourself, too," as if I had no excuse for being upset about my upset son. I cried when I learned I'd have to come back next week because it meant deciding yet again what to do with Daniel. I cried as I drove back to the babysitter's house because the whole thing had been so stressful, and I don't need this stress. It's not good for me, and it's not good for my immune system. (On the bright side, Daniel did cheer up and was in a pretty good mood when I got back to the babysitter's house. Thanks again, Jennifer.)

Then last night we added up all our expenditures for the month and found we'd gone over budget in almost every category. $150 over budget for groceries, and I thought I'd worked pretty hard trying to stay within our $400 goal. And in drawing up our budget, did we not even think about how we would pay for classes for Daniel, like ECFE and Music Together, which we are taking again this winter? We didn't even factor those in. Surely we are not that strapped for cash — Steve did get a big raise, after all — yet looking at the balance sheet last night made me feel that way. I came away feeling so pissed off and glum, and it sent me into another tailspin, and when Steve went to the gym like he always does on Thursday nights, I wasn't in the mood to try to get Daniel to bed — he fights it so much, and I just didn't have the energy — so we just sat up and watched the new Eli Stone show (but not Lost, which I may try to get on DVD and catch up from the beginning). So Daniel didn't get to sleep until 10:30, and then he was up again at midnight screaming about something he couldn't articulate, and he ended up spending the rest of the night sleeping between us, which he's done for the past week or two, which is fine with me and probably warmer for him.

If it weren't for the fact that I'm pregnant and that these emotional ups and downs (mostly downs) are supposed to be par for the course, and that it's the dead of winter to boot, I'd consider the possibility that some counseling might be in order. God, I hope I start to feel better soon. On the plus side, I've actually been more at peace with the cold weather this week. Even Wednesday, when we left the house on a 13-below morning, I felt OK. It was cold, but it was sunny, and the sky was blue, and that did wonders for my spirit. Just a little sunshine ...

blue january

Liz posted yesterday about a theory by a Welsh researcher that the third Monday of this month is supposed to be the "most depressing day of the year." Blue Monday. I thought, "Maybe that explains why all I want to do is sit around in my bathrobe all day and ... well, gestate."

The article cites the failing economy, broken resolutions, the weather, political fighting, etc. But it doesn't give much insight into what it's like to be nearing the end of the seventh month of pregnancy in the dead of winter. Lately, I've been having trouble dragging myself off the couch and doing much of anything, unless I have a specific plan, like play group Mondays at 10:00. It's so cold outside that going on any sort of outing involves a good 15 or 20 minutes of preparation — diaper changing; diaper-bag stocking; going out on my own to warm up the car; coats, shoes, hats, mittens; hat and mittens again when he pulls them off the first time; bringing him out to the car. Daniel can walk most of the way, but it's quicker to carry him, but then it's also easier for me to land wrong on my leg and twist my sore hip if I slip on a patch of slippery sidewalk. Which happens several times a week, whether or not I'm carrying Daniel. I feel like I have a perpetual limp, and that's throwing off my posture and everything else. And aside from the physical stuff, I always have to plan it around when he's most likely to fall asleep in the car. Do I want his one and only nap to begin before noon in his carseat? Or should I keep him at home and hope he makes it through lunch? So it's no wonder I'd rather just sit at home where it's warm and safe and I can lie on the couch while I read books to Daniel. Of course, I feel like I'm short-changing him, and he only has so much patience with me when I am not more engaged.

Oh, I just want this to be done. Winter. Pregnancy. My lack of energy. All of it. I sometimes dread the amount of work and patience that's going to be involved in having a second baby with Daniel so young, but I know that the passage of time will only make things easier as each of them grows older and more self-sufficient. Time could not feel slower right now. I am three-quarters of the way through this pregnancy now, and I feel huge and achy and uncomfortable, and it's only going to get worse. Ten weeks seems like such a long time off. It would be better, I'm sure of it, if it weren't so @#$% cold.

And yet ... every once in a while, I get this burst of energy that comes out of nowhere, and I am able to sweep Daniel up into my arms and move back and forth to his favorite songs. This morning, I trimmed the stems of some wilty flowers, cleaned off the dining room table and put in a couple of loads of laundry. I even got dressed before 11 a.m. And maybe, after his nap, we'll get bundled up and go out - somewhere. The post office. Peapods. Target. I don't know.

Wait a minute. Am I crazy to be sitting at this computer writing all this while he is taking a nap? For God's sake, woman - go take your own nap. So off I go.

this and that

For the new year, we decided to join the 21st century and get DSL. It was a huge pain in the a$$ to install it on the Mac — involving hours of frustrating phone calls to mostly clueless tech support people at both Qwest and Apple to figure out how to configure the Mac's settings for this modem. In the end, the solution was easy and straightforward, but it wasn't written anywhere, and I had to glean clues as I went along and figure it out on my own, pretty much. (Oh, the hardships we Mac owners face in this Windows world!) Now that it's up and running, I love it. In fact, I can scarcely believe how fast and easy it is to get online! How on earth did I make it this long with just dial-up?

I am 28 weeks pregnant, with 12 weeks to go, and I have gained 11 pounds so far. Not even a dozen. I know it's partly due to the weight I lost during my surgery, but still. I gained nearly 50 pounds with Daniel, if not more. The midwife says it's perfectly fine, though, and the baby is certainly big and kicky enough, so I'm not worrying about it. And I passed my glucose tolerance test, which screens for gestational diabetes. My blood test (taken an hour after drinking down a glass of a very sugary drink) resulted in a score of 134. I needed 140 or lower ... so I passed, but just barely. With Daniel, my score was 96.

Our doula, who was with us when I had Daniel, is going to be joining us again for this birth, and I'm so excited! It was great to talk to her on the phone last night. She's had a second baby since Daniel was born, so we had plenty of notes to share on our feelings about adding another little one to the family. Like me, she said, it was hard for her at first to accept that her firstborn would never be the sole center of her mothering world again. In fact, she felt guilty about it for a while. I'm glad to hear it's a normal reaction. I've been following the blogs of friends like April, Sarah and Missy, who just added second children to their families (or Kerry, who added triplets), searching for insights on what it's like. All in all, our doula predicted, it'll probably be harder for me than for Daniel.

Last night, I was copying out a recipe for spaghetti pie that a friend had sent me — she'd brought it over while I was recovering from surgery, and all three of us loved it. As I wrote, the thought flashed through my mind: I'd better write this out really clearly so that in case I'm not around anymore, Steve will know how to follow these instructions. How many people have thoughts like that? I didn't, pre-cancer. Now, I have them almost every day. Like, I want to be optimistic and relaxed and live as if I have a long life ahead of me, but on the same token, I also want to be prepared for contingencies. Just in case. So I think about things like what recipes Steve can cook easily, whether he'll be able to follow my bill-filing system, what advice to give Daniel about meeting girls when he grows up. Things like that. Just in case I'm not there.

I told the above to Steve last night, and he said, "You mean, you aren't planning to stock up the freezer for us before you go?" And we had a good laugh. Thank God.

the home stretch

Today I have completed my 27th week of pregnancy, and according to most calendars I have seen, this means I am beginning the third trimester. I can't believe we're in the final third already — although I have to say, my body is feeling it. It's harder for me to lift Daniel for long stretches of time; I get out of breath walking up the basement stairs; my lower back is chronically sore, and I've got something wierd going on with my right hip joint that makes it even harder to get around, especially with a 22-pound load in my arms. I've been to the chiropractor twice in as many weeks, but it's not helping. Oh well ... just three months until we get to meet this little guy! I won't be toasting that thought with champagne tonight, of course. I'll be lucky if I'm still awake at midnight.

random thoughts and photos

I missed a hair-cutting appointment Saturday. Just completely blanked out. It was in my Filofax, but not on the big wall calendar, so maybe it was reasonable that I'd forget, but it felt like a pregnancy-brain thing to do. Now I can't get in until Jan. 5, but it's OK. I can get through the holiday season without a trim.

I'm 25 weeks pregnant now — about five and a half months — and I've really popped in the past week. (See photo ... and click here to see what I looked like when I was this far along with Daniel. I seem to be carrying this one less all-over-the-belly, or something; my bump is all in one place. Are you impressed that I'm still able to hold Daniel on my hip? So am I ... though it's getting harder.) I've been wearing last year's winter jacket so far, and zipping it up has been no problem ... until this weekend. Now it's a really tight squeeze. Fortunately, I had a maternity coat lying in waiting, and I've graduated to using it most of the time. It's actually even kind of cute — a brown, down-stuffed, Old Navy number that I found at a consignment store this fall for $30.

Mom and Dad gave us a membership to the Minnesota Children's Museum for Christmas, and I have to say, it's one of the best gifts ever. We got our membership cards Friday and took Daniel Saturday, and he had the best time — running around the "Habitot" room, pushing the button that makes the timberwolf howl sound, and sliding down the sloped, carpeted ramp. He hit paydirt in the Sesame Street room, though: computers. This boy adores computers with a single-minded fascination that makes him very persistent. I can't keep him away from ours at home, and he knows where to find all the computers at his school each week. He breaks away from me when I'm taking off his jacket and runs in to grab the mouse and turn the screen on. Today, Teacher Jill stood guard in the doorway to her computer room when she saw him coming! So ... at the Sesame Street exhibit, he had a field day with the interactive Elmo program. Not that he has a clue who Elmo is, which is fine with me. The Santa at the mall tried to tease a smile out of Daniel by waving an Elmo doll at him, but he got nothing.

Speaking of pictures with Santa, I did end up succumbing to that highly overpriced temptation this year at the Mall of America. It was a couple of weeks ago, when the weather first turned cold, and I hadn't been planning more than an escape from the freeze (and a chance to get out of the house) when I dressed Daniel in the casual (and, ugh, mismatched) outfit he's wearing. But the line was short, and Santa looked friendly, so I thought Daniel might enjoy the experience. As it happened, he refused to sit on Santa's lap for even a second. We did manage to get a cute picture, though, with him in the rocking chair and Santa cozying up behind him. Would you believe Daniel has no idea Santa is there? He's smiling because the photographer was waving a stuffed moose in the air behind the camera. Do I feel better having gotten this obligatory picture taken for posterity? I guess. :) It could be fun to do it every year and see how he changes from year to year. Besides, next year there will be two of them, and that could be cute ... unless we have to fit both of them into that rocking chair.

littlest one

You and I, we have kind of a relaxed, unspoken thing going on, don't we? I don't obsess about you the way I did with Daniel. I don't look up how big you are every week on Baby Center.com. I don't rush to Google to ask whether it's OK to drink chamomile tea or if it's bad if I wake up at night lying on my back. I drink coffee every day and eat the occasional tuna salad sandwich. I even had a glass of wine with dinner last month (oh, how I miss red wine) and sipped some of your dad's Chardonnay at Thanksgiving. I don't worry so much, and it's kind of nice. Maybe part of it is that I've been here before, so I know the ropes a little more. Or that you survived early on, when I thought you might have died, so I know you're a survivor, and the midwife says you're doing fine. Or maybe it's just how busy I am day to day, taking care of your brother (whom you are going to love, by the way). Still, we have our moments together, don't we? I felt you kicking in class this morning, and I put my fingers on top of you and felt you dancing around in there. I would have said hello, but we were in class, and it wasn't a good time to talk. Don't worry ... I'll check in with you next time you're awake. We have a few more months together before we meet in person. It's cold outside, but you don't have to worry about that. I hope you're comfy and warm right now. By the time you're ready to come out, the earth will be thawing, and we'll have a lovely spring and summer ahead of us. Until then, keep on kicking. It's always nice to hear from you.

body parts

Today, he has been kicking up a storm, and while he's not yet giving me the hard, "uffda" kicks that Daniel did in his later months, I can see the surface of my tummy move. And if I put my fingers on my skin in the right places, I can feel something like a little elbow, or heel. It's almost as if I could grab it, catch it, give him a squeeze. He's 22 weeks along now, as of tomorrow. It's nice to feel him there. We've been calling him by the name we're pretty sure we're going to give him, so it's feeling like his name now, and already it makes him seem like more of a little person. I am excited for him.

surprise, surprise!

Forget mother's intuition ... we're having another BOY! And he is as healthy and normal-looking as can be. I could not be more thrilled, and Steve is totally excited! Despite my "feeling" that I was having a girl, I really didn't have a preference and would have been happy either way. Now Daniel will have a little brother to run around with, and they'll be so close in age (19 months apart) that I think they'll love having each other as company. I hope so, anyway. Here he is ... I can't help thinking he looks a lot like Daniel did in his big ultrasound (which, incidentally, was my very first post on this blog!).


The ultrasound technician was a cheerful, sunny woman who we could tell truly loves her work, and she kept telling us what an amazing story we will have to tell our son, and how she was thinking, just as we were, that this baby could have saved my life. I do feel a bit breathless and awestruck when I think about it, barely able to believe how well this pregnancy has gone, how amazing it is that this boy has survived so much.

This is such an exciting day! I feel our future coming into sharper focus as I imagine our pair of boys playing together, fighting and rough-housing together, running down the hall to watch Saturday morning cartoons, climbing up on rocks when we go on vacation. "They are going to love Ireland," Steve said as we were driving home this morning, and I totally see that. I imagine myself with my mom voice, saying, "Boys!" A lot. Me, who knew not a thing about boys before I had one of my own. It's going to be wild. I just can't stop smiling.

butterflies

I can feel the little one kicking! Little tiny flutters, off and on all day, as if she were a tiny mermaid, flicking her tail against the inside of my belly when she turns. This is so damned exciting ... it kind of makes up for the nervousness I've been feeling about how we're going to manage with two babies under age 2, what it's going to be like to give up any semblance of my childfree days. No question, having even one baby has changed my life as I know it, as the cliche says. But with just one, I can still manage a trip to the mall or the grocery store pretty easily with Daniel, or have a long bath in the evenings, or take off alone for an evening with friends from time to time. With two, it's not going to be so easy. And that makes me nervous. My mantras of late: "Plenty of other people in the world do it." And: "Hey, at least you're alive!"

... and another food story

Last night, I had my first experience of craving something so badly that I sent Steve out at 9:30 at night to get it for me — I couldn't eat anything else. I couldn't even think of eating anything else! It was a cheeseburger with bacon, cheddar and Swiss, onions, tomatoes, ketchup and mustard. (Lots of protein there.) I had to call around to find a restaurant that was still open ... and God bless the Chatterbox Pub in Highland Park. The guy on the phone let me tell him exactly what I wanted on my burger, and Steve was a champ about going to get it, and oh my Lord, was it the best cheeseburger I have ever had in my life!

(This never happened when I was pregnant with Daniel. I am glad it happened this time, though: It was so satisfying to bite into that burger and feel so ... fulfilled!)