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..