This won't hurt a bit

I'm 45 minutes away from it being Wednesday. Oh please, bring on Wednesday.



Monday I saw the lawyer. Well, I saw her briefly on her way out the door while I was giving her assistant a big fat retainer check.



The lead up to this gave me some pain. Ok, a lot of pain. Just pain at being worried if I was doing the right thing or not. See, between the first lawyer posting and this one, the EX has backed off his nasty horse a bit and even stated "let's come up with a plan and put it in writing for now through when the kids are 18." This is what I wanted anyway, right? Without the retainer fee and without the huge chronology of our relationship (required by the briefly seen attorney) and without the scary factor of oh-crap-he's-going-to-get-served-and-will-be-so-pissed.



After a lot of talking with my handsome husband, he convinced me that it was best for us, the kids and even the EX to be completely legal about changes we need made.



I called my sister (the spiritually enlightened one) and said "since my husband said it was ok, I'm off the hook, right?" This is completely out of character for me. I mean, who get's absolved of a decision by having their husband ok it? June Cleaver?



"That's not exactly how it works." Said the smart sister.



So, I did what I thought I should have done all along and I got on my knees about the whole thing. I poured out my worries. See, I don't want to get before the judgement bar of God and see the movie of my life played out only to have some kindly angel (maybe Clarence from It's a Wonderful Life?) pause the whole thing at "Fall, 2010" and hear the Almighty saying "this decision was a little harsh, it might be a deal breaker." I wanted to do the right thing.



Eventually, later in the afternoon I got an answer. It was a feeling of calm. Kind of like sitting on a park bench reading a book, spending a few minutes when you don't have to be anywhere. I didn't even recognize the answer at first. Just later, after I got in the car to head across town for the meeting, I realized I wasn't anxious any more. I was calm. I was hoping for a ray of light across the front yard that spelled out in big gold letters "GOOD DECISION", but what I really got was kind of a mental thumbs up. That's good enough for me.



Then my face started to hurt.


This is entirely different, but I think still a miraculous blessing that I didn't know I'd had.



See, last December (2009) I had a tooth that began to hurt so bad that my nose and cheekbone ached. My ear ached. I had a hard time thinking of anything else. I was busy and threw meds at it, thinking that I would get to the dentist ASAP. Then I found out that my dentist closed up shop and went on a mission with his wife. Dang dentist. So, I futzed around and didn't really find anyone else for a few days. Then I went on a short vacation to visit my best high school friend on her important birthday (no need to go into year details, is there?)



Then suddenly I was pregnant.



The tooth that had bothered me for some weeks was suddenly silent of it's ache. In the excitement of expecting, I completely forgot about it. Then I was on bed rest and remembered it. "I really should get to the dentist" but I couldn't go anywhere! And the pain still stayed away. I would think about it some times and would worry about it, but knew I was stuck. And still the pain stayed away.



August 19, out comes the baby. Hoorah!



I spend weeks getting settled. Getting to know Iris' needs. Having mastitis. Having a UTI. Keeping her safe and trying to keep me well. Finally, last week things seem to fall into place. I'm well, she's well and safe and getting fat.



BAM. Toothache.



Seriously, how else can I explain a rotten tooth that takes a 10 month vacation only to show back up once everyone is safe and sound? It's a miracle. I thank my Father in Heaven for tooth miracles.



Now, can someone please MAKE IT STOP!?



(yes, I have an appointment for tomorrow)



Goodnight.

Getting Nothing Done

It's nearly 1pm and I've done nothing.

This is not new.

It's not that I've done nothing-nothing; in fact I colored my hair. Roots were entirely shabby. Other that that I've nursed the baby and got the older kids to school and nursed the baby and taken a shower and nursed the baby and read some scripture and nursed the baby, and ate a sandwich and nursed the baby and held the baby and rocked the baby.

And I ate half a Reese's.

My days have gone like this for weeks. I look around at the mess and the clothes that need folding and the clothes that need ironing (and the new beautiful Rowenta steamer I bought to make my life easier, still sitting in plastic) and I feel awful.

I do have a productive time, because I have Emma to help me. After school she holds the baby for a few minutes while I race around, gathering laundry or filling the dishwasher or running the dyson (we don't vacuum here, we DYSON). I then sling the baby and help with homework and set the table and such. After the little one is asleep at night is my big work time. I make lunches and get dinner prepped for the next day (since dinner is the baby's fussy time) and read and respond to emails and such. Still, I can't even begin to get it all done, and by the next morning I'm right back where I started.

So, what did I do with my extra 30 minutes today? I colored my hair. Pfft.

So, with fresh color, but a messy head of hair, I sit in front of the computer, cradling the baby to keep her happy, and perusing the internet with my left hand. I'm talented like that.

As she begins to doze I look down at her sweet little body. Her little fingers and toes are amazing. She smells good. Through my efforts she's got fat little thighs and dimples in her elbows. Chewable cheeks. A milky-white tongue when she yawns.

I think about the possibilities of her future. Not her FUTURE, but more like... laughs and hugs and drawings and books and scooters and dollies and fire trucks and yanking the hair on the cat. These are good things. These are worthwhile things.

My body is squishy and my house is cluttered; but my baby is well and fed and happy. My children are safe and loved. My husband comes home to dinner and a smile and a squeeze and as much peace as I can create in 10 minute snatches.

I know that I'm trying my best and I know that it's all my Father in Heaven asks for. These days will go by so fast. If my house is a mess, but I spend an hour rocking the baby, I think that might be ok.

Godzilla

My husband has put a ton of Godzilla movies in our Netflix cue. (que?). And the first one arrived a couple of nights ago. A serious stinker, probably about 10 years old.

My 6 year old girl is kind of a sensitive little thing and I have to admit, I'm protective. We don't have cable - which means we don't have TV. She reads a lot and draws a lot and still wanted to be "a princess or a fairy" when she grows up, at least the last time I asked her.

We decide that it's probably ok for her to watch this awful Godzilla movie (it's in Japanese too and she can't read the subtitiles fast enough to keep up) as she'll probably get bored in a few minutes. Nope.

"WHAT is THAT!?"
"AAAAHHHH!"
"Who's Mecha G?"
"I think Mothra looks like a huge hairy butterfly"
"Poor butterfly, why did Godzilla take it's leg! It's so sad! And it's gross!"
"Why didn't he just walk around the building instead of crashing through?"
"Poor little mothra babies!"
"Why are the fairies just dressed like girls? And they're not modest."
"Mecha Godzilla is kind of like the fire benders. It shoots lightning."
"Oh NOOOOO!"

and best of all..

"I wish I was a huge metal monster who could knock buildings down!"

Dad fell asleep in his recliner.

The next day daddy mentions that there are more Godzilla movies coming in the mail and asks "do you want to watch them with me?"

My sweet little, blond, bow wearing daughter, while holding a barbie, pumps her fist in the air and hollers "YEESSSSSSS!"

Good heavens.

I Get To Go Back To Church! and other news

I haven't been to church since May. I'm the primary president.

Bed rest, bed rest, bed rest... then baby.

I didn't go to church for about 11 years of my adult life. I was married to an agnostic, and quite honestly I just didn't have the gumption to get to church every week without him, or family, or anyone else. I know women now who do and I admire them very much.

My former used to tell me "if you want to do something, then don't listen to what I say about it and just do it. Fight me for it!" That isn't what I wanted to do (I'm not a fighter really); I didn't think a marriage should be about fighting the other person to get what you want. Thusly, I was nice and didn't go. I didn't do a lot of things.

I continued to be nice, nice, nice. Nice during fights and nice in the face of riducule and neglect, and then nice through the divorce and afterwards. My friends, my family, my eternal companion all have said "you're too nice to him" and while I agreed, I also know that since we have children together I have a long time I have to be civil.

Until this week.

He asked for something I couln't give him, and when I couldn't give it to him (explaining nicely why) he demanded so much more. He crossed a line, which is kind of good.

I believe in being Christ like. I believe in turning the other cheek. I also believe that my Father in Heaven doesn't want me to be stepped on, or shoved around... and that he wants what's best for my children.

I've finally contacted a lawyer to straighten some things out, and I feel much better.

He used to tell me to fight him if I didn't like what he wanted. Ok, so now I will.

I've prayed a lot about this, and wasn't entirely sure it was what I should do. To be more forceful. Then today I happened to grab a box of miscenlaneous stuff on a whim in the garage, and in the box was some paperwork I'm going to need at the law office. I didn't know it was in that box, and I wasn't looking for it yet.

I took it as a sign, that what I'm doing is ok and appropriate for my family.

I can't wait to get back to church, to worship Him properly with friends and family who love me and don't want me to fight with them.

Birth Story

So, the birth story.


I always like to read these... especially on blogs I've been following for a bit. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll read just about any one's birth story, if I know them or not. Some women I know liken it to trading war stories. How horrible it was; and how, now that it's over, we can gloat and laugh about it. Or cringe together in horror. There's a good reason that God in his infinite wisdom made us forget the difficulty of childbirth, so that we would do it again. But those babies, man, they are totally worth it.


So, the birth story.


Actually, there's not much to tell.


After all of the back and forth with doctors and visits and dilating and bed rest and getting to the hospital and being sent home and drugs and drugs and shots and shots, the actual day was calm and peaceful.


I saw my OB on the 18th who said "well, you're more an 8 than a 7 now. Not to give you any more to worry about" and thusly we began discussions on how to get Iris into the world safely. The following day I would be 37 weeks, which would make the delivery A-OK in the eyes of most medical professionals. My sweet Dr. said "you may want to stay on the procardia through the weekend though, as I'll be in Utah." This was Wednesday afternoon. I asked if he would be offended if he wasn't the one to catch the baby. He smiled gently and said "oh no, it's fine if someone else does it." Then he suggested we have an amniocinesis to check the baby's lung development. That would be up to my perinatologist.


I got home, called the perinatologist and said "can we do an amnio tomorrow?" Much discussion ensued and they said that would have to be requested through my OB. I got on the phone with the OB's office, and waited. OH, and I got on youtube to check out how an amnio is done. SHUDDER.


I would never in my life have wanted one of those done, except if it meant that Iris would come out at the right time. I steeled myself for the procedure.


At about 5pm I got a call from the OBs office saying "you'll get the amnio done at 10 am, and then report to the hospital for induction at 5 pm."


WOOOOO HOOOOO!!!


Talking to my sister that night was great. I was excited, but scared. Mostly for the amnio. She suggested jokingly that I ask for a blind fold. I totally did this, and at about noon the next day when they finally were ready for me, I was given a towel to put over my eyes. Helped tremendously.


Just a quick note... all of these last minute happenings plus the birth? Yeah, they were right in the middle of my handsome husband's first two days of meetings for his new job. Not only did he stay by my side the entire time, he stayed on top of the paperwork and meetings the best he could by rearranging schedules with people and doing some things online. He was awesome and supportive. He always made me feel that the baby and I were first, no matter what.


So, Thursday the 19th, after 3 hours at the Parinatologist, we were sent home to wait the outcome of the amnio. If it was good, we could be induced at 5. She needed a score of at least 55. Score? This is a test all of a sudden?


We stopped at Target to pick up a couple of last minute items (I was gratefully in one of those electronic carts. I really couldn't walk very far) and while we were cruising the diaper aisle I got a call from the nurse at the parinatologists. "She scored an 83! Totally ready to go. You can go to the hospital early if you want!"

I was excited (good score baby, you aced the first test!) but the thought of going early was daunting. I was pooped. I showered and napped for 45 minutes before getting up and heading with my fabulous husband to the hospital.

We arrived on the dot at 5 and were greeted warmly. Our nurse (Denise? Darlene?) was a gem and prepped us and our lovely birthing suite. She handed me a yellow gown to put on, saying, "yellow means you're a fall risk". A fall risk? I asked. "Yeah, but you're getting an epidural and aren't going anywhere... ha!"

I had given birth naturally the first two times, but definitely wanted an epidural this time. The anesthesiologist arrived. Jovial round doctor with blond curly hair. Introduces himself as "Dr. McCoy". Oooh! I say "How often do people comment that you're the Star Trek Doc?" "All the time" says the good Dr. He's from Mississippi, has the coolest accent, was once a pharmacist, and spends the next 20 minutes or so chatting with handsome and I about hunting. Big sports enthusiast.

Finally, it's time for the epidural. Everyone told me it was a snap. "Compared to labor, this is super easy". Well, they forgot to tell me that women are normally in full labor when they perform this and are BEGGING to get any kind of relief. Me? I'm dilated to an 8 but am not having hard contractions. So, when they start poking me in the back it's painful. No, like P.A.I.N.F.U.L. I came very close to swearing (Ok, i said one tiny one) but was close to telling him to STOP STOP STOP and that I would just have her naturally again.

Then it was over and I started getting warm and tingly. Mmmm. tingles.

I was told that everyone took the epidural differently. Some could still feel pressure from their contractions. Some could feel when they needed to push. Me? I could feel nada. Seriously nothing. I wasn't sure I liked it.

Waters broken (yeah, I told her I had a lot of fluid. She was still astonished) and pitocin started. I brought my MP3 and a speaker and looped Chopin. Lights were dimmed. Very tranquil. The nurses later stated that they wanted to come back into our room and spend the evening, it was so peaceful.

About an hour and a half into the process, handsome decides to go get something to eat. Promises he'll be right back. I'm great. A little sleepy.

A few minutes later my night nurse comes in (Pat) and says "let's check you". I told her I was ready to take a little nap after she checked. I had been through the hell of transition with both other kids and figured there was no way I was close. Epidural or no epidural. She announces "you're at 10 and the baby is right there! Let's get your Dr. here" Wow! What, no nap? Where was the break through pain of transition? Seriously this was a snap. I still wanted a nap.

Handsome comes back in about then and I announce the good news. He's eating an ice cream, and hurries to finish. I ask the nurse if the meds will be turned down so I can feel to push "nope, you just bear down like you were using the bathroom". But she kindly let me do a trial push to be sure I could manage. Seriously I couldn't feel anything.

I gave one solid push for her and she said "whoa! You're good!"

A few minutes later the fabulous Dr. J shows up. He's mostly suited already, but finishes and hunkers down in front of me. I'm impressed that with the (what looks like) 100 pieces of equipment in front of him that he can tell that "we're missing a pair of scissors." They hand him a suitable replacement. Good job!

It's still very calm and quiet, but exciting. Iris will be here any time now!

The hospital staff are watching my contractions on the monitor and tell me when to push. I'm supposed to push hard for 10 seconds. The trouble is, by the time the count to 4 I need another breath. "Hold it!" the nurse tells me. Yeah right.

3 pushes and the baby's head is out. She guides my hand down to touch her head. Her head! I'd never experienced that before. She's got dark hair!

Then Dr. J tells me "I'll get her out the rest of the way." I'm surprised. "Really? You don't want a little push?" "Nope" he says "just relax and she'll be out in a second." So, I just look down and watch. A minute later she pops out into his arms and starts hollering.

We had told the nurses that she seemed a very mellow baby in utero and wasn't easily perturbed. The nurses actually said "ok, she may not cry very much then, lets look out for that." Boy we're we wrong, and I'm glad of it. She had some big, powerful lungs and used them.

They handed her to me wrapped in a towel and I got to see her pretty face. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a tiny little mouth. I had been worried about her hands for some reason, and they were there and working fine. She was still covered in vernix and terribly waxy looking. Handsome said later "she was so waxy, she looked like a candle." They took her away to be weighed and wiped down.

"She's a Vegas baby!" the nurse announced "7 lbs, 11 ounces!" And 3 weeks early. Good job Iris!

She was perfect, and so so pretty.

I don't remember who got to hold her next. Dad took lots of pictures and I just kept thinking that I wanted him to hold her. He had such a bad time of it in his first marriage, and didn't get what he should have as a new dad with his first daughter. I wanted this to be different. I think it was.

Our experience with Iris continued to be peaceful and calm. The moment she was given back to me or handsome, she quieted immediately. She spent very little time upset, and still doesn't 2 weeks later.

I'd do it again in a minute.

I Will Make Things

I've decided that I will not buy myself new clothes for a year.

NEW clothes. I don't need them. I have lots. It will also help me to get back into my pre-pregnancy clothes.

Here's the caveat. I can buy myself a piece or three from a thrift store, when the said thrift store is having a sale. Or from a yard sale. ALSO, I can make things for myself from my existing fabric stash and I can upcycle stuff I already have (or the very limited thrift store items).

This is making my brain work overtime. Think about all the cool stuff I can do! I can make headbands from old t-shirts. Or make Iris cute little ruffle bum pants. Lots of nifty ideas out there. I'm excited to start.

But first, I have to spend lots of time being a good mom to the beautiful new little one.

I made her too.

What Next?

My extremely hospitable mother whisked back to Arizona this morning, taking the kiddos with her. It will give them a chance for some fun (swimming every day!) and some time for her to hang out with them.

For a few summers as a kid I would go to visit my grandma for a week. It was exciting to be on private vacation, even if all we did was walk the mall and eat Chef Boy-ar-dee. I hope my little ones enjoy their time too.

The kids got packed into Grammy's car, and handsome and I stood outside and waved, waved, waved as they got settled and then disappeared down the road.

While we could still see them, and were waving like mad, I carefully broached the subject...

"So, when do we go to a movie?"

Probably tonight!

Now watch, the baby will want to make her grand appearance during an action flick.

And an update...

Thursday night was awful.

I got an OK from my OB to up the procardia to a higher dosage, and more often. Great. I did this 3 times.

The third time was at 2:30 am on Friday morning. I took pills, had lots of water, got back into bed. 30 minutes later I was so dizzy, I was spinning. It took another 30 minutes for me to be able to get up out of bed and into the living room where my blood pressure cuff was.

Oddly, my BP was fine, but my heart rate was pretty elevated and I felt horrible. Also, remember those contractions? They were back, steady, every 10 minutes. Sometimes 8. Sometimes 6.

I ate something and managed to get back to sleep at 4:45. At 5:45 my handsome husband came looking for me (I couldn't get off the couch) and we talked about options. We carefully decided to call the doctor, and my mom, 6 hours away in Arizona.

Doctor says "GO IN!" Mom says "I'm coming!" and I rest a bit more. We call a friend who will come over and wait with the kiddos until my mom arrives, probably around 2 pm.

Things slow down. I don't take any more procardia. Still, the contractions become erratic. Steady for over an hour, then nothing for 45 minutes. This is SO frustrating.

We're still at home (and undecided) when mom arrives at 2.

We leave at 3 for a walk around the bookstore (which kicks the contractions up big time!) and a frozen custard (which keeps them holding steady) and at 5 hit the hospital. Again.

My nurse has a bedside manner of negative 3. She also (not to be too graphic here) has a finger that feels like it's about 1 inch long, and sharpened. I've never had such horrible "checks" in my existence.

Nurse: "Who said you were at a 7?"
Me: Dr. J, two days ago.
Nurse: Nah, you're at a 6.

I really don't feel like arguing with her, but I want to holler "Are you freaking kidding me!? And who are you exactly, Ms. pointy nubby fingers?!" But I go with it and she hooks me up.

The contractions go nuts. Not huge, but right on top of each other.

I explain to Ms. Pointy-Nubby that Dr. J said to come in, and that Dr. B (my Perinatologist) tried to get me in on Thursday to have the baby. She was having none of it.

Nurse: "we'll see how you do"

2 hours I have layered contractions. I read a People magazine (I don't care about the Kardashians, but am surprised to find that they're Armenian. Interesting!). My husband is kind. My mom is here. I'm pretty sure things are speeding up.

Nurse: "The Dr. on call says to send you home."

I completely lose it.

My husband, kind soul that he is, comes to my rescue and becomes my advocate.

Husband: "Ok, when are we supposed to come back?"
Nurse: "when the contractions are 10 minutes apart"
H: They've been 10 minutes apart for days.

Discussion ensues about my dilation, the distance we are from home, the fact that both other Dr's wanted me to come in, who makes that final decision to have me stay, etc.

In the end, the nurse can't tell us what to do. She says "wait until it gets really bad". We explain "it's gotten REALLY BAD a number of times, and we've put it off until we felt like we really needed to show up." So she says "I don't know what else to tell you."

It's not that I want the baby out NOW. She keeps acting like I'm there because I'm tired of being pregnant. That's not it at all. She explains that if I have the baby at 36 weeks instead of 37, then the NICU has to be in the room to whisk the baby off. I keep telling her "I WANT to go to term. I want what's best for my daughter, but we keep getting mixed messages and no one will give us a straight answer. " I even get fiscal. "There is no reason that I want to have this baby now just so that I can pay someone else a whole lot of money to keep her in a room that I'm not in. I don't' want to stay here for days and pay for a bed when I can stay in bed at home. I am NOT here to force the issue, I just want to know when to come back."

Yeah, she has no idea.

We go home, and are still home.

At least I got some custard out of the deal.

Another reason why I love my husband

Me: My brother dated this really weird girl for a while.

Handsome husband: Weird?

M: Stalker weird.

HH: ???

M: He kept breaking up with her, but she would just SHOW UP in his bedroom and wait, for HOURS for him to come home.

HH: Ok, that's weird.

M: No, it gets worse. He would ignore her, and go to sleep. Hours later she would STILL be there.

HH: Seriously?

M: really.

HH: Let me get this straight. She would stalk him, in his bedroom, silent, and not leave.

M: Right.

HH: How does this sound like Twilight?

M: What?

HH: EDWARD!!!

And then it was 7.

36 weeks tomorrow. THIRTY SIX WEEKS!!!

Saw fabulous Dr. J today who said "let's try for one more week, but if you can't make it that long, then I'll see you at the hospital."

If I make it, considering that I've dilated to a 7 now. Who does this? Walks around with a gaping hole in their body and doesn't end up having the baby at home? Seriously, I'm getting off this computer now and looking up "emergency home delivery".

I suppose there are two problems with that. First, I have to look it up on the computer (duh) and if I look up "emergency home delivery" I might get a pizza joint.

I just looked it up. Ok, the first thing that popped up wasn't pizza, it was "medical alert".

So, 7. A good friend of mine (who has her babies at home) came over last week and said "when I get to a 7, my water breaks and I have the baby 20 minutes later." That was in no way comforting.

Oh, and did I mention? The car with the air conditioning is in the shop. It's getting a new water pump. We can still get to the hospital, but we'd have to take the no-air truck. It's over 100 out there and a 15 minute drive. Not to mention that I don't really want to have the baby in the truck.

Oh, now I'm complaining. Sorry.

The tough part is, I want to wait another week (I carry my procardia around like it was The Ring or something... whispering to it "my precious") but I've had steady contractions for 3 hours now. I want my new beautiful daughter to come into the world as healthy as possible.

Bake baby, bake.

My handsome husband likes to proudly state that "if we were pioneers, we'd do just fine." And I believe him. He's a hard worker, patient, optimistic. However, if we were pioneers, we wouldn't have this baby. She would have shown up weeks ago, with no NICU to go to, and we'd just be sad. Even with all of the wonderful modern technology and medicine around, there can still be problems. I'm going to do whatever I can to make it easier for her to come into the world.

Guess I better go lie back down.

Happy Birthday President Obama

I saw this on someone's Facebook status today.

At my house we're a divided nation... one republican and one Democrat. I actually got a call from one of the political parties the other day asking who we were voting for. I laughed and said "we cancel each other out."

We have a very good friend who comes and shares Sunday dinner with us each week. He's on an unabashed hunt for a wife, wants a pretty conservative/traditional woman, and he's a die-hard democrat.

While complaining one evening about the absurd things he has heard from his republican friends about President Obama he lamented "I just don't know what they have against Obama!"

My handsome husband replied: "Well, his political party to start."

The end.

Still at a 6!

So, for the first time in 7 weeks, I'm still at the same dilation stage (is that even a phrase?) that I was last week. My OB is so proud.

I'd like to thank Orson Scott Card for helping me through this last week, since I've read 1.5 of his books in the past few days. These are not short books.

I'd like to thank my handsome husband for getting me Taco Bell about 9 times.

I'd like to thank my kiddos for being so patient with me.

So, 35 weeks tomorrow and a huge bottle of procardia to help keep the contractions at bay. Now just watch, I'll go to 41 weeks. Pfft.

BTW, I attend the same church building as Brandon Flowers, the lead singer of the Killers. His wife (Tana I think) is very nice and we've spoken a few times about young kids and the Nursery (shudder!). She was at my OB today, and signed in just before me. I knew my OB was the coolest, but I didn't know that rock stars wives went to him too! Kinda fun.

A Pregnant Freak of Nature

So, last Sunday morning the family is scrubbed, pressed, combed and bowed. They headed out to church (without me, again) and I waved goodbye. They were excited because after church dad was taking the 3 kiddos on an overnighter into St. George for swimming and ice cream and junk food and fun.

My handsome husband and I had planned for us to take the kids this summer on an 8 day trip through Utah, visiting various family. I did not grow up in Utah, so this is still exciting for me to do. I love the mountains and the green trees and cooler temps.

That all changed when I was put on bed rest. It was decided that handsome would still take a trip with the kids, but it got changed to 4 days in Arizona at other relatives.

Then I dilated to a 4.

It was decided that if I dilated any more in one week, then they would cancel the Arizona trip.

I dilated to a 5.

OH, I felt so bad! The kids are pent up (it's too hot out to play) and really looked forward to seeing Grammy and swimming. After much discussion it was decided that a one-day-trip to St. George was doable. I was happy to know that they would be close enough to return quickly, but still far enough to enjoy one night of jumping on a motel bed. Who doesn't love that?

So, Sunday. Clean, waving, happy. Then, about an hour into church I start having contractions. Hard ones. 10 minutes apart. Between 45 aand 60 seconds each. SHOOT!

I douse my insides with water. I change position. I get out of bed. I walk slowly. I take a shower. I drink more water. I drink yet more water. Finally, after about 2 hours it seems to stop. Thank heavens.

Hansome comes home with the excited kids and yells "change clothes! Have a snack! We're leaving in a half hour!" While I ask him to chat with me for a minute.

He's concerned. I'm determined that I'm ok and that he should go. It takes some convincing, but he decides that it's ok and he gets the kids dressed, lunched, wrangled, and into the car. I say about 9 prayers that they will be ok and that I'll be ok while they're gone.

I wave goodbye!

45 minutes later they all walk back in the house. Dad is cranky! The boy has a tummy ache. The oldest girl forgot her inhaler. The youngest girl is just caught in the middle. Dad is nearing the edge of patience.

After potty stops, pick ups of meds and drinks of water, I sit them all down and I use my stern voice. "Ok, listen up! Is there ANYTHING anyone needs to take?" (heads shake in the room) "Boy, do you need to stay home with me? Are you sick?" (No, I'll make it!) "Ok, this is the LAST time I expect to see you. Do not bug dad while he drives! Do not ask when you will get there! Do not ask for different music! Do not bug each other or touch each other or whine about ANYTHING. Got it?!" (heads nod) "Ok, now, go GET in the CAR and have a GOOD TIME!" I get kisses and the kids bolt to the car.

Handsome looks at me and says "wow, you more madder about all this than I thought you would be." I answer back "sometimes it's all about putting on a show." He feels better, I feel better, they leave.

I do great, no contractions. They arrive back on Monday evening.

Two hours later I'm sitting in the recliner (excuse me, it's called "The Man Chair") reading to the kids before bed. I notice that I'm having contractions again. Hard. 10 minutes apart. I ask for a bottle of water, and then another. I kiss the kids goodnight.

10 minutes later I'm on all fours on the floor with a contraction so hard it makes me cry. It won't let up.

Handsome is hovering, touching lightly, asking if we need to call someone and get to the hospital. I'm not 34 weeks until Thursday.

I tell him "no" and ask for a third bottle of water. I take the anti-contraction meds I always take before bed and run a hot bath and start praying. I have a 4th bottle of water.

2 hours later, it's stopped again and I manage to sleep through the night.

Tuesday we spend our 5 hours at the hospital. Of course, just like when you take your car into the shop, nothing happens. They check my cervix, and I'm kind of shocked, and happy to find I'm still at a 5. They call my Dr. and tell me "he'll probably just send you home". However, it takes 50 minutes to get an approval from my doctor. The kind nurse comes back in with my release papers, grins and then looks at my monitor. I've had 5 contractions in 50 minutes.

Nurse: Oh! I have to call your doctor.

So, it's decided I need a nasty little shot to stop the contractions. I may need up to 3.

ONE. Ouch. An hour later...

Nurse: I have to call your doctor

TWO. Ouch. Another hour. Did I tell you these things make me shake? I tried to put on lip gloss. It was comical.

Nurse: I have to call your doctor.

They decide to give me two big pills to help stop things more. They give me the pills and I get checked again. Still a 5! Woo!

My kind and generous husband goes to Tommy's Burgers and buys me delicious and greasy food. And a diet. I feel bad because I'm in triage with other women who are actually going to have their babies today and they can't eat, but I'm starved. C'est la vie.

I've stopped! Finally. The nurse calls my doctor again, gets the ok to send me home but says "I have to check one more time, sorry!"

Ok, not to be gross, but I'm lying there with my nethers exposed, and she's chatting with my husband about the book he's reading. A history of Muslim and Christian something-or-other. She's practically turned around backwards while doing my exam. Suddenly she stops and sits on the bed. She looks concerned. This is taking a while. Too long; and it's pretty uncomfortable.

Nurse: I have to call your doctor.

It seems I've quietly dilated to a 6. Seriously? I mean, most women are begging for drugs at a FOUR! I don't know if I should be proud of my strong pioneer stock (Ha! I am no wimpy city girl. I could birth babies on the prairie and still make a mock apple pie from ritz crackers that same night!) or be afraid that they're going to keep me in the hospital.

The nurse hooks the monitors back up. She's really quite nice and apologizes. We talk about how wonderful Nothing Bunt Cakes are - and vintage aprons.

Eventually, over the concerns of my shocked nurse, my kind doctor sends me home with a prescription for more brown pills.

Even my doctor is shocked the next day when he checks me himself. "Yep, you're at a 6."

On my out the door, the nurses in my OB's office asked if I was ok. "Nobody walks around at a 6!" So I asked "never?" Nurse: Hardly ever.

I'm extremely glad that Heavenly Father helped my body to be still and calm during the 24 hours everyone was gone. I know he's helping to keep her in right now.

Still, I am a freak of nature. Obviously.

Dear Iris

Your mommy spent about 5 hours at the hospital today. I had two terrible shots! Seems you're anxious to get here. I guess that may not exactly be true, since it's my body that's doing the contracting, you're just being your perfect little self, all squished and warm and constantly adjusting to make space.

I talk to you a lot. I probably pray for you more than that.

Today I was told that I'm "AMA" Advanced Maternal Age. Well, yeah! This means that you'll have one of those "old moms" when you grow up. When you're in college, I'll be about 60. You'll have friends who's parents will only be in their 40's (or younger!). I hope you'll be ok with this.

Being pregnant with you has been so wonderful. Even with all the extra pokes and prods and doctors and hospital visits, I love you just the same. I might even love you more, since daddy and I have worked so hard to get you here.

Your daddy is just the best guy. He's taken over about everything about the house and the meals and your brother and sisters so that I could lie still most of the day and try to keep you safe. Daddy gives great hugs and kisses. Daddy gives treats! (you'll learn that he's Lord Of The Swag Candy at our house in a year or two, no doubt). Daddy doesn't like the cat much, but don't let that throw you. He still brought me home the cat we have now, when I was feeling sad. (She's kinda cranky.) Daddy works hard and is smart. Daddy likes to take your sibs to bookstores and out for Saturday morning doughnuts. Daddy loves all of us here at home, and he loves holding my tummy, giving you kisses and talking to you. You're going to like him.

Iris, I'm going to be 34 weeks pregnant with you tomorrow. If there's anything you can do on your end to stay in there just a couple of more weeks - I promise I can make it worth your while. I'll let you wear whatever weird outfit you want to on the first day of kindergarten. I'll put a zinger in your lunch once a week. I'll let you stay home from school sometimes just so you and I can hang out. I'll walk an extra block with you, even when I'm tired. I'll read the same book over and over just for you.

Please stay inside, just a little more.

I didn't really mind the shots as much as I said I did. It's worth it.

I love you,
Mama

The Story I'm Not Allowed to Tell

We are currently in a cute little rental house. We'd rather own and all, but after we sold the house in New Mexico to move to Nevada, we found a huge disparity in prices... and ended up in an apartment for 2 years. Ick. Not that apartment living is terrible (I have a wonderful family, they make everywhere good) but we were definitely in the older part of town. We still are, but now we're in a cute little house.

Moving right along.

The house didn't come with a fridge in the kitchen, but it did have an old clunker of a fridge in the garage. We decided against buying a small fridge for the kitchen, and just used the garage fridge (is it wrong for an LDS family to call an old garage fridge a "beer fridge"? Probably) as it was big, running, and available. Also, the tiny kitchen was roomier without a fridge.

Oh, and did I mention? The landlady says "if the fridge or washer/dryer die, we're not replacing it". Ok, good enough.

Moving along again...

The garage fridge. It's big, it's yellow, it's cold. Sometimes. Sometimes it's cold in back and warm in the front. Sometimes stuff freezes, sometimes the milk is lukewarm. I mess with the setting to make it a little colder (I like cold milk) but it would freeze other things... so my darling husband would turn it back up a little, since he didn't like frozen green beans. Down a little, up a little.

About 2 weeks ago I found that the milk was not only not cold, but it was warmish. Tepid. So, I turned the fridge down a notch and waited till morning. The next morning was no better, in fact it seemed worse. I mentioned the issue to handsome husband and he said "duly noted" or something like that.

Another morning, and things are bad. The ice cream is soft. The cheese is that weird rubbery consistency that cheese just should not be. I fear for the eggs. So, this calls for action. I put on my most thorough and convincing voice and call handsome at the office. "The fridge is on the verge of collapse. We'll lose everything if it doesn't get replaced today. I want to look on Craig'slist pronto!" and he agreed. Woo hoo for being determined!

After some discussion we find a not-too-old Kitchenaid fridge (oooh, I love my mixer, why not love my fridge?). A white side by side thing for $395. Handsome has to rearrange his schedule a bit, and decides to rent a truck and appliance dolly. Another $50 or $60 total. A friend says he'll help.

Being on bed rest, the only thing I can do is make calls and offer moral support. Handsome comes home hot and tired (it's 110 that day, and his little pickup has no air) but he empties the fridge and freezer into coolers, throws out a bunch of junk and goes to pick up the big truck. He then gathers his friend, and drives across town with cash in hand to get the fridge.

He gets home even more hot and tired. The folks they bought this from had to remove the front door of their house to get the sucker out. It took a while.

He and friend manhandle the fridge into the garage and move the other one out of the way. Plug it in. They get hotter and dirtier. Meanwhile I'm kicking back in handsome's recliner, watching a movie.

It's now 10pm. Our 10 year old son is waiting to go with dad in the big truck back to the U-Haul place. He's getting antsy, and really wants a ride.

Handsome comes in to see me. Tall, dark and dirty. I smile.

Then the bad conversation happens.

"Jen, when you turned down the fridge to make it colder... which way did you turn the dial?"

It takes me about 1.2 seconds to realize that I have made a grave error. My hands shoot up to cover my gaping mouth. Eyes like saucers. I am in big, big trouble. I know immediately that he is right. I turned the knob the wrong direction.

I did this myself.

Let me just stick a personal note in here at this point. I grew up in a difficult home where I feared making mistakes. At minimum there was yelling, and repercussions. I was also married before, and was in a similar situation. I didn't feel safe on normal days, and a screw up of this magnitude (essentially a $450 screw up) would have been a catastrophe.

Moving right along.

I was petrified, to say the least. I just sat there, staring, wondering if I was going to have to find somewhere new to sleep at night (ok, not entirely true, but close). Handsome quietly asked me to come out and look at the old fridge and show him how I turned it.

I did. I was wrong, just like I thought.

I apologized all over myself. I didn't know what else to say. He accepted my apology quietly, and took the boy in the truck to return it.

Very slowly and carefully, I wiped down the shelves of the new fridge and replaced the food from the coolers. Then I went inside to wait.

I reminded myself that my husband; my eternal companion, was not the man I had to live with as a child. He was not the man I was first married to. I had faith in him and in the decision I made to be with him for now and into the eternities. He is all of the good things that I didn't have in the first 30-odd years of my life.

He came home, our boy went to bed. I waited a few minutes and then went out into the garage. The old fridge was still sitting there and was blocking my view of him. All I could see were his hands on top of the big yellow fridge, still, and gripping the edge.

Then he did the most wonderful thing.

He took me by the hand and took me into the back yard. We sat in the dark and the quiet and held hands. He gently told me that while it had been a long, expensive night; that he knew it was for the best. He gave me reasons that we really did need the new fridge and then said "in five years this will be funny."

I told him "I think this is a new low for me!" and we started laughing. We laughed until there were tears and then we laughed some more.

I thought I loved him more than anything before that moment, but I knew that there was still more love to be had for him, and for us. He was so good, and kind, and generous. I could not believe how blessed I was to come through the rough patches of the bulk of my life, just to end up with such a man. I was full to bursting.

Then he said "ok, it's funny now too. But don't tell anyone this story, ok?"

And as no one reads this. I didn't. Not really.

Dreams and butter

I have a really active dream life. When I'm pregnant, it goes into overdrive.

Last night I dreamed that my father-in-law (quite the character I might add) was dressed in revolutionary war garb, and running around with an old musket. He decided to show us how the musket worked and fired into the air, setting fire to the neighbor's house. The rest of the dream was a comical version of putting out the fire with garden hoses while he told us that if we wanted to, we could grind our own flour from wheat using the huge grind stone he had, which was pulled by a mule.

2nd part: Butter.

My son Eliot is awesome. 10. Sweet. Concerned. Autistic.
Like most people with Autism, he gets singularly focused on certain things and won't budge.
He just came in to the office with some toast he had made and the butter dish.
"Mom, I can't make it flat"
"You can't make what flat?"
"the butter. It's bumpy"
"That's ok, buddy. You can have bumpy butter."
"No, it's too much butter and it will stop my heart!"
I laugh.
"Eliot. You're not going to stop your heart with bumpy butter. I promise! Go eat."

Counting the Blessing of Home

I feel like I'm turning into an egg.

I'm easily frustrated, because all I want to do is lie around and protect the baby or get ready for the baby or make lists about stuff I need to do (but can't do) before the baby comes. All inward turning stuff.

I woke up at 4:30 in complete terror that the baby would come too quickly, that I'd have her at the house, and that she wouldn't be able to breathe because I still didn't have a nasal aspirator to suck out the gunk from her nose and throat. My incredibly kind husband went to Wal Mart at 6 am and bought me one, and baby nail clippers, so that I'd be able to sleep. I went back to sleep holding the packages.

I posted about the aspirator nonsense in a Face Book note today. My friend Amy, who is a nurse, responded that if I didn't have one, to do a reverse mouth-to-mouth/nose with the baby and just suck instead of blow (and then spit!). I have now sworn to carry the aspirator everywhere I go!

I'm dilated to a 5, and still 7 weeks out. I begged my perinatologist to let me off the hook and only come twice instead of three times a week. He took this into consideration and said I could either come three times a week, or I could be monitored full time at the hospital.

I chose 3 times a week, and a room at home.

Where I can freak out and my husband can humor me.

I am blessed.

Great dream kid!

My daughter Emma was all excited yesterday when she woke up.

"Mom! I had a dream that you went to bed with your big tummy, but when you woke up, the baby was laying next to you, clapping. You didn't have to leave and it didn't hurt at all!"

That's one sweet and generous dreamer, folks. If only it were true!

Good luck to my friend Melanie who was induced last night at 7:30, to Janay who will be induced this coming Friday, and to Becky who was due Sunday.

BTW, did I tell you what the nurse said? "Go home and cross your legs". I told her "I should have thought of that 8 months ago."

Notes on 40

Today was the day. Kind of minimal and just right.

Backstory: My sibs and spouses and kiddos all get together every November for a long weekend at a gorgeous house in Mesquite, NV to chat and play and not worry that we can't get together for holidays. 2 Novembers ago I had a great time, then saw the photos. I was large. I decided then and there that not only was I going to get my physical act together but I was going to train. Train and work and be in better shape, so that over the weekend of my 40th birthday, I would go to San Diego and take surfing lessons.

I did a good job!

I lost a bunch of weight and toned up. I was full of energy and happy. By November of the next year I was just about where I wanted to be. I wore a kinda-clingy work outfit and heels all the way through the work day and on the 90 minute drive to mesquite. My family was impressed! I had biceps! I could walk for hours and not get tired! I could swim and swim and swim!

My husband was on board with the trip, along with a girlfriend who said she'd take the lessons with me. I love the ocean, I love water in general. I was pumped. I bought a surfing magazine and started emailing Southern California friends about good beaches, less populated and into surfing.

January first I took a test. In the middle of the night. Dumb me. - I'll share all of that another time.

So, the surfing journey took a hiatus and I launched myself into impending motherhood again, and waited for my 40th birthday. What would I do instead? It's kind of momentous you know.

Here's what I did.
1. Showered
2. Pills to stop contractions, and for gestational diabetes blood glucose monitoring.
3. Went to the Dr. for the second of 2 steroid shots to boost the baby's lung growth (seems I'm 4cm dilated and 70% effaced with 8 weeks to go).
4. Waddled into Target to use the ladies.
5. Waddled into Nothing Bunt Cakes just long enough to say "I know I'm diabetic right now, but it's my birthday and I MUST have the red velvet cake tonight! Oh, and look at that cute apron!"
6. Bed rested
7. Napped
8. Ate dinner (thank you Albertsons for your rotisserie chickens!) then red velvet cake while wearing my new apron (thank you, loving husband)
9. Poked my finger about 9 times.
10. Meds again.

My kids made me cards. Lara even made me coupons for a back rub, a foot rub and any chore. Sweet girl. My husband has been giving me gifts for 2 weeks because he can't stand to wait. (LOVE him)

Lovely, low key, family filled birthday. I'm glad I'm 40.

Seriously Old Birthday Greetings

My birthday is this coming Friday. I'll be 40. Pregnant and 40. Remember those t-shirts you'd see years ago that said "I'd rather be 40 than pregnant?" Well, I want one that says "I'd rather be Pregnant AND 40." I don't think they'll be very many buyers other than myself.

I've been on bed rest for - forever - it seems. I'm really active at church, being the Primary president (which means I'm kind of in charge of all the children's Sunday activities from ages 18 months until they turn 12) and I haven't been able to be there for 2 months. Bless the women who work with me on this, they've really picked up the ball and kept things going. I'm going to owe them big time.

Something else I really miss is taking the sacrament (kind of like communion) every Sunday. It gives me a chance to think about the promises I've made to my Heavenly Father, and the sacrifice that Jesus Christ made for me. It's also something I've pretty much taken for granted all these years. But going without... that's a different story!

Finally, a couple of weeks ago some of the young men in our congregation began bringing me the Sacrament, in my home. They're really very professional about the whole thing... that is to say they're very reverent. I've seen these boys playing basketball, or coming home from campouts. Not terribly reverent, if you get my drift. But here, in my living room on Sunday, they take what they're doing seriously and I am uplifted and edified by their work. Bless those young men.

As it so happened, the entire Primary made me birthday cards this past Sunday - plus a huge, oversized card with their names and hands outlined on it. What a lot of work that must have been for the leaders! I was touched. When the young men came over to bring me the Sacrament, the youngest of them said "Oh, is it your birthday? Happy Birthday." I thanked him and then my husband chimed in "yep, she's going to be 27." I grinned at his joke and said "yeah, I'm super old" to which young man said "aww, you're not old until you turn 40."

Gee, thanks.

AND my belly button is officially flat.

This has been a tough few days. Too many contractions. Clutter.

Bright spot: The really lovely shower that my boss threw for me at her house. Practically perfect. Still, I feel like I've been grouchy all day and can't shake it.
Bed rest.
Round ligament pain (in my stomach muscles? How can this be?)
Relatives (whom I adore, but also add a wee bit of stress)
Heat, heat, heat.

Handsome husband took the relatives and all the kiddos and bore an hour of screeching at the local McDonalds for lunch so I could rest and get ready for the shower. I finally felt better. Clean, pretty, put together (minus the fact that I can't reach my legs to shave them, no matter) and all I wanted to do was to stay at home, reading a book, looking nice, in the quiet.

Later tonight I was talking to handsome and said "I think I've been grouchy all day!" He gave me his warmest smile and said "why limit yourself to only one day?" Ouch. So I asked "ok buddy, how long have I been grouchy?" Answer: "How long since they put you on the diabetic diet?" Touche.

Stab. Poke. Bleed. Count. Weigh. Measure. No frozen custard for me, thanks! Sigh.

You'd think I would do this more.

I was all kinds of excited to post my thoughts. Daily. Serious.

But then this really big thing got in the way. It's my belly.

Ok, not so much just the huge, protruding belly, but the necessity to keep Iris safe and inside and cooking as long as possible. I've been, what?, 8 weeks on bed rest so far and I have 9 to go to reach 40 weeks. Meds for the pre-term labor. No church, no work, no shopping, no taking the wee ones to the splash pad. I can't even sit for any length of time to make the super adorable dresses for the girls that I want to...
http://www.thehandmadedress.net/MissMadeline6mo-4yrs.htm

I've even been told that I can't do the laundry or vacuum.

My husband, bless him, has been a champ. He's up early with kids, drives them around, picks them up, makes dinner (a summer of ramen noodles and Sonic isn't going to kill them, right?) and still spends time with me, reading books out loud and calling me his "svelte ballerina". Currently, I am anything but.

So, in conclusion, I like writing things down in this occasionally. However, I like Iris more. She'll be here soon and then I'll have a totally different excuse for not writing.

Why I love my husband (one of many reasons)

When we shopped for a new couch recently, he insisted on laying down on every couch in R.C. Willey. Oh the horror! Then, in the middle of the very FRONT ROW of couches as you first come in the store, he invited me to lay with him... snuggled up, right in the main aisle way.

Eventually I had to give in. He's so dang cute (and persuasive).

So, there we are, laying on the couch, squashed together, when a young couple strolls by and gives us a funny look. My husband says "I want to make sure there's enough room for us to watch TV together". The young husband looking on says "Great idea!" and pulls his wife to snuggle on another couch.

We bought the couch.

More yes than no.

I once worked for an extremely liberal, liberal arts college (is that a given?). First in donation wrangling and then in student fun stuff. When I moved from the relatively stodgy donation wrangling to the "have fun on our budget" office, one of the first things my new boss told me was "we like to be the office that says 'yes' more ofthen than 'no'." I liked what that meant, and have tried to take it into my life, while of course protecting myself and my family from overload.

Yes is positive. No can be positive too, if it's done in a loving and honest way. Still, I like to try and say "yes" as often as I can.