tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49156980017148747392021-07-28T14:10:40.661-07:00Spaghetti WesternerSorta crunchy, kinda crafty, sometimes culinary, part-time working, fairly frugal wife & mom with time for a blog and cloth diapers, but not always a shower.The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.comBlogger209125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-80970814843096621572014-03-02T18:03:00.000-08:002014-03-02T18:03:41.698-08:00Gah!The time! Where does it go? Why is it March already?<br /><br />Sometimes time moves so quickly, I feel like I'm desperately trying to hold onto it. But it's like trying to hold onto a fistful of glitter in a tornado.<br /><br />How is my baby already four months old? How is my son going to be four <i>years</i> old? <br /><br />I haven't even blogged about his third birthday party. <br /><br />*<i>Sigh*</i><br /><br />So, I'll leave you with these.<br /><i> </i><br />My three-month old, who I never blogged about.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Vd1EQuqgKU/UxPiGi1F-uI/AAAAAAAACSE/fup6OAf8MU4/s1600/3Months.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Vd1EQuqgKU/UxPiGi1F-uI/AAAAAAAACSE/fup6OAf8MU4/s1600/3Months.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div><br />And my four month old, who I'm blogging about as she's only two weeks away from 5 months. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QQ7BfnaoXr0/UxPiOj2jNUI/AAAAAAAACSM/c4yqB98fqlM/s1600/4Months.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QQ7BfnaoXr0/UxPiOj2jNUI/AAAAAAAACSM/c4yqB98fqlM/s1600/4Months.JPG" height="640" width="436" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And time marches on. I'll be back. Soon. Soon for sure because there's too much I want to remember and too much I'm already forgetting. I've got to write it down. I've got to keep it.</div>The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-78028175801857192832014-02-13T22:12:00.001-08:002016-04-25T15:17:16.319-07:00Last-minute Valentines {Free Printables}<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you get to spend it with someone you love. Or at least a good bottle of wine (or beer...that would be my choice).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">When I posted our valentines from last year on Pinterest, some very clever person commented that the tags would be cute with some fuzzy socks. And, by golly, they are! Talk about a quick and easy last-minute valentine gift.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-J8s80upF-l4/Uv2y9JUPZeI/AAAAAAAACLM/0kXzRngq1s8/s640/blogger-image-772518992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-J8s80upF-l4/Uv2y9JUPZeI/AAAAAAAACLM/0kXzRngq1s8/s640/blogger-image-772518992.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">To get the free printable file, <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2014/01/warm-and-fuzzy-free-printables.html">click here</a>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">That brings us to Little Spaghetti's valentines from this year. He wanted to give away something with a face after last year's <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2014/01/warm-and-fuzzy-free-printables.html">warm fuzzies</a>. So, we made pet rocks.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-bHYeKAVcYL4/Uv2y3TLbSNI/AAAAAAAACK8/1--ppO0nkbo/s640/blogger-image-1641376145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-bHYeKAVcYL4/Uv2y3TLbSNI/AAAAAAAACK8/1--ppO0nkbo/s640/blogger-image-1641376145.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">They are fun and easy, and all his little friends loved them as much as he loved giving them out. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I was going to make a tutorial, but honestly, they are pretty self-explanatory. Glue some heart-shaped jewels to some rocks and draw a smile with a black sharpie. Except for one very important lesson that I learned:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-fBbpsJ3fWl0/Uv2y0VJb0fI/AAAAAAAACK0/vGAy5nBbuEg/s640/blogger-image-623305859.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-fBbpsJ3fWl0/Uv2y0VJb0fI/AAAAAAAACK0/vGAy5nBbuEg/s640/blogger-image-623305859.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Hot glue - apparently - does not stick to rocks. At least not my rocks. I originally was going to use googly eyes and then use the heart jewel stickers for noses, but when I tried to use the hot glue gun to attach the pieces, they just did not stick. I have no idea why that would be, but I tried several rocks with no more luck. </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So I abandoned the hot glue and had to use super glue (at which point Little Spaghetti was very upset that he was not allowed to help, but I was not about to let my three year old anywhere near super glue. Even the thought of him in the same room as a tube of super glue sort of terrifies me.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Anyway, there they are. And, just for the record, we at the Spaghetti household think you rock! Enjoy your February 14th. Oh, and if you want to make your own valentine pet rock, you can get the free printable here:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UngO-UF4XuI/Uv2mg4KWMRI/AAAAAAAACKk/6DGXCx3Kndc/s640/blogger-image-1835231158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UngO-UF4XuI/Uv2mg4KWMRI/AAAAAAAACKk/6DGXCx3Kndc/s640/blogger-image-1835231158.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B5WULBn1844-Z2ZfVm54VUgzUjA/edit?usp=sharing">Click here to download the PDF</a>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-swA-XMokMwM/Uv2y6QsC-_I/AAAAAAAACLE/biZHK7HW19Y/s640/blogger-image--418639752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-swA-XMokMwM/Uv2y6QsC-_I/AAAAAAAACLE/biZHK7HW19Y/s640/blogger-image--418639752.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-78476729263353342182014-02-01T09:41:00.000-08:002016-04-25T15:18:31.021-07:00The birth that proved I could trust myself: Part 2<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> 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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">If you missed part 1, you <span style="background-color: white;">can <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-birth-that-proved-i-could-trust.html">read it <span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto;">here</span></a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When </span>we left off, I had just been laboring through 8 hours of hard contractions every 5 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then they stopped.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if maybe in all of my anxiousness and excitement, I’d psyched myself our or what, but I was beyond frustrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could this be happening again?? I thought for sure I was going to have a baby this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d done 8 hours already! For what?? For nothing??</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was about 12:30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I texted the doula to let her know it wasn’t happening. We watched a little more tv.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to do the dishes that were in the sink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I unloaded the dishwasher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I got the laundry out of the dryer to fold and put in another load.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I guess it wasn’t meant to be on the 17<sup>th</sup> after all,” I told my husband.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will be soon,” he tried to reassure me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are you hungry?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We ate our leftover pizza from the night before. I was having about one contraction an hour, but that was nothing compared to what I’d had earlier in the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My good friend’s mom even stopped by for a short visit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">About 5:00, I called my mom and told her that it didn’t look like I was going to have the baby after all, so she should keep Little Spaghetti another night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I’d really go into labor the next day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was sitting on the couch after I hung up the phone, looking out into the late afternoon sun that was pouring through the open blinds. I wanted to cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We need to do this,” I told myself. “It’s just time.”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>The tv was on in the background, but I wasn’t paying attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d never really fully believe in the power of positive thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a nice concept and all, but I just never actually believed it worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put my reservations aside, though, and in my head – or maybe under my breath – I started saying to myself, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are strong. We are safe. We can do this.” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I kept repeating it. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are strong. We are safe. We can do this.</i>” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt a contraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept going, believing myself more and more each time I said it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are strong. We are safe. We can do this.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>I felt another contraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By almost 6:00, the contractions were feeling pretty regular again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And pretty intense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to get back in the tub because it had been so much easier to deal with the pain.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My husband started timing the contractions again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5 minutes apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then 4 and a half.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If they stay under 5 minutes through a few more contractions, we’re going to the hospital,” I said. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After 15 minutes or so, I convinced myself that I’d felt my water break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t sure, since I was sitting in a tub full of water, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I think we should go,” I told him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t 100% sure I was in labor; it felt just as it had that morning, and that obviously hadn’t been it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just knew that,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>emotionally,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was done. I couldn’t take any more starting and stopping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew if we went to the hospital, I’d have a baby one way or another. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ok,” he said. “Let’s get out of the tub.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I started crying. Sobbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh, honey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I can’t do this?” I said through my tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you will,” he told me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believed him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are strong. We are safe. We can do this.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We got in the car about 6:45.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I texted the doula to let her know. We were checked in at the hospital and up in the room by about 7:30.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurse came in to get us situated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Have you thought about what you’d like to do for pain management?” she asked right away.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I want to try to go without any medication,” I told her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So just the IV pain meds, then?” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No,” I reiterated, “no pain meds at all.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“We’ll see about that,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">The midwife came in to check me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a little terrified I’d still only be dilated a centimeter or two.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re at about a five!” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was total relief.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She said they’d monitor me for a while, and she wanted to start an IV because I looked dehydrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it was pretty unnecessary, but I also wanted to pick my battles, so I agreed to the fluids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then – after a while – she said we could take out the IV, and I could get in the shower if I wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A little while later, the nurse came in while I was having a contraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was still in the bed because that’s where they told me I had to be so they could get the IV in and everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I stopped breathing and opened my eyes at the end of the contraction, she said to me, “So, you decided to get the epidural now, then?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No,” was all I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Shortly after, I told them I was getting out of the bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think they would have let me if I hadn’t insisted, and they definitely wouldn’t have suggested it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood by the bed and mostly rocked through the contractions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were getting more intense and closer together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even still, between them, I joked and talked with my husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The spaces between the contractions were such strange times for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At one point, I was breathing through a contraction, and my hand started to tingle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was wiggling my fingers, and my arm felt kind of numb.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The nurse smirked at me from the corner where she had been mostly keeping to herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You have to stay still for it to get a good reading,” she said, pointing at the blood pressure cuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Otherwise, it just keeps inflating.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I must have looked at her sort of bewildered.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You can’t be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rocking like that,</i>” she insisted. “You have to stay still.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, right, my bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m just trying to give <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">birth! </i>I’ll stop my silly rocking nonsense so your blood pressure cuff doesn’t cut off the circulation to my entire arm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">An hour or so later, I had dilated to about a 7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all seemed to be happening so fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Engineer texted my mom (the first she’d heard since the 5:00 we’re-not-having-a-baby-today message).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Never mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looks like the baby’s coming today after all. We’re at the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>At some point, moaning through the contractions started to feel really good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to say “O” sounds because I remembered reading somewhere that keeping your mouth open would help you relax and open the rest of your body. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I tried to picture the contractions opening my cervix, and I worked really hard at relaxing my body instead of tensing all of my muscles during each contraction, which is what my body wanted to do. I’d drop my shoulders and force my muscles to release as I breathed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The midwife was concerned that the baby was starting to rotate face up, so she told me I had to get into the bed and lay on my side to encourage her to turn back the other way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This made the contractions almost unbearable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is also about the time the doula arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Lying on my side was nearly impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t put my upper leg down because…there was a baby’s head in my pelvis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I was holding my leg way up in the air in a completely ridiculous position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doula helped gather up five or six pillows to put between my knees to give my leg muscles some much needed rest.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At this point, I’d mostly stopped talking, even between contractions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even then, after the pain would subside, I had a healthy internal dialogue going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember making jokes in my head throughout the whole process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And mentally rolling my eyes at the nurse on occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt a contraction coming on, and just then, I also heard the machine kick on to inflate the blood pressure cuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could. not. take it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Take it off,” I growled.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ll get in trouble!” my husband said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked right at him. “Take it off,” was all I could say again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And off it stayed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The midwife came in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re at an 8,” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I can break your water or just let you keep laboring. The only thing is that if I break your water, getting in the shower won’t be an option, and I know you were interested in that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked at my husband, and I looked at the doula.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know what I wanted to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a little after 9:00, and somehow in my mind, I still had a lot of laboring left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want to preclude the option of getting in the shower if I needed to.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Look,” she said, “could you even stand up to get in the shower right now if you wanted to?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked down at my legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They – along with my whole body – were shaking uncontrollably. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No,” I conceded.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“If I break your water, you’re just going to have this baby,” she said. I agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you start feeling pressure like you need to push, let me know,” she said as she left the room. The shaking, I knew, was a sign that I was in transition. But I couldn't possibly <i>actually</i> be in transition yet, could I?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The doula was on one side of me, my husband on the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I moaned louder and louder through the contractions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard them telling me it was ok, and I was doing great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are strong. We are safe. We can do this.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember thinking to myself after one contraction, “I want to ask for the epidural, but it’s probably too late for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’ll be ok.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband looked at the clock and said, “Well, there’s still two hours of the 17<sup>th </sup>left.” 10:00.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It seemed like the midwife had just left the room, and I felt like I needed to push.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was so strange that the contractions felt different all the sudden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like they went from feeling like they were ripping my body apart to feeling like they were crushing my body into itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t sure, though, so I figured I’d wait for one or two more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After two more, I was sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I have to push,” I managed to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone went to get the midwife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure enough, I was at a ten and ready to have a baby.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Do you want to turn over onto your back?” the midwife asked me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was still in the ridiculous position with my leg flying in the air.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked around. I thought about it. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew</i> I could handle the pain in my current position; I’d been doing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I wasn’t sure if the pain would be worse if I moved, so I was afraid to change. “I don’t know,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ok, here’s the deal,” my midwife said. “You’re going to turn onto your back, and you’re going to push out this baby.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that moment, I was really glad she made the choice for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The time came to push.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pushing wasn’t as easy this time around, but I still didn’t push for more than about 15 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throughout the entire thing, I remember having conversations with myself inside my head. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As the baby was crowning, I said (or shouted), “It huuuuuurrrrts!!!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“No duh!” I said to myself in my head. “You don’t think they know it hurts?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally I felt her he<span style="background-color: white;">ad come out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <a href="http://www.thespaghettiwesterner.com/2013/09/my-birth-story-part-2.html"> </a></span><a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2013/09/my-birth-story-part-2.html"><span style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: border-box; background-image: none; background-origin: padding-box; background-position: 0% 0%; background-repeat: repeat; background-size: auto auto;">Little Spaghetti had pretty much come out all at once</span></a> aft</span>er his head was out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to push again to get her shoulders out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt them come free and slide out, and I smiled with the anticipation of that huge sense of relief you feel when the baby finally comes out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I didn’t feel it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Open your eyes!” the midwife said. “Look down at your baby!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I opened my eyes and looked down at my half-emerged baby, her squished purple face with eyes closed sitting on top of a yellowish torso.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Do you want to finish delivering her?” the midwife said. “Noooo! Just get her out!” I shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked at my husband, “Do you want to deliver her?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“NOOOO!” I said even louder. “Please just get her out!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In retrospect, if I’d been expecting the question, it might have been a beautiful moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time, though, all I knew was that I’d been expecting a huge wave of relief as the baby popped out, and I wasn’t feeling it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to feel that relief!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She finally let the baby slide out, and I felt my whole body relax. She brought her up to my chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hello, my girl. Hello, my beautiful girl.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was an incredible and intense birth, but I am so happy for the way it turned out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was bright-eyed and nursed right away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember all of it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Just about three hours after we’d checked into the hospital, we welcomed her into the world. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Turns out she was an October 17<sup>th</sup> baby after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fNiHIbxpRkI/UuxE5gAUhfI/AAAAAAAACJY/D2-UFcQszOY/s1600/NewBaby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fNiHIbxpRkI/UuxE5gAUhfI/AAAAAAAACJY/D2-UFcQszOY/s1600/NewBaby.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div>The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-39746388395402574782014-01-31T16:27:00.000-08:002016-04-25T15:30:17.748-07:00The birth that proved I could trust myself<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can’t believe it’s already been three and a half months, but I’m finally sharing my birth story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will be ridiculously long…just so you know. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Months before my due date, I had a “feeling” about October 17<sup>th</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a strong feeling, in fact, that I even told my husband about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is probably silly,” I said, “but I just feel good about October 17<sup>th</sup>for the baby to come. We’ll get there, and it will come and go and have meant nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, you know, maybe.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The week of my due date, my mom decided to come over to visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lives about a four-hour drive away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you haven’t had the baby by Wednesday,” she said, “I’ll take Little Spaghetti, and we can go back home and give you guys a day to yourselves.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart dropped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That meant he’d be gone Thursday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>October 17<sup>th</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if the baby really did come that day?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d miss it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Wait a minute. He’d miss it? Miss what? Watching me be in labor?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On second thought, that sounded like a perfect idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But what if I didn’t spend my last day as a mom of one with him? Well, I’d had three and a half years for it to be just me and him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I hadn’t made the best of my time with him, one more day wasn’t going to change anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Monday morning – the day my mom was to arrive – about 2 a.m., I started having contractions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d been having Braxton-Hicks contractions for weeks, but these were definitely different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They came every 8-10 minutes, and after about 2 hours, they were more like every 5-7 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is it!” I thought. “Today is going to be the day.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And then they stopped. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Later that day, I went to the OB for my 40-week check-up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said my cervix looked the same as it had for weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stripped my membranes and sent me on my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That afternoon, my mom and I made "<a href="http://www.scalinis.com/main-babies.html">Put You Into Labor Eggplant Parmesan.</a>" I’m not sure if <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eating</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>this lasagna could put you into labor, but I think <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">making</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>it sure could. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Tuesday morning, about 3 a.m., the contractions started up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every 5-7 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The lasagna worked! This is going to happen for sure now,” I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three hours later, when my husband got up for work, I told him I thought it might really be happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And then they stopped. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I tried to keep busy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I googled “labor starting and stopping?” and ”does labor stop?” and “contractions start and stop, when will I have this baby.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything I read told me I was having “false labor.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me tell you, folks, that may be what they call it, but this labor was anything but false.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Wednesday morning, can you guess what happened? Boom, contractions, every 5 minutes starting at around 3 a.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, after a few hours, they stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was getting really discouraged by this point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why can’t I just go into labor???”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All this false labor bullshit sucked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to tell myself that the contractions <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to be doing something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I whined to the Blogger Idol contestants group (who happened to be having a contest to see who could guess when I’d actually have this baby).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of women there were very reassuring. “I had labor on and off for days, but then when it really happened, it went so fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until then, it was horrible, though. The waiting. The starting and stopping.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My mom took Little Spaghetti home with her later that day, and my husband and I went out for pizza that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If nothing else, I was going to enjoy my last day to not haul any kids around.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thursday morning, about 4 a.m., the contractions came back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was old news by this point, so I tried to go back to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband woke up with his alarm clock and told me he was going to stay home from work because he was getting a cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both went back to bed, and I think I dozed on and off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A few hours later, the contractions weren’t stopping, and it was getting harder and harder to lie down through them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got up to move and walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or sit on the yoga ball. Or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some positions helped the pain; others made it much worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d get myself in a position and be afraid to move in case I got caught somewhere that made me much more uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I did, I’d just buckle down and breathe through my contraction until it was over and I could get into a position I knew would hurt less. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">About 8:00 or so that morning, I decided to get in the bathtub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That felt so much better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The contractions were still intense and still coming every five minutes or so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That was the strangest time, for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d be in incredibly intense pain for thirty seconds or so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rocking in the water and moaning through the pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then it would just be gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’d feel totally normal for another four minutes or so until the pain came back. During those in-between times, we’d laugh and joke about things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband had brought a laptop into the bathroom so we could watch TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were blowing through the whole season of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Master Chef Junior.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At one point, I said to him, “I think I’m in labor, but this can’t possibly be it, right? I mean, I feel totally fine between the contractions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s actually sort of boring.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt hungry after a couple hours and decided that Jello was the only thing that sounded good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll go get a couple boxes,” Mr. Engineer said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Boxes??” I said, “Who are you kidding? What are we gonna do – boil water and wait for it to set up in the fridge? I think we’ll have a baby before it’d be ready to eat.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pre-made Jello from the dairy case it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Red and orange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They both tasted phenomenal.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">About noon, I was really starting to feel like we might want to head to the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was getting anxious and excited that we were finally going to meet our little girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind started racing, thinking of the things we should gather up and get in the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eight hours of contractions every five minutes seemed like it had to be going in the right direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to get out of the tub and walk around to see if I could move things along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I texted my doula to let her know that I thought I might be getting close, as she had a two-hour drive ahead of her to get to me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I went out to the living room to sit on the exercise ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The contractions didn’t seem to be coming as often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started timing them again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>7 minutes apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then 8. 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table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style><![endif]--><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-73116239622065404162014-01-28T15:37:00.001-08:002014-01-28T15:37:55.379-08:00Warm and Fuzzy {Free Printables}So, it's almost Valentine's Day. I never cared <i>too</i> much about Valentine's Day. I mean, it's nice to celebrate those you love. And it's nice to get a sweet surprise. But it's never been one of my favorite holidays or anything.<br /><br />Until last year when I realized just how much fun it is to make your little boy give valentines to grown women. Actually, there was very little <i>making</i> involved; Little Spaghetti was super into it. I think he had a lot of fun with it.<br /><br />It seemed to totally make people's day, too. You should have seen him melt all those ladies' hearts. Except the one librarian to whom he said, "No! There are none of these for you!" while he handed them out to every other librarian. <br /><br />Thankfully, he reconsidered about thirty seconds later and gave her one after all.<br /><br />My favorite part is when we go visit people on our weekly outings, and there are a couple of them that still have his valentines hanging up by their desks almost a year later. Which is also, sadly, when I'm finally getting around to blogging about them. <br /><br />But...Valentine's Day is coming up again, so I figured I might as well share our cute little fuzzy valentine guys from last year.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-trjiGv98eDg/Uug6ZfBFlUI/AAAAAAAACI0/dYGwubwy-VQ/s1600/warmfuzzyvalentine.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-trjiGv98eDg/Uug6ZfBFlUI/AAAAAAAACI0/dYGwubwy-VQ/s1600/warmfuzzyvalentine.JPG" height="291" width="400" /> </a> </div><br />Aren't they cute? And fuzzy?<br /><br />It's pretty much just a yarn pom pom (see <a href="http://eclecticallyvintage.com/2013/01/how-to-make-a-pom-pom-flower-bouquet-with-a-fork/">this page for a tutorial</a> on making yarn pom poms if you don't know how). Then I glued on a foam heart at the bottom for feet, some googly eyes, and the antennae, which are just little pipe cleaners with glittery foam hearts.<br /><br />Little Spaghetti had so much fun helping me make them that he asks me to make them on at least a monthly basis. We have a lot of warm fuzzies around our house these days.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PaakDQthYkk/Uug6Xgx5MSI/AAAAAAAACIs/mP0mSTftCkQ/s1600/warmfuzzyvalentine2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PaakDQthYkk/Uug6Xgx5MSI/AAAAAAAACIs/mP0mSTftCkQ/s1600/warmfuzzyvalentine2.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div><br />I used some double sided tape to stick the little guys (or gals?) to the valentines...which I'm posting here as a free printable so you can make your own if you feel so inclined. Easy, cheap, and cute; that's my kind of project.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WZzRZ9DJe1Q/Uug6bk-ppNI/AAAAAAAACI8/k5ycZCf8o0U/s1600/WarmFuzzy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WZzRZ9DJe1Q/Uug6bk-ppNI/AAAAAAAACI8/k5ycZCf8o0U/s1600/WarmFuzzy.jpg" height="400" width="311" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">(download the <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B5WULBn1844-UUd2SFZneFFkaG8/edit?usp=sharing">.pdf file here</a>)</div><br />Anyway, Little Spaghetti has a fondness for things with eyes, so the project we've picked for this year's valentines will also feature a little smiling creature. Stay tuned. Maybe I'll blog about it before the next year goes by...<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p0TU-JIX0Ko/Uug_MvbJB2I/AAAAAAAACJI/30c6x_15c9s/s1600/warmfuzzyvalentine-printable+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p0TU-JIX0Ko/Uug_MvbJB2I/AAAAAAAACJI/30c6x_15c9s/s1600/warmfuzzyvalentine-printable+copy.jpg" height="291" width="400" /></a></div><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-86609006872870388722014-01-24T19:08:00.001-08:002014-01-24T19:08:34.807-08:00My week in pictures<div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Because I don't have time for words. Yet. But soon. </span></div><div><br></div><div>I'm finally getting the hang of being mom of two. I think. I'm sure that will fall apart tomorrow. </div><div><br></div><div>At least I remember to take pictures.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-2CcNWzIwvfI/UuMqZBA-idI/AAAAAAAACHo/Ucl4_LqB9RM/s640/blogger-image--1110513461.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-2CcNWzIwvfI/UuMqZBA-idI/AAAAAAAACHo/Ucl4_LqB9RM/s640/blogger-image--1110513461.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-ENfe8goY7A8/UuMqcsrw1oI/AAAAAAAACHw/nNIMFACCTMQ/s640/blogger-image--1610903024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-ENfe8goY7A8/UuMqcsrw1oI/AAAAAAAACHw/nNIMFACCTMQ/s640/blogger-image--1610903024.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-XgTMJhLhu6E/UuMqS2PVShI/AAAAAAAACHY/V6HD97U0FAw/s640/blogger-image--1242318551.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-XgTMJhLhu6E/UuMqS2PVShI/AAAAAAAACHY/V6HD97U0FAw/s640/blogger-image--1242318551.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-jZuRXE5Zm0I/UuMqMBWgPTI/AAAAAAAACHI/7cPjXqI4qZA/s640/blogger-image-637592569.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-jZuRXE5Zm0I/UuMqMBWgPTI/AAAAAAAACHI/7cPjXqI4qZA/s640/blogger-image-637592569.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">(No, these are not for Spaghettini. And, also no, I'm not pregnant again and planning for a little boy. These were projects for a friend's nautical-themed baby shower.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-U-71xwypqp8/UuMqmA4sZoI/AAAAAAAACII/9Uf0ip7w0iU/s640/blogger-image-1682945070.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-U-71xwypqp8/UuMqmA4sZoI/AAAAAAAACII/9Uf0ip7w0iU/s640/blogger-image-1682945070.jpg"></a></div>This face!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Z5aXmX0wSSE/UuMqfvSH9UI/AAAAAAAACH4/hiERdkKS8hY/s640/blogger-image-1100094329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Z5aXmX0wSSE/UuMqfvSH9UI/AAAAAAAACH4/hiERdkKS8hY/s640/blogger-image-1100094329.jpg"></a></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2vPWPbkPK8w/UuMqsG2jpLI/AAAAAAAACIY/ebi7GCB4dUs/s640/blogger-image-1303041100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2vPWPbkPK8w/UuMqsG2jpLI/AAAAAAAACIY/ebi7GCB4dUs/s640/blogger-image-1303041100.jpg"></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-IJPO7uiyIYo/UuMqjAE9fVI/AAAAAAAACIA/GnDuyY7Jf-c/s640/blogger-image--820521736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-IJPO7uiyIYo/UuMqjAE9fVI/AAAAAAAACIA/GnDuyY7Jf-c/s640/blogger-image--820521736.jpg"></a></div></div></div>We have rolling.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OElk9m2T_4Y/UuMqpPS_e1I/AAAAAAAACIQ/xFble2-B4AI/s640/blogger-image-260139990.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OElk9m2T_4Y/UuMqpPS_e1I/AAAAAAAACIQ/xFble2-B4AI/s640/blogger-image-260139990.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-xLauHLkTWTA/UuMqHSjQ-5I/AAAAAAAACHA/wQGPoi5_I5U/s640/blogger-image--1653572234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-xLauHLkTWTA/UuMqHSjQ-5I/AAAAAAAACHA/wQGPoi5_I5U/s640/blogger-image--1653572234.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-s9RtrUf8KLA/UuMqV9mjUEI/AAAAAAAACHg/eu-StFyOjHA/s640/blogger-image-126801932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-s9RtrUf8KLA/UuMqV9mjUEI/AAAAAAAACHg/eu-StFyOjHA/s640/blogger-image-126801932.jpg"></a></div>Oh, my poor, sad boots. They were my favorite.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-rPd2RITf7sQ/UuMqPhccHAI/AAAAAAAACHQ/jJ0q2MEr5QE/s640/blogger-image-529902456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-rPd2RITf7sQ/UuMqPhccHAI/AAAAAAAACHQ/jJ0q2MEr5QE/s640/blogger-image-529902456.jpg"></a></div>Mobile = 5 minutes of mommy time.</div><div><br></div><div>And that's why I have no time for words. But I love it.</div>The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-8530100221537993912014-01-07T15:07:00.000-08:002014-01-08T08:29:26.631-08:00Two Months old. And my mom-of-a-newborn advice.<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Holy where has the time gone? I feel like I have so much posting to catch up on, but the holidays just suck the time away. In a good way, though. Is it even possible for something to suck in a good way?</span></div><br>Spaghettini is getting so, so big! Well, not really. I mean, she still only weighs like 11 pounds. But some days I <i>feel </i>like she's getting so, so big. Her brother was two pounds bigger than she was at 2 months. I'm not complaining about that, though. I don't mind if she stays my little peanut for a while. She's got lots of time to be big.<br><br>Anyway, she's actually almost three months old at this point, but I figured I'd share her photos from a couple weeks ago. And maybe some Christmas photos. Then I'll feel all caught up, and I can start blogging regularly about everyday life again. Maybe. Hopefully.<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TwUvBn73MAs/Usx_uvh9XII/AAAAAAAACF0/AvntHV1d4UY/s1600/2Months.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TwUvBn73MAs/Usx_uvh9XII/AAAAAAAACF0/AvntHV1d4UY/s1600/2Months.jpg" height="640" width="432"></a></div> That's not a joke about Miley Cyrus. It's the truth, people. There was a time when we would blast "Wrecking Ball" on repeat for hours to keep this kid from crying. At least, it felt like hours. I discovered her Miley fascination one day in the car when she was crying non-stop (because she hated her car seat). The song came on the radio, and she was quiet.<br><br>The next time we were at home and she started to melt down, I decided to give it a try, though I knew it was probably just a coincidence. Sure enough, as soon as she heard Miley's voice, Spaghettini stopped crying. It worked almost every time.<br><br>One day, we were driving to visit my parents, and I had to pick my husband up in a town about an hour away. So it was just me and the baby in the car. She started crying (because, as I mentioned, she hated her car seat). I turned on the radio in hopes that some music would help, but had no luck. After a little while we were out of the service area for the radio stations (it happens more than you might think when you're in the middle of the desert driving across Nevada), so we were listening to radio static (and baby screaming).<br><br>I went to pass a semi-truck, and all the sudden, "Wrecking Ball" broke through on the radio. And she stopped crying. For about ten seconds until it faded back into static as we moved away from the truck. I'm still convinced that the trucker was listening to the song on some radio tuner that I picked up, and I seriously considered flagging him down and asking him if he could play the song on repeat and let me drive next to him for the next 70 miles or so.<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zlh3GDI9k7M/Usx_2QreHEI/AAAAAAAACF8/0nchA3mVnZU/s1600/2Months_Shirt.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zlh3GDI9k7M/Usx_2QreHEI/AAAAAAAACF8/0nchA3mVnZU/s1600/2Months_Shirt.JPG" height="282" width="400"></a></div> But the long bouts of crying are (almost) a distant memory now. Replaced by this happy face. Who can get mad at a face like that?<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FYQRLqGcYVY/UsyAB3edooI/AAAAAAAACGM/NtaAZydt4rU/s1600/2Months_Smile.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FYQRLqGcYVY/UsyAB3edooI/AAAAAAAACGM/NtaAZydt4rU/s1600/2Months_Smile.JPG" height="400" width="300"></a></div>I sure can't.<br><br>Now, my favorite part of this post: <b>My completely unsolicited advice for newborn moms.</b> For the record, <b>the only advice I usually give people is not to listen to other people's advice</b> (especially when it's unsolicited). So, you can feel free to take it or leave it, but here it is.<br><br>1. I think it's true that you never really can be prepared for a baby (especially a first baby), so I'm a firm believer in "you'll figure it out as you go." With the exception of one thing, and that thing is: <b>Eating with your left hand.</b> (Or your right hand if you're left-handed). Seriously, I think this is something that you can only get good at with practice, and it's a much better idea to practice at your leisure before the baby comes than trying to get good at it while you're starving and trying to hold a crying baby or nurse your newborn. For real, your belly will thank you (or me...).<br><br>2.<b> It's perfectly ok to do things you said you'd never do and to not do things you said you would.</b> You shouldn't beat yourself up for changing your mind (even if you change your mind on every single aspect of parenting). It doesn't make you a bad mom (or dad). In fact, I think it makes you a good one: you listen to what your baby (and you) need, and you adjust for it. Besides, there will be plenty of outside influence that makes you feel like you're screwing everything up, you don't need to add to it by making yourself feel bad.<br><br>3. <b>There are no stupid questions.</b> I had done this once before, so you'd think I'd have the basics down. But I came home from the hospital and for about four days, I couldn't even answer one very simple question: Where do I put the baby? Seriously, where do I set her down? Everything seemed like a death trap or something. No surface seemed suitable. Today, I can obviously very easily answer that question, but at the time I was totally stumped. I'm going to blame the hormones for this. <br><br>4. <b>Find someone who will tell you that you're doing a great job.</b> If you start to get frazzled or you start to question your decisions and feel like you're surely ruining your child for the rest her life and you've only had her home for three days, make sure you've got somebody on standby to tell you you're doing a great job. Sometimes all it takes is hearing it from someone else to get you believing it again.<br><br>And now, some more photos. You haven't seen Little Spaghetti in a while, so I don't want to leave him out! <div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-8n-0mPz6mhw/Us160kjlnjI/AAAAAAAACGc/aLhjmJmxC9w/s640/blogger-image--863757443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-8n-0mPz6mhw/Us160kjlnjI/AAAAAAAACGc/aLhjmJmxC9w/s640/blogger-image--863757443.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-DbtJ0rTB5zE/Us1630TgNqI/AAAAAAAACGk/mYuWMP3lb6U/s640/blogger-image-392756501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-DbtJ0rTB5zE/Us1630TgNqI/AAAAAAAACGk/mYuWMP3lb6U/s640/blogger-image-392756501.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QLus5m3hIIs/Us166lc_uAI/AAAAAAAACGs/8iQWlABhog4/s640/blogger-image-1572044876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QLus5m3hIIs/Us166lc_uAI/AAAAAAAACGs/8iQWlABhog4/s640/blogger-image-1572044876.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div></div></div><br></div><br></div>The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-32809446532184872212013-11-21T09:49:00.002-08:002013-11-21T09:49:27.083-08:00Time flies! One month old...I can't believe our little girl is already a whole month old! I still haven't decided what her blog name should be...though I've gotten many great suggestions: Spaghettini, Mini Penne, Pastina. Decisions, decisions. Who knew giving her a blog name would be harder than giving her a real name (and trust me, that wasn't easy).<br /><br />This is going to be short and sweet, but I promise to write more soon. I have a birth story to share. And as a little preview...It. Was. Awesome!<br /><br />But, for now, here is our sweet girl at one month old. Pictures are all you really want anyway, right?<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pH01Wt1oOTE/Uo5F1uXJFWI/AAAAAAAACFU/B2zW2_6nzaU/s1600/Shirt+1+Month.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v1885ddC6qE/Uo5F66gWMHI/AAAAAAAACFc/DBoHZTdF6rM/s1600/OneMonth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v1885ddC6qE/Uo5F66gWMHI/AAAAAAAACFc/DBoHZTdF6rM/s640/OneMonth.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br />And her face...because it is sweet.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KdZZ0viT9AA/Uo5F7MQ7e1I/AAAAAAAACFg/M4BCcvoO-aE/s1600/OneMonth2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KdZZ0viT9AA/Uo5F7MQ7e1I/AAAAAAAACFg/M4BCcvoO-aE/s400/OneMonth2.JPG" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, of course, with the shirt! I still don't fully understand how she fit in my body. Yes, even after pushing two of these little things out of my body, I still don't know how they ever fit in there to begin with. But I guess I'll just have to chalk it up to one of life's great mysteries.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pH01Wt1oOTE/Uo5F1uXJFWI/AAAAAAAACFU/B2zW2_6nzaU/s1600/Shirt+1+Month.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pH01Wt1oOTE/Uo5F1uXJFWI/AAAAAAAACFU/B2zW2_6nzaU/s400/Shirt+1+Month.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-56418884874012603392013-10-22T18:20:00.001-07:002013-10-22T18:22:04.542-07:00We have a baby!I am happy to finally report that my lack of blogging is because I am busy cuddling our new little gal. <div><br></div><div>More details to come, for sure, but the answer to the question, "Will I be pregnant forever?" is no. And I didn't have to be induced!</div><div><br></div><div>And the stats: 8 pounds, 4 ounces, 20 inches long. She is beautiful.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-viqst2gtsOk/UmckUfoZWMI/AAAAAAAACFE/ki9wKVSk860/s640/blogger-image-111004975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-viqst2gtsOk/UmckUfoZWMI/AAAAAAAACFE/ki9wKVSk860/s640/blogger-image-111004975.jpg"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-viqst2gtsOk/UmckUfoZWMI/AAAAAAAACFE/ki9wKVSk860/s640/blogger-image-111004975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-EGAqDHT6NNE/UmckRbPPceI/AAAAAAAACE8/fdweH-dijFM/s640/blogger-image-1390544889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-EGAqDHT6NNE/UmckRbPPceI/AAAAAAAACE8/fdweH-dijFM/s640/blogger-image-1390544889.jpg"></a></div></div><br></div>The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-33990609917772979012013-10-13T15:30:00.000-07:002014-02-03T15:26:59.649-08:00A Letter to My DaughterDear Baby Girl,<br /><br />Months and months ago, I told your Big Brother that we'd know it was getting close to time for you to be born when the weather started to get cool and the leaves on the trees started to change to red and yellow and orange and fall to the ground. <br /><br />A couple weeks ago, late one afternoon, he was playing in the back yard. I was in the kitchen, starting dinner. I'd left the door open, as I do most of the time when he's playing outside, in case he needs something. He was up at the top of the hill, exploring. I'm sure it's a place the two of you will spend many summer days. Maybe someday, we'll even put a swingset or a clubhouse up there.<br /><br />I heard him shouting before I could even see where he was. "Ma-maaaaaaa! Maaaa-maaaa!!!!!!" I ran to the door, and he came out from behind a little tree. He had something in his hand, and he ran down the hill as fast as he could.<br /><br />"Mamalook! It's. It's. It's a! It's a!" he was so excited he could barely even form a sentence. "It's a leaf! A read leaf! It's so, so red." He put the leaf in my hand.<br /><br />"That means my baby's ready, mama! My baby's ready!" He pulled his arms into his chest, smiling so big that his eyes squinted almost closed and his face scrunched. He curled into himself and shook and wiggled the way he does when he can hardly contain his excitement.<br /><br />"Woo hoo!" he shouted, finally letting out his breath. "My baby's ready!!!"<br /><br />Sure enough, though all the other leaves I could see anywhere around the neighborhood were still green, he'd found the very first red leaf. It was just what he'd been waiting for. His Baby Sister. That's what it meant to him.<br /><br />Almost all the leaves are golden and crimson now, baby girl. As I was driving up our street a couple days ago, a chilly fall wind was blowing. The leaves fluttered through the air like a beautiful ticker tape parade. A parade of colors just waiting to celebrate you. To welcome you into this world.<br /><br />Toward the end of my pregnancy with your brother, the little spring flowers were just starting peek their heads up through the thawing ground. Tulips and daffodils. I used to tell him as we'd walk, "You'll always know that your birthday is coming when you start to see the flowers bloom in the spring and the little green leaves start to sprout on the trees."<br /><br />I tell you, little one, that you'll always know when your birthday is coming because those same little leaves will light up the world with their bright colors and then start to fall to the ground. The smell of the cold and the warm scents of apple and pumpkin will be what you know first in life.<br /><br />My two beautiful babies; my two wonderful children. I know you will change me profoundly. You already have. Each fall and each spring as the seasons change, no matter how old I get and no matter where you are in the world, I will always be reminded that I am your mommy. And I'm the luckiest mommy in the world.<br /><br />We're ready to meet you, baby girl. Our little family suddenly seems not quite complete knowing you're not yet here. Know that we love you, and we can't wait for you to love us.<br /><br />-Always,<br />Your Mama<br /><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-44504310604177669902013-10-12T20:20:00.001-07:002013-10-12T20:20:39.577-07:00I'm proud to introduce you to...My belly at 39 weeks, 5 days!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A5ZBZOnG_j8/UloLXsgCjGI/AAAAAAAACEY/L6tf4JJy3j0/s1600/39Weeks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A5ZBZOnG_j8/UloLXsgCjGI/AAAAAAAACEY/L6tf4JJy3j0/s1600/39Weeks.JPG" /></a></div><br /><br />Sorry, that was a mean trick. Pretending I had my baby and all, just so you'd read this post. Really, though, nobody would be happier than me right now if I'd had my baby, so I can legitimately say I feel your pain.<br /><br /><br />"It's ok," everyone tells me. "You're not even at your due date yet."<br /><br />And they're right. I shouldn't be anxious. I've complained before about how "they" start telling you at 37 weeks, "It could be any day now!!" It's a very, very cruel trick to play on a woman whose last baby was born at 42 weeks. <br /><br />And I knew better. I knew I shouldn't listen. But I half-believed it. Or at least I let myself hope it would be true. That I <i>just might</i> have this baby <i>before</i> my due date.<br /><br />I know, there's still a chance, right? << And that right there, folks, just goes to show you what a truly hopeless optimist I am. With 28 hours left 'til my due date, I'm still clinging to a sliver of a dream that my baby might be born before her due date.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0D612HF26As/UloMdlzMd8I/AAAAAAAACEg/MAF9tQHbIKs/s1600/39Weeks_When.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0D612HF26As/UloMdlzMd8I/AAAAAAAACEg/MAF9tQHbIKs/s400/39Weeks_When.JPG" width="367" /></a></div> When will you come out of there, baby??<br /><br />I'm not actually all that anxious for this pregnancy to end. We've got a decent thing going here. I'm getting a good amount of sleep (not enough, but definitely more than I'll be getting soon). I'm not feeling totally huge and uncomfortable. I get a little stuck like a beached whale if I find myself on my back, but overall I can move around pretty good. I'm not swollen or itchy or in too much pain. <br /><br />As I'm sure you know by now...I'm anxious to go into labor. Or, more specifically, I'm anxious that I <i><b>won't</b></i> go into labor.<br /><br />I've started googling things like "what's the longest recorded human gestation?" (and i kid you not - <a href="http://mom.me/pregnancy/8759-10-amazing-record-setting-moms/item/beulah-hunter-longest-pregnancy-ever/">the answer I found was 375 days</a>) and "what day will my baby be born" (apparently nobody on the internet is even willing to venture a guess). <br /><br />But mostly, I'm trying to be patient. I'm trying to enjoy the days we have left. I'm telling myself that she will be here - one way or the other - within the next 15 days. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4so4YQaw8EU/UloOLEglxfI/AAAAAAAACEs/CmaspV_rX94/s1600/39Weeks_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4so4YQaw8EU/UloOLEglxfI/AAAAAAAACEs/CmaspV_rX94/s400/39Weeks_2.JPG" width="326" /></a></div> I'm trusting her, and I'm trusting my body that <b>we can do this</b>. <br /><br />In the meantime, there's a whole package of Oreos calling my name...<br /><br /><br /><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-38493349996364514332013-09-26T08:00:00.000-07:002016-04-25T15:20:34.870-07:00My Birth Story, Part 3: What I Learned...and Birth Without FearIf you want all the details of my first birth, they are here (<a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2013/09/lets-start-at-beginning-my-first-birth.html">Part 1</a>) and here (<a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2013/09/my-birth-story-part-2.html">Part 2</a>).<br /><br />I've mentioned before that this time around I want to have a birth without fear, so as I barrel toward my second child's birth, I want to take some time to think about what I learned from the last one and what it means for this next round.<br /><br />Here it goes (and it's going to be another long one!)<i> </i>What I learned from Little Spaghetti's birth:<i><br /></i><br /><br /><b>The nurses play a much bigger role than I was planning on. </b>This may seem obvious...but, for some reason, it wasn't for me. I spent time during my first pregnancy agonizing over my provider selection and eventually seeking out a midwife for a homebirth that never happened. I talked to my OB about my birth plan (though I know she never fully supported it). I thought I'd covered my bases. Until I got to the hospital.<br /><br />I soon realized that my OB wasn't going to be a big part of my birth (I saw her two, maybe three times in the 12+ hour-long induction). The nurses handle most of it - and none of them knew me or what I wanted. And there's nothing I could do about that. At least this time around, I'm going in knowing that.<br /><br /><b>Trust my body</b>. As I prepared for my son's birth, I read so many things about trusting that your body knows what it's doing because pregnancy and labor are very natural parts of life that women have gone through for all of time. And for a while, I truly believed that I did trust my body. But then, my due date came and went. And days that I went past my due date turned into weeks that I was past my due date, and I began to feel like my body was failing me. Like I'd <i>never</i> go into labor. Like my uterus just didn't have a clue what it was doing. I wanted to believe that I trusted my body, but looking back, I was kidding myself.<br /><br />In the end, though, even after I was overdosed on pitocin, tranquilized, and had my labor stopped, my body <i>did</i> know what it was doing. Toward the end, as I started to feel a lot of pressure, I asked the nurse to check me. She said, "Fine, but there's no way you've dilated any more. You've haven't even been having real contractions. We're going to have to turn the pitocin back on if you want to deliver this baby."<br /><br />But, to her shock and my pleasant surprise, I had dilated from a little more than a 6 to a full 10. Without even having what the medical staff considered any "real" contractions. My body did know what it was doing, after all.<br /><br /><b>Trust my instincts</b><i>. </i>When my water broke early on, I came <i>so </i>close to asking the nurses to turn off the pitocin. Or at least to stop turning it up. I really felt like my body could take over from there and let labor progress on its own.<br /><br />I mean, I was 42 weeks pregnant. My water had broken. I was having very regular contractions. In some ways, I felt like the birth was a freight train that wouldn't be stopped at that point even if we wanted it to. I even remember asking my family and friends who were there if I should talk to the nurses about it. In the end, I decided the doctors and nurses knew what they were doing and not to say anything. Looking back, I wish I'd listened to my instincts and trusted myself, which brings me to...<br /><br /><b>Ask questions and to stick up for myself.</b> It never hurts to ask, right? Unfortunately, that's not how I approached my last birth. I'm a people pleaser. I hate to make a fuss. I hate to put people out or annoy them. Part of me didn't want to offend the nurses during my labor, which is why I decided to just trust their expertise and not ask questions.<br /><br />If I do anything differently this time around, I hope this is it. I want to make good choices and stick up for what I think is best for me and my baby. I want to be able to deal with confrontation without feeling like a failure. Or without feeling like somebody thinks I'm a bad mother who is making terrible choices that will endanger her baby.<br /><br />I can ask for more time. I can ask for more explanation. I can ask what other options exist. I can even just ask to be asked again in a few minutes when I've had time to process what's going on. <br /><br /><b>Prepare others, not just myself. </b>I was lucky to have my husband, my sister, and a good friend with me for my son's delivery. And they were all incredibly helpful and wonderful. I almost broke my husband's back because I was literally leaning on him for support for so much of the labor.<br /><br />But, I had not prepared them well enough. I had told them about my plans and preferences, and I guess I thought that would be enough for them to help me make the decisions I'd need to make during the labor. It wasn't. But let me be clear, I do not blame them for that one iota. <br /><br />This time around, I'm planning to have a doula. Or hoping, at least. She has to travel two hours to be at the birth (because I live in the middle of nowhere and there are no closer doulas), so assuming that we get plenty of warning, she should be able to be there. I've tasked her with being my memory - reminding me of what I want and reminding me to take the time I need to make decisions. I think that will be invaluable.<br /><br />And to be honest, I'm not sure it's something I would ever ask my husband or another family member to do because I'd also underestimated how difficult it would be for them to see someone they cared about in pain. They just wanted me and the baby to be ok, which is all I'd ever ask of them. As I'm sitting there telling my husband that there's no way I can keep going without dying, can I really expect him to remind me that I didn't want pain meds?<br /><br /><b>Never underestimate the power of being passive-aggressive.</b> I mentioned before that I'm a people pleaser, right? When, at 33-ish weeks, my baby was breech and my OB insisted on scheduling a C-section at 37 weeks, I about lost it. Not to her, of course, because I hate confrontation. But I started searching desperately for another caregiver. And I found a lovely midwife who took me on even though I was so close to the end of the pregnancy and was helping me plan a homebirth (that was abandoned once I hit 42 weeks and had to be induced). <br /><br />I continued seeing my OB just in case I needed to have a hospital delivery, but at some point my midwife requested a copy of my medical records. I remember my OB asking me, in a rather accusatory way, at my next appointment, "Are you seeing a midwife? You're not actually considering a homebirth, are you?" I (to avoid confrontation - are you seeing a pattern here?) had not told my OB about my plans or the midwife. I mumbled something about having options and getting advice (which was partially true...my midwife had introduced me to a wonderful chiropractor who I credit with getting the baby to turn at about 34 weeks so I didn't have to have a c-section, which was my OB's only option) and was relieved when she didn't push the issue.<br /><br />Anyway, I think that, in some roundabout way, having my OB hear from the midwife just how determined I was to try to have a low-intervention birth was more effective than anything I could have said to her. At my follow-up appointment after delivery, my OB said to me, "I really thought you were going to have a c-section. I wouldn't have let you go even as long as I did, but I know how much you really didn't want to have a c-section..."<br /><br />I didn't think much about it then, but now, I'm pretty convinced that if she hadn't known about my plans for a homebirth, my OB would have been much pushier and made the situation out to be even scarier than it was so I'd go to the operating room.<br /><br />I suppose, perhaps, if you're better at being up front with people than I am, a better title for this bullet point would be: <b>Communicating with your care providers (especially about your preferences) is extremely important.</b><br /><br /><b>There's nothing to be ashamed of, and - in the end - it really is ok. </b>No matter what my birth experience looks like, there's no part of it that should make me feel like a failure. My first birth experience wasn't perfect, but neither is my life. My beautiful baby boy came into this world surrounded by people who love him (I'll never forget my sister tearing up as he was born. And then asking if babies were supposed to be so gray.) He was alert and aware. And hairy. Like a little werewolf. He nursed like a champ. And he lights up my life every day. <br /><br />As I look toward my next birth - though I have aspirations and plans for how I'd like it to go - the moment I know will mean the most is when Mr. Engineer and I meet our baby girl. When we look into her eyes for the first time and when she sees us. However and whenever that happens. And then, when she meets her big brother, and we become a beautiful, bigger-by-one family.<br /><br />I can't wait. The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-13058681537378437972013-09-24T14:52:00.000-07:002016-04-25T15:21:54.819-07:00My Birth Story - Part 2If you missed the lead up, get part 1 of the birth story <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2013/09/lets-start-at-beginning-my-first-birth.html">here</a>. This is going to be another <i>long </i>post!<br /><br />At 42 weeks pregnant, I checked into the hospital on a Tuesday evening for my induction the next day. I got changed into a gown, and they started monitoring me.<br /><br />"You're actually having a lot of contractions!" the nurse said. I'd told her that I was having pretty regular contractions when she hooked me up to the monitor, but I guess she didn't believe me. I'd been having them for at least a week, maybe more. They just never got painful or closer together.<br /><br />Because of the contractions, they decided they couldn't do the "cervical ripening" portion of the induction, so they'd just start the pitocin in the morning. I don't think my husband and I got much sleep that night. It's hard in the hospital anyway, when they check on you frequently and the beds leave quite a bit to be desired. But then there was the excitement that we'd be meeting our son soon, which made sleeping almost impossible. I played a lot of Lineup on my Ipod.<br /><br />The next morning finally came, and they started the pitocin drip around 6:00. The nurses asked me very briefly about what I wanted for pain medication, and I told them I'd like to try to get through without anything. One of the nurses scoffed and said, "Yeah. Sure. Talk to me about that again in a couple of hours."<br /><br />Even though I was hooked up to the IV and the fetal monitor, once the contractions started, I tried to move around as much as possible. The contractions weren't bad at first, and I was still talking and joking between them. My sister and a couple good friends showed up at some point. And then my sister's boyfriend arrived with muffins - not that I could eat them, but I think the nurses appreciated it.<br /><br />Around 8:30, one of the nurses decided to do a cervical check to assess my progress. As she got into position, my water broke. "I didn't do that!" she exclaimed. "It just happened!" It must have startled her. I think I was about 3 cm dilated at that point. <br /><br />Once my water broke, the contractions really started to pick up. That was the point where I knew - one way or another - I was having a baby that day. I was 42 weeks pregnant, my water had broken - there was no stopping it now.<br /><br />I said to my friends and family in the room, "Do you think I should ask them to turn off the pitocin?" It probably wasn't a fair question to ask, since none of them were really in a position to answer it for me. They just sort of shrugged, and I didn't press the issue. There are two things I'd change if I could go back and redo my labor. This is one of them . But, I know, there's not much use in second-guessing it now.<br /><br />I think someone was timing them, but I never really knew how close together the contractions were or how long they were lasting. All I knew is that they were intense. I was still breathing through them and moving around as best as I could. I think I was doing ok for a while. Then things sort of become a blur.<br /><br />A couple hours after my water had broken, things got really intense. The contractions were coming every minute and lasting for 45 to 50 seconds, which meant I only had about ten seconds from the end of one to the beginning of the next. No matter what I did, there was just no way to focus and get ready for the next one.<br /><br />I've been told since that you really need at least a minute or so between them, and that's about as close as they ever get during "natural" labor (2 to 3 minutes apart. measured from the beginning of one to the beginning of the next, and lasting about a minute each) even during the hardest parts. What this meant was that the pitocin had hyper-stimulated my uterus.<br /><br />I was kneeling on the bed, resting with both of my arms around my husbands neck. He was supporting my entire weight. I think I almost broke his back. It was the only position that was even tolerable. I know I felt like I needed to vomit for a long time; I'm not sure that I ever actually did.<br /><br /> I remember looking at him, and saying, "I can't do this anymore." At one point, I remember my little sister crying, and her and my friends decided to leave and take a walk.<br /><br />The nurse offered to give me something in the IV "to take the edge off." I agreed. She delivered a dose of Fentanyl. This is the second thing I'd go back and change if I could. This was the worst decision I made during my labor. I've heard some people have good luck with Fentanyl, but - for me - it was awful. <br /><br />It did absolutely nothing for the pain. The pain may actually have felt worse. But, I was also completely out of it. I felt drunk and confused. I was in so much pain, but I couldn't even speak to tell anyone. I don't remember this lasting for very long, but my husband says it was probably 30-45 minutes. "You looked like you were half-dead," he told me. <br /><br />I was expecting that they drug they would use would be some kind of pain reliever. Since the delivery, I've learned that Fentanyl is also a sedative, which explains why I felt the way I felt.<br /> <br />At some point, a nurse came to me and said, "It's time for the epidural, sweetie." Apparently, I agreed. (This part of the labor is kind of a big black hole in my memory).<br /><br />This was also the time when things got really scary for the baby. My OB rushed in, and I remember her telling me that she didn't like what the baby's heart rate was doing. I know now that this is not too uncommon in situations where you're getting too much pitocin; just like I didn't have any time to recover between contractions, neither did Little Spaghetti's heart rate.<br /><br />All at once, they turned off the pitocin, gave me a drug to stop my labor, inserted a tube into my uterus to reinfuse amniotic fluid to give the baby a little more "cushion" from the contractions, and put a fetal scalp monitor into the skin on my baby's head. During the chaos is when the Fentanyl was finally wearing off and my memories become less foggy. This is also when the anesthesiologist arrived to place the epidural.<br /><br />To be honest, the epidural probably saved me from having a c-section. It (plus the other actions to stop my labor) slowed the contractions down enough to give the baby and I both a rest. At this point, I slept for more than three hours.<br /><br />As I was waking up, my sister and my friends returned. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon by that point. <br /><br />My contractions were just tiny bumps on the monitor compared to what they had been earlier in the day, and they didn't seem particularly consistent. The nurse suggested turning off the epidural for a half hour or so tp let some of it wear off.<br /><br />They were pretty busy that night, and a half hour came and went. Then another half hour. I think it was almost two hours that the epidural was off. The contractions weren't particularly painful, even still. I had regained most of the feeling in my lower body except for the fact that I couldn't move my right leg at all.<br /><br />At some point, things started to feel different. I felt a lot of pressure and told a nurse. She said, "I'll check you, but there's no way that you're ready to push. You're not even really having contractions. We're going to have to turn the pitocin back on if you want to have this baby."<br /><br />Sure enough, though, I was at 10 cm - fully dilated and ready to have a baby. <br /><br />The nurses started helping me get my feet up to push. I remember having to scoot over to the side of the bed for some reason, and I said to the nurse, "You'll have to hold that leg for me. I can't move it."<br /><br />"Sure," she said. A minute later, she stopped holding my leg for some reason, and it fell with a thud off the bed. "Oh!" she said in surprise. <br /><br />"Yeah...I told you. I have no control over that leg <i>at all.</i>" <br /><br />Eventually, I was in position to push. I remember things feeling so calm and peaceful at that point. In my memory, even the lights were kind of low. Especially compared to the terror and chaos from earlier in the day, things seemed to be moving so slowly, and everyone seemed relaxed.<br /><br />It was a little before 7:00 p.m. I remember my husband joking about how we only had a few hours before April Fool's day, so I better get this baby out.<br /><br />The nurses gave me the ok to try pushing. I apparently was doing a better job of it than they expected because someone had to rush to get the doctor. It only took a couple of pushes for the baby to begin crowning.<br /><br />"You're doing a great job," my OB said. "It's like your body was made for having babies!" You think? Maybe that's because it was!<br /><br />Then my husband said, "What's that cord?"<br /><br />"Cord! What cord!??" I panicked thinking he meant the umbilical cord. I knew it was a bad thing for the umbilical cord to come out before the head, so I was terrified. It turned out that he was talking about the cord from the fetal monitor that was still attached to the baby's scalp. <br /><br />I remember being able to sort of see the reflection of my baby crowning in a tv screen that was turned off on the wall across from the bed. At 7:18, Little Spaghetti was born, after just a few more pushes. I remember seeing tears in my sister and my friend's eyes, and the look of awe and wonder on their faces and in my husband's smile.<br /><br />The doctor held up the most amazing bluish-gray, pointy headed little baby. My son. She held him up for what was probably only a couple seconds to look him over, but it felt like an eternity, and I wanted to shout, "Just give me my baby already!"<br /><br />She placed him on my chest. I know at some point I delivered the placenta, but - really - I'd stopped paying attention to what was happening. That is, until the OB announced that something wasn't right with the placenta. The next thing I knew, her entire forearm was inside my uterus. To this day, I can't even fully comprehend how that's possible, but I'd rather not think about it.<br /><br />Apparently, my placenta had an extra lobe (which isn't that uncommon), but it hadn't come out with the rest of it. That could have caused big problems down the line, so she had to fish it out. I remember her bringing it over for me to see, but I really didn't care whether I saw it or not at that point. I was cuddling my baby, and that was all that mattered.<br /><br />They took the baby to the warmer to get him checked out, and the doctor told me I needed just one little stitch. Little Spaghetti had been born with his hand up next to his face, which caused a little tear.<br /><br /><br />The friend that was there was a medical student, and my OB was happy to have someone to "teach." She was showing her a couple of different stitching techniques as she sewed up the tear. "And her epidural is so good, she isn't feeling any of this," my doctor was saying to my friend.<br /><br />My friend looked at me, "Are you not feeling any of this?" she asked. The epidural had been off for hours. I shook my head...I was definitely feeling all of it.<br /><br />After I was fixed up, they brought Little Spaghetti back to me. Everyone left except maybe a nurse and my husband. Him and I sat there in awe, looking over every little thing about our beautiful baby. He was so hairy; he had fuzz all over his back and shoulders and arms. One of us joked that he was like a little werewolf. And he had the most shrill, ear-piercing cry. My mom said the next day that there was no mistaking which baby was mine when he cried.<br /><br />After about 45 minutes of family bonding time and nursing (Little Spaghetti was already latching like a champ!), a nurse came to take him and my husband off to the nursery for the bath and check-up.<br /><br />And then I was alone. Surrounded by crumpled up, bloodied cloths and trays of equipment. It was very surreal to be by myself for the first time in more than nine months. It was so quiet. <br /><br />I probably had an hour to myself. They moved me from the delivery room to the recovery room where we'd stay until we checked out. <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2013/04/i-cant-wait-to-eat-sandwich-six-and.html">Someone had left a Jimmy John's sandwich</a> on the table in the room. I don't know where it came from, but it was - without a doubt - the most delicious sandwich I'd ever eaten. I scarfed it down; I was totally ravenous. I remember being sort of embarrassed when a nurse came by to check on me as I was trying to wipe the crumbs off my face....and my chest and my lap and the bed.<br /><br />I'm not sure why, but there's something I really cherish about that quiet hour I spent by myself. Somehow, it was a chance to transition from me to mommy me. For me to relish what I'd done and get mentally prepared to take on the task of parenting. Of caring for a real live baby who would join me any minute.<br /><br />And soon enough, my men came back to me from the nursery. My husband and my sweet little boy. And we started out our crazy, wonderful journey as a family of three.The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-22817426840632281512013-09-21T21:47:00.002-07:002013-09-21T21:47:47.398-07:00Let's start at the beginning: My first birth story, Part 1I can't really start focusing on preparing for my upcoming birth until I talk about my last birth. I never blogged Little Spaghetti's birth story. Partly because I didn't have a blog when he was born, but also partly out of guilt. And a little bit of feeling like a failure. If I'm going to tackle baby girl's birth head-on, though, with no fear, I <i>have </i>to let go of those things and be honest with myself.<br /><br />It actually started long before I gave birth. Around the middle of my pregnancy with Little Spaghetti, I felt <i>amazing.</i> Truly wonderful. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. Being pregnant made me feel so...feminine. I'd never before felt so<i> lucky</i> to be a woman. Not that I'd ever disliked being a woman...I just had never thought much of it. But during my pregnancy, I was in awe of my body and myself.<br /><br />Watching my stomach blow up like a balloon as a life grew inside it was incredible. Seeing my body do this amazing thing that it was designed to do made me feel so in-tune with who I was as a woman. This may cause some feminists in the crowd to throw daggers at me, but being pregnant made me feel more <i>empowered</i> than anything else I had ever done in my life. <span style="color: red;"> <span style="color: black;">Including my career. Including graduating from an Ivy League university. </span></span><br /><br />I started reading a lot about birth and labor. As I read, I started to find more and more women who were frustrated by the way that many people (and many doctors, in particular) treat pregnancy in this county. <b>Like it's an illness.</b> Like there's something <i>wrong</i> with pregnant people.<br /><br />I knew that I definitely didn't feel that way. I felt miraculous, not sick.<br /><br />Research led to more research, and I kept finding things about how common it is for doctors to intervene in the birth process. It seems that many doctors (and nurses) just like to tinker with birth. To <i>manage </i>it, as they say, which - I think - means to <i>control</i> it. To speed up labors they don't think are moving quickly enough. To keep women in bed instead of moving about so they can continuosly monitor baby's heart rate. To give epidurals and then pitocin to keep the uterus contracting. This "cascade of interventions" is a pretty well-known concept that many others are more qualified than I am to talk about. (Read more <a href="http://birthissues.org/education/508-2/">here</a> or <a href="http://www.novabirthcenter.com/Birth/NaturalBirth/CascadeOfInterventions.aspx">here</a> if you're interested).<br /><br />The thing that bothered me most was learning that the routine use of <i>most of these interventions was not supported by evidence.</i> There were no good indications that these things led to better outcomes for mother or baby in the majority of normal, low-risk births. And, in some cases, they lead to just the opposite.(Lots more information <a href="http://evidencebasedbirth.com/">here</a>, particularly <a href="http://evidencebasedbirth.com/updated-table-on-the-state-of-maternity-care-in-the-u-s/">here</a>).<br /><br />I started to fall very squarely in the "birth is a natural thing that women have been doing for eons" camp (all the while being glad that we live in a time where we have medical advancements that can save lives <i>when they're needed</i>). My OB, however, was not at all in this camp.<br /><br />She first suggested a c-section when I found out Little Spaghetti was breech at 33 weeks. She said, "Well, babies who are breech this late usually stay that way, so we might as well just schedule a c-section for 37 weeks." I asked if there was anything I could do or try to get him to turn. She gave me a flat, "No."<br /><br />I knew that wasn't true. I left feeling so frustrated. I didn't like the path I was on, and I had to do something to get off it. So, I found a local midwife. She recommended a chiropractor in town who was trained in the Webster technique.<br /><br />After a few visits to the chiropractor, I was pretty sure that my baby had flipped head-down. It turns out that my hips were misaligned (something I'd had trouble with in the past), which was causing my uterus to be sort of lopsided. The chiropractor was able to get the tendons and ligaments on the tight side to loosen up, which rounded out my uterus and gave my little guy the space he needed to get into the right position.<br /><br />I told my OB at the next appointment that I was pretty sure the baby had flipped. She poked my belly and said there was no way. She could feel his bony little head right up by my ribs.<br /><br />The same thing happened the next week. She was still convinced that he was head-up.<br /><br />Finally, the week after that, I insisted that she do an ultrasound. Guess who was shocked when she discovered that my little breech baby wasn't breech any more. And that bony little head up by my ribs? That was his butt. <br /><br />Things went smoothly over the next three weeks. I continued to see the midwife, and we were making plans for a home birth. I decided that if I wanted to avoid unnecessary interventions, it was the way to go. But I also kept seeing my OB since I was so close to the end of the pregnancy. That way, if I did need to go to the hospital during the birth, I'd have my doctor instead of just ending up with whoever was on-call for emergencies. <br /><br />I can't even remember how many people tried to talk me out of the home birth. The people who thought it was a good idea were few and far between, to say the least.<br /><br />Now, I'm definitely not someone who thinks everyone should have a home birth. If you want a home birth, go for it. If you want to schedule a c-section at your earliest convenience, go for it. If you want something in the middle, go for it. The problem, though, is that having something in the middle didn't <i>really </i>feel like an option to me.<br /><br />Even as I was planning a home birth, I would have <i>prefered </i>to be planning a low-intervention hospital birth attended by a midwife instead of a trained surgeon (an OB). But they wouldn't let my midwife deliver in a hospital because she didn't work under an OB (and there are no birth centers in the area). And I didn't trust my OB to stand behind me on my desire for a low-intervention birth. Especially after she talked at almost every appointment about how much more pleasant her moms were once they got their epidurals.<br /><br />Really, what I wanted seemed pretty simple to me. I just wanted to be treated like a normal person. Sure, a normal person who was having a baby, but just a human being. I didn't want an IV because I didn't see any reason to have one; I wasn't sick. I wanted to be able to walk around the room while I labored, not be strapped to a monitor and forced to stay in bed. I wanted to be able to eat or drink if I felt like it to keep my strength up, not be restricted to ice chips "just in case." <b>I wanted to take all that new-found womanly empowerment that pregnancy had brought me and let my body do its incredible thing. I just wanted to go about my business and be left more or less alone. </b><br /><br />Unless it was too much for me. Or unless something went wrong. Then, I wanted to have access to the epidural. And then I wanted to be able to be as close to emergency care as I could so my baby and I would be safe. I would rather be in the hospital so that I had back-up, I just wished that the hospital wasn't a place that I feared I'd be treated like a child and pressured into a series of interventions that aren't even supported by good research. I felt stuck. <br /><br />But then, my due date came. My OB was ready to schedule an induction the next day. It was another battle to get her to let me wait and see if the baby would come when he was ready. I tried everything. Walking. Spicy foods. Sex. Bouncing on the exercise ball. Positive visualization. And more walking. And more sex.<br /><br />41 weeks came and went. My OB became increasingly annoyed that I wasn't in labor and wouldn't be induced.<br /><br />Finally, at 42 weeks, I agreed to the induction. I didn't really feel comfortable going past 42 weeks anyway. I know there are people out there who do it, but I was too worried. From what I'd read, 42 weeks was as long as I was willing to wait.<br /><br />Part of me still wonders if my reservations about birth and my feeling like I had no great options for trying to have the birth I really wanted kept me from going into labor... There's no way to know, I suppose.<br /><br />And, so, my home birth plans went out the window. As did my hope of anything close to a "natural" birth. At 9:00 p.m. on a Tuesday night, I checked into the hospital so they could begin monitoring me for the induction the next morning.<br /><br />Stay tuned for Part 2...the <i>actual </i>birth story.The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-65588261770741074412013-09-18T22:21:00.001-07:002013-09-18T22:21:03.674-07:0036 Weeks: Things are about to get real<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WViPe-oMvJc/UjqJmniJdXI/AAAAAAAACDk/7LCEjWefdik/s1600/36Weeks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WViPe-oMvJc/UjqJmniJdXI/AAAAAAAACDk/7LCEjWefdik/s1600/36Weeks.JPG" /></a></div><br />I feel like you deserve a warning. I hope you'll stick with me through it, but things are about to get real up in here. Deep and thoughtful and introspective with lots of feelings and whatnot. You see, I'm 36 weeks pregnant now. Which means that a baby will be born in the next 0 - 6 weeks. Out of my body.<br /><br />So, I've been working out all my <i>stuff</i>. My thoughts and fears. My residual mommy guilt about my last delivery. My hopes and plans and hesitations about the upcoming delivery. My feelings about labor in general and my frustrations about birth options (or lack thereof).<br /><br />Writing is how I work it out. I promise the sarcastic and (sometimes?) witty me is still in here. She'll be back soon (probably right after you say to yourself, "Geez...really? <i>Another </i>post about labor? Is that all this woman thinks about - birthing babies? Get a life already."). But I've got to get mentally prepared to push this baby out of my body soon and welcome her into our lives.<br /><br />Hopefully you don't start to feel like my therapist over the next couple weeks. Or, if you do, at least don't send any bills. I'll try to keep the TMI to a minimum, but really, when pregnancy is involved, it<i> </i>sort of just comes with the territory.<br /><br />For instance, how can I not share that my doctor told me that my cervix is very soft and about 50% effaced at my check-up yesterday? I know it doesn't really mean much, but I think I was only 30% effaced when I went in to be induced at 42 weeks last time. (To be honest, until the end of my last pregnancy, I didn't even know effacement was a thing). That's got to be a good sign, right? <br /><br />And, while my feet were up in the stirrups for said cervical check, the doctor said, "You have a blister on your foot, huh? That's a pretty neat band-aid." For the record, it had minions on it, so it was a pretty neat bandaid. Nothing like small talk with your OB when he's all up in your business, right?<br /><br />So, buckle up. Four(ish) weeks to go. The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-74958076646832823322013-09-12T07:30:00.000-07:002013-09-12T07:30:00.033-07:00Can you touch your toes?One of the things people always warned me about during pregnancy was getting to the point that you can't reach your feet. But, honestly, it never bothered me during my first pregnancy. I mean, really, how many times a day do you really need to reach your feet? Only a few. And most of that can be avoided by wearing flip flops or ballet flats that just slip on.<br /><br />Sure, there's the occasional desperate need to shave the very back of your calves that proves to be a challenge. But even that can be bypassed with a good pair of opaque tights and an understanding husband.<br /><br />But do you know what is way worse than not being able to reach your feet? Not being able to reach your three-year-old's feet. I never realized how many occasions there were that required me to bend all the way to the ground to help him.<br /><br />Let me give you a run-down:<br /><ul><li>When he gets dressed in the morning. </li><li>Every time he has to pee.</li><li>Every time he has to poop.</li><li>Every time he says he has to poop and then doesn't. And then decides two minutes later that he really does.</li><li>When he steps on the legos he never picks up and needs a kiss to fix his owie.</li><li>When he needs a change of clothes because they're muddy, covered in paint or doused in chocolate milk.</li><li>When he stubs his toe and needs a kiss to fix his owie.</li><li>Every time there's a string in his sock that's bothering him.</li><li>When he goes outside. </li><li>When he comes inside.</li><li>When he scrapes his foot on something while he's flailing around like a crazy person (just one of his favorite ways to pass the time) and needs a kiss to fix his owie. </li><li>When you tell him to put his own shoes on because you can't stand to bend all the way down yet another time, and he -inevitably- puts them on the wrong feet. </li><li>When he takes off his shoes for no reason and then has a melt-down because his shoes aren't on....</li></ul>I'm sure I could go on.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-kf9knp74wqI/Uij8fCGLSyI/AAAAAAAACAI/-7_5uemTuDk/s640/blogger-image--1371485420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-kf9knp74wqI/Uij8fCGLSyI/AAAAAAAACAI/-7_5uemTuDk/s1600/blogger-image--1371485420.jpg" /></a></div><br />Do you see how impossibly far away those precious little feet look? So very far away. (And yes, my belly really is that lopsided. All the time.)<br /><br />And here's the best part of this whole situation. Today, when I told him to put his shoes on so we could leave the house, he said in his whiniest voice, "Mommy!!! I <i>can't</i>. My belly hurts too much, and I can't put them on."<br /><br />Now he's using my own whiny excuses against me. I don't know how I will possibly survive the next five weeks. Send reinforcements.The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-75885491268180621312013-09-10T08:30:00.000-07:002016-04-25T15:27:03.397-07:00{Free Printables} Modern DIY Red and Blue Train PartyI shared the pink version of the original yellow and gray train printables yesterday. Red and blue is another pretty frequent request (which makes sense, they're pretty classic train colors). So today, we have the red and blue set.<br /><br />Click on each image to download the full .jpg, then save to your computer, print and enjoy! If you want the train invitations, <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2012/06/free-printables-modern-diy-train-themed.html">click here to go back to the original party post.</a><br /><br />I didn't make the .doc versions of the printables. I'm hoping folks can figure out how to put these into word documents and add their own text if they want...but if you can't, feel free to email me (spaghettiwesterner@gmail.com).<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YapgeBbBYCs/UikvA2N5DcI/AAAAAAAACC0/ZZ-OvD8yg-k/s1600/chewchewstripe_blueandred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YapgeBbBYCs/UikvA2N5DcI/AAAAAAAACC0/ZZ-OvD8yg-k/s320/chewchewstripe_blueandred.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l5yv5bBRqtg/UikvBw76EaI/AAAAAAAACC8/JZprWgta1mQ/s1600/chewchewZigZag_blueandred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-l5yv5bBRqtg/UikvBw76EaI/AAAAAAAACC8/JZprWgta1mQ/s320/chewchewZigZag_blueandred.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_VygzwKO65E/Uiku4J1SPlI/AAAAAAAACCk/SI2J8HqaPvM/s1600/Stripe_blueandred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_VygzwKO65E/Uiku4J1SPlI/AAAAAAAACCk/SI2J8HqaPvM/s320/Stripe_blueandred.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ca9bSf0M4P4/Uiku2ZW7nuI/AAAAAAAACCY/z5BGm018a4A/s1600/StripeCupcakeWrapper_blueandred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ca9bSf0M4P4/Uiku2ZW7nuI/AAAAAAAACCY/z5BGm018a4A/s320/StripeCupcakeWrapper_blueandred.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JoTwzyD4vU8/Uiku2cj5Y7I/AAAAAAAACCU/eKGHSHEC65Q/s1600/StripeFoodLabel_blueandred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JoTwzyD4vU8/Uiku2cj5Y7I/AAAAAAAACCU/eKGHSHEC65Q/s320/StripeFoodLabel_blueandred.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XL5KS95UdKs/UikvETOQj6I/AAAAAAAACDE/p0v9zpzmWl8/s1600/ZigZag_blueandred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XL5KS95UdKs/UikvETOQj6I/AAAAAAAACDE/p0v9zpzmWl8/s320/ZigZag_blueandred.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p5MtGa8hXDM/Uiku7mPvBLI/AAAAAAAACCs/TNi41qkbvXI/s1600/ZigZagFoodLabel_blueandred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p5MtGa8hXDM/Uiku7mPvBLI/AAAAAAAACCs/TNi41qkbvXI/s320/ZigZagFoodLabel_blueandred.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-16966938646548154002013-09-09T10:00:00.000-07:002016-04-25T15:26:31.642-07:00{Free Printables} Modern DIY Pink Train PartyI've had such an overwhelmingly positive response to <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2012/06/free-printables-modern-diy-train-themed.html">Little Spaghetti's 2nd birthday train party</a>. I'm so happy that people like my printables!<br /><br />I've had a few people request that I change the colors. I'd love to do this for everyone who asked, but sometimes I just have too much going on. But, a while back, I made some pink and gray train printables that I really like. They take the printables to a fun, girly level that I really enjoyed. So, I decided to share them with the interwebs. Here they are!<br /><br />Click on each image to download the full .jpg, then save to your computer, print and enjoy! If you want the train invitations, <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2012/06/free-printables-modern-diy-train-themed.html">click here to go back to the original party post.</a><br /><br />I didn't make the .doc versions of the printables. I'm hoping folks can figure out how to put these into word documents and add their own text if they want...but if you can't, feel free to email me (spaghettiwesterner@gmail.com).<br /><br />And, stay tuned tomorrow for another set of train printables! <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GLXfVZDMwZQ/UikhT4FGwgI/AAAAAAAACA4/0nLdbv5_pag/s1600/chewchewstripe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GLXfVZDMwZQ/UikhT4FGwgI/AAAAAAAACA4/0nLdbv5_pag/s320/chewchewstripe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ahkChKviN-A/UikhUDETVFI/AAAAAAAACBI/OMS-Okrmyyo/s1600/chewchewZigZag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ahkChKviN-A/UikhUDETVFI/AAAAAAAACBI/OMS-Okrmyyo/s320/chewchewZigZag.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aIgYIRe40l0/UikhMszS9WI/AAAAAAAACAo/E_BPlttmqgw/s1600/Stripe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aIgYIRe40l0/UikhMszS9WI/AAAAAAAACAo/E_BPlttmqgw/s320/Stripe.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e8YW5KV5lvY/UikhMOw1OkI/AAAAAAAACAg/vQhi6mdIM8s/s1600/StripeCupcakeWrapper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e8YW5KV5lvY/UikhMOw1OkI/AAAAAAAACAg/vQhi6mdIM8s/s320/StripeCupcakeWrapper.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kCpLYlwWlx4/UikhKuo3-DI/AAAAAAAACAY/2suVR2MYbgc/s1600/StripeFoodLabel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kCpLYlwWlx4/UikhKuo3-DI/AAAAAAAACAY/2suVR2MYbgc/s320/StripeFoodLabel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-phxBHPMNmG4/UikhUBfWRiI/AAAAAAAACA8/VRbnj8o4IDw/s1600/ZigZagLightGray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-phxBHPMNmG4/UikhUBfWRiI/AAAAAAAACA8/VRbnj8o4IDw/s320/ZigZagLightGray.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4b73RzM74WM/UikhP_80SOI/AAAAAAAACAw/uI30lLSxRp0/s1600/ZigZagLightGrayFoodLabel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4b73RzM74WM/UikhP_80SOI/AAAAAAAACAw/uI30lLSxRp0/s320/ZigZagLightGrayFoodLabel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-21936492005395529482013-09-06T08:30:00.000-07:002013-09-06T08:30:00.547-07:00Apparently my uterus is a toy factoryEvery time we go to the store to pick something up, Little Spaghetti wants to browse the toy aisles. It makes for a good bribe to get him to behave while we're getting everything else we need.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, he was really interested in dinosaurs, so we checked out the (insanely expensive!) plastic models on one of the end caps. (Seriously, these must be collector's items or something. I was expecting plastic dinosaurs to cost no more than $2).<br /><br />Anyway, he <i>really</i> wanted the biggest green T-Rex. It's jaw moves so it can bite the other dinosaurs in your collection. Super awesome. But it cost<b> </b>twenty. seven. dollars. So, I said to him, "I hear that your little sister wants to get you something very special when she's born. Maybe she can think about getting that T-Rex. But remember, she won't be here for two more months. That's a long time."<br /><br />We'd always intended to have the baby "give" him a present when he comes to meet her in the hospital. I've heard it wins over the older sibling pretty quickly. And if ever there was a reason to spend almost thirty dollars on a plastic dinosaur, I figured sibling bonding was it. <br /><br />So, the other day, he said to me, "Mom, baby sister talked to me. She told me she's thinking about the green T-Rex. She's working really hard on making it in there."<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-k13ZZJSUulU/Uij7Dt12nYI/AAAAAAAAB_0/28Ewi36_6Jk/s640/blogger-image--1025708826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-k13ZZJSUulU/Uij7Dt12nYI/AAAAAAAAB_0/28Ewi36_6Jk/s400/blogger-image--1025708826.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />There you have it, folks: Either my uterus is a toy factory or Baby Sister is one of Santa's toy-making elves. Either way, I hope the big, green T-Rex is everything it's cracked up to be. (And thank goodness that I don't actually have to get it out of my uterus in addition to the baby that's getting bigger in there every day).<br /><br /><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-85351886673181831942013-09-03T11:14:00.001-07:002016-04-25T15:25:54.561-07:00Speaking of fear...I mentioned in my last post how <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2013/08/panic-and-fall.html">fed up I am with all the fear</a> that comes along with pregnancy, birth, and parenthood. I remember telling <a href="http://10000babysteps.blogspot.com/">a good friend of mine</a> when I was pregnant the first time, "There are so many decisions to make about everything, and it seems like the consequence of every decision no matter which way you choose is that your baby is going to die."<br /><br />That might be a little extreme. Just a little. But it sure felt that way sometimes, particularly when I was considering a homebirth last time (more on that to come later).<br /><br />So, anyway, this weekend, I was looking on Craigslist for a baby swing. It's something I hate to buy brand new because they get used for such a short amount of time. I found one that was only 25 bucks and had a cute little barnyard theme, so I emailed the gal who was selling it to ask if it was battery powered or had the option to plug it into the wall. To be honest, for $25, I probably would have bought it either way because while I do remember feeling like I should have bought stock in Duracell when Little Spaghetti was a newborn, that stage just doesn't last long enough for it to really matter.<br /><br />But then, she emailed back. I was in a bad mood anyway, and I probably overreacted to something that was entirely harmless. She said, "Just batteries. No cords for baby to choke on."<br /><br />And I lost it, folks. Not to her, of course, because I hate confrontation. But in the privacy of my own bedroom, in my mind, it went something like this: "Seriously! Who does this woman think she <i>is</i>? I ask a simple question about her swing, and she thinks I need a lecture on baby safety?? Because babies<i> never</i> survive having to use a swing that plugs into the wall. And because everybody knows that the instant you have a baby, you are required to get rid of all the cords in your entire house and live like the Amish. My newborn will obviously have a future as a gymnast if she can manage to twist herself out of the swing buckles and get to the cord on the back of the damn swing..."<br /><br />Was she actually lecturing me? Probably not. She was just trying to sell her swing and make a little cash. But the point remains the same: people are not ashamed to take any opportunity to point out the potential threats to your baby's health and safety in order to get what they want from you.<i> </i><br /><br />And, if you want to get technical, I'm pretty sure the biggest safety threat with cords is strangulation or electrocution anyway, not choking. Take that, Safety Monitor Craigslist Lady.<br /><i></i><br />For better or worse, I think I should warn you that I've entered the whiny stage of pregnancy. The whiny stage of pregnancy also happens to coincide with the naked stage of pregnancy. Ok, not fully naked. But definitely the point where I can no longer handle a shirt constantly riding up and elastic-waist jeans constantly riding down, so I am guaranteed to not be wearing one or the other any time I don't have to. Luckily, you don't have to experience that with me. The whining on the other hand...I'll try to keep my ranting to a minimum, but I make no guarantees. The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-40595144534865316052013-08-29T13:01:00.000-07:002013-08-29T13:01:21.870-07:00Panic. And Fall.It's August 29th. Do you know what that means? It's almost September. The past couple of mornings have been chilly. Almost sweater chilly. Given my tendency to feel like melting and dying lately, the change in weather is more than welcome. Even though we're still hitting 90 degrees in the middle of the day, the cool mornings remind me that summer (like pregnancy) will not go on forever, even if it feels that way most days.<br /><br />But then, I realize that it's almost fall, and that this baby will be here in 7 - 9 weeks. Roughly. And that I'm considered full-term in a mere 27 days. That's when they tell you, "It could be any day now!" Which, in reality, is just a cruel joke when a woman ends up going 2 weeks overdue, but that's another issue entirely.<br /><br />Hence, the panic. I'm not <i>really </i>panicking. Actually, I've finally started to get flickers of real excitement and anticipation about this baby coming. But there's still so much to do. Including set up a nursery, which she will not sleep in...ever, if she's anything like her brother. So, while I know <i>she</i> doesn't need a nursery, <i>I</i> do. And I'm an irrational pregnant lady, so I'm allowed to demand things that like.<br /><br />The only problem is that the nursery is currently the guest bedroom. And the room that needs to be the guest bedroom is...well, not in any shape for guests. That's for sure. The beauty of panic, though, is that it gets things done.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y5vKssYlPH0/Uh-leeIJL7I/AAAAAAAAB_k/UzxOQoddAMc/s1600/TapingAndMudding.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y5vKssYlPH0/Uh-leeIJL7I/AAAAAAAAB_k/UzxOQoddAMc/s400/TapingAndMudding.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />See? Photographic evidence that I'm not as lazy and useless at almost 34 weeks pregnant as I feel. And, if my mudding and taping job on this drywall isn't perfect, I can blame it on my lack of balance and flexibility thanks to my ever-expanding bump. And the fact that my hips feel like they're trying to run away from my spine. <br /><br />But, we're one step closer to checking one more thing off the to-do list, so it'll be worth it in the end, right? <br /><br />And then there's the matter of preparing to actually get this baby out of my body. I have a lot of thoughts about birth. Hopefully I can sit and share them soon. If for no other reason than to get my own feelings straight. I've been reading the <a href="http://birthwithoutfearblog.com/">Birth Without Fear Blog</a> a lot lately. It's helping. I hate that "fear" even has any place in birth (or pregnancy or motherhood), but the sad reality is that there are lots of people in this world who - whether they mean to or not - scare pregnant ladies about what's right or wrong or best for your baby. Or, at least, they scare me. <br /><br />So, until I can write it all out, do any of you have birth stories to share (or link to)? The more I can read, the more prepared I feel. I love birth stories. Is that weird?The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-43930120268800590412013-08-23T20:28:00.001-07:002016-04-25T16:13:54.411-07:00It's a...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hWVNC7HqncM/UxEglckEUPI/AAAAAAAACRs/AIySPofRzYE/s1600/GenderReveal+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hWVNC7HqncM/UxEglckEUPI/AAAAAAAACRs/AIySPofRzYE/s1600/GenderReveal+copy.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Woo hoo for a girl!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Don't get me wrong, I love my little boy. And I love the experience of being mommy to a little boy. But, I'm excited to try my hand at a girl. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, it fully justifies my <a href="http://www.spaghettiwesterner.blogspot.com/2011/05/my-uterus-has-mind-of-its-own.html">crazed uterus-inspired fabric purchase from several years ago</a>. So that's a good thing. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I originally told my husband my plan for my gender reveal photos with the question mark balloon exploding into a beautiful rain of colored confetti, he was <i>very </i>skeptical. Said there was no way I'd get the timing just right with the camera to actually catch the balloon popping. But I had faith. And it worked out. I'm only making a slightly weird face, but I'm ok with that considering that there was a balloon popping inches from my ear. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Anyway, that's it! The newest Baby Spaghetti will be a girl (assuming the ultrasounds aren't wrong or something). Don't even get me started on names....that's a whole 'nother story for a different day!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-58575390744995858012013-08-21T20:45:00.001-07:002013-08-21T20:45:12.316-07:0032 WeeksPhew! Alright, folks, we're at 32 weeks. That means only 8 to go...give or take.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O1qANT9aH1M/UhWBWou8C4I/AAAAAAAAB-s/rShkwThf9NQ/s1600/32Weeks-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="335" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O1qANT9aH1M/UhWBWou8C4I/AAAAAAAAB-s/rShkwThf9NQ/s400/32Weeks-2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>When I first got pregnant, upon hearing my due date, there were so many people who said, "Oooh...you have to be really pregnant through the hottest part of summer. I'm sorry. It's terrible."<br /><br />And I thought to myself, "Psssh. It can't possibly be that bad. They don't know what they're talking about."<br /><br />As it turns out, they did know what they were talking about. It's terrible. Much more terrible than I imagined. While heat has always had a draining effect, there's something about being pregnant in the heat that has made me unable to function like a normal human being. The thought of walking from the house to the car when it's 100 degrees outside exhausts me so much that I need a nap. Let alone the thought of getting in the car and actually going anywhere.<br /><br />My poor lungs are already running out of room, so deep breaths are hard to come by. When you add triple digit temperatures to shrunken lungs, you get a lot of wheezing and huffing and puffing. And generally feeling like you're going to shrivel up and die. I go outside and instantly slow down to about 1/100th of my normal pace (which, I can assure you, is not very quick to begin with these days).<br /><br />Anyway, I'm not meaning to whine. I'm really just meaning to send a general warning out there to all potentially pregnant ladies (and current or future husbands of potentially pregnant ladies): Being very pregnant in the heat of summer is not fun. Everyone will tell you that, and you may be inclined not to believe them, but you should. Oh, you should.<br /><br />We've had a couple of nice, cool rainy days that have me feeling refreshed, though, and I'm feeling like I'm going to survive until October. There is a light at the end of this tunnel. Assuming my belly doesn't get stuck in said tunnel along the way. 'Cuz it's definitely getting bigger.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S-w2B0UxnZ0/UhWBba0BfTI/AAAAAAAAB_A/0WbDwCp3y7Q/s1600/32WeekBump.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="333" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S-w2B0UxnZ0/UhWBba0BfTI/AAAAAAAAB_A/0WbDwCp3y7Q/s400/32WeekBump.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />In closing, I've got two small requests for my dear little baby.<br /><br />First, little one, can you kindly keep your legs out from underneath my ribs? They're not jail cell bars. You can't bust out of them. I love you and your wiggly-ness, but I sort of need the ribs.<br /><br />Second, and I know this may seem a little early, but I figure I should start this bargaining process sooner rather than later. Can you decide to come out on your own? Not soon. I mean, preferably not until October. But at some point, I would really like it if you'd let me go into labor. Your brother, bless his heart, had to be forced out with very painful drugs at 42 weeks. Can you just not do that? I'm willing to be generous. I'll (only slightly impatiently) give you until 41 weeks and 6 days (if I can keep the doctors off our backs), if you'll just agree to come out. Extra brownies and cupcakes if you come out before that, though. Or extra breastmilk? Is that what you'd bribe a newborn with?<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_glgtzrFjTw/UhWBayTqzSI/AAAAAAAAB-8/fuamoEfuMAY/s1600/32Weeks-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="348" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_glgtzrFjTw/UhWBayTqzSI/AAAAAAAAB-8/fuamoEfuMAY/s400/32Weeks-3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div>Stay tuned, folks. The gender reveal is up next! Maybe tomorrow, but I don't want to make any promises I can't keep. So, I'll just say soon. Very soon!<br /><br />Any guesses? Am I having a boy or a girl?The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-43597080652506177662013-08-08T14:26:00.000-07:002013-08-08T16:29:28.473-07:0030 Weeks30 weeks! It hardly seems possible, little one.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l9KqdN9wgxc/UgQKImwm5YI/AAAAAAAAB-M/U_6yNbDc2_s/s1600/30Weeks-4.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="378" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l9KqdN9wgxc/UgQKImwm5YI/AAAAAAAAB-M/U_6yNbDc2_s/s400/30Weeks-4.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />Only a couple more months before I have to share you with everyone. Sure, I complain about my achy back and my complete and total lack of energy. I complain about obnoxiously nosy folks at the grocery store who tell me that I look like I'm ready to pop any day (For the record, they're mostly men. And also for the record, I still have two and a half months to go. Thanks a lot). And I complain about the fact that I have to roll around like a turtle on its back to get up the momentum to heave myself out of bed in the mornings.<br /><br />But I have some secrets to share with you, sweet baby. I love your 11 p.m. karate parties. I love your sharp and poky parts that stab me. I love that sometimes I feel like I can tickle your little bony toes. <br /><br />I love that your brother comes up and rubs you and tells you, "I love you, belly!" He wants to teach you to read, no matter that he doesn't know how himself. And I'm sorry if he calls you "Pete" for the rest of your life (hey, it's better than "Lassie," so we've made progress) - I promise you can call him whatever you want. <br /><br />So here we are. Thirty weeks! I can eat again, though every now and then I'll get a surprise dry heave out of nowhere. I've officially gained weight - a whopping six pounds. The heat makes us feel like we're going to die, so we do a lot of sitting on the couch. I've been knitting and sewing up a storm of cute things for you once you get here.<br /><br />I started taking pictures to document how you were growing at 14 weeks, and then promptly took none until now. Lesson #1 about mommy: she means well, but that doesn't guarantee results! That's ok, though.<br /><br />Here we were at 14 weeks:<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rBcWNthWKZs/UgQJdGa472I/AAAAAAAAB9c/E6ZZ4y7vzGQ/s1600/14Weeks-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aZ9YBYrqpA4/UgQJp-PJWnI/AAAAAAAAB9k/EgsAy5aNoqE/s1600/14Weeks-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aZ9YBYrqpA4/UgQJp-PJWnI/AAAAAAAAB9k/EgsAy5aNoqE/s400/14Weeks-1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KVYYirOL9Z4/UgQJqGSyAPI/AAAAAAAAB9o/HD4T9_fLzQA/s1600/14Weeks-4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KVYYirOL9Z4/UgQJqGSyAPI/AAAAAAAAB9o/HD4T9_fLzQA/s400/14Weeks-4.JPG" width="301" /></a></div> And here we are now!<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SsfXWtSAUao/UgQKVGnleBI/AAAAAAAAB-U/pj0JGG8Wpy0/s1600/30Weeks-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SsfXWtSAUao/UgQKVGnleBI/AAAAAAAAB-U/pj0JGG8Wpy0/s400/30Weeks-1.JPG" width="361" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r-lpdxuazDs/UgQJ3TctvlI/AAAAAAAAB98/67PqDfDRQ6c/s1600/30Weeks-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r-lpdxuazDs/UgQJ3TctvlI/AAAAAAAAB98/67PqDfDRQ6c/s400/30Weeks-2.JPG" width="331" /></a></div> It's been a fun ride, jelly bean. And we're not done yet!<br /><br />Love,<br />Your Mama<br /><br /><b>And for you, blog folks,</b> here's a super nifty stop motion video my husband put together of the ridiculous process by which I take these weekly pictures. It's silly. But I like it.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/QcN03q2Gu3g" width="420"></iframe>The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4915698001714874739.post-37296194044425426762013-07-25T19:23:00.002-07:002013-07-25T19:23:59.926-07:00Science for kids. Or men.Oh, good ideas. Mr. Engineer has recently taken an interest in teaching Little Spaghetti about science. So, last night, we decided to do "Volcano Painting." You may have seen this around Pinterest. You basically just put baking soda in a dish, color some vinegar, and then drop the vinegar into the baking soda to make little fizzy volcanoes. <br /><br />So, Little Spaghetti was carefully and dutifully making his little volcanoes at the table. Meanwhile, sitting next to him, was my husband. Making his own volcanoes. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vvVeMurkZ08/UfHcqYQVFII/AAAAAAAAB9M/MeafN52F68w/s1600/ScienceLesson+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vvVeMurkZ08/UfHcqYQVFII/AAAAAAAAB9M/MeafN52F68w/s640/ScienceLesson+copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />I think, in the end, I was the one who really learned my lesson this time. I'm not sure I'll ever get the red food dye out of my table.<br /><br /><br />The Spaghetti Westernerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08834972468912868236noreply@blogger.com3