Still Mustard

Xander reached the two-month mark yesterday. Why didn't I blog about it yesterday, then? Maybe it's because he's decided he no longer needs a nap at any point during the day. He instead spent his two-month birthday drinking way too much and barfing all over me - including once when he was still latched on. Yep. That's as icky as it sounds.

So here I am, a day later. He did turn nine weeks today, so at least something happened. Anyway.

The big, huge, momentous thing to report is actually something that didn't happen at all: he did not greet his advanced age the way his sister did, with a flourescent green, bloody poop.

Hers really appeared before this time, but two months is when I had to wean her because I couldn't get her digestive system to calm down.

WARNING: I will now go on to discuss poop. If you don't have kids, especially those with allergies, you will not understand why this is blogworthy, why a mother would investigate the contents of her child's diaper as if it held the meaning of life.

Okay. You've been warned. So I noticed Xander had some poop that was venturing into the dark green variety a couple weeks ago. But now that I'm off dairy, soy and wheat, I've seen a change. Not only is he no longer grunting for hours on end, or having explosive blowouts that can be heard across the street, he's not even pooping that often anymore. And the poop that I see is still that mustardy-yellow color.

I'm hoping this is a good thing. I feel a sense of accomplishment that we've gotten this far nursing. Because he's a high-need kid and, frankly, that's the only way I know how to pacify him at this point.

Hopefully in another month I'll have some more good news. My next project is to figure out how to get him to stop spitting up so much (he's on prevacid, so that should help).

Or, at the very least, aim it better so I'm not getting a lapful of warm, white cheese. 'Cause, really, I love him, but that's just not right.

Happy Mother's Day

Back in the day, before kids, before I was "just" a mom, I used to have a job. And that job was as a journalist for newspapers (remember them?).

This Mother's Day, I revisited my roots. I have the front-page story in the Orange Country Register, all about my home birth with Xander. It cracked me up that they chose to put a picture of Xander crying - right on the front page. The photos are different in the internet version, but still cute!

Happy Mother's Day to the hardest working women in the world!

Revenge is a dish best served cold - right from the freezer

The odd thing about David being away is that the volume of my voice increases in direct proportion to how many days he's been gone. Actually, maybe it's by the hour.

Yes, my husband has been gone all week - to Hawaii. He claims it's for business, and he didn't pack his golf clubs, so I guess he's telling the truth. However, sending a picture of the ocean view from his hotel in Waikiki was so not cool, you know?

I'm grumpy. The horrible diet and lack of sleep are not helpful. But a big part of it is because Xander insists on being carried everywhere and all the time. If I dare put him down, he will tell me - at an ear-piercing decibel - that he would like to be picked up. Immediately. If I choose to ignore him, so I can, like, make my other kids dinner, he will continue to shriek.

His redeeming quality, aside from his off-the-charts cuteness, is that he goes down for bed pretty easily. Last night, the kids ate their dinner a little later than usual. I gave them each a nice plate of fish, rice and peas (except Sage didn't want rice so she didn't get any). I made the mistake of leaving the serving bowl of rice on the table, as I was planning on eating it for my dinner.

So I'm upstairs nursing Xander and watching the season finale of Millionaire Matchmaker (omg I LOVE Patti Stanger!) when Sawyer yells "Mommy! Come see what Sage did!"

I did not like the sound of this, but I was trapped in my room with a baby attached to me. I finally make it down there. Ugh. It was like a freakin' wedding had just taken place in the dining room. There was rice everywhere. EV-ERY-WHERE. Peas, too.

And Sage, who'd apparently helped herself to the rice? She had the gall to sit there grinning at me. When I finally got my head to stop rotating, I told them they would be finishing ALL the rice on their plates and that they'd be getting NO DESSERT.

I probably would've been more angry if I didn't have two dogs that would soon be let in to clean up the mess. But still.

As a spot on passive-aggressive form of revenge, I took my nice carton of blueberry cranberry sorbet out of the freezer and proceded to eat it in front of them. Oh yes I did. And wouldn't you know it? Two bites in and the kids were all over me, asking for some.

Instead, I savored every sweet bite. I deserved it.

8 weeks

Xander had his 8 week appointment this week. I had some concerns, mainly his prolific spitting up (including the bit of bright green I saw when he spit up all over my friend's shirt) and his continued fussiness.

The good news is he's gaining weight. He is now above average in both height and weight (he's 12 lbs., 2 oz.) which is great. But I can't help attributing all his issues to allergy - like the constant fussiness, the rash on his chest, back and arms, and did I mention the spit up?

I knew he was supposed to get his first vaccines. We passed on hepatitis B when he was born because, and I know I'm going out on a limb here, I'm pretty sure he's not going to be using intravenous (or is it intervenous?) drugs or having unprotected sex any time soon. But we were due to get Dtap, rotavirus, polio, pneumococcal conjugate, prevnar and hib (the latter three being some kind of meningitis thing, I think).

Vaccination is a touchy, touchy issue. Now these are just my own opinions, but I'm not convinced vaccinations cause autism, but possibly trigger them in a child who is predispositioned. I also am a little hostile about people who choose not to vaccinate their kids, because they're relying on the rest of us to get OUR kids vaccinated to keep their kids safe.

Still, Xander is just so, well, little. And it seemed like an awful lot of crap to be putting in a tiny baby. Especially one who is clearly in some sort of discomfort. After much hemming and hawing, I decided to get the pneumococcal one and rota (since rota is oral. The pediatrician was very surprised to hear my first two kids were not vaccination for rota and never had it.).

He ended up waking up the next day with a fever and has been fussy since, but that's kinda him. We also switched him to prevacid from xantac to see if that helps him.

I also have given up wheat and soy to go along with the dairy I'd already eliminated from my diet when he was born. The good news is this justifies my eating my body weight in Lay's potato chips. The bad news is that's about all I'm eating since pretty much everything has wheat, soy or dairy in it.

I know it will all be worth it if I can continue nursing Xander and if he feels better. But man it makes me cranky. I worry about every bite I consume, wondering if it will cause my little guy pain.

I have been through this before with the first two kids. I was hoping the third time would be a charm. Every child is supposed to be different, right? It doesn't seem that way with my three. Which is very sad. And frustrating.

Thankfully Xander does has his moments where he is calm. And then he smiles at me, his grin lighting his face and crinkling his eyes.

It's worth it, I remind myself. It's worth it.

Put in on your wish list

Freud maybe wasn't really thinking along these lines when he was rhapsodizing about how, really, all us women want a penis of our own. Why am I mentioning this?

For the past week or so, Sage has been wetting her bed at night. The other night she went THREE times in her bed, including about 10 minutes after she fell asleep. This is after she goes potty before we tuck her in.

I'm not sure what is going on. I'm pondering the idea of it being some sort of regression, which is common among the former baby when there's a new baby in town. I've asked her if anything hurts, in case she has some sort of infection.

She says she's fine. So this morning, after she wet the bed last night (and by the way, we try to make her wear a pull-up but she responds with an ear-shattering scream following by ripping it off and throwing it across th room), I asked her again why she kept peeing in her bed.

"Mommy? When I'm five, I'll have a penis, and then I won't tinkle in my bed anymore."

Give me credit - I kept a straight face for 3.7 seconds. Apparently, the reason her older brother doesn't pee in his bed is because of his equipment! Duh!

The Joy of Dance

Sage decided she REALLY wanted to do dance. So I signed her up last September, and she just adores it. She's the youngest in her class by several months but you'd never know it - they're all equally as, well, let's just say it's not the most graceful thing you've ever seen. Then again, she's only 3.

One of her favorite things to do it put on "performances" for us. We love to see her personality really come out, as you can see.


 
 
 
 

Out of excuses

My midwife came over today for my final post-partum checkup. I begged her not to clear me to have sex. Not that I'd be awake for it anyway, which is no reflection on my husband, mind you. It's just that 1) I'm horribly exhausted and 2) look where sex got us (see posts on colicky baby, being preggo at 40, etc.).

The good news is she did clear me to exercise. I think this is good news, anyway. It does mean that I have No More Excuses to carry around this extra almost 35 pounds.

I called my trainer a couple weeks ago to tell him I wanted him back. I haven't seen him since I was in my first trimester and just was too sick to work out hard enough to make it worth the cost of the sessions.

I made him promise he won't laugh at me when I see him, at least, not til after I leave. He mentioned what great shape I was in when I last saw him. Yeah, thanks, I said, as I stuck a fork in my eye.

It's a scary scene right now. I tell myself that in the end, I got a healthy baby, so maybe this was the weight gain I needed to pull that off. I then repeat it several times a day, as I pull on my maternity pants yet again.

Perhaps I was just a bit too hasty the day last year I gave away all my "fat" clothes. I was not going to gain weight, and I certainly wasn't going to get pregnant again. It was a glorious feeling at the time. Goodbye, size 10s! So long, pleated-front pants and saggy baggy linen capris! Hello, new closet space!

Now all I'm left with is a bunch of clothes I visit with like old friends - because there's no way I'm getting into any of them any time soon. The thought of shopping for clothes in bigger sizes is, oddly, not appealing. I know.

I need to start running again. I've got to get to the gym. And to see my trainer. Problem is, when? Xander's schedule is still so random, and besides, it's not like I can fit into any of my old workout clothes (yep, I purged all those size larges).

I guess I just don't want to be someone who gives up. Who figures, well, I've got three kids, I'm 40, it is what it is. I don't, in five years, want to talk about the baby weight I never lost.

No.

And so it begins. Soon. I promise. Just after I finish these jelly beans.

Yep, this about sums up what's been going on around here

The thing is they really DO watch us. Which is, you know, frightening when I think about it, because then they might think it's normal to crouch behind the breakfast bar to eat chocolate when they think no one's looking.

But the past couple days, it's just been cute. Really, really cute. Like when I found one of Sage's baby dolls swaddled in a blanket, or earlier today, when I watched her carefully place a blanket over the top of her baby stroller to keep the sun away.

The capper, though, was when the kids showed David their babies, Annakin and Padme (or maybe it was Leah and Luke, which would make more sense). Apparently, they were hungry.

 

Yeah. May the force be with them!

No Returns Accepted

"Mommy? I want to keep Xander."

"What do you mean, Sage?"

"I don't want him to go back in your tummy."

"Don't worry. He's part of our family now."

"Good. Because I love him."

Mad Scientist Hair and a Rock Star Girl

 

 

Cry Baby

There is nothing that eats away at your heart - and your last nerve - like a colicky baby. Thing is, you can't stop it. No amount of shhh-ing or rocking or, I must admit, shouting "CALM DOWN" or "SHUT UP" can make a dent in a baby who is in his own private world of Scream.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his face is red, and his mouth is wide open. Sometimes he gets so worked up he does the silent scream, his own version of Munch. I feel terrible to have such a sad baby. I try not to take it personally. But it's tough. He's my love.

The official reason for his behavior, according to his Occupational Therapist (oh yes, he has one, for his sucking issues, and I mean that literally) says he's "neurologically immature." So despite cooking for an extra five days, he arrived in this world not prepared to deal with what is has to offer.

Except for the boob. Yep, he's a boob man. Problem is, he'd like to be one 24-7. And I'm just not that good of a mom. Can't do it. It's tough, because I know it'll stop the screaming. But seriously. I do need to do other things. I know, selfish me, wanting to actually pee or brush my teeth or even, heaven forbid, change out of the shirt he's spit up all over.

To say nothing of having a moment or two to visit with my other kids. Remember them? I'm afraid THEY'RE going to remember this time, and not favorably. It will be "Remember when Xander was born and all he did was scream or be on Mommy, and then Mommy was really grumpy and didn't play with us?"

Good times.

(Incidentally, he is screaming RIGHT NOW.)

Never felt so helpless in my life. Except when Sage did the exact same thing - for 7 1/2 months.

Guess this is going to be another short post.

MUST STOP THE NOISE

My birth story, or Everyone in the Pool!

Sorry for the hiatus, but I appear to have a child who is either 1) nursing 2) screamng 2) nursing 3) nursing 4) being carried 5) screaming 6) screaming 7) nursing. To say nothing of my two other kids who for some strange reason also seem to want some attention.

So you see, not a lot of time for blogging. In fact, I hear him snuffling right now, so this could be short.

Here goes:

At about 8 p.m. March 9th, I started having regular contractions, about 15 minutes apart. Within about an hour or so they were at 12 minutes. I called my doula and my midwife to alert them.

I tried to go to sleep about 11 p.m., and I might have dozed a bit. Not sure. By 2 a.m., they were about 5 minutes apart, and by the time by doula and midwife got there, they were about 2 minutes apart.

While I was waiting for them to arrive, I tried to rouse my husband, who was sleeping on the futon in the office because he was really sick with the flu. I had him attach the hose connector to the shower and bring up the pool before he went back to sleep.

The pool, by the way, was a large inflatable kiddie pool with all kinds of colored fish on it. It was big enough that I could extend all 5 foot 8 inches of my body and not touch either side. I'm sure we'll have fun with it this summer. When it's outside. And not in my room.

Anyway, now I needed his help getting the pool filled, laying down tarp so we didn't flood the house, etc.

Yeah. He didn't budge. In fact, I was sure he was going to miss the birth.

I called my neighbor Robin at about 4 a.m. so she could come shoot the birth (she's a photographer, not a marksman), and I believe David found his way upstairs soon after she arrived.

There I was, moaning my way through contractions as I floated in the pool - while David was lying on the floor moaning even louder.

I wanted to kill him. I was all "Man up! I'm the one pushing out a baby!" Mostly, I was sad he was missing the experience and, frankly, he wasn't at all helpful.

Finally, finally, I knew this baby was coming. And that's when the shouting started. Mine, that is. I believe it was something along the lines of "GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME!" or something equally as poetic.

The actual birth was, well, amazing in a truly crazy way. I mean, it hurt. I can't lie. But that part was so fast and then he was out, and my midwife was shuttling him - under water - between my legs like a quarterback to me, so I could grab him and lift him out of the water for his first breath.

Then there was peace. Just me and my boy, hanging out in the pool. And no, there was no blood or anything in the water, in case you're wondering. No one rushed to clean him off. No one took hin away and swaddled him before I could count 10 perfect fingers and 10 perfect toes.

No one intruded as we gazed at each other for the first time.

And that is the true beauty of home birth. You know, never once during the process did I think "I can't do this." It never crossed my mind to ask to be taken to the hospital for pain relief.

It wasn't pretty and easy, but I knew I was strong enough, that my body would know exactly what to do.

The best part, though, was the immediate bonding I felt. Like there was just him and me and no one else existed.

That is, until Sage wandered in a few minutes after the birth.

"Mommy? Why were you crying" she asked.

Because pushing out a baby is hard work.

"Oh! It's hard work pushing him out of your bagina?"

Yes, yes it is.

But SO worth it..

He's here!

Our beautiful baby boy was born at home this morning at 5:15. He's 8 pounds, 2 ounces and looks exactly like his big brother. He's healthy and perfect and someday may even have a name!

Here's an awesome shot of him and me taken by the amazing Robin of Robin Gray Photography moments after he was born.

More details later!

Crank-O-Meter

I know you mean well. Really, I do. It's just that when you ask when I'm due, and I say last week, it is not the time to say "Oh, you're not even that big."

Pardon me, but what the hell does that mean?? That I 1) must be lying 2) am not AT ALL uncomfortable or 3) am showing good restraint by not saying, "Why, were you a huge sloppy blimp at the end?"

Seriously. SHUT UP! I don't care how "small" you think I am. The fact is I have had a baby sitting in my crotch for the past few weeks. If you want to say something intelligent - and yes, since YOU are not pregnant, you actually have more than 1/3 of a functioning brain - how about "Oh, that sucks!" or "Hang in there!" or something sympathetic.

You're NOT THAT BIG?? Fuck you!!

Sorry. I'm just a bit cranky. See, I had both kids and my husband all healthy at THE SAME TIME! That lasted two days. Now this weekend, Sawyer's fever has ranged from 101 to 104. David also woke up this morning with a 101 fever and body aches. Sage's nose started to run this afternoon.

Clearly, this baby is not coming out. He's no fool. I don't even want to be in this house, why should he? I have been chasing everyone around, spraying all available surfaces with Lysol.

And then someone wipes boogers on the door handle.

So yeah, I'm clearly topping out on the crank-o-meter. But hey, on the bright side, at least I'm not that big! GAH!

BREAKING NEWS: Sage woke up from her nap with a - wait for it.... - 104.1 fever!!

I Wouldn't Come Out Either

The reason this child is not coming out is because he clearly senses the pestilence swirling around on the outside. And his answer is HELL NO.

Let's see: David spent three nights on the futon because the first night he had a fever, the second night a sore throat and a cough, and the third because he claimed he was still sick but it was really so he could continue watching the first season of Heroes in peace.

Last night I ordered him back into our bed. He then awoke with his eyes all crusty and swollen and now has a mild case of pink eye.

And my friend/neighbor who is supposed to take pictures of the birth has been cooped up for about a week with her three sick and contagious kids, and she also has a little touch of the plague. And then my next-door neighbor who is always ready to help out has pneumonia.

What next? Locusts?

Meanwhile, my midwife came over yesterday and this baby has dropped so much that his next stop will be the floor if we don't catch him. She will be back next week (when I'm 40 weeks, 4 days pregnant) and will take some measures. I will spare you the details, other than she will also send me to an acupuncturist. Then she left to go visit her client who is TEN days past-due.

One last thing. Please do me a favor: if you see me in person, DO NOT ask if I am still pregnant. Because I will slap you. I have no tolerance at this point, and really? REALLY??? Do I always walk around with a freakin' blimp under my shirt? Oh, and while you're at it, it doesn't make me feel better to hear "but you don't LOOK that big."

Maybe I'm a touch cranky. Can't imagine why.

Enough Already

There comes a time in every pregnancy when you're done. D. O. N. E.

Unfortunately, your baby has other plans. Like staying put. Forever. Where he just floats around, nice and warm, gets all the food he wants, and if he feels like it, he can kick the shit out of something (ie my rib). It wouldn't surprise me if he had a flat-screen TV in there.

So his head is so far down that he's literally sitting on my pubic bone. Oh yes. Right on it. You can imagine how easy that makes it for me to do stuff, like walk. I guess I shouldn't complain - I'm sure he'll be a pain in the ass soon enough.

The other day I had a false alarm when I was awoken from a sound sleep at 5 a.m. by intense contractions. I called my poor doula, who was so out of it she had no clue who I was for about 3 minutes. Once she figured it out, she suggested I listen to a hypnosis CD. But the contractions didn't go away.

I was actually excited to get the show on the road. I've had a lot of anxiety lately: Sage has been REALLY sick for about two weeks (a double ear infection followed by some virus that gave her a runny nose, hacking cough and a 104.5 fever).

Then, my midwife completely freaks me out by talking about the dangers of hemorrhaging after home birth if you don't have enough iron. I believe she was telling me this because I'm not exactly down with all the homeopathic stuff she's suggesting, but I am taking some of it.

I actually told David after she left that fuck it, let's just have a hospital birth and be done with it. Luckily my doula came over the next day and talked me off the ledge.

At any rate, the contractions stopped after about an hour that morning.

Now it's just a matter of waiting. The birthing pool - which is just an inflatable kids pool - is blown up and airing out in our garage. I think we have all the supplies we need. The house is relatively clean, but that's a constant battle with two kids and two dogs to pick up after.

Thing is, I know having a newborn is exhausting, to say the least. I am trying to enjoy the moments I have left before his arrival, spending uninterrupted time with Sawyer and Sage.

Sage and I watched a DVD of water births. She was totally into it and was not alarmed at all. She had a few questions: Why is the mommy making those noises? (because having a baby is hard work); Why is the mommy crying? (because sometimes you cry when you're REALLY happy); is that the mommy's bagina? (yes, and see the baby's head?)

She really wants to be there to watch. Sawyer, on the other hand, is ambivalent. He's said he really doesn't want to be there. Which is, of course, fine. But he's also been super emotional lately.

This morning, on the way to school, he burst into tears because he saw a roly-poly bug and I wouldn't let him bring it to school. Last week, he said he wanted pita and hummus for lunch, and when I told him we didn't have any pita, he started sobbing. Pretty much everything has set him off. Poor little guy.

I'm attributing it to him worrying about the arrival of the baby. Not that it makes it any easier to deal with, but I figure I better cut him some slack.

Hopefully he will embrace the new baby like he did his baby sister 3 1/2 years ago.

Someday soon, we won't remember our life without No. 3 - or imagine him not being part of our family. All we need him to do at this point is show up!

Just Say No? HA!

Bristol Palin, teenage mom and daughter of former Republican vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin, said in a recent interview with Fox News that abstinence education - espoused by her mother - "is not realistic at all."

In other breaking news, the earth is round.

I'm glad one of the Palins has some grasp on reality. Then again, is it possible for a teenager NOT to know how pregnancy happens?

At any rate, the bottom line is teenagers have sex: according to the Guttmacher Institute, 7 out of 10 teens have had sex by age 19. Oh - and, attention, Governor Palin: a sexually active teen who does not use a contraceptive has a 90 percent of getting pregnant within a year.

The best gift you can give your child is education, not ignorance. Let them know the facts about sex, birth control, STDs, emotional impact, pregnancy, all of it. Hope that, over the course of their lives, you've taught them to be responsible and how to make good decisions - and that they are comfortable and trusting enough in their relationship with you, the parent, to talk about it openly.

Maybe Bristol Palin's choices would have been different had she had that opportunity. Instead, she's just another statistic.

You Really Do Forget

Think about how many times people have told you to enjoy your kids while they're little, because it goes by so fast. Meanwhile, it's all you can do to get through each day, dealing with snot and poop and tantrums and playdates and hurt feelings and wondering whether your child is normal because he's not reading yet/she's not making friends.

Then you realize that the birth of your final child is going to happen very, very soon and you have to start all the newborn/infant stuff again. You're exhausted even thinking about the no sleep/crying/gazillion diaper changes/and wondering if your breastmilk be poisonous to THIS baby.

And for some reason your husband decides this would be a good time to go through old videos and put them in a new format. He emails you this and then you remember what a happy, smiley, giggly baby your son was. How he belly laughed at 10 weeks and had such joy about him.

You remind yourself to cherish, cherish, cherish. It does go by way too fast.

My Babies

My friend and neighbor, Robin, is starting her own photography business. Which is fabulous because she has a wonderful eye for capturing kids at just the right moment. Speaking of which, if you look through her gallery of lil' kids, #14 might look familiar to you.

Today she took some maternity shots of me. I've never had them done, so I thought it would be cool since this is THE LAST TIME I WILL BE PREGNANT. Just wanted to make sure that was in all caps.

Here are a few:

What Would You Do?

Salma Hayek was in Sierra Leone on a humanitarian issue, along with representatives from Pampers. Her trip was documented on Nightline last week.

The purpose was to promote Pampers One Pack = One Vaccine, where for every pack of Pampers sold, they will pay for one tetanus vaccine. Tetanus is a completely preventable disease which is in part responsible for the region having the highest infant mortality rate in the world.

The main culprit? Malnutrition. Women are discouraged from breastfeeding for more than a few months because, according to local beliefs, their husbands won't have sex while their wife is still nursing their child.

In part to take away the stigma of nursing, Hayek decided on doing something that's led to an explosion of international reaction: she breastfed a week-old sick boy, whose mother was unable.



What I thought was amazing is she never hesitated. Her only thought, for a moment, was whether she was being disloyal to her one year-old daughter, who she is still nursing.

It was a genuine moment that simply reminded us exactly what our breasts are for - and where their real power is. And in the process, also showed how natural nursing is.

The obvious question: would you do this for another child?

George Foreman Was Onto Something

And I'm not talking about his grill. The man knew what he was doing when he named all his sons George. Because internets, I have no name for my child, who will arrive in less than a month (do you HEAR me in there?? It's time to get out!!).

For some reason this is really stressing me out. Maybe it's because we don't really even have a list. Okay, we have a list, but I don't like anything on it. At least, not today. I've become increasingly grumpy about the whole thing.

Boys are tough. You want something different, but not anything TOO different. I don't want a name that appears in the top 10. Or the top 50. When we picked Sawyer, the name was like #490. Now it's 240th - and I'm not happy about it!

And the name has to go along with the first two. I can't have Sawyer, Sage and Bob. You know?

The other issue is I really love Sawyer's name. And I haven't come up with another boy's name that I heart as much. If you know Sawyer (and some of you do), you know that it just fits him.

If #3 was a girl, I know we'd have a ton of names that we liked and the problem would be narrowing it down. But since it's a boy, the problem is liking even one name.

Both our kids' first names start with the letter "S," but that was just a coincidence. But now there are those (you know who you are!) who think this kid will be bitching me out in therapy for not naming HIM with an "s" name. To which I say that will be the LEAST of his worries, with me as a mother!

The middle name will be after my father who died two years ago this summer. His name was Gerald and he went by Jerry. So it will be either a G name or a J name. That part's easy.

We have actually called the baby Baxter since I was nine weeks pregnant, just to have something for the kids to refer to him as. David thinks we should just name him that for real, but unless he comes out with a tail and fur, it's not happening. Besides, when Sawyer says it, it sounds like bastard. Not what we're going for.

Everyone says I will just "know" when I see the baby. But I think that only works if you actually have a fabulous options to choose from. I doubt he'll pop out and I'll look at his wrinkled face and be struck by inspiration. I think it'll be more like panic.

The good news is I have a year to choose. Or maybe that's not so good: I'm great on deadline, but that just gives me WAY too much time.

So we'll see. I could go with my first reaction when I learned I was pg, which would be "oops" followed by "shit!" Hey - at least one of them's an "s" name!

Are we done yet?

There comes a time in every pregnant woman's life when she arrives at the conclusion that she's Done. Although not in any way ready to deal with a newborn, she is simply through with the metal-eating acid reflux, tired of an ass that is growing exponentially to the size of her belly, and finished with sounding like a Very Old Person With Gas every time she has to bend over or get up from the floor.

Saturday I actually had to rest after taking a shower. Because I was THAT exhausted. I wake up in the morning completely sure I will not be able to actually get out of bed - and that's after I've slept nine hours.

And of course, there's no telling when this will end. I have two different due dates: one puts me at 37 weeks this Thursday, the other not til next Wednesday. I've decided to go with the earlier date. Let's hope The Boy goes along with this plan.

I don't want to have to resort to drastic measures, like, you know, actually have to have sex (prostaglandin in semen can help get the cervix ready). I just don't think I can stay awake long enough, to say nothing of the circus act that it is at this point.

But you know, desperate times and all that..

Anyway, my midwife came over today and, through external examination, determined the baby's head has definitely descended, and he's just wiggling his butt around (SO comfortable, let me tell you).

She also came up to my bedroom, where David rearranged the furniture so we can accomdate a birthing pool. She then explained to me exactly how one gives birth while in the pool. I will simply report to you all that in one position, I would be delivering the baby myself. Luckily, the baby is still attached via the umbilical cord so the slimy little baby can not slip out of my grasp and fly across the room.

We'll see how it goes. As long as it goes sooner than later.

Shower me!

My wonderful running partner, Cindy, upon learning I was pregnant last summer, immediately offered to host my shower. And how could I refuse? Her house is BEYOND gorgeous. Aside from the view, which is all canyon until the ocean, her home looks like something out of House Beautiful. You kinda have to see it to appreciate it.

Saturday was the day. And, of course, it was pouring out. I took a shower in the morning and wondered how my hair would dry in time for me to get it wet walking from the car to her front door. I then pondered how big it would grow once it dried again in her house.

Oh well. I figured most people would be looking at my belly, anyway, or at least the hair would balance out my lower half.

I was really excited to see Cindy and Torrey, my other running partner, who was co-hosting. I hadn't seen Torrey since the summer and was looking forward to catching up.

 


It was also cool to get different groups of my friends all in one spot: women from my mom's group, who I've known for five years; a couple moms from Sawyer's pre-k; a bunch of neighbors; and then a couple random friends. The nice thing was, aside from Torrey and Cindy, everyone knew at least one or two other people there.

 

 

 

 

 



 

The place looked amazing. The food was fabulous. And I was totally overwhelmed by all the gifts and the time and effort everyone put it to make it a special afternoon for me.

 

I truly believe every baby deserves to be celebrated, whether it's your 1st or your 4th or your 14th. I couldn't have asked for a better group of friends to make everything so amazing. I definitely felt the love! The sun even came out so we could take this shot in Cindy's back yard.

 

Then, on my way, home, there appeared a double rainbow. Talk about a perfect ending!

 

The Business of Being Born

A little support would be nice. I mean, the woman IS my mother. One would think that she could keep it to herself that she's not in favor of my having a home birth.

Yeah, right. In typical fashion, I'm sure she's only focused on EVERYTHING THAT COULD GO WRONG.

And yeah, sometimes stuff does happen. Most of the time, however, the only stuff happening is normal birth. Frankly, hospital births are statiscally much more dangerous.

To help my mother out, I recommended she watch The Business of Being Born, a documentary produced by Ricki Lake in 2007.



I'd wanted to see it since it came out, and finally got to last week. It is, to put it mildly, startling. Some of it I already knew, but jeebus, people. It's crazy how out of hand the baby industry - oh yes, birthing those babies is a billion dollar business - has become.

Did you know our country has the highest rate of C-section in the industrialized world? Actually, that's probably in the entire world. And guess what? Our rate of maternal and infant mortality is right up there, too.

Coincidence?

Add to it that only 1 percent of births here take place at home, vs. almost the opposite everywhere else.

I don't mean to get all preachy, but it's really stunning when you think about it. For instance, no one knows for sure what the effect is of all the drugs that get pumped into women in labor. They used to do all kinds of things that they later realized were not so good, such as pelvic x-rays of pregnant women - until they figured out why the babies were getting cancer. Then there's that lovely drug, thalidomide, that caused all kinds of birth defects.

There's a reason why they're looking into pitocin - a drug routinely given to women either to induce labor or to hurry it along - as a possible contributor to autism.

Now, obviously, there are high-risk births that definitely need to occur in a hospital. And yes, sometimes things do go wrong. Doctors specialize in the 2 percent of those cases. But for the majority of low-risk births, doctors are there to catch the baby and that's it.

I think a lot of people don't really get what a midwife is. They either think she's an old wrinkled lady in a babushka who comes with her magic potions, or just some woman off the street who shows up with a towel and a pot of boiling water.

The reality is my midwife is licensed by the medical board of California. She's delivered more than 300 babies. This is what she does. And you know, she's real good at it. She comes with lots of equipment - and a real understanding of how a woman's body works during the process of childbirth.

She can deal with a cord wrapped around a neck, shoulder distocia, resuscitation, hemorrhaging. She's got no hero complex: if she feels the birthing is not going well, she will transfer me to the hospital before there's any chance of a true emergency.

I encourage any woman who is pregnant or wants to be to see this film. If you belong to Netflix, you can stream it to your computer for free. Ricki Lake is no Michael Moore (despite my mother saying the film is "propaganda" and that it shouldn't be in a video store since it's not appropriate for a 13-year old to rent, unlike all the violent movies out there) but it still gets the message across.

At the very least, you get to see babies born. And there's nothing in the world more beautiful than that.

I thank you, and my daughter thanks you

"On the 36th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, we are reminded that this decision not only protects women’s health and reproductive freedom, but stands for a broader principle: that government should not intrude on our most private family matters. I remain committed to protecting a woman’s right to choose.

While this is a sensitive and often divisive issue, no matter what our views, we are united in our determination to prevent unintended pregnancies, reduce the need for abortion, and support women and families in the choices they make. To accomplish these goals, we must work to find common ground to expand access to affordable contraception, accurate health information, and preventative services.

On this anniversary, we must also recommit ourselves more broadly to ensuring that our daughters have the same rights and opportunities as our sons: the chance to attain a world-class education; to have fulfilling careers in any industry; to be treated fairly and paid equally for their work; and to have no limits on their dreams. That is what I want for women everywhere."

- President Barack Obama

Amen.

Secret Agent

Let's just say the kids weren't exactly stoked when they learned the TV was tuned to something boring yesterday morning instead of that thrill-a-minute show also known as the Backyardigans - and would remain that way for the entire day.

I had to explain, at least to the five year-old, that this was a day he probably wouldn't remember but was very, very important.

"Why?"

"Because we have a new president."

"Barack Obama is our new president?"

"That's right. It's very exciting."

"But who's going to be president after him?"

Let's just see how Obama does - hopefully for the next eight years. I then said that it was also a big moment because Obama is our first Black president, and that when Mommy was born, no one thought this would ever be possible.

"But Mommy, he's not black. He's brown."

"Well, yes. People come in all different colors. Barack's Mommy was white and his Daddy was black. Just like you and Daddy are part Asian and Mommy is white."

Now, as these words were coming out, I realized I was about to careen down a very slippery slope. The fact is I have mixed-race kids (throw in that they're also technically Jewish, and my children have a lot going on!). It's part of who he is. Out here in The OC, kids who are half or a quarter Asian are not unusual at all.

But maybe five is too young to talk about it.

I'm sure Sawyer has never for a second thought about this. Which is the way it should be. He doesn't think it's odd at all that his grandmother has an accent. Or that she sometimes speaks another language on her cell phone. He probably thinks every grandmother cooks bulgogi, right?

I guess I was trying (not very successfully) to explain 1) why Obama's presidency is such a big deal and 2) point out that it doesn't matter what color you are.

I think I entirely succeeded in confusing him. Because a couple hours after our discussion, he said "Mommy? What am I? Action? I'm part Action?"

"What? No, part Asian."

"Oooh. Like Secret Agent."

Exactly.

And I thought I was slow before

I was starting to forget what life was like on the outside. You know, where you don't have a sick child with a very high fever wanting to lie on top of you on the couch, under a blanket, despite it being in the 80s and sunny outside and not much cooler inside.

This went on for an entire week.

She was finally better by Thursday, so Saturday, when David said he was taking the kids to his mother's for the morning, I felt, well, free. I set up a play-date of my own, at Nordstrom Rack, for later in the morning. I figured I had plenty of time to get in a nice walk.

I stuffed myself into a sportsbra and tank, found a pair of shorts, laced up my running shoes and set off. It was just about 80 degrees with a slight breeze. A little hot, but I wouldn't be out there that long. I wanted to do my regular route, which is just about 3 miles.

That's when I remembered running is a LOT faster than waddling.

What usually takes me under 30 minutes took me 45. And later in the day, I was hurting. Guess I thought I could pick up where I left off - where running eight miles was a short jaunt, so surely walking a few miles would be no problem, right?

Perhaps I should have taken into account that I'm now the size of a small truck. To say nothing that I'm carrying a not-so-smallish creature in my belly that completely changes my stride.

Aside from that, though, I was reminded how great it is to be out and about, moving in the fresh air. It's definitely something I've missed. People who don't run distance wonder how a 10-mile run could be fun. But with the right conversation and a beautiful day, it's awesome. Trust me.

Now that I have (hopefully) less (or is it fewer?) than seven weeks to go, I'm starting to think about getting myself back out there. I've already started my personal training fund (donations accepted!) and am looking forward to being cleared to start really exercising again.

And now a HUGE shout-out to Torrey and Cindy, who kicked ass at the Rock 'N Roll Marathon on Sunday in Phoenix, and I think crossed the finish line without peeing on themselves once over the 26.2 miles. WOOHOO!!

Ah yes, I remember you!

My old friend, Braxton-Hicks. How ya doing? I was wondering when you might come around. It's not enough that this baby is kicking me in every vital organ he can reach. Now I have you, BH, tightening my stomach into a steel band. SOOOO comfortable, you know?

I'm thinking I don't REALLY need any "practice contractions." This is my third child, I know how to do it already. Seriously. So no worries. Just, you know, GO AWAY.

Right.

The problem is that having them early has no bearing on when the baby will actually be born. I mean, if you knew you'd only have 6 weeks of these, than no big deal. But it could be 8. Or 10.

I know, I know. Look on the bright side: at least my body is doing what it's supposed to.

It's SO relaxing!

For some of us, anyway.

The thing about being pregnant is there does come a time when it hits you that you do, in fact, have to push the baby out. And sooner than later.

I finally remembered this little detail earlier this week, when David and I went to our doula's house for our hypnobabies refresher course. It is our childbirth method of choice, mainly because they somehow make the idea of a drug-free, pain-free birth so appealing. Crazy, huh?

Anyway, the idea is you go into a deep state of relaxation so that your body produces its own natural endorphins (trust me, people, this DOES work). But it takes time to learn how to do this.

To practice, your doula or husband or whoever is there for the birth reads scripts that help you get into this relaxed state. And you have to go through these scripts a few times each, over the course of a few weeks, to get yourself to become REALLY relaxed at the drop of a finger for the Big Event.

Now, if you're anything like me, whose mind begins to race with the Backyardigans theme song the second you close your eyes, it's tough.

So I'm lying on the couch. David is sitting in a chair. My doula turns on the music (oh yes, total new age-ish waaaa sounding stuff) and starts reading the script. We're about two minutes in and I'm finally shutting off my internal noise when I hear this familiar sound, kind of like a clicking/breathing sound.

I'm trying to ignore it, because I'm getting SO relaxed and comfy. But I've been hearing that particular sound for almost 10 years. It can only be one thing.

And then it happened.

SNOOOOORK!

My darling husband let loose one of those snorky snores that startles the hell out anyone in the immediate vicinity - including me, who jumped about two feet. I then broke out in hysterical giggles.

Clearly, he is the one who should be giving birth, considering how quicky and easily he can become completely oblivious. Seriously. He's the one who can quietly snore away while a child is climbing on top of him. He can fall asleep anytime, anywhere, while I toss and turn and toss vile epithets into the air over his head.

Meanwhile, when the doula continued on, it was tough to relax aaaall the muscles in my boooody when I was clenching my jaws to keep from laughing.

David had moved to a less comfortable chair and began playing with his phone to keep him entertained. And awake.

Which is kinda how I felt. Totally not conducive to the whole relaxation thing. Our doula gave us CDs to listen to and practice at home. We have to get through six weeks of the course in about five. I have no clue where we'll find the time. But I know I will regret it if I don't put forth the effort.

Hopefully, when the time comes when I really need it, I'll be fine. Quiet, too. Wouldn't want to wake my husband!

Appreciating the Hiccups

My midwife swears that every mom says each baby is WAY more active than the baby they carried before.

Maybe it's because they are. At least, in my case. This baby is crazed. He kicks and pokes me simultaneously in places I can't believe he can reach. Some days, I swear he's going to stick his hand right out Down Below and wave to me.

I'm far more uncomfortable at 31 weeks than I was with my first two.

I was rubbing my belly a bit the other day while hanging with my friend at Starbucks. The baby was swinging from my ribs after I downed a large ice tea and a cranberry-orange scone. I asked her if she wanted to feel him kick.

I probably mentioned something about how he's KILLING me.

She felt him doing the mambo. Smiled. Then sat back down.

"I really am sad that I'll never be able to know what it's like, to be pregnant," she said.

Oh.

She and her husband tried unsuccessfully for years to get pregnant. They have an adopted son, whom they adore, and she is grateful she's a Mommy. But, you know, to want to give birth and not be able to - I can't imagine.

Pregnancy is something many of us take for granted. Or see as almost a necessary evil to get to the goal: a chid.

We complain about the nausea and the weight-gain, the heartburn and the hemorrhoids, the elbow shots to the ribs that make us double over. We bemoan the mind-numbing exhaustion and the insatiable appetite, the aching breasts, the stretch marks and cankles.

Then we talk to someone like my friend and we get a slap-in-the-head reminder of how extremely blessed we are to grow a life inside us.

I have no idea why I can have healthy pregnancies and why other women can't. I'm humbled by my luck, incredibly saddened by those not as fortunate, women who receive the diagnosis of "unexplained infertility," meaning even the specialists have no idea.

Conception, pregnancy, birth - basic human functions, right? Definitely something we never consider won't happen for us. Until it doesn't.

Of course there are options available now. Artificial Insemination, In Vitro Fertilization, adoption, surrogacy, sperm donors, egg donors, embryo donors. But each comes with a price, whether financial, emotional, physical, or all of the above. And they're not right for everyone.

So I will try to savor these last weeks of pregnancy. I will remember mornings like this one, where I was awakened at 5:15 by tiny hiccups vibrating my left side like an eensy tennis ball bouncing off my abdominal wall.

I only groaned for a second once I saw the time on the clock. Then I put my hand on my belly and enjoyed the show.

I Just Won't Crunch!

The thing about choosing a midwife for a home birth, as opposed to an OB for a hospital birth, is it throws you into the category of being granola. As in, a tree hugger. Crunchy.

And really, I'm so not. Okay, yes, I'm looking into cloth diapering, and getting BPA-free bottles, and doing hypnobabies again, and, if you must know, I'm hoping to have a water birth.

But still.

My poor midwife. Bless her heart.

She came over Friday for a 30-week checkup (and yes, one of the best parts of having a midwife is they come to your house for your appointments. You don't have to get in the car, drive to the office, sit there for who-knows-how-long as your OB is called away for an emergency C-section, etc, AND you get to pee in your own plastic cup whenever you actually have to go!).

The conversation went something like this:

Her: "So, are you drinking pregnancy tea?"
Me: "Why? I'm already pregnant!"

Her: "Are you taking Red Raspberry?"
Me: "No, but I eat raspberries." (apparently, this counts)

Her: "Are you taking your calcium magnesium?"
Me: "No, but I have a big unopened bottle sitting right over there!"

Her: "Let me give you the name of a chiropractor."
Me: "HELL no!" Okay, maybe I didn't quite say that, but that's what I was thinking.

I don't do herbal stuff. Especially tea. It makes me feel like I'm drinking a big cuppa pot pouri. I'm TRYING to eat more fruit and veggies. Doesn't that count for something?

I have no use for chiropractors. I'm sure they're lovely people, but I never get why they MUST see you EVERY TWO DAYS for THE REST OF YOUR LIFE or else your back will become horribly misshapen and you'll pop out a third eyeball.

Really, just because I'm choosing a non-traditional birth doesn't mean I'm going to start wearing Birkenstocks and stop shaving my armpits. On second thought, this late in pregnancy, both have a certain appeal.

I like the medical establishment. Love my OB. I just don't like the whole hospital birth thing, Internet, as I'm sure you know by now.

So I'm guessing my midwife has no clue what to make of me, the woman who wants the home birth but not all the accoutrement.

Can she get me in touch with my inner crunch? We've got less than 10 weeks to find out.

And So This is 40...

 

Here I am. Forty. My 30s are gone, a new decade begun. Officially middle-aged.

It's very odd to have a birthday on New Year's Eve, no matter what age you're turning. You're not just another year older - you have to count down until the whole world is another year older, too.

At least I have company.

Add to it the fact my sister was born on the exact same day, six years earlier. My mother likes to tell anyone who'll listen that we're really twins. Imagine THAT gestation. The other thing that we heard constantly growing up that, since my dad was a CPA, they got some nice tax deductions.

At any rate, I never imagined I'd be pregnant at 40. Isn't that the old joke? Better to be 40 than pregnant? Well, now I'm both. Thirty weeks pregnant. Forty years old. The good news is my belly is so big I can't see if there's anything turning grey Down There, if you know what I'm saying.

So for me, this is what preggo and 40 looks like (don't worry, I won't chew off your arm if you get too close; despite how, um, chubby I appear, I do have SOME self-control when it comes to ingesting anything within reach).

 

Really, it was a fabulous day. The kids made me breakfast. They were quite proud. And I don't think anyone even stuck a finger in a nose to add some extra "flavoring."

 

David then took Sawyer and Sage on a hike and to the park. I dashed out to the mall, where, in a huge score, I purchased the dress in the pictures - it was marked at $34, but when I went to the register, it rang up at $17! Still exciting, even though it IS maternity.

We had a big night out planned. David surprised me with tickets to see Wicked up at the Pantages Theater in Hollywood. I was SO excited; I'd read the book years ago and had wanted to see the show, but we never seem to do stuff like that.

I got all dressed up and felt like, you know, a grown-up.

We grabbed a quick dinner and headed up to LA. The show was AMAZING. I swear I kept tearing up by the wicked awesomeness of it all (yeah, I don't get out much). It was David's first show and he really liked it, too, which made it even better.

So that's how I spent my first day as a 40-something. I'm feeling pretty optimistic about how this decade is going to go. For me, my 30s were full of permanent life alterations: I met and married David, had two children, conceived another, and left my career. My grandfather died, then my father.

Big stuff.

I already know we'll be welcoming a new life into our world in just a couple months. And then it's back to trying to lose all the weight I've so competently put on. Back to running. I'm looking forward to feeling my body in motion again.

I'll need the energy: by the end of this decade, I'll have two teenagers in my house.

I guess the biggest lesson I'm learning is to live in the moment instead of looking ahead all the time.

It's something easy to do when you're on a long training run or in the midst of a marathon: you can't be thinking about mile 18 or 26 when you're only at mile 4. You just have to get through it and count your blessings along the way. You have to take in the scenery. Laugh with your training partners. Be thankful for the little stuff, like cloud cover, a slight breeze or a friend suddenly pulling out a pack of peanut-butter pretzels at exactly the right moment.

And when you think you can't go one more step, when your calves are cramping and the finish line seems an eternity away, remember that this too shall pass.

Love the good times. Embrace the tough times. Be open to what might be around the corner, but make the most of what - and who - is with you right then.

Don't look back too much, mourning the passage of youth and cuteness, but instead be secure in the hard-earned knowledge that you can still Kick Ass.

And so this is 40.

Happy Holidays!

What's that stupid song? It never rains in Southern California, or something clearly assinine like that?

The weather forecasters basically asked us to start building our arks. So we cancelled our plans to head down to San Diego today, stay overnight, and make our first trip to Sea World.

We'd heard it's empty on Christmas Day. And since I'm married to someone who absolutey refuses to go to Disneyland because there are, like, lots of other people there at the same time, it was the perfect time to go to such a place.

Sigh.

Let me just say right here that it did not rain at all today. Not. One. Drop. It had better freakin' POUR tomorrow. I want seven inches of standing water in my basement - if I had one.

So today, in lieu of the Wild Animal Park, we went to a different kind of zoo: the mall. It actually wasn't awful. We decided we'd take the kids to see Santa. We had to wait about 30 minutes. So we amused ourselves (and as a bonus, you can see my almost 30-week bump).

Then it was our turn. Sawyer turned into velcro child and said he was scared. Sage assured him that she would protect him. And my little girl, who for the past two years has cried like she knew she was getting the coal in her stocking she so richly deserved, walked right up to him. And in her tiny voice said "Hi Santa!" and proceeded to climb right on his lap. A true Christmas miracle.

Even Sawyer managed a smile.

Here's wishing you all a healthy and joyful holiday season filled with miracles, both big and small!

Mine is Bigger Than Yours!

I thought it was all about the sports cars. But I was wrong. I mean, when I made David sell his red corvette four years ago, he didn't seem particularly emasculated. Especially when we ended up with new carpets and flooring, a new oven and a new dishwasher plus extra cash from the proceeds.

Still, he loves loves loves cars. Especially fast ones. But with child #3 on the way, the chances of him getting one anytime in the near future are, well, zero.

Not to worry. He found something else.

Friday night, David called our neighbor R. The two have had a bromance going for awhile now. They go on romantic mandates to Home Depot, Target, and on one especially crazy night, they went to the batting cages.

Now David wanted to get wild at Sears. So the two of them set off. A few hours later, I heard our garage door open briefly and then close. David walked in the house, set down his keys, and came right up stairs.

Busted.

He'd assumed I'd be asleep. But no. I was wide awake (What Not to Wear was on!). So it was confession time.

He'd gone out, with encouragement from his enabler, and purchased a 46" LCD flat screen. The salesman even nervously asked a couple times whether David wanted to call his wife, but David pounded his chest and said HA! He didn't need to do that.

Different story when he laid down next to me in the bed to stammer and stutter about what he'd just done.

That was nothing. It was the next morning, when he stood at the bottom of the stairs and danced to his new song "I have the biggest one on the stree-eet. I have the biggest one on the stree-eet.

"It's even bigger than R's!"

Yes, people. Flat screens are the new phallic symbol.

He had a new spring in his step. He knows R is grumbling about it right now, thinking about how he might be able to, you know, someday overtake David in the size department.

Meanwhile, the TV is still in the box in the garage. I'm surprised David hasn't been snuggling with it. He's trying to figure out if we should mount in over the fireplace or get some kind of console to put it on. I am not joking when I say nowhere in our house - other than over the fireplace - do we have the wallspace to put this behemoth on, which is why he didn't get a 52".

I'm happy he's so proud of his...size. Even though I've tried to tell him: it's not the size of the TV, its the motion of the pixels. Or something like that.

See what I'm talking about?

 

BirthGasm

I know all a few of my friends think I'm completely insane a true pioneer to be having an actual planned home birth.

Well, if they knew what I now know, they'd all be signing up. Really.

A recent documentary that aired on ABC's 20/20 has informed us that we've all been missing out on one of the great joys of childbirth: the ginormous orgasm that can occur as the baby passes through the birth canal.

The film, "Orgasmic Childbirth," is by childbirth educator Debra Pascali-Bonaro. She fills us in on one of the unknown parts of labor: that it's sexual and that, according to her website, pleasure during the process is "a neglected human right."

Sorry for this image I'm going to share, but the idea is that the child is coming down the same place where the penis goes. Of course, there might be a little bit of a size difference (except in MY house, right sweetie?).

Consider Amber Hartnell of Hawaii, who told ABC: "All of a sudden the orgasm just started rolling through and rolling through, and it just kept coming, and my whole body was spiraling and rolling, and I was laughing and crying." Said Tamra Larter of New Jersey: "It was happening, and I could hardly breathe, and it was like, 'oh, that feels good.'"

Um..yeah. I'll have what she's having!

Apparently there is no manual assistance going on. It's just the stimulation by the baby of the vaginal canal and the drastic influx of hormones - including all those crazy endorphins.

It also seems to help when your husband is caressing and kissing you throughout labor, as one couple did (personally, if my husband tried that, I would beat him over the head with the closest available object, which, in a homebirth, might just be my flat iron). The trailer of the film does show the sensual aspect of birth, such as massage and getting water poured gently down the woman's back, and is really not intended to send the message that child birth is a sex romp.

Basically, the point is that although not every woman experiences child birth as a pleasurable thing, it IS possible.

Now, as someone who has had an unmedicated home birth, I can assure you the LAST thing on my mind was the Big O. On the other hand, I did learn that child birth doesn't have to be excrutiatingly painful, as our society would have us believe.

You don't need an orgasm to have a positive experience. Pushing out Sage felt phenomenal. Not in a sexual way at all. It's just the awesomeness of being completely in control, of really understanding how strong my body is, and that a new life is moments away from arriving.

There is nothing better in the world.

I wish there was more out there about the option of unmedicated birth (I say unmedicated rather than natural, because I feel the only unnatural birth is if the baby comes out your butt. Which, come to think of it, it might feel excactly like that for certain parts of active labor) that isn't horrifically painful.

'Cause I don't think the idea of orgasm during birth is doing much to educate women. Or entice them, for that matter.

To Pee or Not to Pee

... that is definitely NOT the question. Cause really, I have no choice.

It seems I've entered that delightful phase of pregnancy where you sneeze and pee your pants. Cough/pee. Laugh/pee. It's worse when you actually have to pee, but the other day, I peed at Costco, stood up, pulled up my pants, sneezed, and peed in my undies. I hadn't even left the freakin' stall yet.

Last night I almost wet the bed watching, over and over, that guy throwing the shoes at W. I know it's bad that someone could get away with launching not one, but two shoes at the President before being tackled. But the expression on Bush's face, and his cat-like reflexes...it was hysterical. I couldn't stop cackling. And peeing.

Guess it's time to drag out the Depends liners from my last pregnancy. The good news is I know this part only lasts a couple weeks. I feel like my preschoolers, having to carry extra underwear around with me. Then again, I've been known to smell like a preschooler lately.

Hopefully you will all join me in doing your kegels while you read this.

Not helping the issue is that I always carry super-low. My midwife came over yesterday for her first visit and confirmed. His butt is right below my belly button. He is in perfect position at the moment, which is nice to hear after Sage arrive sunny-side up.

She also mentioned that I have nice strong abs. Yeah, baby! I told her to thank my trainer. Who I haven't seen in months. But it's nice to know there's one spot that hasn't succumbed to the pregnancy sprawl.

Are you still doing your kegels?

Just checking.

Trust me. Your underwear will thank you.

Modern Technology

The other day I opened an email from my neighbor R. She was forwarding pictures she took the morning before at IHOP, where our families went to celebrate Sawyer's birthday.

I almost cried. Okay, I actually sniffled. Twice. Maybe three times.

R. is a fabulous photographer and a master of photoshop. The first is obvious but now I know the latter is true because it is the best picture of me I've seen since I left the first trimester behind.

My daughter looks adorable and R. thankfully erased the boogers marching under Sage's nose. R. didn't get rid of my round cheeks that seem to be on the verge of swallowing my eyes, but she made me look, well, almost pretty, which is an amazing feat on many levels, including that it was early in the morning and I had not a touch of makeup on (even my beauty mark has been smoothed away).

And since I've been in the pregnancy self-esteem smackdown for awhile now, it was a much-needed boost.



I appreciate all my friends who assure me that, since I was in such fabulous shape before I got pg, I'll have no trouble getting back there. Unfortuately I'm guessing my body is not interested in running two marathons in less than eight months ever again.

The thought of having to drop all this excess baggage isn't a place I can go right now, as I enter the third trimester. Twelve (or less, hopefully) weeks to go.

And then it all begins.

Hey, at least I can enjoy having porn-star boobs for a little while longer - and thankfully there will be no pictures of those beauties!

High Five

Yesterday, when I snuggled with my son in his bed before he went to sleep, he was four. When he stumbled in my room this morning, he was five.

Just like that. An entire hand. Five.

I don't know why that number seems so big. Or why I'm having a tough time with it.

The first thing Sawyer did was drag me into my bathroom, turning on every light. He led me right to the scale, where he hopped on to show that surely he was bigger now that he was five.

He didn't even ask for any gifts. Not before we went to IHOP with neighbors and not even after we'd been back home for awhile. Then David arrived from a brief overnight trip. And the wrapping paper flew.

Sawyer couldn't stop thanking me throughout the day: for the Star Wars wrapping paper, for the two Star Wars ships, for his robe, his book, and, the Most Exciting Thing Ever - his Stormtrooper Blaster.

I'm guessing the thrill and ensuing dance was mostly based on my telling him he'd never be getting a gun. But as any moms of boys know, it doesn't matter whether or not you buy them one. If there isn't one at home, then there's an arsenal at the neighbor's house, and barring that, they'll find any stick, toy golf club or, if worse comes to worse, fingers will become a weapon.

It's in the genes. Just like my daughter somehow knowing the name to every Disney Princess before she'd ever seen a movie or book about them.

Really, though, Sawyer is not an aggressive kid (other than when he's playing Star Wars with all the neighborhood kids, smacking each other around with light sabers). He's actually quite sweet and easy-going. His teacher said he's open to being friends with all the kids and I shouldn't worry that he hasn't found that one special best friend yet.

The Year of Four was really a big one for him. He learned to ride his bike without training wheels. He learned to write his name. He dresses himself, puts away his clothes in the correct drawer, can get in and out of the car by himself and, occasionally, even puts away a toy or two.

What I'm most proud of is what a compassionate little kid he is. He asked me to bring in chocolate pudding for his birthday treat yesterday at school. Then he said "Wait, make sure you bring vanilla, too," because one of his friends doesn't like chocolate. What four year-old thinks of that? Or adding a toy to his Christmas list for the twins up the street because they'd lost a toy and he knows they're sad about it?

We visited his cousin last month, who showed him a karate kick and said "You don't know how to do that." And instead of being upset or competitive about it, Sawyer said "Oh! Can you teach me?"

He always tries to include Sage - even when his friends or cousin are telling her she's too little or calling her a baby. He is looking forward to showing his new baby brother the ropes.



I love seeing where his imagination takes him. Read him a page in a book, show him a picture, and he's off, creating his own adventures. Maybe he'll be a writer - if he ever learns to read!

I wish I could take credit for him, but I think he's all David. He's even-keeled, sometimes to a fault. He gets along with everyone and is really a happy, social guy. Good-looking, too. I unfortunately must claim his Spawn of Satan sister, who is stubborn, opinionated and independent.

I feel very fortunate and honored to be Sawyer's Mommy. He's not perfect, but he's perfect for our family.

Love you, Buns. Thanks for still letting me hug and kiss you even though you're now Five.

Panini Power!

You'll have to pardon me. I'm still in the midst of my happy dance - and I haven't even peed myself, which is a big victory for us preggo-with-third-child gals, let me tell you.

So, as you know, I abstained from Black Friday and instead went to Target on Sallow Sunday. I was hoping to find a panini press I saw advertised. After much searching, I found it was sold out. Shocker.

I don't know if you've ever tried to get a rain check before, but you actually have to write down the barcode and then bring it to the register. I guess this is their way of ensuring they never have to give a rain check, because who 1) knows they have to do this and 2) carries around a pen and piece of paper with them at the store and 3) has time, after waiting in line to pay, to then go back down the aisles to find the barcode.

But I was not to be thwarted. I wanted this panini maker. I mean, I REALLY wanted it. It was originally $39.99 and was on sale for $24. Much more reasonable price to pay for something that might spend more time in the cupboard than in use, but people, when a pregnant woman wants something food-related, I suggest you get it for her. Otherwise, she may chew off your arm.

I rummaged around in my purse. No pen. But hey - I'm a mom! Of COURSE I had a battered old red crayon in there. Actually, I think it's magenta. I also managed to uncrumple a raggedy old receipt on which to write.

I scrawled every number I saw on the product label that was stuck into the shelf. I triumphantly presented my tattered receipt at checkout. I got my rain check.

Today I went back to Target, only to find they were still out. Upon closer inspection of the rain check I saw that it's an item that "may not be replenished."

NOOOOO!

You will be astonished to hear that there is another Target less than 10 miles away - and right near Sage's preschool. So I decided to go before picking her up.

And there.

On the shelf.

Was my Precious. In all its shiny, silver glory. At least the picture on the box showed that it is, indeed, siny, silver and glorious.

I snatched it up.

The thrill of victory still sings through me. I slapped that rain check down at checkout and watched that beautiful sale price show up on the register.

And this, internets, is what my life has come to.

Excitement over toast. But at least it will be yummy, chewy toast!

'Tis the Season

To, you know, kill people over big screen TVs and play shoot 'em up at Toys R Us.

Black Friday took on a whole new meaning this year, when a 34 year-old temp worker was trampled to death as he unlocked the doors at 5 a.m. in a Walmart on Long Island. Not that the sight of paramedics working to revive him was enough to slow down those bargain hunters, no sirree. They just stepped over and around and continued on their merry way to the electronics department.

I'm surprised there wasn't a riot when it was announced the store was closing because of the death, but you know, some did complain that THEY'D WAITED IN LINE ALL NIGHT. ALL NIGHT!!!

Now the authorities are looking at surveillance video to see if they can indentify anyone culpable. And yeah, there were apparently A LOT of people Behaving Badly. But clearly, the ultimate guilty party is WalMart.

You have 2,000 people in line, many who arrived there at 9 p.m. the night before. Extra police were called in at 3:30 a.m. because of an unruly crowd, according to the New York Times. The mob was pumped up on adrenaline and who knows what else, ready to be the first to grab that 50" plasma TV WalMart was dangling in front of them.

Where was the extra security, or a wrist-band system, or something other than complete and utter chaos.

Ready. Set. Kill.

For a TV.

The whole idea of Black Friday is a set up for this anyway, right? I mean, it's survival of the fittest and fastest, and those willing to stay up all night. It is, in theory, supposed to be fun. You get to battle the crowds, pick up some bargains, then go home and laugh about it over leftover turkey.

Ha. Ha.

Check out my girlfriend's blog. She made the mistake of ever setting foot in a Toys R Us and got the fright of a lifetime as gunfire broke out in the next aisle - when she was separated from her husband and two kids!

The argument was not over a Star Wars Transformer; apparently two women - who eyewitnesses said had children with them - went at it over something. The men with the women started shooting - because you're always packin' when you go to a toy store - and both guys ended up dead.

By some miracle, no one else was injured in the crowded store, including my friend and her family. Thankfully.

It's a sad thing when you're happy you survived - literally - Black Friday.

That's why I'm all for Cybermonday today. I can avoid the hassle/possible loss of life at the mall. And it's just a kinder, gentler world sitting here at my computer. Until my kids try pull each other's arms off.

Tis the season!