Impending Bloom May 1, 2013

Baby Luna is scheduled for delivery on Friday.  (Unless the storm that brought this morning’s snow also brings us a baby before then.)  While I am elated at being released from what my friend Melissa calls “House Arrest”, and I can’t wait to snuggle my new baby, I would be lying if I didn’t admit to being a little anxious about what will change.

 

This is the last time our family will number 7.

This is the last time I will ever be pregnant.

Last time to feel a baby kick and move inside me.

Last time to bond with Kenny over a new life that we created.

Last time to be pampered at the Women’s Center.

Last two nights of decent sleep, at least for the next few months.  :)

Last time wearing maternity clothes.  (I can’t say I’m too sad about this one.)

Last c-section and recovery.  (I can definitely say I’m not heartbroken about this one.)

 

There are a lot of other things I’ll miss about my life the way it is right now.  I’m sure that several of those will include doing things with two hands, showering regularly, and not having to take a double stroller everywhere.  However, when I think about all I get to look forward to (a new baby, nighttime feeding sessions that our exclusively ours, a new baby, our completed eternal family, and have I mentioned a new baby?), those little things seem trivial in comparison.

 

As much as I love being pregnant (and really, I do!), there is nothing like holding– or, in my case, seeing over the surgery curtain– your brand new baby, knowing that it came from a divine place, and realizing that it is yours.  Yours to love, to nurture, to bless, and to teach.

 

So, while there are a lot of “lasts” in my immediate future, there are equally as many beginnings in store.

 

Here’s to our new family… a family of 8.

Yay for Spring? April 26, 2013

Hannah and Anthony were outside riding scooters this afternoon.

 

“Hey, Mom,” asked Anthony, “if there’s a sprinkler that’s on, is it okay if we ride through it, or should we go around?”

 

“It’s warm enough,” I told him.  ”You can ride through.”

 

Minutes (and I mean no more than TWO minutes) later, Anthony tried to sneak through the back door.  Luckily for me, he was foiled by his baby brother.  Sheepishly, he asked me if I would take his shoes and put them on the rug to dry.

 

“Just how wet are you?” I asked him.

 

“Not too bad,” he told me.

 

“Let me see!” I said.

 

“Uh, do I have to?”

 

“You do now.  Let me see.”

 

He pushed the door open all the way, and it looked like he had jumped into a swimming pool fully clothed.  He stood there, dripping onto the garage floor, with a nervous smile on his face.  ”Hannah is this wet, too!” he protested.  ”It isn’t just me.”

 

All I could do was smile.  ”So, it’s okay?” he asked.  I laughed and nodded, and he ran back to Hannah as fast as he could, screaming,  ”She says it’s okay.  Let’s get wet again!”

 

They rode scooters for nearly an hour.  They probably would have ridden longer, but the neighbor’s sprinklers turned off for the night.  What a shame.

 

It’s a good thing that tomorrow will be warm, too.

Luna-tic dream

So, this has been a fairly uneventful pregnancy, until I got to about 31 weeks, when everything fell apart.  My blood pressure is consistently high, there is too much protein in my urine, I have gestational diabetes again (which I am convinced is a fluke, since I’ve passed every test except one, but whatever…), restricted activity, weekly doctor visits, and weekly antepartum testing.

 

On Sunday night, we went to the hospital because I had a headache so terrible, I was seeing spots.  The baby looked fine, so they sent me home after a few hours.  I met with my doctor on Tuesday, and my blood pressure– on medication– was 178/134.  He made me repeat a 24-hour urine capture (yes, it is every bit as gross as it sounds) and ordered a whole bunch of lab tests, and told us if they came back abnormal, he was going to do an emergency c-section at 35 (+3) weeks.  There was an extra sense of urgency because he was going out of town for the weekend, and everything had to fall into place by Wednesday evening.

 

Naturally, the lab lost my blood work, so what should have taken a few hours to process dragged into the next day.  My liver and kidney functions both looked okay, but my doctor still had me on alert, pending the results of the 24-hour urine sample.  Which disappeared– of course it did!– and was unable to be read for a full day.  It came back elevated, too.  While not in kidney-failure range, it was still 3x higher than normal.  The doctor on call was ready to book an O.R., but based on some insurance technicality that says only MY doctor can tie my tubes, they paged my doctor on his vacation and asked him if he felt okay about holding off on the delivery until he gets back.  (He did.)

 

[I won't get into it in this post, but out of everything scary that's happened in the past month, making the decision to tie my tubes was the most emotional, heart-wrenching,  guilt-inducing,am-I-making-the-right-choice experience I have had to deal with.  Even knowing my body should not carry another baby without causing significant risk to both of us, I still struggle with the idea that this is it.  Finito.  No more babies for me.  I have cried more about this decision than anything else over the past 9 months combined.]

 

So, Monday morning, my doctor will review the labs and make a decision about surgery.  Will it be Monday?  Will I see him again on Tuesday and he’ll make his choice then?  Will we try to hold off until May 13, the scheduled date, which will make the baby 38 (+2) weeks?  Or go until this Friday, when I will be 37 weeks exactly, and we won’t have to worry about “pre-term” anything?

 

I am exhausted.  Mentally.  Physically, too, but the up-in-the-air-ness about the whole thing has become my full-time focus.  (No wonder my blood pressure is so high!)  I wander around the house during the day, flitting from thing to thing.  I am restless and unfocused.  My attention span is worse than Sam’s.  It’s time.  Even if it’s not time, it’s time.  I’ve never looked so forward to surgery before, even though it will bring the end of one of the best six experiences of my life.

 

I give you all of this information, not because I think you’re particularly interested, but to better illustrate my frame of mind and how last night’s dream reflects my insanity.

 

I dreamed that I received an LDS mission call along with my younger brother.  Nevermind that I am almost two decades too old to serve (and so is Kevin!), or that I have a family to take care of.  In my dream, I was single.  Maybe I was back in my 20′s.  I don’t know.

 

Anyway, I got a very detailed brochure about where I would be serving (Nebraska), who I would be paired with, what my responsibilities would be, why I was called to this specific place, and some background information about the people who lived in this area.

 

My brother’s brochure said, “Dallas, Texas.  Report to Provo MTC by 6 AM on [this date].”  That was all.

 

So, after re-reading my information, I discovered that there were some things missing.  (Duh.)  I knew where I was supposed to end up, and with whom, but I had no idea WHEN I was supposed to leave, or what I was supposed to take with me.  I spent the remainder of my dream trying to throw together two years’ worth of supplies while worrying about whether or not I would get to the right place at the right time.  Needless to say, Dream Me was completely unproductive.  I felt like a chicken, running around in circles with my head cut off.  When I woke up, my heart was racing and I was dizzy and disoriented.  It took me nearly an hour to settle down and go back to sleep.

 

I miss the dreams I had when I was pregnant with Sam.  At least THOSE ended with a baby.  :)

 

Here’s to Luna, and to a delivery that comes SOONER, rather than LATER.  (Which, ironically, is my doctor’s name.)  :D

 

Tonight’s sleep disruption brought to you by Duracel. Also, First Alert. February 13, 2013

Last week, Anthony helped me put in new batteries in our smoke alarms.  (Notice how I didn’t say “replace”?  I figured they actually had to have had batteries IN  them at some point in the past two years to qualify as being replaced.)  I didn’t think I’d have to give them another thought until August, when we were due to repeat the process.

 

And then, sometime after 1 am this morning, the beeping started.

 

[As a side note:  What is with smoke alarm batteries failing in the middle of the night?  Seriously?  You can't hold it together for another four hours, until we're all awake and I don't want to bash you with a hammer?  Or a Tonka truck?  I HATE you, smoke alarms.  You too, batteries!]

 

I heard it on my second trip to the bathroom, and pretended I didn’t.  It took me a little bit longer to fall asleep after my fourth trip, because I started counting “one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi” between chirps.  Some chirps were 20 Mississippis, while others were 6 or 7.  (This lends credence to my theory that smoke alarms are very much alive and inherently evil, since they not only choose to go off in the middle of the night, but have a way of controlling the intervals between chirps.  This would also explain why every time I go downstairs to figure out which battery needs replacing, the stupid thing is silent until I’m halfway up the stairs.  I am 6 1/2  months pregnant.  Also, I am not a ninja.  I refuse to dive into every doorway, hoping to catch the offending alarm before it finishes its masochistic “CHIRP!”)  

 

At some point, I fell asleep again, and forgot all about the beeping until SOMEONE  *coughLunacough*  thought it would be funny to use my bladder as a trampoline.  I dragged myself to the bathroom one more time, and listened to the chirp find its way up the stairs, around the corner, through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into my head.  I used a pillow to muffle the persistent sound, and slept semi-peacefully until morning.

 

This morning, I have been downstairs half a dozen times, and I can’t figure out which alarm is having issues.  I have stood in every room, next to every alarm, pressed “test” repeatedly, and still–  nothing.  I’m about ready to pull all the batteries out and leave the empty alarms behind, just so the beeping will stop.  

 

And suddenly, just like that, I remember why none of my alarms have had batteries in them for a long, long, LONG time…

Baby Luna November 28, 2012

How do you tell your kids they are going to have a new sibling when some of them have heard it four times already?

You take them into the mountains on a crisp, October day for a hike and a picnic.

 

 

Then you stop to take pictures of them on a picnic table.

You tell them, “Say ‘Cheese!’”  Then you say, “‘Cheese’ is boring.  Say, “‘New baby!’”

(They may look at you like this.)

 

So you might need to say something else, like, “Say, ‘May 24!  New baby!’  Surprise!”

And then you get pictures like these, which are AWESOME.

 

 

And then you tell the rest of your family like this, on Halloween night:

 

 

Then, you throw around some nicknames you can call the baby until it’s born.  Boo, Autumn, Taco Salad, Burrito, Pooky, Star… and none of them feel right.  And then on Thanksgiving, your brilliant sister says, “How about Luna?  It’s Spanish for ‘moon’.”  And everyone loves it.

 

So, Baby Luna* is official!

 

(*With that name, I hope Kenny’s right about her being a girl!  We won’t find out until May.)

Boys are gross. End of story. October 10, 2012

After being tucked into bed multiple times and threatened with bodily harm* if he dared get off his bed AGAIN, it was a very timid, sheepish, completely freaked-out Anthony who tiptoed his way from the kitchen into the family room, where Kenny and I were watching television.

 

“Mom,” he whispered, tears gathering in his eyes, “there is a bug in my room.  It might even be a spider.  Please, please, please come and kill it before it gets me.”

 

I grabbed the fly swatter on our way back to his room.  He climbed back up the ladder and took great pleasure in smashing the offending creature.  I traded him the fly swatter for a kleenex, so he could clean up the remains.  (There were none that I could see on the fly swatter, so I figured his wall had to be a disgusting mess.)

 

After a few seconds of vigorous rubbing, he crawled to the other side of the bed, looked down at me sheepishly, and said, “So, I think it wasn’t a bug or a spider after all.  I think it was boogers.  From, y’know, when I pick my nose and wipe it on the wall.”

 

What do you say to that?  Besides, “Eeew, gross, disgusting, don’t do it again, tomorrow you’re wiping down your entire wall, I will get you a box of tissues, you are SO lucky your bed is so high I can’t see that, what is WRONG with you, that is so so SO gross and disgusting!”

 

Where do they learn this stuff?  Honestly…

 

 

*Not really.  Settle down.

11 months. Unbelievable. May 10, 2012

I love you, Baby Sam!