Thoughts at 17 weeks

Again the disclaimer that not every pregnancy is the same, this is just reflections on my own. 

The second trimester is where it's at. No more morning sickness (yay!), not too huge yet (yay!), my appetite has returned so I'm beginning to gain weight again (....yay). I'm still beyond tired most days and if I don't drink enough water, I'll stand up and before I get two feet need to sit down or risk falling over, but those are trivial matters. I solve them by dozing in the same room as the boys (or napping when they're locked in their room and thus less likely to kill themselves) and drinking so much water I feel like I live in the bathroom. 

I was very fortunate with the boys not to have heartburn ever, something a lot of my friends had to deal with. On the flip side, they all seem to have babies who look like they're wearing wigs while mine were cue balls. In my opinion, bald beats heartburn any day. Especially when it starts super early in the pregnancy and just gets worse as time goes on. Other things are going to get worse (like shortness of breath and no comfortable position ever), I'd rather not have reflux on top of them. 

I'm 17 weeks now and not so big that I look pregnant with clothes on, just kind of chubby. Like "is she pregnant or just fat? Is that new baby fat or old baby fat?" Which is ok. Because judging from my previous pregnancies, I'll get there. I'll be the "oh, are you SURE you're not having twins?" pregnant lady...or at least I'll feel like I am. I can already lay on my back and see a mound but I haven't lost sight of my feet quite yet. 

One thing that I have lost is restful sleep. I have to roll over in slow motion at night or it feels like someone is pulling my stomach off, a very unpleasant sensation. So a roll that takes normal people a split second takes me a couple. Its a whole process. But at the end of it I can go back to sleep instead of lay there and wonder in my half awake stupor if I just killed my baby by rolling from my left side to my right side because holy cow does that not feel good. 

The second trimester is good. The aches and pains from ligaments stretching and getting used in ways they haven't in a while, the exhaustion and sleeplessness, the dehydration, it's all easy to handle. I can work through it. I can function as a human being and a mom with them. But I know that the road ahead of me is going to get harder, so I'm bracing myself. It's all good, because at the end, I get a screaming, writhing, messy, vaguely disgusting, beautiful miracle to hold and snuggle and kiss and sometimes dislike. And really, that's the best part of pregnancy: when it ends. 

I don't have a thigh gap and that's (mostly) ok

Here's some shocking information most women won't share: I'm 5'6" and before I got pregnant I weighed about 145 pounds. And I wasn't fat.

Shocking, right?

Today's world is so obsessed with weight loss and gain. Everywhere we look, we're being told we aren't thin enough but yet we need to eat massive portions of food and binge watch tv shows and sit in front of our computers. That's messed up.

I've never been overweight, so this is coming from a perspective of someone who used to be PAINFULLY skinny. Like...people thought I was anorexic, then saw me eat and thought I must be bulimic. In my family, we stay skinny until about puberty, then we put on a bit of weight, then we get married and all hell breaks loose. As a kid, I saw my parents' wedding picture and had no idea who the couple was because 1 Dad didn't have a beard at 23 and was a beanpole (his mother described him as so thin you could see his spine through his stomach once) and 2 my mom was super thin and had long hair. She was more recognizable, so I figured her out after studying it for a bit but they had to tell me it was Dad.

My parents dieted and exercised for years. Mom actually got back down to a slim size after Caleb was born by walking at the Family Life Center and doing Medi-Fast, a supplement meal diet plan she recommended to her patients. Dad would jog every morning and occasionally do Medi-Fast to keep his weight in check. But when his knees gave out and she had a couple issues pop up, the weight piled on. This is probably my future. And I'm ok with that.

I never liked the way my body looked. I think most women are in that boat. Something was either too big or not big enough or just weird looking, so in high school I hid it with clothes that were a couple sizes too large. It worked for me. I wasn't heavy by any stretch of the imagination, but I didn't see that. I saw the small (minuscule in retrospect) pooch of my stomach and thought everyone else was focused on that, too.

In college I put on about 30 pounds in the first semester. Apparently I can be an overachiever about some things. I was so horrified to go to a doctor's appointment in January and hear that I weighed 140 that I immediately decided to control my eating habits. I was hiking all over campus with a heavy backpack, so I knew I was getting exercise and that wasn't the issue. It was the 4 or 5 sodas a day I drank and the two or three helpings of fatty dorm foods or fatty fast foods I was eating. So I cut those things out, started cooking for myself more (and that meant eating a lot less) and by the next year I was back to 120. A reasonable weight for a 20 year old who's 5'6" with my build.

I graduated college like that and started working in a job where I ran up and down the stairs in a 5 and 4 story building in heels every day, ate whenever I could whatever I could and slept crazy hours. At my thinnest, I got down to 105. My friends were a little concerned because I was so skinny. I loved it because I weighed less. I still had that damn stomach pooch, so I still felt like part of me was wrong.

On my wedding day, I weighed 117 and, if I do say so myself, looked pretty good. I wore Mom's wedding dress and it was a tad snug so I had to wear what was basically a girdle to flatten things and squish things. Even then, it wasn't terribly comfortable so I bought another dress for the reception.

I was on birth control, cooking for my husband every night, pretty sedentary since I'd quit my job...so my weight ballooned. To 135. Horrors. I hated the way I looked again. Pooch was bigger, thighs and hips and butt were bigger, I felt awful. I figured "well, once I start having babies, I'll breastfeed and that'll help with weight loss, as will chasing the kids around. I'll be fine once I'm off the pill."

Silly me. I am one of the few "fortunate" people who gains weight while breastfeeding. I weighed around 165 at the end of both pregnancies and immediately after was about 20 pounds lighter. Once breastfeeding was abandoned, I tried dieting by tracking my caloric intake and eating less in a day. I took the baby(ies) on walks and tried to be more active. And my weight went nowhere. I think my bottom line post babies is going to be about 140ish. MAYBE 135 if I really get into the whole weight loss thing.

These days, I don't diet, I just do portion control, usually at home (you better believe if I'm buying it at a restaurant I'm eating as much as I can.) It helps me and I think it would help others if they'd be consistent, but it's hard to do. If there's still food and your stomach is still saying "feed me" and it tastes good...yeah, you want to eat it.

I consistently felt bad about how I looked until one day, I hit me. I was wearing the wrong clothes. When you weigh 140, you can't and shouldn't wear a shirt and pants you wore when you weighed 120. It's just not a smart choice. OF COURSE it doesn't look good on you. It wasn't made for your body. Not your current one anyway. So I went out and bought clothes that fit me now (or before I got pregnant. work with me) and I felt tons better. I buy clothes that fit the body I have not the body I want and I'm much more comfortable in my own skin.

It's probably a maturity thing, or maybe it's a laziness thing, but I've come to accept that this is my body. I've created life with this body, carried it to term and delivered it naturally. It's got dimples in weird places and fat and cellulite and a few light pale stretchmarks and of course I wouldn't mind some things being smaller, but overall, it's a good body. It's done what I've asked it to do (except lose weight) and sometimes things I didn't think it capable of doing (anyone who's had a vaginal birth knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about. ow). It has comforted my children, fed them (somewhat), loved them, sheltered them, and been their jungle gym. It may not look the best to outsiders, but to my little family, it's pretty good.

So yes, after this baby, I'll wish I was back into the 130's weight wise. I'll occasionally hate the way my thighs touch. I'll get frustrated with my big butt. But overall, I'll let it be because it has been through a lot in the past 30 years, especially the last 4.

That's my advice: dress for the body you have, not the body you want. You'll be more confident and comfortable in your own skin if your clothes fit and look good on you. Trust me.

If you were 5 and these were your parents, would you recognize them? lol

I'm also 6 inches taller than Mom...so that made things interesting. 

Palm Sunday this year with my two body wreckers. 

Notes from the belly: Week 10

Disclaimer: Nothing I post about my pregnancy is intended to be a blanket statement about ALL pregnancies. Every pregnancy is different, even my three have been different. So please take no offense.

The more pregnancies you have, the sooner everything happens. You start to show a little sooner, you feel pains a little sooner, since you know what to feel for, you feel baby moving a little sooner. My nausea came within days of being at the exact same time with each one, so that's a nice consistency. I had two colds with each of the boys, one in the first 2/3rds, one in the last trimester.

I'm currently on cold #1 and at 10 weeks pregnant. I've had a little bump since about 9 weeks. I've had muscle/ligament stretching pains for about 3 weeks (sides of your stomach hurt, like being thwapped with a rubber band). I've felt little flutters that COULD be gas, but I think might actually be little baby thumps saying "hey! I'm here!" which is reassuring. After feeling bad or being actually sick since Mother's Day, it's nice to feel a valid reason for all the crud.

After feeling bad for so long, it's hard sometimes to be nice. If what I really want to do is lay down and read a book or take a nap or watch tv and I have to be at work, upright, being polite and helpful to customers, its hard. And sometimes that gets taken out on the kids a bit. Luckily, my kids are awesome and resilient. I always apologize and kiss them once I've calmed down and I do feel bad, but I keep in mind, this is just a short season of our lives. Eventually, they'll get their mom back and I'll get myself back. And life will be better for a while before the stage hits where I feel like a beached whale and I'm wondering when this kid is going to make her appearance.

I'm using "her" because I can, not because I know. So no one get all excited.

Also, the thumps are reassuring because it helps to calm the paranoia that I have every pregnancy that this one won't happen, that I'll be the first in the line going back several to miscarry. I've read that the worse the morning sickness, the less likely for miscarriage, so I cling to that until I start feeling those thumps, and see and hear that heartbeat on a sonogram. This awful nausea and horrible vomiting have to be worth something and hopefully, it's a good sign my baby is alive and kicking...or at least wiggling, if her legs and arms haven't developed yet.

It is getting better, a little bit at a time. One thing will go away but typically within about 24 hours, another thing takes its place. And life keeps happening: the hail storm, Mom's wedding, Elijah swallowing a nail, damage inspections, Elijah swallowing a penny, a leaky ceiling, someone at work quitting, people taking time off at work right after....everything is moving forward, as life should. It shouldn't stop just because I feel terrible. Though sometimes I wish it would.

A few thoughts on the first trimester

In my experience, the first trimester of a pregnancy is about survival. You feel awful because you're tired, you have no energy, and there's nausea and/or vomiting. You just want to lay down in bed and sleep, maybe with an IV drip so you don't have to attempt to feed yourself. The IV drip is appealing because no food items are yet you have to eat SOMETHING so you and the parasite sucking your life forces away don't starve to death.

This is, for me, the trimester when I think "What the hell was I thinking, wanting to do this on purpose?"

All this is compounded when it's a second or third or more pregnancy. You already have a kid, you knew what you were getting yourself into (anyone who says they forgot is a dirty filthy liar...or just a moron) and you STILL subjected yourself to it, intentionally or not. Having to deal with no energy and horrific nausea while taking care of older children is the pits. Especially if those older children aren't TOO much older, but rather just enough older to still need a lot of help, like still in diapers or potty training.

I can definitely understand when women who are pregnant with a small child already deal with terrible depression. It's hard being pregnant for some of us, and when there's a small person holding you hostage with demands for food, bathroom assistance, attention, entertainment, affection, medical care, and more, it feels infinitely harder.

Asher's pregnancy was 10 weeks of nausea over a trip to Europe, a trip to New Braunfels, a move across the state, a home purchase, and a new job. Luckily, I wasn't working too much so I could rest when I needed to and just lay down whenever I felt bad. I had the lovely experience of throwing up in the international terminal of DFW and over the Atlantic on our way to London, then not being able to eat hardly anything while we were in Paris, which was damn near devastating. My companion was eating amazing sandwiches and drinking wine and trying to be respectful of my patheticness by hiding it a little, which made it a little worse. I do have to say, though, the chocolate eclair I had was AMAZING. And one of the few things I ate.

Elijah's pregnancy was so much sooner than we expected I had a baby in diapers for the entirety of it. His morning sickness didn't last nearly as long because life wasn't so stressful, but I was working 20 hours a week so the whole "lay down when I feel bad" thing wasn't an option. I didn't have any international trips or exciting stories about throwing up all over the place, but I did throw up in a box lid since there was literally no place else to go in time. Asher always found it highly amusing and would laugh when I threw up and was in tears after. Little sadistic turkey.

This time, we waited a little longer to get pregnant. I still have a kid in diapers, but only one and if we'd done the same time frame as before, I'd have had two during morning sickness. So there's a silver lining.

I'm 8 weeks in and the morning sickness is awful. I'm spitting a lot because of mucous (weird, I know) and so of course Elijah copies that. It's both adorable and gross. I finally got on some medication called Zofran which is amazing and knocks out the nausea. Still no energy and tons of exhaustion, but no more nausea! I can function as a human being again!

I'm so tired, though. I seriously could have slept through the mani/pedi/waxing on Thursday before the wedding. And I almost dozed off getting my hair done Saturday. Anytime I sit still, I'm in danger of falling asleep. If there's no reason I shouldn't, I just go ahead and get comfortable and do it.

So, yes, building a baby is hard work. And at first, it kind of sucks because there's no real upside to pregnancy yet. But finally, finally, the light at the end of the tunnel will come: the second trimester.

I remember

I wrote this in October of 2009 but I don't think I've posted it anywhere that many people have seen it. So in honor of Father's Day, some memories of my dad. 

I remember…

I remember being very small and curling up on the couch after church with Dad to read the comics every week, even when I was reading them over his shoulder. He’d fuss at me for reading ahead. Maybe that’s why I hate people reading over my shoulder today. I don't remember a Sunday we didn't read the comics.

I remember him making a valiant effort to be at every school event and piano recital that I participated in. When he wasn’t there, I bragged to the other kids that my dad was off saving lives.

I remember his asking “You know what?” and when I said “What?” he’d always respond with “I love you!” I surprised him once by saying “Chicken butt” but he still said “I love you!”

I remember being excited when Dad would let me drop the tithe check into the collection plate every Sunday.

I remember Dad giving me his coat on Sunday mornings when I’d get cold. I’d go through his pockets and play with the treasures he had in them. Sometimes, I’d just curl up and take a nap on the floor, wrapped up in the warmth and smell of my dad. He still gave me his coat even after I was old enough to remember to bring my own.

I remember one Father's Day a long time ago at ACC where we were instructed to let the father pass around the communion. He was to tell us "This is the blood of Christ" and "This is the body of Christ." Dad liked that so much that he did it for the rest of his life. I have a hard time doing communion without him.

I remember him only having to spank me once. I don’t remember what I did but I was more shocked by the fact that he hit me than by anything. I knew he loved me and that I had earned this punishment and that I never wanted it again.

I remember his reading to me all the time. The only stories I remember specifically were Little Monster’s Bedtime Book and the Chronicles of Narnia. Once a friend came over early for my birthday party and we were reading. She curled up on the other side of Dad and he read to both of us until the party started. She told me later she wished her dad would read to her and I realized I had something special. I was 7.

I remember falling asleep in the car on the way home from anywhere and waking up in his arms as he carried me inside. I loved it so much that I would sometimes pretend to be asleep just so he would carry me. I hated when I got too big for him to carry me anymore.

I remember him getting us up for school in the morning, flipping on the light in my room and telling me it was time to wake up. When I got downstairs, he’d usually have breakfast ready to go, either oatmeal or cereal or if we were really lucky, French toast. He’d go outside to warm up the car when it was cold outside so we didn’t have to shiver on the way to school. We’d listen to NPR and classical music on the way and he’d talk to us about the things going on. When we carpooled with the Kings, we listened to the kids’ station with silly goofy songs and I realized my dad wanted me to learn about the world around me and know about classical music.

I remember him driving us to school and listening to the announcement that Bill Clinton had been elected president and asking if Dad voted for him. He told me it wasn’t generally something a lot of people felt comfortable talking about, but no, he didn’t vote for him. He also pointed out that it didn’t matter that he hadn’t voted for him, he was still our president and thus deserving of our respect.

I remember hating playing the piano, but loving how proud it made Dad to see me playing in recitals and the goofy faces he’d make at me through the doors to the music room.

I remember playing two duets with him: one as an awkward adolescent and the other as a frustrated teenager. I never told him how much I valued that I alone of his children got to do that with him.

I remember as an older teen dreaming of weddings and happily ever afters asking what his favorite song was. We were listening to Natalie Cole’s album “Unforgettable, With Love” and he told me he really loved the song on that cd, Unforgettable and explained how Nat King Cole died and that Natalie had taken old recordings of her dad singing and had turned it into a duet. He thought about it for a bit and told me that his all time favorite, though, was The Way You Look Tonight. We danced to that at my wedding.

I remember when I was about 12 we were home alone, just the two of us, for a weekend. It didn’t happen often, so that was kind of special in itself. We went to bed early on Saturday because he was driving me out to Girl Scout camp in Sweetwater the next day. In the middle of the night, there was a loud crash that shook the whole house and woke us both up. I thought there’d been an earthquake or something but the big tree in the back had fallen over into the courtyard. It was like walking in a tree. Dad was relieved no one else was home because Caleb would have gotten scared and Mom would have been blocked in. I was just relieved it didn’t hit the house.

I remember that he didn’t like to watch movies more than once but he would watch classics again and he loved the movie Chariots of Fire. When I went to Great Britain and walked along the beach where that famous running scene was filmed, I knew what the movie was when no one else in my group had even heard of it.

I remember several times being told I was his favorite. I always teased that my sister was the favorite because she was chosen and he got stuck with the rest of us.

I remember once my dad describing feeling real joy as he held one of his children moments after birth and my mom asking if that’s why he named her Joy. I wondered if secretly I’d been the favorite all along.

I remember that I had to stop going shopping with Dad because I could get him to buy me just about anything I wanted.

I remember being shocked when I saw him lying in a hospital bed all hooked up to wires when he had his brain aneurysms. I couldn’t believe this fragile body belonged to my dad. It never seemed very real to me that he could die. He was dad: he was going to be around forever.

I remember being frustrated that he wasn’t the same after and wishing he’d just go back to normal.

I remember being angry that I could only take two classes my freshman year of high school so that I could take care of Dad after school while Mom worked.

I remember feeling guilty at how relieved I was when other people stepped in and helped and feeling like I let Mom down because I didn’t help enough.

I remember taking racquetball as a PE course for distance learning and Dad doing that with me. I wasn’t very good because I was afraid of getting hit by the ball.

I remember taking physics in high school and absolutely hating it because I didn’t get it. Dad was frustrated with that since he loved physics so much and had advanced degrees in it. He would sit with me for hours and try to explain it and eventually I would get him to do the work for me. He’s the main reason I passed the class.

I remember him taking me on a real date when I was about 15. We went to the Olive Garden, we played putt-putt and we went to a movie. He told me I wasn’t a cheap date and that any guy who didn’t want to spend the money wasn’t worth my time.

I remember getting ready for the few dances I went to in high school and Dad saying ‘Wowwee!” every single time.

I remember how much he loved astronomy and how he tried to teach me about constellations. He would take me star gazing whenever there were meteor showers. We made it a semi-regular date and I’d make grilled cheese sandwiches and hot cocoa and we’d sit on the car and look at the stars and talk. To this day, the only constellation I can find on a consistent basis is Orion.

I remember my senior prom and how excited Dad was that I had an actual date. He told me that if my date knew anything about anything he’d bring me an orchid. Dad was so proud when he showed up with a beautiful purple orchid wrist corsage.

I remember him being proud of me when I graduated from high school, but that pride was tempered by anger at my cousin and my brother disappearing right after, causing us all to be delayed getting home.

I remember him trying to help me with my college math classes and finally accepting that I couldn’t do this advanced stuff, that my brain was better at the social studies than the sciences.

I remember him meeting my first boyfriend and telling Mom he was a fine young man.

I remember his disappointment when I broke up with that boyfriend.

I remember him trying to like the next guy I brought home and not succeeding.

I remember him helping Mom and her siblings pack up their parents’ house and grumbling at the stupid Christmas tree I wanted so much, but bringing it along just because I wanted it.

I remember graduating from college and his pride that I had done it and with some honors.

I remember his frustration when they called me Talitha Jane.

I remember him helping me move to Austin. He grumbled about the tree again. He helped move the furniture out of the house in Lubbock and into the apartment in Austin. I remember dealing with two flat tires and the hurt of my roommates seemingly not caring that I was leaving, but knowing that my dad would always be there for me.

I remember Dad was always there when I moved: into the house in Lubbock, to the apartment in Austin, to the first apartment in Dallas, across the complex to the second Dallas apartment, and to the house in Carrollton. He grumbled about the Christmas tree every time and always offered to throw it away for me.

I remember the kisses that always ended with “Wow! Sweet! Chocolate ice cream! Grandmother’s apple pie!” to which we would sometimes add “With whipped cream and sugar!” and he would go further and add “And nuts!”

I remember the way he would say “Choooclaaate.”

I remember him telling me not to smile or my face would crack into a million pieces and how 99% of the time I smiled.

I remember he called me Tali-poo and Brown Crested Speckled Thumb Sucker.

I remember getting in trouble on our family trip to the four corners and my punishment was having to sit up in the front with Dad overnight and keep him awake. We watched the sunrise over the desert and it was beautiful. He asked me to write him a poem about it and I did. I'm sure there's a copy of it somewhere.

I remember how much he and Tigger hated one another.

I remember him always answering “Better than I deserve” whenever someone asked him how he was.

I remember how excited he was when I told him I was going to marry Austin. So excited, in fact, that he jumped the gun 6 months before Austin even proposed and emailed Pastor Max to ask if he would officiate over the ceremony.

I remember him repeatedly telling me it wasn’t too late to back out, that they loved Austin but they loved me more and I should do what was right for me.

I remember his pride and loving support as we planned the wedding and I struggled with work stuff.

I remember being sick the week before the wedding and him driving to get me milkshakes every day because it was the only thing I wanted and the only thing that tasted good. He frequently got the wrong thing, but I loved it because I knew he did it for me.

I remember his pride as he came to get me to walk down the aisle.

I remember every time I cut my hair for Locks of Love he would frown. He loved my hair long but would always tell me how proud he was of me for donating my hair to others.

I remember one last “Wow!” kiss before getting married.

I remember him asking me if I liked chicken and when I asked why, he stuck out his arm and said “Take a wing.”

I remember writing my Daddy Folio letter and agonizing over it for a couple months, wanting to get the words just right.

I remember him blessing me at my wedding, though I was too emotional to really hear the words.

I remember him holding me tightly as we danced at the reception, like he didn’t want to let me go.

I remember waffling between several songs for our dance and settling on his favorite.

I remember telling him I didn’t have a gift for his birthday, but that I wanted to go bowling with him and him telling me his knees were too far gone for that anymore.

I remember asking what he wanted for Christmas this year and him telling me he just wanted everyone there. I told him this Christmas was with the in-laws but that next year would be with the family and I’d most likely be pregnant. He was indignant that my child’s first Christmas would be with his OTHER grandparents and not him.

I remember our last conversation. He called to check if I knew what was going on with some friends of his and I didn’t know anything. I wanted to talk but he was busy. He did sign off by telling me he loved me. I’m so glad my last words to him were “Love you too.”

I remember my brother asking me if I was sitting down and then telling me our father had died. I didn’t
believe him and he had to repeat it before my mom finally came on, sobbing, and telling me he was gone. It’s still not real.

I remember the last time I saw him, cold and still and looking completely surprised. I lay across his chest and wished that he’d hug me back.

I remember Rosetta holding my hand and telling me how he would talk about me all the time and how proud and excited he was about what I was doing with my life and how when I was little, he’d always tell her to make sure I ate when he dropped me off at her house in the mornings.

I remember being incredibly angry when Luke sat in Dad’s chair that night. He wasn’t family and he was intruding. I honestly don't think I was the only one to feel that way.

I remember agreeing with my sister when she said he was a beautiful man and deserved beautiful flowers.

I remember crying as I realized he would never play Fur Elise again and wanting to play it for him one last time.

I remember being amazed at how I didn’t cry during my eulogy and that I could get through my piano pieces and thinking “I don’t want to play any more after this.”

I remember hugging Boonier, his teddy bear, and making sure to treat it with all the love and respect he would have wanted me to.

I remember being angry that outsiders to the family were taking his belongings. I wanted to rip the owls and everything out of their hands and scream that they didn’t deserve this and they should get the hell out of my father’s house.

I remember the first time it hit me that my father would never see my children and how much I cried that they’d never have their granddad read them a story.

I remember the last time I held him on this earth. I marveled at how greasy the ashes were and how much, and at the same time how little, there were. I cried as I let the last of his ashes be washed from my hands and wished I was hugging him instead.

I remember sitting in his car for the first time after he died. He was so tall, 6’2, and I’m so much shorter, 5’6, that I felt like I was sitting in the back seat. I didn’t want to move it and I cried as I drove to the church for the service.

I remember seeing my niece being born and thinking “She’s late because he wasn’t ready to let her go yet.” I was angry again that she’d never get to know him.

I remember the regret hitting me that I’d never played the Moonlight Sonata for him and that he never knew how much I loved playing for him.

I remember thinking this would make me feel better instead of making me hurt more.

Added today:

I remember not wanting to move from Carrollton to Abilene because I didn't want to live somewhere Dad hadn't seen.

I remember the reason I cried when Asher was born was because Dad wasn't there and he should have been. He would have kidnapped that baby and carried him all over the hospital if he could. It would have taken me hours to get home.

I remember when we had Asher's blessing party on May 21 and he got one of Dad's ties. He knows it's special and actually leaves it alone.

I remember when morning sickness was so bad with Elijah's pregnancy that I cried again because I knew Dad would have come to help me in a heartbeat.

I remember I cried again when Elijah was born for the same reasons.

I remember when Elijah got one of Dad's ties and how he showed as much interest in it as a one year old will.

I remember every time I went to the hospital I asked people if they knew my dad. He's been gone from Hendrick's for so long there's fewer and fewer of them who do.

I know that when my next baby is born, I'll cradle him or her against my chest and wish Dad was there again. 

Boys...getting into everything.

Morning sickness wipes me out. Like flat on my back feeling awful all day every day for weeks out. The housework doesn't get done. Austin has to pick up food so we can eat. The boys are already pretty self sufficient for their ages and they become more so when I'm sick.

Morning sickness for this pregnancy hit last week, late on Monday. The nausea, the dizziness, the thoughts of "I knew this was part of the package, why did I want another baby?" My poor sweet boys have been on their own a lot, bringing books and dvds into my room or watching dvds or Netflix in the living room while I rest. I don't let Elijah roam while I'm sleeping, I put the gate up on his room and let him have free range in there. He's still curious and toddler enough that he could do some serious damage if left to his own devices in the entirety of the house.

One of their favorite games the past couple weeks has been to drag big blankets around the house. The comforter off our bed (it's too hot for it these days) and a fleece blanket we have for the living room and trips to the drive-in and those are the favorite to drag. They of course pick up lots of things in their wake (dead bugs that the cats are storing, dirty socks that Austin is storing, my clothes that didn't quite make it to the laundry hamper, etc) and deposit them far from home.

That's all set up for yesterday.

Yesterday, I woke up feeling halfway decent. I didn't immediately want to just lay down and curl up in the fetal position...or I suppose just curl up since I was already laying down. I even BRIEFLY contemplated a grocery store run because I knew we were low on milk. But I knew getting the boys and myself dressed and into the car would probably use up all my energy and then what would I do. So I didn't. I made some breakfast for me, gave the boys what they wanted, and we began our "Mommy's Sick" day. Lots of water and peanut butter crackers for everyone, dvds in the living room (or DVD...Asher wanted to watch Frozen on repeat and I let him), Elijah barricaded in his room to play while I napped. Everything was proceeding as normal.

Then 5pm rolled around. That last hour before Daddy gets home is the hardest for most at-home moms. The kids are a little sick of mommy's face, mommy's a little sick of their faces. I was bracing myself for an evening alone with them since Austin had plans at the church to do some sound system stuff with the praise team. And then Elijah put something in his mouth.

I saw him bend over from across the room, pick something up in his tiny little fingers and pop it in his mouth. I wasn't TOO concerned until I heard the metallic click on his teeth. I called him to the bed and was slightly surprised when he came to me but pulled him up into my lap and started fishing around in his mouth. He laughed and fought my fingers with his tongue, then started biting. I squeezed his little face with my hand to try to get him to stop doing that and that's when I saw it: a shiny metal pointy thing that could only be a nail. Not a big one, mind you, but a nail none-the-less.

I went to grab it since it was sticking out but he sucked it back in, closed his mouth, and swallowed. I screamed and forced his mouth open, making him cry as I frantically fished around in his mouth for it. Nothing. It was gone.

I looked at the clock and realized Austin would be getting to Abilene soon. I let him down and started flipping blankets around, hoping maybe he'd spit it out and I hadn't seen but no luck. Then I had to find my phone. The boys ran off into another room, laughing and playing. Maybe I'm just imagining things.

I called Austin and told him that he should come straight home, not go do the couple errands he had, because we might need to take Elijah to the ER. I called Mom and woke her up from a nap to ask if she'd keep Asher. She said "Oh, it'll probably pass on it's own." I figured she was still asleep because a NAIL is likely to do a bit of damage on it's way out. She agreed to keep him though. We called Dr. Adams and left a message just to confirm that yes, we need to go to the hospital. She responded within about 10 minutes with a confirmation.

So it's now been about 30 minutes since he swallowed the nail. No one is dressed but Austin. So we find some clean clothes for the boys and get them dressed, I get dressed and grab some snacks and water for myself, get some bags ready for the boys and we're out the door. A quick drop off at Oma's house, which Asher is excited about, and we're on to the ER.

Since we have a baby with a nail in  him, they don't make us wait long. We got there around 6.15 or so and we were x-rayed at 6.30 and into an exam room by 7. I'm texting facebook and close friends and family, Austin's texting his parents, Elijah's watching a Tinkerbell movie and fussing to get down and go outside. Not a lot, just a little whine. He threw up a little bit and coughed nearly every time he took a drink of water, so we figured that meant his throat was a little sore. The nurses come and go but it isn't until about 7.20 or so that they tell us yes, there is a nail in his stomach. A little while after that the ER doctor comes in and says "We have to go get it, but we're not sure if we'll do it here."

Apparently, there are two GI doctors on call for the ER and one doesn't do pediatric stuff. So there's a real possibility we'll be airlifting Elijah to Cook's to get this thing out. He's paged the GI doctor and we'll know more when he gets here. In the meantime they do an IV on his foot.

That's the first time Elijah showed any real distress. He has to be held down by three adults while a fourth did the IV. The GI doctor came in while we were doing that and said he was going to get the nail here in a procedure called EGD and that the only possible complication would be if the nail had moved into his bowel before they got to it. If that happened, we'd be going to Cook's. The staff had been called and were on their way.

Elijah fell asleep shortly before 8. He's exhausted at this point. Shortly after that, Kathy, the MDO director, showed up with a giant bag of peppermints for me to help with my nausea and a plush monkey with a blanket for Elijah. She commented she hadn't ever seen him that still. This kid doesn't like to be still unless he's passed out asleep.

We get taken upstairs through the rabbit warren of halls that is Hendrick's to a darkened OR area. Elijah woke up along the way and started pointing out numbers. He knows 2 and 9, so that's what he called out, regardless of what it was. He was cute and chatty with the OR nurses and the anesthesiologist and Dr. Patel, winning admirers left and right. We signed the paperwork then snuck out so he wouldn't get upset when we left. It was now 9, 3 hours and 20 minutes since he swallowed the nail. Dr. Patel told us that he would know within about 5 minutes whether or not he was going to get it out here or we'd be sent to Dallas. Kathy sat with us while we waited and around 9.50, our pastor called and he and his wife were there. So Kathy went to get them, knowing her way around the hospital better than us. Shortly after they got back Dr. Patel came to let us know they were successful and to give us the nail in a jar and some pictures of it in Elijah's stomach. Elijah did very well, had no troubles with anything, and was in recovery where he'd be for a little while, then we were taking him home.

We went to get him and seeing my tiny little boy in such a big bed with tape residue on his face from the breathing tubes and the IV still in his foot and all manner of things to read his vitals stuck to him was hard. He was so drowsy from the anesthesia still, plus the fact that it was 10 at night, that he mostly just stared at us glassy eyed. Austin carried him out while I carried our bags and we left, Don and Carol walking with us. The guy who took us out didn't seem to know exactly how to get us to the ER exit but we got there eventually. The clock on the dash read 10.35 when we pulled out. Elijah again made friends and recited numbers while we left, waving and saying "bye" to people as we walked past them.

Asher was fast asleep at Oma's house when we got there and Elijah was so happy to see Papa Bob and Oma and Asher that he just pingponged between them. I was feeling bad all night and it was really hitting when we got to Mom's so I took him downstairs to wait for Austin and Asher. We got home around 11 and everyone but Austin went to bed. Austin went out to get the milk we needed yesterday.

So now I have a nail in a jar and a toddler with a sore throat and a new paranoia because what if I hadn't seen him swallow the nail? This kid puts EVERYTHING in his mouth. He's just at that age. If I'd been cooking dinner or actually asleep or just not paying attention, what would have happened? I guess it's POSSIBLE he could have passed it on his own with no trouble but highly unlikely.

We had the right doctor on call, the right people who knew what to do, and I saw that nail go into his mouth and down his throat. Friends who offered to bring us food and take Asher. People offering whatever help they could. It's so great having a community like that.

Fingers crossed this doesn't happen again. But heaven help us if the next kid is a boy because each seems more dare devil and active than the last...though I suppose a girl could be a little terror too.

The culprit. Not too big, but way bigger than you want in your child.

Fun with Numbers

I have a hard time keeping exciting things secret. I nearly told Mom about her party several times, I announced Asher's pregnancy the day we found out, I announced Elijah's at about 8 weeks, I told Austin how I felt as soon as I decided I wanted to marry him. So the fact that this blog wasn't posted on May 21 is ASTOUNDING.

I'm pregnant!

A while back, I decided I needed to have a baby on Wednesday, December 3, 2014. I know it sounds insane, and my reasons aren't going to make it sound any saner, but here they are:

Asher, my first child, was born on January 1. Elijah, my second child was born on October 2. So my third child should (hopefully) be born on a 3rd.

Austin was born in September. Elijah was born in October. I was born in November. Asher was born in January. The month left is December.

Asher was born on a Saturday. Austin was born on a Sunday. I was born on a Monday. Elijah was born on a Tuesday. So the next kid should be born on a Wednesday or a Friday.

So, Wednesday, December 3, 2014, seemed written in the stars for me to have a baby. Unfortunately, my due date is January 28 (a Wednesday)...so a December 3 (or even 13) baby is not going to happen. It's a smidgen disappointing, but when you're expecting a wanted baby, it's hard to be disappointed for long. If Baby #3 is born on the 3rd, that'll put his/her birthday just two days after Asher's. So TWO kids I'll feel guilty about gypping out of a real birthday. Oh well. They need fodder for their therapy later anyway.