Quick! Anyone want to hear the topic of my emotional breakdown yesterday?
So basically, it all boils down to one point. I want to have a baby (good thing, huh?) and it turns out that at this point I don't get one of those without HAVING A BABY.
Right?
Here are my options: stay pregnant. This option sucks. I dream about what it used to be like to walk without thinking about walking. What wonderful ignorance! I used to race around the Emergency Room at work thinking about easy things like what needed to be done next, or possibly what would make someone want to sport a scrub top while wearing khakis and a belt (seems like an strange fashion choice to me, but oddly popular among the male physician sort) without any consideration for my ability to stride along. These days, I don't race anywhere. I sort of-- lumber, I guess. I lumber around the ER, and this is the new commentary in my head: "ow. ow. ow. ow." Oh, and the occasional "make another pregnancy joke at my expense and--pelvic pain or not--I swear I'll manage to balance long enough to kick you solidly in the shins."
For example, sometime last week I slowly and painfully made my way from one end of our 70+ bed ER to the other to provide a patient with some substance abuse resources. Right about the time I'm asking about the patient's withdrawal history, his friend glances up and notices, apparently for the first time, that the girl standing across the bed from him with the list of methadone clinics is visibly pregnant. I presume he felt his next comment was brimming with such incredible genius, so hilarious in its originality, that he simply could not possibly be bothered to wait until the end of my conversation, or, for that matter, the end of the sentence I was in the middle of before interjecting.
"Wow," he said, flatly. "It's a good thing you already work, you know, in a hospital or whatever. Just in case, you know, something, uh, accidentally falls out of there." Gestures helpfully at my swollen abdomen as if waiting for response.
Blink. Blink blink.
So that's option one, and it includes a million trips to the bathroom and lack of bladder control and exhaustion and pain.
Option two is have a baby.
Don't get me wrong. There's clearly a major upside here. Also, I presume it does become the only physically possible option at some point in the future, but let's ignore that for a minute the way I did during my emotional breakdown yesterday.
Having a baby requires pushing that baby out. And then dealing with the physical aftermath of pushing that baby out. And then there's no sleep for what seems like the foreseeable future and discomfort of innumerable types and bodily locations. Plus I have a two year old this go-round who I fear is quite smart enough to get in all kinds of trouble while I am caring for the wee one.
So at this point I'm faced with the following two scenarios.
1: Pain and exhaustion.
2: Pain and exhaustion.
This is the part where you remind me of the delicious way a new baby smells, with a little bald head nestled under my chin. (Or hairy head. I'm open to that, too.) Little tiny feet and fingers and round soft little cheeks all connected to those warm little bodies. Can someone just remind me of that part? Because right now I'm caught between the horrors of maternity waist bands and postpartum mesh underwear, and I can't decide which is worse.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Date night
After spending two long days at a professional conference this past Friday and Saturday, I was in the mood for a relaxing date night. Luckily for me, we already had one planned! Stacey and I had scored the boys some Jazz tickets for the Kings game on Saturday night so they could see Jimmer play. They had so much fun watching him play well in college that we thought seeing him in person in the NBA would be a blast. We were right!
When we eat out with the Ortons, chances are decent we'll end up at Joe Morley's BBQ, and it definitely didn't disappoint. We stuffed our faces with delicious smoked meat, and then headed downtown for the game.
Pretty much the most impressive accomplishment for the night, at least as far as I'm concerned, is that I survived the trek in from the car and up to the very. top. row. of the nosebleeds without going in to labor. It was close, but don't worry. Sherm is still right where he belongs.
(Now that it's two days later and I'm remembering how it feels to still be pregnant, I'm wondering if that's a good thing.)
Watching Jimmer was lots of fun, but the best part of the night was seeing the Jazz squeak out a victory. It was a little scary to end up with such a close game when the Kings are such a terrible team, but we got the W, so I guess all's well that ends well.
When we eat out with the Ortons, chances are decent we'll end up at Joe Morley's BBQ, and it definitely didn't disappoint. We stuffed our faces with delicious smoked meat, and then headed downtown for the game.
Pretty much the most impressive accomplishment for the night, at least as far as I'm concerned, is that I survived the trek in from the car and up to the very. top. row. of the nosebleeds without going in to labor. It was close, but don't worry. Sherm is still right where he belongs.
(Now that it's two days later and I'm remembering how it feels to still be pregnant, I'm wondering if that's a good thing.)
Watching Jimmer was lots of fun, but the best part of the night was seeing the Jazz squeak out a victory. It was a little scary to end up with such a close game when the Kings are such a terrible team, but we got the W, so I guess all's well that ends well.
Friday, January 20, 2012
To Sherman
Dearest Sherman-child,
Hello, son! Mama here, just checking in to see how things are going. You're 34 weeks into your hot tub time, and I sure hope you're enjoying yourself in there. (Because, let's be honest. That would sort of make one of us.) You seem to enjoy flopping around, stretching out, and even the occasional swan dive on to what probably looks like a fun bouncy pool toy but is, in fact, my bladder. Don't worry your pretty little head, though, it's ok. Mama doesn't mind. Just keep squirming around all you want; it eases her worries.
Here's the thing. Carrying you around has turned out to be much harder than growing your older sister was. To make a long story short, it hurts. Like, mostly all the time. My pelvis and hips feel stiff and sore, the way I imagine old people feel as they shuffle along. (Maybe a walker with tennis balls on the bottom would help?) The effort of rearranging both of us in bed is the most painful thing I do all day long, and the fact that it takes like ten minutes to accomplish makes for a lot of unflattering grunting and groaning for your father to endure.
Also, and let's not go in to too much detail here, but sometimes I still throw up, and the problem with that is that my bladder is growing ever less competent to safely withstand the stress of all that yuking. Just saying.
Mama is trying very hard not to complain, though, and to be fair, there are all kinds of things I have to be grateful for this time around. Prilosec, for one. I cannot describe the fantastic, amazing joy it is to have relief from the horrible heartburn I experienced with your sister. Look at me, reclining in bed without a care in the world!
And speaking of bed, we have a new addition to our family (besides you, I mean.) Meet Allister, the black body pillow I scored from Target for under 10 bucks. He's basically a permanent resident on our bed these days, so Daddy thought we might as well go ahead and name him so he felt less like a stranger, and, you know, more a part of the family. I thought it might help Daddy feel a little less jealous, but somehow when Daddy curls up with me in his arms at night and discovers I'm already spooning with Allister, I get the sense there's still some burning resentment there. I tried telling Daddy that if he would like to hold my leg all night long in a way that relieves the pressure on my pelvis, I'd toss Allister down to the dog.
Amazingly, Allister has stayed.
I'm grateful for all kinds of other things, too. I'm grateful for the lack of snow since normally I slip on the ice at least once per year. I thought for sure my relaxed joints plus crazy center of gravity changes plus not being able to see my feet would make for a terrible equation ending in a pregnant girl splayed out all over the drive way, but so far, so good. And yes, I'm knocking on wood right now.
I am also grateful for nine o'clock church services. Since I normally work all night Saturdays, it's about a billion times easier to just stay up and go to church than when we met at 11:00. (The teenager in me is completely shocked at this moment.) Let's not get started on the horror of the 1:00 (read: naptime!) block we endured most of the year. And yes, we have tried out all three of those options in the last 13 months. Our chapel remodel is finally complete, though, and that means I am also grateful that we no longer have to borrow a church that is, gasp!, a couple of miles away.
I am grateful for the little copper-haired ball of energy and happiness that is your big sister. One little "I yuv'a too, Mommy!" and I can't imagine a better thing in the world than filling a whole house with babies, lack of bladder control or not.
And oh, how thankful I am for your father. I'm sure there is something about him that isn't absolutely perfect in every way, but basically the only thing I can come up with at this point is that he doesn't like scrubbing the George Foreman grill any more than I do. While I feel like I've been a lot less crazy than I was with Bug (it's a girl thing, maybe) he has still dealt with a pregnant lady for 8 months with nary a complaint.
I am grateful for you. If all the waddling and hurting means you make it safely from being a Sherman wiggling around inside and happily flashing your man parts for all the world to see every time we take your picture to a soft, (probably) bald, delicious-smelling ball of actual baby with an actual name, then I will do it. I'd do it for 9 years rather than 9 months if I had to.
For the record, I'm still really glad I don't have to.
Love you to the moon,
Mama
P.S. We're still taking suggestions on what in the world to name you. If you have a preference, you'd better fill your mother with inspiration lickety-split. Otherwise, you might end up with Harold or something.
Hello, son! Mama here, just checking in to see how things are going. You're 34 weeks into your hot tub time, and I sure hope you're enjoying yourself in there. (Because, let's be honest. That would sort of make one of us.) You seem to enjoy flopping around, stretching out, and even the occasional swan dive on to what probably looks like a fun bouncy pool toy but is, in fact, my bladder. Don't worry your pretty little head, though, it's ok. Mama doesn't mind. Just keep squirming around all you want; it eases her worries.
Here's the thing. Carrying you around has turned out to be much harder than growing your older sister was. To make a long story short, it hurts. Like, mostly all the time. My pelvis and hips feel stiff and sore, the way I imagine old people feel as they shuffle along. (Maybe a walker with tennis balls on the bottom would help?) The effort of rearranging both of us in bed is the most painful thing I do all day long, and the fact that it takes like ten minutes to accomplish makes for a lot of unflattering grunting and groaning for your father to endure.
Also, and let's not go in to too much detail here, but sometimes I still throw up, and the problem with that is that my bladder is growing ever less competent to safely withstand the stress of all that yuking. Just saying.
Mama is trying very hard not to complain, though, and to be fair, there are all kinds of things I have to be grateful for this time around. Prilosec, for one. I cannot describe the fantastic, amazing joy it is to have relief from the horrible heartburn I experienced with your sister. Look at me, reclining in bed without a care in the world!
And speaking of bed, we have a new addition to our family (besides you, I mean.) Meet Allister, the black body pillow I scored from Target for under 10 bucks. He's basically a permanent resident on our bed these days, so Daddy thought we might as well go ahead and name him so he felt less like a stranger, and, you know, more a part of the family. I thought it might help Daddy feel a little less jealous, but somehow when Daddy curls up with me in his arms at night and discovers I'm already spooning with Allister, I get the sense there's still some burning resentment there. I tried telling Daddy that if he would like to hold my leg all night long in a way that relieves the pressure on my pelvis, I'd toss Allister down to the dog.
Amazingly, Allister has stayed.
I'm grateful for all kinds of other things, too. I'm grateful for the lack of snow since normally I slip on the ice at least once per year. I thought for sure my relaxed joints plus crazy center of gravity changes plus not being able to see my feet would make for a terrible equation ending in a pregnant girl splayed out all over the drive way, but so far, so good. And yes, I'm knocking on wood right now.
I am also grateful for nine o'clock church services. Since I normally work all night Saturdays, it's about a billion times easier to just stay up and go to church than when we met at 11:00. (The teenager in me is completely shocked at this moment.) Let's not get started on the horror of the 1:00 (read: naptime!) block we endured most of the year. And yes, we have tried out all three of those options in the last 13 months. Our chapel remodel is finally complete, though, and that means I am also grateful that we no longer have to borrow a church that is, gasp!, a couple of miles away.
I am grateful for the little copper-haired ball of energy and happiness that is your big sister. One little "I yuv'a too, Mommy!" and I can't imagine a better thing in the world than filling a whole house with babies, lack of bladder control or not.
And oh, how thankful I am for your father. I'm sure there is something about him that isn't absolutely perfect in every way, but basically the only thing I can come up with at this point is that he doesn't like scrubbing the George Foreman grill any more than I do. While I feel like I've been a lot less crazy than I was with Bug (it's a girl thing, maybe) he has still dealt with a pregnant lady for 8 months with nary a complaint.
I am grateful for you. If all the waddling and hurting means you make it safely from being a Sherman wiggling around inside and happily flashing your man parts for all the world to see every time we take your picture to a soft, (probably) bald, delicious-smelling ball of actual baby with an actual name, then I will do it. I'd do it for 9 years rather than 9 months if I had to.
For the record, I'm still really glad I don't have to.
Love you to the moon,
Mama
P.S. We're still taking suggestions on what in the world to name you. If you have a preference, you'd better fill your mother with inspiration lickety-split. Otherwise, you might end up with Harold or something.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Firsts
The Schmoops had a rare day off this last Monday (because the company he works for, unlike mine, actually celebrates Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. In what strikes me as totally confusing, after totally ignoring the civil rights hero's birthday altogether, my employer will pay me time and a half for Pioneer Day. Strange.) We celebrated by using a gift card we had to take Bug to her first movie. We saw The Muppets, mostly because Mama couldn't even imagine the horror of sitting through a couple of minutes of Alvin and the Chipmunks, let alone a few hours.
Even though Mama wouldn't let her have any popcorn (dangerous, and also, gross) she had a great time. We arrived in plenty of time to take a few pictures with Daddy's cell phone and its overly enthusiastic flash before the movie started, but even the pre-preview commercials were fascinating to a 2 year old.
 |
| Focused. Obviously. |
The next night, Paddy scored some Jazz tickets from the radio, and had the pleasure of watching the Jazz march all over the Clippers in person. He took his second favorite lady in the world since the #1 gal was working.
 |
| First Jazz game date! |
Their seats were not fantastic, but they had a great time anyway. Bug charmed the pants off of all of Grammy Lu's coworkers at half time and got a huge kick out of the Jazz Bear's antics.
Daddy even got some smooches at the end of the date night. Lucky guy.
Come to think of it, it seems our family has the Larry H. Miller group to thank for basically all of our fun this week. Minus the cute toddler and her smooches. We have ourselves to thank for that one, and also my uterus. It did all the work.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?
Here's the thing. In real life, I am 28 years old. I have a husband and a dog and a mortgage and a big girl job. I'm knocking on a door labeled Two Kids, for heaven's sake, but I still have a hard time thinking of myself as a real adult. Wasn't it yesterday that my 17 year old self was flirting with the Schmoops over MSN Messenger from my parent's basement when I should have been writing an essay for Mr. Wood's American History class?
Paddy recently brought home an adorable little kid sized potty for Bug to familiarize herself with. We're not quite ready to start potty training yet, but we figured it couldn't hurt to introduce the concept, at least in conversation. (Subliminal indoctrination, maybe?)
So there was this moment last night where time sort of screeched to a halt. I looked around. Schmoopsie was seated on the edge of the bathtub directly across from my spot on the toilet, his knees nearly bumping into mine. Bug was tucked into the corner in between us, excitedly perched on her new little potty with her elephant jammies bunched around her ankles. I held one of her hands, and Paddy held the other. She was smiling from ear to ear, her already poopy diaper discarded in her rush to try out her new appliance. I looked around at us: daddy, mommy, toddler, almost-baby.
And I asked myself, how did I get here?
Paddy read the look on my face, and smiled wryly.
"This is a long way from all that kissing we did in high school, isn't it?"
Right? And even though that naive 17 year old might have thought she was dreaming of this moment all those years ago, it is SO MUCH BETTER in person.
Paddy recently brought home an adorable little kid sized potty for Bug to familiarize herself with. We're not quite ready to start potty training yet, but we figured it couldn't hurt to introduce the concept, at least in conversation. (Subliminal indoctrination, maybe?)
So there was this moment last night where time sort of screeched to a halt. I looked around. Schmoopsie was seated on the edge of the bathtub directly across from my spot on the toilet, his knees nearly bumping into mine. Bug was tucked into the corner in between us, excitedly perched on her new little potty with her elephant jammies bunched around her ankles. I held one of her hands, and Paddy held the other. She was smiling from ear to ear, her already poopy diaper discarded in her rush to try out her new appliance. I looked around at us: daddy, mommy, toddler, almost-baby.
And I asked myself, how did I get here?
Paddy read the look on my face, and smiled wryly.
"This is a long way from all that kissing we did in high school, isn't it?"
Right? And even though that naive 17 year old might have thought she was dreaming of this moment all those years ago, it is SO MUCH BETTER in person.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Sunny California
On Saturday, the girls in the fam took our yearly day trip to California for some shopping. (Remember last year when we inexplicably took the only picture of the day in front of Frederick's of Hollywood?) This time Lalli, Ashley, Brenn, and I had a great time bouncing all around the outdoor mall in nearly 70 degree weather.
Let me just mention that again for emphasis:
Seventy. Degree. Weather.
It was fantastic. We all agreed that the only thing keeping us in Utah is, well, each other. So basically, that's it. Hey there! Friends and family, I'm talking to YOU! We're all channeling our pioneer heritage and moving out in one big mass exodus.
I was pleasantly surprised by my ability to find a few cute things for my wardrobe despite the current size of my uterus. I'm at that rough pregnant lady stage where I hate every single thing that I own that still fits me, but I refuse to purchase one more item with the word 'maternity' on the label. Luckily, I scored a lovely detailed cardigan and a blouse-y top, both of which work now AND after Sherm makes his debut, along with a pretty sparkley sash for belting the sweater around my belly.
After hours and hours of hauling Sherman around, we were definitely ready for some sustenance. With the unfaltering assistance of Ashley's phone GPS, we found ourselves safely on Olvera Street, wolfing down tacitos and teasing the boys back home for missing out on all the fun.
A few minutes after this picture was taken, I scraped the last bite of beans off my plate, and placed my folded napkin on top. During the telling of what was surely a super interesting story, my hand hit the edge of that (luckily empty) plate and launched my napkin into outer space. When it re-entered the atmosphere, it was on a direct trajectory for the woman at the next table. There was simply nothing I could do to stop it. As if in slow motion, I watched that white paper napkin fall from the heavens and land squarely in her lap.
The outside of the napkin was dry, and I apologized profusely through my bouts of embarrassed laughter, but that woman was not the least bit amused. The way I see it, she should count her many blessings because we only narrowly averted true disaster. Those plates come from the counter COVERED in sauce and refried beans. A mere 7 minutes earlier, and we would both be showered in famous avocado sauce from head to toe.
We missed Kimmi this year on our trip. Rather than dancing around in the sunshine, she was busy floundering in feet of snow in the good ol' Alaska.
The biggest victory of the day, at least in my book, was landing safely back on the snowy tarmac in SLC with Sherm and all his amniotic fluid safely tucked away where it should be. I like California and all, but I sure didn't want to pop out a baby unexpectedly there.
Let me just mention that again for emphasis:
Seventy. Degree. Weather.
It was fantastic. We all agreed that the only thing keeping us in Utah is, well, each other. So basically, that's it. Hey there! Friends and family, I'm talking to YOU! We're all channeling our pioneer heritage and moving out in one big mass exodus.
I was pleasantly surprised by my ability to find a few cute things for my wardrobe despite the current size of my uterus. I'm at that rough pregnant lady stage where I hate every single thing that I own that still fits me, but I refuse to purchase one more item with the word 'maternity' on the label. Luckily, I scored a lovely detailed cardigan and a blouse-y top, both of which work now AND after Sherm makes his debut, along with a pretty sparkley sash for belting the sweater around my belly.
After hours and hours of hauling Sherman around, we were definitely ready for some sustenance. With the unfaltering assistance of Ashley's phone GPS, we found ourselves safely on Olvera Street, wolfing down tacitos and teasing the boys back home for missing out on all the fun.
A few minutes after this picture was taken, I scraped the last bite of beans off my plate, and placed my folded napkin on top. During the telling of what was surely a super interesting story, my hand hit the edge of that (luckily empty) plate and launched my napkin into outer space. When it re-entered the atmosphere, it was on a direct trajectory for the woman at the next table. There was simply nothing I could do to stop it. As if in slow motion, I watched that white paper napkin fall from the heavens and land squarely in her lap.
The outside of the napkin was dry, and I apologized profusely through my bouts of embarrassed laughter, but that woman was not the least bit amused. The way I see it, she should count her many blessings because we only narrowly averted true disaster. Those plates come from the counter COVERED in sauce and refried beans. A mere 7 minutes earlier, and we would both be showered in famous avocado sauce from head to toe.
We missed Kimmi this year on our trip. Rather than dancing around in the sunshine, she was busy floundering in feet of snow in the good ol' Alaska.
The biggest victory of the day, at least in my book, was landing safely back on the snowy tarmac in SLC with Sherm and all his amniotic fluid safely tucked away where it should be. I like California and all, but I sure didn't want to pop out a baby unexpectedly there.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
100 months pregnant
Not really. It sometimes feels that way, though. Here are the first belly shots of this pregnancy, and yes, that means I'm a bad mom. Oops. It's just that I'm rarely ready for work (when I look presentable) early enough for a photo shoot and T-R-U-S-T me, you do not want a shot from after I've spent late night hours in the ER. Have I ever told you about the oily mist that exists at the door to the ER, instantly ruining any attempt at fantastic hair and eliminating all makeup? No? Well, I swear it happens. Ask anyone who's worked there, and also it's the only way to explain the way I find myself looking halfway through my shift.
Anyway, here we are at 31 weeks, 4 days. Forgive the quality; I was using the self-timer and corralling a 2-year-old at the same time.
Here's a comparison of what I looked like at about the same time with Floyd, just for comparison.
I feel rounder this time, and lower, too. I am ridiculously short-waisted, so it's probably not noticeable to anyone but me and the Schmoopse, but this kiddo leaves me with more room to breathe and less ability to walk. Pregnancy is all about trade offs.
The room to breathe, by the way, is nice, but does not make it any easier to sing in church. I'm so emotional that any darn hymn in the world brings me immediately to tears, so I've given up trying altogether. Just TRY walking into church services, stomach swollen and heavy with first boy-child, and then give Away In A Manger a whirl. It's impossible.
Doctor's orders indicate this baby will not remain in my belly a zillion years like his sister, so it's looking like his birthday will be in February. That's NEXT MONTH, folks.
Wow.
Anyway, here we are at 31 weeks, 4 days. Forgive the quality; I was using the self-timer and corralling a 2-year-old at the same time.
Here's a comparison of what I looked like at about the same time with Floyd, just for comparison.
The room to breathe, by the way, is nice, but does not make it any easier to sing in church. I'm so emotional that any darn hymn in the world brings me immediately to tears, so I've given up trying altogether. Just TRY walking into church services, stomach swollen and heavy with first boy-child, and then give Away In A Manger a whirl. It's impossible.
Doctor's orders indicate this baby will not remain in my belly a zillion years like his sister, so it's looking like his birthday will be in February. That's NEXT MONTH, folks.
Wow.
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