That’s been the title of this blog for three years now. Not Super…Just Mom. But now the punctuation’s shifted a little. Or it’s shifting in my head.

I’m hanging up a few of my hats. I’m scaling back. My cape is at the dry cleaners. Indefinitely. For now, I’m just “mom.”

It feels good.

Lighter.

I’m two days into my new gig.

Joshua’s been plagued with Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease and I have been plagued with whining. And Emma’s spit up enough for the four of us. Mostly through her nose. All over me and three burp cloths.

It’s glamorous, this new life of mine. Really.

But today we baked cookies. (The cheater’s Tollhouse break-and-bakes, but still. Cookies.)

We declared today pajama day and lounged around watching Thomas and breaking out into impromptu dance parties.

We made Play-doh rocket ships and Joshua counted backwards from 10, shouting “BLAST OFF!” after he got to 1.

We snuggled.

We sang.

The rug is littered with toys.

Sure, these are the things we’d do on summer vacation anyway, but this time it feels different. It doesn’t feel like I’m cramming all the fun mom stuff into my summer to make up for the time I won’t have come this fall.

It feels free.

Happy.

It feels right.

In case you were wondering, this is what six years looks like when it’s in the back of a Highlander.

Three big plastic totes, two reusable shopping bags, and a record player in the corner.

The past two days have been a whirlwind of filing, trashing, three-hole-punching, envelope-stuffing, backing-up documents, and saying goodbye. The back of my car may hold the things I’ve used to make my classroom a home and teach nearly 500 students, but it can’t contain the memories. They’re too numerous to fit.

I remember the group of boys I had first period my first year. “Good ol’ boys” all but convinced that school was just something they did to pass the time until they could get real jobs. I remember one of them seeking me out at graduation and asking me to come and meet his family. He was the first to graduate.

I remember the writer my second year, stuck in a classroom of kids far below her in terms of pretty much everything except money, but never condescending. Always willing to read aloud or ready to offer up an answer when it was clear that no one else knew. I had her again her junior year and she was just as amazing a student then as she had been two years before.

I remember the actor in my second period who read the part of John Proctor with gusto like I’d never seen before. I was pregnant with Joshua that year and I remember their whispered reactions when I broke the news to them with a bonus question on a test. “I knew it” and “I told you!” flew up and down the rows.

I remember him. Always. His tiny cursive handwriting is imprinted in my mind along with his face, his smile, his laugh, and his drawl. I will always wonder if I could’ve done more.

I remember their anticipation over my infamous bank robber story. I tell it every year and every year, they come in waiting to hear it having heard from their friends that it’s not one to miss.

There was laughter. There were life lessons. There was sarcasm. There was anger. There were tears. There was community.

I have notes in boxes, posters, and a podium full of signatures.

My life has been touched by so many talented, intelligent, beautiful souls over the past six years. I’m so lucky to have known them all.

Somehow, for all of the times when I’d argue the opposite, I know that I mattered. Tonight, that’s enough.

Dear Dan,

I’ve opened and closed this dashboard no less than 4 times already this morning. In the midst of the chaos and stress and cranky of the morning, this is the one thing I wanted to do, and it took you taking Joshua to the playground and me rocking Emma until she and I had both fallen asleep and I’d woken myself up snoring three times to get it done. And now she’s awake again and I’ve just decided to hold her and type this because this is our life now. I probably should’ve done this yesterday, but you know me well enough to know that ahead-of-time just isn’t my style.

Today is our anniversary. Six years, babe.

I picked a good partner when I picked you.

I knew you were “the one” when Satan Cat broke his leg and you, you who hated cats, took care of him for me. Any man who could show that kind of compassion to an animal who probably plotted to kill us in our sleep was a keeper.

You are the calm in my storms.

There’s this way you have of not freaking out at exactly the moment I expect you to freak out. Like the time I forgot to pay the water bill and we had to buy gallon jugs of water to flush the toilet. Or how you’ve stood by me during bouts of depression both before and after Joshua’s birth. I know you didn’t always understand it, and maybe still don’t. But I love that you’re there. And while we’re talking calm and storms, let’s not forget the time I surprised you with a pee stick and you high-fived me.

You are a wonderful father to our children.

I remember laying down in the bed the night we brought Emma home from the hospital and feeling so connected to you. Even though the beginning of our life with Joshua was incredibly chaotic, I felt the same connection then. I felt your love for me through your love for them. And oh, my, your love for these children is apparent. They may drive us crazy sometimes, but it’s so incredibly clear how much you love them. Thank you for loving them.

You are our provider.

This new journey we’re embarking upon? The one where I stay home and do the home things? It wouldn’t be possible if you weren’t so dedicated to your job and making a life for us happen. I know that you work long hours and there are times when I complain about it, but I am so incredibly thankful that you are willing to work those long hours to make this life work. I am so incredibly thankful to know that even if it meant mowing yards for a living, a chore I know you despise, you would do it to make sure we were taken care of.

You are my best friend.

It often feels very isolated where we live. Our friends are flung far and wide away from us. But I have you. Deep down I know that no matter how hard the topic is to talk about, I can talk about it. I’m glad I have you. Know that you have me, too.

Six years. Two kids. A dog. And all these memories of ours.

In some ways it seems like it was just yesterday that our life together began. In other ways it seems like we’ve been together for much longer. I’m always surprised to find that even though we know so much about each other there is still more to know.

I hope there is always more to know.

Love you,

Me

Dan and me? We’re pretty perfect for each other. And never is that more apparent than in the every day.

When I’m too serious or overthinking things, he doesn’t and sort of brings me back to reality. I like to think I do the same thing for him. Though I usually do it with a healthy dose of maybe-angry sarcasm. (Sarcasm. It’s my love language.)

Here’s an example of how perfect we are together:

This morning, like 40 minutes ago, I was browsing Facebook and I came across an infographic about paid maternity leave throughout the world. This is a topic near and dear to my heart so I clicked it and looked and felt a little bit of The Angry welling up in me to see the big ZERO next to the U.S. Then I started reading the comments and saw people complaining and arguing that taxpayers shouldn’t have to pay for the leaves of other people. Like, violently arguing their points. And their opinions are so radically different from what the site is trying to promote I can’t figure out how they got there in the first place.

(***sidenote: In the “Things I Will NEVER Understand” category: People who COMPLETELY disagree with a line of thinking but feel the need to seek out and comment on things they disagree with. Like, for instance, people who came to my American Idol posts just to leave a comment saying “AMERICAN IDOL SUXXXX!” Or something like that. Never understand it.)

Anyway, I’m reading their comments and my brain is spinning and I’m all “I HAVE SOLVED ALL THE PROBLEMS!”

So Dan is standing in the middle of the living room doinking around on his phone before leaving for work. And I’m all “Holy crap! I just solved the problem!” And he looks at me like this:

o_O

Because he is completely unaware that there is a problem. So I continue:

“I’ve been paying into Social Security since my first job at 16, right? So why can’t mothers dip into their Social Security to pay for maternity leave and then we’d have paid leaves like they do in other countries? That totally makes sense!”

Dan: o_O “I…uh…I don’t know babe…”

Me: “Oh…yeah…it’s maybe a little early for such a deep thought, right?”

Dan: “Yeah. I mean, I’m Googling stinky sneezes.”

And there you have it. I’m saving the world before my morning coffee. He’s way less ambitious before breakfast.

Perfect for each other.

Yesterday I was not the mom I want to be. I allowed my personal stress to become my child’s problem and he bore the brunt of my bad moment. I had things to do and didn’t he understand that! Why the tantrum!? He was sick and I was annoyed. And I was mad at myself for being annoyed that he was sick. We weren’t very good with each other.

The day ended on a good note. My interview went well and I should hear something in the next couple of weeks. If it’s good news, we’re going on vacation. But still, I went to bed with a touch of dread in my heart, afraid that today would be another string of rocky moments.

Today, Emma and Joshua woke up simultaneously at 5:00 a.m. One had a poop and both were thirsty. Neither of them seem to understand that 5:00 a.m. is kind of an inconvenient time for bodily functions and hydration. These kids of mine. It’s like they conspired against me in their pre-bed chat last night.

Because I’m a masochist who schedules 6 week, pants-off, exams for 9:00 a.m. (!!!) I went ahead and climbed out of bed, showered, put on makeup, and fixed up my hair a little while I had the extra set of hands for child wrangling. Dan took off with Joshua and I sat down with a cup of coffee. I’m not a morning person by any means, but I have to admit it feels good to be dressed and showered and have time to just chill out for a minute before getting the day started.

It feels peaceful. Like this moment sets the tone for the rest of the day.

Sitting here in the relative silence is a double-edged sword though.

On the one hand, my house, albeit messy and practically screaming at me to straighten it up, is peaceful. Sure, the dishes are growling, the unfolded laundry is wrinkling, and there are throw pillows and Hot Wheels creating an obstacle course through my living room. But it’s calm here right now. The only sounds I hear are the computer whirring, the birds chirping outside, little Emma gurgles as she nurses, and my fingers typing swiftly along the keyboard.

On the other hand, the silence can be a little deafening. Lonely even. Emma’s not really one for conversation, you know?

I suppose this is one of the dilemmas of stay-at-home moms, right?

::sigh::

All I know for sure is that today is not yesterday. Today is new. Today I get the opportunity to start over and be the mom I want to be. A little more patient, a lot more understanding, with more love for my kids than I had yesterday. And that love is already exponential.

Here’s to beginning today well.

My hometown doesn’t really feel like home. It’s supposed to, but it doesn’t. Pretty much the only tie I have left to that town is the fact that my mama still lives there.

Maybe it’s because we lived in so many places before settling there and then lived in three places once we’d decided to put down some roots.

I don’t know.

There’s something about where we live now, Dan and I, that feels unsettled, too. It feels like it’s not ours.

It doesn’t feel like home.

Our house feels like home, but this city not so much. At least not always.

Today we took a trip to our college town to visit with some of Dan’s old coworkers and friends. I felt my  heart growing happier on the drive over as we saw the familiar sights of the highway that leads into town. Turning onto the familiar road headed toward campus excited me. I felt something like butterflies.

We all took a tour of some of the new sights on campus and caught glimpses of some of the old because it had been years since some of us had been there.

My heart smiled the whole time.

There’s something about that town and that campus that revives my soul.

It’s the place where I met Dan and our life together blossomed.

It’s the place where I learned what I’m made of. Where I learned how to survive.

It’s the place where I confronted depression and anxiety head-on for the first time.

It’s the place where I found me.

Of all the places I’ve ever lived, that’s the place that feels like home.

This is another of those bullet-pointed posts wherein I purge my brain of all the crazy that is hiding up there.

Ready? Go.

• Joshua had a RAGING case of pinkeye that started last weekend and lasted until yesterday. Seriously. Raging. It’s gone now, thank the baby Jesus.
• It’s May sweeps right now. If you don’t know what “sweeps” are, allow me to try to explain. “Sweeps” are certain times in the tv season when networks attempt to get as many viewers/ratings as they can in a particular time slot. It helps their ad dollars. It’s also my first May sweeps with my dream job and it like to have killed my brain. There was so much to watch and think about and then write about that I didn’t get much sleep this week. At least, not as much sleep as I need and/or want.
• Wednesday, Emma and I took Joshua to daycare and then came home and went back to bed until 2 in the afternoon. See the previous bullet point for an explanation as to why. (We didn’t sleep that entire time. She woke up to eat and then went back to sleep. I’m perfecting side-lying nursing so that I can sleep while she eats. Lazy moms FTW!)
• I grocery shopped with both kids this week. Again. And we all survived.
• Emma hates the car seat. Still. And she’s very vocal about this hatred of the car seat. It’s very…distracting.
• I got to interview Kerry Washington, star of Scandal, and she retweeted me. Twice.
• I signed papers that make it official that I’m leaving my job. I’m surprisingly not sad about this. I will be, I know. But for now, I’m not.
• I got an interview for an online teaching position which would really be ideal and beneficial. I’d be able to bring in a salary while staying home with Joshua and Emma. Here’s hoping.
• We tried to teach Joshua how to Wii Bowl. It ended with him making us play the game while he sat on the living room rug rolling a ball at the TV stand.
• If you Google the phrase “colace poop stuck” this post is the fifth link on the first page. Please don’t ask how I know this. Please just know I think it’s hilarious that enough key words are in that post for that phrase to get it to the first page of a Google search.

Okay, that’s the random floating in my head. What’s in yours?

That’s what my mornings feel like around here. Synchronized insanity. Chaos organized only by the fact that one of my children can’t move yet. Especially this morning.

A typical morning looks like this:

Emma is usually up to nurse around 4. I just pop a boob in her mouth and we go back to sleep.

Joshua wakes up and bangs on his bedroom door loud enough to wake the dead (or his sleeping sister) between 6:00 and 7:00. I get up and get him dressed and make coffee and he and I chill on the couch and watch Super Why or Dora or read a book and just chill out. Yesterday morning he made me Wii Bowl. Whatever. That’s our time together.

We hang out until we hear Emma stirring and then I’ll try to tank her up on one side, throw her (gently) into the car seat, and then we head to daycare drop off.

Lately, my mornings have looked like this:

Emma’s asleep, barely. Joshua’s running like a crazy person through the house with SO.MUCH.ENERGY he’s practically Chernobyl. I get him dressed, get myself dressed, hopefully have time to start the coffee, slather him in sunscreen like I’m supposed to and sometimes forget, and then Emma wakes up.

So I go get her and change her diaper and nurse her and burp her and put her in her car seat. And she poops. So I unbuckle her and go change her diaper. Joshua finds a ball and decides to throw it around the living room nearly breaking all the things instead of putting on his shoes. Just as I’m about to put Emma back in the car seat, she spits up all over all the other things, including my shirt and in my hair. I go change my clothes and throw my hair into a ponytail. She poops again while she’s sitting in the car seat and it’s such a loud poop I can hear her two rooms away. I pick her up to go and change her. She spits up on me. Again. Joshua is still refusing to put on his shoes. I go change the baby and my shirt. Again.

I put Emma in her car seat and sit down to put Joshua’s shoes on him since it’s clear he will not cooperate and do this himself. Then Joshua informs me that he has to make a stinky.

I irrationally ask him to wait and do it at school because then his teachers can change it and I’ve already changed two poop diapers this morning, maybe three depending on the day, and my poop diaper quota is nearly met. My logic is lost on him and he says, again, “I gotta make a stinky!” and runs down the hallway to hide in a bedroom to do his business. The toilet is not an option despite the Buzz Lightyear and Jessie toys calling his name from above the light fixture.

Emma is still in her car seat and growing increasingly frustrated that there isn’t a boob in her mouth.

Joshua and I head to his bedroom because by this point, he’s dropped a small man dump in his diaper and is ready to be changed. So I change it. By the time he and I have his shorts off, Emma is screaming from the living room. The Angry, Dying Cat scream that says that this moment, right here, this one I’m living, will be the reason she comes home wearing a miniskirt with her eyebrow pierced and her hair dyed 14 shades of blue one day.

Finally, all diapers are changed, my clothing is relatively bodily fluid free, both children are in the car, Emma is still screaming, but we’re on the way. A full 30 minutes after my original attempt at getting us out the door.

These kids are in cahoots to make me crazy(er.)

Dear Mama,

“It’s just another day,” you said, just like you say about every holiday. “No cards. They just end up in the trash can.”

I honored your request. Partly because it was your request and you’re my mother and partly because Emma’s screams were escalating from her “I’m a little bothered” one to the one that sounds like an angry cat when I was in the store trying to figure out if Hallmark had said what I wanted to say any better than I could say it myself.

As it turns out, they hadn’t.

Or, and this is more likely, I didn’t get there soon enough to get the card that said what I wanted to say. I mean, I am quite the procrastinator after all. A trait of mine that I know has always made you a little crazy but which I suspect in some small way or another I learned from you. After all, we do work best under pressure, right? ::wink wink::

Today, and every day, I want to tell you how thankful I am for you.

For the sacrifices you made when I was growing up.

For the long hours you worked doing thankless tasks.

For listening with love in your heart.

For the unwavering support you always gave me even if you disagreed with my decisions.

For trusting that I would figure it out eventually and would ask for your advice if I needed it.

For teaching me to stand up for myself, always respectfully, with the power of my convictions, and you, behind me.

For showing me strength. And weakness.

For being my biggest fan.

Joshua and Emma have made me a mother, but you taught me how to be one through the example you set for me.

I love you, Mama.

Me

I may have quit my job on Friday, but I’ll always be an English teacher. Part of what drew me to that field in the first place is the way words speak to me, sometimes when they’re actually spoken from someone’s mouth, but more often from the pages on which they are written. Today I’m proud to share the words of 24 different women with you.

Katherine Stone, a champion of moms everywhere, is hosting the 4th Annual Mother’s Day Rally for Mom’s Mental Health at Postpartum Progress and this year, she asked me to participate.

Those of you who’ve been here with me for any length of time know that as a PPD/A survivor, I do not miss an opportunity to champion for other moms. To say “it gets better.” Today I’m sharing my favorite quote with Katherine’s audience. The words that helped me survive and which are still helping me. Even if my war is over, there’s still the occasional battle to be fought and won.

Every hour today, a new post will go up from a mother who has survived or is currently surviving either an antepartum or postpartum mood disorder. Read their stories. Share their words. Help women know they aren’t alone in their battles.

Today, I made a choice. A hard choice. A really hard choice.  A choice that I’ve weighed and waffled on for months.

Today, I quit my job to become a stay at home mom.

I’ve never been good with cramming the quality into only an hour or two like some moms can. I need quantity AND quality. With only an hour or two, I feel compelled to do everything and the overwhelming desire to do everything generally leads to getting nothing done. Not even the quality time.

It’s funny how that works, right? Am I the only one who experiences this? I think I’m probably not.

Since Joshua was small, I’ve lamented how busy our lives are. How our mornings are hectic and scattered and rushed and our afternoons are plagued by daycare pickup, dinner, bath time and bed with little time for anything else. I’ve always hated how little time I actually have to spend with Joshua in any given day.

Even when he makes me absolutely crazy in the hour I do have, I still want more hours. I still need more hours.

Now that Emma’s here, I want those hours with her, too. I need those hours with her to keep on healing my soul.

And with two children, having those hours in order to split my attentions between them become even more of a commodity.

So, in order to have those hours, something has to give.

I can’t give up food, sleep, or cleaning the house since the first two are biological necessities and the last would land us on Hoarders. So, the thing that I can give up, for now, is my career.

I love my family. I love my career. But when it comes down to it, my career will always be there. I can go back.

My children? Their childhoods? These moments? Those are fleeting. I cannot miss these moments. I cannot get them back.

As Nick Carraway said “You can’t repeat the past.” Once these moments are gone, they’re gone forever.

And y’all, I have agonized over this decision. I have wavered and doubted and right now, I still waver and doubt.

Even this morning I stood in the kitchen and looked at Dan and said “I just don’t know what to do.”

And he said “We can do this. We’ll make it work.”

So, we’re doing this.

In case you live under a rock or don’t have kids, this week is Teacher Appreciation Week. (It’s also Nurses Appreciation Week, just so you know.)

Tuesday I was doinking around on Tweetdeck while I was trapped under a napping baby and I saw a tweet go by from MrsMiscellanea about how to appreciate all the teachers her children have without breaking the bank.

I’m here to tell you how to do that. It’s exactly the advice I gave her.

Write a note.

That’s it.

No overblown gifts, no fancy baked goods, no coffee mugs, no gift cards, no spa visits, no designer handbags.

I mean, sure, those things are all fine and good, and no, there’s nothing inherently wrong with bestowing a small token of thanks on the teacher(s) in your child’s life. (And yes, all of those, including the handbag, are gifts I know teachers have received.)

The problems with tangible gifts like that are many. For starters, they can be expensive. They breed competition over who’s giving the best gift. They’re time consuming. They sometimes feel like they’re intended to pressure the teacher into feeling differently about students. Like the teacher is being bought.

No one likes to be bought. They do, however, like to be appreciated. And appreciation is simple. Really.

The benefit of writing a note versus buying or making a tangible gift keeps on giving long after the gift card has been spent or the cookies have been eaten. When I’m wondering why in the world I got into this profession, I open my “Bad Day box” and read those notes and cards. I remember the students who’ve said “Hey, you know? You made a difference.” I remember that moment and that student and I know that I don’t suck at this. Someone out there thinks I’m doing a good job. And then I find a little well of renewed strength to make it through the day or week or grading period.

Or I look over at the podium in my classroom where six years’ worth of “thanks” have been scrawled by the many students who’ve come into my life. I remember the group of boys who made that podium for me in wood shop and what a hard time they gave me about learning anything some days. How difficult they could be. But I remember that we made it.

Teachers in this country are facing a serious lack of support from the public right now. A lack of recognition for the hours they work and the sacrifices they make. A lack of recognition for the talents they possess.

It’s easy to recognize those things.

A simple “I appreciate you” is, believe it or not, enough.

So, teachers, I appreciate you.

I appreciate the long hours you spend preparing lessons and grading assignments.

I appreciate the hours you spend doing paperwork for meetings.

I appreciate the way you balance the precarious roles of counselor, parent, friend, and disciplinarian with the students in your classroom who need those things.

I appreciate the time you spend learning more about your subject, be it through reading or attending courses in your own time and with your own money.

And speaking of your own money, I appreciate the way you spend your hard-earned cash to buy the supplies your district can’t or won’t.

I appreciate the fact that, despite the fact that you know you deserve more and could do a job that would pay you what you’re worth, you still go to work every day.

I appreciate that you believe you’re making a difference in the lives of the children you teach. That you’re in that classroom every day because you believe that what you do matters. To many or to just one.

I appreciate the difference you’ve made in my life by teaching me, even when the lesson was one I didn’t know I needed.

Thank you,

A fellow teacher who gets it

It’s hard to believe it’s already been a month since we welcomed sweet Emma to our family.

I love the way Joshua asks “Can I kiss her?” and points out how small her feet are.

I love her tiny little baby noises.

I love how in love with her Dan is.

She’s just…perfect.

At one month old, Emma:

• hates the car seat, which means all trips, even short ones to the grocery store, are nearly torturous for both my ears and my Mama heart.
• has been the sole reason for at least 20 loads of laundry thanks to her penchant for spitting up.
• sleeps as well unswaddled as swaddled, preferring unswaddled at night and swaddled during the day.
• tracks with her eyes and tries to hold up her own head.
• will nap in the Rock-n-Play but prefers napping on me.
• isn’t a huge fan of the paci, but will suck one on occasion.
• is exclusively breastfed and has not yet had a bottle.
• has started cooing and making noises when we have “play” time.
• loves hanging out in the Moby for naps.

I miss this space. Blogging. I hate that for so much of Emma’s pregnancy, I was absent from this part of my world. I guess I was living. Or I just had to prioritize and deal with one thing at a time and blogging go shoved to the side.

Anyway, I want to be back here. I want to be blogging again. Regularly. I need this outlet, you know? These connections that I’ve made and have allowed to flounder. I need to write and share and overshare.

In the spirit of blogging, here goes a little brain dump:

• The blog is undergoing maintenance this weekend and even though I know things should be fine, and even though I haven’t blogged regularly in close to 9 months, maintenance always scares me. What if the blog implodes and just disappears? What if *poof* it’s all gone? Scary.
• The sound of fingers on a keyboard must be like nails on a chalkboard to Emma. The minute I start to type, she wakes up from a dead sleep and is all “MILK LADY PERSON! GET ME NAOW!” Like, my attention cannot be diverted from watching her sleep. Which, admittedly, I’ve been doing quite a great deal. She’s just so…peaceful. See?
  

  ::sigh::

• Emma is also kind of particular about my boobs and must know where they are at all times. And usually that means one of them is out of my shirt. It’s kind of like she has lo-jack on them. If she’s asleep and I put one away, she’s awake and needs the boob back out. Then she’ll go back to sleep and wash, rinse, repeat. I think my boob is her lovey.
• I’m kind of obsessed with Instagram lately, so I started the #PhotoADay challenge for May. There’s an assignment each day and you take a picture and upload it to wherever you want to whore out your pictures and have fun. And I’m having fun. I’ve even resurrected my Snapshots page.
• I’m managing to get a decent amount of sleep each night either because 1) the Universe smiled upon me with this child, 2) I’m less worried about creating “bad habits” and more concerned with getting sleep at all costs no matter what, or 3) both. And if I don’t get enough sleep at night, I go back to sleep with Emma’s first nap of the day and I don’t feel even a little bit bad about it.
• I’ve conquered a trip to the park and the grocery store with both children thanks to the new technology of the iPhone and the old “technology” of babywearing. Thank you, Moby wrap. These are both post-Target meltdown outings which makes them infinitely more full of awesome.
• I picked up Glee for TV Fanatic. I’m writing three nights a week now. I absolutely love it.
• Mid-afternoon talk shows are kind of obsessed with weight loss. I’m looking at you Dr. Oz. And whatever it is I’m watching right now that’s been talking about plastic surgery while I have my mid-morning coffee.

There’s so much more I could brain dump here, but so much of it deserves a full post.

But that gives me a goal–tell my stories. Write them down.

Get back up on the horse.

“No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.”
–John Donne

Two months ago, I wrote a post about choices. In that post, I wrote the following:

I believe in the Heaven of Indra. I believe in the “inescapable network of mutuality.”

I believe that the choices we make reach further than we can know. That we are all connected. That we must make our choices with the knowledge that our choices affect those whom we have never met.

I believe that if we are to effect change in the world, if we are to exercise control over our individual situations, then we must look at our situations as the situations of all women and move forward from there.

I believe we are all in this together and that one woman’s fight is the fight of all women.

Those words are as important to me in this moment as they were in February when I first wrote them. Perhaps even more important.

Right now, my friend Diana is fighting a battle that, at its core, is about choice. It’s about her choice to fight for the lives of her unborn babies.

Katherine wrote about the nuts and bolts here.

After a groundswell of support and outcry from Twitter this morning, the tide started to turn in this battle she and her husband are waging and Diana responded.

The situation Diana faced prior to the forces of social media uniting against her doctors and hospital make me want to climb up on top of a mountain instead of my usual, lowly soapbox and shout about the indignity women in this world face every time they try to make medical decisions for themselves based on research, anecdotal evidence, or just plain old instinct.

It shouldn’t have taken Twitter to get these doctors to see that Diana’s choice is a valid one, no matter the possible outcomes. They should not EVER have relegated her to the status of “hysterical pregnant lady” and should have treated her with dignity and respect. They should have treated her the way they’d want their own mothers treated. Or better yet, themselves.

That is, after all, the Golden Rule, right?

Situations like this are the kind that unite all people, regardless of beliefs, creed, race, gender, whatever, under the banners of humanity, decency, and most importantly, compassion.

Every day women all over this country who do not have the power of social media backing them are faced with decisions and choices and battles like the ones Diana has faced since Saturday.

Choices like this affect us all. So, I’ll say it again.

I believe we are all in this together and that one woman’s fight is the fight of all women.

I’m fighting with Diana. I hope you are, too.

Alright, Monday, I came up in here and bragged about how successful my Saturday alone with both kids was and how we’re settling so nicely into this family of four business and sunshine farts with rainbow sprinkles came flying out of my ass.

Despite the fact that we were dealing with the stomach flu from Hell in Joshua’s intestines, Monday was actually good. Dan and Joshua rocked the afternoon while I took Emma to her two-week check-up.

(21 inches. 8.4 pounds. “Growing” and “Perfect” and “Beautiful” according to the NP, which, duh. Of course she is.)

And then Monday night happened. Which was proof enough that The Universe? Does not so much appreciate a bragging bragger.

Monday night Emma decided to nurse from 2:30 to 4:30. Joshua was up for the day at 6:00. Dan went to work. It was just a really tired me and the kids until he got home.

I thought I’d lose my mind that morning because Emma turned into a Drama Queen with a raging case of DontPutMeDown Disease and Joshua just doesn’t understand this. I probably heard “You go put baby sister in da bed, Mama!” half a dozen times.

And believe me, I wanted to put her in the bed.

I wanted her to nap somewhere not on me.

I wanted to be able to put my boob back in my shirt so I could stop accidentally flashing the lawn crew outside my windows mowing the grass.

She just wasn’t having it. And Joshua was so whiny.

I mean, the poor kid hadn’t really eaten anything aside from crackers in several days and his little bootycakes were so raw from the upset stomach we damn near needed a Xanax (for all parties involved) to change his diapers. Plus, he’d been cooped up in the house since Saturday because the water butt was so bad that all the diaper changes were starting to end in a shower.

(And thank the baby and standard sized Jesus for the giant shower in our master bathroom. Yesterday, I put Emma’s tub on the shower seat and laid a fully-clothed, fully-swaddled infant in there so that I could shower whilst also hosing down the toddler’s butt. It was…interesting. And laughable, I’m sure.)

We made it through yesterday. And last night.

And then this morning happened and Emma would.not.stop.screaming and I grew a crazy hair and decided that since Joshua had finally (FINALLY) had a solid poop, we were going to Target.

So we did.

She stopped crying in the car and I thought “Oh, Happy Day!” I put her in the Moby once we got to the store and we had a pleasant trip. Until that store didn’t have what I was looking for (the Snuggabunny Rock n Play, which I am assured by all of Twitter and half of Facebook may be laced with Baby Crack that will make her want to chill there long enough for em to eat a bowl of cereal or pee).

But look! The little scanny thing on my Target iPhone app says the store down the street has this in stock! And look! It’s only 11:30! We can make it to the other store and still make it home before nap time!

(In case you were wondering? That was the 3938402th bad idea I’ve had in my life.)

Emma woke up about three minutes away from the second Target store. And she was not happy. So she started screaming.

The Moby couldn’t soothe her. I tried to nurse her while walking around Target and she nearly flashed my boobs to random passersby. Joshua decided to whack me with a potty seat insert and then have a meltdown in the baby section. Which caused me to lose my freaking mind and become THAT MOM who seems to be unable to control her children in public and why, oh why, does she have her kids in public if they’re just going to screamscreamscream doesn’t she know that there are people shopping this morning and workers working and none of them want to hear her kids screaming?

They both cried the whole way home and I screamed a primal “AAAHHHH!HH!H!H!H!H” in the driver’s seat prompting Joshua to go “No, you don’ screaming, Mama!”

As I was putting him down for a nap, Joshua looked at me and said “Mama went crazy!”

::sigh::

Yep. I sure did, little dude. I sure did.

After some chocolate, and naps for everybody, we’re better over here. But I’ll not be bragging about this whole mother-of-two thing again any time soon.

Lesson learned, Universe. Lesson learned.

________________________________________

The Mom Pledge, a community dedicated to ending cyber-bullying among moms, is currently running a series called “Giving Birth: A Defining Moment.” I’m proud to have been a part of this series and I’m sharing my birth experiences today. I hope you’ll visit and read not only my experiences, but the experiences being shared by the other women in the series.

I have bits of blog posts written in all the parts of my brain that can possibly house such things at the moment, but the goal right now is to rest and sleep as much as I can whenever I can.  And sleep is lacking since Joshua’s had a stomach flu that has prevented my being able to sleep in or lay down when Emma takes her morning nap, so I’m keeping this post short and sweet.

Basically, I’ve successfully kept another human being alive (again) for two weeks. WOOT!

I’ve also managed to keep myself mostly showered and shaved, even. And I did not have a repeat of THIS experience. So hallelujah for that.

I’ve had my first sol0-parenting experience with the both of them and everyone came out unscathed.

I’m figuring out life as a mom of two and how to stay connected to Joshua while also tending to Emma’s needs and while there’s a learning curve involved, I feel like I’m a much faster study this time than last.

While there have certainly been a few rough moments, we’re navigating life as a family of four pretty well right now. In this moment.

Tomorrow may be a different story altogether. But right now? Right now is good.

No, I’m not so sleep deprived that I’ve lost three days of Emma’s life already. Yet.

Emma’s newborn pics were taken last Saturday and I wanted to share a few from the sneak peek. Because she’s adorable and they’re awesome.

Our photographer and his wife (who also happen to be fabulous friends of ours) came over to our house to take Emma’s pictures and hang out for a bit. Apparently, I grow very alert children. Emma, despite being only five days old, wanted to know what was going on and why she was naked. She also had a thing or two to say about any and all pictures we tried to take of her curled up on her stomach. I can’t wait to see the rest of them.

Emma. Five days old.

I get so overwhelmed with the thought of writing this birth story that I’ve started and stopped (in my head, at least) half a dozen times or more. Do I make it funny? Heartfelt? Serious? All of the above? Can I adequately encompass all the emotions I went through on Monday? Have gone through during this pregnancy?

::sigh::

I know that this is a story that must be told. A story that is practically bursting from within me the same way she did.

I also know that this story will be long. I won’t break it into multiple parts. I can’t. Like labor, this post is one continuous story with crescendos and ebbs that culminates in her birth.

So, here goes everything.

This story begins with two surprising pink lines on a Monday morning and ends with a tiny pink bundle delivered on a Monday night. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, no matter how shocked or scared or worried I may have been, I knew I wanted this pregnancy to be different. I knew I wanted to VBAC.

It wasn’t about going med-free or glitter wands or anything crazy.

It was about mending the broken places left in my heart from Joshua’s delivery. It was about growing stronger in those places.

So, at 28 weeks pregnant, frustrated, and tired of feeling like my desires to VBAC this baby were being dismissed, I changed practices and became a patient of Dr. Joseph Tate.

At about 32 weeks pregnant, I started to feel like there was just no way I was making it until my due date. I was scared of so many things: that I wouldn’t realize I was having contractions, that I wouldn’t have contractions at all and would have to be induced, that I’d end up with another c-section. I reminded myself that I’d done the best possible thing in switching care providers and that, no matter what, this labor would end in a way I would feel comfortable with.

Monday morning I woke up to pee and when I laid back down, I noticed a burning, cramping sensation in my lower abdomen that was uncomfortable but not unbearable. Then it went away. 10 minutes later, I felt it again. And again 10 minutes after that.

I grabbed my phone and downloaded an app with a contraction timer and I started to see if what I was feeling had a pattern. And they did. Dan stirred at 4:45 and saw me staring at my phone so I said “I think I’m having contractions.” And then I had another contraction.

Dan put his hand on my stomach and I gently moved his hand away and patted it. I just couldn’t bear being touched. I needed to be in my own space and in my own time. I needed to BE.

He got up and showered to get ready for the day, whatever it would bring, and I stayed in bed timing contractions. They were irregular and didn’t fit any real pattern. They were so irregular and inconsistent I honestly didn’t think that Monday would be the day and I started to dread the thought of having contractions like that for an entire week.

I asked Dan to stay home to help me with Joshua. His three-year well-child check-up was scheduled for Monday morning and I knew that it needed to be done before she got here, but I also knew that I couldn’t do it by myself if I was having contractions. He called in and I got up and took a shower hoping the water would ease the pain of the contractions that were coming every 8 minutes or so at this point.

After my shower, I called the doctor’s office to see what they wanted me to do. I thought they’d either send me to the hospital or they’d have me come in to the office, so once again, I was thankful I’d asked Dan to stay home. The Nurse Practitioner returned my call and asked what I was experiencing, how regular my contractions were, and how intense the pain was.

They were still irregular. The pain was intense, but not so intense I couldn’t handle it. I could talk through the contractions, but I didn’t want to talk through them. I wanted to focus on the fact that I knew they’d be over soon.

She told me to stay home until my contractions were 5 to 7 minutes apart or the pain became so intense I couldn’t bear it and she asked me to call back in an hour or two to check in with her and keep her updated. If my water broke, I was to go straight to the hospital and call her on the way.

We cancelled Joshua’s pediatrician’s appointment and the two of them headed off to run some errands while I stayed home to rest. Since I’d been up so early and had no idea how long I’d be at this, I knew I needed to rest. After they left my contractions stopped. I didn’t have a single contraction the entire time they were gone.

At 10:00 a.m., they’d returned and so had my contractions, just as I’d lain down in the bed. Joshua came in and wanted to climb in the bed with me and all over me and I welcomed him. I wanted him nearby. He, being a 3 year old, came and went as he wanted to, and I was okay with that. I needed to soak up the last of my time with him and having him around brought me comfort.

Joshua asked “What’s happening to Mama?” and we told him Baby Sister was going to come out of my belly soon. Dan took him into the living room to let me rest so I kept timing contractions, dozing between them, and noticed that they were happening at least every 12 minutes. Still, it wasn’t in the 5 to 7 minute range, so I didn’t think anything of it and I forgot to call the doctor’s office back.

After moving around the house a bit and trying to do things here and there, I felt like I needed to go rest again. So it was back to the bedroom I went where my contractions slowed to once every 30 minutes or so.. I started reading the second half of Mockingjay knowing that Dan would probably want to take it to the hospital if we were there for a while with nothing to do. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading in bed and timing contractions with Joshua and Dan coming in and out to visit.

Dan came into the room at some point and said that he’d like to go and pick up his new phone that afternoon. He’d take Joshua with him and I could continue to rest in the quiet house. I didn’t see a problem with that because, again, the contractions weren’t coming at regular intervals, or if they were, the intervals were 10 to 12 minutes, sometimes 20. So shortly after Joshua woke up from his nap, they took off. I kept reading and timing.

While they were gone, I noticed that from 2:45 to 4:30, my contractions had been consistently 8 minutes apart, sometimes dropping down to 6. But the pain wasn’t really any worse. I mean, hadn’t I just sat there reading a book the whole time?

I’d been texting with my mother all day, keeping her updated on what was going on, basically saying “Yep. Still pregnant.” At about 4:30, she sent me a text asking how things were going and I told her that I was still contracting and that I thought they were getting more regular. She advised me to walk to ease the pain of the contractions and I realized that during the contraction I was having at that moment, I couldn’t move my legs. They weren’t immobile in a paralyzed sense, just in a “this is how you need to be sitting to get through this” kind of way. So I gave in to that.

Once the contraction passed, I went to the bathroom and when I wiped, there was blood. I knew then that this whole day hadn’t been nothing. I knew then that we’d be meeting Emma soon.

I told my mom that I thought she needed to head our way. That we’d be going to the hospital at some point that night. And then I started getting the rest of our things together so Dan could load them into the car when he got back to the house.

I called the doctor’s office back around 5:00. The contractions had been 8 minutes apart for 2 hours and I wanted to know what they thought we should do. The Nurse Practitioner’s advice based on what I told her was still to wait until they were 5 to 6 minutes apart so that we could try to avoid rush hour traffic. That seemed reasonable to me. Dan and Joshua walked in the door around 5:15 and at that point, the contractions immediately increased in frequency from every 8 minutes to every 2 to 3. And they hurt.

I started giving directions, one of which was “load this shit in the car!” and told Dan that we needed to get to the hospital. That we had to go. I paced my bedroom, still not wanting to leave my “den,” for the duration of each contraction thinking ahead to the moment the contraction would be over.

Finally, at 5:45, the three of us were in the car backing out of the driveway. My mom was already on her way so we sent her a text to tell her to go to the hospital instead of our house and called Dan’s family to let them know where we were headed.

I called the Nurse Practitioner back to tell her we were headed to the hospital so she could call the doctor and let him know what was going on. Since he is Jewish and Monday was Pesach, he had been out of the office and she’d been keeping him updated. She told me that if I felt like I needed to push, or if my water broke, I was to call her back immediately, even if I was sitting at the registration desk at the time. I hung up and gave Joshua my phone so that he could play while we drove.

My contractions were frequent and painful. I was bracing myself on the center console and car door and cursing in my head every time we had to slow down or change lanes. My stomach was small and tight and I kept thinking about how odd it felt.

While driving to the hospital, at the height of each contraction I’d think “We’ll be there soon! I’ll get an epidural! This is going to be okay!” and “I can’t do this! I can’t do this!” Once the contraction waned, I’d think “Epidural? Am I crazy? I’ve got this!” I know now that this was transition labor.

I saw our exit approaching and realized we were nearly there and then I had a contraction and noticed that if I bore down a little bit, I felt better. Immensely better. And then I recognized that as my body telling me it was ready to push. I grabbed the piece of paper with the Nurse Practitioner’s phone number on it and handed it to Dan. I instructed him to call and tell the on-call answering service who I was, where we were, and that I felt like I needed to push with my contractions.

At this point we were off the interstate and two right turns away from the hospital.

We pulled into the hospital parking lot and Dan took me to the Emergency entrance. There was no way I was going to be able to walk through the parking garage and to the elevator and then to Labor and Delivery. He ran inside to get a wheelchair and soon he and an attendant returned to wheel me inside while Dan parked the car. He and Joshua would meet me on the Labor and Delivery floor. It was between 6:15 and 6:30. Emma would be here before 7 p.m.

The attendant wheeled me into a triage room in L&D and one of the nurses or nurse techs met us. She started asking the same questions he’d asked: Had my membranes ruptured? Did I feel the need to push? How far along was I? They helped me get undressed and after my next contraction passed, I climbed into the bed.

At first, she couldn’t find Emma’s heart beat on the monitors. She asked another nurse to position the monitors while she checked to see how far along I was. The second nurse was able to find Emma’s heart beat and that was the sweetest sound I’d heard in a while. I heard the first nurse say “she’s complete” to the second and then another contraction hit me. An intake nurse was asking me questions for the paperwork she had to complete and all I could think or say was “I need to push!” I was instructed not to push because my doctor hadn’t arrived at the hospital yet and was still at least 20 minutes out. My brain processed the word “complete” and I thought “holy crap! I’m doing this unmedicated!” and I felt a little giddy with myself, because holy crap, y’all. An unmedicated VBAC?

They wheeled me quickly from triage into an L&D room and one of Dr. Tate’s residents met me in the hallway, explaining who she was and where he was and what they needed from me and telling me that Dr. Tate was on his way.

Once I was in L&D things happened pretty quickly. I asked for a couple of ice chips because my mouth was so dry and the on-call OB gave the okay. I hadn’t been in the mood to eat or drink much all day and I was so parched.

They moved me from the triage bed to the L&D bed and when they got me into a position that was most comfortable for me (on my back leaning slightly to my left side), I could feel something coming out of me. I heard the on-call OB say that my membranes were bulging and relaxed a bit knowing that what I could feel wasn’t Emma yet since my doctor wasn’t there and Dan and Joshua still hadn’t made it to the room.

Between contractions nurses started hooking me up to monitors and blood pressure cuffs and gave me the hep-lock even though it was quite clear they’d have no time to give me much in the way of fluids. Dr. Tate was 10 minutes out. I had more contractions where I couldn’t verbalize how much pain I was in and could only moan and I heard a nurse by my head say “You control this pain! It doesn’t control you!”

The on-call OB and the resident gave me the go-ahead to do what I felt like I needed to do during contractions even though we were still waiting for Dr. Tate. Pushing felt good, so that’s what I did, or tried to do. I was pushing on my own and without much direction from the doctors and nurses at this point. I just did what felt best for me. If I felt the need to cry out, I cried out. If I felt the need to breathe deeply, I breathed.

Dan and Joshua came flying into the room and shortly after, so did Dr. Tate. He suited up and put my foot in his side and then looked for Dan to take the other leg, but Joshua was there and wouldn’t be put down. Dr. Tate said something along the lines of “Your hands are a little full, huh?!” and a nurse stepped in to provide leverage for my other leg.

Joshua asked “What’s happening to Mama?” And Dan replied, “She’s having Baby Sister!” That was a good enough answer for him.

Dr. Tate and the nurse instructed me to wrap my hands around the backs of my legs and pull them toward my chest and to use my abdomen to push and not my legs with my next contraction. So I did. I heard the resident ask for oil to put on her head to help her come out and then I heard her tell Dr. Tate he was going to miss it. Apparently, Emma was crowning.

During my next contraction, I was moaning while pushing and I heard Dr. Tate say “No! You’ve gotta pant! Pant or you’ll tear yourself a new one!” So I switched to panting and in that moment felt my body release Emma’s into the world.

She was out, all of her, with that one push.

It was 6:58 p.m.

I’d done it! I’d VBACed my daughter!

She cried just a little bit while they wiped her down and then she was given straight to me. The nurses placed her on my chest and she and I got acquainted.

Dan took some pictures and Joshua met his baby sister.

We were a family of four.

Introducing, for the first time on NSJM, but maybe in the last place of all my other social media outlets, my VBAC baby girl.

Meet Emma.

Squishy baby, just a few hours old.

"Oh, you're the lady with the boobs, right?"

8 pounds, 6 ounces

20 inches long

Med-free VBAC.

I did it, y’all. I so did it.

And I’ll tell you ALL ABOUT IT as soon as I have a chance to do so with both hands. I’m behind the curve on typing one-handed while nursing a baby and eating a meal and saving the world with the other one.

Dan and I do not have a great track record when it comes to hospital tours, apparently. In fact, we have what may be the worst luck ever when it comes to 1) these things going smoothly and 2) me not crying.

Exhibit A: Tour #1, three years ago

Exhibit B: Tour #2, three days ago.

It seems I have a habit of not understanding how these things are supposed to work and cannot seem to get my act together to find out how these things work in a timely fashion. When I transferred to my new doctor’s practice, I knew I’d be transferring hospitals too. So I tried and tried and tried to call the hospital to reserve a spot on the tour and being frustrated when no one would answer the phone. Then, a couple of weeks ago, Dr. T is all “Oh, no, you just show up. They do the tours on the first three Thursday nights of each month at 6:30 and 7:30, so you just pick one and show up.”

Uh, useful information like this is useful, hospital. PUT IT ON YOUR WEBSITE.

Anyway.

The first Thursday night we could tour the hospital was this past Thursday. A week before my due date.

Dan came home from work early on Thursday so we–all three of us–could make the drive into downtown during rush hour. Oh yes, friends. Yes. The first-born, Mr. “NO I DO IT” himself, came with us.

After sitting in traffic trying to get off the interstate and freaking out that we weren’t going to make it to the hospital in time for the start of the tour (which inevitably led to much freaking out about whether or not I’ll end up giving birth on the side of the road should I go into labor during rush hour), we made it into the parking garage.

Except somehow the parking garage has its very own Platform 9 3/4 and we missed Level F so we had to circle back down, by way of Level H, to park the car. Someone clearly failed Alphabet 101 in Parking Garage Builder school.

Finally, we found Level F. Dan flew into a parking spot!

We threw open the stroller!

We tossed Joshua into it!

We made a mad dash to the elevators!

Except the first elevators we came to were only for the levels of the parking garage! DRAT.

We got off the elevator and made it around the skywalk, into the hospital, and to the correct set of elevators, punched the “up” circle, and headed to the third floor. We came tearing off the elevators and the lady behind the desk said “Y’all here for the tour, right? I’m just gon’ go ahead and let y’all catch up through those double doors right there!” and pointed in the direction we were supposed to go. So we went.

Whew. We made it. And then it all went to Hell because Joshua had a meltdown that ended in the nurse asking Dan to please take him outside. Which caused me to burst into tears because FOR THE SWEET LOVE OF SEQUINS I just wanted this to go smoothly.

Dan grabbed Joshua and headed out the doors and I could hear Joshua screaming the whole way and I burst into tears and apologized to the others on the tour for both my screaming child and my snot. One poor lady on the tour with me was all “Honey, you’re going to make me cry, too! It’s okay!”

(P.S. That’s something I love about being Southern. There is always someone around who will attempt to be comforting when s/he sees that someone needs it.)

I pulled it together, felt miserable, and continued the tour. I took in as much as I could regarding the nursery and procedures there and felt my pulse quicken when we got to the OR doors and talked about procedures for in there and post-op recovery, and then we moved on to one of the L&D rooms and things got better.

The nurse was saying so many things that jive with my philosophies of natural birth. Things like it’s good to move as much as you can during labor, especially the early stages. Trust your body during delivery and if you need to try a different position while pushing, try it. Your body knows what to do.

It was good to hear those things. Empowering.

She talked breastfeeding and the importance of nutrition and taking care of yourself after giving birth. She said there’s room service instead of set times the kitchen brings trays around which means I will likely avoid another Meatloaf Meltdown.

By the end of the tour, I wasn’t glad I’d essentially done the tour by myself while Dan and Joshua toured the non-medical areas of the place (i.e. the cafeteria and the fountain and the aviary), but I found myself slightly excited by the prospect of giving birth in this hospital.

Comforted somehow by the way the nurse talked about birth and breastfeeding and postpartum care.

I may not be completely ready for this kid to make her entrance, but I’m getting there.

I’m sitting outside my doctor’s office with thoughts of the morning swirling through my head.

I find myself wistful. Longing for a do-over. Another chance to just be.

It wasn’t a bad morning. In fact, as mornings go it was quite pleasant.

Mellow.

Quiet.

But what if this was our last morning as a family of three?

What if I go into this doctor’s appointment and find out that my life changes today. Forever.

That Dan and Joshua’s lives change, too.

It’s these kinds of thoughts, the knowledge that these days are numbered, that have me hugging Joshua a little more tightly and often.

Drowning him with kisses.

Watching him as he plays.

Studying his face and noticing the ever so gradual, blink-and-you’ve-missed-it, way he’s turned from a tiny little bundle of lungs and poop into my sweet, sweet boy.

My Joshua.

I hope he knows the enormity of my love. Always.

So there was some basketball game that was played last night, right? Clearly keeping up with that nonsense is not on my list of priorities.

March madness? Has nothing to do with basketball for me.

In the past two weeks I have:

Written sub plans for the remainder of the school year for two grade levels, including all tests, quizzes, handouts, and calendars.

Had Joshua’s swingset installed. Now we have near nightly outings to the back yard to blow bubbles and send cars zooming down the slide.

Celebrated Joshua’s birthday with family.

Celebrated Dan’s birthday. Sort of. A week after the fact. But we went to see The Hunger Games which means we have 1) conquered the babysitter fears (HOORAY!) and 2) can go on more dates in the future (Double HOORAY!).

Celebrated Joshua’s birthday again with our friends on a gorgeous day where the weather was perfect and smiled upon us after threats of rain had me fretting all week long.

Had two surprise baby showers thrown for me by students, first my yearbookers and then my American lit. class. Gah. I love those kids.

Been to the doctor (45 minutes away from my house) for my now-weekly appointments twice. Between those appointments I managed to gain 3.25 pounds. IN A WEEK, PEOPLE.

Googled “what do contractions feel like” and sent my BlogHer roomies into panic mode thinking I’d gone into labor without letting them know. (Don’t worry ladies, I’ll let you know!)

Gotten some much-needed pampering done in the way of an eyebrow wax and a pedicure. My eyebrows hadn’t been waxed since November and my toes? Well, I mean, I can’t really reach them, so they were in quite sad shape. The pedicure lady didn’t give me a foot massage, though, I think because she was scared of sending me into labor.

Watched a lot of American Idol and written about it all. So far, Georgia boy Phillip Phillips is in it to win it, in case you didn’t know.

Suffered from the pregnancy-induced psychosis known as “nesting” which has caused me to wash tiny, pink, ruffly baby things, create wishlists of organizational things I need to acquire, do a pantry purge (not to be confused with a panty purge, which, come to think of it, probably needs to be done, too), and assign Dan the task of cleaning out the condiments from the refrigerator door. Why will my new baby care if the condiments in there are two years old? I have no idea. But she will. I can’t have a newborn judging me for my old condiments.

Played Easter Bunny just in case New Girl should make her appearance before this weekend.

Tried to get as much rest as possible since I know that rest and sleep will be harder to come by in my very near future.

And I’ve eaten meals and done a zillion loads of laundry and made approximately 23948 trips to Target and refrained from purchasing every single tiny little baby girl romper I’ve laid my eyes on.

And somehow, I’ve still got about 29902 things left to do before I can bring this baby home.

::sigh::

Guess I better get cracking.

I have an OB appointment later today and at my last appointment, I heard the NP say that at this appointment, we’d be discussing my birth plan.

I’ve know this was coming and have felt woefully underprepared for most of this pregnancy because really my only “plan” is for this baby to come out of my vagina instead of an incision in my stomach.

Somehow, I feel like maybe that’s not quite enough. And to be honest, thinking about creating a birth plan again kind of stressed me out. I did this the first time. Things still went “wrong.”

(Sidenote: I understand that the birth “plan” isn’t a list of hard-and-fast rules regarding labor and delivery and simply serve as guidelines for what you’d like to have happen in an ideal situation. Which is why “wrong” is in quotation marks. My “wrong” and your “wrong” are likely two different “wrongs.” I am also REALLY aware that labor and delivery doesn’t always follow the “ideal situation” where a baby glides out of a woman’s vagina pain free while wood nymphs flit around her with glitter wands. Or whatever your “ideal situation” may be. In my ideal situation, maybe there are glitter wands.)

Here’s my birth plan:

First Stage (Labor):

• Peace and Quiet.
• Music/TV/Internet of our choice.
• Would prefer to keep vaginal exams to a minimum.
• Maintain mobility (Walking, rocking, up to bathroom, etc.)
• Eat and drink to comfort.
• Heparin lock.
  • I suspect I can’t avoid this one, though I’d like to.
• Intermittent Monitoring (ACOG Standards) with an external monitor.
• Please do not offer me pain medications; I will ask for them if I want them.
• Relaxation techniques (breathing, focusing, etc.).
• Positioning as desired.
• Water (Shower or Tub).
  • I think I’m out for this one based on the fact that I’m VBACing, but it’d be nice.
• Heat or Cold packs.
• Massage (back, foot, counter pressure, etc.).
• Ultra low dose epidural (walking epidural)
  • Pain meds are an option for me, though I’d like to do this without them if possible.

Induction:

• I would prefer to use natural methods to start labor.
  • Basically, I’m saying pitocin=Satan. And he’s scary.

Augmentation:

• I would prefer to walk to speed labor.
  • Thank GOD this hospital is bigger than my last one. Thank. God.

Second Stage (Birth):

• Choice of position
• Prolonged length, if progress is being made
• Spontaneous Bearing Down
• I would prefer to tear than have an episiotomy, but please use compresses, massage and positioning.

Baby Care:

• Baby should be given to mother first for skin-to-skin bonding and early breastfeeding.
• Delay the cord cutting
• Prefer partner to cut the cord.
  • Only if he wants to. Totally up to him.
• Delay the eye medication
• Breast feeding only
• No separation of Mother & Baby

Cesarean Birth:

• Spinal/epidural anesthesia
• Partner present
  • If Dan has to leave to go with New Girl and my mom is able to be at the hospital, I’d like her to be able to come in to be with me so I’m not so completely alone. Or someone. Someone I know, come into the room to be with me so I’m not alone again.
• Screen lowered to view the birth or mirror
• Explain the surgery as it’s happening
• Do not restrain arms unless I become unable to control them. I understand the need for a sterile surgical environment.
• Breast feeding in recovery room
• Baby to be given to parents first barring medical necessity otherwise
  • I think babies should be given to their parents straight out of the womb and not taken to an incubator. We’re not hatching chickens in a factory somewhere, y’all. GIVE ME MY BABY.

Sick Baby:

• Breast feeding as soon as possible
• Unlimited visitation for parents
• Handling the baby (Kangaroo care, holding, care of, etc.)
• If the baby is transported to another facility, move us as soon as possible

In order to prepare for this appointment, at least a little bit, I created this plan. Most of it, I think, is pretty normal and will be supported by the hospital staff and my OB.

But I need some feedback from been-there-done-that VBAC moms to let me know if I’m on the right track. I’d especially like to hear about what your desires were should you find yourself back in the OR, because really, I can handle the unknowns of labor and I feel empowered now to make decisions and stand my ground should I find myself being bossed by some bossypants in the middle of a contraction (not my doctor…I trust him not to boss me).

What I can’t handle without feeling a lump form in my throat is reliving my first OR experience with New Girl should that be the direction we have to take and thinking that the second experience may just be a repeat of the first (though I suspect, once again, that thanks to my new OB, it won’t be the same).

What am I missing?

Okay, I’m completely distracted right now because I just watched Erin Martin and The Shields Brothers sing “What’s Love Got To Do With It” on The Voice and that was the most bizarre thing I’ve seen on reality music television in a long time, but y’all, my day today was…wow. Kind of insane.

First, I overslept. Dan came into the bedroom at 6:42 and said “Hey, babe, it’s 6:42.” Which caused me to waddle around like a crazy person trying to get Joshua and me out the door and on the road in time for me to not be TOO late for work. I was only sort of successful. But we made it.

Then, I got observed by my administrator during the worst behaved class I’ve taught in 4 years. NICE, right??

So then I picked Joshua up and we came home. Except by coming home, what we really did was come home and go right back outside because the kid has decided that outside is awesome and inside is…well…not.

People, have you looked at a weather map lately? It’s 80 degrees in March in Georgia. I am nearly 37 weeks pregnant. I could NOT be pregnant in the summer. NOT EVEN.

But, outside we went for about 45 minutes because the alternative was me wrestling Joshua into the house while he kicked and screamed (literally, on both counts) and I was just too tired to deal with that. So he played trains in the driveway and cul-de-sac and I sat and watched him and chatted with my Mama on the phone. And sent out this tweet:

And then, as if the Heavens had opened up and smiled down on me, the child decided going inside was a GREAT IDEA!

Yes! Hooray! So we headed inside and things were going swimmingly.

Until some flying creature flew INTO MY BRA to assault me. By biting. Repeatedly.

I freaked and nearly exposed my boob on the front stoop trying to get that creature out of my bra. And while I was trying frantically to rid myself of said creature, the dog, all 90 pounds of her, burst out of the door and took off around the garage and down the driveway.

Dan was not home. Which meant that Retrieving-the-Retriever duty fell to me. And Joshua. I was maybe cursing Dan in my head because WTF was taking him so long!? I’d heard from him at 5:30 and he was on the way home and there had been more than enough time for him to be home by now and why does the dog always pull this shit when I’m home and he’s not!?!?

(This is the third time in three years she’s done this when I’ve had to take Joshua with me to retrieve her, but at least this time he could walk himself through the trees and yards to find her, however slowly.)

For Joshua, this was some giant adventure. An adventure on which his trains, Percy and James, joined us.

For me, this was cause for tears.

80 degrees, y’all. A dog that weighs 90 pounds and runs away when she sees me coming because FREEDOM! A toddler who has to follow me wherever I this trek may lead, trains in hand. And I’m in flip-flops. And a skirt. 37 weeks pregnant.

FANTASTIC.

Three yards and a small group of trees later, we got her back on the leash and began the trek home. The long way. Because the short way meant back through the trees and yards with the toddler AND the dog.

No. Just…no.

We got to the road and Joshua said “Der’s no cars, Mama!” (Okay, I smiled. I did. Because that was adorable.)

So the three of us started walking home with the dog going nuts the whole way because ALMOST FREEDOM! And the toddler thinking this was some giant adventure but clinging tightly to my hand the whole way. And me trying to keep it all together now that things were relatively under control.

And then Dan was finally home and I stopped cursing him for taking so long because THIS is what took so long:

Yep. That husband of mine is a keeper.

So tonight we made S’mores on the stovetop because my husband? He’s a great man, y’all. A great, great man.

My friends, I think it’s finally time we get Joshua a helmet.

So, my birthday was Tuesday. I turned 30. It was probably the best day I’ve had in a long, long time and not because it was anything spectacular and over done. It was really just a normal day with a few “Happy Birthday’s” and a dinner at Longhorn thrown into the mix.

(Oh, and the Hunger Games trilogy courtesy of my husband who knows the way to my heart is probably through books.)

Sometimes I catch myself thinking “I’m 30? No way. I mean, I just turned 20 yesterday, right?” As I’ve looked toward my birthday over the past weeks, I’ve been kind of blown away by how packed with everything my 20s were. Seriously. My 20s were stuffed with…stuff.

At 20, I was living in my college town, on my own, supporting myself and doing okay.

At 21, I bought my first house, all on my own and sold it three years later.

I admitted to and sought treatment for clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder. I kicked its ass.

I experienced a bank robbery first-hand.

I graduated college. Twice. Once at 24 and again at 26.

I got married two weeks after the first graduation. I had a baby about eight months after the second.

I battled postpartum depression and anxiety. I kicked their asses, too.

I traveled to Mexico on my honeymoon, and even though it was to a resort, it was a stamp in my passport.

Oh yeah. I got a passport.

I settled into my career and hit my stride as an educator.

I got the most kick-ass part-time dream job ever writing about television.

There were parties and trips with friends. There was our family vacation last September.

Memories were made.

But there are more memories to make, and I started my fourth decade by making them with Joshua and Dan. (And New Girl was there, too, because where I go, she goes.)

I spent Tuesday really in-the-moment and aware of my life and I realized that life? Is pretty freaking good, y’all.

Here’s to my fourth decade and all the memories to be made.

You say it’s your birthday
It’s my birthday too–yeah
They say it’s your birthday
We’re gonna have a good time
I’m glad it’s your birthday
Happy birthday to you.

“Birthday“ by The Beatles

Happy Birthday to the newest member of Sluiter Nation.

I’m happy to share my birthday with such a rockin’ little boy.

You are loved, little Charlie.

And no, I’m not talking about waiting for New Girl’s arrival. We have far, far too much to do before she’s here for there to be any actual “waiting” taking place.

I’m talking about waiting at my doctor’s office.

One of the biggest hurdles I had to overcome in switching to this office was how far away it is from work when my current office is a whopping 3 minutes away–with traffic. As it is, I’ll be taking about a week to a week and a half of maternity leave unpaid (or paid via the optional short term disability insurance I’ve paid into for several years now), so I don’t have a lot of paid time to take for doctor’s appointments and I hate having to be the one always asking people to cover my classes so I can get to the doctor. I always try to schedule my appointments for the last available that day.

I left work at 3:00 yesterday to head to my second appointment at the new OB’s office because I had no idea what traffic would be like in that direction. I got there by 4:00. The appointment was scheduled for 4:25.

I was finally called into the room at 4:50. It was a million, zillion degrees in the office. I’d look at the clock and imagine the hordes of cars piling onto the roads making their way out to suburbia. I imagined myself stuck in that traffic.

I got antsy.

But, I kept breathing. I kept reminding myself that I knew the wait was worth it. That I’d made the right decision in going there. I relaxed and waiting.

Finally, I was called in to meet the NP and have my tummy check. She was with me for 20 minutes, at least, and that visit–the last of the day when I’m certain everyone in that office would rather be walking out the door–reminded me, yet again, that I’m receiving the kind of care I never would’ve gotten at my old OB’s office.

She listened to my concerns about the vagina bone pain and instead of saying “Well, I don’t think you’re in labor but I can check your cervix if you want me to” she explained what was happening and what I could do to relieve the pain. She reminded me that while annoying, this pain won’t last forever and it’s serving a purpose.

Every visit gets an ultrasound via one of the portable, laptop-sized machines. Every visit. She gooped me up and immediately said “That’s good! A head down baby!! The chin’s tucked! And anterior presentation!”

(In layman’s terms, she’s preparing herself to get “locked and loaded” in a couple of weeks. And she’s facing my spine. Oh, and yes, she’s still a she. I had the NP check!)

How proactive, right? My old doctor wouldn’t have scanned for that.

She saw my scar and asked me if I was VBACing this one.

“Yes,” I said, resolutely.

I asked if she could still flip to breech position and the NP said, yes, but that it’s unlikely. (Whew.) And if she does flip, Dr. T will try to turn her.

Do you know what she never mentioned during that ultrasound or visit?

The potential size of my baby.

She didn’t hazard a guess or say “Oh, she’s looking big. We should get more measurements.”

She didn’t say “Oh, you’re measuring ahead of schedule.”

She didn’t try to scare me out of a VBAC by insinuating I can’t give birth to this baby because she might be big.

At my last appointment at my old office–at 28 weeks–the doctor said “Oh, you’re measuring ahead, and since you want to VBAC, we’ll need to monitor her size and make sure she’s not getting to big. Let’s schedule a growth scan for next time!”

Do you know what’s scheduled for my next visit now?

A longer-than-usual appointment to go over my birth plan WITH the OB so that we’re all on the same page when it comes time for this girl to actually exit my body.

With Joshua, I asked about writing a birth plan and I was told “Oh, just bring it with you to the hospital…”

The writing was on the wall there.

And here, the only writing I see is a giant, neon sign that says “We support you.”

Which pretty much makes the wait worth it.

5.5 weeks to go.

34 weeks

Six more weeks of “winter” (hibernation?) for New Girl. Six more weeks until I’m a mother of TWO.

(This causes me to freak out on a near daily basis.)

It also causes me to look at this pregnancy and see all the ways that pregnancy is different the second time around, in both general and specific ways. Allow me to commemorate them here, mmkay?

Stretchmarks.

With Joshua, I got my first angry stretchie at 10 weeks. I looked down one day and grounded him immediately. With New Girl, my first stretch marks didn’t appear until two weeks ago. She’s already trying to sweeten me up to buy her a pony, I think.

Swelling.

With Joshua, my right leg was so swollen by 20 weeks the doctor sent me for an ultrasound to make sure I didn’t have a blood clot in my leg. There was also that instance with the hospital tour and me not wanting to look like an unwed mother. Toward the end, the nurses were all taking bets on how long before I’d become pre-eclampsic. (Nice, right?)

With New Girl, my ankles swell each day and go down each night, and I can still wear my wedding bands. Hooray!

Cravings.

I’ve developed a craving for fresh cut fruit from the grocery store. I eat a bowl approximately every two days. Each bowl is about $8. With Joshua, I wanted a strawberry slush every single day. Each slush was $2-ish.

I honestly can’t decide which of these is better for me. One is obviously the healthier choice, but the other is cheaper. Have you seen all the cute things for baby girls?

Sleep.

I think I slept better toward the end of my pregnancy with Joshua than I’m sleeping with New Girl. The only way I can get comfortable is to sprawl across the middle of the bed, which isn’t conducive to actually sharing the bed with another human. I sleep best from 5:50 to 6:30 a.m. when Dan gets up to get ready for work, but sleeping until 6:30 makes me run late nearly every day, so really, I should just stop trying to get comfortable and get up already.

Movement.

Baby movement is way less…less….something? the second time around. I mean, it’s awesome and cool and kind of like something out of Alien. But…not always.

With Joshua, I was downright giddy every time he moved. I was fascinated by all of his moving and shaking. But he did way less moving and shaking than she does. New Girl is on the go all the time. All. The. Time. I think the novelty is wearing off a little bit and I’d really like her to cool it at 10:00 p.m. when I’m trying to go to sleep.

Vagina Bone Pain.

I have no idea what this pain is actually called, so I’m calling it that. My pelvic bones ache so bad sometimes I have to brace myself on a wall or a desk or a chair to walk. I did not have this with Joshua. I actually think having him to chase around is part of the cause of it this time around. I can’t just sit down and chill when I get home after work like I could when I was pregnant with him because I have him to take care of. So, vagina bone pain.

Braxton Hicks.

I don’t remember having a single Braxton Hicks contraction with Joshua. Ever. I don’t even remember the few contractions I did have after my water broke and before they started me on The Devil’s Drug the next morning.

I have these “practice contractions” all the time with New Girl and sometimes I feel them in my nose and forehead, like my entire body is practicing how best to push her out. So, go body! But not for six more weeks, please.