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.