No comment

The husband and I carpooled, and of course that means he ended up having to work late. I left him at the office, picked up The Boy, killed an hour with errands and the husband still needed to wait around for one more story. So The Boy and I sat at my desk, munching on egg rolls and looking at pictures.

"Phone, phone, phone," The Boy said.

One of our coworkers took pity on him and asked for my extension. "I'll talk to him."

The phone rang. We picked it up.

"Hello, I'm trying to reach Mr. Boy."

The Boy was silent, shocked I think to hear a real voice on the other end of the line. He just looked at the receiver through a few more pleasantries.

"I'd like to ask you a couple questions today, Mr. Boy, about becoming a big brother."

"Bye!" The Boy said and shoved the phone away.

Kill the doe-doe, kill the doe-doe*

Armadillos live in Florida. They look like walking footballs. The husband calls them armored raccoons. They sort of bounce when they run and hop when they're scared. The husband once drove over one, positioning his car so the armadillo was right between the tires and wouldn't get killed, only to have it jump right into his little Kia's undercarriage and shake the whole car.

One armadillo has been foraging for bugs in our yard and our neighbor's yard every night for weeks. Armadillos have poor eyesight, so they run the same route everyday. We pointed it out to The Boy, who loves watching all animals, and tried to get him to say armadillo. He called it a doe-doe. "Doe-doe eat!" The Boy said, stalking after it. He giggled when he scared it, and it bounced-ran away.

The whole thing was very cute.

And then we realized the armadillo was burrowing under house. The doe-doe went back to being an armored raccoon and the battle was on.

An hour after telling The Boy to watch the doe-doe eat, the husband was standing in our doorway, The Boy behind his legs, throwing a garden ornament at the armadillo.

"Doe-doe!" The Boy yelled, thinking it was a game. The armadillo burrowed into the dirt.

"The doe-doe has to go," the husband said, growling at it. (I wish I were just being creative there.) The armadillo burrowed deeper.

"I think I can still grab its tail," the husband said.

"I think it's time to come in," I said.

The husband reluctantly listened, berating the (inside) cat for not protecting the house as he closed the door. "Doe-doe eat!" The Boy said.

The husband sprinkled cayenne pepper around the burrow for the armadillo to eat (edited by The Husband: The cayenne isn't to eat, it's when it smells the pepper it burns the nostrils). He solicited advice on the Internet and in the office and came home prepared to try a new tactic. As I fixed dinner, he took The Boy outside.

"C'mon, Boy. You can help me dig," the husband said. "We're putting mothballs in the doe-doe hole and filling it in."

"Doe-doe mowing," The Boy said. (Any yard work is mowing.) "Dada mowing."

I hope the mothballs work. I don't want to know what comes next.

* And just to be clear, I don't think we'll be killing the armadillo. Trapping, it probably, but still .... The title is meant to be sung like Elmer Fudd, "Kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit."

Slow down, you're going too fast

The night before Peanut's 1st birthday party I nursed her for the last time.

I wanted this. I planned for it. We've been working toward this for almost 8 weeks now, slowly dropping a feeding a week.

So why did I cry in the arms of a caring, but confused husband the next night when I put her to bed without nursing?

It's all happening too fast.

She's a year old. She's patting me on the back when she hugs me. She's not crying as much when we go into the next room. She only walks now going from one toy to another, jabbering the entire time with discernible words popping up more frequently in the nonsense. She is on the verge of a tooth explosion and I will lose my one-tooth wonder. She doesn't like her food broken up and would prefer to eat her grilled cheese whole, ripping it up with that one little tooth, one bite at a time.

A year ago, she was a lovely little lump of skinny arms and legs who was capable of only crying, sleeping and stealing my breath. A year ago, she relied solely on me and my body for her nutrition. A year ago, she was trying to make sense of her new world and I was trying to make sense of my new role as mother.

I willed the sleepless nights to go away. I wished the crying fits would end. I wanted her to get up and move, play with me, walk into my arms. I couldn't wait for her teeth to come in and I looked forward to the time when my body belonged to no one but me.

The moms with older children are probably shaking their head at me right now. My mother does. They've been there and warned us all not to rush through everything, and yet, we still do.

It's cliche, I know. I don't know how else to express this. It's happening too fast. In just a year, she has gone from a tiny baby barely able to focus inches away from her to a near-toddler dancing every time she hears music, nodding her head enthusiastically when asked a question and smiling from ear to ear every time she sees her momma and dada.

How is that? How has so much happened in that time when it feels like yesterday I was trying to invent a new way to birth a baby because neither option seemed feasible.

Maybe it's hormones or maybe it is just the year birthday that is making me feel like this. Whatever it is, I have to enjoy each and every moment, good or bad, because they all go too fast.

Blame pregnancy brain

I don't have coherent thoughts right now, but I do have lots of things floating around. It might be pregnancy brain. It also might just be the fact I'm working on three big projects at work. Either way, it means bullets here.

• On the to-do list this weekend: Buying a big boy bed and a potty for The Boy. He's not ready to be potty-trained, really, and I am not getting my hopes up that it'll happen before Baby2 arrives. But The Boy is intrigued by the potty and has announced several times, "Pee!" Nothing happens when we take him to the toilet, however, we figure it can't hurt to get a kid-sized potty to be ready. (Incidentally, with boys, do you stand them up to pee or sit them down to learn how? I thought sitting might be easier, but the husband wants him to stand.) As for the big boy bed, we decided not to buy a second crib and I want to have The Boy switched over to the new bed well before Baby2 arrives, both so he doesn't feel kicked out and also so he's, in theory, adjusted and sleeping OK.

• How foolish are we to have booked a plane flight without buying a second ticket for the 18-month-old, 30-pound Boy? I'm wondering if we're going to regret this tightwaddery. We have two weeks til we leave and I'm already making packing lists. My sister will be so proud.

• Baby2's movements are strong enough to be felt most days now. I'd forgotten how fluttery and fleeting these early movements are. My memories of the pokes and jabs and elbow throws of the last months are crystal clear. I'll be feeling those again soon enough, I'm sure.

• I haven't bought any maternity clothes yet. Mostly, I'm still wearing my regular clothes thanks to the belly band and the fact that I really should have bought new clothes after I lost the pregnancy weight from The Boy. Some of my pants must have looked ridiculously big. Yes, Mom, you were right. I might add clothes shopping for me to this weekend's to-do list. Anyone on the Treasure Coast want to go with me?

• The Boy has taken to grabbing at us fiercely, sometimes pinching, and clenching his little teeth together, as if he's saying, "OH! I'M GOING TO GET YOU!" Although we're putting a stop to the pinching, usually The Boy is doing this in a playful sort of way. When I told Michelle this, her first reaction was, "So, does he get that from you?" According to my mother, he does.

The party

It has come and gone. We had a wonderful time and couldn't have asked for better weather or better friends and family to celebrate Peanut's first birthday.

My first favorite moment was watching her carry around her brand new glow worm thanks to my sister. Peanut hasn't really warmed to the idea of a blanket but I think this glow worm might be it. She hasn't stopped carrying it around and even holds it up to her shoulder and pats its back.

My second favorite moment was watching her eat her cake. She wasn't quite as messy this time thanks to last week's practice round. But she wouldn't drop her baby carrot. We let her have baby carrots every once in awhile, not because she can eat them but because I think they act as a good teether when cold. The entire time, she shoveled cake in with one hand and hung on to that carrot with the other.

Thanks to everyone who was able to come and those who weren't who still thought of us.


The cake, made and decorated with love from momma.


With my favorite daddy.


And my favorite momma.

You can't see it but the carrot is in my left hand.

Aah, glow worm, you are my new best friend.

Tricksy Momma

The Boy is a good eater. Probably, I am jinxing this right now, but we keep waiting for him to get picky and so far, that simply hasn't happened. He's eaten mostly what we eat since he was about eight months old. We hear "Bite, please" a lot in our house. He likes black beans and chicken. He loves pork and noodles and rice. Ricotta cheese, cheddar cheese, cottage cheese, any cheese is wonderful. The same goes for just about any fruit. Yogurt is yummy and applesauce is awesome. Potatoes of any sort are fine, as are corn and carrots. "Peas, please" was one of his first sentences.

But other green things make The Boy pause.

The husband, who also is green thing adverse, sees little problem in this, but I disagree. Of course, I worry that he needs to the vitamins found in those leafy greens. More importantly, I am not overly fond of peas and don't want to eat them everyday to get a green thing into The Boy -- and the husband -- and I refuse to cook multiple meals.

So, I have developed some tricks.

When The Boy turned up his nose at the avocado chunks in his bowl of rice and beans, I picked one up and popped it in my mouth, saying, "Oh YUMMMMMMMMMMMMM." The Boy is a sucker for whatever we're eating. He's like a dog. I picked up another chunk and before I could put it in my mouth, The Boy was saying, "Bite, please." He ate all the avocado and asked for more.

That tricked failed me last night when The Boy picked around the spinach in our quiche. Stringy green things are particularly vile to him. But I handed him my fork, for which he'd been begging, and showed him how to FORK! a piece of the pie. I let him feed it to me. The next bite forked went to his mouth. His plate was cleaned.

Exploiting his need for independence worked like a charm.

Pop!

Four months

Three months

The belly, it has popped.

And inside, it is popping. I've been feeling Baby2 move on and off for about a month now. I didn't feel The Boy move until I was nearly five months a long. Then, I worried because there was nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I was delighted to skip that worry this time when, around 11 weeks, I felt a little ping in my belly. A few days later, another little bubble burst and last week, I felt two tiny pops in a matter of a couple minutes.

And then nothing. And then I remembered the first rule of parenthood: There is always something to worry about.

I know, logically, Baby2 is too tiny, and my womb still too spacious, for me to feel those flutters and pops on a daily basis. But the memories closest to the surface about The Boy's pregnancy are the days when he rolled and threw elbows and burrowed his toes into what must have been a particularly comfy spot (for him) beneath my left rib. I remember days of constant hiccups distracting me from interviews and kicks so hard they woke the husband up as he lay snuggled against me. I worried when Baby2 was silent and only really believed the baby was still there, still rolling and floating about, when the whoosh-a-whoosh-a-whoosh of its heartbeat filled the doctor's office. The midwife apologized she couldn't make it louder -- apparently Baby2 was hanging out on the far side of the womb -- but I didn't care. The beat was clear and strong and there.

Baby2's existence also seems to be seeping into The Boy's reality. The daycare ladies are very excited for us and keep talking to The Boy about the baby, even having him color pictures for his baby brother or sister. The husband and I have mentioned the fact that a baby is in momma's belly, too, just in passing, however, it seems to have sunk in a bit. We were doing family fives the other day -- The Boy LOVES to give high-fives -- and the husband told The Boy to give the baby a high five. My belly was smacked.

We're a good family of three. I think we'll be an even better family of four.

Better in theory than practice

I've always maintained that the zoo is better in theory than in practice. When you plan a trip you usually think "Oooh, the zoo! We will see all kinds of animals doing all kinds of fun animal things!"

Then you get there and there are a million people crowding around a small area trying to see an animal that is sleeping or peeing.

Thrilling.

That, however, did not stop me when my friend Sarah called Monday night to ask if Peanut and I wanted to go to the zoo. Sarah has a little girl three months older than Peanut and we often have play dates together.

I excitedly packed for out day trip Monday night. I'm on vacation this week so it was nice to go do something. Little did I know the trauma that lay before me.

Peanut decided it was nap time about 15 minutes before we needed to leave. I figured this would be perfect because she could sleep on the way to the zoo, which is about an hour away.

Silly me.

Instead, she cried all the way to Sarah's house (about 15 minutes away) and then all the way to the zoo. Not just crying. Screaming and wailing. Back arching. She would close her eyes for 30 seconds and we would all breathe a sigh of relief and then, the beast was released. Sarah was a champ and sang camp songs and read books the entire time while I drove. (God bless you, Sarah.)

When we got into the zoo, we decided to have a picnic. Peanut, again, was having none of that. She cried and screamed. Refused to eat or drink. Even refused her cheese. Going with the teething theory, I quickly popped a couple teething tablets and a dose of Tylenol (God bless me for remembering to pack those).

I desperately had to go to the bathroom but I didn't want to subject anyone to watching my writhing little hot mess of a child so I took her with me. Trying to use the restroom while holding a 20 pound crying baby is every bit as difficult as you can imagine. There is no hovering and half my underwear was in unmentionable places while the other half was hanging precariously close to my knees. (Upon hearing this part of the story, my husband decided to call me zoo park booty).

I was that mother that I chided for not getting her kid under control before I had a child and the one I want to hug now and say, "It's OK. We've all been there."

I finally just laid Peanut's stroller seat back and put her down. She passed out within 5 minutes and slept through almost the entire zoo. I, worn out from the entire almost two hour ordeal, wanted to do the same thing.

Thankfully she woke up a different child. She sat up, looked around, smiled and began waving. She got to see the manatees, gorillas and an Okapi before we packed it in for the ride home. (Seeing her pat her chest like a gorilla almost made up for the rest of the ordeal.)

While her friend slept, Peanut quietly (most of the time) flipped through a book and eventually drifted off to sleep.

Later at home, I was tickling Peanut just so I could hear her laugh, when I saw what looks like a tooth just about to break through. This made me happy because I knew why she was crying so and not just because she was acting like a brat.

Perspective

I had a hard time with the willful ones, and by hard time, I mean I occasionally -- once or twice a day -- thought my child was an asshole. Definitely a brat. I felt bad about it the second I thought it, but the thought was there nonetheless. I also felt like total crap as a mother, complete failure. The Boy threw tantrums and constantly courted death by exercising skills he hadn't yet mastered and ignored me when he wasn't demanding I pay total attention to him. We had a rough couple of months, as I reminded Michelle the other day when she was bemoaning Peanut's newly acquired tantrum skills.

My advice didn't really help her because every child is unique and no parenting trick is one-size-fits-all and blah blah blah. But I did assure her: It gets better.

The Boy started talking and LORD! I cannot tell you what a difference that made. Once he could tell me, even a little teeny bit, what he wanted, The Boy became frustrated less often. Without tantrums every other second, I felt like The Boy was less a screaming machine and more a little person. I stopped worrying about failing as a mother and started just being a momma. I realized I was pretty good at it, thanks -- in large part -- to little tricks from my mom or grandmas or other mothers I know.

And the last few months have been golden, as I've watched The Boy's personality emerge and started having conversations with him. Tonight, on the way home from school, he told me, "Boo-boo. Big boo-boo. Fall big boo-boo." I asked him where his boo-boo was and he yanked his leg up in the air. Sure enough, there was a large red mark near his knee. Six months ago, I would have seen the red mark and fretted all night about what caused it. Now I know: He fell.

How cool is that?

We just started Operation Independent Play. We've had some successes and some failures. When Baby2 arrives, I'm sure The Boy will regress and have some tantrums and the husband and I will be overwhelmed. But I'm confident we'll get through it. We'll adjust and the baby will grow and The Boy will show what a big boy he is. He's already starting to show us, negotiating sand digs with other kids at the beach on his own and walking away from our blanket at the park to go play with the big kids in the splash fountain.

The first 1st birthday cake aftermath

We couldn't let Peanut's birthday come and go without cake so I baked a trial run cake and let her tear into it. I learned some lessons for her birthday party cake (like don't take the cake out of the mold until it is cool and get much more icing than anticipated) and she gets to do this all over again in a week.


Momma, why aren't you stopping me from making a mess? And what is this you are saying about doing this again? Seriously?


Now that's pretty cool.

Happy birthday, my love

A look back at the first year

1st month - What is going on and why do you keep taking pictures of me?


2nd month - Momma, you aren't going to like this one later because it won't look like the others.


3rd month - Well, hello there. This is a new perspective.


4th month - Someone help. Anyone? This woman won't stop taking my picture.


5th month - What is this smiling you speak of and why do you want me to do it on command?


6th month - I'm sitting up on my own and I'm not so sure about it.


7th month - OK, this isn't so bad. How about I actually try to smile for you, Momma?


8th month - Liked my smile so much from last month I think I will sport it again.


9th month - Look, Momma. I'm looking all grown up in my footie pjs.

10th month - I'm suddenly aware of this duck and I'm suspicious. Much like the goats.


11th month - Momma finally wrangled me to get my hair in a pigtail. I let her win.

1 year - This is the best you are going to get, Momma. Just be sure to tell Aunt Hill thanks for my very cool outfit.

We are spending a quiet day just the three of us with the party next weekend (plenty of pictures will be shared.)

This, without a doubt, has been the best year of my life and I am thankful for all of our many blessings. Thank you for letting me share them with you.

No one ever said parenting would be easy

This is the statement I got from my mother the other day over the phone as I whined about my daughter's inexplicable need to be attached to me in the evenings.

"No one ever said parenting would be easy," she said in her best mothering tone.

"I never thought it would be all sunshine and lollipops, Mom, but I would like to know how I keep my child from screeching so loudly that I'm afraid the neighbors are going to call child protective services on me," I snapped, child on hip, trying to make dinner, phone wedged between my ear and shoulder.

As we approach Peanut's 1st birthday (you were aware of that, were you not?), we have hit a fabulous new phase. I like to think of it as the "don't even think of putting me down for one second so you can prepare dinner or else I will scream like an angry cat, throw myself backwards and risk a concussion on the tile floor phase."

The ironic thing is that when I finally do have time cuddle, she wants nothing to do with me. She has started pointing at her crib and grunting just as we sit down to rock every night for bed.

No one ever said parenting would be easy.

After almost a year of parenting, I can definitively say that is an understatement.

It's fevers and unexplained rashes. It's late night trips to the doctor. It's juggling schedules and trying to figure out whose turn it is to stay home with her when she can't go to the sitter's. And then there are the late nights and frequent wakings, leaving us with little sleep in preparation for a day at work. There are the worries about development and nutrition and are we doing this right? There is putting us second so that we can take care of our child.

No one ever said parenting would be easy.

I've also learned in the past year that there is more to it than the hard parts. I shrieked in excitement the first time I saw her roll from her tummy to her back and danced around the kitchen when I spotted her first tooth. I love tickling her until we are both gasping for breath from laughing so hard. I can't even describe the feeling of watching her learn that a cat says meow or that dogs howl at the moon and everything else her new world has to offer. My heart bursts with joy every time I see her toddle to me, arms outstretched, knees locked, big gummy smile on her face. I ache each time she curls up in my arms, head on my shoulder, knowing that I would give my life for her.

But the most wonderful thing about parenting is simply loving this child. And that? That is the easiest thing I have ever done.

Performance review

I have my yearly review today at work, and that got me to thinking: What would a performance review from The Boy look like?

Maybe something like this:

Employee: Momma

On the job since: 1-11-08, with nine months of preparation prior to start

Strengths: excellent cuddler, builds big towers of blocks that are satisfying to knock down, good reader and singer of silly songs, provides milk and meals at appropriate times

Weaknesses: does not meet all demands in a timely fashion, seems to think she's the boss, adheres too strictly to seemingly arbitrary rules such as no standing in the bathtub

Goals:

1. Provide snacks on demand.

2. Read books as many times as demanded, even if they've already been read.

3. Accept that she is not the boss.

----

This boss is a bit of a tyrant. My goals for the next year of momma-ing look more like this:

1. Attempt (and perhaps succeed) at potty training.

2. Transition relatively smoothly from one child to two.

3. Keep entire family alive, clean and fed.

I aim high people.

What would your performance review look like?

Middle of the night conversations

We are trying to drop the middle of the night feeding Peanut picked up about eight months ago. Last night was the first go of it and after an hour (or more?) of listening to her cry off and on, I finally gave up and asked Lucas to get her for me so I could feed her.

This was the conversation after:

Me: They should invent a boob that you can strap on the crib that keeps milk at the right temperature. You know, like a hamster's water bottle.

Lucas: I already thought of that idea. It's mine.

Me: No you didn't. I just thought of it. You can't steal it. Better yet, they should invent a boob so that YOU have to get up and feed her in the middle of the night.

Lucas: (grumbling)

Me: You know what? You ARE a boob.

Lucas: I'm all man.


We are a deep, deep couple.

Early memories of a small Peanut

Hey did you know that my daughter turns a year old this week? No? Hmmm. We should do something about that.

In continuing with my theme of celebrating all things Peanut, here are some of my favorite memories from the first couple weeks:

- Listening to her squeaking cry. After she wailed, she would take a deep breath and she sounded like a squeaky toy. The first time the husband and I heard it in the hospital, we both stopped what we were doing and started cracking up.

- Hearing my husband sing to her. He sang "You are my sunshine" and then the Ohio State fight song over and over again that first week trying to get her to sleep. I remember being in bed, listening to him and crying because "You are my sunshine" was my grandparents' song. Then, I would giggle upon hearing him launch into the fight song.

- Seeing all of the hair all over her. Seriously, my child was hairy. A co-worker joked that if she was born on the full moon she would be hairy. Guess what. My water broke on the full moon. She was so hairy, I called her my hairy-back Mary for weeks.

- Dealing with her projectile vomit. OK, so it was not so funny at the time, and a bit concerning, but looking back, I wish someone could have recorded us. One time, I went running out to the back yard covered in vomit, holding a crying baby, trying to flag my husband down while he mowed. Another time, she threw up right in the face of my poor teenage brother-in-law. I don't think he ever quite processed what was all over him.

- Asking my husband if he could tell that I had wash cloths in my bra. Let's just say that I couldn't go anywhere without fear of leaking all over the place unless I got home within an hour. When I went to the grocery store for the first time, I feared I would be soaked with breast milk before I hit the dairy section. I stuffed wash cloths in my bra and asked Lucas to assess the obviousness. It was quite obvious but I think I went out with them anyway.

- Seeing this for the first time:



I snapped this moments after we were all home together for the first time. It is my favorite picture yet because there is my daughter with my gorgeous husband. Nothing looks better on a man than a baby for whom he cares and loves.

The next challenge

Since The Boy was about six months old, my mother has been saying we should have another baby so we don't spoil the one we have. I pooh-poohed her, however, it's occurred to me lately she might have a tiny, wee bit of a point. Another momma, this one Clueless But Hopeful, made me see see the benefits of being ignored. And the other night, when The Boy practically pulled my skirt off me trying to get me to play instead of washing the dishes -- because geez! he said PLEASE -- I realized we'd accidentally created a little bit of a monster.

The Boy thinks if he says please, we should and will drop whatever we're doing and do his bidding. He thinks this because we usually do, because we can and because, let's be honest, it's damn cute when he says, "Peeeez." But in six months, I'll have another cute baby tyrant on my hands.

We are now in Operation Independent Play.

Some of it is a rehash of Operation Tantrum Control. When I tell him no, I can't dribble the ball endlessly for his amusement, I give him options about what he can do instead. When I tell him he has to wait for me to read a book, I ask him to sing a song or put away a toy or fetch something.

We also are trying something new. The Boy recently discovered the stuffed animals that have been hanging out in his room ignored for 18 months. He especially likes an orange cow like the one in "Mr. Brown Can Moo!" creatively named Moo, and Rocky Bear, which Grammy got him at birth and which was named after The Boy whose initials are R.O.C. Oh, and a nameless Monkey from Ohio. We've started telling him to play with Rocky Bear or read to Moo when he demands our attention. It's actually worked a couple times; I caught him reading "Goodnight Moon" to Moo this morning.

What else has worked for you guys? For those you without kiddos, how did your parents get you to play on your own?

Happy endings

I am a sap if you haven't noticed. I also like to make a big deal of birthdays if you haven't noticed. So, in honor of Peanut's 1st birthday this Saturday, I will be doing a lot of looking back, crying, telling fun stories, crying, and generally celebrating the 1st year of my child.

I woke up in the middle of the night to a little popping sensation. It was about 2:45 a.m. Friday and I was scheduled for induction Tuesday morning, Peanut's due date, against my wishes.

I crept out of bed, grabbed the laptop, my pregnancy week-by-week book and a towel and went to sit in the living room to try to figure out if my water just broke. Seriously. It wasn't a gush. Just a trickle and I wasn't convinced that I hadn't just peed a little bit. So I spent 45 minutes researching and came to the conclusion that, yes, my water broke.

Our doctor and the nurse at the birthing class had told us that all bets were off if the water broke and that we needed to get to the hospital ASAP. I wanted to labor at home as long as possible so I was a little sad. I began fiddling around the house, wiping off the counters and decided that I should wake the husband.

I crept back into our bedroom and gently shook him.

"Honey, don't freak out but I think my water just broke."

My lovely husband who sleeps like a rock and takes awhile to wake up was out of bed quickly and trying to push me into the car within the minute.

I told him I was calling the doctor. Unfortunately our doctor, whom I loved, was on vacation. I had the possibility of two others - one that I met briefly but instantly liked and another who told me if we didn't induce on my due date that the infant mortality rate increased. Needless to say, I wasn't a fan of his since he insisted that I be induced.

I got the doctor I liked on the phone and he told me I needed to go to the hospital now. I was more willing as the contractions were coming on stronger.

We got up to the maternity ward and they confirmed that my water had indeed broken. I was moved to a labor room and we began to call relatives. We promised my mother and MIL that they could be in the room when I delivered so we had to give them time to get there.

Everyone assembled in the room in less than two hours staring at me - my mom, dad, sister and MIL and of course the husband.

I wasn't dilating and they wouldn't let me walk around except to go the bathroom since my water broke. The nurse came in about once an hour to check and each time she shook her head and told me we were nowhere close, even with the help of Pitocin.

I flipped from side to side trying to get things moving. I breathed and tried to concentrate. The husband rubbed my back with the pink tennis balls he bought for the occasion.

The doctor who tended to me ended up being the one I didn't like. Turns out I had good reason other than his lack of bedside manner. Six months after Peanut was born, his license was suspended again for alcohol abuse. Great.

Everyone in the room saw my pain and encouraged me to get the epidural. I think sometime after noon I agreed to the epidural, which was administered by a mean man who kept snapping at me to hold still. I wanted to shove the needle in his head.

I felt no pain after that. I thought it was the epidural but it turns out they stopped the Pitocin without my knowledge. Peanut wasn't tolerating the contractions well and her heartbeat dropped every time.

No one told me at first and I don't know how long it was going on. But the nurse started coming in more frequently and told me I needed to stay on my right side since she seemed best when I was there. Apparently that still was not good enough because they put me on oxygen.

I still wasn't dilating. I think I only ever made it to 3 cm. Probably around 4:30 p.m., the nurse came in to tell me the doctor was considering a C-section. This was my worst fear and something I was adamantly against.

They began prepping me before I agreed. The doctor came in and flatly told me that while it wasn't an emergency we really needed to consider a C-section. He told me I could keep doing this for hours with nothing happening and still end up with a C-section.

I began crying. I was frightened and didn't know what to do. We asked questions although I can't remember exactly what they were.

I just kept thinking that Peanut wasn't tolerating this. Her heartbeat was dropping. Was I willing to risk her just so I could not have a C-section? After a brief, private discussion with Lucas we decided to go ahead with the C-section.

He was the only one allowed in the room and he was suited up in scrubs. Before I knew it, I was wheeled to the operating room. They took me in by myself with Lucas waiting in the hallway. I was given medicine which made me sick as I laid there on my back. They didn't give me anything to throw up in so I just kept turning my head and puking.

I was scared as the doctor and nurses talked about inane things around me. Every once in awhile, someone would ask me if I was OK. I kept telling them I felt sick but no one would respond.

They finally let Lucas in the room and he was placed at my head. I relaxed a fraction.

I could only see the reflection of what was going on in the dome of the light hanging above me. It was blurry but gave me an idea. The doctor cut into me and began leaning on my stomach, pushing down hard. I remember thinking that was going to hurt later.

I kept fighting the urge to close my eyes. The drugs made me so drowsy but I knew I didn't want to miss the birth of my daughter.

Soon I could see a blurry little being pulled from me. What I didn't see was the doctor flip the umbilical cord so that it was no longer around my daughter's neck. She was pulled out and she was quiet.

Some of this I remember, some of it my husband didn't tell me until a couple months ago. Peanut was passed off to the nurses who began working on her. A button was pushed to call the neonatal doctor to the operating room. I remember hearing the nurse say "Come on, baby. Come on, baby." Lucas tells me they were preparing to intubate her when Peanut finally let out a cry. It was only 10 seconds but it felt like an eternity.

My husband looked down at me and said "She has my nose," and we both started crying and he kissed me. All I could hear was my little girl crying and I thanked God.

She was wrapped up and handed to Lucas who put her near my head. I told her I loved her and she stopped crying. I cried more.

Lucas took her away to show her to our family.

The second she was taken away, I began throwing up again and violently shaking all over. The nurse told me I was going into shock. It didn't make me feel better. I just wanted my daughter.

Instead, I continued to throw up and shake and listen to the doctors talk about sailboats. I wanted to scream.

I was moved to recovery and had to be there for an hour. A nurse promised that she would take me past the nursery to see Peanut before I went back to my room. After that, I would have to wait another four hours to see her again.

I held my daughter for the first time in the hallway of the maternity ward with cameras flashing and family members crying and laughing. I cried when the nurse said I had to give her back after just a couple minutes.

I rested in my room impatiently, wanting just to be with my daughter again. They finally brought her to me. I remember wanting to count all of her fingers and toes but feeling too doped up to complete the task. I felt silly asking anyone so I kept quiet.

Instead, I just took in her squishy face and tried to remember a time when I was so happy and so thankful.

I'm happy my daughter is healthy but I'm upset I had a C-section. I feel like I missed a rite of passage. I feel like I took the easy way out and I'm sad that I will probably never have that opportunity to push.

I've read about other women who were allowed to walk around after their water broke and I wonder if that would have helped me. I wonder if my doctor talked me into the C-section because it was just more convenient for him. I wonder if I had been braver and insisted that I be allowed to do more to help the labor if things would have turned out differently.

But when I go too far down this road, I try to remember the most important thing: I have me daughter. She's healthy and wonderful and in the end, that's what really matters.

And you wonder where I get it from

When I was in fourth grade, I had to do a book report and presentation on Sojourner Truth. I did a poster with a portrait or her on it. And by "I did" I mean my father, who is artistically inclined, drew it. The teacher reminded the entire class that they should be doing their own projects upon seeing my poster.

When I was in fifth grade, we had to make miniature parade floats representing an assigned state. Mine was Illinois. Everybody else used construction paper and shoe boxes. Some of the more advanced ones had paper mache. Not me. I had a wooden float with wheels, a hand-carved, wooden Abe Lincoln, three wooden boxes showing the state's natural resources and a holder for the states flower. All put together by my father while I stood there and watched. I might have helped paint. Maybe. I won the blue ribbon and got in the local newspaper.

Fast-forward 20-some years as I plan for my daughter's flower-themed first birthday. We are a little more than two weeks away from the party that my parents graciously agreed to have at their house. My father has added flowers to his already beautifully landscaped lawn. He keeps bringing up decoration possibilities such as wooden flower cut outs to put candles on (for ambiance?) and has even cut out 3-foot tall wooden replicas of the birthday invitation to paint.

He's not the only one. My mother is planning enough food to feed twice as many people as invited. She keeps offering to do this and that despite my telling her over and over again that they are doing more than enough. We are getting together this weekend to go over all of the plans and get the rest of the party supplies like balloons and a pinata (kidding, but there is a really cute flower pinata that I see everywhere that I really want to buy.)

People keep looking at me funny when I tell them about the plans for the party and that I am taking the entire week off before it to get prepared.

My response: It's not THAT bad. It's not like we are going to have ponies and clowns.

That I know of.

Dinner conversation

This is the conversation at our dinner table tonight, after I showed the husband the spectacular purple bruise that has bloomed on my skinned knee.

---

The Boy: Boo-boo! Momma, boo-boo.

Me: Yep, Momma has a boo-boo.

The Boy: Bite.

Me: No, that's how you get boo-boos, but Momma fell and got a boo-boo. Momma fell down and went BOOM!

The Boy: Moo?

Me: No, not moo. Boom.

The Husband: Don't tell Momma she fell down and went MOO! She won't take that well.

Pregnancy self-preservation

I ran in heels today.

Anyone who knows me knows that my running -- regardless of shoe choice -- is a bad idea. I recognized this and stopped after just a few feet, however, I was late to an interview and so continued to walk quickly in my heels across a rough-paved parking lot.

I fell. You're shocked, I know.

It was one of those falls where you know it's going to happen and you stumble a little and try to catch yourself and then there's that sinking feeling of Oh-Jesus-I'm-going-down! And then you're down. I fell face first, full-length across the pavement, keys flying.

But, and here's the proof that women instinctively protect their babies even in utero, my graceless self managed to fall squarely on my right knee and right hand and elbow, thus shielding my baby belly. I have a bloody knee and scrapes on my hand and arm and a bruised ego, though really, after a lifetime of pathological clumsiness, you'd think I'd be used to it.

I am remembering why I gave up heels for most of my last pregnancy.

Dark means sleep

The Boy had gotten into the rather unfortunate habit over the last few weeks of waking up at 4:40 a.m. exactly and thinking it was time to get up. I blame his eyeteeth coming in, nasty things. Luckily, talking him out of getting up usually only took a minute, just long enough to stumble blindly across the house and say, "Boy, it's dark out. Dark means night-night. Go to sleep," and turn on his musical fish. But then it was a crapshoot. You might get 40 minutes of sleep before he decided it was time to get up again and you'd have to repeat the dark means night-night discussion; you might get 5 minutes. One morning, the husband and I got up eight times between us between 4:40 a.m. and 5:58 a.m. F-bombs were dropped.

But! there is a happy ending here. It appears all that discussion sunk into our clever Boy's head.

The husband elbowed me awake just before 6 a.m. "Do you hear The Boy?"

I listened, expecting to hear cries of "UP! EAT! UP!" as usual. Instead I heard: "Hmmm, night-night, night-night (a clunk as he turned on his musical fish) night-night, night-night."

"He's singing himself back to sleep!" I said.

"I know! Isn't that the cutest thing he's ever done?" the husband said.

We listened for a few more seconds in the dark, one of those heart-full moments of parenting when everything is right in the world. The Boy's murmurs quieted, but then we heard, "Stuck. Stuck."

The husband went to check -- The Boy had tangled a foot in the crib bars. The husband freed the foot, The Boy looked up at him, closed his eyes and hugged his blanky. We all got 20 extra minutes of sleep.

It was a good day.

Tooth sighting

Houston, we have a tooth.

My little Peanut, just two weeks shy of her 1st birthday, broke her first tooth today.

I don't know why but I think this is the most excited I've been about a milestone. Perhaps because it is a definite thing. Either there is a tooth or there isn't.

With everything else, she started off doing things - kind of. Kind of talking since various jabbering sounds like words that may or may not actually be words. Kind of walking since there was a step or two then a fall. Kind of sitting up because much like the walking she spent most of the time falling.

We've had a rough last week between illness and weaning. I thought the very loud whining and crying meant that I was traumatizing her by not nursing so much. I began to second guess my decision. But now I can attribute at least some of the sadness to teething.

I would post a picture but I'm lucky I was able to see it. Babies aren't really into holding their mouths open for inspection.

Ice cream and goats

After a bout with roseola and almost a week in quarantine, we were finally able to go out and enjoy the holiday weekend. We took a trip to a large ice cream and agriculture entertainment center near us.

I'll let Peanut show and explain it you:


First we had ice cream. Momma got vanilla for me but I liked Daddy's cookies and cream much better.



Excuse me, Daddy, that is my ice cream. There is a cup of vanilla sitting over there melting if you want some.



What? Why are you laughing? Do I have something on my face?



Then Momma and Daddy took me to see the goats. I didn't really know what to think except they were kind of stinky.



I'm suspicious. What if one of them bites me?



I think the sugar from the ice cream just kicked in.

In his eyes

Watching The Boy experience something new is one of my favorite parts of parenting.

We took him to our city's July 4th celebration and saw the most pathetic parade I've ever witnessed. There were tow trucks in it. And just random jeeps with bunting on them. And what I assume was the entire membership of the PT Cruiser club. No bands marched and no floats were covered in reams of a tissue paper. But what The Boy saw was "Trucks!" and a "Dog!" He slobbered happily over a sucker and giggled over two strands of beads that clinked in his hands and could be taken on and off endlessly. He wrestled the balloon we tied to his wrist and, when it slipped off and floated skyward, The Boy just looked up in wonder and said, "Away."

Later, we took him to a minor league baseball game where he got his face and hands greasy with hot dogs and french fries. People-watching and singing and dancing to the music kept The Boy up through all nine innings, so we were able to stay for the post-game fireworks, his first. When the first rocket exploded into the sky, The Boy's eyes widened and his head tipped back farther against my chest. The second boom! made him whimper and reach out for our friend Laurel's arm. He cried out a couple more times, leaning against me, but he never took his eyes off the colored blooms of light. I spent most of the show watching the lights play over his face, watching his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. I watched his eyes get big when the biggest booms came and squeezed him a little tighter each time.

Recommended reading for mommy and baby

I always have a book with me and anytime I have a free moment, I read.

It seems Peanut has picked up this trait. Recently she has been insistent with her books. She sometimes sits and looks through them herself, jabbering all the while like she is reading. Mostly, however, she grabs a book and crawls/walks to us, plops down and hands it to us, looking expectantly.

One read is not good enough per book. It must be read over and over and over. And over again. Sometimes she prefers if we start at the end and work our way back. Sometimes we get two pages in and she wants to start over. It's her world. We just live in it.

So in honor of our new bonding experience, here is a list of my favorite books and a list of hers.

For mommy:
1. Anything by Jen Lancaster. OMG people. You. Must. Read. The husband bought me "Bitter is the New Black" for Mother's Day and I cannot get enough of her books. She started off as a blogger who got a book deal. Her books are about her life, which even when sad, like being unemployed for two years, is absolutely hysterical. I have been laughing out loud for weeks.

2. Twilight. Shut up. I'm aware I'm a 13-year-old girl.

3. Written on the Body by Jeannette Winterson. This book got me through college. It is one of the most well written books I've ever read. My words are not good enough to explain the love story that is nothing like you have ever read. I underlined passages and read this book more times than I can remember.

4. Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett. This is just a wonderful story of 12th-century England following different families and how their paths cross with love and war. It's lengthy but well worth the read.

5. Fortune's Rock by Anita Shreve. This is story of a teenager's affair with a much older married man. It's not quite as dirty as it sounds. Set in the early 20th century, it's a beautiful story of how this young woman goes from having everything to nothing and how she manages to continue.

Peanut's favorites:

1. Kittens. This is a small board book with a picture of a kitten and it's name on each page. Simple, yes, but apparently so engrossing that we must check out Tinsel, Tinkers, Wally and Snowdrop 18 times back-to-back.

2. Hand, Hand, Fingers Thumb by Al Perkins. I don't if it's the rhymes or what but she loves this tale of monkeys humming and drumming.

3. Anything Sandra Boynton. OK, maybe these are my favorite. Come on, who doesn't love books about hippos belly buttons? Plus, the Doggies book has taught our dear little girl to howl like a dog. Seriously.

4. Anything that has textures. One her books has Velcro in it that substitutes for a hedgehog's quills. She will sit there for minutes running her fingertips over it. Same thing for the bumpy frog in another book.

5. The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle. I don't think her love for this book has anything to do with the educational plot of how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly but more with the fact that she can put her fingers in the holes.

What are your favorite books for you? For baby?

Bay-bee?

The Boy can say baby. A board book of nothing but smiling toddlers is one of his favorites, one he often demands we read. "Ree, Momma," he says. "Ree bay-bee." He also points to the baby on wipes box when I change him and says, "Bay-bee night-night." (Any thing lying down is going night-night.) Sometimes when he sees himself in a mirror he calls himself Bay-bee.

So, I thought I would use this vocabulary word's popularity to introduce the concept of a new baby. We were sitting on the couch, The Boy flipping through the Bay-bee Book.

"Do you like babies?" I asked.

The Boy laughed. "Bay-bee," he said pointing at a blond-haired boy.

"Yep, that's a baby," I said. "Do you think Momma should bring home a baby?"

"Bay-bee."

"Are you a baby? What if we had another baby? Two babies?" (I was playing to his favorites here. He knows and likes the number two.)

"Two!"

"But what about a baby?"

"Bay-bee! Ree bay-bee, Momma."

I'm calling it good enough for now. At least we know The Boy will be able to identify the kid as a baby.

I don't really know how much to bother with an explanation for The Boy about the new baby and his becoming a big brother. On one hand, I know it's important to prepare him. On the other, I'm two years older than my sister, and I have no recollection of life without her. How important is an explanation he's not going to remember?

What say you, Interwebs? Mommas, how did you prepare your first kiddos for new arrivals? If you were a firstborn, do you remember your siblings' debuts and the months leading to them?

Early Independence Day

If you see me setting fireworks off at my house, I'm not jumping the gun on the Fourth of July.

I'm celebrating my Independence Day from the breast pump.

(Insert no more pumping dance here. I'll leave it to your imagination what it might entail.)

Yesterday was my first day at work since Sept. 15 that I didn't pump. Not once. No lurking outside the unisex bathroom waiting for someone to finally leave. No worrying about getting in the requisite two pumpings to make sure I had enough milk for the next day. No more hauling around the mysterious black bag (which incidentally only one person has ever asked me what was in it. They thought I was hauling around a camera for nine months apparently.)

We are down to two feedings a day. OK, maybe three since I'm still feeding her once in the night because I'm a sucker. I'm probably going to introduce a little cow's milk next week (how do we feel about organic, moms?) and see how she does with that. If all goes well, we should be weaned by her first birthday.

The weaning process has gone surprisingly well for us. The only problem happened Saturday when we were out to dinner as a family. The husband asked me what I got on my shirt. I looked down and realized it wasn't dinner. Not mine at least. I had started leaking, something I haven't worried about in months. The husband couldn't take his eyes off the ever-growing spot on my shirt so I strategically placed Peanut, told him to pay the bill and high-tailed it out of there. Luckily we were wrapping up anyway.