the happiest ending

At long last, baby Anderson Lee:

Our sweet baby boy was born as scheduled on September 17, weighing in at a very sturdy 8lb 15oz. We entered the OR at 11:00am, and shortly after, the room was filled with the sounds of the sweetest newborn screeches and the laughter and sobs of two very blissed out, thankful, amazed parents. Parents! Us! It was only when I heard Dr. S tell me he saw our baby's (huge) head and was about to take him out that I let go of my fears and really, truly let myself believe that our baby had made it, he was here, one journey ending as another very exciting one began. Life is so very, very good. We are happier than we had ever imagined we could be. From here....I think it's time to close this blog. It seems most fitting to let this post be the finale, and move on to a new place, a place I can fill with mundane mommy type ramblings and incessent pictures of little A that only our nearest and dearest will appreciate (or politely pretend to appreciate). I don't know. What I do know is that the little man snoozing in my lap, making sweet sleeping baby squeaks, has made us complete. At last!

ONE WEEK TO BABY TIME

Remember this guy?

It's Grimace. Grimace from McDonaldland. He hung with that nasty Hamburglar and the creepiest of all creeptastic pedophile clowns, Ronald.

This has what to do with my normally me-centric blog? Well, I went out walking the other day. As I'm standing there letting Griffin sniff a light pole (okay, and trying to catch my breath), I see something alarming. It's a shadow. A dumpy looking, Grimace shaped shadow. For a brief, very scary moment, I swore Grimace was standing behind me about to pounce. Then the moment got even scarier....that's MY shadow! My shadow, dear friends, looks like Grimace. A clear indication that it's time to have this baby and (as soon as the doctor greenlights hard core workouts) whip my formerly skinny ass into a shape that doesn't remotely conjure up an image of a big dumpy McDonalds character.

So vanity aside, now for the very exciting news.......BABY HAS A BIRTHDAY! Assuming all goes as planned and my body doesn't pull some crazy miraculous stunt (the odds of such event according to my doctor: 3%), our baby boy will be welcomed to the world a week from today. Wednesday, September 17. The doctor appointment yesterday went about how I had figured it would- baby is big and looks blessedly healthy, mom is not making any progress, GD is still a factor, doctor is not wanting to wait this out and see a 9+ pounder. All of that in mind, we agreed to schedule a c-section for next week. I still have a Tuesday appointment and one last (more painfully awkward than painful) internal exam, and if progress has been made, we may talk induction instead. But given the fact that my closest female relatives are prone to 42 week deliveries of 9+lb babies and my cervix appears to be as stubborn as its' owner, I'm thinking we know where this is headed. And I'm surprisingly calm about the idea of my abdomen being sliced- my doctor is known to be a great surgeon and truthfully, I don't care WHAT has to happen, as long as it ends with J and I holding our safe and healthy little guy 7 days from now. WOW. There was one brief moment of panic as we got into the car after the appointment when J, ever the poster child for "speak....then think" looked at me with something in his eyes that could have been fear or boyish elation and said 'THEY'RE GOING TO TAKE YOUR UTERUS OUT OF YOUR BODY AND LAY IT ON A TABLE". Gee, honey, thanks for that comforting little visual! I'll chalk it up to pre-baby jitters though, something he hasn't shown much of to this point. But something about having his baby's birth scheduled, KNOWING he is really, truly coming, is getting my normally so-laid-back-he's-comatose honey a little worked up, making him sweetly dumbfounded about all that is to come.

Needless to say, I'm beside myself with excitement about the impending birth date. I can't watch Baby Story without bawling my eyes out, even when the couple having a baby has the most obnoxious of Jersey accents and puffy bangs and the mom is wearing a scrunchie. Even then, I cry. I think about hearing his very first cry and the sight of J holding him for the very fist time, and I cry. I watch J move the video monitor around the nursery (for the 10th time) to get the very best picture of the crib, and I cry. I don't quite cry but I do get all excited when I glance into the backseat and see a baby seat, professionally installed and ready to hold our most valuable cargo. I also cry when I puke in my mouth during the night, but that's not very sentimental at all. I am so ready. We are so ready, even if only 1 of us realizes it. The pedi is chosen, the parents' flights booked, the hospital bag packed, the pet arrangements handled.....we're ready.

So now, I get through the next week. Tick tock. I thank the TV gods for new fall series, trashy as they may be, and my resulting bloated DVR list. I cuddle with our pets and tell them over and over that they're still our babies, to hang in there through the craziness. I pray that this ridiculous Hurricane Ike is being overblown and does NOT bring 73mph winds to Austin on Saturday night. As eager and anxious as I am, I try to enjoy these last 7 days as a two-some with a quiet and clean house.

Okay, and I also pray that I'll come out of the hospital skinny-jeans ready, pain free and well rested, and looking not one iota like Grimace. A girl can dream.

he's full term!

Well, folks, I'm proud to report that Baby is FULL TERM! He could come out today and not be premature! I could call my doctor in labor and have that be a GOOD thing! I'm feeling a little in awe at the thought of it, and I'm hoping and praying that time continues to move at the speedy pace it has been going by as of late. Many a new mommy has warned me "the last month will drag". Week 1 of the last month (aka, week 36) went by in the blink of an eye. Probably because I was really busy. Busy doing what, you ask? Well......napping, watching crap TV, peeing every 3.5 minutes, walking my dog, watching my feet swell to epic proportions, reading literature (Tori Spelling's memoir, US Weekly, etc.), honing my Wheel of Fortune skills each weeknight at 6:30pm cdt, and refolding baby clothes for about the 10th time just for an excuse to hang out in the nursery. I really don't know how I fit it all in. Skills.

We saw Dr. S on Tuesday and were truly blown away by the ultrasound images. It's a BABY. He has lips, and they MOVE. He has little elbows! Not that I was ever expecting a lipless, elbowless child.....but still- wow! My body made LIPS AND ELBOWS. The sight of his little face really moved me, really made it feel possible that our baby boy, our child, is soon to come out and meet us. Wow (again). No progress as of Tuesday, but that's really okay. Really! I'm stubbornly refusing to cave to impatience just yet, and telling myself I'll go to at least 40 weeks is the best way to do that. Baby was measuring a little closer to normal again (just a week and a half or so ahead, as opposed to the 2+ weeks ahead we've seen in the past), which was a relief. Dr. S didn't seem entirely convinced (since so many ultrasounds have shown him measuring large), so we'll have another ultrasound on the 9th to check in.

Here's mama at 37 weeks and baby at 36 weeks!

is this your first?

Something about a pregnant woman invites conversation, observation, and curious questions that would be considered very nosy under normal circumstances. For the most part, I normally enjoy the chatter (or on a crabby day, tolerate it compliantly). While other pregnant women complain and vent annoyance at being smiled and stared at in line at the pharmacy or questioned for the 50th time about when baby is due/if it's a boy or girl/if the baby has a name, part of me screams (inside) "JUST BE HAPPY YOU'RE PREGNANT! THERE ARE WORSE PROBLEMS YOU COULD BE HAVING!" I refuse to allow irritation at the public's curiousity of something so miraculous, so full of joy. I feel so fortunate to BE pregnant that it seems wrong to wish the attention away. I'm still part of that "other" club. The one where nothing is taken for granted, the one where complaining and bitching and moaning about the minor inconveniences that come along with pregnancy feels somehow disingenuous- a betrayal of those who are still in the journey, still wanting and hurting.

One line of conversation, however, is a problem for me. It touches a nerve, as innocent as the question is, as simple and harmless as the answer may seem to most: "Is this your first baby?"

Literally, physically, in every way that matters to anyone of aquaintance status or less, to all those people just making conversation with a pregnant woman....yes. Yes, this is our first child. This is the first baby we've seen move through the skin on my belly, the first baby to have a full name and a nursery and showers, the first baby that (we hope and pray and believe) will live with us in our home and make us a family. I know there's one right answer to the question- one proper, socially acceptable, non-insane/disturbing answer. I know the topic of loss and death is just not appropriate in casual conversation. I know I don't want to cheapen our other babies' memories by flippantly discussing them with a stranger. TMI, right? But still....there's a pang in my heart every time I smile and answer "yes, our first". Because while he is well on his way to being our firstborn, he is not our first baby. There are two others. Two seperate, beloved souls out there that belong here, two babies who were alive, two children we won't have the joy of holding in the hospital, or kissing way boo-boos for, or seeing off on the school bus one emotional fall morning. Some would argue they never existed, a heartless and cruel thought bred of naivity or fortunate ignorance or a belief in a definition of "life" vastly different from my own that insults me, that takes something away from me. They DID exist. They were planned for, they were loved, the sight of each beating heart was cherished on an ultrasound screen. They were celebrated and acknowledged. A steak dinner out the night I told J about our first pregnancy, our first baby on the way. We alternated between disbelieving laughter, grinning at each other across the table, and asking ourselves what, exactly, we were supposed to do next, what we needed to buy, who we needed to tell. (So innocent, so new, so trusting in the process!) The second time, we laughed and hugged and held each other close in a hotel room far from home, a positive test clutched shakily in my hand, both scared to death and ecstatic at our 2nd chance, our 2nd baby....and later that night, J surreptitiously drank his own beer and the one I'd ordered to keep our happy secret under wraps from the friends that surrounded us at the bar. A secret between the two of us, an existance only we knew of...but an existance nonetheless. So nobody can tell me they weren't real. They affected our lives. Their presence, as brief as it may have been, changed our course, changed our lives.

I don't have a point here, but when this question came up again this afternoon as the mail woman made happy chit-chat and asked with a broad smile if this baby is our first, and I smiled and told the well meaning woman "yes, this is our first"....something inside of me just....cracked. I hoped that in that moment, those other babies weren't listening. I wondered if they heard, if they thought they were forgotten. Replaced. Fading. Behind my sunglasses, tears welled in my eyes, and I excused myself to get into the safety of my house and for just a while, mourn those losses once again. Make sure they understood they're not forgotten and not denied, my tears the only offering I had to make this known. As I sat on the staircase crying, this baby inside my belly, this to-be-firstborn kicked and wiggled and I felt torn. Torn between the sadness for what was to be, and the breathtaking, dizzying joyousness for what is to come in 5 short weeks or less. And I felt once more like I WILL be a better mommy to this little boy because I know how damn fortunate we will be to know him in a REAL way, a way we can touch and feel, a way the outside world understands and accepts. I'll thank him in my heart each and every day for coming to us at long last, and in times when we're stressed or tired or frustrated, I know we'll have the wisdom to understand how blessed we are for all of it. So for that, I thank our TurkeyBaby, our Grover....for all they taught me just for being, for the new depths of loving they've made me capable of.

i. am. so. hot.

I just heard on the news that this, the summer of 2008, is the hottest on record in Austin for the past 83 years, the 3rd hottest in all of this city's history. We're on day 45 of 100+ degree temperatures. I've accepted the fact that any movement, even from the upstairs couch to the downstairs couch, will bring on a slick layer of sweat. My walks commence with me in a cold shower, clothes directly into the wash, glass after glass of icy water until my body temperature returns to the double digits. There's no relief in sight, so says the perky blonde weather woman and her annoyingly chipper "no end in sight, folks". My point is, I'm hot. Smoking hot. So hot that sometimes during my twice daily walk, I swear my feet might burst into flames. I sometimes sit in my closet, gaze at my mohair sweaters and Ugg boots and denim jeans, and wipe a tear from my eye as visions of snowflakes dance in my head. My at home wardrobe now consists of just a few bland, completely unfashionable staples formerly reserved for workouts....sports bra, tank top, cotton shorts. Anything else is just too hot. I give up, I cry uncle, I resign myself to being a definite fashion "no" during these dog days of summer. On those rare occasions where I'm required to be seen in public by people whose opinion of my appearance actually matters, I pull on a sundress. One strapless, black sundress. The last remaining frontier in wardrobe choices that still fit comfortably without encouraging extra sweat. Church, OB office, dinner with a friend....count on me turning up in that trusty frock.

And for the record, it's with great chagrin that I lament the weather. I'm notoriously anti-winter, and spent each and every negative wind chill day of my midwestern life cursing the frigid climate and whining to anyone within earshot about my contempt for winter. It was, in truth, equally MY idea to move to Texas, so tired I was of ice and snirt (snow + dirt) and Columbia coats as far as the eye could see. I remind myself each day how lovely fall and winter will be- the mild climate so perfectly suited for strolling with the wee one. Almost there. August is 1/3 complete.

34 weeks! 2 weeks until weekly OB appointments begin. 3 weeks until full term. No more than 6 weeks until I can finally, finally reconcile with my secret lover...the (94g carb, 72g sugar) Peanut Buster Parfait. Oh, gooey fatty goodness and former summer staple, how you're missed. The term "excited" doesn't do any justice in explaining my feelings about the impending due date. I'm so ready to meet this kid. So ready to finally, at long last, look down into that little face and say hello to motherhood.

the home stretch

The end is near! 53 days/7-ish weeks until JumboBaby's eviction date, and I'm seeing signs all around that he really and truly will be here sooner than later. A sampling:

1) Craft stores have FALL things out. No, I don't (often) shop in craft stores. With the exception of that bitchin' wreath I concocted last year (see September 24, 2007) I leave the crafting to the trained professionals at Pottery Barn. But anyway...they have fall stuff out! I parked outside a craft store today en route to another shop, and through the window I spied grinning scarecrows, bundles of hay, and wreaths of burnt orange leaves. That can only mean it's almost FALL- when babies come! Along the same lines, WallyWorld is clearancing the swimming pools and lawn chairs, and filling in those vacancies with displays of notebooks and crayons- BACK TO SCHOOL- when babies come!

2) We have a STROLLER in our house! Okay, so we've actually got a ripped apart box with 15 stroller pieces strewn around the dining room...details, details. I thought I might assemble the stroller, which arrived today, but upon further inspection decided it's a man job. But the pieces sure are cute!

3) I've outgrown some of my maternity clothes. Yikes. The belly is simply too big to fit under some of the more stylish "2nd trimesterish" pieces of my limited maternity wardrobe. Even the stuff that still fits is fitting me...well, pregnantly. I'm pulling my tops down, my bottoms up, and the whole effect is a very Farley-ish "fat guy in a little coat". I'm suddenly seeing the appeal of muumuus (moo-moos seems more appropriate, no?) I mean, maybe with leggings....? Not so much? Okay. I also spent a few moments the other day wondering why all my underpants had shrunk, and asked J if his underpants shrunk, too. Unfortunately, no underpant shrinkage occured. My butt is pregnant, too.

4) I'm pretty sure that at this point, an air mattress on the bathroom floor might not be such a bad idea. I spend the witching hours in an unconscious march from bed to bathroom, bathroom to bed, bed to bathroom. I don't feel so bad about occasionally missing my daily walk (on account of the 300 degree heat) because I get my workout in doing the potty walk. The kitties no longer sleep with us, so inconvenient were my frequent stirrings.

5) Increasingly frequent moments of panic in the middle of the night, much like my horrific nightmares in the spring of 2004 where I showed up to our wedding in sweatpants or forgot to order bridesmaid dresses or was left abandoned at the alter....the baby panic dreams have started. No, I'm not sleep stressing over the biggies- labor, delivery, the very possible risk of a major operation to extract JumboBaby- it's the trite details that disrupt my sleep. Sometimes I jolt awake in bed after a nightmare where we simply forgot to buy diapers. Once I dreamt that we got home with the baby to discover the nursery had fallen off the house, chunks of the room were scattered around our front lawn. The most disturbing was when J went to pull the car around upon our hospital discharge...then peeled out of the parking lot, never to be seen again. I sat calmly in my wheelchair, watching him go. JumboBaby and I bussed it home.

I could go on and on, but I'm fatigued. Another wonderful mid-third-trimester symptom...the return of 1st trimester fatigue. I'm actually turning into an infant, it seems. Eat, sleep, pee, cry, repeat.

a funny....or two

I'm too lazy to write much today, but this was just too damn funny to not share:

(Courtesy of the fantastic Dot.)

Okay....one more. Because it also made me laugh so hard I thought I might pee myself, and because I think I once sat next to this guy at Lambeau Field:

In baby news, we attended breastfeeding class last night. Yes, we. I'd heard the majority of husbands attend this with their wives, and decided J needed to have some idea how the whole thing works so that if (when) I decide it's too much work/too painful/too something or other to continue on, he may be able to keep my head (er...boobs) in the game. And for the record, well over half the hubbies were in attendance. That said, I don't know that we're much further ahead than we were pre-breastfeeding class. It was kind of like a junior high film strip (from which the instructor read verbatim) and just not quite as informative as I was expecting- basically a platform for the lactation consultant to pimp out her pump renting services. HOWEVER- we did sit next to McLovin. I shit you not. Had there been a tactful way to pull out my cell camera and capture this McLovin clone for proof....I would have. McLovin was hardcore about his breastfeeding. As his wife slumped in her chair looking bored as all get out in the row behind him (weird, right?) he took page after page of incredibly meticulous notes in his wirebound notebook. I caught him jotting down "cracked nipples...olive oil" as his wifey poo snored away behind us. I feel bad for our baby. While McLovin's baby will have parents with a notebook full of helpful tidbits to assist them in their feedings, JumboBaby will have parents who are still giggling about McLovin and his note takin' skills.

baby, meet baby!

That's me (duh) and my mom's sister, Jodi. Never would I have imagined we'd be doing the "baby thing" simutaneously- providing my grandparents with their last grandbaby and first great grandbaby in the span of a week or so. Jodi filled the big sisterly idol role in my childhood- she convinced me to name my first dolly Patty PooPoo (later joined by Wanda WeeWee), let me wear her punk rock clothes in the 80s and even took me to Dairy Queen to show 'em off, and was the first person I knew who actuallly had a pair of ::gasp:: Girbaud jeans- pretty much the epitome of coolness circa 1989, right? Her 3rd baby, a girl, is due 3 days after JumboBaby. Poor girl won't ever get a date. She's got two big brothers, and now this same-aged boy cousin to scare off any suitors.

That's all for now. J's home today and cleaning the house. For the first time ever, I just don't feel that bad about letting him clean up a storm while I sit and kill time on the internet. I feel more pregnant by the day- very exciting, very exhausting! The Fred Flinstone feet I could do without...but I suppose it's all part of the experience.

a premonition?

Or just your average dream, who knows. Last night, I had a very distinct dream that I want to post to my blog so I don't forget about it. In the dream, we went to see Dr. S in early September. In the next scene, we were in an ice cold Dairy Queen when the phone rang. (The Dairy Queen phone, not our cell phones, that would make all too much sense.) The Dairy Queen people announced over a loudspeaker that we had a call. When I picked up the phone, it was Dr. S's office, instructing me to check into the hospital at 10:30pm on September 10 to deliver the baby. I hung up the Dairy Queen phone and waddled back to the booth to tell J. We realized at the same moment that this meant our baby would likely arrive on September 11, which we both thought was kind of neat. Then I went back to my banana split, which makes me doubt the validity of this dream. A banana split is about as appetizing to me as a freakin' string cheese is right about now (protein, protein, protein....I go through a pack of those mothers a week, and it's getting miiiiighty old). If this were an accurate premonition, I'd have been chowing a Peanut Buster Parfait, extra hot fudge, pecans instead of peanuts. Then my blood sugar monitor would leap from my purse and smack me upside the head.

It probably means nothing, other than I have a very strong (and sadly unfullfilled) desire to go to Dairy Queen and that both September 10 and 11th have meaning (10th= grandma Rita's birthday, 11th= obvious). But just in case I am right, and this is some creepy mother's intuition at work....I'm on record.

happy 28th, J!

The J man is 28 today! Seems like just yesterday my best buddy (pre-boyfriend status) was turning 21, taking enough shots to keel over a man three times his size and passing out with his head in a spaghetti pot. Aaahhh....college. I'm guessing the big 2-8 will go down tamely, just a sugar buzz at most- thanks to his favorite chocolate covered pretzels prepared big-heartedly by yours truly, who thanks to gestational diabetes was unable to even lick the chocolate off the sides of the bowl as I slaved over his treats in a steaming hot kitchen. That's love, folks. I'll share a gratuitous shot of his adorability in celebration of his big day.

just one of those days

It started with good intentions on Sunday. Knowing how much Henry enjoys the dog park (the main feature being the lake with more balls and dogs and mud than any Golden has the right to imagine in his wildest dreams), we trekked down there for some playtime. Henry can't play in the lake without drinking half of said lake. Said lake, apparently, isn't full of puppy-tummy-friendly water. Our dog park ventures are inevitably followed by a barf session later in the day. Sunday evening, Henry seemed okay. Tuckered out and refusing to walk upstairs for bedtime, but okay.



Monday morning....not okay. He EXPLODED during the night. From both ends. Not on the approximately 1,000 square feet of tile on our main floor. Ohhhhh, no. On the carpet. Brown, green, shades only seen in the gut of an 85lb monster of a dog. Carpet cleaners were called, carpet cleaners came, carpet cleaners collected an exorbitant fee....the carpets were as good as new. Phew. Henry seemed back to his happy drooly self, end of story. We thought.



Tuesday morning. 3am. I smell something funny. Faint, but definitely poo-ish. I blame my dear J, thinking the fried feast he ate for dinner wasn't agreeing with his tum. Up again at 4 (notice a trend? Yes, the hourly bathroom marches have begun), I start wondering if there's not something more going on. However, the idea of lugging myself back out of bed and down the stairs is unfathomable, so back to sleep I go. Only when we awoke at 7:30 and J headed downstairs to let the dogs out did we find it.....another EXPLOSION. I'll spare the details, but just believe me when I say it was not pretty.



I should have paid attention to the stinky omen on the living room floor. Stay home, it's not a good day. No, siree. I had plans. Some fun, some mundane, all necessary. The new mom-mobile needed Texas plates. Then to the mall for J's birthday gift and perhaps a bit of baby browsing. A pedicure appointment for mama, and a few other random stops on the way home. Wanting to get the un-fun chore out of the way, I head to the county clerk. Where, believe it or not, there's NO line! And I miraculously have each and every document necessary to prove that this is MY car, I haven't stolen it off the streets and driven straight to the county for new plates. Hot damn, I might get this accomplished without so much as a return trip OR a meltdown! Get this- I even got a REFUND! The dealership overestimated the cost of registration, so the guy tells me I get money back! Tell me, dear friends, when's the last time YOU heard the department of motor vehicles say "hey, guess what, we're going to send you a CHECK!" And the guy even SMILED. Wow.



I bounce out, as much as a woman rocking a fine set of 100 degree heat incited cankles can "bounce", Texas plates in hand and visions of the (air conditioned, summer sale aplenty) mall dancing in my head. Fire up the auto, and notice a little orange light on the dashboard. Huh? Tire pressure? Heave my giant ass out of the car, do a quick walk around, and stop dead in my tracks when I spot a tire...a very flat, undrivable tire. J is approximately 45 minutes across town and absolutely unable to leave the office to help- he's the only man on the job today. I can't think of anyone else to help. So I cry and cry and cry. Because seriously, what's more effective than sobbing uncontrollably in a desolate east side county office parking lot? When J quiets me enough to get a word in, he instructs me to call our insurance and utilize that roadside assistance program, the one I told him over and over again that we didn't need. I sit for 95 minutes watching handcuffed inmates led in and out of the building until the Pop-A-Lock guy shows up to change my tire. He should really be working for Nascar, because in 10 minutes I'm back on my way. A little tired, and no longer up for the mall as lunchtime looms and my diet dictates that I not go too long between meals....but there's tomorrow.



The rest of the day just didn't go much better. The pedicure place was packed and particularly noxious today, so no pretty toes for me. I pull through Chick-fil-a for one of life's simplest sugar free joys- my Diet Coke. Wait in line for-freaking-ever behind an Expedition packed solid with teenage boys, burn approximately $45 in gas idling, finally get to the speaker to order my DC....and find out that the DC is temporarily "broke". How do you BREAK Diet Coke? Augh! Shove it, chicken place! I come home to find the stains clearly visible on the now dried carpet (I was confident when I left the house that I'd scrubbed them out....not so much). I decide to nap for just a few minutes and before I have a chance to get comfy on the couch, I get a call from the groomer, where I'd dropped Griffin off earlier in the day. "Um, we have a little problem with Griffin." OF COURSE WE DO! Why not? It seems my little angel isn't a fan of the groomer, which he made clear when he tried to bite her. Oh, fantastic. She agreed to finish the job if I'd come supervise (aka- clamp his face shut so he didn't take her fingers off). Nap over.



Alas....I'm just blowing off steam. As a whole, life is good. I'm thankful that tire held out as I cruised along the interstate. I'm thankful I have a husband who cared enough to purchase the roadside assistance in the first place (he obviously did it with his auto-repair-challenged wife in mind). I'm thankful to have a house at all- carpet stains be damned. I'm thankful Griffin didn't really bite the groomer, saving us from a pesky lawsuit. I'm thankful that I, uh, have toes. Homely chipped toenails and all. I'm reaching a bit here....but you get my drift. None of it really matters, because I'm thankful that as I sat in that east side parking lot waiting and waiting, my tummy bounced up and down and side to side- reminding me that life is really truly amazing, and I'm really truly blessed. And coolest of all, I'm ALMOST 31 WEEKS!!! We've got less than 10 weeks until we're holding the (seemingly very squirmy) little guy!! Here's a photo from last weekend, 30 weeks, and happy. So very very happy.

baby got wheels

and mama need drugs. Serious, fast acting, anxiety reducing drugs. My cat's on one happy little pill that leaves him staring at the bedspread in awe and makes him sleep 23 hours a day....but I'm thinking that wouldn't be very healthy for the wee bambino.

Today, I decided to do it already. Buy baby things. We've done okay with the nursery- the crib a gift from J's mom, the dresser and bedding too sweet of deals to pass up. The kid is clothed- thanks to my mom, he's got so many duds that we'll have to change him four times a day to sport each outfit once. But for some perplexing reason, buying any of the necessity type items lining the walls of our local Babies R Us scares the dickens outta me. (What the hell are the dickens, anyway?) I've been carrying an intimidating list around in my wallet for months- stroller, carseat, pack n play, swing, bouncy seat, baby gates, changing pad, on and on and on. But each time I visited BRU, I emerged empty handed and a little anxious. I'd usually bolt next door to Petsmart and stock up on doggy bones and cat toys to bring my blood pressure back to normal. At least there I'm legitimate- have pets, need stuff. I don't know what it is about the baby things that makes me feel so....illegitamite. Or maybe I do. Deep inside, I think I'm SCARED TO DEATH that I'll stock our home with all these colorful, perplexing items, and never end up needing them after all. The result of twice believing I was having a baby, and twice winding up comatose, depressed, and empty in my bed. But this third time is different, I know in my heart it is, have been blessed with an underlying, deep in my heart feeling of confidence about pregnancy #3 since before it even happened. We're 17 weeks past our latest point of loss. All tests have come back with beautiful results. Baby boy is strong, evident in his simutaneous chops to my bladder and my ribs. People beam at my belly in public, cheery in their approval of my reproductive skills and ginormous uterus. Dr. S is confident as ever while explaining the baby-cooking schedule from here to D-Day. We are, he says, as safe as we'll ever be.

And since my nightmares of late have all been of lack of preparation, like bringing a baby home and realizing he's got no diapers, or being released from the hospital and not having a carseat, or scrummaging through my kitchen cabinets in search of a bottle, coming up with just a turkey baster and a wine glass....I know I need to get on the ball. The days-to-baby countdown is in the 80s. And since my fairy godmother won't be rolling up with a carriage full of gear, and I'd prefer not to be waddling from one end of town to the other, sweating in the heat of September with my belly sticking 4 feet out, wishing I'd been on the ball sooner and avoided that kind of stress on my cankles....it's go time.

So I did it. I marched into BRU, and drove off 15 minutes later with a car seat. I came home and ordered baby's stroller. But I didn't get that "new mommy rush" that I hear other girls talk about, nor did I feel my usual sense of shopping euphoria over a big new purchase. No "yay, this is so fun, I'm buying these pretty things for my pretty baby!" I got a panic attack. One that left me short of breath, scared at my bold assumptiveness that we'll really need these things. Boo. I deserve the excitement just like everyone else, damnit.

But here, for the sake of normalcy, is my pretty baby's pretty wheels. The stroller I've been eyeing for 15 months, the stroller I finally have every reason in the world to purchase. And with any luck, when the UPS guy shows up with it, I'll act like a normal person and rip it open with abandon. Maybe even push the cats around the house in it, telling them what pretty pretty kitties they are in their pretty pretty stroller, take a photo or two....you know, because super normal people do super normal things like that.

**EDIT** Stroller purchase was cancelled. Avoid tinyride.com at all costs, because they're shady money stealin' mofos. So.....never mind. We'll still get a BumbleRide, but J decided he wants the 3 wheel Indie instead. Stay tuned.

i...

I found this on a blog.....seemed a good way to stay awake and waste some time as I await J's arrival home.

i am: fighting to keep my eyes open
i think: people who dislike animals are sad inside
i know: very little about babies
i want: a thunderstorm, every night...and green grass as a result
i have: quite possibly the nicest, kindest husband in the world
i wish: it were September and our baby was an "outside baby"
i hate: people who smoke in my presence unapologetically
i miss: my mom. and my dad. and my sister and brother. and wine.
i fear: so many things that it can be exhausting
i feel: awkward loading my eco-friendly cloth grocery bags into my SUV
i hear: the TV
i smell: like vanilla
i crave: steak with pink in the middle
i search: for my chapstick every day
i wonder: what really did happen to poor Jon Benet
i regret: very little in my life...if anything at all
i ache: for those two tiny souls
i care: too much sometimes about other people's feelings
i always: think of my Grandma Rita when I eat green beans
i am not: really blonde
i believe: prental yoga will keep me sane these next 12 weeks
i dance: like a white girl
i sing: off key, horribly, as little as possible
i cry: whenever I want to
i don't always: brush my teeth for as long as I should
i fight: stubbornly
i write: on my blog for my own amusement
i never: go without a seatbelt
i stole: kitty litter that was "hiding" under my cart. Oops.
i listen: to Hanson without shame
i need: to hear that J loves me every day, because it makes me feel whole
i am happy about: the obvious

28 week appointment

My 28 week appointment was this morning. I'm feeling like a "big girl"- literally and figuratively. These are "real" appointments- ones where we talk about fun things like cervix checks and glucose levels and childbirthing classes and circumcision decisions- all very fascinating topics for a girl who in not so distant days, wondered if she'd ever pass the 1st trimester. My belly measures right on, my once alarmingly rapid weight gain (alarming to me...okay with the doctor) has slowed to a more steady, "What To Expect When You're Expecting" approved rate, and all looks to be going very well.

Baby boy is doing his thing, and doing it in the over-achiever style you'd expect from the spawn of J and M: he's big! While I'm at 27 weeks, 3 days, he's measuring at a whopping 29+ weeks, 2lb14oz or so. Dr. S guesstimated, based on his million catrillion pregnancies served, a baby measuring in at this size at this point will be a "nice 8 pound plus baby". "NICE"? Yes, healthy is good, thriving babies are fantastic, and if he needs to be 12 pounds like my grandmother's first (who she swears gestated for 43.5 weeks), we'll deal with that. But an 8 pound baby out of my teeny tiny little lady town....YIKES! Again I say, bless you, sweet drugs. How I love you already, and we have yet to meet. (I was talking to the epidural there....but the sentiment applies much more appropriately to our sweet baby boy, of course.)

not so sweet dreams

Aaaahhh...sleep. My old friend. Where have you gone? Between the pee trips, the restless cats, my snoring spouse, the pee trips, my 140 degree body temperature (despite the AC chugging away to keep us at 68 degrees), the pee trips, the leg cramps that rip me from dreamland on a more and more frequent basis, and most recently the crazy dreams....I miss sleep. Yeah, yeah, yeah- I know. Sleep will remain a distant memory for many months and years to come. But the disturbing dreams of late are really getting old. Last night, two in particular stuck in my mind this morning. Some quick internet research proved that my most recent dreams are quite telling....that one about giving birth to a kitten, I'll just leave untouched. I don't care to know. And I've got ultrasound pictures, about 80 of them, to prove there is no kitten in my uterus.

Dream 1: I'm sitting in my dining room, staring out the window, watching a low flying Northwest Airlines plane fly right at the house. It appears to be about to fly over just overtop our roof, when it jerks toward the ground and into our house. It explodes, we explode, gray dust everywhere as I scream for J.....game over. I wake up drenched in sweat clenching my pillow like a life preserver, and turn my lamp on for a moment to make sure we're not actually exploded. And poke J to make sure he's alive. He is, and he's also not impressed by the lamp. Or the poke.

You are “flying high” and whatever happens can reflect wishes/anxieties/progress regarding your life or professional progress, possibly your ability to “rise above it all” risk-taking abilities/attitudes. An accident suggests the perils of pursuing a particular goal or route, possibly a fall in self esteem or confidence. Hmm...the "perils of pursuing a particular goal" could make sense. As does "flying high"- life is good, all is well, but the low flying plane probably uncovers my thinly veiled fear and feeling that we're never "in the clear". God, what IS it with me and all these airplanes? You'd think I had a thing for pilots! Oh...wait....

Dream 2: I'm on Mopac. For those outside of the Austin metro area, Mopac is a highway running north and south. However, I'm lost on a very unfamiliar stretch of EAST Mopac. "East and west?" I repeat over and over in my dream. All I'm passing are storage units and strip clubs. That's it, one after the other. I finally spy a church and pull into the lot, where I proceed to ask for directions, but they're all telling me I'm nuts, and there is no East Mopac. They're also worshipping in the parking lot, and most are dressed in head bandanas and baggy pants- not dressed like the church people I know. The dream continues with me driving back and forth and back and forth, never finding that South Mopac sign I'm so desperately seeking, just sobbing in my car. I jerk awake again, roll over and feel for J beside me, and mumble something to him about how much I hate that stupid Mopac. Then I get up and pee. For the 18th time since my puffy little head hit the pillow just 6 hours before.

Dreams of being lost express anxiety in waking life. You may feel that the path to your goals lacks direction or that you don't know which way to turn in a situation. According to some dream experts, being lost symbolizes fear and anxiety about leaving the familiar behind when moving on to a new phase. (Bingo!)

final approach

Remember months back, when I was sad and frustrated, when I talked about feeling like we were stuck on the layover from hell? Well, at risk of being a total corn-ball- as of today, we're on our final approach for landing! I can see our destination from here!

I AM IN THE THIRD TRIMESTER. The trimester that ends with a baby. The trimester that brings with it waddling, childbirth class, frantic nesting, and perhaps (though I hope not) a temporary second chin. 27 weeks today and damn happy to be here. I've noticed while chatting with other new 3rd-tri-ers that this is usually when the panic sets in. The "ohmygod, I actually have to get this thing OUT" fears creep in and begin to taunt, keeping mommies-to-be awake in their beds at night long after the rest of the house is fast asleep, heartburn and leg cramps as their uncomfortable companions. Call me crazy, but I'm not scared. (ME- not scared of pain! The girl who cried getting shots, for whom a skinned knee was a catastrophic infliction, who nearly failed junior high phys ed for her refusal to play dodge ball- it huuuurts!) I was telling J the other day that I just don't have that fear. I think it's because I've explored the hellacious depths of emotional pain to such an extent that physical pain seems temporary, a small price to pay to finally, finally, finally achieve our ultimate goal. Physical pain heals. Physical pain responds to drugs (and oh yes, there will be drugs, much to my yoga instructor's chagrin). Physical pain comes in one big long burst, then fizzles, wears off in the weeks that follow. Emotional pain, on the other hand, lingers. It carves a space in the back of your mind and the front of your heart, it festers, it mocks you at inopportune moments. It scars in ways far uglier than a stretch mark or blemish. My emotional wounds, while easier to manage at this point, won't go away. There are still tears. A song on the radio. An ultrasound photo found wedged between medical records. A photo of me, grinning on my 26th birthday, secure and confident. Meeting a new mom in the return line at Home Depot and asking how old her baby was, realizing when she answered "7 months" that the baby was born when our first should have been, forcing me to smile tightly and pretend to be totally engrossed in the caribeener I was returning, probably leaving the mother to wonder what, exactly, I had against 7 month old babies. As much as I dislike it, as ungracious as I felt for thinking it, the old thoughts crept in- "why is she here with her baby, while I'm still waiting?" I'm fully convinced that 20 years from now, when something or someone recalls the memory of our first baby, or our Grover, or as I open the green memory box that I'll always treasure- I will cry. Whereas if you ask me about the bodily harm I'll incur welcoming baby Cinco to the world...I'll wax poetic and think it really wasn't so bad. I'll look upon the scars and feel they're honorable. I'll probably have even signed up to do it again (and again?) All that to say...I'm not scared to do this birth thang! I'm still scared of the unknown, still panicky in baby's quieter moments, still worried about this or that coming between me and motherhood...but facing one of humankind's most painful experiences in 90-some days? Not so scary. Disclaimer: I fully reserve the right to eat my words at a later date. Say, 39 weeks or so.


What does strike a bit of fear in my heart these days is the weather. We've still got 15 minutes or so left of spring, and we're already 1/4 of the way to beating a heat record in Austin. A record set in 1920. Something like 12 days thus far with the mercury rising into triple digits. It's so hot that the air conditioning can't quite keep up, and I've just taken to wearing as little clothing as possible in those scorching late afternoon hours. I've also ordered some new blinds for the remaining uncovered windows...the neighbors simply don't need to see that much of me.

Anyway, here's to a smooth approach and landing! And dinner with J, who by some miracle of sweet baby Jesus, is HOME before 9pm!

Under 100

I never thought I'd utter these words as a reference to this pregnancy: but time, it is a'flying! As of today, I'm 98 days from my due date. 98. Something about seeing a two digit number standing between us and this baby is very, very exciting. I'm 26 weeks, the 3rd tri begins this week, and everything appears to be trucking right along. I'm looking big, and feeling great. Baby is very active in there most days. His kicks get stronger each week and my new favorite hobby is staring at my bare belly, watching as he pokes and prods and bounces beneath my skin.

The trip was fun filled and action packed. And tiring. And cankle-inducing. In a nutshell: watched as baby brother graduated, cried with realization that our little Binky Boy is off to do his own thing and make his own way, celebrated said graduation, flew to CA with mom and my sister, ate a whole lot of bacon, lettuce, and avocado sandwiches at our favorite cafe, spent countless hours taking in the sun and the totally vacation-esque view from the deck, flew back, did laundry, repacked, hit the road for ND, hung out on the farm, hit the road again, met up with friends and remembered just how lovely my friends are and how much I miss them, rejoined the family for the beautiful wedding festivities of my beautiful cousin/sister, played DD for a very rowdy group of margarita enthusiasts twice my age one night and my grandparents (YES- my grandparents) the next, drove through hellacious thunderstorms back to WI, spent a day crying into my Taco John's potato oles about leaving and never returning to Madison, endured not one but two cancelled flights, rebooked on a 5am flight and boarded looking crustier than crusty has ever looked....and at long last....returned home to (the very summery) Austin.

And what a welcome home. In good ways and not so fun ways. The good: Well, first and foremost, seeing J and the pets! Funny how you don't realize how you miss people (pets are people too) until you see them again. And the even good-er: J and his dad started the nursery and blew me away with their efforts. Gone is the allergy-inducing carpet....replaced with beautiful cherry wood floors. The walls are a most gorgeous shade of blue and there's an airplane rug chosen by J, all by himself, that brought tears to my tired eyes. The man truly outdid himself. Not that I didn't already know this, but he is going to be one HELL of a daddy. The not so good: I broke an unspoken rule between Ralph (my emotionally unstable cat) and myself (a rule I don't remember agreeing to) and left him alone for a week or two too long. His recourse? Urine. Stinky, potent kitty pee in the least convenient of places. My Pottery Barn sofa, atop dear husband during the middle of the night, my brand new silk drapery, and as a grand finale, inside my adorable pink luggage. To the vet we went, his diagnosis: emotional instability. The vet believes, in essence, Ralph is showing me what's up. "You ditch me lady? I ruin your shit." I'm sure he'll be thrilled when a tiny, screaming, demanding new "pet" joins the household in 98 (+/-) days. As we work through his "issues", he's on anxiety medication. His affect in his medicated state is not unlike that of stoner friends I had in college: "duuuude....where the eff am I?" Did I mention the dog also needs a root canal? If they keep this up, we'll be pushing baby in our rusty wheelbarrow instead of that $500 stroller I was all set to buy this week. Damn, that's not going to look good.

In other news, my mom-mobile is on its way to me next week! Out with the ginormous SUV and its correspondingly ginormous gas bill. In with a smaller, more functional SUV that I'm very excited to haul baby around in. And actually be able to park downtown without causing a traffic jam and/or lots of needless anxiety.

I'll close with a few photos...

The nursery begins:

The bump at 24 weeks:
With the bride:

big yawn

It's been one of those Saturdays where I had mighty plans to accomplish big things....and just looked at the clock, saw the time, and wondered how it got to be evening. Oops. Amazing how a 3 hour nap, despite the weed wacker-weilding neighbor's best attempts to waken me, eats up a day. Lest you think I'm a total bum, I did work this morning and run a few errands after that. Then I plopped on the couch with a Quizno's sub and watched some Kardashian drama ("I'm getting a Bentley!" "You're a bitch!" "No, you're a bitch!"), which made me very sleepy, which necessitated the nap. Annnnnd the day is toast.

22 weeks. Tick tock. Can't time hurry up? Whenever I admit to someone that I'm just ready for it to be September and to actually hold this baby, they look at me like "what a shame" and urge me to just enjoy being pregnant, sleeping when I want to, and revel in the anticipation. Which I am (when I'm not worrying). But I'm not a patient girl, and while I think that without the horror that was last year I'd likely be one of those "I love being pregnant, never felt better, this is amazing and beautiful and I'm glowing" types....because of all the misery that preceded this pregnancy, I just kind of want the end result already. Being pregnant for the better part of the past 14 months will do that. Big ultrasound coming up on Tuesday. Send us your "ten fingers, ten toes, healthy little baby in every possible way" vibes.

My week in a nutshell:
1) Griffin was dying of cancer, then he wasn't. Learned not to trust crooked vets in dirty clinics who insist on immediate surgeries, and that the very good, kind, experienced vets are hiding out in the country. Also learned it's a very good thing to trust my budding "motherly instincts" to avoid my dog being sliced open for no good reason at all.
2) Jonathan sick with a cold, me with Clorox in one hand and Vitamin C in the other. Haven't slept in the same bed in 4 nights. Kind of miss the guy. The dogs are enjoying it- no Jonathan in bed = lots of room for dogs in bed. Cats are angry. Dogs in bed = cats not in bed.
3) Lars and the Real Girl last night on pay per view. Brilliant. Man loves blow up handicapped sex doll. Oddly touching and just the kind of offbeat flick I needed after a string of syrupy chick flicks. And too much of that weird Kardashian show.
4) Our boat is sold. My refusal to boat while pregnant and our realization that a 9 month old wouldn't be a very good ski boater next summer necessitated the sale. I was very proud of J for not crying as the nice man hooked our boat to his Suburban and pulled it on down the road. He looked like a little boy giving away his puppy, but he held it together.
5) Maternity swimsuits are not your friend, and were created as a way to ensure your husband will never want to touch you again, because the image of you in glorified granny panties and a tent for a top will be etched in his memory forever. (Hint: not sexy.) I tried on about 10 before doubling over in laughter at the thought of actually donning one of these beasts in PUBLIC....not even in my (dark) closet would I wear one. I'll stick to land until next summer, and J will thank me. We may even have a 2nd child someday. Pretty sure if he saw me in one of those suits he'd prefer I never become impregnated, ever again.

This post is about as fascinating as my day has been. I'll be back soon with something majorly exciting and introspective. Or a picture of my cats or something.

lightening up

I hate to say it, but I do think blondes may have more fun. I consider myself a blonde at heart. I was a white blonde kid, a medium blonde young adult, and full adulthood brought with it a shade somewhere between "cardboard box" and "dull tree bark". Not a pretty shade. Expensive, time consuming highlights ensued- I do believe that if I totaled up the amount spent on my blonde hue over the past 9 years, I could buy J that airplane he wants. Last fall, I had my beloved highlights filled in with lowlights and just let it grow. I was depressed, I felt dark, I just didn't care to deal with my blondeness. It was pretty at first, with the stylists' strategically placed mahogany pieces, but as that uninspired natural shade took over...not pretty. (Take a close look at the 20 week belly photo below for proof.) It became so homely that when I asked J last week if he'd mind me spending $200 on highlights (despite the fact that we're less frivolous with our cash these days, what with that mile long "ridiculously expensive and likely very useless things we need for baby" list) he responded with a cheery "yes! That's a GREAT idea! Shall I drive you?" Gotta love the man for his support. Or hate him for his closeted lust for blondes. Whatever.

I had my highlights, and I'm happy. I looked in the rearview mirror on the way home and thought- "now THIS is me". The dark hair didn't fit, seemed a disguise of sorts. It reflected a dark mood, a dark outlook, a desire to blend into the background. ((I mean NO offense to brunettes- those that are meant to be brunette are stunning and I'm envious of that "Kelly Kapowski" look I'll never rock- I'm just not meant for the darker tones.)) I can't help but think my lighter hair reflects my lighter place in life. Like maybe I'm restoring a part of who I was, allowing back a superficial aspect of the happy girl at heart.

My mood has lightened too. Wednesday was a tough day that moved into a tough night, and I woke up Thursday feeling a bit lighter. The fact that a year ago today I was in surgery, a surgery I never even knew existed before being told by the sad doctor that I'd need one, went by without any tears, just a sigh, a shake of the head. The crusty hospital, the shockingly insensitive anesthesiologist, the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that filled me as the drugs wore off- all seem so distant, so alien- like a story of another person's sad memory. Instead...onward and upward. Today marks 21 weeks. OVER halfway. Closer to the big, anticipatory third trimester than the frightful first trimester. I can't wait. Bring it on- all of it. Even that unsightly little spider vein that appeared overnight where my butt meets my leg, I'll take it- because I'm ready. Ready for what comes next, and just happy as a (pretty blonde) clam to be this damn close, this full of life and hope.

one year ago

May 7, 2007. If I had kept a journal, that day surely would have been the most depressing entry of all my days, 26 years worth of days. That morning I woke up innocent. Blissfully naive. Unfortunately and stupidly confident. Truly believing all the contrived statistics that say once you have a heartbeat, you won't be miscarrying unless you're in that incredibly slim 2%- too tiny a number to even be considered real, laughable really. I drove downtown to the doctor's office excited to see our little one again, sure he/she would be wiggling about, more interesting than the creature we'd seen 4 weeks before. J and I waited forever for the doctor, reading In Touch, looking out the window at the steam rising off the street, eager to head out and over to Whole Foods, where I'd seen adorable natural onesies a few weeks before. I thought I would buy one as a celebration gift after my appointment.

Instead, the day became the one that cracked our surface, brought so much pain into a previously fortunate existance. The one that took away bits of my sunny nature and substituted some bitterness, a harshness that wasn't there before, a sadness that I just don't know that I'll ever entirely leave behind- a hole. I don't remember leaving the office. I remember crawling into the car, slumping into the seat, dialing my parents' phone number by instinct alone, and just wailing, wishing I was wrong, hoping they would make it better. I remember mom's tears, her shock. J's face, as he faked a mask of strength, pale complexion and watery eyes in contrast. His voice on the phone to his dad, a hushed voice, like he didn't want me to hear what he was saying, like I didn't already know. I felt empty, I felt robbed, I felt crushed beneath the weight of all my hopes and dreams and plans for our November baby. And then, the perinatologist's office, there for a second opinion I already KNEW wouldn't be any better, that had I been thinking clearly (thinking at all) we would have declined. Sinking to the cold tile floor as we waited for the doors to open, my head on my knees, the huge bellies too much for me to handle in the waiting room, being escorted to the privacy of an exam room to be signed in. Leaning against J as the world spun, my head spun, words like "social security number" and "primary OBGYN" bleeding together on the paperwork, foreign and meaningless to me. I wanted only my bed...my blanket...darkness...my baby. I wanted my baby. The baby still inside me, so still and lifeless on the screen, gummy bear arms and legs, vaguely human but so beloved. Gone. Without me ever knowing it. Gone while I continued to love, to plan, to share the news. I just kept murmuring "I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go home." Home, when I was there last, was happy, was safe. Where "if" wasn't a word that applied to babies...just "when".

A year. A year that has been the fastest and the painfully tortured, slowest year of my life. A year that aged me. A year that, despite my hesitation to tack anything positive onto this experience and turn this into some BS "on the bright side" posting (there is no bright side), will make me a better mother. A strong, thankful, gracious mother. Has made me a better friend. Has taught me who I trust and whose love is pure...has shown me who was never really there, not in the way I thought. A year that has shown me who J really is, his strength, his unfiltered optimism, his refusal to let me slip away into dark places, irretrievably. The limitless patience of his love for me, so unlovable in my misery. A year that has shown me the unshakable love of family, the instinctual, unquestionable support they offer, the safe place they hold in my world.

And as I sit here sobbing, American Idol blathering in the background (just get to it, already, we all know that stupid puppy faced kid is safe), Baby Boy kicks at my belly button. I imagine him saying "mom...you're okay! I'm okay! We're okay! More Sunkist!" I hate to let this day be one of sadness, because it somehow cheapens my love for this baby boy, makes me ungrateful, takes away some of the joy I should feel, the joy of a mommy to be, the joy that has been tainted by the fear, the memories, the tears of this past year.

That's all. I'm eager for 12:00am. A new beginning, this date no longer looming dark on my calendar. One day closer to THIS baby, to the peace he'll bring, the love he'll be born into. The other babies are forever loved. No amount of love lavished on this baby (and those I hope will follow) will detract from that. I hope they know.