Month Four Stats

I'm a little late with this (what else is new). But better late than never, I suppose. I have to keep track of this stuff somehow anyway. Fiona's four-month wellbaby appointment was the week before Christmas. As with the last visit, the doctor declared that she is very healthy. And while last time she was moderately impressed with Fiona's strength, this time she was legitimately surprised at what a little bodybuilder we have on our hands.

Let's get Stats-tastic!

Weight: 16 pounds, 8.7 ounces. Another three pounds gained since her two-month appointment. Based on the constant ache in my lower back (seriously, I'm considering medical intervention), I was moderately surprised it wasn't more. Anyway, she remains in the 97th percentile.

Length: 25.5 inches, a gain of two whole inches since her two-month checkup! And now she's up into the 90th percentile. She's practically taller than me already.

With all the good news about how fat and tall and healthy the young one is, just like last time, there was some pain. Three more shots and the tasty (read: disgusting) rotavirus (right?) drink. Fiona was no worse off than last time - she screamed diligently. I, on the other hand, did a little better this time. While I felt like crying momentarily, I did manage to keep it in check.

We got the go-ahead to start solids (rice cereal or something similar) and will be watching for her to turn over from back to front (she's already mastered front to back). She'll also likely start raking toys toward her (another thing she's already somewhat doing, much to the doctor's amazement), babbling even more than she already does, and laughing more.

The idea of solids is a bit daunting to me for some reason. Firstly, I'm not positive she cares much about food other than what she's getting out of the boob. And secondly, I finally just stopped being jealous about the whole bottle thing. But, that's a decision for another day.

Balding

In the beginning, there was so much hair. Beautiful, luxurious hair with a fine chestnut sheen. And then it started falling out. Slowly at first, but then with a vengeance. All that lovely hair, disappearing.

Sadly, I am not talking about the hair on Fiona's head. While it is true that many babies lose the thick locks with which they are born (and Fiona has lost some of hers), I am referring, regrettably, to my own hair. It is falling out at an alarming rate. I expected this, of course. I was warned by a dear friend sometime in the middle of my pregnancy. Granted, I'd never heard of such a thing before actually getting pregnant (add it to the list of "Things no one ever tells you about pregnancy and childbirth before you take the plunge and go get knocked up" - a list that seems to get longer all the time), but a couple people had mentioned it may happen.

And happen it has. Whenever I shower (every other day, since I fear if I showered every day I would go completely bald) I think to myself, "Damn, I could knit another me with all the hair I'm leaving in the drain!" I could definitely not get away with any crimes these days since I leave no fewer than 482 hairs behind everywhere I go.

Sigh. I've always had rather thin hair. But when I was pregnant, I suddenly had gorgeous, shiny, lustrous hair. All the words you hear in shampoo ads actually applied to the mop on my head, and it was good. A friend who has not seen me since shortly before Halloween (and before I started losing my locks) suggested I change nothing about my lovely hair - no color, no cut. "It's so pretty like it is!" I'll be interested to see what her reaction is when she sees me tomorrow. Not only am I scraggly-haired, but the color also appears to be changing from its previous chestnutty brown to a dull ash. Clairol Nice 'n Easy, here I come! If I weren't awash in the glow of motherhood, I'd be disgusted with myself! (just kidding)

Baby's First Christmas

Christmas crept up like a stealth killer this year. We were utterly unprepared. No Christmas cards, no family picture to send out, no Advent calendar to count down the days. Thankfully, Fiona - being only four months old - won't remember our inadequacies during her first Christmas season. We will, but we're not particularly important anyway. As long as Fiona's happy, we're happy.

It was a lovely holiday in spite of our shortcomings. We spent Christmas Eve with M's extended family as is the annual tradition. Christmas morning the three of us lounged in bed together, Fiona apparently unconcerned with the significance of the day. I had a little trouble convincing her that she should wake up at all (she loves to be in the big bed with Mommy and Daddy). But convince her I did. And then I did what at least 50% of all new mothers who celebrate Christmas probably do on their baby's First Christmas: I dressed her in a ridiculous holiday outfit. Oh, but she was so cute in it that it was worth any annoyance she may feel toward me when she's older and wondering while I dressed her like a little drunken elf.

Once the kid was dressed in her holiday finery, we loaded her, Ollie, ourselves, and a boatload of wrapped presents into the family sedan and headed over to Nana and Papa's for the full celebration. More presents awaited us. It was gift-wrapped mania! And it was exactly what I would have hoped for the day. Fiona made out like a bandit. Clothes to last her until she's 2; toys to entertain her for... well, we hope at least 30 or so minutes. And books galore! As for M and me, we made out like bandits, too. We are very fortunate indeed. But our best gift, of course, is our awesome little elf baby. (Cue "awww")



One other fun thing about this Christmas was thinking about how last year at the same time, we had just learned I was pregnant, which put a whole different sheen on the holiday. We've moved beyond the "one year ago now" stage of things and are into full-time parenting in the present. What a difference a year makes!

Back to Work - The First Month

It's been a month since I returned to work. Clearly, I haven't had a lot of time to write about it. I haven't had much time for anything but work (when I'm at work) and being with my kid (when I'm not). When I was pregnant, evenings after work could be spent posting my mother-to-be musings with no distractions. Then during maternity leave, I could post whenever I found a spare moment during a rare nap or what I have come to call "Daddy Time."

Now, though, the most important thing I can do with the precious little free time I have is be with Fiona. Not to mention try to do my part to keep this household running (I am largely failing at this one. But who needs clean floors anyway?). No offense to the fine people who have been keeping up with my life by reading this blog, but Fiona's really, REALLY cute and it's hard to stay away from her.

Anyway, so I'm back to work these days. In all honesty, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. The first morning I left her was admittedly awful. I managed to hold back the tears until I was out of the driveway, but then was a disaster for the next 30 minutes with only a Dunkin' Donuts coffee to ease my pain. But once I got to work and back with the people I used to spend most of my time with, I was remarkably... fine. I missed Fiona terribly to be sure. But it was actually rather nice to be back in the adult world. At work, away from baby, I can have some semblance of free will. I can eat when I am hungry or during typical meal hours instead of when I just happen to have a spare 30 seconds to wolf down a granola bar. I can go to the bathroom when the urge strikes, and I don't even have to figure out where to set down the baby - who may or may not pitch a massive fit. And I can use my brains for things other than trying to remember what time it was when I last changed the baby's diaper, or when I last fed her, or how many hours she slept last night.

Of course, there's plenty I'm missing while I'm gone. But I'm starting to come around to the idea that it's really OK. I'm in no way alone in this. Lots and lots and LOTS of mothers have to leave their babies, and I'd be willing to bet the majority of them have a hard time with it. And I am fortunate to have a job I really like that is challenging and fun with co-workers I enjoy spending time with at a company that has been good to me for the past 3+ years. And Fiona is being very well taken care of in my absence by someone who loves her dearly, which is great for her. This separation thing could be a lot worse.

As a result, however, I'm even more of a homebody than ever. I've always been the type to really enjoy my time at home, due in great part to a very long commute that allows relatively few waking hours there during the workweek. So while I used to be somewhat possessive of my time at home - not keen on long phone conversations with friends or frequent weeknight forays out on the town - I'm even more so now, because my time at home means time with Fiona and M. Which means I'm a little (a lot) out of touch with anything outside the four walls of home. But for the time being, that's the way it has to be. Fiona's changing so fast these days I can barely keep up. More than that, though, I'd really rather be hanging out with her for the most part. She smiles and laughs and talks (baby babble, yes, but she's quite expressive!) all the time, and is super entertaining. And being that our little family is still so shiny and new at this point, it makes sense to really enjoy it now as much as I can. So while I must go to work in order to make ends meet and do my part to keep a roof over our heads and all of us fed, it could be worse. Of course, it is a bummer to not get to see this face every minute of every day.

One week to go

For the past eleven weeks of my life, I have dreaded this one: the twelfth. At the end of this week I will be returning to work. The dread isn't because I hate my job or anything of that sort. On the contrary, I like what I do and am looking forward to getting back to it. But I do not want to leave my infant daughter for the bulk of every day's waking hours.

Oh, who am I kidding? The kid rarely goes to bed before 11:00, and that's on a good night. I'll probably have oodles of quality time with Fiona, even if it is time spent trying fruitlessly to get her tired-but-unwilling-to-go-to-sleep tiny baby butt to bed.

But I digress. My maternity leave has been amazing, and an enormous gift. I know a lot of women who have babies don't get to take nearly the same amount of time I have been able to take. I have been immensely fortunate to spend this much time with Fiona during her first few months of life. I don't know how some women go back after only six, five, or even just a couple of weeks after giving birth.

Of course, the anticipation of leaving her has already made a basketcase out of me. I have been known to start a lullaby to her only to have it choked off with sobs when I remember that our daylight, weekday hours together are numbered. Then there are the times when I just spontaneously combust with tears as I'm feeding her, knowing that I'll be cuddling a lot more with my breast pump than with her by next week.

There are two things keeping me sane at this point. The first is the knowledge that I have only a week and-a-half before the Thanksgiving break when I'll have four solid days to spend with Fiona and M. And after that is the anticipation for the holidays, plus a visit from my mother and grandmother at the end of the month. I'm hoping it all serves as a nice distraction.

The second thing keeping me sane is the biggie. Instead of having to go to daycare or a sitter, Fiona will be in the care of her grandmother, M's mother, and my amazing mother-in-law. Whatever time I am not spending mentally willing us to win the lottery so I don't have to ever work again, I am spending thanking my incredibly lucky stars that my child will be taken care of by someone who will love her almost as much as I do. And that is what will make it even remotely possible for me to keep it together one week from today, when I take that long drive to the office next Monday morning, and the even longer drive home that night to be with my baby again.

Five Years

Recently, M and I celebrated the fifth anniversary of our wedding. It was a small milestone, but one nonetheless. And it's one that scarcely seems possible. In some ways, I feel like we're still those two clowns who met at UMASS. We both had a crush on each other, and while nothing came of it until years later, we both somehow knew we'd get married someday. The relationship I have with my husband has surpassed everything I ever hoped for. We're fairly different people, and anyone who knows us can attest to the fact that we're not the picture of wedded bliss. We're constant bickerers, and act more like friends than spouses. We have fun together, not necessarily connubial harmony.

But that's good for us, and underneath our bickering, sniping, and weird little inside jokes is great love. M has long been the one person in my life that I don't think I could live without. He's my best friend and the person with whom I want to share all the details of my life. And the details - mundane or otherwise - of whose life I want to know.

While I was pregnant with Fiona, I spent a lot of time thinking about how important M is to me, and how I really didn't want that to change. It was my greatest fear, in fact. He's been my other half for so long I felt the need to jealously guard our relationship from the child we were awaiting.

I've always thought that our relationship should always be the top priority, even if we were ever to bring a kid into the mix, which, truth be told, we never expected to do. For the first five years of our couplehood we eschewed the very notion of kids. Our mantra, whenever we'd see a child throwing a tantrum or hearing a story about a kid being annoying, was, "NEVER." We also used to say, "Reason No. 483 not to have kids" on a regular basis. So when we changed our minds about having kids and I got pregnant, it was imperative to me that our relationship not change. After all, you pick the person you spend your life with; you can't choose your children.

But you can't expect to bring another person into the world without changing yourself, and thus the relationships you're in - all of them. M and I are still reeling from the little interloper in our lives. I think neither of us knew just how much we'd love her when she arrived. When you throw that much more love into the mix, things automatically start to shift.

What has changed the most is that we're now a family. There were two (plus animals). Now there are three (plus animals). I guess I'm less concerned about anything getting in the way of what M and I share, because we are and always have been very simply US. There's just one more of US. Having a baby changes everything, and it's wonderful, frightening, earth-shattering, and awe-inducing. There's no denying that our marriage and our relationship have and will continue to change. Now, instead of loving just M more every day, we both love each other and another person more every day. More love is good.

Month Two Stats

Fiona had her two-month appointment last week. She was amazingly good-natured through nearly the entire visit. This was likely because I smartened up from her one-month appointment and made sure the last thing I did before we left for the doctor's office was feed her so at least she wouldn't be screaming herself silly due to hunger.

As with the previous visit to the pediatrician, Fiona checks out to be very healthy. The doctor says she's right on track with everything and looks great. She was even impressed with Fiona's strength and figures she'll be early to roll over. Not two seconds after she said this Fiona rolled over on the exam table. Little show-off. I was so proud. Granted, she was probably helped out a bit by the incline at the head of the table. But still: for one, her timing couldn't have been better, and two, she really is that strong.

On to the rundown of her stats:

Weight: 13 pounds, 8.2 ounces. That's right. She gained nearly three pounds in the last month. She bumped herself into the 97th percentile for weight. This really came as no surprise to us since M and I both are having more back pain every day. Holding Fiona is fast becoming a weight-training regimen.

Length: 23.5 inches, a gain of an inch and-a-half since her one-month appointment, and reaching the 75th percentile for weight. Our little basketball player could very well outpace both her parents in stature. After all, her height at two months of age is an adequate indicator, right?

The appointment could not end without some trauma, of course. We also had to face the horror of her first round of vaccinations. This experience was nearly as bad for me as it was for Fiona - maybe worse. For her it was momentary pain from three shots. For me, it was having my heart ripped out knowing there wasn't much I could do to prevent the pain. The nurse started with the rotavirus drink, which Fiona accepted like a champ. Then she got one shot in her left thigh and two in her right. These nurses nurses really know what they're doing. She positioned herself just so that I couldn't see the actual injections taking place. All I could see was poor little Fiona's face as that first injection registered.

Thinking about it now, a full week later, and I still want to cry. A surprising amount of emotion was clear on that tiny little face of hers: confusion ("What did I do to deserve this??"), anger ("Goddammit, you bastard, that hurts!", pain ("OWIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!") and overall upset ("Mommy!!! Make it better!") All I could do was comfort her afterwards, and that was no small feat. Thankfully, I have with me at all times Fiona's two favorite things in all the world: Left Boob and Right Boob. Once she'd had a visit with each of them, she was in much better spirits.

The remainder of the day was so peaceful as Fiona slept for most of it. I wasn't surprised. I remember my last round of vaccination shots back when I was 18 and getting ready to leave for college. I slept the entire day afterwards, too. Still, I kept an eagle eye on her all day, watching for bad reactions. But she's such a trooper. She had three tiny bruises at the injection sites, but no fever, no apparent discomfort, and no illness.

Already, I dread her four-month appointment during which she'll have her second round of shots. I'll be back to work by then, but based on how traumatic the first round of shots was I think I'll have to take the day off so I can recover emotionally.

TV Sucks Bigtime

During the past 8 weeks I've been home on maternity leave, I've had the opportunity to realize just how very, very much TV sucks. There is so much crap available for viewing at any hour of the day it boggles the mind. Right before it churns said mind to an oatmeal-like consistency. I'm almost looking forward to returning to work just so I can avoid looking at the idiot box for so many hours a day.

There are major turds to be found on every channel, even ones I would have considered non-sucking. For instance, HGTV, to which I am typically glued on the weekends, has a bunch of seriously lame shows where people do sub-par crafts ("After the break, we'll show you how to make this tribal drum end table!") while smiling insanely. The Food Network shows waaaay too much Rachel Ray (of course, in my book any Rachel Ray is too much). Travel Channel has the giddies for Jeff Corwin; he's alright, but a little too cool-guy-goofy-smug for my taste. TNT and TBS are my usual go-tos, but even they let me down from time to time, showing more Home Improvement and Married With Children than I choose to watch.

Of course, that's just the basic cable channels. I don't even bother with regular network television. I'm sorry, but I will never be desperate enough to watch Dr. Phil, Tyra, or whoever else is on the air these days after having sold their souls to Lucifer. Before Fiona and I discovered the magic of sleeping late together, it was all I could do to watch The Today Show. That much perky that early and you could strain something!

Soap operas have also descended beneath me at this point. Growing up I was an avid Days of Our Lives fan, but it's just not worth it anymore. I'm annoyed that there are so many new characters. By the same token, I'm annoyed that so many characters remain - and are STILL up to their same old tricks. BOOORING.

I don't even want to get into the commercials that air during the day. I've seen way more ads for ambulance chaser lawyers, credit counseling agencies, and Vehix than I ever hoped to. Seriously, who does the media buys for these companies, monkeys? Because it seems to me like forcing people to watch the same ad more than once during every commercial break of on half-hour program isn't smart media planning. But maybe it's just me.

I have a schedule I typically follow nowadays. It's not great, but it works for Fiona and me. In the super-early hours when Fiona wakes up for a feeding, I'm likely to catch an episode of Dawson's Creek, which I was never really into when it originally aired but will suffice to keep me company when the world is dark and quiet. Later on, if we make it up in time, we'll watch two episodes of Charmed (from the Shannen Doherty days) from 8:00 to 10:00. From 10:00 to 11:00 it's Frasier, and then Will & Grace (if I'm not too annoyed by it that day) until noon. Then we hit something of a dry spell for the day. Most days I'll turn off the TV and turn on classical music. But when the need for company other than a screaming baby overwhelms, I'll turn on What Not to Wear from noon to 1:00, and follow it up with Ten Years Younger until 2:00. Last month, between 2:00 and 4:00 I'd be watching Star Trek: The Next Generation, but Spike TV turned stupid and stopped airing it by October 1. Bastards. So now I just wander through TV hell, occasionally landing on something that I don't hate until 4:00 when there are two more episodes of Charmed (from the Rose McGowan era). From 6:00 to 7:00 I'll watch whatever catches my eye. By 7:00, M is home and Scrubs comes on.

Sure, my brain is rotting and I'm turning my kid stupid by watching so much TV. But with a child that opts not to be put down as a general rule, there's not a lot else for me to do. I feel bad about this. But being entertained 24/7 is extremely important to me. Plus, Fiona's not much of a conversationalist just yet. I bet when I'm back at work in less than four weeks, I'll really miss all the crappy TV I've been watching. Well, no - I'm sure TV will be the farthest thing from my mind. What I'll be missing is the entertainment I get out of Fiona. She's the best kind of TV.

Big Love

Some women who have a baby and feel an overwhelming love for their child before it's even out of the womb. Some fall so deeply in love at first sight of their newborn that they are overcome. I was not one of these women.

Sure, while I was pregnant with Fiona, I was very committed to her, and I loved her in a way. But she was such a mystery at the time. A future child about which I knew nothing save that she was growing in me. And when she was born, I cried with joy and my feelings for her deepened. But still, what I felt was more a mix of relief that she had been born safely at last and a sense of wonder that she had actually come out of me. I remember being surprised somehow when M touched her head as I held her in the hospital and said, "I love her." I knew I was happy to have her, and I would be crushed to ever lose her. But she and I still had a road to travel together before the real love fireworks would begin.

I think it took a couple of weeks before I felt the kind of love that other mothers experience instantly upon laying eyes upon their children; and even then, it was a gradual thing. I don't know the exact day or moment it happened. But at some point I started saying "I love you" and I haven't been able to stop. Sometimes I say it to her over and over again. I hug her and kiss her as if my life depended on it. This is seriously big love.

I wonder if it makes me sound like a bad mother to admit I didn't feel that all-consuming, bone-crushing love for my baby when she was first born. I can promise that I'm making up for it now. And I know now that unless you've had a child - whether biologically or otherwise - it's impossible to know this love. I had no idea what I was in for when M and I decided to have a baby. I understand now why my mother - who is NOT a kid person by any stretch (although she does have a soft spot for Fiona) - could have been so loving and giving and kind to me. I understand why my father still talks about how much he regrets not having picked up and moved his life from North Dakota to Montana when my mother moved us there after their divorce. I understand how mothers lift cars with their bare hands in order to save their babies' lives. This love makes you stronger.

At the same time, though, this love can make you utterly weak. I am completely at Fiona's mercy. There is nothing I wouldn't give her. I am putty in her tiny little hands, and she melts my heart with her cries as much as with her smiles. I can't believe I used to not want this. I know I had my reasons, and they were no doubt valid. But I've never been happier about changing my mind.

Long time, no post

I've been most remiss in keeping this blog up to date. I'm not lazy, I swear. I just have a rather fussy baby in my care. Fiona does not take well to being put down as a general rule. She's getting better as she gets older, but she's really a big, BIG fan of being held. This is fine, as I am a big fan of holding her. She is really cute, after all.

This situation, however, means I'm completely tied to the kid most of the time. What little free time Fiona affords me is frivolously spent showering, eating, peeing, washing my hands, and spending far too little quality time with the dog. Poor Ollie was probably so psyched to get to be out of the crate and home with one of us all day every day until he realized that Fiona and I are pretty useless to him.

Yes, I fritter my days away cuddling, feeding, changing, and generally dealing with the wee one instead of keeping my anxious readers up to date on the fascinating goings on of parenthood. But like I said, Fiona is growing more and more agreeable all the time, so I'm recommitting myself to posting on a more regular basis. In the meantime, here's what's been going on in a nutshell:

- I'm up to my elbows in baby poo.
- When I sweat, it smells like breastmilk. Thank god the heat finally broke so I don't sweat as much.
- Cloth diapers allay a LOT of potential guilt.
- Buying baby clothes and other stuff is addictive.
- I can get by on way less sleep than I used to.
- Fiona is easily the most adorable creature I've ever met.
- I am in love.

Stay tuned. More irresistible updates will be posted soon!

Month One Stats

Fiona's one-month doctor visit was yesterday. It was supposed to be the day before, but somehow I managed to put the wrong time on my calendar so when I showed up at 10:15 for it, the receptionist said the appointment was long past since it was scheduled for 9:15. Yeah, as if I'd ever make an appointment for that early in the morning.

All's well in Fiona-world as far as her health goes, though. Here's a quick rundown of her stats:

Weight: 10 pounds, 12.2 ounces. Our little piggie has gained nearly two pounds from her birth weight; nearly three if you account for the pound she lost after being born. This puts her in the 90th percentile for weight. SWEET!

Length: 22 inches. Two and a quarter inches since birth. Not exactly basketball player height, but she's average, landing in the 55th percentile. Hmm... 90th percentile for weight, 55th for height. Already she's taking after her parents' body shapes. Poor thing.

In spite of a lot of congestion - totally normal for a little bean such as herself - Fiona checks out as totally healthy. Her lungs sound clear and strong (especially if you gauge by the ear-splitting screams she was emitting during much of the appointment), her heart sounds great, and everything else is on target. She's growing like a weed, which makes me so happy. After the anxiety of that first week when she lost so much weight and was so unhappy due to hunger, I couldn't be more relieved that she's doing so well now. Plus, I feel a certain sense of pride knowing that her awesome growth is due to the milk I'm making and giving to her. Sure, it's a natural process and I don't have a lot of control over it. But there's something very satisfying about the fact that my boobs have the awesome power to feed and nourish my daughter. This along with the awesome powers I already knew they possessed. Hot damn, the sisters have skills!

Fiona's next appointment next month will likely be less fun as she'll be getting her first round of vaccinations. I'm already dreading it, hating to see her in pain of any kind. Especially legitimate pain. She squawks plenty from silly stuff like being changed when she's really hungry, or being put down when she's feeling needy. But this appointment will produce serious owies, and I am already steeling myself for the trauma my poor daughter will be experiencing. I get upset when my cats and dog get shots. I think seeing my own flesh and blood get pricked will probably drive me a little batty. Sorry, battier.

The First Month: A Review

Amazingly, four weeks have already passed. Four weeks. Not four days, which is what it feels like. Everyone says it, and I knew to expect the phenomenon from watching my little sister go from adorable baby to antagonizing pre-teen in about 20 minutes flat: it is so true that time flies when you have a new baby. Fiona is already a completely different child than the one who emerged from me just over four weeks ago. And I suppose it stands to reason that my husband and I are also pretty different at this point, too.

I realize that I dedicated my last several posts have been about labor and sleepless nights instead of chronicling what our daily lives have been like since Fiona's birth. This is, of course, because time has been limited and I opted to tell the story of her birth (as well as provide a detailed rant about her occasional late night feeding issues) before telling the story of her life. So I'm a little behind I guess. Here is a brief recap of each of the last four weeks of our new life with Fiona.

Week One
The first few days were, obviously, pretty chaotic. She was born midday on Friday the 17th. The next few days are a haze of visitors, being poked and prodded by a variety of medical personnel, hanging out in bed all day, and feeling utterly exhausted and overwhelmed. And when it's not visiting hours, hospital life can get pretty lonely. Especially in the wee hours of the morning when there's nothing but crappy informercials on the mere 13 channels the hospital TV offers. Being awakened every 2 hours to breastfeed a tiny, squalling person about which you know virtually nothing other than that she came out of you (at great cost to your figure and your lady bits) didn't help much either. I was happy to see her every time she was brought to me, but the need for sleep was overwhelming.

On Sunday we brought our new family member home. Our first night was no picnic. Fiona had already lost weight in the hospital since my milk hadn't come in yet. This was no surprise and nothing to be concerned about, but I should have expected that Fiona would be hungry beyond what my body was making for her to eat. So I had my first new mother meltdown at about 2:00 in the morning when my daughter, starving to death, could not be calmed. And I, more exhausted than I had ever been in my entire life, did not know what to do and was pretty much in the same boat. Thankfully, my husband and mother both woke up and talked me off my ledge. But it wasn't pretty, and it's not a fond memory.

I don't even remember Monday at all, but I know it must have been tough because we got on the phone with the pediatrician we were so concerned about Fiona. So, Tuesday found us at the pediatrician. With Fiona not seeming to get any food into her (and thus neither peeing nor pooping like we wanted her to), we were just beside ourselves. The pediatrician assured us that Fiona, in spite of having lost 20% (a full pound) of her weight, was fine. Unfortunately, she did have a bit of jaundice, so we had to go to the hospital to have blood taken and tested to see just how bad it was and what treatment was warranted. So, a day after leaving the hospital, we were back. While there, we also visited the lactation consultant who managed to restore some of the sanity I had lost two nights before when she helped me feed my poor starving kid.

Wednesday was the first time I left Fiona. The carpal tunnel that had been getting progressively worse in the final weeks of my pregnancy had worsened to the point that it was getting difficult to care for her. Everything I did with my right arm sent me through the roof with pain. I had no doubt that the amount of fluid still stuck in me had everything to do with it, but I couldn't wait anymore and went to my hand and wrist doctor for a cortisone shot. Fiona stayed with my mom while my mother-in-law drove me (since I wasn't supposed to drive for two weeks and M had returned to work as of Wednesday). Even though I fed the little piggy right before I left, Fiona demanded to be fed during the two hours I was gone, so my mom gave her the bottle I had left behind (thank you, pump!). It was not as hard to leave her as I thought it would be, which made me feel a little guilty. But I think it wasn't so difficult because 1) I left her with my mom, who had been around since Fiona had been born and knew how to calm her, and 2) it was absolutely necessary for me to get the problem of my wrist handled sooner rather than later.

Other parts of that first week are a bit hazy at this point. I know there was a lot of exhaustion and probably some more tears as Fiona and I adjusted to each other. But looking back, it's quite a blur. We did manage to leave the house a few times before the first week was over, taking our first shopping trips on Thursday the 23rd (to Target) and Friday the 24th (to Babies R Us). The BRU trip also marked our first semi-public feeding. I say "semi-public" because BRU has this awesome room called the Mothers Room that is outfitted with a few chairs and couches so mothers can breastfeed and change their children. Totally separate from the bathroom. While I'm not a huge fan of box stores such as BRU, I have to say this particular offering is pretty darn cool and I really appreciate that they have it.

Week Two
Not much more to say about this week. More exhaustion, more getting to know each other. Early in the week, Fiona lost her umbilical stump that Saturday, and got her first kisses from Ollie - who had previously been terrified of her - on Sunday. Really, it was like a switch flipped with the dog. He wanted nothing to do with her for the first week, and would run away from someone holding her. But then on Sunday, he suddenly wanted to lick her endlessly. Either he decided he loved her, or he realized she could be a tasty treat. We're still trying to determine exactly which one it is. I'm opting for love.

As for myself, the early part of the second week finally revealed the ankles that had disappeared over a month before. At last! No more cankles! Seriously, this was an extremely joyous day for me. Also, I was able to wear shoes other than flip-flops again, which I had been confined to for at least six weeks prior to giving birth. I was one swollen puppy, but finally I was returning to normal. By the 26th, only 9 days after having Fiona, I'd dropped 30 pounds of the 38 I gained overall. Pushing out a kid and feeding it from the boob? Best. Weightloss. Plan. EVER!

Week Three
My mother went home exactly 3 weeks after she had arrived. For the week leading up to her departure, I was in an utter panic, fearing I would fail utterly as a mother. Not to mention I would never again be able to find the time to pee, wash my hair, dust my living room, change my clothes, or anything else that would require putting the baby down. But I wasn't so worried about the emotional impact of her leaving until I drove her to the airport. As I watched her say goodbye to Fiona and realized she wouldn't see her again for an untold number of months, I was overcome.

Having my own daughter made the importance of my own mother much more poignant. I realized I didn't need my mother as a pair of helping hands. I wanted her around to see her granddaughter grow and change, as well as to see me grow into motherhood. So far, Fiona and I have managed to get along without her NaiNai (her grandmotherly designation), and I do find the time to pee and complete other tasks. At least to some degree. But I do miss having my mom around to help take care of me. Nobody ever takes care of you the way your mother does.

Week Four
Week four, for as recently as it happened, is the most blurry to me. I think that's because things are evening out. Fiona is starting to sleep for longer stretches, and developing more of a personality. And having her is less of a novelty and more of a reality. I'm adjusting to motherhood, M is adjusting to fatherhood, and we're all adjusting to being a family. Every day, I am more and more amazed at how beautiful this little creature is. Honestly, I think she is likely the most adorable baby ever created. I may be biased. But she's certainly the cutest member of this particular family, I assure you.

Fiona, meet the bottle. Bottle, meet Fiona

We officially introduced Fiona to a bottle this weekend. She had eaten from a bottle once before when I had to leave her for more than two hours when she was only five days old and I had a doctor appointment. But it was a last resort kind of thing - we'd hoped she'd hold out and not need to eat while I was gone since it was very early in the breastfeeding process.

But once she hit four weeks last Friday, and breastfeeding has been well established (along with my milk supply), it seemed like the right time to let M participate in feeding our daughter. Not to mention give my poor nipples a break from time to time. I had pumped a good 3.5 ounces earlier in the day, so as we settled in for the evening and hoped for a peaceful night, M prepared a bottle and sat down to feed Fiona for the first time. Little piggie took right to it, caring nothing for the different nipple.

I expected to feel a kind of relief as I got a much needed break from the frequent feedings Fiona demands. I was surprised when I felt overwhelming jealousy. Not so much of my husband, since I'm eager for him to experience every part of caring for our kid. It was the bottle I resented. The bottle that was holding milk I had made. And the lowlife, incompetent nipple delivering that milk to my daughter just pissed me off. I kept wanting to snatch Fiona from her father and that horrible bottle and put her to my breast where she belonged. As it turned out, I got my chance anyway when the 3.5 ounces wasn't enough for her. Hooray!

This was clearly a reaction brought on by some hormonal imbalance due to childbirth. Either that or I'm just a major freak. I'm leaning toward the latter. I've been complaining about sore nipples and excessive responsibility for several days now. You'd think I'd be over the moon to share the task of feeding her. But when it comes down to it, feeding her is really the only thing that, up to this point, has belonged to just her and me. And for the most part it still does. After all, I'm the one home with her all day, every day. And we don't give her formula, so I'm still the one making all her food. No doubt, this too shall pass. In the meantime, however, I'll be shooting evil looks at the bottle and fake nipple. Clearly, they're trying to come between me and my daughter.

4:40 am - Marathon night sessions

This is the time of night I cherish. Oh, wait, no, that's not right. This is the time of night I want to scream bloody hell, throw in the towel, and jump off a bridge. This isn't every night, but it's probably half of them. The nights when Fiona decides that only her first 30 or 40 minutes of her late night feeding session will be peaceful, and then the rest of it is going to suck righteously. And so is she. So as I hold my breath for her to stay asleep now that I've put her down after two hours of feeding, burping, attempting unsuccessfully to burp, cajoling, calming, attempting unsuccessfully to calm, and growing exceedingly frustrated with this whole breastfeeding my daughter baloney, I'm going to use this time to decompress and further scare the ever living pants off of all my readers who occasionally wonder whether having a baby is for them.

Typically these marathon sessions go like this: after a surprising 3- or 4-hour stretch of sleep (very unusual for our 2-hour-maximum sleeper), I'll go into the nursery to find Little Miss Hungry clicking for a nipple (I say "clicking" because she makes a cute vocal smacking noise when she's trying to wake herself up to eat). At this point, I am always more than happy to oblige. Some night feeding sessions are really lovely and rewarding, when she's peaceful and sleepy and looks right at me as she eats. So we settle into the glider rocker for some late night chow. Now, Fiona has been known to be a spitter - occasionally of the projectile variety - so pulling her off every five or so minutes to be burped usually figures into the equation. Sometimes this irritates her. When it does, it is a sign of pending doom as far as the amount of sleep I'm going to get for the rest of the night.

After the first 10 minutes and two good burps, if she's still hungry, we go back to it. But by now, burping will be nearly impossible. This is why when we get beyond the first 10 minutes in a nighttime feeding session, I know I'm screwed. Because if she can't burp, that means she's got gas. And like any obsessive eater, a full and gassy tummy will not stand in the way of her eating herself silly. In fact, this feeling will probably make her want to shove that much more food into her tiny little gullet. But now her eating will take on an urgency that veers toward panic. Pulling her off for a good burp results in about 15 minutes of fruitless back smacking paired with intermittent high-pitched screeching wails of protest. Right into my ear canal, usually.

After the 15 minutes of attempted burping, if she's still wailing, I'll give in and put her back to the breast, hoping she didn't already suck it dry. But because her tummy hurts, Fiona won't just nurse peacefully. Heavens no. She tosses her head about like a drunkard and flails her arms like she's in a Tool video (watch right around the 4:00 mark and you'll see what I mean). I can stick the nipple directly in her mouth, but she'll still holler like I've been denying her food for weeks, apparently not noticing that what she wants is in her mouth.

This will continue for an untold period of time. There will be countless more ineffective attempts to burp her, but there is a 98% chance I will get barfed on multiple times. Even as I write this, I am watching a particularly large patch of spit up breast milk on my pajamas dry. More screaming will ensue, as will more desperate attempts to shove the nipple in her mouth so she is quiet for at least one precious moment or two (knowing full well it will lead to me getting spit up on). There will be begging and pleading for mercy on my part. I will stick the pacifier in her mouth multiple times as well in an effort to calm her down and get her to stop using my poor beleaguered nipples as binkies with benefits. And until that random, surprising moment when she simply drops off to sleep for no apparent reason, this pattern will continue.

So far the longest marathon session lasted 3 hours. Tonight's was only 2, so perhaps I should count my blessings. The problem is that afterwards, because I'm awake for so long and don't have the luxury of being a newborn who can fall asleep anytime, anywhere at all hours of the day (that phenomenon occurs only when I really don't want it to), I'm left wide awake and not a little resentful of Fiona, my darling husband, and the dog, all of whom are getting to sleep through the night just as much as they want. In Fiona's case, of course, what she misses out on in sleep during the night hours will be made up during the following day - if I'm lucky. And if I'm extra lucky, she'll allow me to take a nap of more than 20 minutes at some point.

From the silence coming through the baby monitor, it seems as though sleepytime for Fiona has taken hold, and I can safely crawl back into bed. Having spent this time chilling out, I may even be able to fall asleep in short order - only to have to get up again in a couple hours. Let's hope the light of day brings a little more peace. And for those of you who think this kind of business is reason enough to swear of having children forever, I'd rethink it. Once I've gotten a little more sleep and the ringing in my ears from Fiona screaming directly into them has faded, I'll have a whole new perspective and I'll want nothing more than to kiss and hug her all day long because I love her so much. It's just these damn wee hours that get to me.

The Labor Story - Part Three

Now that it's been three weeks since I went through all this, I suppose it's time to finish up the story. When I left off, I had taken Nubain and was getting to relax a little bit. That lasted for about an hour and-a-half, when the Nubain wore off. That was really unfortunate, I must say. More contractions, back to full force. It was getting worse before it would get better.

Things are a little fuzzy now that I look back. But then, they were a little fuzzy the morning after it happened. So I'm sure the next several events I'm going to relay are out of order, not quite right, or otherwise compromised. Whatever, you'll get the picture. But the way I remember it is like this: After the Nubain wore off, I was back in a lot of pain (naturally), but I had continued to progress. As to how much progression there had been, I can't remember. But there was talk of "bulging waters" whenever I'd have a contraction. Since my water hadn't broken yet, I thought this might be a sign that I'd break my own water rather than having it done manually by the doctor with the scary water-breaking hook thingy. Sure enough, in the midst of a particularly hard contraction sometime later, I felt an enormous gush of water. Like peeing my pants, only 1) out of an unusual area, and 2) accompanied with a LOT of pain.

Once my water had broken, the pain shifted. Up to that point, the pain had been caused by a bag of water against bone. With the bag gone, the pain was now caused by the Weeble's bony skull against my pelvic bones. I don't think it was too terribly long after that I gave in completely and asked for the epidural. This was a big step for me.

Let me back up a bit. I don't like things to do with the spine. It's just a thing with me. When it comes to the very sensitive business taking place on my back, I want everyone's hands off. Granted, epidurals are done so commonly, I had no real need to be worried about damage. And of course, I still didn't want to slow things down. But at that point, labor could have gone on for six more days and I wouldn't have cared so long as I didn't feel like my insides were being ripped out with meat hooks. So the epidural doctor or whoever came in and sent M away (apparently husbands don't get to watch this kind of thing being done - guess I'm not the only one with spinal issues). It wasn't painful at all having the catheter inserted. The only difficult part was being curled into myself while having contractions. Thankfully, the doctor was highly practiced and it took fewer than five minutes (I think) and only two contractions. When the drugs started into my system, it was cold, tingly, and uncomfortable. And then it was pure joy as my lower half disappeared. Well, not completely. I could still feel the pressure of contractions, but it was no longer painful. When M returned to the room, he found me relaxed and happy. We took advantage by both taking an hour-long nap.

After the nap, things really get fuzzy. Someone must have checked me at some point and decided it was getting time for me to push or something. Next thing I know, the nurse has got one of my legs and M has the other, and I'm being told to grab the backs of my thighs and start pushing. Now, for those of you who haven't gotten to participate in the delights of pushing out a baby, allow me to elaborate on the pushing process. In short, pushing out a baby should (and does) feel much like pushing out a monster turd. Yes, that is correct. If it feels like you're going to poop your pants, you're doing it right.

I'd read all about this and heard it from friends who had labored with their babies. So it wasn't a complete surprise. What was a surprise was that this first stage of pushing took place with only the nurse and M in the room - not the 54 odd people I'd been led to believe were in the delivery room at any given moment. I had been semi-OK with the idea that I might drop a load on the table to a large audience while pushing the kid out. I was decidedly less OK with my audience being just my husband. That's the height of vulnerability, not to mention seriously "ew".

Overall, I think I pushed for about 90 minutes or so. The nurse, god bless her, was kind and generous and didn't make me push with every contraction, allowing me to take a break. The epidural had worn off completely by this point, so every push just enhanced that earlier feeling of my insides being ripped out by meat hooks. When the doctor came in, however, it was all work and no rest. No breaks with that guy (my doctor had long since ended her shift). It was "Push, push, push! Keep going! Harder! HARDER!" GAH!

The rest of it is quite a blur. I remember one particularly nasty contraction that went on for something like five minutes (and that left me in tears). I remember telling M I wanted to stop and go home. And I remember a lot of pain and pressure. I'd describe it, but there are people with sensitive stomaches that read this blog and I like to retain as many readers as possible. Besides, nobody can really know what it felt like except for me. I assure you, this portion of labor is what warranted the comment, "Labor sucks".

Halfway through the pushing, I had to have an episiotomy; or, as the doctor referred to it, "a small nick". I didn't feel it, what with all the other stuff going on down there. But I did see it since the nurses had set up a mirror for my viewing enjoyment. I can't say I'd recommend the mirror to everyone, but I did appreciate it - particularly when the Weeble made her appearance. Before that moment, though, it was quite the experience just to watch my lady business be utterly and completely altered by the efforts of pushing out the kid. Again, I won't provide details. Besides, I'd just as soon forget what I saw anyway.

The last few moments of pushing were the most excruciating. I'd been having contractions on top of one another, no breaks to speak of. The baby's head was finally out, and on the next push, her shoulders were, too. And then the doctor made me stop pushing. He needed to position her properly, I guess. So no pushing. WORST PAIN EVER. I can't really explain the pushing urge, but it's something your body feels compelled to do. And by "compelled" I mean you'd rather poke a large stick in your eye than NOT push when the urge arises. So when the doctor said to stop pushing, that was bad enough. Add the fact that I had to stop while her shoulders were halfway out... oh, god, I get faint just thinking about it. Then I just had to wait for the next contraction. Only, suddenly, it wouldn't come. And wouldn't come. And wouldn't come. I don't know how long we waited for it, but at one point I yelled, "Where is the goddamn contraction!?!?"

In the end, the contraction finally came, and so did Fiona. She had an amazingly round head for a baby that came through the birth canal. It was so round that for the rest of our hospital stay people kept assuming she'd arrived by c-section. I got to take one good look at her before they whisked her off to the opposite side of the room to weigh her and evaluate her. Meanwhile, the doctor set about fixing up my nether regions while Fiona aced her Apgars (9 and 10). I didn't get to hold her again for about 40 minutes, which was no fun. But I guess holding her while being stitched up down there wouldn't have been so great either, since I was yelling "Ow ow ow ow!" at the doctor.

But then they put her in my arms and I was overcome. Sure, it was the flood of emotion and love that you feel when you hold your new child. But mostly I was overwhelmed by the final reward for all the work of labor. Here she was at last. I had worked so hard for her, and it hurt so badly. But she was there. And she was perfect.

The Labor Story - Part Two

M, Mom and I arrived at the hospital around 2:30am on Friday, August 17th. The place was blissfully quiet and downright serene. It seemed like we were the only people there as we made our way to the labor and delivery ward. I resisted the offer of a wheelchair at first, but thankfully changed my mind. The contractions weren't super painful yet, but they definitely made walking difficult. And it seemed like the corridor was endless, as was the elevator ride, before we finally got to our destination. By this point I was pretty tired, having been up for 21 hours already.

A nurse put M and me into a room, gave me a hospital johnny (so sexy!) and hooked me up to a couple monitors to track the baby's heartbeat and my contractions. Thus began a very boring hour, where we waited in a tiny room, me on the bed, M on a chair, staring at a monitor because the only thing on TV was Hanging with Mr. Cooper or some equally boring show. Admittedly it was fun to have M tell me, "You're having a contraction... and now it's peaking... and now it's going down," based on what he could see from the monitor. Otherwise, it was just boring. Except for the part when the nurse came in to give me my first pelvic exam. Hoo. Ray. Having a contraction while being poked and prodded from the inside is totally NOT awesome. When she first did it, I was no more progressed than I had been at my last doctor appointment the previous Tuesday (1 cm. and 80% effaced, for those of you who know what I'm talking about). So I thought for sure at that point it was fake labor. But when the nurse returned and did a second exam, finding that I was 3 cm. (while contracting) and 100% effaced, it seemed like the time had come.

Sure enough, I was admitted and we got our very own room for the duration. There was a moment when we were moving over to the room where I would labor, deliver, and then recover until we went home when I panicked. I realized, all of a sudden, that this was it. By the end of this particular road, I would be a mother. Have a completely foreign life. And have a baby for which her father and I would be 100% responsible. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain, I heard, "No, no, no! I'm not ready for this yet!" But the inevitability of my body's processes quieted the panic enough so that I didn't freak out and make a me-shaped hole in the hospital wall.

Once we got settled, it was just more waiting around for not much to happen. By then, it was nearly 4:00. The admitting nurse started going through a bunch of paperwork, which was not so much fun considering the fact that every few minutes I felt like my insides were turning inside out. She kept asking me questions I couldn't answer fully, giving me information I couldn't process properly, handing me documents to sign that I could barely focus on, and overall badgering the hell out of me while I was in a lot of pain. Looking back on it, she was just doing what she needed to do paperwork-wise. But it seemed downright cruel at the time. Thankfully, she had the patience of a saint, and kept badgering to a minimum during the peaks of my contractions.

Around 6:00, my doctor showed up to check on me. Hers was a welcome familiar face, although she wasn't there too long and when she checked me (yippee, more internal prodding!) I wasn't any farther along than the last check: 3 cm, and down to 80% effaced. Sigh. If I remember correctly, she came back one more time just before getting off shift at 7:00 and checked me again, but by then I was so tired that the memory is foggy of those morning hours. I got a new nurse, Marah, at 7:00 and she was with me through delivery. I loved Marah. She was so motherly and kind. She didn't badger me, and when I had a hard contraction, she would say things like, "You're doing so well, I am really impressed." The kind of stuff she probably says to all patients, but that made me feel like I could go on.

I think it was around 7:30 or so I'd had it with the contractions and asked for Nubain (a relatively mild pain medication administered via IV and a shot to the arse) to take the edge off. I had wanted very much to remain drug-free through labor and I was extremely leery of doing anything that would slow down the process. I held off on Nubain until this point because I'd rather deal with the pain then having this labor business go on any longer than absolutely necessary. By this point, though, I'd just about had it. I was so tired that I just needed a break. Labor takes a lot out of you, especially when you've been up for over 24 hours. (And before any of my competitive mommy readers wants to point out that my labor was probably the easiest thing since slicing bread compared to their labors, I don't wanna hear it - everybody's labor sucks in its own way. Am I right? Yes, of course I'm right. It's my blog.)

Anyway, once the Nubain kicked in a bit, I could actually relax a little. I was still in pain, of course, but I managed to sleep a little between contractions. So I had about 90 minutes of 2 minute catnaps alternating with three-minute contractions. Not ideal, but it made me able to deal with things a little better.

Next installment: Water, water, everywhere; more drugs, and the big push. Come for the science, stay for the gory details!

The Labor Story - Part One

For the very few of you who are interested in the long story of Fiona's birth, this post is for you. Mostly, I want to write it down for my own purposes so I don't forget any more than I already have. To me, it is interesting and fascinating. To others, eh, not so much. So don't feel bad if you want to skip this one.

But here it is, from the beginning. Thursday 8/16 at work, I started feeling weird. Not really bad, but just not good. My usual Braxton Hicks contractions were a bit more painful than usual. By 2:00 that afternoon, I started thinking that maybe I should be done with coming into the office and working from home going forward. By the end of the day, I was saying as much to co-workers. Nothing definite, of course, but I prepared for the possibility that I would not return to the office the next day.

I carpooled to work that day, and during the ride home, my contractions seemed to be getting stronger and more regular. But since I usually had most of my contractions when I was in the car, whether driving or riding, I didn't worry too much about it. Still, I said nothing about it to my friend who was driving. This ensured he did not freak out and drive off the road or drop me on a corner somewhere after dialing 911 (me going into labor in his car - or even in his presence - made him quite nervous, naturally). My last leg home, which I drove, was even more intense to the point that I called my best friend to distract me.

I got home where I was greeted by my mother who had been graciously picked up from the airport by my in-laws. We had planned the dates of her visit with some trepidation, not knowing for sure when Weeble would actually arrive. It could have been a week before my mother, it could have been two weeks after. As it turned out, of course, she arrived in the nick of time. By 8:00 that night, I was starting to suspect it was real labor and started packing my hospital bag (well, "started" isn't quite right... I had put slippers into a bag prior to that evening). By 11:00, the patterns broke down and I thought I was off the hook for one more night. Not so. 11:30 came and everything started up again. M went to bed around 12:00 or so, while my mother and I stayed up. Frankly, I was too uncomfortable (and starting to freak out) too much to sleep. But at 1:30, it seemed like it would be a good idea to at least try so I went to bed with my doctor's phone number, two telephones, and one of the waterproof crib sheets we had for Weeble underneath me (in case of water breaking). Three contractions (inside of 10 minutes) later and I decided a call to the doctor was in order. Clearly, sleep would be out of the picture tonight. Sure enough, she said to come in to the hospital to be checked. What a stroke of luck that she was on call.

M had woken up at this point, so we began making preparations to go. Being uncertain about how the night (morning) would proceed, my mom opted to come with us to the hospital to wait it out. So we all piled into the car a bit after 2:00 and headed out in the quiet and dark of the very early morning.

Next installment: The never-ending night, real labor, and just how bad it actually hurts. Stay tuned!

Introducing...

Our little girl, Fiona Morgan Elizabeth.

Fiona arrived in the world on 8/17 at 12:39 in the afternoon. She weighed 8 pounds, 13 ounces and was 19 3/4 inches long. She was born after only 11 or so hours of active labor, and 1 1/2 hours of pushing. You'd never know she didn't come out by other means given her perfectly round little noggin. She had a lovely head of strawberry blonde hair and a serious set of lungs. I may be biased, but she was also incredibly cute straight out of the gate. She looks unnervingly like her daddy in nearly every way except for her mouth, which she appears to have gotten from me.

We've been calling her Weeble for so long, I thought maybe it would be a challenge for me to switch to her real name. But it is so natural to call her Fiona. The moment we saw her, we knew that of the two names we had in the tank, Fiona was the right one for her.

Each name we gave her has some significance. Well, sort of. Fiona is a name we simply landed on and both loved. It was the first name we test drove, and the name we both always wanted to go back to when other names seemed not to be right. It is a Gaelic name that means "fair and white".

Morgan is a name I've loved for over a decade. It is a variation on the name of the main character in my favorite book (The Mists of Avalon) and means "from the sea". Since I grew up in a land-locked state, I've always been fascinated by the ocean, and its relative nearness is the best thing for me about living near the coast now. Morgan was considered as a first name for her, but M (whose initials are MMM) wanted no more alliteration madness.

Elizabeth is the name of the dear friend who is the reason M and I are together. She had been friends with M before I came, to UMass Amherst for a yearlong exchange and was my accidental roommate. She introduced us, naturally, and served as a liaison for the many years he and I spent trying to figure it all out. Now, she is now more like a sister. So Fiona bears her name.

It's a long name for such a tiny little girl, I suppose. But it seems to suit her so well. Pretty name for pretty girl. And she is pretty.

The first week has been a mixture of pure joy, complete frustration, a mental breakdown or two (or four), utter exhaustion, lingering soreness, and more emotion than I generally know what to do with. But every day gets better and tends more toward the pure joy side than the complete frustration side.

As I manage to find the time, I'll be recording as much as I can about this awesome experience. Of course, there's no describing it. There's no way to really relay just how utterly awesome it is to look in Fiona's face and know that we made her, and she is ours. I'm pretty sure nobody can really anticipate how it feels - and to be honest, it's not all good. Some of it is so, so hard, for whatever reason. But it's all worth it. That's the weird part that can't be explained. The exhaustion, the pain, the mental and emotional roller coaster. It is ALL worth it.

I was right: Labor DOES suck

A week later and I finally have the time to confirm what at least 95% of my readers already know or guessed: it was the real deal indeed. Last Thursday, August 16th, I went into labor. By 12:40 the next day, I had a whole new life, and Weeble had a new name. Since it's a lovely story, it deserves its own post, which I'll put up shortly.

Until then, I can confirm that labor totally sucks. So does the delivery part. It was exhausting, excruciating, and the hardest thing I've ever done. And no, the "mommy amnesia" thing that allows women to consider the remote possibility of doing it another time has not yet kicked in. But it was amazing all the same, and so is the result of all that hard work.

Now begins the fun part. Parenting.

Oh. My. God. What have we done?

Labor might just suck a little

I'm still pregnant, which may seem surprising given my recent silence. But that's just a delightful side-effect of crazy work and home schedules. But as of tonight, I'm out of the office for the duration, even if I'm continuing to work from home over the next few days before Weeble deigns to make her grand entrance.

I'm not sure there will be any more working from home, though. It could be false labor, sure, but what's going on here tonight is NOT all that much fun. In fact, it kinda sucks. Every 4-6 minutes, lasting 30-60 seconds each, I've been having contractions. Actually, this has been going on since this afternoon, but it's decidedly more painful now than it was at, say, 3:00 today.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say this is the real deal right now. And I don't know better, so maybe it is. ACK, given the contraction I'm having right now, I could be persuaded to say my insides are about to fall directly out of me. ALL my insides, not just Weeble.

Well, I'm going to try and get some sleep anyway. Does this labor business get worse than this? Shit, I think it's going to. Dang, I'm starting to forget why I wanted to do this.

More to come, happy betters. I'll keep you all posted.

Getting the Gambling Bug Again

We're down to the 2-week mark from my estimated due date, people. Get your bettin' shoes on. It's time to make some super-scientific predictions about Weeble's pending birth!

We have a couple of gambling options here. Date and weight. For those of you feeling extra frisky, go ahead and pick a time of day. Now, before you take off for your bookie's office (or back-alley refrigerator box), let's recap what we know so you're not just placing bets in the dark:

• According to my doctor's estimate, I am due August 19th.
  
• My first ultrasound, however, indicated a due date of August 16th.
  
• The average online pregnancy calculator estimates my due date to be August 21st based on my last period.
  
• I have had contractions every day for the past week or two, and some of them have even been rather uncomfortable. But they usually seem to happen most when I'm sitting in a car.
  
• As of the last ultrasound we had (at week 32 - so 6 weeks ago), Weeble weighed in at about 6 pounds and "some odd ounces" (whatever that means). The doctor also told me during that appointment that I was measuring at 35 weeks, but that they wouldn't be changing my due date (smug bastard).
  
• It is important to note that ultrasound weights are notoriously off by as much as a pound or more. Which means Weeble could have been way more than the 6+ pounds at 32 weeks (please, god, no) or way smaller (please, god, yes, for I am a small woman).
  
• During the eighth month (approximately weeks 32-35), Weeble probably gained about 1/2 ounce per day
  

So that should give you all some food for thought to help you make the most accurate estimates possible as to Weeble's birth date and weight. Feel free to set up office pools, extensive betting charts, and whatever else will aid in your gambling extravaganza. Post your best guesses in the comments and whomever's closest will get... well, probably nothing. Let's just be honest here. Once she's born, I'll probably have bigger fish to fry. But hey, one never knows.

Happy betting, all!

PS: I finally added pictures from the baby shower for your viewing pleasure.

Feeling Loved

Pregnancy as the power to bring out the stupid in the people around you. And by "stupid" I mean that some people just don't think before they speak. They say things like, "Wow, you are HUGE!" as if I don't know I'm very big. Of course I know it - I have to LIVE with this body. And my current favorites (typically heard from co-workers): "Haven't you popped that kid yet??" or "Why are you still here?" Um, where else am I supposed to be? Why wouldn't I be here? And NO, clearly, I haven't "popped the kid" yet, but thanks for reminding me that I'm still stuck hearing comments like these all the time. Sheesh!

But pregnancy also has the power to bring out the best, the kindest, and the most generous in people. Most people love a pregnant woman, and they can't help but smile. And the people who are already in my life - my friends, family, loved ones in general - are the best example of how wonderful this experience is at times. I have been told some of the most wonderful, loving things in the past nine months; been given some of the greatest gifts (tangible and otherwise); and cared for by many as lovingly as my own mother cares for me.

Today I've been making out a list of people we want to contact after the Weeble arrives and putting together their numbers so M can take care of this mighty project while I'm in the hospital. The mail arrived, and with it an unexpected and most precious gift. It got me thinking back on some of the lovely things people have said to and done for me during this process.

Every day, M proves that he is an amazing husband and father-to-be, taking incredible care of me and an endless list of work around the house as I get bigger, more uncomfortable, and more swollen with every day. One day, several months ago, I had sent him out to pick up some groceries and some O'Doul's, the pregnant beer-drinker's staple (hey, it's better than a kick in the head). He returned with warm O'Doul's off the shelf and apologized that he wasn't able to get cold that I could drink immediately. The reason? Only canned O'Doul's was in the coolers, and, as he said, "It’s enough of an insult that you have to drink this stuff, so I wasn’t going to add to it by making you drink it from cans." It's hard to describe why this is so sweet, but the people who know M will understand.

Around Mother's Day this year, a handful of people recognized the day with me, even though I wasn't yet officially a mother. One friend sent an email expressing high admiration for all the mothers she knows, saying she doesn't know how we do it, but she loves that we do. All I could think was how much it meant to me that she thought to put me in that category.

Another good friend sent an email - in response to what I don't remember. But in it she said, "“Not sure if I ever told you before, but… let me say this: you are one of the most attractive people I have ever met and now you are OFFICIALLY one hot mama. Don't forget that." Considering that there have been so very many points during this pregnancy when I have felt decidedly unattractive or hot, this is one thing I've taken with me and held onto during the rough spots.

And then there was my baby shower, put together by two of my dearest friends who went above and beyond to make it a special, relaxing, and fun event. I thanked them both, but I don't know that I could ever show them just how important they are to me and how grateful I am for all they have done for me throughout my pregnancy... not to mention the durations of our friendships.

Just this week, I had breakfast with two dear friends who are among the kindest, most supportive people I know. Later in the day, one of them sent me a note to tell me she thinks I look fantastic, and that I am an inspiration to her. And that she wasn't saying it just because it's probably what I need and want to hear right now. What made it even better was the fact that, of course, it is what I want to hear right now.

And today. The unexpected gift that arrived in the mail from a kindred spirit. I think I'd rather not try to describe it other than to say it is easily one of the most personal, touching gifts anyone could have given me and my child. It's the kind of gift that you won't get from someone who doesn't really, truly love you.

There have been so many other gestures, some big, some small. But all have made my life happier and better. I just don't know how I got so lucky to have so many good people in my life. And as I get closer to "popping the kid out," I realize that she is just as lucky. Because all these people who love and care for me will doubtless do the same for her. Now that is one fortunate little girl.

Anytime is good for me

After five months of eager anticipation, last night finally came. It was the culmination of nearly 20 years of hoping, praying, wishing that it would happen... someday, somehow. Last night, I finally got to see The Police, live in concert. And oh, god, was it ever good. I've been a fan of The Police since I was 15 and rediscovered the song "Wrapped Around Your Finger." Later, during the autumn of my sophomore year of high school, my best friend and I would drive around during lunch listening to Every Breath you Take: The Singles over and over. To this day, the song "Roxanne" can conjure a rainy fall day like no other. But I was a little late to The Police party, since they'd broken up when I was still a pre-teen. And no good concerts ever came to Billings, Montana, anyway. Well, except for the extremely awesome REO Speedwagon, whom I saw in 6th grade.

Needless to say, when word came out late in 2006 that a reunion tour was in the works, M - also a longtime fan who missed out on the chance to see them in concert - and I were more than a little interested. Tickets went on sale for fan club members on February 20th (and yes, we purchased a membership specifically for this purpose). We scored 4 tickets with relative ease. Now came five months of waiting. Oh, yeah... and getting more and more pregnant with each passing month. When we bought those tickets, I was barely out of my first trimester. It seemed like no big deal - of course I'd make it to the concert! Why wouldn't I?

As time went by, I could begin to see how being extremely pregnant might be a bit of a hindrance in getting to the concert, but I was not to be deterred. A number of people expressed their doubts about my ability to make it there, but I stood firm. Of course, I would make it. I've waited too long for this! But I couldn't help but wonder at the words of my previously-pregnant friends who obviously had more experience in this department than I. Would I make it? M and I opted in when a November show was announced and tickets went on sale. Just in case. But I was still determined that unless I was in labor or had a 3-day old baby, I would be there.

Now, being nine months pregnant, something like a major rock concert - at Fenway Park, no less - was not to be undertaken lightly. Understanding that I could get very hot, very swollen, and very tired in short order dictated how M and I prepared for the concert. First, I did virtually nothing all day but sit on my fat arse with my feet up (to minimize swelling) and take naps as they came (to minimize exhaustion). And I wore the most comfortable, loose-fitting clothes I had. No small feat these days, given how big I am now. And M, bless his heart, went out early in the day to find me some sort of cushion to sit on.

I could go into all the details and funny little side-stories that made the evening just that much more flavorful: our bemused cabbie who dropped us off at and picked us up from the concert, the sourpuss in our row who was so disinclined to move her lazy fat ass out of the way to let people in and out of our row (to the point that I actually climbed over the row in front of ours in order to get into my own seat at one point), and our precipitous seat change. But they don't really get into the main point of it. We finally got to see The Police. Live. In concert. And it RULED!

Overall, I have to say it wasn't nearly as difficult or uncomfortable as other people tried to prepare me for. Sure, I was hot and had to keep drinking water to keep hydrated. And I missed parts of a few songs due to multiple bathroom trips. And climbing stairs wasn't really much of a picnic. But after all, I am just pregnant, not disabled. I'd guess my enjoyment level at the concert was actually in no way compromised by my advanced state of pregnancy. It may have been enhanced, actually: all those trips to the bathrooms brought numerous kind comments from fellow concert-goers like, "Three weeks to go? God bless you for being here, honey!" and "Good for you!" and "You look fantastic!" Not only was I having a great fricking time, but I had the support of a lot more people than just the ones I came with. Of course, I got a couple of incredulous stares - some admiring, some less so. But from what I could tell, most people were delighted to see a very pregnant woman being normal and having fun.

And of course, The Police themselves were awesome. It wasn't all "Every Breath You Take" and "Don't Stand so Close to Me;" they also did some of their lesser known songs, which suited me just fine. Sting sounds just as good as he did back in the band's heyday, as do Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland. They rocked it good and hard as I would have expected, and it was completely worth it. Best part? We can tell Weeble that we took her to an amazing rock concert just a few weeks before she was born. Granted, she was on the inside. But still, that's pretty cool. She was there. She has the onesie to prove it.

Now that The Police concert is behind us, I'm pretty much good to give birth any old time. And, in a twist of fine timing, Weeble officially reached "full term" status as of today. 37 Weeks. Which means all her parts are basically finished cooking and she'd most likely be fine on the outside. So, really, anytime is good for me. Just give me enough time to pack my hospital bag and get the car seat installed in the car, and we'll be ready to rock and roll, baby.

Showered

Last weekend was my much-anticipated baby shower. Much-anticipated because I love those gatherings where all one's various worlds collide for a brief time. Work people mingling with family mingling with a whole gaggle of different friend groups. And I don't want to brag, but I know some awesome women, not the least of which is my mother who flew in from Montana for the weekend simply to attend the event. What better way to spend a Saturday afternoon?

My mom and I started out by getting a pedicure and manicure (me) and a massage (her). I forget how much I enjoy pedicures. I've always had super sensitive feet - being unnaturally ticklish and having toes too close together that don't do well with being separated. But the woman who did it Saturday was awesome and I left with happy feet, an all-too-rare occurrence these days.

By the time we got to my mother-in-law's house where the shower was hosted, things were already well underway. Several people had come early - namely the two friends who did the bulk of the planning and arranging, as well as some family members who are always inclined to help out. It felt really odd for me to not participate in the preparations. But it did give me the opportunity to greet people as they arrived. Plenty of people attended who haven't seen me at all since I got pregnant, or who hadn't seen me since I started showing, so there was lots of, "Wow! look how pregnant you are!" and other related exclamations. On any other day, that probably would have bothered me or made me paranoid. But not at the shower. I was so happy to see people and to have them all together, nothing could bother me.

Well, maybe except for the heat, made all the worse by 1) my enormous belly resting on my thighs; 2) opening gifts under the eyes of 25+ women (fun, but awkward just the same); and 3) my general inability to fit any of the gifts on my lap in order to facilitate opening them. The 3 inches remaining is wholly insufficient for gift-opening purposes (or much of anything else, for that matter).

There was only one game, per my request. As M and I have neither decided on a name for the Weeble, nor will we be sharing the final choice with anyone until after she's born, I thought it would be a good idea to have people submit their best guesses. That way, M and I get some fresh ideas (although a few options, such as "Fenway Park," are most definitely not in the running - no offense to the fine friend who clearly submitted that name as a serious suggestion). And if anyone guessed the name she ends up with, they'll get a prize of some kind. Nobody guessed any of our top picks as of now, but a few people hit on B-listers. One never knows.

Aside from getting to see all the people who were kind enough to gather for my baby shower, my favorite thing about the day was the customized puffy-paint onesies. For those of you planning a shower for a friend, I highly recommend this activity. Not only can it produce some extremely hilarious and/or inappropriate onesies (and yes, we certainly got at least a few of those), but it's so fun to see what types of slogans your friends and family members would like to see emblazoned on your kid's front.

All in all, we got a lot of great baby goodies, too. As I mentioned before, I know a lot of awesome women, all of whom are among the most generous people I've ever met. There are hardly any gaps that need to be filled at this point. Between the friends who have given me their wonderful hand-me-downs and the friends and family who showered us with new gear, we're more than set for Weeble to arrive.

I have a bunch of great pictures I'll post up here at some point in the near future. In the meantime, all I can do is thank everyone who came and made it such a great day, especially the women who made it happen at all. I don't know how I got so lucky as to have the friends I do.

Update: Here are some of the pictures from the day. Left to right for each row: me on display; my mother and me; my dear friend Becky and me.

Six Weeks to Go

As of today, I completed 34 weeks of pregnancy, leaving me with only six weeks to go. Six weeks. 42 days. One and-a-half months. In other words, not really all that long. On one hand, it's an eternity from now. On the other, it's practically tomorrow. Of course there's plenty to be done before that six weeks passes, and that's if the Weeble even waits that long.

Looking back, there have been a couple other times where "six weeks" has been significant. I was six weeks pregnant around Christmastime, when we told my family in North Dakota that we were expecting. Earlier than we would have liked to make that news public, but since it was the only opportunity we'd have to share the good news in person, we took it.

Six weeks after that, I was in Germany for a business trip, and gearing up for my first ultrasound and the opportunity to start telling other people in our life about the baby. It took another six weeks to let everyone know.

So here we are, getting near the end of things. My feet and ankles aren't too swollen for the most part, but I can't wear my wedding ring anymore - something that I said from the beginning I hoped would never happen. Up until this point, my pregnancy showed almost exclusively up front. But now my butt, hips, and thighs have gotten in on the action. My glorious stretch marks (or "love branches" as I don't actually call them, but that strikes me as an amusingly sarcastic thing to say) continue their march up and around my belly. Speaking of the belly, I don't know how it can get any bigger - or how I'll stay upright when it does. Because all signs point to I am not yet as big as I will be. Which is scary, considering that when strangers ask me when I'm due and I tell them August 19th, they look shocked and make some comment that usually results in me being pissed and/or paranoid for the rest of the day. Some strangers don't bother to ask, and simply say, "Wow, you must be ready to go, huh?" Urge to kill, RISING.

But there's no way around it. I'm getting close. Weeble is big, active, and ready, as her soon-to-be father believes, "to mess stuff up" (he uses a few alternate words I'll let you fill in on your own). So let the countdown begin. It is ON.

Childbirth Learnin'

We are so totally ready to have this kid. Oh, yeah. We know exactly what to expect, where to go, who will be there, why, and what comes next. All this thanks to the joy of childbirth education classes, of which we had four over the course of the last month. We just finished our last one this week, and we couldn't possibly be more prepared.

Let's recap what we learned. I know you'd all like to share in our extensive knowledge.

Week one: Getting to know you
Our educator spent a good 45 minutes blathering on about her pregnancies (some 30+ years ago) and a couple of her daughter's pregnancies. One class participant, who was serving as labor coach to her daughter, also felt the need to chime in every five minutes with details of her own experiences with her four kids. The latter half of the class was spent watching a video about what happens when sperm enters the vagina and fertilizes an egg. Holy shit, so that's what happened?? I had been wondering how I got into this condition! There was also some discussion about how to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth, as well as how to give hand massages (as a potential relaxation technique for the laboring mother - lucky M!).

Week two: Video Mayhem
I can't tell you a damn thing about our second class beyond the instructor repeating half of what she'd said in the first class, another breathing technique (the "sniff huff"), more "insights" from annoying coach-mother. And The Video. I knew it was going to be rough going the second our instructor started it and everyone in it had that vague ugliness that everyone in the 70s had (hey, I'm not knocking it - I was an ugly child by virtue of my birth in 1974). Everyone in the class giggled their way through several parts - especially us. Then M started getting a little out of control. The laboring 70s woman, with her feathered hair and horse-like teeth, was simply too much. Her geometry teacher husband made it even worse. When he asked her if she wanted anything, she said she'd like juice. His response: "Yeah? Juice?... Yeah." M nearly passed out from trying not to laugh out loud. Then all hell broke loose when ugly 70s lady let out a big grunt and geometry-teacher man responded with, "That was a BIG ONE!" Note to self: don't try to stop yourself from laughing by simply listening to the video instead of watching it. It won't work.

Week Three: Not Your Typical Labor
M and I were quite trepidatious about returning to class, thinking perhaps we would not be able to control our amusement. This was the class where we learned about good stuff like cesarean sections and epidurals. We got another video, too, which showed a "normal" labor along with a few women having non-"normal" labors. Thankfully, M and I were far more mature than usual and hysterical laughing was kept to a minimum. There was also a repeat of just about everything our instructor had shared in the first two classes, and possibly another breathing technique. But frankly, I can't remember at this point. Hooray, annoying mother-coach was not there - presumably because her daughter was busy requiring coaching for her birth.

Week Four: Hospital Tour and Swaddling Your Hideously Ugly Baby
This was easily our most interesting class. After only 10 minutes of repeated information and anecdotes heard in the first three classes, we got to take a stroll through the labor and delivery floor to see where all the "magic" happens. At least places where babies are born have a little more personality than other parts of hospitals, which as a general rule, I dislike immensely. After the tour (during which a few anecdotes were repeated again), we returned to our usual classroom to learn how to bathe and swaddle our babies. When it came to the swaddling, each couple was given its own practice baby. Ours was the ugliest thing you've ever seen. Made out of material similar to that of a Cabbage Patch Kid, it had a pair of painted-on crossed blue eyes, a disgusting tuft of brown hair, a suspicious stain on the back of its head, body-builder shoulders, and a face about a quarter the size of its head. This is the opposite of what I hope comes out of me next month. But hey, we learned how to swaddle our little thing-baby, and what's not good about that?

So, four childbirth education classes, three breathing techniques, countless repetitions of previously discussed pieces of information and anecdotes, and one out-of-control laughing fit, and we graduated with flying colors. Oh, yeah. We're ready for what comes next. No problem.

The Name Game

As any pregnant woman will tell you, the first question she always gets when someone learns she is pregnant (or the protruding belly is so obvious there's no way it's simple weight gain) is "When are you due?" The next two questions will inevitably follow, and almost always in this order:

"Do you know what the gender is?"
and, my favorite,
"Do you have a name picked out?"

In our case, we don't. We're testing out a list of four A-list names and four B-list names (ones we're not entirely sold on). We're taking each name and using it for a full week whenever we are referring to Weeble. We probably won't make our final decision on what it is until she's born and we've all been properly introduced. But it's nice to be able to try names out, even if we don't do it in public. We're one of those annoying couples who refuse to share the names, or even the potential list, with anyone else. It's our one last secret.

Thankfully, this policy didn't prevent one of my dear friends from providing a list of "suggestions." She's more or less settled on her favorite (Metallica - perfect for a girl or boy!), but I thought there were some other gems in there that are worth our consideration:

Aphrodesiac - Lovely, but this is how we got into this mess in the first place. I think no.
Bedonkadonk - Also what got us into this mess (as in, my awesome bedonkadonk that M simply couldn't resist).
Diamonique - Now this one has merit. Not only do I love diamonique jewelry, it's just so pretty as a name!
Filistina - Fine, but she'll inevitably end up with the very pedestrian "Tina."
Gayna - Isn't this the woman who sang that song, "I Will Survive"? Sure, Gloria Gayna.
Hambonia - Isn't this a region in Germany?
Iphagania - Pretty sure this is an itchy condition of the nether regions. No thanks.
Jean-Bobby - The 50s called - they want their crappy hyphenated, gender-neutral name back.
Lambycakes - I can totally see our kid going through life with this name being totally respected by men and non-strip club-oriented employers.
Rusty - I think not. I had a boyfriend in 9th grade for about 10 minutes named Rusty. His mother called the cops on me when two friends and I were breaking and entering a school. That bitch. How could she? Of course, this was on Mother's Day. Yep, I got brought home by the cops for breaking and entering on Mother's Day. This is not a memory I cherish (although I'm certain my mother does).
Shaniqua - As if every other baby girl being born these days isn't named Shaniqua already.
Tamborino - Built-in circus stage name! "The Great Tamborina will now thrill you with her daredevil antics high above the rings!!!"
Uvula - Mulva?
Xyla - Well, at least it's unique.
Yummy - No, I'd rather not tempt anyone inclined to snack on children.

OK, so they're not all winners. But I think, in the end, we'll end up with something a bit more on the traditional side. Like Thelma or Myrtle. Either way, we'll all know for sure when she's born. And that's only 7 weeks from now (give or take).