Just because.

Baby blue

That bow on the top of her head makes her look like a Christmas present.

Best. Present. Ever.

I remember. I always will.

Dear baby,

It's been a year. A year since I realized I wouldn't get to meet you.

A year in which I've moved into a new home, welcomed your baby sister, and gotten to know your big brother even better.

A year during which I've missed you constantly.

You're not here with me, but I know you can hear me, and I know you know that I love you. I think about you all the time. I wonder whether you would have been a girl or a boy (regardless, you have a brother AND a sister! Isn't that wonderful?), what you would have looked like, what your personality would have been like, whether you would have been a good sleeper, what you would have been when you grew up. When I'm out with the baby now, and people say, "Is this your first?" I always cringe inwardly. Because the logical answer, the expected one, would be to say, "No, this is my second baby," since the baby is one of two children who live at home with me and your dad, which is of course what the questioner wants to know. But I always answer very carefully with, "No, my son is two-and-a-half," because that's true. But it's also true that your sister is my THIRD.

You were here. And then you went away. But you were, all the same. You were my second. I never, ever forget that.

For a while I spent a lot of time looking at jewelry that's designed to help a mother remember a lost child. There were rings, pendants, bracelets, charms. I thought about ordering something, and wearing it every day, to have something to look at and touch when I missed you, to have something to carry with me. But I couldn't find anything that seemed perfect, and now I know that's because I have everything I need to remember you. You're in my heart, just as you always were, just as you were even before last year. The difference is, now I know you're there. So I'll leave the necklaces and such to other moms -- I've got you with me all the time, always.

I asked your dad once whether he thinks we'll get to meet you someday. I believe we will. I don't know what you will look like, or how old you'll be in heaven (what a limited concept, isn't it, for heaven? I know there is no age or appearance there, and yet I can't help but wonder), but I do know that I'll know it's you right away. I'll know it's you, and I'll get to open my arms to you and hold you close.

I know right now you have everything you need, that you don't need me. But your brother and sister do. So when you see me taking care of them, know that you're with me too, and that I'll be loving you with every act of mothering I show to the boy and girl who are here with me now.

And put in a good word for me and your dad and brother and sister, ok?

I love you. I'll see you someday.

Always,

mommy

Why I wake up laughing most days

Because this kind of conversation, first thing in the morning, is pretty hard to NOT find hilarious. And when I say first thing, I MEAN first thing. The boy sat upright in the master bed, surveyed the room, and launched into this line of questioning in a still-sleepy, gravelly voice.

"Mom. Mom. MOM. What you doing?"

"I'm changing the baby's diaper."

"Why, mom?"

"Because she pooped."

"Oh. [pause] Yellow poop?"

[struggling to answer as gravely as the question was asked, you know, out of courtesy] "Yes, son. Yellow poop."

"Not brown poop?"

[starting to lose the battle] "Um, no. Not brown poop."

"Oh. [another pause] I have brown poop, mom?"

"[AHEM] Yes. Yes, son, your poop is brown."

[And I should have seen it coming.] "Why, mom?"

"Just ... just because."

Things I have said to myself or others since my daughter was born

"What do you mean, training bras are PADDED now?"

"Oh, geez, I'm going to have to tell her about periods."

"My God, she's beautiful."

"I just posted a picture of her on facebook wearing only a diaper. That will be the LAST time her nipples are on the Internet, as long as I have anything to do with it."

"Guess I better read up on this Gardasil vaccine."

"What if she wants to have her belly button/nose/cartilage/eyebrow pierced?"

"I mean it. She really is gorgeous."

"When will I start letting her wear makeup?"

"When will I let her start dating?"

"Oh, Lord -- DATING."

"I wonder if she'll let me help her pick her wedding dress."

"I wonder if she'll breastfeed her kids."

"I know I'm biased, but she's SO BEAUTIFUL."

"I LOVE HER SO MUCH."

I thought it would have been louder.

Now I know how it sounds when your heart brims so full of quiet, perfect love and joy that it breaks.

It's a tiny, liquid popping sound.

I hear it every time I look at these pictures of the first time my boy met my girl.

I will never, ever forget how, the first time he ever saw and held her, when he would have had every right to be standoff-ish, threatened, squirrely or even outright mad ...

Instead, he smiled. And kissed her head. And handled her as if she were made of glass and he wanted to protect her.

I am blessed beyond measure in my children.

A Clorox kind of day

Some nights, when my husband goes up to our two-year-old (who will awaken once a night and need someone to come and soothe him), the poor man falls asleep with our son and wakes up only in time to go to work. Monday morning, however, it wasn't husband's trusty iPhone alarm that awakened him, but the sound of a two-year-old getting sick in bed.

Happy Monday! Here's some of last night's dinner, dad.

The master bedroom is right underneath boy's room, so I knew that something was amiss, because suddenly I heard a lot of adult footsteps, some toddler wailing, and the sound of water running. I had been feeding girl when it all started up, and I imagined that boy's diaper had probably leaked, and that husband was changing it and cleaning up wet sheets. When husband appeared at my door a few minutes later, though, he greeted me with a phrase no one wants to hear at 4 a.m.: "He threw up."

My capable husband handled the carnage, and brought the boy downstairs for a sip of watered-down Gatorade. As our son took his first taste of "juice," husband and I discussed the event, and when I learned that boy's retching bore a striking resemblance to the last time he'd had a stomach virus, I snatched the poor kid's sippy cup away from him so fast that he looked baffled. Because I knew whatever he was drinking now would come back up in about ten minutes. It took twenty, but it did.

And so we did what parents do -- called the doctor, dug out the crackers, doled out sips of water at half-hour intervals, and mopped up the vomit that occurred at intermittent times over the next few hours. As well as the diarrhea. Because vomit, apparently, wasn't exciting enough for us.

To be fair, my husband handled the lion's share of the mess. Since we both were terrified of our newborn catching the bug, I tried to keep my distance from what I imagined to be the seething nest of germs that was my son. So husband held bowls, wiped tears, gave hugs, changed diapers and did all the things that I wanted to do for our poor boy but didn't dare.

As we all know, though, there IS justice in the world. My turn was coming.

Later in the day, RIGHT after boy's diaper had leaked ON THE COUCH -- yay -- and while husband was doggedly scrubbing the cushions with a rag soaked in Resolve, I was changing our daughter's diaper in the master bedroom. Her changing table is right next to our windows which overlook a lovely golf course view. On quiet days like yesterday, we sometimes see deer grazing along the far side of the course. Their graceful forms never fail to arrest us, and it happens often enough that we keep an eye open for the sight when we pass any back window. I'd spotted a doe earlier in the day, and had turned my head to see if it was still there, or if it had been joined by a fawn or two. Unwisely, I chose to do this while my daughter's diaper was off.

Suddenly, I heard a quick squirting noise, and felt a suspicious and startling warmth on my shirt and jeans. I looked down to discover what I already knew -- that I was covered in yellow breast-milk-poo. As any of you know who have had babies, a parent gets really used to dealing with newborn baby poop, because you're faced with it SO MANY TIMES a day, so I wasn't terribly grossed out. Still, it was human feces. And no one wants to wear that as an accessory, no matter how cute the person is who produced it.

What was so impressive was the fact that she'd really just hit me. Her changing table pad was spotless. Basically, I'd been spray-tanned in poop. When my husband heard my exclamation, he had a feeling he knew what had happened, and started yelling, "Did she get you? DID SHE GET YOU?!" He came running in to see the source of my surprise, and when he got a look at me, he laughed so hard he had to sit down.

So I stripped and added my clothes to the overworked washing machine, set it to "hot" and thanked God for running water and soap. And vowed to keep my eyes on the task at hand next time, and to work more quickly.

Daughter

Dear tiny, breathtakingly beautiful little girl who is mine,

You're here. You're really here.

I have a daughter.

I knew it would be you, sweet girl. For the last four weeks of my pregnancy, I kept thinking things like, "Wow, she's getting big," or "I wonder when she'll get here?" I knew it would be you.

And then, on May 7 at 8:07 in the morning, you arrived. The doctor delivered you, and you let out a yell, and your daddy said, "That ... sounds like a girl." And when the doctor told us he was right, we both started to cry. Because we were so happy that it was you, daughter. I lay there on the operating table, and I laughed with delight, and my tears of joy ran unchecked into my ears.

There is so much I want to tell you. I want to tell you that my first thought, strangely and unexpectedly when I heard you were a girl, was that you would attend Rice University someday. I actually thought, instantly, "She's going to Rice." But of course I want you to go wherever you want to go to school, provided that it's a school that will challenge you academically and socially and emotionally to be a better, more interesting, more well-rounded person. I want to tell you that though you weighed a scant ounce less than your brother did when he was born, you seemed ever so much tinier when I held you. I want to tell you that your daddy and I looked at your face, and knew instantly what we should name you -- the two girl names we'd walked into the operating room with never had a chance -- you just didn't LOOK like an Emma or a Claire. I want to tell you that from the second you were born, you were never away from me for an instant while we were in the hospital -- you wheeled with me into the recovery room, held snug in my arms, and then came up to our room with me, and slept beside me in your bassinet or in my arms the whole time we were in the hospital. For the next four weeks at home, I was never further from you than in the next room, my love. I was always there to watch over you and listen for you and be there when you needed me. Even when I finally ran out to the grocery store and left you in your Nana's capable hands, I must have called home to check on you three times in that hour I was away.

I want to tell you that you are gorgeous. Your hair is so incredibly soft, so shiny and dark. Your eyes are like glimmering black jewels, they shine so brightly. You smell how an angel must smell, lovey -- sweet and fresh and new and pure. Everything about you is round and perfect and smooth, and I can hardly keep myself from consuming you, because you're so deliciously yummy.

Most of all, I want to tell you that since I first saw your face, first KNEW of you when I heard you cry, I have been happier than I ever could have dreamed possible. My heart feels like a water balloon, filled almost to the point of breaking -- I have to hold it quivering in two hands, and at any second, I feel as if it might burst, drenching me in liquid joy. Being near you, getting to know you, having the care of you, having the gift of loving you -- getting to be your mommy -- all of it is a privilege I can barely acknowledge because it's so precious that I'm in constant awe of its perfection.

Just like you. Perfect.

I love you, honey. I am so very, deeply, incredibly glad you're here.

Love,

mommy.

Tomorrow morning, you will be here.

Dearest little one,

It's late at night and I should be getting some rest for tomorrow, but I am bound and determined to write to you first. I've known you now for almost 39 weeks, and we've been through a lot together. So before we officially meet, face-to face-tomorrow morning, I thought I'd tell you what's in my heart tonight.

It's been a rough ride, hasn't it? Early on, I was so sick, and I know it felt like it would never end. Once I felt better around week 19 or 20, we both got really swept up into keeping up with your older brother. As you'll soon see for yourself, he's a bundle of energy, and between his music classes and playing outside and train table time and having fun with your cousin and our neighborhood and family friends and general running around, there's plenty to do when we're with him.

That's the thing, though. We've been busy with him, certainly. But there was never a moment that I wasn't aware of you, that my thoughts were far from you or how you were growing, that I wasn't looking forward to meeting you and learning about who you are. Your dad and I are so very, deeply, truly excited to hold you tomorrow, to touch your little face and tiny hands, to marvel at you and start to get to know you. And so is your brother. When he woke up today, he leaned over toward me and said, "Mom, did you come from doctor?" I said no, that I wouldn't go until tomorrow, and he finished my thought for me. "Baby's coming out! Gonna sleep right there!" And he pointed happily to your bassinet beside our bed.

Sweet baby, of course we wonder if you're a boy or a girl. It's been the subject of much debate among your family. Sometimes dad and I get a girl vibe, sometimes a boy vibe. My own dad thinks you're a girl, and your Papa (dad's dad) just KNOWS you're a boy. Your brother has pretty much insisted that he's getting a sister. Regardless of the fact of your gender, though, we are so anxious to hold you in our arms and have the chance to love you in person.

And that's what I want you to know -- that we have loved you and wanted you and been excited about your arrival since the very beginning. Going from a family of three to a family of four was something we've always wanted to experience, and we know that God has sent exactly you to us to help us do that. YOU. No other baby. No other child. No other person. As the song goes, it had to be you, and that's among the trillion things that makes you special to us already.

So tonight -- rest. Sleep. Snuggle down where you are and relax. Tomorrow will be a big day. It'll most likely be confusing a bit, with all the bright lights and loud noises, but just listen, listen for my voice, and for your dad's, and for your brother's. You've been hearing us all along, and you'll know us tomorrow by the love and joy in our voices as we greet and talk to you.

You'll never be alone, sweet one. We will always be with you, to take care of you, to keep you company, to learn about who you are, to love you.

Listen for my voice. I'll be calling your name tomorrow.

Love,

mommy.

I'm having a "glass is half-empty" moment. Bear with me.

Being pregnant is a special time.

It's a time when you can feel amazingly confident in your body's ability to adapt and change in ways as old as humanity. It's a time when you can revel in your inherent ability to bring about new life, to nurture a brand new person. You can rejoice in your strength and unique gifts as a woman. You can enjoy the glow of happiness and serenity that all of that knowledge gives you, and finally understand your true inner beauty.

That is, if you're someone else.

Before I proceed, let me assure you that I am fully touched by the blessing that pregnancy is, I really am. I have dear friends who struggle with fertility issues, who would give their right arms to be in the kind of temporary discomfort in which I find myself right now. I have never been happier or more fulfilled in my life than I am right now as a mother, and the knowledge that I'm getting to experience the journey again is heartbreakingly, profoundly beautiful to me.

But as all of us know, blessings are rarely brilliant gems of purely gorgeous beauty. They can sometimes be cloaked in some pretty off-putting stuff, as a matter of fact.

I have never been one of those lucky women who loves to be pregnant, who adores her fertile body in its new rounded shapes, who sees lushness and life in her added weight and contours. I've never been one of the women who feels empowered by the experience of pregnancy, or who finds her mind at its sharpest or her strength at its peak while she's carrying her child within. That's probably because I've never been one of those women who never had morning sickness, either. In my snarkier moods, I could probably call those women some imaginative names.

Who am I? I'm one of the women who loves motherhood but finds pregnancy 10% amazing, 10% "interesting," and 80% distinctly uncomfortable. I'm one of the women who spent the first 19 weeks of her pregnancy either having just thrown up or preparing to do it again. No exaggeration. I'm one of the women who was almost crippled by bone-deep fatigue in the first and third trimesters, one of the women who, just weeks away from delivery now, finds her child's movements more painful than pleasant. (Seriously. What are those elbows and knees freaking made of, anyway?) I'm one of the unlucky women who has and continues to battle postpartum depression or anxiety, who now understands the full meaning of the compound word "heartburn," who (though previously a huge fan of food and eating) has to make herself consume some food-related item several times a day since absolutely nothing sounds appealing, who hates the fact that she's resigned to frequent mild incontinence, who cannot imagine ever being in control of her bladder again, who lays awake in bed for up to two hours in the middle of almost every night for no good reason except for the fact that her hormones tell her she should be awake and worrying about something, who regularly sweats through her pajamas and awakens hot, damp and annoyed, who can fall asleep at 10:15 p.m. and be up to pee at least four times by midnight.

I am that woman.

In other words, I'm a mom-to-be.

And when I think about it, when I really reflect on it, the only truly important word in that last sentence is "mom." That's why this isn't my first time down this path. That's why I'm not at all sure it will be my last.

Because moms? They do what they have to. Not because they're martyrs, and not because they're heros, or superhuman, or different than anyone else.

It's because there is NEVER, EVER a question of whether or not it's worth it.

AH. NOW I get it.

What people say to pregnant women:

"You look gorgeous!"

What pregnant women think they really mean:

"I'm supposed to say this to be nice to fat women who are going to have babies."

What people say to pregnant women:

"You have a glow."

What pregnant women think they mean:

"Your skin is actually shining. A blotting paper wouldn't hurt you."

What people say to pregnant women:

"It's such a special time in your life, isn't it?"

What pregnant women think they mean:

"How could you not love losing total control of your body in every way imaginable, for three quarters of a year, and then losing total control of your *life* for the next two years at least?"

Is this the definition of irony? I can never remember.

Ways in which the third trimester of pregnancy makes a woman a great deal like the newborn she is about to have:

1. She shouldn't sleep on her stomach.
2. She has to eat 8-12 times a day, in tiny amounts, or risk throwing up.
3. She cries a lot. No one can figure out why, least of all herself.
4. She can't hold her pee.
5. People tell her she looks gorgeous when everyone involved knows they're just being nice.
6. Her weight gain is all anyone cares about.
7. Either that, or her quality of sleep. Because sleeping through the night? A total thing of the past, now.

An open letter to my pregnant body

Dear body,

Hm. Let's just jump into it, shall we?

Upper arms: You know, this pregnancy thing doesn't really concern you. So stop trying to grab all the attention. There's no need to get all puffed up. No one wants to look at you. Least of all me. So send the wiggly-jiggles to the baby, where extra fat is cute, and BACK THE HECK DOWN, ALREADY.

Junk-in-the-trunk: I get that a woman needs a little extra padding to support the new life she's creating. But I think you're taking it too far. In case you didn't read the baby books along with me, the baby's growing in my ABDOMEN, not the back of my jeans. On the big day, no one's going to be checking my back pockets, 'kay? So you can take it easy too.

Skin: I don't know if you even deserve to be CALLED skin. "Skin" is elastic, responsive to the environment, adaptable to the surrounding situation. YOU are parched, dry, more like papyrus than anything that should cover a human being. Even when I bathe you in delicious lotions like those made by Aveeno and Jergens, you make me look to the outside world like an 89-year-old. A pregnant one. (This is NOT a good look. I was never interested in getting into the Guinness Book of World Records. At least not THAT way.)

Hair: You are the only part of me I'm happy with right now. THANK YOU for being all full and shiny and not-oily. I love my new ability to go two full days between shampoos. This fits in MUCH better with my life than the nightly hair-care routine I was forced to adopt before pregnancy. I reserve the right to detest you again once the hormone change that is sure to occur after delivery takes you back to the way you were, though. You've been warned.

Love,

me.

This was not in the manual.

I had a friend go into labor at my house today.

She's not due for another two weeks, but today while playing with our two boys, she mentioned that she'd been having a lot of Braxton-Hicks contractions. I had remembered reading that if you have more than four in an hour, you should probably call your doc, or start timing them, as they may not be warm-ups at all, but The Real Deal. She and her husband decided to go home, get some things in order, then come back to spend the night with us. That way, if she DID have to go to the hospital, her 19-month-old son could just spend the night here with us.

When they came back, she'd been having brief contractions regularly, about every 10 minutes. They hadn't been lasting long, but they'd been coming almost like clockwork. As I watched her over the next hour, her contractions went from slightly uncomfortable to I-don't-want-to-talk-while-this-is-happening. And they were coming more quickly.

As I watched her breathe through each contraction, every rough thing about my own labor two years ago came rushing back to me. I remembered the pain, the tightness, the breathtaking sharpness of it. I remembered the way my body instinctively lifted up around the pain to tense against it, and how hard it was to fight to stay loose, to let the muscles work the way they should. I remembered the totally awful way every organ in my lower body was involved in the orchestra of misery, the way my bladder and intestines and colon suddenly acted like eighth-grade girls who hadn't been invited to the party, and started trying to steal the spotlight with their attention-grabbing antics, namely making me pee every 15 minutes and have terrible (and productive) diarrhetic cramps even more often. (NO ONE prepared me for that, by the way. Hollywood could do us all a favor and show us what labor is really like, in all those sitcoms and romantic comedies.) I remembered being in so much pain that I would throw up several times an hour, for the six hours I lasted before I asked for pain relief. I remembered not wanting to be touched, and simultaneously wanting desperately for someone to put their hands on me to take the pain away, and keep me anchored, because I felt like I would literally wash away with the surges of it.

And I got a little bit, just a teensy bit, jealous.

I know. DUMB. Can't help it.

Here's the thing. My own labor with boy ended in a surgical birth, one made necessary by the fact that I developed a fever that might have endangered our baby. For that reason alone, I don't regret a thing about the C-section. However, in the months leading up to that day, I'd done a LOT of reading, research and preparation to avoid having to resort to one. I'd read books on surgical birth, the rising rates of sections in the U.S., the fact that some may be unnecessary. I'd learned about the potential health effects of pain relief in labor on the unborn baby. And I'd decided that I'd do everything in my power to have our child naturally -- without unnecessary medical intervention. I got fired up about "taking back the birth experience." I walked. I breathed. I studied and practiced relaxation techniques. I interviewed candidates, selected and hired a doula to help us through labor. I got pregnancy massages intended to ease my body's transition into labor and delivery. I listened to soothing and empowering messages about my innate ability to deliver a healthy child.

And in the end, it didn't even matter. The circumstances surrounding the labor I had made all that preparation almost insignificant. I was sick with a cold when my water broke three weeks early, and that illness translated into the fever that made it necessary to operate to have our baby, despite twelve hours of light labor, six hours of augmented labor (read: Pitocin) with no pain meds, and a final six hours of augmented labor with a merciful and welcome epidural. I did everything I could to avoid it, and when it was clear it was inevitable, I accepted it and I don't have a single regret.

It's just that now, the doctor I know and trust has a policy -- once a C-section, always a C-section. He used to perform VBACs (or vaginal births after Caesarean), but not any more. So I already know that though I'm due May 17, my child will eventually have a scheduled delivery date sometime the week before that day. So it's entirely possible that I will feel nothing but the usual run-of-the-mill late pregnancy discomfort, go into the hospital for an appointment one day, and an hour later, be handed a baby.

Which is mine.

Holy smokes.

No last few hours of preparation, no transition to the idea of being a mother of TWO children through the test of labor, no story to tell about how or when my water broke, no gateway to the new phase of parenthood through the traditional and meaningful trial of suffering.

It's not that I want the pain -- it's just that I want the fullness of the experience. I want the few hours or so of wondering whether I'm truly in labor. I want the moment when we realize that it's The Real Deal. I want the nervous excitement of getting the previously-packed bag into the car and going off to the hospital, maybe in the middle of the night. I want the extra few hours of having to wait to meet a baby I am so ready to love and embrace and hold and nurture and cherish. The prize is so amazing, how could I want to rush the process? EVEN THAT stage, the breathing and moaning and suffering, is one you never get back again. And as I'm realizing now that my son is TWO YEARS OLD, those little phases are fluid -- tiny moments of quicksilver that slip away no matter how tightly you try to grasp at them.

It's been about seven hours since my girlfriend first had her light contractions here at our house. She's at the hospital now with her husband, and her toddler is sleeping upstairs. Through text messages, they're keeping me in the loop about how she's doing, and I know that her water broke in the room where she was admitted, and she's at 5 centimeters now, and she's getting an epidural. And as I reflect on all of that, I'm able to yank my head out of my ass where it's been firmly lodged, and focus on the fact that two of my dearest friends are having a BABY in the next few hours. That little bitty taste of jealousy? Gone in the knowledge of the power of what's happening in their lives -- the arrival of an already-beloved child.

In the end, no matter what day it happens, and in what way, my husband and son and I will get the same thing. So I'll shut up now, and do what I should have been doing this whole time -- sit back, take a deep breath, and open my heart up to God in gratitude for His generosity and His love. I'll ask for His protection over this coming child -- my girlfriend's tonight, mine in a few more months -- and for His forgiveness for my own short-sightedness.

Namesake

Dear Grampa,

It's been four years, today. Four years since you went away. You never got to meet my husband, Grampa, and I'm sure you would have liked him. You and he, though worlds apart, are cut from the same cloth. "Good men in a storm," we could call you -- the kind of man you want around when something goes wrong with your car or your water heater, or if someone gives you really bad news, or if you feel like you've lost your way in the world. You're both good in times like that, and in just about any other.

Maybe even more importantly, you never got to meet the little guy we named after you. You do know that's why we picked that name for him, don't you, Grampa? How could we pick any other? My entire life, I never knew a more gentle, kinder man than you. You never once raised your voice to me or my brothers (or my mom, she tells me now), though we all must have provoked you at some point. You never said a thing about anyone that was anything short of thoughtful and polite. You always gave people the benefit of the doubt, always. You let us mess up your workshop when we were kids, mixing paint samples and dumping out all your carefully sorted nails and bolts and screws, and you never once complained or made us clean anything up -- you just laughed silently at our antics. You were always the essence of patience and tolerance.

And so when it came time to consider a boy's name for our baby-on-the-way, there was never any doubt. And lo and behold, now that he's arrived, I am astounded, relieved, blessed, grateful to see that at least so far, he bears all of the signs of being a great deal like the man who inspired his choice of name.

I hope you see, Grampa, how patient he is with other children. He demonstrates a patience and kindness so far beyond his age that at times it takes my breath away. I only have to ask him once to share with other children, and he walks right over to them to hand them what he's holding, without hesitation or a single shred of protest. I hope you see how he delights in making people smile, like you did -- and how sensitive he is to the moods of others. When he senses that I'm down, he comes up to me to peer into my face, a concerned look on his own little countenance, and says, "Mom okay?" When children cry in the store or at the library, he frowns quietly in their direction, and then turns to me with worry written across his brow, as if to ask me, "What's wrong with that baby, mom? What should we do?" He's sweet to animals, just like you. He is fascinated with things that are mechanical, especially if they need fixing, just like you. I can only hope and pray that, as he grows to be a man, he takes after his daddy and you -- that he becomes a good man in a storm, too.

I know you're there, and that you can see us. I hope that you get to do it often, and that you take pride in the little boy who bears your name. I hope that you see him and smile, and know that when I speak his name, there is an echo in my heart of all the times I heard yours spoken -- that when I hug him goodnight, I remember all the times I hugged you when we would see each other on summer vacations.

You left the world a better place in so many ways -- through the way your gentle spirit was remembered by those who love you, most of all. And now you've touched the world in one more way -- through the name and smile and sweetness of one small boy who will turn two years old in a few days.

I love you. I miss you. I hope you keep watching us from up where you are. If you can, please put in a good word for us. I think of you as someone who looks out for our little guy -- if that's the case, thank you, thank you. He'll need his guardian angel in the years ahead of him especially, as he starts school and learns to drive and all those other terrifying rites of passage that boys must face.

I can't think of a better angel for him than you.

Oh, no, he didn't.

The other day, boy and I were happily playing together in his playroom (meaning, he was decimating his train table and I was messing around on my iPhone. I assure you, both of us were well-pleased with this arrangement.). He tried to get my attention in his usual way ("Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mommy? Mom? Mom!") and I'll admit that maybe, this time, I wasn't as timely as usual with my response. And so he switched tactics, mid-stream.

"Mom! Mom! Mom? Lady! Lady! LADY!!"

Except he didn't say "lady." What he said in its place was MY FIRST NAME.

Now, we make it no secret around our home that mom and dad have different names. We decided early on that in addition to being "mom" and "dad" around the boy, we'd call each other by our first names, too. It was an attempt to hang on, in front of our son, to the fact that before he had shown up, we'd been there first. And we were more than parents, but spouses and independent adults, as well.

An ATTEMPT, I said.

Reason dictates that I should have calmly looked at the boy when he called me by my first name and asked him to whom he was referring. As if I were a receptionist or something. What ACTUALLY happened was that my head whipped around so fast that my ears rang, and I said, "WHAT did you just call me?" He looked at me for a second, blinked, and said it AGAIN. My first name.

Oh, geez.

I pulled it together and said, "Yes, that's mommy's name. But what do YOU call her?" And he smiled angelically. "Mom!" I gave him a shaky smile and said, "That's right. Just remember that. You know mommy's name, but when you talk to her, you call her 'mom', ok?" He nodded and toddled off.

Probably to pat himself on the back for getting my attention. Which is what the little toot wanted in the first place.

An open letter to my bladder

Dear bladder,

Hm.

We need to talk.

I never had much of a problem with you before -- we were always good. You did your job, and I'll admit, I probably took you for granted a little. I feel badly about that, and I'd apologize if I thought you'd listen. You've taken your revenge a little too far, though.

The first indication that something was wrong was early on in my pregnancy with boy. You started to let me down. It wasn't all the time, and it wasn't by much, but those small betrayals didn't go unnoticed. The doctors tell me that pressure from the growing baby means that there's a strain on a body's bladder. I get that. But even on days I was drinking less water than usual, you were hyperactive. One day I actually logged every time I ran to the bathroom. In one day, I visited the powder room 23 times. TWENTY-THREE. And that was while I was AWAKE. I know they say it's good for a pregnant woman to walk for exercise, but come ON.

If that was your only transgression, I might have let it go. But we both know it wasn't.

(Sigh.) Bladder, you've got to start holding it together. Or should I say, holding it IN. Seriously. I thought it was bad enough the first pregnancy -- but with this one, I've had a cold for three weeks, and when I cough or sneeze, there's more being expelled than germs from my face, if you get my drift. It's never been bad enough that I caused a public scene or anything, but it is uncomfortable. As it is, I'm considering buying stock in Kimberly-Clark, the makers of Always pantiliners.

It's not just you. You're one of a dozen or so organs that have thrown me for a loop since I became a mother. But your betrayals are definitely among the more embarrassing I've experienced. I don't want to hear about Kegels -- they've never seemed to help, and besides, that's just shoving the accountability back to me, when this is your screw-up. And I don't want to hear you start talking about urologists, either. You think a pregnant woman hasn't already lost enough dignity, what with the knees in the air and the thin paper sheets and the constant lights being shined on parts of her body that only her husband should see?

So please -- get it together, bladder. I've got enough to worry about.

If you want to talk, I'll be in the powder room.

Sincerely,

me.

I couldn't make this up.

True story:

My husband walked into the powder room the other day to do his thing. Boy followed him in, and parked himself (fully clothed) on his little white Baby Bjorn potty. "Potty!" he dutifully exclaimed, and his daddy affirmed that yes, he was indeed on a potty and yes, daddy was using the potty too. As my husband was washing his hands, the boy then stood up from his little, never-been-used potty seat, turned around to face it, and leaned over it. Grasping the back of it with one hand, he yelled, "Cough!", made a gagging noise, and spit into it.

My pregnancy has scarred him for life.

Next thing you know, we'll be discussing an exit strategy from Afghanistan

Actual conversation between boy and husband, by phone, yesterday afternoon:

Husband: "Hi, son!"

Boy: "Hi, dad!"

H: "Did you have a good day?"

B: "Det!" [Translation: YES!]

H: "What did you do today?"

B: "Mmm ... ABG! Ticket! Balls!" [Translation: We went to HEB! And the cashier gave me a Buddy Buck ("ticket")! And I used it to win clear plastic crap-tastic balls with stickers inside!]

H: "Wow! Did you have fun?"

B: "Det!"

H: "And what did you have for lunch?"

B: "Fries! Ranch! Chech-up!" [Editor's note: He also had a grilled cheese sandwich. Not sure why he chose to omit the entree from the re-telling.]

H: "Did you watch any shows today?"

B: "Boo coos! George! Sid kid!" [Translation: Blue's Clues, Curious George, and Sid the Science Kid. If you think that's too much TV for a not-yet-two-year-old, you can bite me. And read this post about my nausea.]

H: "Do you love your dad?"

B: "Det!"

H: "Ok. I'll be home soon. Love you!"

B: "Ee ooo, dad!" [Translation: Love you, dad!]

An open letter to my nausea

Dear nausea,

I hate you.

Please understand -- this is not the immature, fifteen-year-old "I hate you" utterance that erupts when teenagers decide their parents are evil. This is not the ironic "I hate you" that you say when your best friend tells you she's lost 15 pounds. This is not even the more heartfelt "I hate you" that drivers mutter to the idiots who are inching along in traffic ahead of them -- the ones who keep slamming on their brakes for no apparent reason. See, none of those are really sincere. Those utterings are either regretted later or just not said with enough personal knowledge and history to be taken seriously.

Hear me when I tell you -- I mean it. I know you well. We have lots of history. And I'm very sincere.

You probably aren't taking me seriously. You're figuring it's a pregnancy-induced fit of rage, one fueled by a few months of daily intimacy with you. I'll admit that the last three months have brought things to a head, but the truth is, I've known you all my life. Any time my body or emotions were the least bit out of balance, you would show up. Bad migraine? Pukey. Fever? Nauseous. Ate too much? Gack. Worried about the SAT tomorrow morning? FACE IN TOILET. You have been an unwelcome part of my life for far too long, and I am determined to speak my mind once and for all.

I'm tired of you. You're the reason my 21-month-old watches more TV than I ever thought I'd let him watch -- because some days, the only 30 minutes I am free of you are the ones during which I lay in bed after we wake up and I let him watch "Curious George" or "Sid the Science Kid" on PBS. If I can manage to turn the TV and cable on, and get to the right channel, all while remaining perfectly flat, I can sometimes delay the inevitable dash to the toilet by a few precious moments. You're the reason that same amazing kid has learned to plead with me, "Mom play!" -- because some days I'm so listless from a morning spent with you that all I can muster is the energy required to recline on the couch in the playroom, WATCHING him maneuver his trains around the train table rather than helping him do it. You're the reason my neighbors think I'm a recluse -- because I'm afraid to talk to them for fear of retching in the middle of our conversations on the sidewalks in front of our homes. You're the reason my husband has to juggle not only his 60-hour-a-week job, but also more than his share of the household maintenance, along with the parenting we both want and expect him to do. You're the reason my mom sometimes sadly hangs up the phone after talking to me, because I can't scrape together the enthusiasm to chat the way we always have. You know, LIKE A NORMAL ADULT. You're the reason I had to bypass the dinner I'd made for myself tonight -- wheat pasta with red sauce -- AND the dinner my husband kindly made me -- my favorite frozen pizza, baked and sliced and arranged invitingly on a plate -- for a honey bun and two Oreos. You're the reason that some evenings, I cry. Because I'm tired of hanging out with you. Tired of greeting you every morning and trudging with you through the day and laying down with you at night. Tired of pushing through and past you to do the things I should be able to do, the things I want to do, or at least a passable fraction of those things, like run around with my son. Or shower AND brush my teeth on the same day.

You drain me of almost everything that makes me feel like me.

So, eff you, nausea. (The only reason I'm not using the word I'm screaming in my head is because my mother reads this blog.) Eff you and your stupid, omnipresent self. I want you to leave. I never want to see you again. The only reason I've put up with you this long is because I want this baby so badly, and if you have to come along for the ride, then I'll deal. But you know what? I'm in my second trimester now. I'm done with you. There's no more reason for you to hang around. So shove it. Hard.

And take your stinky ginger ale with you. Never effing worked, anyway.

Sincerely,

me.