This started off as a very different post last night, but unfortunately we received some sad news in the meantime. DH's beloved grandpa Pops passed away yesterday, after a battle with cancer.
What I will remember most about Pops is his warm smile -- he was such a happy man, which grew from his love of the family. He was ever the proud grandpa, always cheering on DH and his many cousins at their never-ending stream of sports games. In return, he was absolutely adored by everyone who knew him, both in the family and the community around him.
We are devastated that Pops won't be able to meet his first great-grandchild, but we are glad he got to share in the anticipation and excitement of Bean's impending birth. DH won't be able to join his family for the services because of my rapidly nearing due date, so I appreciate any thoughts and prayers you can send out to Seattle.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Birthday gifts
I have to post today, if only to see "February 11" at the top of my blog. It feels like my day, even if I share it with roughly one in 365 people -- including a coworker, DH's cousin, two sorority sisters, Lisa's brand new son Zach, Jennifer Anniston, Cheryl Crow, Leslie Nielson, and my personal favorite, Burt Reynolds. Happy birthday, Mr. Reynolds and everyone else luckily enough to be born on 2-11!
After having some birthday duds for the past few years, I am feeling enthusiastic about this one. Contributing factors include: my annual birthday dinner at The Melting Pot on Saturday, the limited-time-only apple-sized Hershey's Kiss that I got to gnaw on all day (a benefit of being born near Valentine's Day), and the chocolate-covered Donettes I had for breakfast. But I am especially grateful for three gifts this year, none of which have to do with gorging myself on yummy food.
Full term. My weekly pregnancy email informed me that today at exactly 37 weeks I am officially full term. Bean's lungs are developed, and we expect no problems if he joins the world now. I realize we still have many hurdles before we can pronounce Bean a healthy newborn, but it certainly feels good to have gotten this far. Happy birthday to me!
Milestones. For those of us who struggle with TTC (trying to conceive), milestones are particularly cruel. Most of us are unaware of our future IF diagnosis, and we naively begin TTC with the same blind hope as our fertile counterparts. As soon as we pull the goalie, our female minds rush ahead with enthusiasm, checking the calendar for upcoming occassions when we'll proudly be able to display our burgeoning bellies: the holiday, the birthday party, the graduation, the vacation, the wedding, the birth of our pregnant friend's baby, etc. We're not sure exactly when we'll get pregnant, we know it may take a few months, but we giddily imagine the adorable dress we'll purchase at the maternity botique downtown. Then, either with the sudden force of a PCOS or endometriosis or MFI diagnosis, or the irritatingly slow passage of fruitless months/years inherent in an "unexplained" diagnosis, our world begins to change. That wedding? If we need a new dress, it's because the fertility meds we are on cause us to bloat up like a Macy's parade float. That friend's baby? It seems like he'll be learning to drive before we need to purchase a nursing bra. Each milestone that we once eagerly anticipated becomes a painful reminder of dreams (and wombs) unfulfilled. I had a particular distaste for birthdays while awaiting my double lines, but today I can finally celebrate. So what if I'm too huge to fit into that cute maternity dress -- I'll take my victories where I can.
DH. Maybe it's my hormones continuing to rage dangerously out of control (I feel them building up more as my due date approaches), but I have been feeling especially sentimental toward DH lately. As we were holding hands driving to The Melting Pot on Saturday, I had a flashback of my 17th birthday. DH bought me a Mr. Big CD because I was obsessed with the song "To Be With You" -- although looking back I can't fathom why, good song as it may be. Anyway, I remember us sitting in the backseat of my parents' car, holding hands and grinning happily while they drove us all to Macaroni Grill. Back then, I could not have forseen what the future would hold for us, but I did know that I had quite a catch in the seat next to me, and I loved him with all the capability of my 17-year-old heart. Now 11 years later, he has proven to be even more incredible than I could have imagined. I am monumentally blessed and lucky that he is still here to hold my hand, and even when there is a toddler swinging his arms and giggling in between us, I'll love him with all the capability of my heart.
What's on the agenda this week, other than sappy tributes to my DH?
Hopefully a trip to Bellevue Square, which is my new favorite mall. I can hardly afford anything there, but DH got me a gift card for my birthday. The Gates family lives nearby, and I wonder which came first: Melinda, or the really expensive fabulous mall? It's the affluent chicken and the golden egg. All I know is that if I had as much money as they have, I would definitely live near the most fabulous mall ever, even if I had to have it physically relocated.
We are still awaiting the arrival of Bean's crib and dresser. The mountain passes into the city have been closed due to avalanches, so the truck has been delayed. I'm not sure which bothers me more, the fact that our furniture is late or the fact that we live in a place where there are avalanches on the highway. Adding to my misgivings, when we drove to the accountant's office on Saturday to drop off tax info, we passed two signs that said: "Volcano Evacuation Route" with arrows pointing to apparent safety. If I ever need to use those signs, I will be VERY pissed.
Tomorrow DH and I will each attend a class at the birthing center: Breastfeeding and Conscious Fathering. I would prefer to attend the fathering class myself, but I'm guessing DH will insist on taking that one, so I'll be stuck learning how to get in touch with my inner cow. This childbirth thing is so unfair. At least he won't be able to claim ignorance on proper diaper changing procedures. Me, on the other hand...
As a side note, you may have noticed that my profile at the top right has been replaced by "Contributors." I granted blog access to my friend Mary so that she can post an update when I go into labor and Bean is born. There is no Internet connection available at the birthing center and we are too cheap (and out-of-touch, let's admit it) to add text messaging to our phone plan, so Mary has graciously offered to be my connection to the blogosphere until I am happily reunited with my computer a few days later. I know you miss the adorable thumbnail pic of Evey Louise, and so do I. But in the meantime, you can link to pics of Mary's twins for your cuteness fix.
After having some birthday duds for the past few years, I am feeling enthusiastic about this one. Contributing factors include: my annual birthday dinner at The Melting Pot on Saturday, the limited-time-only apple-sized Hershey's Kiss that I got to gnaw on all day (a benefit of being born near Valentine's Day), and the chocolate-covered Donettes I had for breakfast. But I am especially grateful for three gifts this year, none of which have to do with gorging myself on yummy food.
Full term. My weekly pregnancy email informed me that today at exactly 37 weeks I am officially full term. Bean's lungs are developed, and we expect no problems if he joins the world now. I realize we still have many hurdles before we can pronounce Bean a healthy newborn, but it certainly feels good to have gotten this far. Happy birthday to me!
Milestones. For those of us who struggle with TTC (trying to conceive), milestones are particularly cruel. Most of us are unaware of our future IF diagnosis, and we naively begin TTC with the same blind hope as our fertile counterparts. As soon as we pull the goalie, our female minds rush ahead with enthusiasm, checking the calendar for upcoming occassions when we'll proudly be able to display our burgeoning bellies: the holiday, the birthday party, the graduation, the vacation, the wedding, the birth of our pregnant friend's baby, etc. We're not sure exactly when we'll get pregnant, we know it may take a few months, but we giddily imagine the adorable dress we'll purchase at the maternity botique downtown. Then, either with the sudden force of a PCOS or endometriosis or MFI diagnosis, or the irritatingly slow passage of fruitless months/years inherent in an "unexplained" diagnosis, our world begins to change. That wedding? If we need a new dress, it's because the fertility meds we are on cause us to bloat up like a Macy's parade float. That friend's baby? It seems like he'll be learning to drive before we need to purchase a nursing bra. Each milestone that we once eagerly anticipated becomes a painful reminder of dreams (and wombs) unfulfilled. I had a particular distaste for birthdays while awaiting my double lines, but today I can finally celebrate. So what if I'm too huge to fit into that cute maternity dress -- I'll take my victories where I can.
DH. Maybe it's my hormones continuing to rage dangerously out of control (I feel them building up more as my due date approaches), but I have been feeling especially sentimental toward DH lately. As we were holding hands driving to The Melting Pot on Saturday, I had a flashback of my 17th birthday. DH bought me a Mr. Big CD because I was obsessed with the song "To Be With You" -- although looking back I can't fathom why, good song as it may be. Anyway, I remember us sitting in the backseat of my parents' car, holding hands and grinning happily while they drove us all to Macaroni Grill. Back then, I could not have forseen what the future would hold for us, but I did know that I had quite a catch in the seat next to me, and I loved him with all the capability of my 17-year-old heart. Now 11 years later, he has proven to be even more incredible than I could have imagined. I am monumentally blessed and lucky that he is still here to hold my hand, and even when there is a toddler swinging his arms and giggling in between us, I'll love him with all the capability of my heart.
What's on the agenda this week, other than sappy tributes to my DH?
Hopefully a trip to Bellevue Square, which is my new favorite mall. I can hardly afford anything there, but DH got me a gift card for my birthday. The Gates family lives nearby, and I wonder which came first: Melinda, or the really expensive fabulous mall? It's the affluent chicken and the golden egg. All I know is that if I had as much money as they have, I would definitely live near the most fabulous mall ever, even if I had to have it physically relocated.
We are still awaiting the arrival of Bean's crib and dresser. The mountain passes into the city have been closed due to avalanches, so the truck has been delayed. I'm not sure which bothers me more, the fact that our furniture is late or the fact that we live in a place where there are avalanches on the highway. Adding to my misgivings, when we drove to the accountant's office on Saturday to drop off tax info, we passed two signs that said: "Volcano Evacuation Route" with arrows pointing to apparent safety. If I ever need to use those signs, I will be VERY pissed.
Tomorrow DH and I will each attend a class at the birthing center: Breastfeeding and Conscious Fathering. I would prefer to attend the fathering class myself, but I'm guessing DH will insist on taking that one, so I'll be stuck learning how to get in touch with my inner cow. This childbirth thing is so unfair. At least he won't be able to claim ignorance on proper diaper changing procedures. Me, on the other hand...
As a side note, you may have noticed that my profile at the top right has been replaced by "Contributors." I granted blog access to my friend Mary so that she can post an update when I go into labor and Bean is born. There is no Internet connection available at the birthing center and we are too cheap (and out-of-touch, let's admit it) to add text messaging to our phone plan, so Mary has graciously offered to be my connection to the blogosphere until I am happily reunited with my computer a few days later. I know you miss the adorable thumbnail pic of Evey Louise, and so do I. But in the meantime, you can link to pics of Mary's twins for your cuteness fix.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Lessons from Mom
Remember when I complained that grocery stores in Seattle don't sell Count Chocula cereal? Well, today a package arrived in the mail containing these.
Now that's a good mom.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
One last peek
We had our final ultrasound today. Talk about anticlimactic! It made us miss our previous OB in St. Louis and his love affair with his 3D/4D ultrasound machine. So much effort to make this special appointment, meet with the tech and her magic wand, and get virtually no new information. The tech did say that the baby was head down (when I asked), just as we all suspected. Then she sent the images to our OB for interpretation, so we left with nothing but a grainy photo of Bean's... well, you can read her caption.
I had DH take some belly pics tonight, at 36.5 weeks. I don't think any of them really do justice to the baby mountain (formerly the baby bump), so I picked this one because the dog's in it. I love my dog.
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I want to end by sending a prayer up for the families of the innocent people killed tonight at City Hall in Kirkwood, Missouri -- not far from where DH and I recently lived. Another unthinkable tragedy, my heart goes out to all of them.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Easter 1982
In general, it's not polite to air the family's dirty laundry. But considering this controversy revolves around... well, laundry, basically... I hope it's not too upsetting for anyone involved.
With the discussion of layettes, matching socks, and kathy v's request for a visual of the Easter 1982 fiasco, my parents have willingly handed over a picture taken on the only day in my life that my dad dressed me. (I believe my mom was in the hospital after giving birth to my brother, which helps explain why they didn't have any more children after him.) Without further ado:
My dad emailed it to me this morning with this text:
"Two things I want to note in my defense.
1.) I dressed you for the Easter Bunny in an 'Easter Egg' color scheme, and
2.) It’s not like I bought those clothes for you; they were already in your wardrobe."
Perhaps my dad did feel that a pink "Big Sister" shirt, light blue corduroys, dark blue socks, and black patent leather shoes would make the perfect ensemble. Or perhaps he was passive-aggressively making a statement about the division of duties around the house (like the time my mom mowed the lawn in a "vacuum" pattern instead of in straight lines).
Either way, my mom has been the official fashion director of the household ever since. You'll have to decide for yourself how necessary you think that was. Personally, I think the Easter Bunny himself was scarier than my outfit. Yikes.
With the discussion of layettes, matching socks, and kathy v's request for a visual of the Easter 1982 fiasco, my parents have willingly handed over a picture taken on the only day in my life that my dad dressed me. (I believe my mom was in the hospital after giving birth to my brother, which helps explain why they didn't have any more children after him.) Without further ado:
My dad emailed it to me this morning with this text:
"Two things I want to note in my defense.
1.) I dressed you for the Easter Bunny in an 'Easter Egg' color scheme, and
2.) It’s not like I bought those clothes for you; they were already in your wardrobe."
Perhaps my dad did feel that a pink "Big Sister" shirt, light blue corduroys, dark blue socks, and black patent leather shoes would make the perfect ensemble. Or perhaps he was passive-aggressively making a statement about the division of duties around the house (like the time my mom mowed the lawn in a "vacuum" pattern instead of in straight lines).
Either way, my mom has been the official fashion director of the household ever since. You'll have to decide for yourself how necessary you think that was. Personally, I think the Easter Bunny himself was scarier than my outfit. Yikes.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
36 week check
A quick update following my OB appointment today. No dialation or effacement, the little guy is still happily baking away. This is not surprising, since it's still early at 36 weeks and I haven't had any contractions (even Braxton Hicks). The doc did say that if Bean decides to come now, we won't do anything to stop him. I am a little nervous that he'll surprise us soon, since we still have some major items left on our to-do list, but my gut tells me that we have a March baby on the way. The doc also said she thinks he's either positioned head down or he has a very round butt. You can guess which one I'm hoping for.
Monday, February 4, 2008
(Un)natural Woman
While the rest of the country was watching the Giants pull off an amazing victory in the Superbowl last night, DH and I were at our childbirth class watching a video of three women delivering babies.
Jealous?
I didn't think so.
The good news is that I didn't pass out during the movie, and it seemed to be really helpful to DH to learn more about what to expect. But as I delve into the details of childbirth, one word that keeps sticking in my mind is "natural." Laboring and giving birth is a natural process. Natural deliveries are amazing. Breastfeeding is natural. The whole thing seems as natural to me as hunting wooly mammoths, gathering berries in the forest, and driving a Japanese car in Detroit.
I don't mean to step into controversy here. I know quite a heated debate can ensue between women favoring a more "natural" process and those who schedule medically unnecessary c-sections. It's not my place to judge someone else's choice, I'm simply speaking for myself that I have yet to be swept into the primitive appeal of this. I have much respect for women who do unmedicated births and home deliveries. If that's the experience your heart longs for, then by all means go for it. But no woman has anything to prove to me. As far as I'm concerned, reducing my pain and discomfort as much as possible while ensuring a healthy baby is what my heart longs for. In fact, I asked the anethesiologist we met at the hospital last night if it was too early for the epidural. (Apparently, yes it is.)
Does my failure to "get it" have something to do with the creation of dear Bean? It's possible. I'm fairly certain Mother Nature did not intend for conception to occur with the aid of a smiling doc in a white lab coat, a cheering section of nurses, and a glorified turkey baster. But then again, I can't speak for Mother Nature, so I'm not sure. Many couples use the aid of cheap alcohol, too, and those conceptions are generally considered natural.
I know I'm not alone in my fear of impending birth -- far from it. During a bathroom break last night, one of my preggo classmates (all of age 19, I'm guessing) asked me with wide eyes, "You are getting really close. Aren't you scared?" As my mom would say, CHA. But despite the part of me that's wondering if it's too late to back out of this, I'm curious to see if and how my view changes after I experience birth from the mom's perspective this time. Who knows, maybe I'll be so moved by nature's gift that I'll use organic cloth diapers and puree my own baby food (from home-grown veggies, of course). I doubt it, but I'll let you know.
Moving on to lighter topics, thanks for all the tips and advice on Bean's layette. DH and I went shopping over the weekend, and our little guy is now the proud owner of several pairs of pants. Teeny tiny pants that he'll wear 4 times and that cost as much as any pair DH and I own -- but at least his legs won't be cold. We still haven't resolved the mismatching socks problem, but one step at a time. (No pun intended, ha ha ha.) Oh, and as we were checking out at Old Navy, the young clerk smiled at me. "Any day now?" she asked, glancing at my tummy. "Still a month left," I responded. "Really? My sister is due to go any minute, and you are bigger than she is," she observed. Well, your sister must be ridiculously small then, mustn't she?
We also met with and selected a pediatrician on Friday, which was a big relief. This week we are focused on getting and assembling Bean's furniture, meeting with the OB tomorrow (she'll check to see if I am dialating and effacing... and if I am, I'll probably faint), and having our final ultrasound on Thursday to estimate his weight and check what position he's in. It's amazing how quickly everything is progressing. I am now exactly four weeks from my due date... less than one month. Gasp.
Jealous?
I didn't think so.
The good news is that I didn't pass out during the movie, and it seemed to be really helpful to DH to learn more about what to expect. But as I delve into the details of childbirth, one word that keeps sticking in my mind is "natural." Laboring and giving birth is a natural process. Natural deliveries are amazing. Breastfeeding is natural. The whole thing seems as natural to me as hunting wooly mammoths, gathering berries in the forest, and driving a Japanese car in Detroit.
I don't mean to step into controversy here. I know quite a heated debate can ensue between women favoring a more "natural" process and those who schedule medically unnecessary c-sections. It's not my place to judge someone else's choice, I'm simply speaking for myself that I have yet to be swept into the primitive appeal of this. I have much respect for women who do unmedicated births and home deliveries. If that's the experience your heart longs for, then by all means go for it. But no woman has anything to prove to me. As far as I'm concerned, reducing my pain and discomfort as much as possible while ensuring a healthy baby is what my heart longs for. In fact, I asked the anethesiologist we met at the hospital last night if it was too early for the epidural. (Apparently, yes it is.)
Does my failure to "get it" have something to do with the creation of dear Bean? It's possible. I'm fairly certain Mother Nature did not intend for conception to occur with the aid of a smiling doc in a white lab coat, a cheering section of nurses, and a glorified turkey baster. But then again, I can't speak for Mother Nature, so I'm not sure. Many couples use the aid of cheap alcohol, too, and those conceptions are generally considered natural.
I know I'm not alone in my fear of impending birth -- far from it. During a bathroom break last night, one of my preggo classmates (all of age 19, I'm guessing) asked me with wide eyes, "You are getting really close. Aren't you scared?" As my mom would say, CHA. But despite the part of me that's wondering if it's too late to back out of this, I'm curious to see if and how my view changes after I experience birth from the mom's perspective this time. Who knows, maybe I'll be so moved by nature's gift that I'll use organic cloth diapers and puree my own baby food (from home-grown veggies, of course). I doubt it, but I'll let you know.
Moving on to lighter topics, thanks for all the tips and advice on Bean's layette. DH and I went shopping over the weekend, and our little guy is now the proud owner of several pairs of pants. Teeny tiny pants that he'll wear 4 times and that cost as much as any pair DH and I own -- but at least his legs won't be cold. We still haven't resolved the mismatching socks problem, but one step at a time. (No pun intended, ha ha ha.) Oh, and as we were checking out at Old Navy, the young clerk smiled at me. "Any day now?" she asked, glancing at my tummy. "Still a month left," I responded. "Really? My sister is due to go any minute, and you are bigger than she is," she observed. Well, your sister must be ridiculously small then, mustn't she?
We also met with and selected a pediatrician on Friday, which was a big relief. This week we are focused on getting and assembling Bean's furniture, meeting with the OB tomorrow (she'll check to see if I am dialating and effacing... and if I am, I'll probably faint), and having our final ultrasound on Thursday to estimate his weight and check what position he's in. It's amazing how quickly everything is progressing. I am now exactly four weeks from my due date... less than one month. Gasp.
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