The Birth Story

Early Birdies

On the morning of her birth we woke at 4 AM in preparation to be at the hospital by 5 AM, the cesarean section scheduled for 7 AM. As Scott and I scurried about getting ready to leave we communicated wordlessly, just passed frightened/excited looks. I had personally resolved to keep myself focused on simple and immediate tasks. Find shoes, put on shoes, grab overnight bag, locate jacket, wear jacket, so on. I slept maybe 4 hours the night before and being tired helped dial down my nerves.

Oh, and incidentally, I haven’t slept more than 4 consecutive hours since.

We checked in at Hotel Baby and made our way down elongated hospital hallways towards the security camera monitored, baby-stealin-proof doors of the “Maternal Child Unit” where we were buzzed in and greeted by our nurse. Now I promised my self I would remember this nurse’s name, being that she was so great to me and so terrific at her job, but alas it’s been three weeks and I’ve already lost it. She had brown hair and kind eyes…..I think. Over the course of two hours she got me into my hospital gown, provided Scott his surgical scrubs, hooked me up to an IV, various machinery, appropriate drugs, and a catheter which SUCKED. All the while I’m beginning to notice that the Braxton Hicks I’d been feeling on and off for the past few weeks were suddenly way more ON than they were ever off. They were actual, honest to God contractions. It seems the baby would have come that day whether we’d scheduled her to happen or not. And I was, at long last, experiencing true labor …. which, by the way, SUCKED.

By a quarter to 7 AM I was reconsidering my whole “c-sections are a breeze” approach of the previous 9 months when in walks Mr. Friendly the anesthesiologist. The fellow who would be sticking needles into my spinal cord this morning. The fellow who was surprisingly NOT so friendly. He was a middle aged man of Asian decent who interrogated me like a suspected felon and came at me in such an overtly gruff manner that every one in the room shot me the wide eyed “Is this guy for real?” look.

Needless to say his demeanor was NOT a confidence builder towards his ability to NOT paralyze me for life.

7 AM – Showtime (Beep! Beep!)

At 7, without delay, I was led to the O.R.
Scott was to wait outside this room while they prepped me for surgery and administered the spinal block. My first impression of the O.R. table was that it looked very much like a prone cross, with two long, skinny panels protruding from each side to hold my outstretched arms. Suddenly I’m having kooky thoughts about sacrificial lambs.

My nurse had me sit up on the OR table and lean forward so Mr. Friendly could work his friendly needle magic in the small of my back. My legs were stretched out before me and shaking badly. I told my brain to tell my legs to knock it off or we might indeed never walk again and a moment later the shaking stopped. And I’ll say this for Mr. Friendly, what he lacked in personality he completely made up for in skill. I barely felt the needles and it was over before it seemed to have ever begun.

With the lower half of my body slowly losing feeling, and temporarily ignoring any further orders from my brain, they laid me out…. on the cross. In this most holy of positions they hooked something up to my right arm, I know not what, and left my left hand free to hold that of husband’s, whenever he was let in.

Assorted people in blue scrubs began to file in. My nurse noted that my blood pressure had really shot up. “You must be nervous” she said. But the best was the heart monitor. I could hear my heart rate loud and clear, a steady “boop-boop-boop” from the monitor. As activity around me increased and I began to have a panicky thought or two I could hear my heart rate go from “boop-boop-boop” to an urgent “BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!” and then I was embarrassed. As though everyone in the room could actually HEAR my coo-coo thoughts, and I’d calm myself back down to a “boop-boop” status as soon as possible.

It’s here that I realized Mr. Friendly was standing behind my shower capped and oxygen masked head (boop-boop-boop) where I could not see him but could occasionally hear him (boop-boop-boop) at the head of this seeming crucifixion (beep-beep-beep-beep) like some sort of ancient high priest (Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!) presiding over the sacrifice (BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!) My doctor strolled in ever so nonchalantly (boop-boop-boop-boop), as docs are wont to do. He said hello to me (boop-boop-boop) and greeted the others (boop-boop-boop). They all disappear behind a curtain of blue that rises from my neck upward (boop-boop) and while I’m staring at nothing but ceiling it sure sounds as if they’re getting started (beep-beep-beep) and yes, it sure as hell sounds as if they’ve gotten started (beep!beep!beep!BEEP!) and I wonder, almost aloud, “Where the EF is my husband!”

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

Seconds later they brought in Scott and (sure enough) to hear him tell it afterwards they’d already had their hands inside my sliced abdomen when he was escorted in. The expression on his face told me as much. He took one look at my midsection, quickly averted his gaze and rushed straight to the stool that awaited him at my side, safe behind the blue curtain. He squeezed my hand. I smiled at him behind my oxygen mask. I felt the tug, tug, tugging sensation associated with c-sections and presto chango! Before 30 minutes had passed we heard “CAH!”…..the very first sound made by our baby, followed shortly by furious crying.

No one said a word to us. I did hear someone comment that it was a big baby. Scott reported to me by sneaking peaks past the surgical curtain. “It’s here” (pause) “It’s purple” (pause) “They’re taking it over to a table” (pause) “It’s a girl” (pause) “It’s pink now”. All the while the baby is crying boisterously. Much more so than my Maddy ever had. I couldn’t help but think anything other than how this baby was totally pissed off!

Untold moments went by and she quieted. I repeatedly asked Scott if she was okay until finally they held her next to my face (not yet able to hold her myself whilst still strapped to the cross) and I cooed over her, said hello to her and I kissed her soft little newborn cheek. It was such a touching moment that even Mr. Friendly smiled…….that or I was really high.

They gave her to Scott to take to the nursery and he later told me he’d never been so scared, or held anything as precious, in his entire life.

Tying Up Loose Ends

With Daddy and Baby gone my doctor and my nurse spend the next half hour chatting over me while they clipped my fallopian wings and sewed me up. And while the good doctor is literally tying up my loose reproductive ends I have a small case of the “last minutes” and wonder if I should’ve shut the door forever on having more children.

Good doctor and Even Better Nurse chatted the way your dentist and the hygienist do – like you’re not even there….with your mouth wide open and drooling beneath them. They talk about their kids, their co-workers, their spouses, the last movie they saw, their favorite recipes, etc. But for added flavor my doctor, who’d always been the consummate professional during my every prenatal visit with him, busts out cussing like a trucker. A casual “f*ck this” and many more “f*ck that’s”. I was quite amused! That is until I heard him say “Oh shit”………that one still has me worried.

When they finished with me Good Doctor bid me adieu and Mr Friendly oversaw the hoisting of my whale-sized self from O.R. table to hospital gurney. I was wheeled back to my room where I waited for daddy and baby and felt one hundred times better than I had only one hour earlier. Special thanks to my friends Morphine and Demerol.

Post-Op

It was perhaps a half hour to an hour before I saw Scott bring baby Lily to me. This is an instance where the picture of him handing her to me to hold for the first time tells the whole story.




8lbs. 9 oz.
5 ounces less that her older sister. She was crying again but not as angrily. I Instinctively I knew she was hungry but wasn’t yet prepared to whip out boobies in front of one and all. I held her close to my chest and kissed her. I marveled at how CUTE she was for a newborn, and just how much she looked like her daddy. And I itched.

And itched. And itched and itched and itched.

One side effect of the spinal that I did not recall was this incessant itching. By the second day I had managed to rub off a layer or more of skin from my face. Maybe not the best way to exfoliate.

Hotel Baby

Daddy and me and baby made three for a few days in the hospital. I was put on a liquid diet until allowed some crappy hospital food instead. Daddy ate equally crappy cafeteria fare, slept on cot at my feet and was the better of us at calming the baby in the early morning fussy hours of 2, 3 and 4 AM.

On day two I was up walking the halls. Or rather hobbling down just one short hall. It was required of my recovery.

Visitors came and went, like our moms, our Maddy, our friends. Expected people showed like the on call nurses, doctors, pediatricians, as well as random folks like the lady sent from the state of Arizona who went from room to room looking for crack head parents. Mostly faces that are a blur to me just three weeks later.

On the third day, about noon, I sat in a wheel chair holding a tiny Lily in her Pooh Bear outfit as we were wheeled out of the hospital and into rest of our lives together.

And I was so intensely grateful! If I hadn’t been stapled together in precarious places I might have gotten on my knees that morning and thanked the whole damn universe for this one beautiful baby. For the years of joy she’ll bring me, and every one else who’s lucky enough to ever know her.

The Last Day

Just a quick note because I have to go rest soon, must be up at 4 AM. I’m still a mixture of nerves, excitement and exhaustion. Woke up early this morning, realized it was the last morning I’m going be able to sleep in for at least two years, went straight back to bed and slept until noon.

Darling Hubby'O’Mine slept not at all. He instead heavily regressed into his childhood with his hobby of man dolls, all night long. I don’t know that he’ll be sleeping much tonight either. Mr. “Let’s not get your tubes tied, let’s keep our options open” is a nervous wreck over just the one baby. And I’d have sympathy for him if I wasn’t already 9 years pregnant and going under the knife in the morning.

The moms are here and in charge of the Boo Boo.
The Boo Boo kicked ass in the Nutcracker this afternoon.

Here’s to hoping all else goes well.

Two days to go....

This morning I woke up and wondered how Amy Poehler pulled off the "Artic Rap" while 10 months pregnant???



I am in awe of her.
I can't even breathe.

But I put up Christmas lights outside this morning, all by my not-so-little self. No ladder climbing involved. So I'm still good for something.

Two days to go and I'm hauling around a full sized newborn inside my body. Her activity has slowed somewhat, mainly because she’s running out of room in there. I'm guessing she's 8 lbs at least. I was telling a friend that I'm going to be really embarrassed if the baby is only 4 or 5 pounds. I am far too large to be carrying a preemie. If the baby turns out to be only 5 pounds it will mean the rest of me is pure ice cream!

Week 39: Tick Tock...(make it stop)

………..still pregnant.

And I came down with a cold around Thanksgiving. Because some cosmic force with a hell of a sense of humor thought “You know, a woman’s last week of her 9th month of pregnancy isn’t nearly tough enough. Let’s send her some germs.”

My doctor says not to worry (fat chance). I will be allowed breathe near and even hold my child. I’m not that bad off and should be even better come Monday morning.

Oh lord….Monday morning…..

So I’m not complaining. I’m just tired, grouchy, thirsty, hot, achy, stuffy, bloated and nervous. Or rather, in some kind of limbo between excited and nervous.

Baby Madelyn

See her perfectly round little head...



I've been watching home movies of her as an infant as well. Musing over the early days.

I was madly in love with this baby.

Well Wishers

7:00 AM, the sun is up and the house is quiet. Every one sleeps but me. It’s rare that I’m up before I have to be on any given weekend (and “have to be” is purely subjective) but I’m sleeping in four hour shifts now. The migraines have returned. My feet look like two large russet potatoes, the albino kind. My contractions (Braxton Hicks) aren’t so easily ignored these days and it’s altogether a restless time to be me.

Atop all of that there’s the slight sense of panic. I don’t feel that everything is in place and I’m heavily dependent on others for help in getting there. So the stillness of this morning is nice. It calms me.

It also gives me a moment to blog, which I’ve been not nearly as motivated to do any longer. Especially in light of the fact that not all the baby blog readers are family, friends and well wishers and I was unfortunately reminded of this recently. I know what you’re thinking. Who oh who in the great wide world would wish us ill? After all Baby Daddy and I are good people. Good people who have overcome a considerable amount of adversity in the last 5 years or so and have thus earned, and are absolutely entitled to, our happiness. Who would poo-poo that? Well I’ll tell ya’ who, BAD PEOPLE… of course. Har - har. Not many. Less than a handful. But enough to creep me out and inspire me to think of a different medium for relaying baby news once baby comes.

And the baby comes all right, 9 days from now. Though it seems like she wants to be here much sooner. As she gets bigger and stronger it feels like she is literally trying to kick down the front door. It’s just a waiting game now, with well wishers waiting for the phone call, and I’m just hoping that the baby indeed waits.
Just wait, little (or perhaps not-so-little) baby…..no surprises please!

A Baby Scottie

Until the other day I’d only ever seen photos of my husband from about age 2 or 3 on. Earlier in my pregnancy I’d asked my mom-in-law to send me a few pictures of him as a wee babe. There’s that whatever percent chance that my little oven roasted bun will look a great deal like him, so I was naturally curious. But mom-in-law was in the middle of a move at the time so I waited. And while I waited I made jokes about how they weren’t giving up the baby photos for a reason. They were hiding something, and I was onto them.

As it turned out his mom decided to give me all his baby pictures, just the other day. Alas Baby Daddy had an adorable baby face, once upon 36 years ago. Very cute. Cuter than I was as an infant I think. And as I sifted through these images, ooh-ing and awe-ing, he heard me say “Oh look at you, such a cutie” with the slightest note of relief in my voice.....and he caught on quick.

“Wait a minute!” He says, “You didn’t want these pictures to see how cute I was. You wanted these pictures to see if I was an ugly baby!”

Hahaha!
Ya' got me!

I like to call this one Old Man River Baby.



The best part is that he still looks exactly like this!
Save for a significant difference in height.

Stranger Danger

Every time I leave the house people react to my very obvious condition. I’ve finally gotten used to strangers smiling at me and I guess it’s sad that this should take getting used to. But some of these people really beam at me and it's startling.

Then there’s the others……with the comments. I wasn’t inside Home Depot but five minutes today before an older woman approached me, patted my arm in a gesture of sympathy, and said (in a half whisper) “You look miserable”. Then beamed her stranger smile at me, of course.

“Oh no! Um, I’m actually doing okay today,” I told her.

I know she was just commiserating. She truly didn’t mean any harm, but sheesh. I get these little comments everyday now. So, without further ado, let me introduce some rules in regards to approaching your local pregnant lady.


• Do NOT tell the pregnant lady she looks tired, miserable, or anything of the sort. Because all the pregnant lady hears is “You look like sh*t. Why are you even out in public?”
• Do not tell her how big she is. Chances are she’s well aware of her size. Her back reminds her, you need not.
• Do not ask if she’s carrying twins (especially if you know damn well that she isn't).
• Do not assume you’re a comic genius by asking if she’s carrying her HUSBAND in there!
• Do not ask if she’s delivering next week, the next day or in the next ten minutes.
• And when she politely answers your questions concerning when she is in fact due, do NOT shake your head and say “Oh, well, you’re not gonna make it”.

Touch my belly all you want!
Smile at me all you want!
But, for the love of God, please leave the subject of my fat ass alone.

They Say Timing is Everything

Look at how SMALL this diaper is!



You really have to see it live to get the full miniature effect. It’s a Pampers Swaddler designed for newborns up to 10 lbs. I’ve packed the diaper bag for the hospital with 2 or 3 of these little guys inside. It isn’t necessary, the hospital provides almost everything in the way of infant care, I just wanted to.

This afternoon I bought Lily’s going-home outfit. A soft off white Pooh Bear jacket with weetle matching pants and weetle matching shoesies. I want to sew weetle matching ears on the hood of the jacket because there is NOTHING cuter than a baby with (weetle bitty) bear ears.

Tee-hee!
Oh man, I want to have this baby already!
I am totally stupid about this baby!

Today I’m washing onsies, blankies, little hooded towels and booties in Dreft. For those not in-the-know Dreft is an infant specific detergent that smells like tiny puffs of angel babies sent from heaven. It's true.

I’ve set up the nursery (will post pictures soon), I’ve nested like crazy in-between periods of severe discomfort and 50 extra pounds of aches and pains and so…..I WANT TO HAVE THIS BABY ALREADY!

However, having this baby before the set scheduled c-section date puts a crimp in almost everyone’s plans. Baby Daddy is in the middle of instructing a class that does not graduate until Dec 4th. This means long days teaching and even longer nights grading papers. I’ve hardly seen him in the last two weeks. Doo Doo Monkey is in the local production of the Nutcracker Dec 5th and 7th. This means practice every day, a winter parade, and an urgent need for a mommy who is not bed ridden. And speaking of mommies, MY mommy flies in Dec 6th with the high hopes of being present for the birth.

But my mother-in-law flies in this weekend, which is such a relief. If I do indeed end up in the hospital with a newborn, before the scheduled date, at least she will be kind enough to stick around and take us home!

Week 36: GO TIME

This morning my doctor informed me that if I go into labor in the next four weeks they will not attempt to stop the labor, it’ll be go time. And I was being foolish to fret over hard labor, undue stress on my uterus is exactly what they’re trying to avoid. But the baby is considered full term now. I am 9 months pregnant now. I’m here. I made it. It’s the beginning of the end….of this.

This is also the part of the pregnancy where everything went to hell the last time. I never get heart burn but I have it now, since my stomach has been slowly shoved into my throat. And I wonder how long I’m going to be able to wear shoes. I get so warm now, especially when I try and sleep, that my cheeks are almost constantly sporting sand dollar sized circles of pink. I gained five pounds of water in one week and STILL have not crested the 200 mark, but fast approaching. There’s other less than lovely stuff, but you get the idea.

Yet today I’m feeling pretty good. When the nurse had me lie down this morning to check for the baby’s heart rate said baby kept kicking her little hand held machine. This tickled the nurse to no end. I made some comment about how active the baby is and she said “I know it’s uncomfortable for you but it’s a good thing for us. It’s the ones that just piddle around in there that we worry about”.

And lastly, the other day my friend says “Niki, I just don’t think it’s a girl. I have this nagging suspicion”. People have asked me if I have a feeling about the gender one way or the other. No. Not this time. I initially thought it was a boy but had a dream about a baby girl….and have since had a dream about a baby boy that looked Chinese. So, no. I haven’t a single inkling that I trust anylonger. With Maddy I knew. When the technician announced to the room of family and friends that the baby was female I punctuated that with “I already told you this”. But this baby? The lady performing this baby’s ultrasound was 99.9999999 % sure of the sex. In fact this technician had a “feeling” it was male as well, so she continued to check and check and check to make certain. “No, that’s a girl…wait…...oh yeah, that is definitely a girl”.

But some sneaky whisperer in the back of my mind has said “well what if it’s wee-wee is just really, really small and they couldn’t see it”. Hmmmmm, the super small wee-wee theory, food for thought. All I’m saying is that I haven’t opened any of the pink stuff.

Wanted: Sensory Deprivation Chamber

My relationship with sleep is becoming a strained one.
Let me tell the story of last night.

12 AM
Around midnight my eyelids were drooping. Already in bed, I turned off the television and rolled onto my left side. Sleeping on the left side of my body shifts my mammoth uterus off a major blood vessel, which helps with the swelling (that and I’ve always slept this way). Baby Daddy takes this as his cue to snuggle up and drape his arm around me. This is how we have slept since the beginning of us. And since the beginning of us it has been a contest to fall asleep before he starts all the god awful snoring. The minute his arm comes over me I hear the crack of the gun in my head, the race is on. I know I have mere seconds to fall asleep before he starts in. I rarely win this race.

I’m not always sensitive to his sawing of logs but I’m reactive in general lately so…… I spend the hour between 12 AM and 1 AM fighting the Great Big Snorehead. “Hey, you’re snoring” and “Stop snoring!” and “No snoreheads allowed!” and “Dude… seriously?” all to no avail. Holding his nose until he gasps for breath via his mouth, no good. Putting pillows over my head, putting pillows over his head, kicking shins and throwing elbows, nothing. Finally I roll him over on his right side, damn near rolling him off the bed itself, and then…. eventually……I fall asleep.

2 AM
I hear a noise in the kitchen. I’ve been asleep for an hour. I don’t know how or why I heard the noise but I literally shoot out of bed and storm into the kitchen shouting “Hello!?”…. only to find a startled little Night Walker (formerly known as Boo Boo, formerly known as Doo Doo Monkey) staring at me wide eyed, and she says “I was…I was just thirsty Mama”.

Now I am WIDE awake. I go back to bed with Snorehead (formerly known as Baby Daddy, formerly known as Loving Husband) and try to fall back to sleep, only to realize I have to pee. Of course. The first pee of the wee hours. The first pee of many, many a pee.

2:30 AM
I’m still awake, bladder empty, belly huge, when Night Walker suddenly appears at my bedside complaining of “weird noises” in her room. Any other night I might have investigated, put her at ease and tucked her back in but tonight I just threw back the covers and said “Get in”.

3 AM
THEY ARE BURNING ME ALIVE!
I’m cooking in their body heat, being sandwiched between the Snorehead and the Night Walker. One of them has to go. Snorehead will be getting up shortly to go to work, and is not afraid of weird noises. In fact he cannot possibly hear weird noises, or ANY noises, over his own noise so….. I shake him awake and very sweetly request that he move to the spare bedroom. He does so, groggily and graciously. I roll into the warmth of the space he left while Night Walker sleeps at arms length from me.

4 AM
Night Walker is all up in my grill! Over the course of an hour Night Walker has inched all the way over to my side of the bed, flung her leg over me, attached her hands like suction cups to me, and gluing the baby fat of her cheek to mine. It’s so warm inside her grip I’m convinced I will catch on fire. I spend the next hour pushing her back over to her side of the bed only to fight her off again every five minutes.

AND…. I have to pee.

5 AM
Snorehead no longer snores. He’s coughing instead. He’s awake in a bathroom somewhere in the house and I hear his incessant morning coughing. It sounds like an old man dying. I can’t remember, at that early hour, if it’s due to his medication and I should feel sorry for him or if he’s doing it on purpose just to make me crazy. I think it’s the latter.

6 AM
Would not at all object to a catheter.

6:30 AM
Somehow, someway, found me some sleepy town.

7:30 AM
RISE AND SHINE!
Snorehead has made me coffee and kissed me goodbye already. Night Walker wakes bright eyed and all sorts of 6 year old busy. I play games with the snooze button until at least 8 AM, deluding myself that this means I’m somehow getting more sleep. Except that I can't EVER go back to sleep since I ALWAYS have to PEE.


Surely this is how God prepares one for 3 AM feedings.

Voting & Nap Time

We voted! Baby and I, that is.
Whoo-hoo!

A little boy at the polling place points to me and hollers to his dad: “Woh! She has a REALLY BIG BELLY!”
(Boo-hoo)

And now....we nap.
We really enjoy the naps lately.

The Boob Thing

Boo Boo had a first grade project in where she was asked, amongst other questions, to list 3 facts about herself. She chose that she was born in Seattle, WA, that her birthday is on Christmas Eve and after that she was stuck for a third fascinating factoid. I suggested that she add how she was going to be a big sister, and she shook her head no.

“The other kids will just talk about the boob thing.”

“The WHAT?” I said

“The boob thing…..you know….they always talk about the boob thing. It’s gross.”

She was horrified to learn recently that she had been breastfed. She calls it “the boob thing” with her eyes averted and her arms crossed.

I almost opted out of doing “the boob thing” this time though. For purely selfish reasons, I’m worried about the longevity of my ta-ta’s. You see God preformed a small miracle for me the last time I breastfed. Usually a year of "the boob thing" will effectively wipe out your hooties. I remember when my breasts were engorged in those first weeks after delivery and I looked down to see that one boob was the size of my head. Each pore so stretched and enlarged that it looked like the surface of an orange peel, and I thought “Oh no, they’ll never be the same……” And they were never the same....they were BETTER!

I don’t know how that happened. After weaning they dried up to look like a couple of fried eggs. We’re talking National Geographic and I was devastated! But then, within six months time, they literally bounced back and were better than before. I couldn’t have wanted for better looking hooties. Some one had sprinkled the magic booby dust on them. A for real deal modern day miracle.

All that said, it would be completely self-serving of me to deny this next baby the countless and undeniable benefits of breast milk just because I want to keep a hot looking rack……but you best believe I considered it.

And I’d like to go on record and address those who cringe a little at “the boob thing”. Certainly no other experience in my life has quite so reminded me that I am a mammal, but it is indeed a sweet and natural thing. It is not sexual or pleasurable in anyway, whatsoever (it actually hurts like a son of a bitch) and I don’t have enough time or energy to list the immeasurable benefits of breastfeeding here, so just quit being weird about it. I don’t advocate mom’s whipping out the teet in crowded restaurants but other than that….. let’s give “the boob thing” a break already.

The boob thing is a GOOD thing! But good luck trying to tell Boo Boo that.

OH, as for her third fact? She wrote "I have the best mom".
(And I have the best kiddo!)

Busy Baby Bee

My baby widget (the spinny baby graphic to your right) is upside down. How appropriate since I think the real baby has flipped as well. I felt her hiccups in the lower half of my abdomen yesterday and it now feels like I’m being punched in the bladder, rather than kicked. You’d think the punching would be better than the kicking but you would be wrong.

It’s recommended that I keep track of fetal movements at this stage. 10 movements in and hour is a good sign that all is well in there. My baby moves 10 times in 10 minutes. Not every single hour but ….this baby is very busy!

I try to imagine how she must be keeping herself entertained. All the super important things she has to do in there. Tying the umbilical cord in knots, then untying them. Random spells of River Dancing. Searching for new places that she has yet to push, kick or sock me in. Scratching off the days on the uterine wall.

She likes to get up to all this ruckus most rigorously between 12 AM and 3 AM so I’m anticipating a lot of late nights with the newest little pumpkin face. And oh, I can’t wait to see that face!

One Baby Shower in Pink

Do you measure the success of your baby shower in the amount of goods you rake in, the amount of guests that attend or the amount of compliments you receive? Because I wasn’t looking for tons of gifts, I don’t have many girlfriends down here and I sure wasn’t expecting to be showered with praise but as we sat around Annixa’s kitchen table nibbling on red velvet cake (courtesy of the lovely Miss Lauren) these ladies dubbed me radiant and debated over which movie star I looked like.

Those are some good friends!

Special thanks belong to Miss Annixa (who doesn’t even read this) for being yesterday’s hostess and being such a great friend to me during the last leg of my pregnancy. Such a great friend that I have gone so far as to forgive her for drinking the Kool-Aid and becoming a Fox News fed Republican. She’s that great a friend, ha-ha! Truly she is, and she made sure the whole affair was superb.

My favorite photo came late in the afternoon when Baby Daddy crashed the shower and posed with me. One shower reveler, who’d never met him before, watched us banter for awhile and beam at each other and told me privately what a beautiful thing we have, B.D. and I.



I couldn’t agree more.