My Little Star

I wanted to play softball. Rec softball. I loved sports. I was no superstar, but that didn't matter. I just wanted to be out there.

Mom said nope. Why? Because she didn't want to have to drive me to practice or games. Not that she had anything better to do. She was a stay-at-home mom in those days. She nevertheless let me know that she was not "your chauffer."

So softball wasn't happening.

I do have a vague recollection of playing soccer when I was really young, and maybe one ballet class. It all ended before I was really into it. Before I really wanted it.

Maybe it was because I was a third child. Maybe she was too worn out by the first two, though come to think of it, they didn't do much sports either.

I guess that's why I encourage my kids to do whatever activity they'd like. It's funny, though: Sawyer isn't really all that excited about anything, while Sage, who's sat through all of Sawyer's swimming lessons, tee ball and soccer games, couldn't wait for her turn.

She's been in dance for almost a year and loves it. And she finally, finally is old enough to do some soccer. This past week I took her to her first soccer camp. It was just an hour a day for a week.

First objective: look as cute as possible.



That accomplished, she really loved the whole thing. At least, at first she did. Each kid got their own ball and all they had to do was practice dribbling that first day. She and I kicked the ball to each other. She's actually pretty good.

Enjoy the happy pictures. Cause it didn't last.

The coach tried to organize them into a game. Problem was, most of the kids had no clue what was going on - except for a boy who was almost five. He got the ball and never let go. Oh, and that ball? Yeah, the coach decided to use Sage's for the game. She proceeded to burst into tears because all the other kids were playing with HER ball.

So David retrieved it. She still wanted nothing to do with the game. She wasn't the only one. This little guy (the camp was for ages 3-4) then tried to dribble, and the ball went out ahead and the big kid got it - causing the little one to also start bawling.

It was ugly. I decided Sage and I needed to have the talk about No Crying in Soccer. Xander also listened attentively to my speech.

Luckily, the hour was up. The good thing was she was happy to go back the next day. And the coach was smart enough not to try a game again. Wednesday, the coach did a drill which he threw all the balls in the middle, and the kids had to run backwards or crawl or whatever out to the balls, then dribble back.

Sage at one point got knocked down by another kid. She sat on the ground for a second, then got up and kept going. She was SO proud that she was being so tough. Adding to her confidence was the fact she was the only kid who could actually skip to the middle.

It's a funny age. There was a little boy who wet his pants and spent an entire session lying on the grass. Another one plopped down on his butt in the middle of the field and sucked his thumb.

Sage's ony issue was her gnat-like attention span. Hey, the coach was British, half of the adults had no clue what he was saying.

Otherwise, she had fun. The best news? She's ready for her next camp - soccer and tee ball - in another week.

Maybe that's not the best news. Even better is she's having fun. I'll drive her anywhere for that.

The unthinkable

Remember the first time you left the house by yourself, after your child was born? The whole time in the car it felt so odd, not having a little creature in the car seat.

It's just weird, because 99.9 percent of the time, you have a tiny passenger. A baby, facing backwards so you can't see the face. But you know by the silence that he's been - finally - lulled to sleep.

It seems unthinkable - impossible - that you could ever forget he's back there. Unfortunately, it happens.

There's an incredibly sad story in Broadsheet, about a little four month-old up in Northern Cal whose father forgot to drop him off at daycare. The boy's mother realized he wasn't at daycare when she went to pick him up. She instead found him, secured in his carseat, in the father's car in the parking lot for the BART.

Dead.

The Broadsheet story also links to another article about a mother who, for the first time, talks about leaving her 10 month-old daughter in her carseat. It's incredibly touching and devastating at the same time.

I can't imagine how you ever get over that. These parents were doting, loved their child, were by all accounts good parents. So how does this happen? How do we forget about the most valuable thing we have? It seems inconceivable, and yet, it happens about two dozen times a year, according to the Broadsheet story.

There is no answer, other than being distracted, overloaded.

Most important is how to prevent it. An alarm if the driver leaves the car and weight remains in the car seat? It's a possibility.

As my husband points out, maybe it's not such a bad thing that our baby cries whenever we stop the car (hence, the crazy rocking dance our SUV does at every red light).

It is much better than silence.

Graduation Day

He almost missed graduation.

That might not seem like such a big deal. It's just preschool, right? But when Sawyer got really sick this week, I started to stress. I wanted him to have the experience of marching to the park with his class, singing the songs he'd been practicing, and having his family there cheering him on.

He woke up this morning and I didn't think he was going to make it. He's got this thing where whenever he gets a cold or virus, it goes right to his lungs. This time was especially bad. The inhaled steroids weren't working, so he had to take an oral one. They don't call it 'roid rage for nothing, people! The kid became the King of Nutsville. It was awful, especially the yelling of "Mommy, I'm going to poop on your head!" followed by hysterical laughter.

Luckily (for all of us) he started to get better and the doctor he saw Thursday said he could probably come off the steroids. I thought we were totally in for today. But he had a nasty cough this morning and seemed kind of out of it.

I told him he might have to stay home. He cried. Not because he was going to miss the activities, but because he was going to miss the rice crispy treats his grandmother was bringing.

I ran down to his school (it's basically across the street) and talked to his teacher. She said they weren't going to get to the park until about 10:45 a.m. I figured he'd feel better by then but I knew he'd have a tough time marching from the school to the park. So we decided he could meet his class half-way. She gave me the graduation cap he'd made out of a paper bowl, cardboard and sequins, and I came back home to give him the news.

He was happy and anxious and already had his sneakers on.

So when it was time, David dropped us off so he could park closer to where the graduation was to take place. Sawyer and I waited. Soon we heard a tinny rendition of Pomp and Circumstance and saw yellow and blue balloons.

There was his class, with his teacher holding the boom box. When the kids saw him, they all said "THERE'S SAWYER!" It was awesome to hear them excited to see him. He got in line right behind his good friend, who was first.



I sprinted across a baseball field to tell David they were coming so he could get the video camera. The group marched toward us on the path, and just before they got to the place where they were going to sing, Sawyer broke out of the line and came over to hug me.

(We got this on video, but no one will ever see it because I, still in my maternity pants, was showing more crack then a busload of plumbers. Or hos.)

Next, they lined up under an archway. Their teacher read them a little poem and she thanked us for letting her teach our children.

It was time for the perfomance. The kids sang eight short songs about going to kindergarten. It was beyond cute. I could totally hear Sawyer's voice. I kept trying to really savor the moment. They are so little and so incredibly adorable and I know it'll seem like two minutes later we'll be at his high school graduation.

 

The teacher then handed out diplomas. And announced the graduating class of Kindergarten Connection, 2009!



It was the only time I got truly teary-eyed. I mean, when he started in the fall, Sawyer couldn't even hold a crayon correctly. Now he's writing his name and a few other words from memory (he's quite good at 'Mom' and 'Dad'). Still not reading, though I know he will this time next year.

Last year, he never really made a good friend. That changed this year. He's got a bunch of them, boys and girls. He's already talking about all the playdates he wants this summer and he's very excited to go to kindergarten in the fall.

I think he'll do just fine. And so will I. Because I've got another one to watch out for...

 

The Sweetest Thing

 

When my little boy is mayor of Crazy Town, especially now when he is in a roid rage (thanks to a steroid he's taking to help him breathe normally again), I just need to look at this picture he drew a few days ago to remind myself what a sweet kid he can be.

That little bean-shaped thing is a heart. And that's me beneath it. I'd say he got my hair exactly right.

Three Months

 

We have made it to the first major milestone. Both of us. The baby and me.

Three months.

That would be 13 weeks, 1 day.

I'm still without more than a few consecutive hours of sleep a night. But who's counting?

It still seems surreal that I even have a baby. Sometimes I look at him and I'm all "Who are you and how the hell did you get here?" It was just over a year ago that I ran a marathon. And now I have a baby and baby weight.

Crazy.

We are still getting to know each other, Xander and I. Or is it Xander and me? Now that he's no longer screaming constantly, I actually have a chance to study him without both hands clutched over my ears.

He is very, very smiley. He thinks it's absolutely hilarious when I take the sleeve of his shirt and pull it to get his arm out. Sometimes he gets the hiccups after he laughs.

He's also incredibly demanding. As in, I demand that you carry me constantly, don't even THINK about putting me in that bouncy chair for ONE SECOND or I will SCREAM my little lungs out! Do what he says, and no one gets hurt. No one's ear drums, that is.

But you can tell the world is opening up a bit for him. Last week Sawyer was running across our living room (which is maybe 5 steps for him) and crashing into a chair. Xander was totally watching him and cracking up. He makes eye contact with me from across the room. He's starting to notice the dogs.

Sometimes I wonder what he must think, with all the noise and craziness around him. Possibly that he's on a bad acid trip?

He looks neither exactly like Sawyer or Sage, but is a nice combo of both (except with hair). His temperment isn't as easy-going as Sawyer's was, nor is it as enraged as Sage's when they were babies.

He has delicious chubby thighs.

I took him for his 12-week checkup last week. He weighed 13 pounds, 11 ounces and was 24 inches. He's in the 60s as far as height/weight percentiles.

He has large hands.

I started to feel guilty that I haven't given him one second of official tummy time. So I did that Monday. I put him down on the pink rug in Sage's room. And he promptly rolled over. So I put him back, and he rolled again. Then I put him in my room, in front of the full-length mirrors on David's closet. And he rolled again. Hasn't done it since though. Guess he's not the trained monkey we'd hoped for.

He's started to cut his two bottom middle teeth. We can see the white bulges. Poor guy.

The biggest news of all, though, is that we are still successfully nursing. His pediatrician was thrilled by his growth and how healthy he looked. I'm just happy it's working. I am still not eating any dairy, soy or wheat and I'd be lying if I said this was easy. It isn't. It sucks. I'm exhausted and hungry all the time. And I'm beyond sick of eating turkey burger patties, sans cheese and bun.

I did have a little plain pasta the other day and he didn't explode, so I might gradually add some wheat in. We'll see. I don't want to get TOO crazy.

But I'm determined to stick it out as long as we can. When we're done, I will gorge myself on ice cream, pizza and chocolate. And that'll just be breakfast.

Oh, and the picture? I wish I had a great one to post of him on his three-month birthday. But hell, we forgot to take any. This one was taken a week and a half ago. Third child syndrome and all that.

Hey, we remembered to feed him and change his diaper and nobody drew on him with scented magic marker - it's a good day!

I Dare You Not To Smile

Who says wind chimes aren't hilarious??

I Cried at Target

I cried at Target today, and I wasn't even at the checkout counter shelling out another $50 for a bag full of crucial items such as Bakugans, fruit snacks and deoderant.

No, this was the good kind of cry. The kind that's stuffed with relief and the joy of endless possibility. And all of this was from a two-word text message sent by my husand.

A little background first: I weaned Sage at two months after I could not eliminate from my diet whatever offending food caused her green, bloody poops. She went on specialized, prescription-only formula until we put her on soy milk at a year. She did fine. But sometimes, after having dairy, she'd break out in a small patch of hives. I assumed some sort of allergy. It hasn't happened in over a year, and she has eaten yogurt, ice cream, cottage cheese and the occasional bottle of milk from Subway or McDonald's with no issues since.

Avoiding peanuts and tree nuts was not an issue. Because of Sawyer's severe allergy, we never have any in the house. I study all labels to make sure we don't even eat those products made on shared equipment with nuts (go ahead, look in your pantry. You'll be amazed by how much is made on shared equipment).

Sometimes they can't have a cake at a party if it comes from Costco, since it says on the label it contains nuts, or baked goods at a cookout if I can't interrogate the person who made it to see what's in the cookies or brownies.

I worry every day that something Sawyer will eat will kill him, and I always will worry until they come up with a vaccine. And I'm not being overdramatic. About 1 out of 25 kids have food allergies, according to the Food Allergy and Anaphylaxis Network, and the most likely to die from their allergy are those between 15-35 years old.

I didn't know about Sage. I just had her avoid stuff just like Sawyer, which wasn't that hard since we don't have it in our house. We assumed the allergy at her preschool so there were no nut products served for snack.

But I really needed to know. So being the perpetual mother-of-the-year candidate that I am, I finally got off my behind and made an appointment to get her tested for allergies. I should have done it at this time last year, before she started preschool. Just one more thing in my long list of shouldas. Sigh.

Anyway. I recently was tested, so I decided to have Sage see the same doctor. I told David he had to take her. Considering I cried last time Sage has a throat culture (granted, I gave birth the next day, so I might have been a touch hormonal), I didn't think I'd do well with her having to get a prick test - they poke you repeatedly with tiny needles to get the allergens in your skin. And if you're allergic to one or more of the serums, the itch is almost unbearable.

I didn't have high hopes for her behavior. This is the girl who screams when I get within two feet of her head with a hairbrush.

Today was the day. They left, with Sage having no idea what was in store for her. She knew only that she was going to be tested to see if she was allergic to peanuts and she seemed somewhat excited about it.

Turned out, they didn't do the prick test like they did with me. It was some sort of stamp, which caused no pain for her whatsoever. Meanwhile, I passed the time wandering around Target with a sleeping baby.

Waiting for news.

Finally, it came.

Two words.

no peanut

That was it. Two words that will change my little girl's life forever.

So I cried. Right there in front of the bikinis.

A whole new world just opened up for her. She will never have to worry that something she eats could make her sick - or worse. She can go have ice cream after soccer practice with her friends, and not worry about cross-contamination from the peanut fudge ripple. She can go to a restaurant and order what she wants with no fear that an almond might have gotten into her salad.

There will be plenty of things for me to stress out about when she's out on her own. Dying from eating a granola bar won't be one of them.

She proudly informed Sawyer when he got home from school today that she could eat peanuts.

He wasn't happy.

It wasn't malicious, obviously. I told him nothing would change at home. She would not be eating nuts here or anywhere near him, or when she was going to be seeing him. Our lifestyle as a family will remain the same.

There are enough things he can't have. Home should be where nothing is off-limits for him.

"Mommy, I just wish I could eat peanuts," he said.

"So do I. Every day I wish that for you," I told him. I also said they're working on a vaccine, so maybe someday he could eat peanuts without getting really sick. But maybe not.

It's not fair. Not at all. And it really, really sucks. So how do you explain that to a five year-old?

Not that we wish the allergy on anyone, but I'd heard there might be another peanut-allergic child in his kindergarten class next year. That would be good for Sawyer, to help him not feel so alone in this.

Don't get me wrong: he's a happy kid, and he eats plenty of great stuff. I expect him to live a long and happy life. It'd be fantastic if he didn't have the shadow of this allergy following his every step. But we'll deal with it. And hope that we give him the confidence - and the information on how to protect himself - so that he can always feel full.

The Harsh Reality

My trainer cancelled on me the other night. He claimed he got caught in traffic. But I think he really was nervous about transforming the blob that I am.

He rescheduled for the next night. So there I was, ready to take my first step in my long journey to get back in shape. Considering the last time I worked out with him I was in my first trimester and fresh off running a marathon, my current condition is quite disturbing.

I've got about 30 pounds to drop. It's going to take awhile.

Not only did I discover just how out of shape I am - my left side is now significantly weaker than my right - but I really realized how much work it's going to take to get anywhere near where I was before.

The worst part was when I was doing biceps curls. I was supposed to put my elbows tight against my body. And I kept knocking against my super-sized muffin top.

It's not a good look, people.

My trainer is a former Olympic athlete. He traines athletes, some at elite levels.

Then there's me.

He claims he's trained people who are worse off. He's a nice guy. And a liar.

I really need to commit myself to a new workout routine. Getting out for runs at 5:30 a.m., like I used to do, is out. I'm either nursing at that time or just getting back to sleep after nursing. So it's going to have to be at night, and frankly, I'm exhausted by 8 o'clock.

David and I talked about getting a treadmill so I can run when the baby is "napping" during the day. It would also be helpful if Xander would actually sleep in his carseat so I could take him for walks. Nothing says cathartic workout than a shrieking child, right?

Anyway, I will periodically update you all on my progress as I'm sure you're enthralled. Wish me luck! And will somebody PLEASE hide the potato chips!

The first time I ever got a pedicure I was already in my 20s. I was visiting my sister, who lived in Minneapolis at the time. We went to her shi-shi spa. The woman who was doing my nails was pregnant, and as she was trimming my cuticles, she looked up at me and said "My water just broke."

Now, being as I'd never had a child, I was sure the baby was going to pop out in the next 2 minutes (then again, that's kinda what happened when my water broke with Sage). But this woman was very calm. She stood up, quietly walked away to tell her boss, and then left.

The staff rushed over to offer us champagne to help us recover from the shock of such an occurence.

I believe it was a few more years before I ventured into another salon. Now, however, pedis are a regular part of my life. And I was very excited when I was pregnant with Sage and learned I was having a girl. Pedis! Shopping! Shoes!

Last weekend I decided I needed a little one-on-one time with her. Xander accompanies us wherever we go. And Sage had been litte Miss Sassy Pants lately, and had been wetting her bed A LOT, so I thought maybe a special outing would set us back on course.

It really is amazing how much a 3 year-old can hurt my feelings. Saturday morning our neighbor, who has three little boys, called to see if we wanted to go to some Boy Scout festival. David said he'd take Sawyer and Xander so that Sage and I could have our special morning together.

Sage started to cry because she wanted to go with the boys. When David pointed out that she was having alone time with Mommy, she shrieked "NO! I want to go with YOU!" and started crying. I think sticking a fork in her eye was more appealing than spending a morning with Mean Old Mommy.

I told her it hurt my heart that she didn't want to go with me. Miraculously, she relented, but only after I chlorformed her.

And she WAS excited when I brought her into the nail salon for the very first time. She didn't even mind that they kept us waiting 40 minutes (the place was packed, and I kinda get that they were taking women ahead of us who would be spending more money than we were, but it still pissed me off. I finally told the manager, "We WILL be next, RIGHT?!?!").

The thing is, I forgot to mention to Sage that she can't touch her nails for awhile after they were done. I mean, I've painted her nails at home and told her that, but it didn't really matter since I wasn't paying for that.

She rubbed off two of her fingers before the woman was finished with her toes. Then, after she was done, I tried to put her flip flops on. I was successful with the first, but with the second, Sage moved her foot and I smeared off the flower on her big toe. In her disappoinment, she stuck her thumb in her mouth - and yep, there went another flower.

Her big green eyes filled with tears and she started to cry. Even I felt bad. I believe my heart of stone might have even developed one teeny crack. The woman who'd done her nails was already working on someone else, but the sight up a little girl crying got the attention of all the customers - and the woman quickly fixed her nails.

Smiles all the way around.

Poor Sage. For the next four hours, she carefully kept her fingers fanned out so she didn't mar her nails.

The lesson? Beauty hurts. Both of us.

Living Proof

I have lived in Southern California for exactly 10 (TEN?!?!) years now, and yet, not once I have a felt a true earthquake - til last night.

David and I had finally gotten the kids to bed just past 8:30. We were in our bed, watching Extreme Home Makeover. Suddenly, our bed started to shake (and not THAT kind of shaking, if you know what I'm saying). David looked at me and said "It's an earthquake." And I looked at him, wondering if I should freak out.

By the time I decided not to, it was over. At some point during the 15 seconds or so that our house shook (it was a 4.7 on the richter scale), I did put a protective hand over the basinette next to our bed that contains our infant son. Apparently, I thought that would protect him from any flying objects, like a television or a dresser.

Xander slept peacefully through it. Sawyer and Sage, however, did not. Sawyer was standing in the hallway saying "I think something happened to my bed." David went to calm him - and to let the dogs in, as they were barking like crazy in the back yard.

I went in to Sage's room, to find her sitting up wide-eyed in bed. "Mommy! Somebody was bouncing on my bed!"

I explained to her that no, no one was bouncing on her bed. It was just this crazy thing where the earth moves and causes things to shake. I asked if she was scared and she said yes, but she seemed placated by my explanation and was soon back to sleep, as was Sawyer.

But today, when Sawyer and I walked to school, we discussed what an earthquake is. I asked him if it scared him, and he said it did.

"I thought it was a monster under my bed and it was shaking it."

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my child, who already has an overactive imagination (check out this link* to see what I mean) finally has living proof: There are, in fact, things that go bump in the night. And a monster under the bed to boot.


*That story is in my friend Jen's awesome magazine, Classic Play, a must-read for all moms out there!

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.