Life with Two

I knew things would be different, but it's a different "different" that I was expecting. I think. Who knows...it's been a while since I've slept. At any rate, I think I like it. Maybe even a lot. Which, to be honest, I suspect, since I live in mortal fear of the postpartum depression that wrecked me the first time around. I'm tired, sure. Despite my urging, Emma cluster feeds at night. It's like she doesn't even care about what I want. So selfish. Nevertheless, she feeds like a champ (I believe it was about this time with Ben that I was ready to throw in the towel because the legitimate obstacles seemed insurmountable), and has since our first try. What do I want, perfection? (Yes. I mean no. That would be unreasonable.) Once I feed her and put her back down I am asleep within moments. With Ben I couldn't sleep at all. Ever. During the day, as well, we've easily and effortlessly fallen into a routine. Despite the sleep deprivation, I excitedly play with Ben. It's been a while since I've been able to sit on the floor with him much less crawl around pushing dump trucks and becoming a human slide. There are moments when I can't imagine my life could ever feel so full.

I do have a limit, though. I mean, who did you think I was, Wonderwoman? (Yes. I mean, no. That would be a bit hyperbolic.) While Ben is completely enamored with his sister and wants to do nothing all day but kiss her and smother her, he seems to have no control over his body, which makes me more than a little nervous that he will crush her. He's not all kisses and sunshine, though. He's thrown more tantrums over more ridiculously lame things in the last two days than in the last two years combined. Also, while he apparently had not one potty accident the entire time we were gone, his success:failure ratio has taken a serious turn in the wrong direction since we've all come home.

Last night while cuddling him before bed, I cried for the first time since giving birth. I sat there rocking with my little boy, who seems to have turned 16 during the three days we were apart, and just melted. Since we've all come home I see him differently, feel differently about him...and I didn't expect that. It's not a bad different...it's just...different. It's like overnight he's a different kid and I'm a different mom. And that all hit me with the weight of three tons of bricks when he sweetly asked if he could play with my hair while we prayed. So the tears fell as I realized that really and truly, things are different forever. And for the most part, that's a really good thing. But there's a little piece of me that's sad, that already misses the special bond that Ben and I have always shared. And I know we will always have it. I will never ever love him less. But he will never again be my one and only. I love my new life with two kids. But for just a moment I grieved a little for the loss of my life with just one. So I cried just a little. And Ben looked up at me and said, "Mommy, are you sad?" I said, "No baby. I'm crying because so happy because I love you so much." He replied, "I can make you feel better." Then he gave me a kiss and smiled so brightly and tenderly that I knew in that moment that while things will never be exactly as they were, they will be their very own version of perfect. A new kind of perfect. Because now I have two to love, differently and deeply.

Every night before I go to bed I go into Ben's room and close his window. Sometimes he stirs, sometimes he doesn't. I assume he sleeps through it because he never opens his eyes or acknowledges my presence. Last night I closed his window then bent over him, kissed him, and whispered, "I love you." Without opening his eyes, he quietly whispered, "I love you too."

My heart might explode.

When Brother Met Sister

Ben Meets Emma from Matt Miller on Vimeo.

Happy Birth Day, Dear Emma

I would like to spare you the gory TMI details of Emma's dramatic entrance into the world. Many people are asking for the story, however, so I will try to compromise. If you are uncomfortable with words like dilate and contraction and centimeter, this may not be the post for you. In fact, it may not be the blog for you. So guys, feel free to divert your attention here.

So as for the contractions, they'd been hanging around for three and a half weeks. As of last Friday at my appointment I was dilated to 4cm. On Tuesday the contractions picked up the pace and intensity and became fairly regular. After a few hours (I wanted to make sure they stuck around--we've had false starts before) I called and they told me to come in. So we loaded up and headed to the hospital around 2:00, dropping Ben off at our friends' on the way.

Things were pretty busy in the baby area, so we had to hang out in the waiting room for a while and wait for a room. Pretty much this was the best part ever. For a couple of reasons. A) The E! True Hollywood Story on The Kids of Dawson's Creek; B) Easily the most awkward moment you can have in a labor and delivery waiting room. At this particular hospital, when you check in you go into a small waiting room and pick up a phone on the wall, which calls the desk inside the ward and they come and get you. While Matt and I were watching Everyone Hates Chris (sadly, we only caught the last half of THS), a man and his laboring wife came in. She seemed to be in the middle of a contraction, and, sadly for her, she was not keeping her spirits up quite like I was. Maybe she isn't a big fan of Chris Rock. Or maybe because she is married to a tool. Because as she sat down, her stud of a husband picked up the phone and said, "I'm here with my wife, Karen M---." Then the laboring wife said, "Bridgette." Then he said, "Oops...I mean Bridgette M---." Then he turned to a very uncomfortable Matt and I and said, "Oops. Karen's my ex-wife." Then Bridgette said, "He did that last time, too."

O.M.G.

They went inside and got checked in, then had to come back out and wait with us. And I thought contractions were painful. Sheesh.

Of course contractions are painful. Which is why I was bummed that I continued to have them every three to five minutes for another seven hours and only dilate to 5cm. That's 1cm. In seven hours. They kept offering me an epidural, and I kept telling them I was tough so back off.

At 9:30pm, after a thousand contractions, two walks around the hospital, and 1cm, they admitted me and said they'd go ahead and help speed the process. At 1:30am they put me on pitocin. I continued to refuse the epidural. By 7:45am I had dilated a half a centimeter. I told my nurse I held her personally responsible. I began to think that I was going to have to reach in there and pull out my baby myself. But I didn't. At 8:00am, they broke my water instead.

That's when Mt. Doom opened up and I was swallowed by the fires of Mordor.

The contractions came every minute or two and were so intense and painful I seriously thought I was going to die (or kill someone). I begged for the epidural. They said I had to go through 20 minutes on an IV and the anesthesiologist would come. I said I couldn't. My mom and Matt said I could. But I didn't have to. Because 10 minutes into the bag I could feel Emma's head between my legs.

This is where things get crazy and fuzzy. I will sum up for you: In 45 minutes I went from 5cm to 10. Then I had to hold her in for 10 minutes while nurses frantically scrambled to get the midwife and whatever other crap was necessary to not have a baby on the floor. After 5-10 minutes of pushing, at 9:16am, my beautiful and totally worth it baby girl was here, on my chest, making me fall completely in love and forgiving her for giving me a tour of Hades. We cuddled while I got stitched up, and the rest of the day and night somehow went by. My mom brought Ben after lunch, and after the longest/quickest delivery ever, it was easily the most emotional and incredible time for me. Matt took a video, which is stubbornly refusing to upload, that makes me sob like a little girl every time I watch it.

So that's our story. We're home now with our little princess while Ben gets spoiled by his grandparents. He will come home this afternoon, which I can't wait for because I miss him like crazy. We're tired, I'm sore, but dang-it if we don't have the best finishing medal ever. She's healthy, doing great, and is so far presenting none of the high-maintenance issues her brother did. I'm doing well, Matt is incredible, and I can't wait for Ben to come home so we can start our new life. Also so he can maybe start doing chores.

You probably want some pictures.

Two Peas in a Pod

Baby A

Baby B

Let's play a game...Which is Ben and which is Emma?

Of course Ben is A and Emma is B. But if there is a fire and we lose either's baby pictures, we're good to go with backups. The best part? They look even better together.

She's Here!

Miss Emma Renee

July 27, 2011

9:16am

7 lbs 8 oz

19.5 in

Gorgeous as all get-out

More details later when I'm at home and wearing real underwear.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Another Friday, another morning with the midwife, another "I can't believe you're still here."

The bad news: I'm now dilated to 4. For those keeping score, that's 1cm a week. For the record, when my midwife told me, I completely broke down sobbing. Because I'm a grown-up.

The good news: Enough is enough. If Emma doesn't pick up the pace, I'll be induced on August 2.

The okay news: That's still a week and a half away.

The plan: My midwife's recommendations are to ignore the contractions until I can't ignore them anymore, keep my bag packed and in the car, and live my life. As long as I stay in Southern California, I will be a reasonable distance from a Kaiser hospital and can/should do whatever my little heart desires and my body permits. I am going to desperately try to do this. In my head, I'm adjusting my due date for the third time. I'm going to try to live and think like she will not come sooner, and that she will be born on August 2. Because to maintain hope otherwise would land me in a different kind of hospital in no time.

So in the meantime, I'm living my life. Cleaning my house, doing laundry, running errands, and, most importantly, spending time with my family of three. So far this week, I have gone to the fair, the beach, and the outdoor mall with the fountain. We painted and finished swimming lessons (side note: on the last day of class B jumped off the diving board!). And this weekend B is spending the night with his grandparents while Matt and I get some rest and take a break.

The finish line is in sight.

 

So it Begins

As I'm filling up the Brita in the fridge...


Ben: What are you doing?
Me: Filling up the water.
B: Why?
Me: So we can have cold water to drink.
B: Why?
Me: Because we need water.
B: Why?
Me: Because our bodies need it to work right.
B: Why?
Me: Because our bodies are composed of roughly 70% water.
B: Why?
Me: Because God made us that way.
B: Why?
Me: Because he loves us.
B: Oh. I love trains.


We have officially entered the Why Phase.

How to Go Insane in Just One Easy Step

I know that many check this thing daily for news and get antsy when I don't post.

I have nothing to report. My silence doesn't mean I'm at the hospital, it means nothing new has happened, and I'm on a slow non-stop train ride to Crazy Town.

For two weeks I laid in fear that any move I made would put me back into active labor and I'd have the baby too early. It was nerve-wracking. Too much anxiety. Too many "if this happens, come in"s, and a far-too-similar list of "don't bother coming in unless this happens".

Then the 37 week mark came and went. The goal I was told to try for. I was allowed to get up. I was allowed to let things happen. Every time I've seen a medical professional in the last few weeks I've been told, "any day now" and "I would be shocked if you made it a week."

After a while the lists of the Signs of Labor found in the books and on the websites became useless to me. At any given moment I'd be experiencing at least one, just waiting for another to occur, only to find that when it did the other would go away. I went from being afraid to deliver too early to being afraid this would go on forever. From being afraid to move lest it would spur the contractions on to being afraid to sit down lest the contractions slow down. I am in a state of constant anxiety. For weeks I have been staying at home, or close to home, because I am so dilated that if things start to pick up I'm at risk of a home birth (true story from the midwife, not me being dramatic). I'm so exhausted from my body working so hard that part of me doesn't want to do anything at all. But I've also not been doing anything at all for so long that part of me wants to get the heck out of here and just get crazy. Then as I'm getting dressed to go do something fun I get tired just from that and have to take a 30 minute break just to be able to color with my kid. I feel like I'm slowly losing my mind.

It's not even that I'm so anxious to be done with my pregnancy, or that I'm that so excited to meet my baby, or anything along those lines (although those things are true). It's the psychological torture. I'm thinking the government needs to look into this, because I'm pretty sure that I would tell anyone anything just to be able to end this process. To be able to get on with my life. I feel like prolonged labor would be very effective in the War on Terror.

Some days I decide I'm done waiting, that I'm just going to live my life and she'll come when she comes. So I run errands, clean the house, make plans with friends. Then I have contractions five minutes apart for an hour. I sigh, think "finally," start putting some things together for Ben (my bag's been ready for weeks). Then everything stops. No more contractions, and I feel fine. But still I think that if things got going that precipitously and were that intense, delivery is imminent. I don't want to give birth on the beach (Newport is too fancy for that), so I stick close. Waiting. Then nothing.

Then someone says, "Don't be in a hurry. She'll come soon enough. Then things will only get harder, so you should relax and rest while you have the chance."

And reflexively my fists start to curl and I turn into a fire-breathing dragon.

Okay, that one was me being dramatic. But only a little. This isn't my first rodeo--I know what the end of the road looks like, and the anxiety of labor pales in comparison to my anxiety of caring for a newborn and a three-year-old. But that's the thing--the anxiety. Not the actual experience. That I can handle. It will be hard, and I will cry. But it will actually be happening. I'm a rip the band-aid off kind of gal. It's the slow peeling back of the adhesive that hurts. And if anyone thinks relaxation and rest are an option at this point, I would suggest to lay off the crack.

Intellectually I know that I will not be in labor forever. That is a physical impossibility. I know that God is taking care of me and Emma, that things will happen in His timing, that she'll come when she's ready, etc. I know these things. And throughout the course of any given day I feel good about that. I'm good with waiting. And then I have painful contractions every three minutes, then they stop, and I'm back at square one, having a breakdown because I can't fit the pots and pans back in the cabinet.

Yesterday was a dark day. Today is still up for grabs.

For those of you that are sick of my whining (which, at this point, has got to be everyone on the planet) and just want me to give some news and/or a cute picture of a squishy newborn, I can only offer you this for today: I'm having a lot of contractions. I'm going to go to the beach anyway. But don't worry, I'm bringing my mom, just in case she needs to catch my baby. Then tonight we're going to the fair. I'll be bringing Matt, just in case he needs to catch my baby. At some point today I will probably cry my head off, or at least be on the verge of it. At some point today I will think "It's time." Probably it won't be. Probably I will defy biology and be in labor forever and never have a baby.

Either way, I promise to let you know.

The B Turns *3*

For starters, I can't believe I have a three-year-old. Holy Grown-up, Batman. How did I get here?

Enough about me. Let's talk about my little Chicken McNugget.

He is amazing. I don't even know how to describe him. I think I do all the time, so who needs another gushing manifesto? Right now, my favorite things:

1. When he uses his fingers for things--counting, telling everyone how old he is, telling me how many minutes he should get to play before bed, listing things...it's rad. It takes him a good amount of concentration and effort to "make" the number of fingers he needs in order to make his point, which is even better.

2. Along these lines, he does this thing where he talks about his ideas. He'll raise his pointer finger and say, "I have an idea!" Then he lists the steps to his idea, each represented by a finger and followed by a check. For example, he might say, "I have an idea! Let's do this. (holds up a finger) Eat lunch, check! (holds up another finger) Play with toys, Check! (holds up a finger) Be a dinosaur, check!" I wish I had a video of this, but alas alack he refuses to perform when the camera comes out. Some day.

3. His adult language. And I don't mean swearing. He's got a ridiculous vocabulary and extraordinary grammar. And certain phrases he's clearly gotten from Matt or I (probably mostly the latter). For example, I will say, "Benjamin, you need to pick up your toys." He will then say, "No, you need to listen to me! I can't right now because I don't want to." I have no idea where the sass comes from. I do know that when it comes out I sometimes have a hard time suppressing my laughter and teaching him better ways of communicating.

4. His personality. All of it--even the fierce independence and sass (although sometimes I could do without that...except he comes by it honestly, and I'm sure I had it coming to me). He's so different from me in a lot of ways, though, which I like. He's very outgoing and fearless. He'll have a dance party in the middle of the mall because he likes the song that's playing. He'll say things like, "check out my sweet moves," then do pelvic thrusts and run in place while wildly swinging his arms. He's a Super Boy, and loves to smash trucks and play in the dirt and all those boy things. But he's also very loving, compassionate, and nurturing.

5. His imagination. The kid could play pretend all day, all night. He makes up stories with his toys, creates costumes out of nothing (which is his only option, since apparently boys don't play dress-up, which is the only reason I can think for why it's nigh on impossible to find boys' costume-y things anywhere, and I probably won't become a seamstress and make them myself any time soon), and comes up with elaborate action sequences.

6. His sense of humor. He's so freaking funny. And the best part is that when he says something funny he follows it with, "that was pretty funny."

I could honestly go on forever. Why don't you just come over and play with him? It's a guaranteed good time.

Happy Happy Happy Birthday, Super B. I love you so very much, and I am looking forward to continuing to watch you grow. Thank you for blessing my life.

The Second Time Around

I miss my first pregnancy. You know, the one where you personalize the indentations of the couch, go to bed at 6:30, and sit in the shallow end of the pool and read for four hours a day at eight months. You know, the one where you get to be pregnant. It's different the second time around. Somehow the pregnancy itself is harder (bad morning sickness becomes hyperemesis, bad heartburn becomes reflux, etc.), which seems a little unfair considering the fact that the last time I spent 20 weeks barfing I didn't have an audience. This time I did. Last time it got hot, I sat in the pool. This time I can't. Last time I got tired I rested. This time instead of personalizing the indentations of the couch, I do laundry, cook, clean, and chase an oft demon-possessed wild animal around the house (usually with laundry in hand). I read the same baby books. Only this time when I got to the part where it said, "take it easy, put your feet up," I laughed. Then cried. Then peed a little, because pregnancy-induced incontinence is real (and, of course, worse the second time around). Then I stopped reading, because who are we kidding, I can only read a paragraph of a book at a time before I need to extricate a shorty from under the table and clean up pee.

I'm at 37 weeks, which means I'm a large suburban house with feet (that I can't see). Everything is harder. All of my internal organs are squashed into a cubic inch between my left lung and my heart. I get tired rolling over. And yet today, while simultaneously recovering from a cold, enjoying day 15 of labor (contractions and all), and entertaining a sick but energetic 3-yr-old, I...

got up at 6:00 with the kid
cleaned the kitchen
did 9 loads of laundry (not a joke)
sorted and bagged all of Ben's old clothes to hand down
got cornered in my garage by a neighbor trying to get me to take sides in his war with our other neighbor
cleaned the living room
did a lunch run
cleaned up barf
wiped someone else's nose approximately 364 times
picked up after the 3-yr-old whilst he played and the two grown men whilst they worked
cleaned the kitchen again
went to the grocery store
made dinner


But today was not completely about my hard work. It was also a lot about my stud of a husband and my saint of a step-dad putting in our air conditioner. Glory to God in the highest.

I probably shouldn't be surprised if I had a baby within the next 24 hours. But I probably would be surprised, because I probably won't have a baby, because it would be way too easy for there to be a clear cause and effect that followed the rules of biology. Because having labor last for less than a month is for sissies, and I am not a sissy.

May I please go back on bed rest? I have an air conditioner now.

Practice Makes Perfect

This morning at my appointment I was declared officially off bed rest. At 37 weeks, Miss Emma is A-okay to make her appearance, if she so desires. I am allowed to be as active as I choose--the more active, the more likely she will be spurred toward action. Except yesterday I slipped on the wet ground and twisted my ankle a bit. Not badly--just enough to make it hurt enough so that being active doesn't sound good. Also, I woke up at 4:00am to pee and never fell back asleep, so I'm barely awake. Today may not be the day.

In the meantime, I'm trying to practice with my fancy pants camera. After three years of being too gorgeous, Benjamin is tired of the paparazzi and does not like having his picture taken. This does not bode well for my hobby. Also not helpful? Bed rest. There are only so many interesting pictures you can take of your living room. Today I actually resorted to bribery and caved to manipulation. After sitting on the couch and taking pictures of Buzz Lightyear for 20 minutes, I offered Ben a jelly bean if he would let me take a couple of pictures of him. One step forward for my photography, two steps backward for my parenting. Whatever. I got a couple of shots in.

 

After a minute or so he requested his jelly bean, quit modeling, and went back to his cars. So I went back to Buzz.

 

Eventually I once again began to beg my Tasmanian devil to let me take pictures of him. I was getting really good at Buzz. But Buzz is stationary, and I need practice with a moving target. Ben agreed to being photographed as long as for every picture I took of him, I'd take one of Buzz. Deal.

Obviously this didn't last extra long. But I got some time in with my camera, and a lot of good headshots for Buzz's resume.

Parties and Parks and Other Things

I'm still pregnant. I ended up with a cold...which is just the icing on this delicious labor cake...so in order to preclude getting snot all over my newborn and risk a stay in the NICU, I'm on my butt, trying to will myself healthy. Which means I'm voluntarily extending my bedrest. Which means we probably have a bit of time left. And I'm okay with that. Kind of.

Ben's birthday party went nicely. It was small-ish with close family and friends at the beach. It was overcast and cool--probably no one's ideal beach weather. But after a week or so of sweating my brains out, it was welcome for me. Thank you to everyone who came and played and loved on my sweet boy.

I've been laying low, so I don't really have any fun stories. Yesterday evening I took Ben to the park for some much-needed fresh air.

That's all for now.