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 the makers of Fiber One bars

Dear Fiber One bars,

First of all, I need to apologize. I would normally address this letter to the company that manufactures you. However, since experiencing The Force That Is You, I'm afraid to handle the box long enough to see who makes you. So I'll just have to send this to you directly.

You may be a little uneasy, since when I post open letters like this one, I tend to share some constructive criticism, as I did in my letter to Pepperidge Farm concerning their Double Chocolate Milano cookies. Or, I simply demand restitution for what I deem criminal injustice, as I did in my letter to the universe concerning the Taco Cabana taco so-called "salad." But this time, I assure you, I have a different agenda for writing. This time, I'd like to recognize a job well done. Perhaps done TOO well, one might argue. FROM THE BATHROOM.

You see, pregnancy has a not-uncommon effect on me: Some bodily processes tend to ... slow down. Way down. To the point of discomfort. In the past, I've tried upping my water consumption, adding more vegetable- and fruit-based fiber to my diet, and even the use of daily stool softeners. Any effect was short-lived, though. For a while, I despaired of ever finding relief from my new, pregnant, and backed-up state of being. Then I tried a Fiber One bar.

To say that the effect was powerful is an understatement. I was at the grocery store with my then-22-month-old son the day after consuming my first Fiber One bar when I was aware of what the "Seinfeld" writers have referred to as a major "intestinal requirement." Standing in the aisle contemplating (appropriately) my toilet paper choices, I broke out in a cold sweat. I looked at my son and realized that he was going to slow down my progress to the ladies' room considerably, and for a split second I tried to convince myself that my issue wasn't as urgent as I had originally thought it to be. Then my guts reached forward, grabbed my belly button and tried to lasso my appendix with it. That's when I ran for it.

Thank God for family restrooms at grocery stores. No one else had to be a party to the scene that resulted, except for boy. I'm fairly sure he's already blocked it from his memory. I wish I could do the same. It wasn't pretty.

I left that family restroom a wiser woman. Note to self, I thought. Don't plan to be away from home the day after eating a Fiber One bar. The effect you achieved, you see, could be best described by the phrase "a brick through Jello."

I approach you with much more caution and respect, now, Fiber One bars. I've learned that I will be most comfortable if I consume you as a bedtime snack, and allow you to work your digestive machinations while I sleep. I then plan to be at home through my son's nap the next day, and by then, you have usually finished your dramatic work, and I can sally forth with the reasonable expectation that no public restroom will cringe to see me approaching, white-faced and desperate. I've learned my lesson.

And so I salute you, Fiber One bars. You do what your name implies -- you give One a dose of Fiber. Or perhaps, you suggest that you give someone all the Fiber they will ever need, in One bar. Either way, nice work. I don't know how you achieve it -- your ingredient list includes "chicory root extract," but I'm more inclined to believe that it's angry microscopic gnomes with hammers, chisels and steel-toed boots -- but you know what you're doing.

Good job.

Good things.

(As inspired by married yoshimi.)

Whatchamacallit bars.

The smell of my boy's hair when he's just been towel-dried from his bath. Yay, Mustela products!

Avocados, sliced on crackers, with salt and pepper.

Not throwing up.

Holidays that FEEL like holidays because it's actually cold outside. Frozen pipes = real deal, y'all.

Healthy pregnancies.

A spic-and-span house.

Husbands who recognize when you are. Just. Done. Already. And then they do all the dishes and clean up the entire kitchen at night AGAIN.

Enjoying a Coca-Cola because you're done breastfeeding, and by all that is good and holy, you're going to reclaim SOME of your culinary rights before the next baby's born. (Sniff. Sushi, I really miss you. Do you ever think about me?)

Vacuum lines on carpet.

Toddlers who, when you ask them what they want on their two-year birthday cake, say, "Elmo, and Cookie, and Trash Can [Oscar], and Abby, and Bert, and Ernie, and Slimey, and Rubber Duckie, and Big Bird, and Count, and Telly, and Baby Bear ..." (Guess there won't be any trouble picking out a theme for this year's party.)

Getting a 23-month-old to pee in the potty twice in four hours, on the FIRST real day of potty training. Hooray for pretzels and water!

Good aunts and uncles for your toddler. Boy loves ALL of his.

Good grandparents. Boy's a really blessed kid. His all dote on him.

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Regular size or mini, dark chocolate or milk, just keep 'em coming. If they could find a way to fortify THOSE with the stuff that's in pre-natal vitamins, I would have no problem getting my 100% every day. If not 400%.

Cold, rainy days when you don't have any commitments outside the house.

Clear, sunny days when you do.

Sandra Boynton books, or at least the way they make little boys chuckle.

"LOST."

Feeling the baby kick and knowing everything's ok in there.

Having discretionary income.

"Everyday Italian" and "Barefoot Contessa" on the Food Network.

I am so screwed.

Just now, I had to read boy the riot act about acting up. He'd taken a small toy animal and was pounding on the coffee table repeatedly, despite my "No"s. (He does these things when I'm on the phone because he knows my attention is divided. Little schemer.)

I pulled him onto my lap for a stern talk. After a lengthy discussion, he finally showed some remorse, then managed a "Sorry, mom." Immediately after that, he patted my Old Navy t-shirt and said, "Nice shirt, mom." And followed THAT up with "Hair pretty."

Good Lord.

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.

Cross your fingers.

I haven't thrown up in four days.

Every minute of not-throwing-up has been precious. I've already forgotten what a toilet looks like from only 8 inches away.

Please, PLEASE, you guys, knock on wood that this lasts.

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck ...

True story:

The other day I was getting dressed, and I opened my lingerie drawer and realized that all my clean underwear was in the dryer. Where it was CLEARLY not of much use to my naked self. Now that we live on a golf course, and there is a steady stream of golfers lollygagging their way past our back yard and getting fairly close to our iron fence (depending on how bad they are), the naked dryer-dash is a thing of the past. So I did what any sensible naked pregnant woman would do: I turned to my husband.

"Honey, would you go out to the dryer and get me a pair of underwear? I need a maternity pair."

Good-natured and ever-willing as always, he answered, "Sure. How will I know which are the maternity pair?"

"Just grab the biggest pair of panties you've ever seen."

He chuckled and trotted out. When he returned, he sported a half-sheepish, half-amused look that made me go, "What?"

"Well, let's just say you weren't kidding."

"Yeah. So?"

"Well, you know what else you weren't? WRONG."

Seriously. Maternity underwear are not LINGERIE. I should stop calling my skivvies drawer by that name, and just call it what it is: the place where I keep granny panties you could also use as sails.

Weaned. (Wait, what?!)

I looked at my 22-month-old son today and realized that I cannot recall the last time he nursed.

I had a moment's panic over that. See, I'd always thought that I'd give up breastfeeding only reluctantly, that I would clutch my sleepy toddler to me and sob during what I knew to be the last time, that I would miss it and mourn its passing. In fact, I originally planned to tandem-nurse boy and this next baby, and only started scaling back boy's nursing when I realized that 1) nursing while pregnant was making me dehydrated and therefore even more prone to nausea, and 2) if I added breastfeeding-sharing to all the other sibling-factors that boy was already going to have to deal with when the baby arrived, I was probably only making it harder for him in the long run. Anyway, it came as a bit of a shock to me that The Last Time had come and gone without commemoration of some kind.

The truth is, I guess we were both ready for the end. Boy had gotten down to only some token nursing before he fell asleep (at nap- and bedtime), and he was prone to twisting around, pinching me while he partook, and fiddling with my hair and clothes in a way that wasn't *exactly* the idyllic nursing of an older child that I'd envisioned. I'd pretty much had enough of the biting and pulling and pinching and bra-strap-snapping. It was kind of like trying to nurse a rambunctious puppy with the social habits of a seventh-grader.

Still, though, I find that I'm a little heartbroken. And it's because this is just one more of the many countless times or experiences in my son's life that I will never, ever be able to get back again. I can't hold him again as a newborn or a six-month-old. I can't ever again watch him learn to crawl or walk. The soft spot that once graced the top of his head is long since grown closed. He doesn't have that BABY smell anymore. The movements of his hands are deliberate and accurate now, and while watching him maneuver a toy car down his garage ramp is a symphony of beauty to me, I miss the hiccup-y wavings of his once-chubby fists.

I really thought, when I looked forward to becoming a mother, that once my child came to me, I wouldn't have to start letting go of him until he walked away from me on his first day of school. But that was naive and short-sighted. I know that now. The truth is that the second he was born, he started growing and changing in ways that I had to see, acknowledge, and release into the world. As much as I try to recognize the fact that my son isn't truly mine, but God's -- as much as I try to understand that he's come THROUGH me into the world, not TO me -- sometimes it's just impossible.

Sometimes I just want to hug my baby and hold him tight to me and never let him go.

The many sides of ME. Or maybe just the one side.

Ways in which I'm a buttoned-up prude:

• I always wear my seat belt, even if I'm just moving my car so my husband can pull his out of the garage.
• I read the directions that come with IKEA furniture, microwave frozen dinners and LEGO toy sets.
• I have never seen or touched pot. No idea what it's even supposed to look like. Totally serious.
• I sort laundry and read the washing instructions on tags.
• I can never fully enjoy getting a massage because I always feel guilty that the therapist has to work so hard.
• I've never skinny-dipped, been drunk or snuck into anyone's yard to jump in their pool.

Ways in which I live dangerously:

• I never, ever check my microwaved meals with a food thermometer when the instructions say, "Food should be fully cooked, and should reach an internal temperature of 160 degrees."
• I don't floss regularly.
• I will eat leftover sandwiches that I forgot to put in the fridge the night before.
• I'll drink milk one or even two days past the expiration date on the carton.
• I regularly drive five or ten miles above the speed limit when on highways, if it's with the flow of traffic, and seems relatively safe.

Wait.

I don't think that second list makes the point I thought it would.

The nicest note I ever got from a stranger

This note renewed my faith in the generosity of the human spirit. Thank you, kind friend, for sending this to me via Facebook. (Personal data has been edited out to protect everyone's privacy.)

Hi there! I think maybe you've heard of me, I'm [a friend of your brother's]. On several occasions [your brother] has pointed me to your blog for an amusing post or adorable photo. One of those times I bookmarked it and return to read it often, because all of the posts are amusing, and all of the photos adorable. I think you are an amazing writer, and I really enjoy reading your posts.

I decided to write here because I don't have a blogspot account or a blog, but I wanted you to know that a few more prayers and good thoughts are coming your way for your pregnancy and new little one. The short prayer at the end of your "On the mend" post was really touching. I am hopeful that you all will be feeling your best very soon. I can see that you've had a rough couple weeks on top of a difficult few months, and I hoped some added prayers might help. Best wishes for you and your family!

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.

On the mend

It can't have been more than a week ago that my husband and I were remarking on our tremendous luck, in that boy had never been seriously ill. We'd dealt with a few runny noses and random low-grade fevers, but overall, we had really been fortunate. Our conversation was just the sign God was looking for that we needed to be reminded that we are not in control, because two days ago, boy was definitely out of sorts. I chalked it up to the fact that his second birthday was approaching, and that he was just trying out the whole expressing-an-opinion-forcefully idea, but in retrospect, I'll bet he was already feeling punky. I was also feeling worse than usual -- my pregnancy-related nausea and vomiting were making themselves more than known after about a week of lessening symptoms. Their return to full force was not welcome. All in all, we did NOT have a good day.

And then yesterday, I woke up next to a sick kid.

When I opened my eyes in the morning, I didn't really notice much out of the ordinary, except that boy made a couple of strange burping noises I'd never heard him make before. He didn't seem to be bothered, though, so as I got up to head for the bathroom myself, I didn't think much of it. The wave of nausea that hit me halfway there was just. Wrong. As I stood bent over in the bathroom, trying to keep my knees from buckling from the sheer intensity of the sickness, I remember thinking, "Whoa. What the heck is up with THIS?"

Despite the relatively alarming strength of the experience, the basic act was nothing new to boy or myself -- it's how we start all our mornings these days, with boy hollering, "Mom cough? Mom ok?" from the other room -- so I got cleaned up, washed my hands, and went to truck boy out to his high chair for breakfast. As I rounded the bed, he started being sick himself. I wasn't really all too shocked, I have to say, based on my newly-in-perspective sickness myself and his burping, so luckily I was pretty calm.

(If you have a weak stomach, you may want to skip the rest of this. Please know I'm not trying to be intentionally gross -- it was just a very vivid moment. It was kind of a defining moment in my motherhood experience, if you will.)

I've seen people get sick before. My mom took care of children in our home for many years, and I've been around my share of miserably ill kids. Anyone who watches MTV these days is bound to see someone throw up. It's no mystery. But there's something particularly rough about it when it's your baby who's sick, your child who's at the mercy of a body rejecting a bug. The force of his retching made him almost go limp, and it was so relentless that for a few seconds at a time, he couldn't draw a breath. It seemed to go on forever, and as he fought to breathe through it, arching his back as he started to panic, I felt more helpless than I have ever felt in my life. All I could do was hold him upright with a towel under his chin, and tell him it was ok, he was doing fine, mommy's here, just get it out, let the yuckies out and it would be all over. My little champ got through it, and sat panting and sweating as he recovered. He never once cried. I asked him if he was ok, and he said, quietly, "Det." That's his version of "Yes." It had never sounded more pitiful.

I scooped him up, and we headed for a room without carpet, as I had the feeling this wasn't going to be the last time we went through it. I called my husband, and my mom, letting them know what was going on, and consulting over whether a trip to the doctor was in order. As I was hanging up with my husband, another wave of nausea hit me. I ran to the powder room with the little guy in my arms, sat him just outside of it, and basically buckled. As he listened to me, he would cry out, "Mom?" Like, "What the hell, lady? Are you gonna die or what? 'Cause you don't sound too reassuring, if you know what I mean." All I could do was try to tell him, "Mommy's ok!" between retches. THAT'S when I knew it was bad.

I decided to just try him on some water once I got him into his high chair, instead of his regular breakfast. The sip he took stayed down for nine minutes, and again I had to witness his full-body retching, his gasps to get in air between the spasms. When his pediatrician's office opened at 8:30, I called and got us an appointment for 11, their first available. The hours from 6:45 to 8:30, when I could finally reach someone, and then the wait from 8:35 to 11, seemed like an eternity. For some of the time, I let him sit in his high chair and watch Sesame Street on my computer. My sick little guy insisted on sitting with his beloved Monkey and Pig tucked around him, and I didn't get any smiles that morning.

After it was clear neither of us would be eating anything, we went upstairs to his playroom to divert him from his misery. I thought the sight of his beloved "car-trucks" would inspire him to play a little, but all he did was lay on the floor and say, "Mom? Tired."

If any of you have met my son, you know that this is as unlike him as it is possible to get.

He threw up once more, then fell asleep in my arms. I let him snooze until it was time to leave for the doctor's office. My amazing husband came to drive us there so that I could sit in the back seat with boy in case he threw up again and started choking in his car seat. Normally a garrulous traveler ("Mom! Big bus! Yellow bus. White car?"), he sat silently, a small toy clutched in each hand, although he had no energy to actually play with either. He allowed himself to be carried into the doctor's office waiting room, where he sat listlessly on our laps. He then wailed through his entire examination, where we learned that yes, indeed -- he had a stomach virus. I was tremendously thankful for the fact that he had no fever or other symptoms, but the vomiting was worrying me, because by that time, he'd had NO fluids since 8 pm the night before. That was 16 hours of no fluids for my little guy, and that seemed alarming to me.

Luckily we got a prescription for some amazing medicine (yay, Zofran!) and it put a stop to his vomiting almost immediately. He slept all the way home, had some Gatorade and a cracker once we got there, and then took ANOTHER nap for an hour and a half. The rest of the day was spent regulating how much food and water he took in -- he wanted WAY more than I thought prudent to let him have -- and then he collapsed into bed before 9 pm.

I'm happy to report that he's now doing MUCH better, and has a newfound love of chicken soup with alphabet noodles. ("Mom! Eat Ps? Eat D! More Q. Mom find! Find K!!") I seem to have fought off my own stomach virus too, and we're slowly getting back to normal. But I'll never forget the feeling of holding my very sick boy in my arms, listless and miserable, and feeling powerless to do anything to make him feel better.

Lord, thank You for the blessing of the health of this family. Thank You for watching over us and touching us with Your love and protection. Please watch over us as we continue to mend. Protect us and our loved ones from illness and injury and pain. Help us to do Your work.

Incoherent ramblings on the nature of parenting

I've finally been able to articulate the basic gist of my parenting philosophy. It came to me in a flash the other day. And I'm still working on it -- I imagine that this will be more or less in some sort of flux as the boy and I and his daddy grow and change, but this is what it is at its heart.

I think a lot of people look at children and want to make them into who they think they're supposed to be. And maybe some kids need that. I don't know. But I believe that children come to you ALREADY THEMSELVES. They're hardwired with some personality traits and characteristics and such. Even if I didn't believe that before, I believe it now. And what I think most shapes my parenting is the deeply-seeded (-seated?) belief on my part that my job isn't to change who my son is. I can guide him and help him develop healthy habits -- eating right, sleeping well, being polite and respectful, taking care of himself -- but my job isn't to make him into a "real" person. On the contrary -- my job is to learn who he already is, and glean from him how best to guide and teach him. And maybe even more importantly, it's to learn from him whatever he has to teach me. These days, he has much to teach me about patience and consistence. We've entered the "no" phase ahead of schedule (with his particular twist on it being "no like it!!") and the days have become more of a challenge than before.

Now, don't get me wrong. When I say I want to learn from my child, I don't mean I intend to let him walk all over me. I know that children need boundaries to make sense of the world. They need to be shown what's off-limits, like hitting and biting. And taking your cousin's favorite horsey stuffed animal and refusing to give it back. (Let's not do THAT again, buddy.) I'm good with boundaries.

Maybe I just got lucky, and God sent me a child who responds well to the approach I've taken. I don't know. He's just SO AWESOME. He's funny and adaptable and laughs a lot. He calls his cars and trucks by the useful hybrid "car-trucks." He loves his stuffed pig and his stuffed monkey, and looks for them every night before bed. "Mom? Pig monkey?" He gives kisses to his mom and dad when asked. He loves to watch squirrels in the yard ("Oh, wow!") and he says please and thank you, sometimes even without being reminded.

Yeah. I probably just got really lucky. Maybe I don't have it figured out after all.

Never mind.

Insomnia

It's 5:30 a.m. I've been awake since 4:15. There is no good reason for this fact. Besides the one about being pregnant.

Things I've thought about over the last hour and fifteen minutes:

• How much of the three pounds I've lost since becoming pregnant is due to sheer dehydration. This was wondered while actually throwing up.
• Whether Steve from Blue's Clues truly draws the pictures of the clues that Blue leaves, or whether there's an artist who does that.
• How much Halloween candy eaten constitutes "too much" when you're talking about Reese's, after all.
• How to get the PBS Kids theme song out of my head. The jingle is only about six seconds long, further complicating the repetitive-song-stuck-in-my-head insanity.
• Whether the toast I'm eating to settle my stomach will stay down, or whether I'll be seeing it again when boy wakes me up at 7 a.m.
• Whether I'll actually be sleeping any more this morning at all, for that matter.
• Whether it's butter or margarine that's supposed to be "bad" these days. I can never remember what the current thinking is. While I wonder, I will continue to put butter on my toast. I'll have to admit to not actively researching this one, either. Kind of happy with the status quo.
• Whether to bother resetting the clocks in the kitchen, since our neighborhood loses power so frequently.

So, good morning to you, too!

First trimester rule #1

...

"The Stomach Shall Be Obeyed."

This is why I have, in the last three weeks:

• Gone shopping and come home with the fixings for a white-bread baloney sandwich, as well as cherry Kool-Aid mix.
• Eaten a twice-toasted, mini-whole-wheat bagel with cream cheese at midnight.
• Craved, prepared, and then was unable to eat one single bite of three different healthy, multi-course dinners.
• Consumed more spaghetti than anyone should.
• Dreamed, vividly, about yellow cake with chocolate frosting.
• Bought -- I shudder to actually admit this -- Cap'n Crunch Cereal. The Crunchberry kind. The box is almost empty. My husband didn't have any.

This rule is also known, for me, as "Thou Shalt Not Stand Between Me and a Carbohydrate." I am like the anti-Atkins right now.

(That reminds me. I have to put twice-baked potatoes on the grocery list.)

Out from under my rock. With news.

For those of you wondering where I've been, I can now tell you.

I have been right here, staring at my computer, wanting desperately to post something, but fearing that I would accidentally type "I'm pregnant" and then post it immediately.

Because I am. Yay! And we're finally letting the cat out of the bag.

It's been quite a roller coaster already -- there was the early anxiety that we'd have another miscarriage, the almost constant nausea and subsequent all-too-frequent interfacing with various toilets in our home (this is still going on -- ugh), the low hormone levels and resultant nasty medication, the meds for all the gross throwing-up-related stuff, the part where one of the meds gave me a horrible reaction and landed me in the emergency room, and finally the 11-week ultrasound that showed a squirmy, healthy baby.

You'll probably hear about the ER visit at least. It was memorable.

For now, I'm going to find some ice cream. Thanks for not giving up on me!