Thanksgiving - honored, not forgotten

I keep hearing people say that Thanksgiving is the "forgotten holiday." I think that in reality, Thanksgiving is the last man standing. Most of our holidays have been mercilessly ravaged by retail and marketing to the point that many people aren't sure why we celebrate them anymore. Poor Christmas got the worst of it. We have Christmas in July bazaars. Decorations hit the shelves in August and find their way onto rooves and lawns sometime just after Halloween. Christmas music haunts our shopping malls for at least 2 full months before Christmas day. And don't even get me started on the millions - make that billions - of Christmas events in December proper.

It seems like all of our holidays are becoming more and more like Christmas. I won't say the entire month of October is all about Halloween, but it's getting there. We carve pumpkins weeks in advance, pick out Halloween costumes in September, and start going to Halloween festivals as soon as humanly possible. Easter is headed in that direction as well. How many crosses do you see in the seasonal section at Target? Zip. But chocolate bunnies, Easter baskets in the shape of Power Rangers, and Peeps? Katie borrow the door. For Heaven's sake. We even have a creepy Easter bunny at the mall that terrifies children infinitely worse than jolly ol' Saint Nick.

But Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving stands alone. It needs no Hallmark commercials, no Wal-Mart catalogs reminding you that it's coming, no constant barraging to remind you to be thankful. It needs no countdown, no reminder that you only have X number of days to grocery shop for your feast, no giant festival in Time Square with a giant lit-up pumpkin to drop onto our heads to announce that Thanksgiving has arrived again. Perhaps that is because we do not celebrate Thanksgiving, we honor it. We quietly and gracefully give thanks in our own special ways. We change our Facebook statuses to tell others why we are thankful. We do turkey crafts after naptime and pick Indian names to put on our head bands. We have feasts with our friends and our co-workers. We follow our own traditions of turkey and dressing, even if your dressing is really, really weird.

I love my family's Thanksgiving traditions and to be honest (even if it is a bit embarrassing), I start looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner in April. It is a given that grace will be said, an entire can of cranberry sauce will likely be thrown into the trash, and the green bean casserole will be the first thing to go. I know that my mother will ask me, "What do you have to have for it to be Thanksgiving?" My answer never changes - candied yams. It's absolute law that you do not trim the tree or string a single Christmas light until the day after Thanksgiving. If you do not listen to John Denver and the Muppets while trimming said tree, well. . . that's grounds for dismal from the family. It is absolute law that you, under no circumstances, are ever to participate in Black Friday.

So hold your head high, Thanksgiving. You have stood the test of time. You do not need anything more than the meaning of your own name to carry on a true American tradition. You are truly a day to be honored and remembered - quietly, respectfully, and cheerfully.

So watch out, Mr. Turkey. You're going down. We've got some traditions to tend to.

Fall and Christmas

I love fall. I love Christmas. But I think I love fall more than christmas and I finally figured out why.

Christmas? It's like your Great Aunt Midge. She calls in August to tell you she's coming for the holidays. You groan and squint your eyes, sick with worry about everything you have to do before she comes. Oh holy night. Clean everything, down to the fresh-air return grate on the a/c. Your menu must be planned, practiced, and perfect. And that door jamb that's got scuffs on it? Might as well drag out the paint and rollers - that must be tidied before she arrives. Don't forget the lawn. Pristine, down to the glitter-embossed reindeer. Leaves raked. Driveway blown. Perfect. And don't even get me started on the gifts... What do you give her? How much should you spend? You know she's going to judge you when she opens it. Your gift selection says everything about you, you know. Stress, stress, stress. Money, money, money... I'm exhausted just thinking about it! And if that's not enough, she pollutes your life with reminders for 4 months before she finally shows up on your doorstep, white gloves and all. Songs, commercials, texts, and emails. Everywhere you look, you see her beady eyes inspecting every preparation you make for her impending arrival. When she finally gets here and the inspection is over, you really are so glad she came. You enjoy her visit for three days and then you're just as glad to see her go.

But fall? Oh fall. Fall is my cousin Kelly who lives in California. She writes movie scripts and goes camping for vacation. She joined the Peace Corp, but now she's just a Calofornia granola cruncher who grows sprouts in her window sill and once made her own pants from wheat she harvested with her bare hands. I haven't seen her since ... Huh. I can't remember the last time I saw her, but one day I open my front door to go check the mail and there she is, standing on my doorstep with her arms open wide. Oh what a reunion! We hug and laugh and cry and the kids are giddy with delight. Aunt Kelly always convinces me to let them stay up late watching rated R movies and they somehow always manage to get chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast when she's here (even if they are vegan...). I can't recall what day she got here, but I never want to see her go. We reminisce and drink pumpkin lattes and run outside until our throats are raw with the chill air. We play in the leaves and fly kites and make s'mores and laugh and laugh and laugh. One morning, I wake up to find a little note announcing her departure and a package she left for the kids. Frost is on the ground and I can smell winter on the air.

Unlike Christmas, fall arrives with no pomp, no preamble, no preparation. You're stuck standing in your closet when the cool air arrives, at a loss for which jeans actually fit. You hail a silent "suh-weet!" when you drive through the local bagel shop and notice that pumpkin has returned to the menu. Fall is simple and unadorned. And as much as you rejoice at its arrival, there's no countdown and no long list of to-dos to complete before she plops herself on your front porch and stays for a spell. And as much as you lament her departure, there's always the memories you made and the promise of more fun to come.

So welcome, fall. We sure are glad to see you. Won't you stay for dinner?

A blog is worth a thousand pictures

I like to think of my blog as a verbal photo. It's just a snapshot of the parts of my life worth remembering. The funny moments. The sweet things my kiddo says. Revelations I have in the middle of the night. Even a place to vent, whine, or complain. But it's certainly *not* a real representation of our lives. Not even close.

Recently, I've been struggling. Daniel hasn't been sleeping well which, of course, means I haven't been sleeping well. I start my mornings off angry with him. He's been a good sleeper his entire life and is suddenly getting out of bed 3-4 times a night "to go potty." I wake up grumpy, but I'm soon revitalized by funny faces, a cooing baby, and my two cups of coffee. We usually head to the Y, and after a quick workout, I spend 10-15 minutes in prayer. I beg God - beeeeg God - to make me the mother He wants me to be. I beg for patience. I beg for Him to let me see my kids the way He sees them (by "kids" and "them," I mean Daniel - Lia doesn't do anything. . . yet). I tell Him that I *know* these strong-willed characteristics that Daniel displays are going to serve him well one day and may even serve Him well one day. Right now? They're pushing me to the brink.

I usually come out of the chapel feeling refreshed and ready to face the world (and anything Daniel can dish out at me). My mediation usually carries me through lunch and even into the early afternoon. But around "nap" time, something gives. While Daniel should be napping, he's in his room doing anything but. Knocking on the walls (which, of course, keeps Lia from sleeping), gagging himself on his blanket (to the point of vomiting in his bed), even tearing pages out of his Bible (which, incidentally, nearly sent me over the edge). I lose my patience. I yell. I threaten. I deliver. I feel guilty. And I don't know how to fix it.

***Just an fyi to anyone reading this, I think if I get this down on paper, I'll find a solution. I guess this is the written equivalent of thinking out loud.***

Maybe if I spent Daniel's "quiet" time on my knees the afternoons would go better. But I'm just so darned tired (because he's keeping me up at night) that I inevitably drift off while Lia naps. At least I'm rested, but I don't have the grace I need to carry me through the hardest hours of my day. Where do I find it? Perhaps with the cooler temps, we'll try an after-nap walk. Maybe if I can get out in the world and take a few deep breaths, the hardest part of the day will seem a little easier to face.

In the meantime, I'll just keep praying, keep breathing, and keep remembering that he'll only be little for a little while. One day, I'll wake up and he'll be grown. I'll long for these days, when my baby needed me and I ruled the roost. I hope that I look back on these days with fondness (not frustration) and maybe my blog will be worth a thousand pictures, even if it's a snippet of my frustration that's frozen in time.

Jesus and a plunger

We slept at my house last night - for the first time in over a month, nobody woke up in hysterics, nobody woke me up to go potty, and (even more miraculously) nobody woke me up to eat. I felt amazing and decided to show my appreciation for my answered prayer by belting out a few hymns. One of my favorites (especially since Grandma died) is Victory in Jesus. For those of us not raised in the Baptist church, it goes like this:

O victory in Jesus,
My Savior, forever.
He sought me and bought me
With His redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him,
And all my love is due Him,
He plunged me to victory,
Beneath the cleansing flood.

Leave it to Daniel to put an even bigger smile on my face. He says to me (completely earnestly - the way only a child can), "Why does Jesus need a plunger?" I rolled. I laughed so hard *both* my babies laughed with me.

I had this image of Jesus, Bible in his hands, sitting on the pot. It had never occurred to me exactly what the Bible means when it says "fully man and fully God." In an instant, I got it. Vulnerable to all of the inconveniences of daily life - down to a backed up toilet (or an overflowing hole in the ground, as the case may be). As many wonderful memories as I associate with this hymn, I now have one more - Jesus plodding through the house, grumbling about the plumbing, going to unplug the potty. Victorious, indeed.

Explaining Heaven

God and Heaven and Jesus are heavy topics to discuss with a three-year-old. We've been reading Daniel's Bible almost nightly since he was about 4 months old. We've read it through several times. We pray every night at bedtime. We go to church as often as we can. I try really, really hard to make Christianity a part of our every day lives -in my words, my actions, and my reactions. I'm not always successful, but I try. Sometimes, I think I might be succeeding.

On Easter, we went to my parents' house to swim. We were splashing around in the pool, talking about much of nothing. My dad asked Daniel about Easter. "Why do we celebrate Easter?" Daniel looked at him funny (we still struggle with the concept of celebration). I rephrased it for him, "Daniel? What did Jesus do on Easter?" Without a breath's hesitation, he looked at my dad and said, "He took away all my sins. All the bad things." Tears sprung to my eyes. I can only imagine how God felt to hear such sweet words.

A few weeks ago, Daniel and I had the following conversation:

Daniel: Where is Daddy?
Me: Daddy's at work.

Daniel: Where is YOUR daddy?
Me: Buddy? Buddy's asleep.

Daniel: Where is HIS daddy?
Me: He's in Heaven.

Daniel: Is he God?
Me: No, sweetie. He's with God.

Daniel: Is he Jesus?

Me: Nope, but he's with Jesus, too.

Daniel (extended thoughtful pause): So is he Goliath? Or is he Moses?

Conversations like these will stick with me for the rest of my life. I, of course, went on to explain that there are more people in Heaven than just God, Jesus, Goliath (who, if I remember the Philistines correctly, probably is NOT in Heaven), and Moses. When he asks things like this, I know he's listening, even if he doesn't quite get it.

My favorite Heaven discussion to date happened just this Thursday. We were driving to the Y for a quick workout when Daniel piped up from a rare, pensive silence in the back seat. "How do you get to Heaven?" See, we've talked lots about how to get to where our family members are. You take a plane to Phoenix or to Qatar (Nana and PopPop, respectively), you drive to Buddy and Gram's, you drive aaaaaaaaall day to get to Denton (Uncle Jon and Aunt Kristin), you drive part of the day to get to Giddings (Granny and PopPop), etc., etc., etc. I guess he just wondered how to get to God. I launched into a pretty moderate explanation about Salvation. You have to tell God thank you for Jesus and thank you for taking away my sins (I'm still too chicken to explain death. . . ). You have to tell God that you love Him and you want Him to be with you always. I started to add a few other details, but noting the look on Daniel's face, I stopped. "Daniel? Is everything ok?" Daniel responded in a very non-Daniel small voice, "I want Him to hold me. I want Him to hug me." The only words that would come were, "Me, too, baby. Me, too."

Later that day, Daniel, Lia, and I curled up in Brother's bed for a nap. We all snoozed for awhile, but I woke up long before the kids did. As I lay there between my babies, it occurred to me that I was probably as close to hugging God as I would ever come on this planet. Hearing them breathe. Smelling Lia's newborn smell and Daniel's I'm-three-and-I-play-hard-outside-all-day smell lingering together (call me crazy, but with a better name, Scentsy might could make some money on that one). Feeling their tiny, warm bodies curled up against mine. I couldn't help but think that this was God's way of hugging me before my time. I closed my eyes and took in the sensation. And I thanked God for hugging me, for making it possible for me to even consider such a thing.

The destiny of hairy balls

Yes, you read that right. Keep reading. If I do a good enough job of telling this story, your abs and your sides will ache.

A few days ago, I was bathing Daniel. He's suddenly become very interested in all things below the belt. Normal, of course, but I'm just not quite ready to have some of these talks. The boy is just three. Anywho, I'm bathing Daniel and he asks, "What do my balls do?" I was taken a little off guard, and like I said, I'm not ready to have that conversation yet. So I said, "Nothing. Yet. But when you grow up, they'll do something." In an effort to keep things simple, I tend to give him the shortest, most innocuous answer possible. Of course that usually leads to more questions, but I don't want to back myself into a corner if he's not ready to have "that" talk. Much to my dismay, he pressed on. "What will they do when I grow up?" Still unwilling to have that talk, I balked and dodged and spit out the only thing that came to mind. "They'll get hairy." He left it at that.

This morning, we were watching Kung Fu Panda. Po said something about the Sword of Destiny. Daniel did was Daniel does. "What's 'destiny?'" At that exact moment, Lia pooped and Doug came into the living room. I offered Doug the choice - change the diaper or explain "destiny." He chose destiny. So off I go, wipes in hand, to change Lia. "Well, Daniel. Destiny is easy. When you grow up, it's what you were meant to do." I was impressed. Simple explanation for a very abstract idea. Daniel completely blew it out of the water. "Daddy? Do you have balls?" I swallowed a laugh and almost gave myself a hernia in the process. Doug stammered for a moment, entirely dumbfounded, but came clean with, "Yes, Daniel. I have balls." I was hoping to God Daniel would leave it at that, but he went there. "Are your balls hairy?" At this particular point, I nearly died. I know you aren't supposed to laugh when they say things like that, but I just couldn't help it. I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And poor Doug. All he could come up with was, "Let's talk about something else."

Because I'm with the child all day every day, I got it. I completely understood the leap from "destiny" to "hairy balls." No one else on the planet could have possibly seen the connection, but clearly, Daniel associates "growing up" with "hairy balls." I can see the shock and horror on his kindergarten teacher's face now. "So, class. What do you think you'll do when you grow up?" Daniel will shoot his hand into the air and wait patiently to be called on. When it's his turn, he'll matter-of-fact say, "I'm going to have hairy balls." We will spend our afternoon being shuffled back and forth between the counselor's office and the principal's office and I'll be labeled as a terrible mother.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm doing a decent job of explaining the "hard things." I've avoided death like the plague. We have several family members in same-sex relationships. I've tried my darnedest to explain why sometimes we have aunts and uncles and sometimes we have aunts and aunts. I'm not sure whether my explanations are sufficient or just plain confusing. I wonder if I'm setting him up to be tolerant or judgmental. Sometimes I wonder if he's listening to anything I'm saying. This morning he answered that question. He's listening. And even though he might not "get it," he's putting it all together.

A messy day

When Seth Rogan gets around to making Knocked Up II: The first years, I have two scenes written for him. Warning: The main topic of this post is "poop." Those who have not yet had children may want to avoid reading any further.

It was a lovely Friday morning. The kids actually slept past 7:00 and we had plans to see old friends for lunch. I made my way into the kitchen to get breakfast going. Lia was kicked back in the nap nanny, Daniel was arguing with me about how many blackberries he was going to eat, and i was *just* about to pour my coffee. I looked over at Lia and noticed a yellowish line growing around her midsection. Yup. Poop. I'd been waiting on it for three days and I knew we were due, but man. I carted her off to her room to clean her up and quickly decided that wipes were no match for this load. I got her as clean as I thought she needed to be prior to a bath and headed back to the kitchen sink. En route, I got hosed. Big time. Here we are, not even 7:30, and we've both had a complete wardrobe change AND a bath. What a start to the day.

The rest of the day went well. I ventured out to the old office to catch up with my former coworkers. We chatted it up and Lia graciously filled another diaper for me. This one was not catastrophic and was easily changed in the back of the car before we headed home. Once we got to Buddy's house, little miss was hungry again. As soon as I finished feeding her, she started rumbling again. As I was sitting in my mom's La-Z-Boy, I jumped up in a hurry to avoid any permanent damage. As I did so, Mount Saint Lia erupted. Big time.

Thank God my parents have tile floors. Too bad dogs don't come with a standard tile option. My parents' cairn terrier darted past me as Lia let loose. You guessed it. Darby was covered in baby poop. She ran through a puddle of it, thrashing about wildly. She was all but chasing her tail in a fruitless effort to figure out WHAT was on her back. She was ushered out the back door while we attempted to get the mess under control. My dad was busy cleaning up the floors, I was busy bathing Lia (and trying unsuccessfully to avoid yet another full wardrobe change), Darby was busy scratching at the back door, and Daniel was running around in circles screaming about the non-existent poop on his hands. By the time everybody was bathed, changed, and poop-free, I was laughing hysterically. I could absolutely see Kathrine Heigl and Seth Rogan playing me and my dad. I could totally hear the soundtrack playing in the background. Given a little more time to actually script the scene, I'm willing to bet that somebody in Hollywood would pay money for such a script. For now, it's just a typical afternoon in the life of a mama.

In the middle of the night

There are many things that take place in the middle of the night. Most people snore (or drool). A few are obsessed with QVC and HSN. I hear there are those who dread the night - who battle demons while the rest of us. . . well. . . rest. Me? I experience some of the sweetest, most intimate moments I will ever have.

When Daniel was a baby, we were alone together *all* the time. Doug worked 6-4 (plus an hour commute each way), went to school at night, and did homework on the weekends. Even when he was home, I still had hours upon hours to spend with Daniel. Now that Lia has arrived, the time she and I get to spend alone together is limited and precious. I have to make the most of it, regardless of how tired I am, how late it is, or how badly I want to crawl back into bed. During the day, Daniel is vying for my attention, the phone is ringing, the dogs barking. . . there just aren't many moments of peace.

Except for those moments that take place sometime between 2 and 4 in the morning. I know it's crazy, but I really look forward to seeing Lia in the middle of the night. We can just snuggle up next to one another and exist. No noise. No distractions. Just me and Lia. Mother's Day Out is over for the summer and now that Lia's sleeping for longer and longer stretches, I know I'll get those moments less and less often. Not that I mind the extra sleep, mind you. I just envy the time I had with Daniel and I long to find that time somewhere with Lia. If 2-4 a.m. is what I get, it's what I'll take. And I'll do so gladly.

firsts

The last two weeks have brought us many firsts. Lia's first bath (which she mostly slept through), Lia's first trip to Froberg's (which she slept through), our first time eating out with two kids (which led to), my first time nursing in public, and Lia's first photo shoot (which I'm still anxiously awaiting the results!).

In addition to all of Lia's firsts, daniel also snuck one in on us. He actually napped somewhere that wasn't home. We managed to get a nap in at Buddy and Gram's, which led to wonderful moods all around. Hooray for my big boy becoming more of a big boy!

birth day

3/18/11

6:15 am
Doug and I arrived at the hospital with strawberry birthday cake, a bag full of essentials for a weekend holiday at St. John Hospital, and a stomach full of knots. Well, my stomach was in knots; Doug's was full of coffee. A group of nurses greeted us as we shuffled in the Center for New Life. They showed us to 214 and I quickly became the talk of the second floor. Not only had I brought birthday cake (clearly something none of them had seen before), but I also walked through the door demanding to know what I had to do to go home. Clearly, another first.

Veronica and Elizabeth got me all hooked up to the monitors, started my IV, and did all of the routine check-in things. Dr. Abair had one last look at Lia to make sure her head was still up. Then I met Dennis. Dennis was my anesthesiologist who definitely missed his calling as a comedian. So. Funny. He had me laughing the entire time. Well, except for when he was wiping my tears, but that part comes later.

By this point, I was a complete bundle of nerves. I could still hear Lia's heart on the monitor, but I still had a million things on my mind that could or might go wrong. My legs were shaking. My stomach was in knots. My mind was racing a trillion miles a minute.

8:20
My c-section was scheduled for 8:15. By 8:20, they were rolling me down the hall to the OR. I've only ever seen ORs on Grey's, Chicago Hope, ER, and at the Debakey Center. For those of you who have been in other ORs, imagine my shock at what a "real" OR looks like. Tiny. No fancy observation deck. No separate scrub room for all of the drama to happen. And man. That table was skinny! It was a darn good thing I only gained 25 pounds or i may have rolled right off!

Enter Dennis. Again. He got my drugs started and they got me situated on the table. Dennis started making inappropriate jokes and I laughed nervous (but genuine) laughter. Up went the drape and the show started.

At this point, I kind of started to freak out (but only in my head). I'd been warned by a few people that the anesthesia might make me feel . . . odd. indeed. I managed to get through the Lord's Prayer a few times while breathing as deeply as I could, which took the edge off.

I told Dennis, "Dennis? I know this sounds stupid - because I can't see them or feel them - but I don't really like the angle my legs are laying." Dennis peered over the drape, looked at me upside-down, and said, "Your legs? They're perfectly straight." I felt silly for having said anything, but Dennis just chuckled.

8:54
Official start time - 8:54. A dear friend had warned me about "the smell" in the OR. She said it would smell like "my insides." The minute they "cut," I realized what the smell was - burning skin. So much for a scalpel; these people use lasers! I'm assuming that's why my scar is so precise (and tiny). I'm not sure that my dear friend realizes that she wasn't smelling her guts, but I am thankful for the warning!

About that time, somebody mentioned that somebody should go get daddy. Thank God. Dennis - in his infinite inappropriate humor - suggested that one of the nurses go pry him away from the three blondes in the hall. Ha. Ha ha.

As soon as Doug came in, my nerves settled immediately. I think he was probably as nervous as I was (and just as freaked out by seeing me on that table), but the ever-cool facade brought me down a few notches. We bantered back and forth about Heaven knows what and I think I reminded him to take a picture of the clock at least a dozen times.

Dennis nudged Doug and told him to get his camera ready. He fumbled around for just a second and assumed the photography position. "Get ready!" Dennis chanted. My poor, sweet, dear husband... He was poised and ready to get "the shot" of Dr. Abair holding Lia over the drape. Something Dennis said triggered him early and he wound up missing that shot and somehow managed to snap a stellar photo of Dr. Abair suctioning Lia's mouth while holding her a mere hair's breadth above my fileted abdomen. Score one for daddy!

When Daniel was born, my mother accidentally took a photo of the placenta. We've teased her mercilessly for the last 2.75 years over this. No more! Nothing quite tops a picture of your guts...

9:02

As predicted, I heard Lia'a cries and lost it. Not nearly as bad as I thought I would, but I cried and cried. "Thank God; thank you, God," must have come out of my mouth a hundred times. Doug was pretty much immediately whisked over to Lia while they continued to work on me. "She's got your ears!" Doug proudly announced from the other side of the OR. "My ears?? That's all I get are the ears?"

Dennis kindly wiped my tears away (as my arms were strapped down) and somehow managed to wrestle Lia away from the nurses. He unwrapped my arms and gently laid Lia on my chest. The waterworks continued and Dennis took the first photo of Lia and her proud parents.

10:00

By 10 a.m., they were rolling me back down the hall to my room, just as Dr. Abair had promised. Dennis made some crack about having just gone through bypass surgery. We laughed again and I thanked him sincerely as he left me to recover with my nurses. I beat my entire family back to the room. By the time they got back with Lia, all that was left was positive, loving, happy beyond belief emotions. All the anxiety was gone. My fears totally unnecessary. My perfect little family complete.

That's the story of Lia's entrance into the world. If only the next year would go just as smoothly... We are blessed beyond measure and so thankful for Lia and those who helped get her here.

Our little angel.

commitment

I have (shockingly) decided to start my own business - selling Mary Kay. The what, why, who, how, and when of that story will come another day. For now, this is my commitment to myself and to my family:

- The first $50 I make will go back into the checking account to cover the cost of starting up.
- Of every check I receive after that first $50, 10% will go directly to God.
- Until our savings account reaches our family goal, the remaining 90% will go back into savings.
- Once our savings account has been restored, the additional 90% will go toward our debt (our truck note and personal loan).
- Unless there are dire circumstances, no further debt will be incurred until said debts are paid off.

This is my commitment. If I break my word to myself, that's pretty pitiful indeed.

Here goes nothin'.

little pieces of the puzzle

Last night was awful. The longest stretch of sleep I got - prior to 4 am - was 45 minutes. I called my mommy, almost in tears, and begged her to come over to help. She brought my daddy, of course, who lovingly took Daniel to the park. Lia and I immediately crawled into bed and snoozed the morning away. I fell asleep in an instant and woke up in a much better state of mind.

And smelled burning plastic. I always sleep with the baby monitor. It's right by my pillow so that on nights where I sleep in six- and nine-minute stretches, I can open one eye just enough to see what's going on. I picked it up to move it and all but burned the skin right off my hand. Even though it was turned off, the darn thing was so hot that the plastic stand had melted to the back of the monitor. What the heck?

When Doug got home, he took it apart to discover that the battery had ruptured and the plastic had warped. Yup. We were probably moments away from setting our bed on fire.

When I looked back on the day (and preceding terrible night), I was suddenly thankful. See, had we had a good night, we were going to go to Froberg's to pick berries. If we had had a good night, I would have been several miles from home when the battery pack ruptured and set my home ablaze. Had we had a good night, I would've come home to a smoldering slab and charred fur babies and a totally destroyed home, dream, and life.

But we had a rough night. In this case, I'm beyond thankful for the sleepless night. Today, I am thankful for best-laid plans and dark circles under my eyes. And yet again, I am thankful for a God who loves me enough to protect me even when I don't even realize I need to be protected.

old

I plucked a hair from my chin today; the first one I've ever been aware of. I shuddered when I did it. I must be getting old. My blog posts are about showers, sleep, and stray hairs - which clearly means I'm either old or the mother of a newborn. Or possibly both...

Regardless, I need to get around to writing out Lia's birth story, but I've been too busy pining for sleep and trying to keep my family running.

The birth story itself is short. Eight minutes to be exact. The build-up is slow and painful (and whiny) and several days worth of reading. The way she's changed our lives over the past 18 days is pretty unreal (and amazing) and worth several future blogs.

For now, I'm going to attempt to get a bulk of 3/18 down 'on paper.' Doing that between middle-of-the-night feedings while typing one-fingered, I just might get the story told before she turns one. Here goes nothing...

sleep

He does not escape me;
he merely plays tag.
Jokingly. Without malice.
Just within my reach.

He lets me catch him,
A sweet moment of triumph.
I am sustained.
Never satisfied.

We part reluctantly,
Children on the playground,
Longing for each other's company.
Reunited, we have all but learned to do without.

Untitled, for now

Only meeting once a day,
A lovers' rendezvous.
Our time together is cherished;
Not a moment overlooked.

Caress my body,
Stroke my hair,
Take away my shame.
When I am with you,
My troubles melt away.

Scald me.
Tempt me.
Make me new.
I'll use you until there is nothing left to give.

Oh - hot shower - how I love you.
Let me count the ways.

A few things I forgot about having a newborn

The sweet little sounds they make, from grunting when you change them to squeaking when you nurse them to the sweet little stutter-sighs they breathe when they're falling asleep.

The way they curl up on your chest, against your belly, or in your arms like a tiny little tree frog. Somehow, watching them squash themselves against you that way makes you believe beyond belief that you really did carry them for 39 weeks in your belly.

There's a very short list of things that could possibly be wrong.

Somehow, babies smell fresh. I've heard somewhere that it's because they just left Heaven. I'm not sure I buy that, but they sure do smell sweet.

You feel like a million bucks even though you only manage to snag an hour or two of sleep at a time. Under any other circumstances, you'd feel like poo.

Most everything about them is just. . . well. . . peaceful.

I love the look of recognition they get the first time they realize they're looking at mama.

Any time in the last 40 weeks that I was up in the middle of the night, it was a nuisance. Now? It's a blessing. I love, love, love the special, still, sweet moments in the middle of the night that I get to share with my angel. No interruptions. No audience. Just me and my girl.

My love for others multiplies tenfold. Seeing my husband with our daughter makes me remember a million reasons I fell in love with him that I'd somehow forgotten over the course of the last two years.

The way it feels to be completely, totally, genuinely in love with someone you know nothing about.

GO!

One minute post-op.

Four minutes post-op.

Ten minutes post-op.

One hour post-op.

Five hours post-op.

All that worrying for nothing. . .

Set

Well, my bag is packed.

I'm ready to go.

36 more hours to go.

I can't believe it's time to say hello!

Well your family's waiting to welcome you home.

Your room is ready - it's good to go.

In just awhile,

You'll be here in my arms.

So kick me and smile for me.

Cry your little lungs full for me.

I'll hold you and I'll never let you go.

'Cause I'm ready to meet my girl.

Ready to see your little curls.

Ready to kiss your precious face.

Tonight, my first wave of out-of-town help arrived. Aunt Georgie - my mom's middle sister and my mom-away-from-home while I was in college - arrived this evening. She's taking Daniel for the morning on Lia's birth day. They're going to make strawberry shortcake, play with tractors, and do whatever else occurs to them to help pass the hours until Daniel can meet his little sister. I can't believe how blessed we are to have such wonderful family and friends who are willing to lend a hand in SO many ways. My family rocks.

As nice as it is to have a plan in place, I can't help thinking how nice it would be if things would just start on their own. Dr. Abair has said that she wants to give Lia every opportunity to get unraveled and turn. Something in the back of my head (front of my head??) tells me that if we pull the trigger when we're ready to pull the trigger, there may have been a chance. If we cut at 8:15 on Friday, God may have planned on turning her at 8:15 on Saturday. All of that not withstanding, I guess we're all set, regardless of what may happen or what might have happened.

'Cause I'm ready to meet my girl.

Ready to see your little curls.

Ready to kiss your precious face.

Ready

I'm so very ready to have this baby. Not in the "my feet are swollen and I can't stand being pregnant for one more minute" sense. In the "I love the smell of Dreft and I can't wait to count her fingers and toes" sense. I did Lia's first load of laundry last Thursday. The tiny snaps from her onesies were banging out a cadence on the inside of the dryer. I looked at Doug and smiled fondly. I remembered that sound from nearly three years ago, when Daniel was little and still wore nothing but one-piece outfits.

I'm over-the-top excited to meet my baby girl. I'm looking forward to making new memories with her. I'm overwhelmed with a new sense of love I've never felt before - the opportunity to witness siblings bonding for the first time. Being an only child, this is all completely uncharted territory for me.

I've already warned Doug that I'm probably going to lose control in the OR. The moment I hear her cry and know that she's safe, my emotions and fears and apprehension are all going to come out in a flood of hysterics. I know it. I can see the tide coming in, but I don't care. I know too many people who have lost babies in the last 40 weeks. I know too many people who have been through horrible, nightmarish experiences in the last 40 weeks. I've seen too much hurt and heartache and loss. I know that the moment I lay eyes on my daughter, it's all coming out. There's no stopping it. But by God. I'm ready.

Tomorrow, again

Well, I go back to the OB one final time tomorrow morning. I know for a fact Lia has NOT turned. I know exactly where her head is and nope - it has not moved. Last week, I didn't get the answers I wanted. Yes, I have to fast. No, I may not eat afterwards. No, Gram cannot come into the OR. And no, Daddy cannot cut the cord. Worth a shot, right? My .2 pounds was enough to overshadow all of that, though!

This week, my questions are a little bit different. 1.) What time do I have to be where on Friday? Let's do this thing. 2.) What do I have to do to get out of there ASAP? I heard 48 hours. I want 48 hours. I want to be home for lunch on Sunday. 3.) How long do I have to wait before I can wear my baby in a sling?

That's all. Straightforward and simple. I realized today that having all of this time to dwell on the c-section and to prepare for it is probably what's making me so crazy (and irrational). Had they just said, "WHOA! Time to go!" and wheeled me through the doors, I wouldn't have had time to cry, complain, research, blog, and whine. It would have just been a done deal. I can't decide which way is better. Frantic and unaware? Or trying to do EVERY last little thing before we go in?

I decided today that Lia needs a birthday cake. Why?? She can't eat it. I can't eat it. But. That doesn't matter. We're going strawberry picking with our friends on Thursday and I MUST make a fresh strawberry birthday cake for my baby girl for her big day. Maybe I want the nurses to love me? Do I want Daniel to be able to sing "Happy Birthday" to his baby sister? I have no idea, I just know that she must have this cake. Who knows. Maybe I'll understand the why of it later. For now, I'm calling it "the universe of irrationality." For now, it's hormonal and stupid, but it absolutely must be.

At any rate, tomorrow will come again and we'll see the doc one last time before Lia's birth day. Perhaps there's something I haven't thought of, but at this point, I seriously doubt it.

One final note - we went to the beach yesterday. Here's a pic. I love my pregnant belly. I'm sure going to miss it.

Update

Well, she didn't come unraveled, but I did only gain .2 pounds this week. If that's not news worthy, I don't know what is!

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I go back to the OB for another routine check-up. This time I'm prepared with a whole slew of questions. Can Daddy cut the cord? Can I please, please, please at least touch Lia before you take her away? Can Gram come into the OR after Daddy leaves? Do I have to fast before? Can I eat after?

Even though we're still ~12 days away from the big day, I need all of my ducks in a row. It's funny. When I thought the show would start when it started (whether in the middle of the night, the middle of the road, or the middle of the rodeo), I didn't need all of these questions answered. Now that the show has a time and a date assigned to it, I *need* to know all of these minuscule details. I guess because the whole situation is out of my hands, I've become a total control freak. If I can't have it "my way," I must know every intimate detail of "your way."

I hope to hear good news tomorrow. Something like, "You've only gained 3 ounces since last time you were here!" or "Huh. Looks like she might be able to get herself out of this mess afterall," would be nice. I hope to hear yes, yes, yes, no, yes when I ask the questions above. I hope to feel even more at ease about this whole thing than I do right now. A far cry from my rendition of Janis Joplin from last week, but if I can have even a fraction of what I want, it'll do.

Top ten consolations about having a c-section

10. Knowing the time and date of the arrival of my child takes all of the guesswork out of, "Huh. I wonder if we should go to the hospital now?"

9. I have an absolute date and time that I can look forward to no longer getting indigestion from merely looking at food.

8. I get to plan my last meal before labor.

7. I get to enjoy my last meal before labor.

6. I don't have to writhe in pain in front of Daniel for hours (or days) trying to decide if I should head to the hospital.

5. I get to take a shower and shave one last time.

4. I won't have to pack my bag between contractions (thus forgetting my shower shoes and my pillow).

3. We don't have to drag anyone out of bed at 2 a.m. to make a frantic trip to the hospital. Said individuals won't drive like maniacs wondering whether they're going to make it on time.

2. Doug won't have to drop everything in the middle of _____ at work to rush to the hospital and will have plenty of time to arrange for his duties to be carried out prior to his departure.

1. There are 13 days, 10 hours, and 50 minutes until I get to hold a perfect gift from God in my arms.

Which way is up?

Monday I learned that Lia's cord is wrapped firmly around her neck, which is making it all but impossible for her to get into position for delivery. This means I've been scheduled for a c-section for March 18 at 8:15 am. Needless to say, this news totally rocked my world. I was prepared with two lists of questions - a "what if she's turned" list and a "what if she hasn't" list. Neither list entailed any questions regarding a c-section. I just knew she'd either turned or would be able to on her own.

I didn't cry (yet), but it took me a minute to gather my thoughts. My OB walked me through the entire process, lingering on every detail I needed her to. She even hugged me before I left and ensured me that, judging by the ultrasound, Lia is "absolutely beautiful" and "will be worth every bit of it." I know these things. Really I do. But it didn't stop the tears. I got into my car and called Doug. No sooner had I explained why she wasn't turning and what the next steps were that I burst into tears for the first time that day. His concerns were more about our safety - such a good daddy. After we hung up, I called my mom to fill her in as well. Outburst number two. I lost count throughout the day, but needless to say, I cried my eyes out.

Why? What about a c-section has me so turned around that I would cry about it all day? After three full days to mull this over and come to terms with it, it boils down to this:

When I was pregnant with Daniel and nearing the end of my pregnancy, I didn't know what to expect, I had no idea what I was doing, and I was a bit scared. For the last 36 weeks and 5 days, I've been a total pro. I've done this. I know what's going on. I know what to expect. I'm a champ. It's all going to be perfect. As of Monday, that was all a mirage. When it comes down to it, I don't know what to expect, I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm more than a bit scared.

That's still no reason to cry all day, is it? Well, maybe that coupled with raging hormones and a sudden overwhelming feeling of guilt. . . Guilt, you ask? I've heard SO many moms (and dads, for that matter), talk about feeling guilty about what they're "doing" to their firstborn by bringing a new child into the world. Being an only child, I haven't had ANY feelings of guilt, whatsoever. I *want* Daniel to have siblings. I *want* him to learn to share. I *want* to learn to be a mama all over again. So why the guilt?

For the last several weeks (since I've gotten too big and too pregnant to do a lot of the things Daniel and I do, e.g., climb through tunnels, lift him over my head, throw him into his bed, etc.), my mantra has all but been, "As soon as Lia comes, mama can _____ again." Wow. What a lie. I had no idea I was lying, but the new truth of the matter is that as soon as Lia comes, I can't do diddly squat. For 4-6 weeks, I can't lift anything heavier than Lia? What? I can't climb through tunnels, I can't lift him over my head, and I certainly can't throw him into his bed. I envisioned a whole new world where I wore Lia in a sling and carried on with life as if nothing had happened. Well, nothing except for a perfect miracle to call my own, that is. My vision, and my expectations of being able to give Daniel everything he's been missing for the last few weeks, came crashing down. With it came my ego, my emotions, and my tears.

While I am beyond grateful that we're both ok and there is an alternative that will give us what we ultimately desire - a healthy baby and a healthy mama - I can't help but be a little disappointed. In the end, the day will just be a memory and my precious daughter will have erased all of the disappointment and pain I've felt and will feel over the next few weeks. In the end, how she gets here really doesn't matter. In the end, I'll just be delighted to hold my sweet angel and know that we both did the best we could. In the end, we only have one way to go - up.

Janis Joplin

I was inspired by Janis earlier to compose a song to sing to Jesus about my prayer for my baby girl to turn head down. It went a little something like this.

Oh, Lord. Won't you turn my baby girl head down?
I'm counting on you, Lord! Please get her head down!
Prove that you love me, and turn her around.

Oh, Lord. Won't you turn my baby girl head down?

When I was a junior in high school, my American history teacher (Mrs. Peeples) gave us a writing assignment. We were to write a paper on a person who had an influence - any influence - on American history. I chose Janis. My mom had a fit (she was worried that my teacher would think that I was a druggie, sexual deviant like Janis). Mrs. Peeples loved my paper (and the fact that I wrote about someone who wasn't a president or an astronaut). I love Janis. She's bizarre and she can't sing worth. . . well, she can't sing. But man. What a wacko.

So Lord? Please. Some head-down news from the doc in the morning would be more than swell. Thanks for listening.

How things change

As I stood at the stove making our homemade pizza this evening, I had a moment of clarity (or something like it). I was imagining what my 20-year-old (or heck, even 25-year-old) self would have said had you told her that by 31, she'd be a blissfully happy full-time mom who delights in making homemade hummus, managing her household on a less-than-shoestring budget, and making a lifestyle out of raising her family. Then-Sheri would have likely - make that *definitely* - thought you were nuts. Then-Sheri would have also thought that such an existence was a waste. A waste of education, of talent, and of time. Then-Sheri, clearly, was an idiot.

Now-Sheri has (obviously) had an awakening. I now recognize the value of kids raised well, especially since I've been exposed to kids who haven't been. I have always appreciated manners, but until I was the one fully responsible for teaching a child everything - EVERYTHING - did I truly appreciate others who have nice manners. I'm no more forgiving of those who don't have nice manners, I just appreciate those who do have manners even more.

When I say EVERYTHING, I really, truly mean ev-er-y-thing. When making the decision to leave my high-paying, goal-oriented, deadline-driven career, I had NO idea the extent of the breadth and depth (to steal an old industry term) of this lifestyle. It had never occurred to me that had I returned to work, someone else may teach my child how to say his own name. I never considered the implications of having many (too many) completely different rule-enforcers (and the confusion this would cause) for a very young, very spirited child. I just knew in my heart that God had intended for me to raise this child and that couldn't possibly entail working 50 hours and giving my best to somebody else.

I knew then that I would love being with Daniel. I knew that I was making the right choice. I prayed about it, I cried about it, I lied to myself about it (trying to convince myself that I was cut out to be a working mom). I knew that I was in for a challenge. But having never been a mom before, how could I possibly be prepared for what lay ahead? What I didn't know was how completely and fully satisfying this role would be. What I hadn't considered was that this could be my calling. I had so fully immersed myself in my career that it never even so much as entered my mind that I could possibly be cut out for something other than what I was doing. Thank God for subtle messages.

One year

One year ago today, I decided to grow out my hair for Pantene's Beautiful Lengths. In that year, my husband finished school, "Beth" beat cancer, I got pregnant, we found out we're having a girl, and many, many other wonderful things happened. One year later, my hair looks like this:

Well, sometimes it does. Sometimes it's in one pony tail. Sometimes (although not often), it's down. This weekend, my dad and Doug *both* commented on how much they liked my hair long and they really thought I shouldn't cut it. Too. Bad. I did this for Beth, not for style! It's approximately 7.5 inches at its shortest - mere millimeters from being long enough to whack it and go!

My plan is to visit my stylist one last time before Lia arrives to have it cleaned up. Six weeks or so after little lady gets here, WHACK! Stay tuned for more beautiful lengths, a final measurement, and a new do for mama.

Sigh of relief

I haven't blogged in ages, it seems. Doug and I went for our 20 week ultrasound 12 very long weeks ago. We learned two things that were a little unsettling. 1. I had marginal placenta previa (a very common condition that usually doesn't pose a threat to the mom or the baby, but could lead to a c-section and possible death for both - although the latter is extremely uncommon). 2. Lia had/has an echogenic focus (EIF) in her left ventricle (a soft marker that could possibly indicate a chromosomal anomaly - read Downs). While the odds of either worst-case scenario happening were astronomical, it still stressed me out.

I try very hard to keep my blog positive (with the exception of a few venting themed pieces). With these two things weighing on my mind, I guess I've had writer's block.

Today, we went for another ultrasound to check the previa. Praise be to God, it moved clear to the other side of my uterus. No more concerns - no more restrictions. While we were there, I asked the ultrasound tech about the EIF and got another medical professional's opinion on the matter. She was of the opinion that physicians shouldn't even mention the condition. She explained that it's supposed to be there and that some ultrasounds show the EIF as a brighter white. Essentially, it could have just been the way the EIF reflected in that particular view.

I've been stressed out about this for 12 full weeks and nobody bothered to explain that to me? I guess the thing that really irks me about it is that I didn't even realize how stressed I've been until Doug and I breathed a collective sigh of relief at this news. I wasn't even aware of how strongly I'd been affected by this teeny bit of (seemingly) insignificant information until the information was no longer relevant.

Point being, I'm back. I can get on with my life. I can pick Daniel up again. I can breath a little easier. I can stop worrying about having to plan for and pay for a scheduled c-section. I can blog again without letting my stress and my anxiety about these two details spill over into my writing. So. There ya have it.

Happy Thanksgiving, merry Christmas happy 2011, it's a girl - life is good.