I Am Pregnant Housewife

Belly Shot -- 29 Weeks

2010-12-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

Okay, my sweet Michigan friend, here's the belly shot you requested:

I'm not a big fan of "the belly shot" since I'm too vain to want to make record of a rapid and steady weight gain, but I can't say no to my friend! Sorry for the lousy picture quality--I wasn't about to setup a tripod and a high-def camera!

101 Days Later...

2010-12-02T18:34:00.000-08:00

I am now 202 days pregnant with 78 days to go. It's hard to believe that in 2.5 months Little Femme will be joining our family. So much has happened since I last wrote, yet so much has remained the same.

I continue to think about Little Husband and how he will feel when a new sibling appears and competes for my attention. Little Husband is a very independent little kid, but I suspect that his limits will be pushed once he gets wind of the change in our household. My newest concern is that I will miss him terribly while I am in the hospital. I think I'm more attached to him than he is to me. He's my little sidekick, after all. I feel incomplete without him.

On that note, today while picking him up from preschool a thought occurred to me: having a child affords you the ability to experience that fluttery, in-love feeling. If you've ever fallen in love, you know what I'm talking about. Your stomach has butterflies, your heart races and you have a wonderful feeling of euphoria. This is how I feel every day when I look at Little Husband.

This is not to say he is perfect; he is two, after all. He throws his share of tantrums and tests my patience hourly, but somehow we both manage to get through it and come out the other end with plenty of hugs and kisses for each other.

My apprehension about adding a fourth member to our fledgling family is fading. This is entirely due to Husband who always puts his family first. So many times throughout the day we find ourselves talking about our favorite subject, Little Husband, and somehow it never gets old. Husband is my biggest champion and somehow he manages to make me feel attractive in the midst of my ever-expanding waistline. In the dark of the night he reaches out and holds my hand as we drift off to sleep. He is my very best friend and I can't imagine going through this with anyone else. He is a wonderful father and there's no trait more attractive in my book. I thank God for him every day.

101

2010-08-23T15:55:00.000-07:00

101 is the temperature outside. 101 also happens to be number of days that I am pregnant. Our Brookstone Wireless Weather Forecaster tells me that it "feels like 106 degrees". I wouldn't know; I've been staying indoors.

Unlike my last pregnancy, I don't find myself consumed by thoughts of this baby. In fact, much of the time I completely forget that I am pregnant. I'm not really showing (although in my honest opinion I think I look like I'm getting a beer belly) (husband disagrees but that's because he's sweet). If I lay down I don't look pregnant at all which, in my opinion, is a pretty good argument for laying around the house all day (husband also disagrees). I'm in the second trimester so I no longer have that pesky nausea that plagued me during weeks 8 and 10. I still have my maternity clothes from last time so I'm not worried about finding things that fit. In truth, most of my thought process surrounds Little Husband. I know this will change when baby #2 arrives, but still it's a little disconcerting.

Of all the weird things to worry about, I worry that I won't love baby #2 as much as I love Little Husband. Why is that? Do I not think I'll have enough love to go around? One of my more experienced friends told me to think of it this way: my love won't be divided, rather, it will multiply. That gave me some measure of comfort.

Still, just the thought of giving birth and spending a few days and nights away from Little Husband makes me sad. I've spent a few days away from him before and it was no big deal for either party, but for some reason this seems different. I will greatly miss reading him bedtime stories and tucking him in at night. As odd as it is to say, I feel like I'll be cheating on him. I know this will all iron itself out in time, but for now this is honestly how I feel. Perhaps I can read his bedtime stories to him over Skype. Not to boast, but no one reads "Barnyard Dance" like me, in fact, if you can't give me a "barnyard beat", you're not a contender. You should hear my "cock-a-doodle-doo" when I read, "Mr Brown Can Moo--Can You?". No wonder Little Husband doesn't know what an inside voice is!

For the record, I think I'm having a girl. We've already had a few sonograms and each time I beg the sonographer to see if she can determine the sex but the baby is just too small. Our next appointment is 10 days away at which time I will be almost 16 weeks pregnant. I am hoping at that time that we'll know what we're having. In truth, I hope it's another boy. Nothing would make me happier than having two little wild Indians running around the house. Naturally a girl would be wonderful too. Above all, I just pray that this baby is healthy.

The Blame Game

2010-06-25T11:43:00.000-07:00

One of the most important pieces of baby gear that one should own--in my opinion--is a baby video monitor. We didn't buy one until Little Husband was around five months of age and I could have kicked myself for not getting one sooner. Not only does it give you incredible peace-of-mind as a new parent, it also serves as a great tool for sleep training. Thanks to the video, I knew exactly when I needed to go in and intervene while LH tried to fall asleep. I also knew when to leave him be and let him fall asleep on his own.

The video monitor also clued us in to the idiosyncrasies that befell our little man. If he's thrown all of his toys/blankets/pillow out of the crib, we knew that he had pooped his diaper. If he was standing and bellowing at his bedroom door, we knew that we were being too loud in the kitchen. We quickly learned that if he cried out in the middle of the night, it was because he was searching for his beloved "Blankie" in the dark. Once the object of his affection was found, he would contentedly drift off to sleep. Most important: if Blankie somehow fell out of the crib, we always knew to go into Little Husband's room and retrieve it for him.

Side bar: LH is not stupid. Once he realized the cause-and-effect of this action, he began "dropping" Blankie on the floor all the time. We're not stupid either: we quit going in to retrieve Blankie for him, and after a few Blankie-less nights, he quick accidentally-on-purpose dropping it.

My point of all this is to say that I love our video monitor. I cannot live without it. I think that most people don't buy one because of their sky-high price (quality ones go for upwards of $180). Considering what people spend on baby clothing that they only get a few months' worth of use out of, the video monitor is a bargain since you can use it for years.

One night, while helping me clean up after dining on our front deck, Husband, in all his masculine efficiency, decided to bring in the video monitor while simultaneously carrying a large pile of dishes. I looked over to see him pinching the video monitor between his thumb and index finger in such a way that his thumb was pressed firmly against the video screen. I didn't think anything of it until I picked up the monitor later and saw a thumb-shaped white spot on the video screen.

"What the...", I asked myself, "What's this?" I tuned to husband and showed him the monitor's screen.

"Huh---I wonder what that is?" he replied.

"I think it's a thumb print. In fact, I think it's your thumb print!"

As if to prove it, I took husband's thumb and put it up against the spot. "Yup--definitely your thumb print. I think you burned out the screen when you were carrying the monitor earlier!"

What Husband didn't know is that I covertly held my thumb up against the white spot as well, to see if it could be mine. It could have, but since I'd caught Husband in the act of carrying the monitor in such a way that could cause the burnout, I decided to let the blame reside with him. He accepted it, no questions asked.

I did a little research in the ensuing weeks and learned that you cannot buy a replacement monitor. You can buy a replacement camera, but not a replacement monitor. If we wanted another one, we'd have to fork over another $200.

It really wasn't a big deal except that sometimes we couldn't see what Little Husband was doing in his crib because the burnout spot was in the way. Then one day the spot got a little bigger.

"Husband! You've got to stop carrying the monitor with your thumb over the video screen! Look at this---the burnout spot is spreading and I know it's not me doing it!" I told Husband one evening.

He looked at the monitor in dismay. "I swear I'm not doing it," he said, "perhaps it's the baby sitter."

I wasn't convinced, but I had to admit that it was a possibility. I blew on the monitor and rubbed my fingers lightly over the burnout spot but that seemed to make no difference.

Last week we went to the beach and brought the video monitor with us. A few days into our trip we noticed that the burnout spot was gone! "Holy cow!" I exclaimed! "How on earth did it fix itself?"

Husband and I then commenced devising elaborate, scientific reasons why the monitor repaired itself.

"It's got to be the humidity!" I declared. "It somehow caused the video screen to expand thus peeling the layers apart and correcting the problem!"

"Perhaps it's the salt in the air. Salt is a great electrical conductor and once it corroded the internal components it actually served to increased the charge of the current thus fixing the screen!" was Husband's theory.

We didn't spend much more time thinking about it, we were just glad that it was fixed.

A week went by and our vacation ended and we made our way home. Husband dutifully hung the video camera in its place over the curtains in LH's nursery and aimed it at the crib. That night we resumed our ritual of turning on the monitor after putting him to bed.

"Oh holy crap," I said "Look at that--the screen is burned out again!"

Husband grabbed the monitor and peered at it. "How could that be?" he asked.

"I have no idea! You must have pressed the screen with your thumb again!" I blamed.

"No, I definitely did not--wait a minute! I know what that white spot is. That's the curtain rod!" Husband said. "It's slightly in the way of the camera lens, and it's so close that it appears as a white spot on the screen. That's what's been wrong all this time!"

"What? Wait a minute---!" I grabbed the monitor and peered at it closely, Then I held it out and looked at it from a distance. Then I peered at it again closely. "Holy crap, you're right!" I told Husband. Then I collapsed in a chair and laughed until I couldn't breathe.

"All these months you had me convinced that I'd broken the video monitor!" he said, which only caused me to laugh harder.

Net result? Unless he is absolutely positively caught in the act, it will be approximately 10 years before I get to blame Husband for anything ever again.

Of course, there's always Little Husband...

A Lesson in Not Giving Up

2010-05-14T10:15:00.000-07:00

Back in my telecom days, I used to pass a billboard every morning on my way to work. On it was a picture of Abraham Lincoln with the words, "Failed, Failed, Failed, Succeeded". Then there is the famous sentence incorrectly attributed to Winston Churchill that goes something along the lines of, "Never, ever, ever give up." These phrases used to play over and over in my head in the wee hours of the morning as I--armed only with my laptop, a floral screwdriver and the will to beat a machine that is smarter than I will ever be--battled broken VoIP communication systems.

Many times--particularly as the hour neared 3 am--I thought about giving up, however, I couldn't because I had a boss who believed that he could fix anything (and he could). I never saw that man quit or admit defeat over anything. He would calmly attack the problem from all angles until he found a solution. It was his influence that struck the words "I can't" from my vocabulary.

Somewhere along the lines I forgot that lesson. Last night I learned it all over again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Helicopter Butt got away!"

Languishing in a warm tub after a busy day, I opened one eye to see Husband standing in front of me, out of breath. He was holding up a leash that was attached to a dog collar that was decidedly not attached to a dog.

"He saw a deer and somehow managed to wriggle out of his collar. He ran off into the neighbor's yard."

This was not good news. Our neighborhood was built in the 60's and 70's when yards were quite large and full of trees. Helicopter Butt would be hard to find.

"Don't worry," I reassured Husband, "We don't call him 'Boomerang Dog' for nothing. He'll come back--he always does."

Unconvinced, Husband grabbed his keys. "I'm going to go drive around and look for him."

Sighing, I extracted myself from the tub, dried off and got dressed. Figuring that we'd find HB in no time, I put on a tank top, yoga pants and my fuzzy, white slippers. I then proceeded to post myself in the front yard and call Helicopter Butt's name.

After a quick drive around the neighborhood Husband returned home and suggested that I drive around since HB is more likely to respond to me when called. By this time it was 11:40 pm. I drove for 20 minutes up and down the same streets calling his name. I offered treats and the opportunity for a walk, but nothing I said flushed HB from his hiding place. Exhausted, I resigned myself to the fact that the chances of Helicopter Butt returning home on his own were higher than us finding him at midnight in our heavily-wooded neighborhood. I decided that I would put his dog bed and water bowl under the portico and hope that he returned at some point in the night.

Since he had slipped out of his collar, he did not have his dog tags. He is, however, micro-chipped so that gave me some degree of comfort. I mentally began drafting the "Lost Dog" posters I was going to put up around the neighborhood before going to bed that night. Not that I was going to get any sleep.

As I was pulling up to our house, Husband flagged me down. "I can hear him! He's somewhere in the woods in one of our neighbor's yards and he's whimpering."

This was not good. HB whimpers for one of two reasons: he's either hurt or he's cornered a rodent. I turned off the car and listened. Finally, finally I heard him whimper again, briefly.

Running up a winding driveway into pitch blackness, I called HB's name as I shone my flashlight all around the woods. I prayed that whomever's yard I was in would not come running out with a shotgun. None of the yards were fenced, rather, they--being built into the side of a very steep hill--were separated by retaining walls.

Once again I stood still and listened. Finally Helicopter Butt whimpered again, and I realized that he was close by. Spotting a brief movement out of the corner of my eye, I shone my flashlight over into the neighboring yard and spotted just the top of his head peaking out of what appeared to be a hole. I somehow--fuzzy slippers and all--managed to scale a chest-high retaining wall and what I saw took my breath away: Helicopter Butt--my sweet, beloved, precious little dog--was drowning in a neighbor's pool.

I don't remember running over and pulling him out of the pool, but I must have because the next thing I know I was putting his collar back on him and rushing him home. Husband met me at the end of the driveway.

"You saved his life!" I told him, "If you hadn't heard him whimpering, we never would have been able to find him and he would have drown! He was barely able to keep his head above water when I found him and probably had been dog-paddling for the entire 30 minutes that we were out looking for him. That's why he was whimpering intermittently; he could only whimper when his head was far enough out of the water to do so!"

Back home we swaddled HB in dry towels and hugged his shaking body. We marveled over and over about how lucky we were. I thanked Husband repeatedly for saving HB's life. Then we tucked all our dogs into bed and went to sleep.

This morning, over coffee, I mused about what happened last night. How I almost gave up on looking for HB. How fortunate we were that Husband hadn't given up before he heard the whimpering. And how Helicopter Butt never gave up, not once, while waiting for us to rescue him from that pool. The alternate ending--the one that had me passively placing his dog bed in the portico while waiting for him to come home--is unthinkable.

Never, ever, ever give up.

When Being "That Parent" Pays Off

2010-04-05T12:25:00.000-07:00

Remember this blog post from years past? Well, being the shining example of a mother-with-her-act-together, I have yet to continue my search for a preschool for Little Husband. Once upon a time I was proactive enough to get my fetus’ name on a preschool waiting list. Now my toddler is at the age where if I don’t get his name on the waiting list, I’m going to miss out on all the best preschools. I used to think that this sort of mentality was crazy, but now I get it. It’s not about the Ivy League or social standing or your child’s ability to read Moby Dick at age three; it’s about wanting your child to be immersed in an environment where the caretakers truly care about him. It’s those schools that seem to have the longest waiting lists, and the sooner you get your child’s name on that list, the more likely they are to get in.

This brings me to last week when I finally made a call to a highly regarded preschool that is just mere miles from my house. The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Hi. I'd like to speak with Mrs. X about touring your preschool."

Snotty Secretary: (sounding put out) "Uh Miss? You REALLY need to make that appointment with Mrs. Y."

Me: "Oh, I'm sorry, your website said to make the appointment with Mrs. X, but if it's Mrs. Y I need, then that's fine too."

Snotty Secretary: (sounding completely put out). "That's okay. Let me see when we can get you in...we're very busy and it won't be for quite a while."

Me: "Okay..."

(I hear papers shuffling in the background)

Snotty Secretary: "Mrs. Y can see you tomorrow morning at 9:30."

I arrive at the school and am immediately struck by the fact that I can walk right into the building. I wander the halls in my search for the school office, and no one stops me to ask me what I’m doing. This is disconcerting on many levels, one of them being that my son loves nothing more than to high-tail it out of an unlocked exit. In fact, as I’m typing this he’s opening a back door to the pool area (shudder!). Thankfully we have a child safety gate erected around the pool.

I make my way over to a friendly looking teacher and ask for directions to the office. I notice her glance up at my hair but her expression remains unchanged as she tells me where I need to go. Once in the office I find myself face-to-face with Snotty Secretary and she is everything I thought she would be: 50-something, dowdy, overweight. It was clear that she held some sort of power in that school and it was clear that her modicum of power had gone to her head. She glanced up at my hair as she asked if she could help me.

“Yes, I’m Femme and—“

“You have a 9:30 appointment with Mrs. Y,” she interrupted briskly. It was clear that she was very proud of her efficiency, not matter how rude it made her. “She’s right in there.” She pointed to a nearby office.

I walked into the office and was greeted by Mrs. Y, who was very friendly and professional. I felt myself begin to relax.

“Let me tell you a little about our school and then we can go on the tour,” she began as she glanced up at my hair. I had a fleeting thought: Why was everybody glancing up in my hair?

Mrs. Y continued speaking and I became absorbed in the conversation. At one point I ran my fingers through my hair only to find a rather large object stuck to my bangs. My hand came away holding a leaf. A big, ratty, dried-up oak leaf!

Mrs. Y never missed a beat as I held the leaf up to the light and stared at it in amazement. Realizing that I’d been walking around the school with this fetching “leaf-hat”, I let out a rueful laugh and asked, “Has this been in my hair all along?” Mrs. Y ignored the question and continued talking about the school. No longer possessing the ability to concentrate on the conversation at hand, I again interrupted to discuss the leaf.

“How on earth did you concentrate on our conversation while staring at this big leaf in my hair?!?” I asked, laughing and shaking the leaf in the air to emphasize my point.

Ever the professional, Mrs. Y again pretended like we weren’t having this separate conversation and continued talking about the preschool. For some reason this annoyed me, and I can’t articulate why. Perhaps it was because there was an opportunity to switch off formalities and actually bond with each other and she didn’t take it. I mulled it over as we walked around the school and finally it struck me: for all of its merits (and there were many), this school had no heart. I want my son to go to a school where people can let go of pretenses, relax and just be themselves. Where teachers are light-hearted and generously dole out smiles and hugs. I want to visit the school and feel like I’m genuinely welcome there. Little Husband’s got plenty of time in his adult life to be exposed to corporate drones, he doesn’t need it at age three.

I left the school with an application in my hand and a heavy heart. Mrs. Y all but guaranteed that if I got Little Husband on the waiting list soon he would be admitted. Knowing that time was of the essence, I continued to drag my feet about returning the application.

Then today happened.

Today I received a call from The School, the one I applied to when Little Husband wan in utero. The caller, Christy, was happy and chirpy as she informed me that they have a spot for Little Husband this fall. My baby—who won’t even be two years old—starts preschool in the fall. I feel like I’ve won the lottery.

I toured the school last January with my mother-in-law and it was so wonderful that I actually became a little emotional when we left. Just like I knew when I first laid eyes on Husband that he was the one for me, I knew this school would be a good thing for Little Husband. I feel ridiculously grateful that he was granted admission--I can’t imagine how I’m going to be when college rolls around!

Small, World, Small People, Big Aspirations

2010-02-22T07:59:00.001-08:00

It's been a long while since my last post where I reported on Little Husband falling off the couch. While we've had many, MANY bumps and bruises since then, none have been quite as scary. It was all in the way that he was crying that day...it was just...eerie.

Moving on, he is walking about 95% of the time and currently sports at least nine bruises (total) on his shins, a permanent knot in the middle of his forehead and traces of a black eye. Needless to say, I am afraid to take him out in public for fear that someone will report me to Child Protective Services.

It's not my fault. No matter what I do, where I stand, or how many precautions I take, the kid finds a way to get hurt. The other day I was standing in the kitchen cooking and he was tumbling around at my feet, playing in the kitchen cabinets and drawers. (Side note: We have 31 kitchen drawers, so needless to say we do not put locks on all of them. We only lock those that contain something dangerous.) Anyway, I glance down at LH just in time to see him open a drawer, slip and bump his head on the corner of it, then ping-pong into another open drawer and bump his head on the corner of that one. Of course there was much wailing and shed tears for the next few minutes. Oh, and two more bruises on his face.

I was taking a video of him that same day and accidentally captured this (the latest bruise occurs at the end of the video):

I'm glad I have it because if anyone calls the authorities on me, I now have proof that we do *not* beat him.

A few days ago Husband had the ladder out because he was trying to get LH's Valentine's Day balloon down from the ceiling in our living room. Literally two seconds after Husband retrieved the balloon and climbed down from the ladder we turned to see this:

I know, I know--why am I stopping to take a picture of my 15-month-old son on a ladder rather than running over to rescue him? The truth is, as soon as we saw what Little Husband was up to Husband raced over to grab him. I edited him out of the picture, but he is right behind LH.

In other news, I was at Gymboree with LH the other day and started chatting with a mother I'd never seen there before. As always, we traded info on our babies ages and discovered that our kids were born on the same day and in the same hospital. Further conversation revealed that she was in the delivery room right next to mine. I remember her clearly because we had the same nurse. I remember not seeing my nurse for four hours because, as it turned out, she was attending to this woman's emergency c-section. I've always worried about her in the back of my mind and am so glad to know that she and her baby did just fine.

Finally, yesterday Husband and I decided to go check out open houses. We both love real estate and enjoy seeing remodels, infills and new homes. When we attend open houses we try not to engage the attending realtor as we do not want to get their hopes up or waste their time. We visited one such home yesterday with a realtor whose eyes lit up when she saw us walk in. I guess we met the profile of a potential buyer for that home. She chatted us up while and we did nothing to squelch her perception that we were in the market for a new home. She watched as we looked around the main level and apparently watched us out the window while we looked around the yard. I know this because she said, "did you figure out a way to fence in the grass?" which is exactly what we were doing when we were out there.

The reason we went to see this particular house was because we looked at it one year ago when we were serious buyers and were surprised to see that it is still on the market--it was a very cute house! We went there to analyze it and figure out why. Yes, we have no life.

Anyway, as we were leaving the realtor asked us to sign her guest book. Damn--I hate giving information about myself when I'm fake-shopping for a house. I looked at Husband but he was holding Little Husband so he got a pass. It was up to me to sign the blasted guest book. I walked over and---just as I wrote in a fake name--the realtor declared to Husband, "I know where I know you! You're (insert husband's full name here) and served on the board of such-and-such charity!" "That's right!" smiled Husband, his halo glowing. Damn again. What to do? It wasn't like I could exactly scratch out my fake name and write in my real one, so I decided to run with it and write in a fake address as well. Just as I commenced doing so, I heard Husband tell the realtor the name of the street that we live on. Great. Now she's going to thing that my saint of a husband is married to a fake and a liar. Wanting nothing more than to just get out of there, I decided to go for broke and--once I finished with the guest book--interrupted the conversation with an abrupt, "Okay, let's go." Startled, Husband said his goodbyes and followed me out the door.

I truly didn't mean to be rude, I just wanted to get out of there before she uncovered any more of my wicked lies.

2009-11-03T12:41:00.001-08:00

Today the inevitable happened: Little Husband rolled off the couch and fell on his head (don't worry, he's okay).

It was only a matter of time. That kid was a whirling dervish from 20 weeks gestation. He *never* sits still. The only time he lets me hold him close to me is if he is in my lap and we're reading a book. He won't take naps with me, he won't cuddle and prolonged hugs are out of the question. Yesterday he was trying to dive off the side of the couch and the only thing preventing him from doing so was the vise-like grip I had on his ankle.

He needs to be more like his father. His father cuddles with and hugs me all the time. Sometimes while mid-embrace I'll look over to see Little Husband watching us, as if he's greatly comforted by our display of affection. The other day while Husband was hugging me I felt a tug on my pants leg. I looked down to see Little Husband looking up at us with his arms out, asking to be held. I picked him up and put him in between me and Husband and we hugged him with everything we had, but he quickly wanted no part of the group loving. That's just how he rolls.

Which brings me to him rolling off the couch. He was drinking a bottle and I, as usual, was sitting next to him with one hand wrapped around his ankle for safety. For one split second I let go to stretch, turning toward him as I did so (if I couldn't keep a hand on him, I would keep an eye on him). To my horror, he was no longer on the couch. I literally saw him dropping down and then heard the sickening thud as the back of his head connected with the wood floor. It was all in slow motion which is such a weird phenomenon. I mean, how on earth is the brain capable of slowing down events in that manner?

I swooped down and picked him up. He was silent for a moment as he digested what had just happened. I waited for the blood curdling scream that I knew was coming but what I got instead was much worse. He let out a high-pitched muted wail, a keening, and kept it up for several minutes as I held him to me, helpless. Husband grabbed a flashlight and we shone it in his eyes to make sure the pupils were dilating (they were). Then Little Husband did something that he's never done his entire life: he laid his head down on my breast and let me hold him to me. We stayed that way for thirty minutes as Husband continued to check his pupils and responses to various stimuli. When he smiled, we knew he was feeling better. When our handyman walked in the door and Little Husband emitted a banshee cry as a way of greeting him, we knew he was going to be okay.

I would never forgive myself if something happened to my little Wild Indian, especially on my watch. After all, it's my job to protect him and he trusts me 100% to do so. Consequently, I've had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach all day. This is the exact same feeling I had when we first found out about his heart condition. Fragile. Breakable. That's how I feel. I guess the feeling is the same because today--like back then--I was reminded just how quickly I could lose my little man.

And that's not an option.

Cranradish-Salsa Jelly

2009-10-27T10:30:00.000-07:00

In keeping with my Mother of the Year status, today, while making Little Husband a jelly sandwich, I first grabbed this:

Then, shaking my head at my absentmindedness, I grabbed this:

I meant to grab this:

Why is "clear jar with a white label and metallic green lid" so popular right now? Seriously, if I'd accidentally fed him either of the first two I'd have one helluva diaper to change later!

Is that rocket fuel you're rubbing into my feet?

2009-10-26T08:00:00.001-07:00

For those of you not familiar with Groupon, it's a site that offers a daily discounted deals from local businesses. For instance, a local restaurant may offer the chance to purchase a $50 gift certificate for only $25. The buyer has a certain amount of time (usually a few months) to use the certificate. The idea is brilliant and the savings are awesome. Businesses are attracted to Groupon because of the instant, high-volume sales it generates. That and the fact that it's excellent marketing for the business.

I get a daily email from Groupon that details the deal offered that day. Here was today's deal:

"The hands are the astronauts of the body-the first explorers to make contact with any matter in your orbit-and the feet are the blazing rockets that propel you into space. Take care of your trustworthy space objects with today's Groupon to Polish Nail Spa: $40 for an essential mani and ultimate pedi (a $73 value)."

Are they kidding?!? Isn’t a spa supposed to be relaxing? There’s something about being rocket-propelled around space (by my feet, no less) that sounds pretty stressful. No thanks, Groupon!

Still Got It

2009-10-19T13:54:00.000-07:00

Last night while Husband was hard at work in our office, I wrapped a white dinner napkin over my head, snuck out to the pool area through the master bedroom French doors, worked my way over to the office and--while hunched over and screaming--rapped on one of the office French doors. I like to think that my appearance and expression resembled a mix between the witch in Snow White and that guy in The Scream painting. Husband casually looked in the direction of my knocking, then, upon seeing me, his eyes widened and he joined me in screaming.

Oh yes, I'm back.

Finish this blog post

2009-09-22T14:10:00.000-07:00

"Last night our new bed shook like the world was coming to an end. It wasn't."

I was looking through old blog post drafts and stumbled upon the one in quotes above. It was written just two months into my pregnancy. There is no title and is comprised of just those two sentences. I have no idea what the rest of the story was, but my imagination is running into overdrive. Knowing my rules for blogging, I am pretty sure that this story did not have a lascivious nature, but I dunno...

Losing It

2009-09-17T13:17:00.001-07:00

I accidentally wore these to the dog park today:

Seriously, I'm losing it. I'm just glad I remembered to wear pants. I was walking along when I realized that my feet were getting hot. "That doesn't make any sense," I told myself, "Why are my feet hot?" Then I looked down.

They're hot because they're encased in big, white fuzzy slippers!

More Like a "Last" than a "First" (also known as the "Goodbye Cheeseburgers" post)

2009-09-09T06:41:00.000-07:00

It was inevitable. It had to happen. Much to my despair, nursing Little Husband is nearing an end.

I remember in the beginning how I had *such* a hard time getting The Mighty Stubborn One to accept this medium of food intake, i.e., he didn't want to latch on. "Don't give up for seven weeks," a wise mother-friend told me, "it will get better." I didn't and it did. That was some of the best advice I received to date.

It's hard to describe the feeling that washes over you when nursing your baby. Words like "tender" and "magical" come to mind. There's a closeness there that is indescribable and a certain feeling of pride as you watch your baby grow and know that it's a direct result of the nourishment that your body is producing. It doesn't hurt that nursing allows you to spend thirty unfettered minutes snuggling with your baby and inhaling his sweet baby scent. It's such a precious, private moment.

I'll miss cradling him in my arms as I absorb his warmth and plant kisses on the top of his sweet, downy-soft head. I'll miss his plaintive cries as he calls out to let me know that he's hungry and then latches on, sobbing, as if he hasn't been fed in days (Husband and I were always charmed by this bit of drama). I'll miss laughing during the later months as he would break his latch at the slightest sound, as if even the noise of a passing car warranted his attention. Most of all, I'll miss those groggy early mornings when I would tuck Little Husband into bed with with me and nurse him until we both snuggled into a comfortable sleep. These days, I can't get The Whirling Dervish to take a nap with me for anything.

Alas, though, nursing isn't supposed to last forever. Little Husband's regular food intake has increased and my milk supply has decreased and the only way I can get him to nurse is if he's starving. This limits us to early morning nursing sessions.

While I'm glad that I was able to stretch it out this long, I do wish that I could nurse LH through cold & flu season since the anti-bodies that I pass to him seem to do wonders in staving off illness. Although he's "fully repaired", I somehow still have the mindset that I am protecting a frail infant with a heart condition and I want to do everything in my power to make sure that I send him out into the world with as much protection as possible. I guess this is the first step in cutting the apron strings, right?

Try as I might, I don't see much benefit to losing my status as a milk maid except that all my old shirts finally fit again. My ravenous appetite can no longer be satisfied with plates of cheeseburgers and greasy fries. Junk food, such as pizza, will once again have to be eaten in rations, and instead of watching the numbers on the scale creep down, I suspect that I will now stand there in disbelief as they creep back up.

Kind of like how I felt throughout my pregnancy.

Still, I plan to limp along, nursing LH with whatever ounce or two I've got to spare, until one day there's simply nothing left to give to him. Hopefully by then I'll be ready, but I doubt it.

Growing Up

2009-09-08T09:03:00.001-07:00

This morning was a series of "firsts" for Little Husband. This was a bright spot on an otherwise groggy morning as I was kept awake until 2 am by a certain snoring/kicking someone who will remain nameless.

The first "first" was that Little Husband pushed himself up into a sitting position all by himself. He's probably a little behind on this baby benchmark but hey, it's hard to do push-ups when you're recovering from open-heart surgery.

The second "first" was this (you might want to lower your volume as my high-pitched squeals are annoying even to me):

The third "first" are his two lower teeth that are starting to come in (for sure this time). My gummy-smile baby is growing up, sob! I need to get some professional baby photos ASAP!

The last--and saddest--"first" I will blog about in another post.

Hmmm...perhaps it's time to rethink that second baby I've been so against.

I Didn't Notice the Microphone When I Bought It

2009-09-06T07:35:00.001-07:00

Despite all the fun that Husband and I have been having with this new toy--imitating a McDonald's drive-through worker, pretending like we're rap stars--something tells me that I am going to regret this purchase...

A Tragic Day

2009-09-01T15:29:00.000-07:00

Although Little Husband repeatedly proves otherwise, I repeatedly refuse to believe that he has outgrown his exersaucer. Here, however, is the irrefutable evidence:

Today I found him in this state three times before I gave up and set him elsewhere. Whatever will I do when I need to get things done?

Happenings

2009-08-27T07:10:00.001-07:00

I can't remember the last time I sat down to post anything to my blog, so much has been going on. For instance, we moved. We now have a guest room and an office. We also have this:

The pool truly would be heaven if I ever actually got to use it, however, I never get to use the pool because there seems always to be some sort of contractor lurking about the premise. Just yesterday the fence guys finished installing the fence but I still can't use the pool because Creepy Pool Guy is coming at some point today to clean the pool and add chemicals. You might have figured this out, but I'm not a big fan of Creepy Pool Guy. When he comes to our house to clean the pool he looks in the back windows to see if I'm home. He only does this when he needs to talk to me, which happens to be every week. In my opinion, he should be walking his butt around the house to the front door and knocking like the rest of the civilized population. He's doesn't know it yet, but he's about to be fired and not for his Peeping Tom tendencies. He's about to be fired because he's a belligerent SOB with an attitude problem. Besides, I found another company whose pool guy isn't quite so creepy.

In the picture above you can see that our new home has a great many windows. The side of the house with three levels of windows is actually our living room (tall ceilings). Once per week I hear a loud, startling thud which means that another bird has flown into an upper window. Up until two days ago, there had been no fatalities nor even any casualties, however, that changed for one poor birdie on Tuesday. At that time I sent Husband a text message that went something like this:

"I am so glad that I am not the man of the house."

The poor bird flew into the window, then hopped around our pool deck in a state of shock. Not knowing what to do and unwilling to touch a filthy bird, I watched helplessly from my bedroom window (it seemed asinine to call animal control over something like this. I need to reserve those calls for the snake that lives under our front deck). After a while, the bird curled up under a window as if it were taking a nap. "Oh good," I thought, "It's going to live!" Right then the bird shuddered and died. Something started leaking out of it's mouth. I shut the blinds and sent Husband the text alerting him to his after work clean-up duty. "That's men's work!" I declared in my text. Husband did not disagree.

Ten days after our move we went to see my family in VA. Little Husband did very well on the three-hour plane ride. He kept his fussing to a minimum and enjoyed playing peek-a-boo with our fellow passengers. I tried the old "nursing upon takeoff and landing" trick to keep his ears from popping, but every time I pulled the nursing cover over his head, Little Husband would flail and punch mightily at it with his fists until the cover was rendered useless. What was most humorous was watching Husband flailing about, trying to keep me and The Whirling Dervish covered up. I guess men are protective like that.

Little Husband loved his time with my parents and his aunts and uncles. He truly loves them and it was such a pleasure to witness. He treated my mother as an extension of me, and he loved, loved, LOVED being teased by his "Grandaddy". So cute. He also got to spend a great deal of time with one of his aunts and there was much loving and teasing there as well. That baby sure does love to be teased!

In other news, Little Husband's paternal grandmother just bough him this:

I know it's ugly, but in a cool sort of way AND it's going to have a stylin' red cushion. I love me some red!

That's it for my news. Not much to report except every time I visit my old 'hood I see Santa sitting aimlessly at one of the bus stops that line my old street. He never fails to holler "Hey Mama!" at me and wish me well. I miss my quirky old neighbors. The people in our new neighborhood are friendly, but I don't have my normal gaggle of eccentric personalities to monitor. That needs to change, and I am going to make it my current mission to figure out how!

Distracted

2009-07-20T06:58:00.000-07:00

With so much to do between closing on our new house and selling our current one, I find myself quite distracted with mental lists of everything I need to accomplish. This was illustrated perfectly this morning as I stepped out of the shower and grabbed my face toner. I poured it onto a cotton pad and began to vigorously wipe it all over my face. A split-second later the smell hit me: instead of grabbing my toner, I'd grabbed my nail polish remover. Naturally it was the super industrial strength salon-grade one that lists acetone as its first ingredient. Now that the burning has subsided I can objectively say that my skin looks great! My oil glands don't know what hit them!

Homemaker of the Year

2009-07-15T09:32:00.000-07:00

Let me start with this: Husband loves, just LOVES to read the newspaper from cover-to-cover in the morning, especially on Sundays, especially the Sports section. On Sundays he'll tuck away into our sun porch where he sips coffee and reads the entire local Austin paper and the Wall Street Journal. I know better than to mess with Husband's paper before he reads it. Even the dogs tiptoe reverently around Husband's paper. Nobody messes with Husband's paper.

Last Sunday I was in a frenzy trying to get our home ready to go on the market. We are going to close on a new house in a few weeks and will need to sell this one quickly which means that it must be immaculate. Feeling a burst of energy in 100+ degree weather, I grabbed the ladder and a squeegee and started vigorously washing the exterior windows. One window had a stubborn film that would not wash away no matter how many times I wiped it down with a sponge, so I got creative and went inside to grab some newspaper figuring that the newspaper ink might do the trick. The first paper I saw was the Sunday paper and I paused as I considered grabbing one of the sections but, since it was late afternoon, I figured that Husband had already read it. With this logic in place, I randomly grabbed the front page of a section and polluted it with window film and cleaning solution until it was in tatters.

Sidebar: late afternoon is *the* hottest time of day in Texas. What was I thinking washing the windows at this time? This is the time when all Texans become as soft as tea cakes and lounge around until dusk sets in and the air begins to cool off. No Texan in their right mind performs hard labor at this time of day.

That evening after a long, hard day of hauling our extraneous "stuff" to a storage unit, Husband collapsed on the couch as I began preparing dinner. I heard the newspaper rattling and didn't think much of it until Husband asked, "Honey--what happened to the front page of the Sports section?" I glanced up to see that indeed the front page was missing from the precious sports section. My mind flashed to the tattered paper in the trash can. "D-didn't you read it this morning?" I asked, buying time as my mind raced. "No," Husband replied. "The paper came late and I had to get all this work done around the house while the store were open so I didn't have time to read it." "Oh, well I um...(mumble mumble) washed the windows (mumble mumble) kind of ruined..."

Husband just gave me "that look" as he tried his best not to be mad at me. He succeeded. He's a sweet man, just don't ever tell him so.

----------------

Later that same night as I continued to straighten the house...

"Husband, did you clean the Exersaucer?" I asked in delight. First of all, I never in my life thought I'd utter a sentence like that with such emotion, but there I was doing just that. Like probably all mothers, I have a love/hate relationship with the Exersaucer. I love how much Little Husband loves it. I love how cute and happy he is when he plays in it. I love how he hollers at and beats up and tries to eat the toys. That's where the loving stops.

I hate how big and garish it is. I hate how it takes effort to get Little Husband seated comfortably in it. I hate how that it has one million nooks and crevices that render it impossible to clean. This is significant because whenever LH is in The Big E, as I have now dubbed it, he spits up multiple times. My theory is that as he stands up and whirls around in the spinny-seat, he keeps bumping his tummy against the frame thus purging his most recent food intake. It's gross, my friends, I know, but that's motherhood.

Anyway, Husband looks up from the paper and admits, "I didn't clean the Exersaucer."

"You didn't?" I asked, confused, "That's so strange. It was practically coated in spit-up and now it looks like it's been through a car wash."

Husband thought for a minute. "You know, I did see Le Pooch Grande lurking around it earlier today..."

Dumbstruck, we looked at each other as the realization set in.

---------------

In other news, Little Husband and I were snuggling in bed this morning--as we do most mornings--while he nursed. I guess I dozed off because all I know is that I was in the middle of a dream where I was hugging Husband tight and the next thing I know, I woke up to Little Husband pushing me off of him as if to say, “Mom—get offa me! Stop hugging me so tight!”

(Sigh!) I felt an apron string cut already...

Mother of the Year

2009-07-10T13:01:00.000-07:00

This afternoon while I fixed a turkey sandwich, I plunked Little Husband down in his exersaucer where he merrily played, spinning and bouncing all around for 20 minutes. Then I noticed this:

From a different angle:

How it should look:

It looks terribly uncomfortable to me (can you imagine bouncing around with your foot all twisty underneath you like that?!?) but Little Husband just laughed and giggled away as I snapped pictures of it. I guess he wasn't too bothered by it. I wish I could bend like that!

Blog-Roll

2009-07-09T12:04:00.000-07:00

Sorry everyone I blog-rolled, but a friend's blog was compromised so I decided to play it safe and remove all links on this blog. It doesn't mean that I don't love reading your blog, it just means that I'm not going to link to anybody anymore.

Celebration, Pain, and a Ride on a Private Plane

2009-06-30T13:07:00.000-07:00

This past weekend Little Husband took his first flight ever to visit a great aunt who was terminally ill. What's significant about this is that a family member had the means and felt it worthwhile to charter a private plane, so Little Husband's first plane ride ever was in serious style. Crazy. My first plane ride ever was when I was 18 and it definitely wasn't a chartered plane.

This morning we awoke to some fabulous news--my little niece was born! I am so excited to meet her in August. Then we were met with some not-so-fabulous news...Little Husband's great aunt passed away. What's interesting is that the time of death and the time of birth appear to have been at exact the same time, give or take a minute. No kidding, no exaggeration. The two are from completely separate families so it's not as if someone can claim 'reincarnation' or anything, but still it's interesting.

Oh, and it's Little Husband's grandmother's birthday as well. Happy birthday, Nana!

A Baby Called "Head"

2009-06-26T11:01:00.000-07:00

When Husband was in high school he was one of those guys that stood 5'11" and weighed 135 lbs---a true bean pole. Unfortunately, his head didn't get the message about staying in proportion with his body so it grew and grew and grew. This was the 70's so his big 'fro of curly hair didn't exactly help matters. From what Husband tells me, he looked like a lollipop. As we all know, kids can be cruel and the kids at his school--where Husband was a minority--were no exception. In order to keep from getting his a$$ kicked on a daily basis, Husband took up basketball and became friends with all the guys on the team. A wise move. Still, that didn't prevent his new found "friends" from teasing him and one day, as he was walking down the hall, he heard one of his teammates call out, "Hey--that's the dude they call 'Head'".

The guy was talking about Husband.

Fast forward to June 26th, 2009 where I am sitting at my laptop furiously inputting Little Husband's measurements (taken today) into a Baby Growth Percentile Calculator. Here's what it came back with:

Height - 25th percentile
Weight - less than 5th percentile
Head - greater than 95th percentile

Look familiar?

We're installing a basketball hoop pronto!

Happenings...

2009-06-26T10:48:00.001-07:00

Here is what our little Brookstone weather monitor is telling us about the weather outside:

Seriously, it's 89 degrees but "feels like 108"??? What on earth did Texans do before air conditioning came along?

Yesterday, on my way to meet the girls for dinner I saw this:

Even though it was 107 yesterday, the dog seemed fine, happy even. It was kind of cute.

Zero interpersonal skills? Come sit next to me!

2009-06-24T18:00:00.000-07:00

Ever had one of those weeks where you're a freak magnet? I seem to be having one right now. Here are my freak stories in order of appearance (all of these stories are going to start out with, "I was minding my own business..."):

Two days ago I was minding my own business while putting gas in my car. Suddenly a *very* friendly guy materialized out of nowhere and walked up to me with a big smile on his face as he called out, "Hey there!" So friendly was he that I thought for a moment that I knew him. It wasn't until he busted out his cleaning solution spray bottle--the kind they use at NASCAR, apparently--that I realized I did not know him at all. He proceeds to start spraying my car (without asking) and cleaning certain areas to demonstrate the superior cleaning power of his NASCAR product. Mind you, there could have just been water in that bottle, for all I knew, but why split hairs?

I considered making a joke about feeling like I'd been transported to a stop light in the seedier part of Baltimore but thought better of it.

Anyway, he continues talking and cleaning and I notice he has a trainee watching his every move. Apparently his parent company thought that he had some mad sales skills. Every time he sprayed another area, he'd hand me the bottle to hold, as if I was going to examine it in all its greatness. At one point I burst out laughing (at him, I admit) but he didn't seem to get the joke. Finally he revealed the price: $25 for a bottle and with that bottle you get five, count them, FIVE full washes that you get to do yourself! I didn't want to burst his bubble by pointing out the car wash not ten feet away that will do the exact same thing without my having to lift a finger. I just looked at the bottle, then the car wash, then politely declined.

Super Sales Guy immediately looked past me as if I were of no further interest to him (because I wasn't!) and walked off towards his next sucker.

I headed toward the car wash.

-------------------------

Yesterday I was minding my own business, walking from the bathroom to the living room when some guy opened up my front door and poked his head in. "Hello?" he called out. "Oh hi," he said when he saw me. I stopped dead in my tracks and blocked him from coming in. All 5'2" of me.

So stunned was I that I just stared at him. Encouraged, he started babbling.

"I noticed that you are getting new carpet installed and I know the builder of this house and I was going to ask the carpet guys for the remnants. You see, I use them for my dogs to lay on so that they don't have to lay on the hard floor (insert syrupy, animal loving smile here). I know the builder and he doesn't mind when I ask for remnants--I do it all the time. I was just driving by when I saw the workers' trucks. Actually, I saw them this morning but I couldn't stop then so I came back. Anyway, if they have remnants I sure will take them because I know the builder."

"The builder?" I asked, none-too-friendly. "Do you think this house is under construction?"

"Well I assume they are just finishing up..." Seeing the look on my face, his voice trailed off.

"This house is NOT new, in fact, we have been living here for ten years! This is our private home and you are scaring me. There is a baby here (why did I say that?!?) and you shouldn't be walking into our house!"

"Oh, well, I didn't mean to scare you. I just saw the workers' tools here so I was going to knock but then figured it would be okay to poke my head in and call out to them. You see? I didn't even come inside. I mean, the builder is my friend and all..."

"Okay, look, we want to keep our remnants, thank you, and this house is not under construction, okay?" I put my hand on the door knob to indicate that the door was about to be closed in his face.

"No problem...maybe you ought to lock the door..."

(sound of door shutting in his face)

What chafes me is that I get a lot of flack for locking my house up like Fort Knox (hey, I'm a DC girl at heart) and the ONE TIME the door is unlocked some creep tries to walk in. The door was unlocked because the workers kept having to go out to their truck and tools and it made no sense to keep locking the door on them. Plus, we have a front gate that usually deters people from coming into our front yard. What scares me is that had it been 30 seconds earlier, I would have been in the bathroom and this creep probably would have walked into my house. What scares me more is that Little Husband was asleep in the corner of the living room.

----------------------------

Today I was at the grocery store, picking out some food and minding my own business when some older man starts following me back to my cart. "You know," he said eyeing the prepackaged mashed potatoes in my hand, "my wife makes mashed potatoes from scratch and they are the best on the planet. You really should try making them fresh instead of buying the premade ones."

Seriously? Did some dude really just give me, a harried mother with a seven-month-old in tow, flack about buying ready-made food?

"Actually, they're free." I told him.

"They--they are?" Bewildered, his head whips around to the mashed potato display and he begins madly reading the sign above them.

"Yes. If you buy 2 lbs of chicken breast, the mashed potatoes are free. I bought 2 lbs of chicken so I'm getting my free mashed potatoes."

Recovering, he stands a little taller and starts in on his sermon again. "Well my wife makes them from scratch..."

"So do I," I interrupted, "But these are free so it made sense to take them."

Undeterred, he kept talking. "And you can buy whatever potato you want because it won't matter, my wife's mashed potatoes are still better than yours."

"Okay, well I'm sure you're right." I said patronizingly as I backed away.

What gives? I mean really--what gives? Am I wearing some sort of sign?

Dear Dad

2009-06-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

I just found your Father's Day card, the one I bought several weeks ago, hiding in a drawer along with Husband's Father's Day Helicopter gift. Whoops--sorry about that! I'll still mail it, but obviously it will be several days late. In order to make up for my oversight, I will post a special Father's Day video taken only a few short hours ago of your seven-month-old grandson squealing. I hope you like it and Happy Father's Day to the best father a girl could ever have. I love you, Dad!

For Husband

2009-06-02T11:47:00.000-07:00

They say when you meet the love of your life, time stops, and that's true. Okay, so I stole that line from a movie, but it's so apropos to what happened the day I met Husband that I give myself permission to use it as if it is my own. Here's what happened...

I was walking up the stairs of a restaurant with an upper section that overlooks the lake near my house. It was July 26th of 2002 and the air was muggy and humid so I was pulling my hair up off my neck as I reached the landing. Right then I looked up and locked eyes with the most handsome man I had ever seen. Tall, with thick, dark, wavy hair and hazel eyes, he was dashing--my ideal. His eyes widened when he saw me, and I took this as a good sign. I knew I had to meet him but I didn't know how to approach him. I've never been comfortable chasing men.

I was new to Austin and was at a UT MBA alumni happy hour as a guest of my cousin. I didn't know a soul, but that's never deterred me before. As I made my way over to the group, I realized that he was attending the happy hour as well. This was good news as I figured that I could make my way around the crowd and eventually catch his attention. I managed to accomplish this in, oh, 10 minutes or so.

We stood next to each other and I was immediately at ease as I drew him into a conversation. He had a perpetual smile while talking, and his relaxed manner only encouraged me. We quickly found out that we were both from DC and both never wanted to move back. I have no idea how much time passed as we stood there locked in conversation, but as the sun was going down his friends invited me to join them for a beer at another restaurant. I was dead tired and really didn't want to go, but I sensed that I might never see him again if I gave up this opportunity, so I accepted. I then turned to Prospective Husband and asked, "are you going to the restaurant too?"

"Yes," he responded, "Me and my girlfriend will be there."

It was as if I had been punched in the gut.

I try always to stick to my promises and commitments so despite this terrible letdown, I joined the group at the next restaurant. Prospective Husband was there as was his very pretty girlfriend. At that moment I gave up on him and decided to just enjoy my new friends and think nothing more of this guy who was so perfect for me. At some point Prospective Husband left with his girlfriend only to return 20 minutes later; he was in a rage.

Okay, maybe not quite a *rage*, but he was pretty mad as he stalked into the restaurant, slammed his fist down on the bar and declared, "I need a drink!"

For those of you who have met Husband, you know that this is completely out of character for him as he is normally very level-headed and mild mannered.

"Uh oh, looks like they had another fight," one of his friends muttered to me. "Those two are always fighting. I don't know why they're still dating."

Prior to Prospective Husband's return I was about to go home, however, as my favorite saying goes: Daddy didn't raise a dummy. I stayed.

It didn't take long to cajole Prospective Husband out of his foul mood and get him smiling again. It never does. We moved our party to a popular rooftop bar where Prospective Husband and I talked while his friends scoped out girls. We talked until 2 am as he opened up to me about the troubles in his four-month-old relationship. "It shouldn't be that hard," I told him.

He should have listened to me.

A few weeks later found us meeting for coffee at a favorite lake front coffee shop. It was a Friday afternoon and I thought it was a date so I took great pains to wear something cute lest he invite me to dinner afterward. Apparently he thought it was a friendly networking session as he gave me advice about who I might contact in my search for a job. After 30 minutes he looked at his watch, stretched, thanked me for the nice time and announced that he had to go meet his parents and girlfriend for dinner. I was dumbstruck but somehow managed to wish him a good time. In fact, I was in such shock that, as I was backing out of my parking space, I crashed my car into a fire hydrant. Mortified, I looked around wildly to see if he'd witnessed my stupidity. Funny that in a time like that, I cared more about his reaction than the huge, expensive dent in my car.

Years went by and we ran into each other from time-to-time, but he was still dating that same girl. Funny, though, I never saw her with him. Even funnier is that whenever we did see each other (usually at a party) we would hang out for hours talking and laughing. I was so at ease with him and so in love with him but I knew it was hopeless. He had a girlfriend and he saw me as just a friend and I had to respect that. Not once did he ever flirt with me or lead me on which caused me to respect and love him even more.

Almost four years after we met, in a moment of sick-of-dating-losers-weakness, signed up for eHarmony. Actually it was Melek who encouraged me to do so. She'd met her fabulous boyfriend on that site so I decided that the same might happen to me. I duly paid my $110, answered the 436 questions and pressed "send". Three days later I checked my email and nearly fell out of my desk chair: Prospective Husband was one of my matches. It turns out that he and his girlfriend had broken up the year before.

The very next year Prospective Husband became my husband.

And the year after that? Little Husband was born.

Happy second wedding anniversary, Darling. I will never forget the day I laid eyes on you.

Dad, your day has finally come

2009-05-27T19:47:00.001-07:00

There's that old saying that the sins of the father will be revisited by his son, or something along those lines. I don't remember it exactly. In short, I believe it's predicting that your children will do to you what you did to your parents. I've always been a little afraid of this prediction because I wasn't exactly a model child. In fact, not long ago my father and I had a conversation that went something like this:

Me: "Dad, what was I like as a small child?"

Dad: (without hesitation) "You were a hellion. An absolute hellion. Don't get me wrong, I mean, we *liked* you and all, but..."

Me: (stunned silence)

So there you have it. I'm sure that *my* father has been greedily rubbing his hands together, waiting for me to be blessed with my own little hellion. Well, Dad, your day has finally arrived.

Little Husband, for sport, enjoys nothing better than screaming at the top of his little lungs. I don't mean cry-screaming. I mean one long drawn out blood curdling scream. He does this when he's being tickled. He does this when he's bored. He does this when he's frustrated/angry/tired/you-name-it. He does this in stores. He does this in restaurants. He especially likes to do this at his paternal grandparents' house. Yesterday he did it all. Day. Long. At one point late in the day and at the height of his screaming fits, he would narrow his eyes and throw a death glare my way. I swear he was trying to turn me to stone.

On the bright side, while his mouth is wide open I use the opportunity to examine his gums for budding teeth since he won't let me do so otherwise.

I thought this behavior was pretty normal--a phase of sorts--but this weekend we were among friends and every time he let one rip, everyone would turn toward me and Husband with a bemused, "Whoa! He's pissed." That reaction tells me that this behavior is not normal. Me thinks my son has learned how to throw one hell of a temper tantrum.

Of course, when *I* was younger--MUCH younger--this was in fact very normal behavior for me. I remember screaming so loud that my throat would be raw for days. I remember grabbing onto banisters and door jams while my mother and older brother struggled to carry me to my room. I remember being locked in my bedroom and attempting to bash a hole in the plaster walls with my metal roller skates (my father damn near killed me when he got home from work and found out what I was doing). Oh yes, I remember throwing tantrums galore and consequently I'm afraid. Very, very afraid.

We're going to visit my family in August and we'll be staying with my parents. I can already imagine my dad standing in a doorway, arms folded and chuckling to himself while he surveys Little Husband revisiting my sins upon me.

I am so screwed.

This is why we can't get a sitter...

2009-05-04T12:07:00.001-07:00

This is Little Husband's preferred method of sleep. Needless to say, the "smother position", as I term it, freaks the babysitters out. I can't imagine why...

Happy Baby

2009-05-04T10:54:00.001-07:00

Little Husband and I took a walk down to the lake this morning to grab a cup of coffee (me) and enjoy the beautiful morning. I think he liked it.

Yes, Mom, I had the stroller brake on and the tether strap secured to my wrist.

Mean Mama!

2009-04-30T11:30:00.001-07:00

Little Husband's latest party trick is to grab the newspaper while I am reading it, crunch it up with all his might, and then cry inconsolably when I won't let him eat it.

Feeling Old

2009-04-29T19:54:00.000-07:00

I was emailing a prospective sitter and I noticed that her email address was her last name, first initial and the number 85. "85"? I asked myself. "I wonder what that stands for? She's a senior in college, so it can't be the year that she graduated. Perhaps it's the year that her dad graduated from high school or college. That would be weird, though. Why would she include her dad's graduation year in her email address?"

After a few more minutes of musing, it hit me: 85...the year that she was born.

Dear Santa

2009-04-22T18:16:00.000-07:00

Last year, I wrote about a neighbor whom we fondly refer to as Santa. Santa is a quirky guy---probably hovering near 70---who lives in one of the 1950's condos next door. Santa has been the center of this drama and this drama and is a constant source of mild amusement to both me and Husband. Last September he stopped me as I pulled out of my driveway and told me all some mysterious presents he has for Little Husband. After reading this post about it, many friends advised me to avoid receiving the presents altogether. I felt this was wise advice so I complied.

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. My life has slowed down considerably since Little Husband's birth and I find myself ever fascinated with the goings-on in everyone else's life. It's not that I am a busybody, per se, it's just that I now have more time to think and care about other people. At least that's what I told myself the other day as I was digging around in the abandoned corner lot, trying to uncover the reason why Husband heard someone digging there at 10:30 on a stormy, moonless night.

I know I'm digressing, but I feel that I must first relay this story. Husband was walking the dogs around the block after a heavy thunderstorm. The block is a 1/2 mile long. As he neared the far end of the block, the one with the abandoned house and wild, overgrown lot, he heard the unmistakable sound of a shovel clanging against dirt and rock. The owner of the property died over a year ago, and the property has fallen into ruin. As Husband rounded the corner for a better view, he spied an old, beat-up pick-up truck parked on the side of the road. Not one to invite trouble and sensing that something bad was going down, Husband got out of there quickly. He came home, told me the story and my imagination went wild. I resolved to visit the site the very next day and inspect the grounds for signs of a fresh grave or buried treasure. The thought of possible danger thrilled me but, of course, I could not subject Little Husband to such danger. I had to go alone.

It took several days, but I finally found the opportunity to go down to the lot and take a look around. I ventured timidly onto the property with my dogs as if they had "led" me there and I was merely following. As the minutes ticked by I grew bolder and ventured deeper into the property near the shed where Husband heard the digging. I lasted all of three minutes before I hightailed it out of there fearing that a boogeyman or crazy, ranting homeless guy would pop out of the shed and give chase. I never did discover why that person was digging on that dark and stormy night, but I did see a pile of rocks that I decided must be a human grave. I'll have to go back and inspect that another day.

Back to Santa. So I'm running on the track near my house one Saturday morning and suddenly I see Santa. I run a few more laps and then slow down to walk beside him. "What's new, Santa?" (I don't really call him that). "Not much---and yew?" he asked in his East Texas drawl. Since he asked, I told him. I talked all about Little Husband's heart condition and surgery and how well he is doing. "Ya know...I never did give you that gift I got fer the little fella." Santa mused. "Well you'll just have to bring it on by!" I told him. Hey, I blame it on runner's high.

A few days later I was out on my front porch and heard Santa milling around in his doorway. "Is that you, Santa?" I called over the fence. "Yup!" he responded. "I'm coming over!" I announced as I made my way down the porch steps. "Oh no---don't do that! Let me come over." Santa sounded slightly panicked--the way you might sound if your house is a mess and you don't want someone to see it. "No problem, I"ll wait right here."

A few minutes later I saw a flash of blue on the other side of the fence and there was Santa rounding the corner and bearing gifts like a Wise Man. He looked so proud as he marched up our walkway clutching his treasures.

And what were his treasures, you might ask? A gently used globe and a children's dictionary. I was touched but also ashamed of myself for avoiding this little gift exchange for so long. Mostly I was touched. I could think of no reason why Santa would spend his time and energy on me and my son, but he did and he did so without asking for anything in return.

Well, he did ask for a babysitting job but I think I successfully dodged that one.

You Asked for It

2009-04-22T12:20:00.000-07:00

Because I am extremely busy doing next to nothing (what *do* I do all day??? I have no idea!) I haven't been keeping up with my blog. Someone, I won't say who, is emotionally blackmailing me to post something so here it is.

Here's Little Husband eating his gruel:

Here's the little bird opening his mouth in the hopes that I will spoon some mashed peas into it:

And here he is caterwauling like a feral cat (his latest party trick):

There is absolutely nothing wrong, mind you, he's just screeching for the sake of screeching. He refuses to exhibit this behavior when he knows he's on camera which is why we have to resort to trickery. Our theory is that he doesn't want his beloved grandmothers to know what he is really like.

Happenings

2009-03-27T22:19:00.000-07:00

Recently some things have been going on with Little Husband's health that I've found rather difficult to share openly. I realized today that I tend to not share things of this nature because I want to shield my friends and family from worry and grief. I guess my thought process is that if I keep it to myself, no one else will have to hurt like I do. I don't do this conscientiously, believe me. I never even knew that I did this until I married Husband two years ago and caught myself doing it with him. If something was wrong and there was a chance that it would turn out okay (and there was nothing he could do to influence the outcome), I wouldn't tell Husband about it. That way, he wouldn't have to worry. I never want anyone to worry.

By now most of my friends and family know that Little Husband had a disappointing check-up several weeks ago with his cardiologist. It was the first appointment we had back in Austin after the surgery. During surgery they decided to spare the pulmonary valve because it was just a tiny bit undersized (normally they remove this valve as part of the corrective surgery). Had they removed the valve, it would guarantee that Little H would need another open heart surgery later in life (teens to early twenties) to replace it. If they spared it, there's a chance that it could fail to work as it should and cause other problems. Either way, Little Husband will always have a heart murmur because his valve is shaped differently than a normal one. Unfortunately, during that first visit we learned that his murmur was loud--on a scale of 1-5 it was a 5.

It was so loud that when I took him for his 4-month check-up, the pediatrician, after holding his stethoscope up to Little Husband's chest, reared back quickly and looked at me as if to say, "Do you know about this?!?"

Anyway, back to the cardiologist. He outlined our options and told us that there was a very real possibility that medical intervention would be necessary for Little Husband. This could be as simple as inserting a catheter through a vein in his thigh and expanding a balloon up in the valve or, if this failed, it could mean another open heart surgery. I was sick about it. I couldn't bear the thought of my little baby going through another surgery.

Weeks have gone by and each visit to the cardiologist shows the murmur decreasing. Two days ago it measured out at 3.8. I am almost afraid to hope that things might be okay, for I fear having the rug ripped out from under me again (referring to the day that LH was born although that was more like the whole foundation than a mere rug). The cardiologist feels comfortable enough with the current state of the murmur that he told us to wait one full month before coming back to see him. Unfortunately, we were back in his office just this morning.

Here's what happened: This morning while Husband worked from home, a very cool, Texas-sized thunderstorm rolled in. Our little family snuggled together while we watched the show outside. The mood was cozy and safe and joyful as we made plans to go for a run (after the storm) and to take Little Husband out for his first boat ride this evening. I took Little Husband upstairs to change him out of his PJ's and what I saw on his chest made me gasp: it was the beginnings of an infection at the very top of his surgical incision and it looked like it was spreading. I am terrified of an infection, you see, because if it reaches his heart, he could die. I think I fear infection more than any other complication that may arise from Little Husband's surgery.

Momentarily paralyzed, I called out for Husband but he was using his electric razor and couldn't hear me. Recovering my senses, I raced into our bedroom with Little Husband and laid him down on our bed. Husband joined me as we inspected the wound. I was in a panic but I toned it down for Husband---I didn't want him to worry as well. Forty-five minutes later I was at the cardiologist's office and, because Little Husband was not running a fever or showing any outward signs of being in distress, the doctor suspects that what we're seeing is a surgical suture working it's way out of Little Husband's body.

Oh Dear God in Heaven I pray that's all it is.

Still, I'm going to watch that baby like a hawk. As long as he's his usual smiling, happy baby self I'll know we're okay. My job will be to make sure that he's laughing.

------------------------------------

We went to a nice gala last night as guests of Husband's parents. We were so excited to go since we missed the American Heart Association gala due to Little Husband's surgery. I really wanted to wear my kickin' ball gown, you see, but that wasn't in the cards for last night. It wasn't that sort of gala so instead I settled on a black cocktail dress (I'm so original).

The dinner was wonderful (I ate like a trucker) and the entertainment was fabulous. I'm not particularly well cultured so take this with a grain of salt but the pianist was the best I've ever heard. After the concert we went out on the terrace for champagne and cupcakes. The cupcakes were small--about the size of a golf ball--so Husband decided to grab another as I waited a few feet away. It was then that two men swooped in and hijacked our evening. Now, I'm always up for talking to new people, but these guys were something else. They went on and on and on about their glamorous lives and all the famous people they knew. "Blah blah blah and then Fergie (Duchess of York) told me that she liked my tie...blah blah blah and I told Pavarotti that we ought to go hunting some day and blah blah blah..." Husband and I were dying. We tried to ditch them by going to the bar for a glass of champagne but they followed us. After forty-five minutes in their company, we left. I was so disappointed because these days it's a rarity for Husband and me to get any time to ourselves and thanks to these guys we lost what precious little time we had. I wish I knew a polite way to "lose" someone in a setting like this, but I haven't mastered it yet.

Prior to that, at dinner, I was seated next to a doctor who practices in the Austin area. We began discussing the medical school in Dallas and I told him all about Little Husband's surgery. It turns out this man is well-connected in the pediatric cardiology field and he shared my misgivings about the Houston hospital (I still need to write a post about what happened in Houston and why we decided to transport LH to Dallas for surgery). As we talked he told me about a heart related charity in Austin that I would be well-suited for. I can't elaborate in this blog for anonymity reasons, but I do believe that I've found my purpose. In short, I would be an advocate for babies and children who need open heart surgery but cannot afford it. I would be their voice and I would fight their battles. I believe I have found my calling.

----------------------------------

On a final note, I've been forever meaning to write about an incident that happened a few days into our hospital stay in Houston. Husband and I were switching off who stayed in the hospital with Little Husband and who slept at the hotel. It was my night to stay with Little Husband and I was exhausted so, when he woke at 3 am for a feeding, I pulled him into bed with me to nurse. Naturally we both fell asleep but the beauty of nursing in bed is that the baby has access to food any time he wants it. Several hours later I woke up to find Little Husband happily nursing away while eight doctors and residents stood around us and watched the show. The worst part is that they pretended like nothing was happening and began conversing with me as if my boob (which is bigger than Little Husband's head) (sorry Dad) wasn't hanging out in all its glory.

Good times.

It's Tummy Time!

2009-03-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

Today, Little Husband was cleared by the cardiologist to get started again on Tummy Time. Here's how Tummy Time goes in our house: I place Little Husband on the floor and he lays there with his face mashed into the floor, pathetically crying and gnawing on the carpet as if the wool fibers are the only only meal he's had all day. At no point does he make an attempt to lift his head or do the proverbial "push-up" which, to my understanding, is the whole point of Tummy Time. Then, if that doesn't garner any sympathy, he'll start crying, then screaming like he's being branded with a red-hot cattle prod.

In essence, Little Husband found a way to render Tummy Time completely ineffective.

Out of desperation (why does it seem like everything I seem to do these days is prompted by desperation?) I did some research and found an inventive way to get Little Husband to cooperate during Tummy Time.

Old Tummy Time:

New Tummy Time:

He loved it and spent a whopping ten minutes on that ball, lifting his head, doing push-ups and just generally allowing me to roll him all around. I'm sure he'll catch onto me and renew the protest, but I've got a plan: once the novelty wears off I'll just pour a few drops of Sweetease on the ball and let him lick away!

Shhhhh...

2009-03-21T01:48:00.001-07:00

Guess who's on his 8th straight hour of sleep?

Guess who popped awake after six straight hours of sleep and now, at 4 am, cannot go back to sleep? Don't feel sorry for me, this is the longest stretch of sleep that I've had in ages. I feel like I could go run a marathon or something!

The irony is, over the past few weeks I've tried every trick under the sun to get Little Husband to sleep longer than 3 or 4 hours. Last night I tried nothing; my bag of tricks was empty. I simply stuck LH in bed and that was it. No schedules, no Ferber, no rice cereal, no nothing. I am particularly grateful that he's sleeping so long because Husband is out of town and I was dreading handling all the night wakings myself.

Guess who just woke up? He must have sensed that I was about to start getting productive.

"T" Stands for "Tough"!

2009-03-17T12:17:00.000-07:00

You haven't heard from me lately because I can only blog while Little Husband is asleep. At night when he goes to bed it's a race against the clock for me to get myself into bed since I know that I'll be unceremoniously wakened in five hours. Then I'll be wakened again two hours after that and again 45 minutes later, and so on until 5 am strikes or I beg Husband to go deal with him (whichever comes first). Little H used to only wake once each night but that's changed since his open heart surgery, and I don't know how to deal with it. Therefore, while Little H is sleeping I'm reading books on how to get him to go to sleep and stay asleep. Makes sense, no?

Here's a picture of Little Husband dancing on his "T" rug the week after we returned home from the hospital. You can't see his chest scar because I took the picture with my phone, but believe me it's there. It's about five inches long and looks like someone scraped down the front of his chest with a ragged fingernail. Little Husband is oblivious to its existence, that's why we call him Tough.

I thought that Older Sister's perspective on this picture was particularly insightful:

"He really is strong evidence that people can make a choice to be happy."

Well said, Older Sister. Here's to my happy little baby. Now if I could only figure out how to get him to be that happy at four in the morning...

Mom Car

2009-03-04T21:23:00.000-08:00

Today I went from this:

To this:

I am grieving.

I told Husband that the minute Little Husband can safely sit in the front passenger seat, Husband had better have another manual transmission convertible on order. Doesn't have to be new or expensive, just has to have a top that comes down.

Otherwise, I'm going to go from this:

To this:

Because Open Heart Surgery at Three Months of Age Isn't Enough...

2009-03-02T10:03:00.000-08:00

Here's why it's noon and I'm not even dressed yet:

No, he's not crying because I put that ridiculous wizard hat on him. He's crying because he's cutting his first tooth! He's been gnawing on his hand non-stop, poor little guy. In one of my many "mother-of-the-year" moments, I swaddled him the other night only to realize, when he woke up screaming a few hours later, that Little Husband's hands were trapped and he was unable to gnaw on his hand to soothe his aching gums.

The worst part is that at times I can't tell if he's crying because his gums hurt or because his chest hurts. MY question is, why haven't we, as a human race, evolved out of this sort of hell? Why can't babies just be born with teeth or, better yet, no pain receptors in their gums?

I've looked into the various remedies for teething and they are effectively useless for a three month-old. Little Husband cannot yet hold a teething ring let alone bring it up to his mouth. Different sources warn against topical analgesics due to their side effects. I've had two people mention some tablets that the baby can chew on--I need to look into these. Does anybody else have any ideas or input?

If baby doesn't sleep, mamma doesn't sleep, and when mamma doesn't sleep, nobody's happy...

Homecoming

2009-02-26T20:42:00.000-08:00

We turned left onto our street after a 4-hour drive home from Dallas. It was 4 pm and Little Husband slept most of the trip, so Husband and I knew we were in for a challenge this evening. As we rounded the corner, I noticed an SUV parked in our driveway and I immediately bristled at the thought of having to entertain someone after returning home from a 15-day trip. Then I realized that the car belonged to my mother-in-law and my irritation faded.

We walked into our house as she was putting fresh-cut flowers on the table. A nice bottle of wine accompanied by our best crystal sat waiting for us. A freshly cooked dinner was in the refrigerator as well as fruit, vegetables, cheese and roasted peanuts. She had thought of everything.

There, attached to a dining room chair, was a helium balloon. It was a basketball. Little Husband will never be able to play football or rugby, but basketball should be just fine.

Husband and I thanked her profusely as we looked forward to a wonderful meal. Then the meltdown started.

The nurses warned us that Little Husband might have a hard time transitioning home, and I saw that they were right. We swaddled him and cradled him and changed his diaper multiple times but he was never calm for longer than 15 minutes. I nursed him hourly but he'd only eat for 10 minutes or so (he usually eats for 30). After a few hours of this I decided to try to feed him one more time, so I asked Husband to prepare a bottle for him.

"Do you want to feed him breast milk or formula?" Husband asked me. His eyes were slightly wild and reflected the stress of driving almost 200 miles and then having to deal with a fussy baby.

"Just fix the formula. All the breast milk is frozen so formula will be faster. I just need a bottle quick," I instructed him. "The formula can be found in the---"

"I've got it," Husband interrupted, "I've got it right here."

I looked up wondering how Husband would know that I'd stuck the formula in the pantry. Husband was looking down at a bottle he was assembling as he proudly waved the "formula" in the air.

It was the can of peanuts.

We're tired. We're so tired.

Home, Home, We're Going Home!

2009-02-26T10:30:00.000-08:00

Finally! 15 days after it all started, we're headed home! We had one last checkup with the Dallas cardiologist today and they sent us out the door with a "fare thee well".

The nightmare is truly over.

Motherly Guilt

2009-02-22T16:15:00.000-08:00

I was just reading a blog where a mother was asking a question in relation to motherly guilt and I decided I could expand on the topic in today's post.

Children's Hospitals, no matter how many trains are running through the lobby or how brightly painted the hallways are, can be places of intense loneliness. "You would be amazed," my favorite nurse told me, "at how many people drop their sick children off at the hospital and never visit them."

How on earth can a mother worth her salt do that to her child? If I so much as leave the room for one second to go ask the nurse something, Little Husband senses my absence, bolts awake and starts screaming as if he's going through another open heart surgery minus the anesthesia. (Yes, my kid is spoiled but we'll fix that later.)

I first witnessed this phenomenon in the ICU in Houston. They ran out of rooms so LH was put in a room with a tiny baby whom I suspect has Down’s syndrome. He was asleep most of the time--I almost never saw him move or open his eyes. He had tubes taped all over his body and wires that led to multiple monitors that were constantly alarming. I noticed, after several hours, that no one ever came to visit him. Clearly he had loved ones as his crib was adorned with toys and balloons, but for the duration of our stay in that room (7 + hours), he was on his own. This was especially heartbreaking when I noticed a movement in his crib and looked over to see that he was crying – silently because he had a tube going down his throat – with all his might. His tiny little fists flailed in the air and his head shook from side to side, but no one was there to calm him and I couldn’t do so because the nurses would have killed me. I did the only thing I could think to do: I sang a lullaby which I directed at Little Husband but was meant for him. I’ll never forget that sweet little baby crying for a mother who wasn’t there to comfort him.

After we moved over to the Dallas hospital I shared that story with my favorite nurse. A shadow passed behind her eyes as she commented, “You wouldn’t believe the parents who drop their kids off here and never visit them. It’s heartbreaking and it happens all the time. We have volunteers who come in and visit the kids, but it isn’t enough as they don’t work the weekends. These poor kids go without a visitor the entire weekend. The nurses try to keep them company but we still have to do our jobs and sometimes the parents complain when we bring the kids out to the nurses’ station and play with them.”

“I don’t suppose I could go into their rooms and just talk and hang out with them for a bit…” I began. She shook her head sadly, “No, I’m afraid that’s against hospital policy and privacy restrictions.”

I vowed right then and there to volunteer at our local children’s hospital once Little Husband was enrolled in preschool.

A few nights later I was chatting up the ICU nurse and the topic of parents who don’t visit their children came up once again. The nurse told me, with tears welling in her eyes, how a little, tiny baby girl had been taken off life support just the day before. Not one single family member or friend cared enough to show up at the hospital and say goodbye to her. This poor little baby had to make the transition into her next life with just the hospital personnel by her side.

Yesterday, my favorite nurse and I were chatting again and I told her what happened in the ICU with the baby girl. Again a shadow passed behind her kind eyes and she told me this story:

Favorite Nurse had a patient who had been in and out of the hospital throughout his teen years because he was morbidly obese and his heart just couldn’t handle the strain (he was approximately 400 lbs). In fact, his mother passed away a few years prior from the same sort of thing. This boy desperately needed a heart transplant but he wasn’t a viable candidate for one due to his weight. The hospital tried over the years to control his diet but every time he was discharged and went back home, he’d revert to his old habits and regain all the weight. When he was 17 his heart was in such bad shape that he was admitted to the ICU. No one visited him, not even his father. The hospital called Favorite Nurse at home and asked her to come in and stand by his bedside, but by the time she got there he had passed away (she missed him by minutes). This poor boy was all alone with no one there to say goodbye to him and tell him that he would be missed. I cannot begin to imagine how unloved he must have felt.

This morning we had to take Little Husband down to radiology for an x-ray. In the waiting area there was a man with his four year-old son. The little boy was engrossed in the cartoon as his dad and Favorite Nurse conversed. It turns out that this little guy was on his second heart transplant. It turns out that his first transplanted heart was found to be “as hard as a walnut” when they performed the second transplant surgery. The doctors commented that this little boy should have died. The father laughed and said, “It was amazing—we had no idea that anything was even wrong with him! He was still running all over the place and full of energy up until it was time for the new transplant!”

After he left, I turned to Favorite Nurse and said, “I wouldn’t last a day working here.” Then I let the tears fall.

“I know,” she said, “It’s tough. But then you see parents like that and it makes it all worthwhile. That little boy survived on a bad heart because he has such strong, loving, devoted parents. Their strength makes him strong.”

Then she looked directly at me, “And that’s how I know that Little Husband is going to do just fine.”

This changed my perspective on motherhood. For instance, tonight my little family of three hung out in our hospital room joking and laughing and loving on one another. “We’re probably spoiling Little Husband by letting him sleep on us all the time,” I informed Husband. “I’m not worried about it,” he responded, “we can worry about all that after he’s healed. For now, I’m holding him whenever he needs me to.” I agree.

There are so many sources out there (books, friends, doctors, family) who make you feel guilty—like you’re spoiling your child—by giving them too much love and attention. I’ve decided that there’s no such thing. From what I’ve seen, when you are doing everything you can to love on and protect and comfort your baby, you’re doing just fine. In fact, you’re perfect.

Little Mama Has Gone Crazy!

2009-02-21T20:57:00.000-08:00

I haven't had a chance to continue the saga about what happened to us in Houston and why we moved Little H to the hospital in Dallas, but I will over the next few days. Suffice to say, once you read it you'll see why all of this stress has rendered me crazy. For example, one night while we were in the Houston hospital, I went to go find the kitchen which was in room 35. I found the room, walked in, and started rummaging through the drawers and cabinets. In my peripheral I noticed that everyone else in the room had stopped what they were doing and were all looking at me, but I was too tired and distracted to care. Then it hit me: "This isn't the kitchen, is it?" I addressed to the room in general. They shook their heads "no". "This is your private hospital room, isn't it?" They all nodded. I left without another word.

I have many more examples like that, but I can't remember any of them right now (because I'm crazy).

In other crazed mother news, Little Husband has been moved out of the ICU! He was actually discharged last night but there were no rooms on the regular floor so he stayed in his ICU bed one extra night. Our surgeon said this was for the better as it can be a little tricky moving a patient to the regular floor during a shift change. I wasn't sure what he meant, but I suspected it had to do with keeping up with the pain meds. I'd heard that sometimes the pain management orders get lost or don't get followed when a patient moves out of the ICU, so I did my best to manage the situation. I swear I must have spoken with everyone who crossed my path--from the surgeon to the valet--in order to make sure that Lil' H's pain meds were good to go. I was told in no uncertain terms that they were. I spoke at length with the nurse on duty to find out what he'd been prescribed and when it was to be administered. I thought I had all the bases covered.

This morning, after the first restful sleep since this nightmare began, I strolled in the hospital certain that all was well. They moved Little Husband to his new room and shortly thereafter he started screaming. I mean, SCREAMING. I knew immediately that he was in pain. Husband went to get the nurse and came back shaking his head. "The nurse said that they screwed up his pain medication orders when he transferred floors."

"WHAT?" I think I almost had a coronary. I then morphed into Shirley McClaine in that role she played in "Terms of Endearment" (the one where she starts screaming at the nurses because they were late with her daughter's pain meds). After the shot was administered I started grilling the head nurse to find out what happened. She did some investigating and came back to tell me that it had been SEVEN HOURS since Lil' H was last given any meds (he's supposed to get them every three). I was livid. I think my head was spinning on its axis. The nurses kept their heads down and worked as quickly as possible. I can't even remember what exactly I said to the nurses, but I do remember envisioning the freak-out I was going to have on the ICU staff.

I looked over at the head nurse, "HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? I WAS WARNED ABOUT THIS! I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS HAPPENED! HOW DID MY SON GO SEVEN HOURS BETWEEN PAIN MEDS?!?"

"I don't know," she said, "but I'm going to find out!"

"THAT'S GOOD BECAUSE IF YOU DON'T FIND OUT, I WILL!"

With this, I looked around. Husband had left the room. My mom was in a chair in the corner, trying to make herself very small. Everyone was tense.

I couldn't help it. I can usually keep myself under control but I tend to lose it when it comes to my child. He's helpless, after all, and I consider it my full-time job to make sure he's got what he needs when he needs it. I'll calm down before I get crazed and become a helicopter parent.

At least I hope I do.

On a lighter note, our new room has a kickin' view of Downtown Dallas...

On an even lighter note, we've nicknamed Little Husband "Stay Puft" because he's retained so much water post-surgery. It sounds mean, but it's said with much love. He's normally a lean baby but the fluid retention makes him look like a chubby little marshmallow dumpling. So cute!

How come I don't look that cute when I've retained water?

Little Husband Update

2009-02-19T18:42:00.000-08:00

Little Husband is still in the ICU but is doing very well! His breathing and drainage tubes have been removed and he actually drank 4 oz of Pedialyte this evening. The next step is to get him to drink breast milk. This should be no problem---Little Husband was dubbed The Milk Monster for a reason!

Even though he continues to improve and show us just how vigorous he truly is, the doctors do not expect him to leave the ICU and go to the normal pediatric floor until sometime this Saturday. This is good as two of our (and his) favorite pediatric nurses don't work until Saturday.

As you can imagine, Husband and I have taken more pictures of Little Husband in the past week than we have in all the time leading up to this hospital stay. Here are a few...

This is Little Husband with Laura, his favorite nurse. Little Husband definitely has "a thing" for blonds. This picture was taken the day before his surgery and we can't wait to see him smiling and flirting again.

This is him two days before surgery holding his own pacifier which is a rarity. Usually I have to stand there and hold it in his mouth for him. This kid's not spoiled one bit, no siree!

Here he is this afternoon in the ICU, just before drinking the Pedialyte...

...and here he is after the Pedialyte looking like a Ninja. Go Baby Power!

He Made It!

2009-02-18T11:33:00.000-08:00

Praise God, he made it!

The nightmare is over.

Update #4

2009-02-18T11:04:00.000-08:00

Little Husband came off the heart/lung machine 30 minutes ago and is now under observation. Strong little guy! It's almost over. The nightmare is almost over.

Update #3

2009-02-18T10:08:00.000-08:00

We just received another update from the OR nurse: the surgeons are almost finished with Little Husband's heart repair. Once they are done with the repair, they will close up his chest and prepare to take him off the heart/lung bypass machine.

Keep those prayers coming--we're in the home stretch!

Update #2

2009-02-18T08:57:00.001-08:00

Little Husband is now on the bypass machine...

Update #1

2009-02-18T07:49:00.000-08:00

Little Husband was wheeled into surgery shortly after 8 this morning. We just received an update from the OR nurse: Little Husband "went under" just fine, and surgery is about to commence. We were concerned about how he would react to the anethesia since he prove to have problems with being sedated, so this is a tremendous relief. We should have another update in an hour and a half.

Surgery

2009-02-17T21:13:00.000-08:00

Little Husband is slated for surgery at 7:30 am on Wednesday, February 18th. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers. I feel helpless.

Nightmare

2009-02-16T17:25:00.000-08:00

It was Wednesday morning and we were driving Little Husband to Houston for a surgery consultation. I was nervous about this trip because he would have to be sedated for his echocardiogram. He had been sedated one week prior during a surgery consult in Dallas, and my gut instinct told me it wasn’t a good idea to sedate him a second time so soon. Sedating an infant is pretty hard-core: the sedative is given orally and tastes terrible, it takes the rest of the day for it to wear off, and the baby reverts to infant-like behavior such as kittenish crying and no muscle control. Not an easy thing for a parent to witness.

Little Husband screamed when he’d been given the sedative in Dallas. Plus, for some reason he didn’t fall asleep right away like most infants do. In fact, it took him 20-30 minutes to fall asleep and even then he woke up after only 20 minutes (he should have been asleep for an hour). I guess our little guy wanted to show us who was really in charge.

He did just that in Houston.

We arrived for the consult on time and were led back to the room where they sedate him. The nurse weighed him and performed the calculations that determined how much sedative Little Husband would be given. I mentioned how he failed to fall asleep in Dallas. I immediately regretted telling her that fearing that she’d give him a little extra, “just in case”.

Just like the first time, Little Husband screamed bloody murder when he tasted the sedative. The nurse and I took turns trying to calm him and 15 minutes later he was finally in a light sleep. We took him to the echocardiogram room where they hooked him up to a monitor and began tracing his tiny chest with their sonogram probe.

15 – 20 minutes into the test, just as the ultrasound tech was tracing the wand around his stomach, Little Husband began to stir and cry out. Husband comforted him. Then the baby started to cry a little more and we noticed his blood-oxygen level start dropping. It went from being in the high nineties to the eighties. Then the seventies. Then the sixties. Ignorantly, I had no idea what level was considered alarming (anything below 85, as it turns out). As the oxygen left his blood, Little Husband became more and more agitated and was kicking and flailing. The nurse, obviously out of more creative ideas, demonstrated her finely tuned understanding of inconsolable babies: she attempted to restrain him by holding his legs down. Little Husband freaked out. They stopped the ultrasound so that we could work on calming him as this was the best way to raise his 02 level. His crying got worse as did his oxygen levels. I remember looking at the monitor at one point and his blood-oxygen (02) level was in the 30’s. I got up on the table to hold him; he was inconsolable. I tried to breast feed him because he had to fast for four hours prior to the echo and I thought he might be hungry. He wanted no part of it. The nurse placed oxygen tubes in his nose but his 02 level would not rise above the 50’s or 60’s. Finally realizing that things were spinning out of control, the nurse called for the cardiologist and then went to go get an infant oxygen mask.

By this time Little Husband was a shade of ashen-grey. His feet, however, were blue.

The cardiologist (who was devoid of a personality) walked into the room and offered some lame advice that didn’t help. Another more competent doctor joined us and offered better coaching. In hindsight it occurred to me that not one doctor ever offered a hand in assistance. I guess the technical stuff is beneath them; the egos in that hospital are mountainous.

“It looks as though Little Husband just had his first tet spell,” the competent doctor told us, “unfortunately this means he bought himself a night in the ICU.”
The nurse held Little Husband in a jackknife position as Husband and I took turns holding the oxygen mask to his face. Various doctors, nurses and technicians joined us from time-to-time as we waited for a room in the ICU. Little Husband, semi-conscious, would struggle feebly against the oxygen mask but then give up as if the effort sapped too much of his strength. Due to lack of bed space, three hours passed before we were led to the ICU.

We walked into the ICU and a team of hospital personnel were standing outside the door waiting for us. The atmosphere was charged as everyone visibly sized up Little Husband’s condition. I couldn’t help myself, I started to cry.

Once in our room, the team of nurses went to work putting in an IV and drawing blood. “Wow—we’ve blown two veins already,” one nurses commented to me. I didn’t know how to interpret that statement.

Grateful to be allowed to stay with Little Husband, Husband and I took our post in some chairs stationed against a wall. It had been at least six hours since we arrived at the hospital. I was in a skirt and high-heeled boots. Husband was in dress clothes as well. The chairs, while padded, were as comfortable as metal folding chairs. Finally, the nurses stabilized Little Husband and handed him to me. He was weak with fatigue and nothing like the vibrant, giggling, rolly-polly baby whose diaper I changed just prior to the start of this nightmare. My mind kept flashing back to how cute he looked on that changing table as he smiled up at me and rolled around, knees drawn to his chest. As I gazed down at his sleeping, cherubic face, I studied him for signs of that little boy but there were none. I silently apologized to him for not protecting him. I looked over at Husband---he looked drawn and tired. I’m sure I did too. My heart never broke so hard as it did that night with the three of us alone in our ICU room.

To be continued…

Happy Valentine's Day!

2009-02-14T17:09:00.000-08:00

How apropos that it's February 14th and we're driving our little Valentine up to Dallas to get checked in for heart surgery.

More to follow.

Hamming It Up for the Camera

2009-01-26T13:09:00.000-08:00

Little Husband is going to be one of the "poster babies" for an upcoming charity gala. Here are the results of today's photo shoot. He looks like he's cooking up trouble in that last photo!

Up to Something

2009-01-15T21:42:00.000-08:00

He has my poker face.

He Made It!

2009-01-15T20:00:00.000-08:00

I was milling around my kitchen, absentmindedly cleaning up and praying for Owen. Little Husband was sleeping on his car seat on the counter in front of me. He looked like an angel. I thought about the parallel lives that Owen and Little Husband lead. I'd no sooner thought "It's as if whatever happens to Owen happens to Little Husband" than an email came in on my Blackberry. It was from Tobacco Brunette. Owen survived the surgery! He survived! I leaned against the counter and wept with joy.

He survived.

And so the clouds lifted

2009-01-13T15:06:00.000-08:00

As some of you know, Tobacco Brunette (TB), who is becoming rather dear to me, is in the same predicament I am in terms of having a young son diagnosed with ToF. I've been religiously following TB's blog as it gives me a possible glimpse into what the future may hold for Little Husband. TB and I also correspond via email several times per week and, among other things, we share the results of our baby's doctor's visits. Until yesterday, everything was going well for both of us. Then TB's son had a "tet spell" and everything changed.

TB's son is slated for surgery within the next few weeks. Please, please say a prayer for her sweet, little baby boy Owen. As common as the surgery is, no one can ever predict what the outcome will be, and that's what strikes the most fear in her (and my) heart. The thought that we may never see our little men smile and coo and sleep and breathe those sweet baby breaths is often too much to bear. I handle it by keeping those thoughts to myself or pushing them away. But still, they live with me every day--make no mistake about that. When I comfort Little Husband in the early morning hours with the only illumination being the moon, I'm am wondering if our nights together are numbered. This is the greatest fear I have ever known: losing someone I love as much as I love my little baby. That shouldn't be discounted.

After reading about TB's experience yesterday with Owen and his tet spell, I had a minor breakdown. Fortunately, Husband is the calm one so he comforted me back to sanity. Owen wasn't supposed to get sick, you see. Owen's test results are great--near perfect. Just Like Little Husband's. Owen shows no signs of turning blue, just like Little Husband. Owen was simply supposed to have surgery with no outward signs of having a congenital heart defect.

At least, that's what I told myself. Owen's hospitalization smacked some sense into me.

Today I took action! I learned all about what to do during a tet spell (net result: call 911! No ER heroics for me, I'll leave that to the experts). Husband and I signed up for a CPR course. We happened to have an appointment with the pediatric cardiologist and we peppered him with all sorts of questions. Even though Little Husbands blood-oxygen levels were at 100% (100%!), I outright told the cardiologist that I no longer trust those numbers based on what happened to TB.

Side bar: our cardiologist was blown away that I have a friend whose son is only three weeks older than LH and has the same diagnosis. As a result, he took my fears seriously and never once tried to down play my concerns due to the fact that Little Husband's test results are looking so good.

Unfortunately, today's echo cardiogram revealed that Little Husband has a muscle in his heart that is thickening. One month ago it wasn't so bad, in fact, last month the cardiologist thought we might get lucky and never see a tet spell. Today he had to retract that statement.

The mood around our house this afternoon has been rather somber. I've been piddling around, doing housework and watching Little Husband sleep. Husband had to go back to the office. Both of us got online and performed a little research on surgeons and pediatric heart hospitals. What we found is very encouraging. In fact, inasmuch as one can be excited about open heart surgery, I feel that we are in a very fortunate place. The hospital that our cardiologist recommends, Texas Children's Hospital, has been listed as one of the best in US News and World Report. The surgeon that our cardiologist promised to put us in contact with happens to be the one featured in the article.

For the longest time I was having trouble conjuring up images of Little Husband post surgery. I tried so hard to imagine him taking his first steps or getting on the bus to kindergarten but my brain simply would not produce the images. I began to fear (greatly) that this meant that these things were never going to happen. Today, after this simple set of coincidences, I have a little hope and I'm clinging to it.

Milk Monster and Me

2009-01-09T20:03:00.000-08:00

At noon today Husband and I took The Milk Monster (TMM) to the Alamo Drafthouse to watch a movie. TMM did not care about the movie (Marley and Me) opting instead to sleep the entire time. Husband and I enjoyed a wonderful lunch and a hilarous movie. Well, I thought it was hilarious although I seemed to be the only one laughing: I was that moron in the back row laughing loud. Of course, I cried a river during the sad parts--how could I not with all these post natal hormones surging through my body? Side bar: what exactly does "natal" mean? I'm familiar with the state of being pre-natal and post-natal but I don't ever remember being natal. Anyway, I want to thank The Drafthouse for introducing "Baby Day" during Tuesday and Friday matinee shows. I can now take the baby to the movies without judgment. I can also eat a fabulous meal while I watch the movie. I will not have to join the ranks of new parents who proudly (or sadly) declare that they haven't seen a movie or read a book since their baby was born (I read when I nurse, eat, take a bath, blow-dry my hair and any other opportunity I can find to do so).

Anyway, in honor of this momentous event, I dressed Little Husband like Husband (hey--it's better than dressing him like Little Lord Fauntleroy).

After the movie we went to an outdoor coffee shop near our house.

Much like his daddy, Little Husband has important work to do, even while at home. Unlike Daddy, Little Husband does not tolerate interruptions. Here he is with his new laptop. Did you need something?

Little Husband is a big believer in a work/life balance:

Life's not all about work and play. One must exercise as well. Little Husband enjoys a good walk from time-to-time:

Milk Monster Montage

2009-01-03T19:57:00.000-08:00

As usual, clamoring to be nursed.

I don't know what he did, exactly, but he looks guilty.

Please note that my thighs are as wide as his shoulders. Yes, it's an optical illusion but let's give a recently pregnant woman a break, shall we?

He's beautiful. Just like his daddy.

The New Year

2009-01-01T01:02:00.000-08:00

2008 was an incredible year for me and Husband. I was laid off from a job that I didn't know I hated until I was laid off. I got pregnant soon thereafter. Husband and I traveled extensively. And we welcomed Little Husband into this world.

Makes me almost scared for what's to come in 2009. How will it ever compare?

Tonight was one of the best New Year's Eves I've ever had. It was refreshingly simple: we went over to a friend's house for a dinner party. They were cool enough to let us bring the baby. It was a night filled with great stories, a lot of laughter and much relaxation.

I met some very inspiring people tonight. I met a woman who manages a home where children with terminal cancer go to live out their last days. I met a man who develops unique propeties all over Austin. The host is an entrepreneur whose product is designed to help advance the Hispanic community. Husband just got promoted at work.

And I? I can't think of one single significant contribution I've made in my life, except this:

Time to change that. As a rule, I don't make New Year's resolutions but I'll make an exception this time. My resolution is to spend the next year figuring out how I'm going to put my stamp on this world.

They Embarrass Us, We Embarrass Them

2008-12-28T15:30:00.000-08:00

In an email from Little Sister where she's talking about the Christmas gift she gave to nephew:

"I'm the boring aunt because I'm only giving books. Nephew looked at the book I gave him and said "I didn't want this!" When Older Brother said he might be hurting my feelings, Nephew looked at me, covered his face and said in a rather robotic tone "I-love-it.""

I wish I could do that sometimes.

In other news, any mother knows that the "Baby Industry" has grown almost as bad as the bridal industry. For this, we pay ridiculous amounts of money for things like diaper bags, onesies with cute slogans and any gadget that will make our lives easier. This sling is no exception and I am almost ashamed at how much these few scraps of fabric cost. Regardless, it makes my life soooo much easier when Little Husband (aka - The Milk Monster) has one of those days when he wants to be held and cuddled 24/7. I rationalize the purchase by mentally listing all the things I am able to accomplish once I stick his little body in this thing. Also, hauling around 8.5 extra pounds up and down the stairs doesn't hurt when it comes to shedding that pregnancy weight.

Here's a closeup of him hiding his eyes. I have no idea why he feels compelled to do so. Perhaps I'm embarrassing him. Reminds me of how, when I was a pre-teen, I would skulk around K-mart, hiding behind the racks because my mother forced me to go there and I didn't want anyone I knew to see me.

I'll Let Go When You're Okay

2008-12-06T21:07:00.001-08:00

Rejoice

"You can do it, Sweetheart. Just one more series of pushing and he'll be here."

My baby doctor encouraged me from his position down there. Melek alternated between stroking ice on my forehead and curling up my shoulders as she assisted me in pushing. I, thanks to my BFF Epidural, felt nothing. I could barely tell where the baby was positioned in my pelvis. Still, I gamely pushed with all my might.

The "push series", as I call them, consisted of pushing as hard as I could for the count of ten, taking a quick break to inhale deeply, then repeating the process for two more sets. I had been in labor for almost thirteen hours and was pushing for three of those hours, but still I had plenty of energy. It turns out that after the epidural is administered you can basically sleep through the rest of your labor. Under the advice of our birthing class instructor, I slept as much as possible in order to store up my energy for when it was time to deliver. This strategy paid off tenfold.

Where was Husband, you might ask? He was out in the waiting room, eagerly awaiting the news of his son's arrival. Don't judge me, my friends. I'm just old-fashioned that way.

Although the push-series consisted of three sets, it took a fourth set to deliver Little Husband. By then the doctor had the vacuum in hand because Little Husband's head was turned to the side, firmly lodged in my pelvis. Everyone in the delivery room was crowded around, shouting out words of encouragement. There must have been seven or eight people cheering me on. It was a wonderful, positive environment. Can you imagine coming into the world with people cheering and clapping and celebrating your arrival? I cannot help but think that this will have a life-long impact on Little Husband. I will never forget the joy in that room.

Throughout my pregnancy I read many accounts of parents who did not bond with their newborn immediately after the birth. In some instances it took several weeks for the bonding process to occur. This was not the case with Little Husband. As soon as he was out and the doctor held him up, I fell in love. How could I not? With a head full of wavy dark hair, he looked just like Husband, and I love Husband with everything I've got. Then the baby cried his plaintive, little kitty-cat cry and my heart broke. This little being was mine and Husband's to nourish and nurture and protect and we weren't going to let him down. Not ever.

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Bewilderment

"And here is your room!" the twenty-something nurse chirped as she wheeled me into my post-delivery "sanctuary". If I weren't being wheeled in a wheelchair, I would have stopped dead in my tracks. While my previous Labor and Delivery room could have been likened to a presidential suite, the post labor/delivery room was more akin to the maid's quarters. A solitary, dismal, fluorescent light illuminated the tiny room. There was just enough room for a bed and chair. Someone had optimistically placed a folded up cot in the corner, but I couldn't imagine there'd be room for it. After settling into the bed, I pointed at the cot: "How on earth are we going to be able to extend that for you to spend the night?" I asked Husband. "Don't you worry about it," he replied, "I will figure it out."

We chatted happily while we waited for our baby to be brought to us. After the birth the hospital personnel took him to the nursery to clean him up and check his vitals. Three hours went by and still no sign on Little Husband. "I'm going to find out what's going on." stated Husband, and he marched off, my knight in shining armor. I laid on my bed trying hard to recover and not give way to needless worry. Still, I sensed that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Husband returned after twenty minutes (or so) with a grim look on his face. "They found a heart murmur when they were checking his vitals," Husband reported, "They need to administer some more tests."

The rest is too painful for me to write about at this time. I never, ever want to relive this day, the day after Little Husband's birth. It was the worst day of my life falling on the heels of the best day of my life.

****************************************************************************
Despair

The next day found us in the hospital nursery, witnessing Little Husband's Echocardiogram. Three technicians were crowded around a monitor as the lead tech traced a wand over Little Husband's bare chest. Clad only in a diaper, Little Husband wailed his tiny little kitten wail. Distraught at hearing my baby cry and not being able to comfort him, tears rolled down my cheeks. I kept my silence.

Thirty minutes into the test, the pediatric cardiologist joined the group of technicians. I watched him closely. Did I like this man? Did I trust him? I studied his body language in an attempt to determine that which I couldn't tell from the image on the monitor. What did the doctor see when he looked at the screen?

Finally the technicians dispersed and the cardiologist turned our way. "If he sits down, it's bad news." I told myself. I am constantly evaluating people this way. The doctor pulled up a chair. My stomach dropped.

"Your son has a heart condition known as Tetralogy of Fallot", the doctor told us. My heart broke as I listened to the doctor outline the basics of this heart condition. Little Husband would need surgery. Open heart surgery. I felt like I was going to faint.

"And if we do nothing?" I asked the doctor.

The doctor looked me right in the eye. "Then he will die."

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Distraught

After clearing my hospital room of visitors, Husband and I were finally alone that night. After the Echocardiogram, Husband had to leave to tend to some things at home. By the time he returned, it was dusk. We weren't truly alone until that evening. We held each other and I cried as we processed the situation.

Our baby was wheeled in by the hospital personnel. "Time for Little Husband to eat!" chirped the nurse. I pulled him to my breast as Husband and I continued to talk. Husband looked distraught. "Here," I told him, "Unbutton your shirt."

"What?" Husband looked confused.

"Unbutton your shirt."

He did as I asked. I took off Little Husband's undershirt and placed his bare skin against Husband's chest. I covered them in a blanket. "This will heal you," I told Husband.

Husband wrapped his strong arms around our baby and melted into him. He held his son this way for three hours.

"You were right," he told me as he finally handed back Little Husband. Still, I saw an emptiness behind his eyes that I knew I couldn't fix.

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Compassion

The next morning I woke up at 6:30 as the nurse wheeled Little Husband back into my room. I tried to sleep with him in my room, but his grunts and squeaks kept me up all night. At 4:30 am I rang for the nurse to take him to the nursery so that I could catch a nap. They brought him back at 6:30 am for his feeding.

In the early morning dawn, alone with my fears and dark imaginings, I cradled Little Husband close and wept. I can't ever recall feeling so alone and distraught in my whole life. The day nurse walked in, saw me weeping, and stopped in her tracks. Then she did something so human, it will remain with me for the rest of my life. She sat down on my bed, wrapped her arms around me and Little Husband, and she silently held us both.

***************************************************************************
Hope

Husband returned a few hours later, showered and refreshed. We'd agreed after the first night that he would sleep at home rather than spend the night in my hospital room. The "visitor cot" was no better than a cheap army cot and extremely uncomfortable. Fortunately, we live just down the road from the hospital.

My sadness was contagious and it immediately overtook Husband. He sat down next to me as I recounted my experience with the kindly nurse. We held hands and relayed our fears as we gazed at Little Husband.

Just then, my cousin, a retired pediatrician, breezed into the room (uninvited) and sat down opposite us. He appeared happy and his happiness was so uplifting, it was as if someone swept away the clouds. I looked at him warily, but already I was feeling better.

"You know, I'm not worried so neither should you be," he stated by way of a greeting.

Husband and I just looked at him, but we sat up a little straighter.

He continued by telling us all about Little Husband's heart condition in terms we could understand. He told us how common it is. He told us about the tremendous success rate of the surgery.

In short, he told us that everything would be okay, and that's exactly what we needed to hear.

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Helplessness

"I'm going down to the nursery to visit Little Husband." I told Husband as I slipped on my slippers.

Husband lifted his head slightly from his position in the recliner and opened one eye. "Okay--I'm just going to stay here," he said as he fell back to sleep.

Still in pain from giving birth, I slowly made my way down the drab hospital corridor to the nursery. I never knew why people hated hospitals until now. They reek of dreariness and despair.

Little Husband was relegated to the nursery for the remainder of our time in the hospital because he had high bilirubin levels (related to jaundice) and had to spend some time in phototherapy. It was 1 am.

I entered the nursery and once again my heart broke. Little Husband, clad only in a diaper, laid on a bare, Plexiglass table under the Bili lights. His little body was tensed in the fetal position and he wore a giant mask to protect his eyes. He looked tiny, helpless, and alone. I could only imagine his distress.

"Can I touch him, comfort him?" I asked the twenty-something night nurse. She cast a disinterested look in my direction and shrugged.

I walked over to Little Husband and stroked his hand. He clasped his tiny fingers around mine and held tight. I stroked his head, bare chest, tiny legs and feet. I whispered to soothe him and studied him for the first time. He has husband's toes. My hands. Long, long legs. A cute, little bow mouth. Slowly, his little body relaxed under my touch. It was as if he knew me.

Crying (silently, of course), I stayed with him for a very, very long time. I stayed with him until I was in so much pain that I could not longer stand.

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Bonding

The next morning I woke early and with a lump in my throat. My OB/Gyn had come to visit and was concerned about my blood pressure which had sky-rocketed. As we talked, the day nurse brought a tightly swaddled Little Husband in for his feeding. I sat up and eagerly accepted my package while still talking to the doctor. Finally, I looked down at Little Husband: fitted comfortably in my arms, he gazed up at me with the sweetest, most loving expression imaginable. He knew me.

It was shortly after this that I snapped the "Burrito Baby" picture which is why it's so special to me.

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Relief

Our first post-hospital visit to the pediatric cardiologist had both me and Husband very tense. I especially felt sorry for Husband as he was bearing the brunt of trying to take care of a very sick baby and a very sad wife. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders but he handled it with strength and grace.

At the doctor's office, Little Husband went through another battery of tests. After what seemed like a lifetime the cardiologist sat down to level with us. "Your son has a mild case of the disease," the doctor told us. "He should do just fine with the surgery."

For the first time since Little Husband's diagnosis, I exhaled. He was going to be okay!

As he stood up to leave, the doctor turned back to us. "In ten years this will all be just a bad memory," He told us.

I was so grateful that I wanted to dash over and hug him but I didn't trust my legs to support me.

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Joy

It's been three weeks since we brought Little Husband home, and each day with him brings about new joy for me and Husband. At this age he's not doing much, but we manage to find our entertainment in the little things. For instance, somehow Little Husband's tiny gastrointestinal tract has the ability to conjure up some mighty explosive "toots". Often just before he does so he will raise his arms in the "ejection seat pose" (aptly dubbed by Husband who used to be a pilot), toot (loudly) then emit a shriek as if the noise surprised him. Unwittingly, he's already quite the little ham.

This is him clamoring for more breast milk:

My mother came to stay for three weeks and was a source of immeasurable comfort to me. When I recounted to her how I was receiving criticism for responding immediately to Little Husband's cries, my mother listened patiently and then offered her opinion. "Sweetheart--your situation is different and some people don't understand that. You just disregard their advice and do whatever you need to in order to comfort the baby."

This is good advice, you see, because as morbid as it sounds, there are no guarantees with Little Husband. For this reason, I intend to cherish every day with him as if I may not get another. We will try to anticipate every need before he lets it be known; "cry it out" holds no place in our vocabularies. We will sleep with him in our room and we will thank God for the sleepless nights that we get to spend with him cradled tightly in our arms. When the surgery is done and he is deemed okay, then--and only then--will we let go.

Man Hands

2008-11-18T23:40:00.001-08:00

Little Husband didn't get much from me in the looks department. In fact, he looks so little like me that my older sister demanded a maternity test. My saving grace is that he has my hands. In some instances, say, were I to have girly-girly hands, this would prove problematic for Little Husband. In this instance, as evidenced by the video, having hands like mine, i.e., "Man Mands", will never cause Little Husand one moment of ridicule. The real question is how I managed to escape it for so long. Why is it that no one saw fit to tell me that I have Man Hands? I have some very kind friends. I have to admit that I watched this video three times before I realized that it was me dressing the baby and not Husband!

Santa Did It!

2008-11-18T22:37:00.001-08:00

I promise to write more about Little Husband's birth in my next post, but for now I have to take a quick moment to tell a little tale about Santa.

Today, at dinner time, Husband strutted in from the back yard, index finger pointing high. "I was RIGHT!" he declared.

My mother and I looked up from cooing over the baby and waited for him to finish.

"I was RIGHT!" he said again. "It was Santa! I was RIGHT!"

"Er...what was Santa?" I asked.

"It was SANTA who was throwing food over the fence all this time. I caught him red-handed!"

I couldn't believe it. For as long as we've been married some freak has been throwing food over the fence for our dogs. Several times Helicopter Butt has come inside coated in spaghetti sauce or other unidentifiable substances. While the dogs are thrilled with their new found booty, (can you imagine a pizza just dropping out of the sky?), the food has caused Le Pooch Grande to have an upset stomach from time-to-time. Not cool.

When it was first happening (and Husband was blaming Santa), I argued that no rational person would do something like that. I reasoned that it must be 'coons dropping trash from the dumpster. (Side bar: Husband then chastised me for using a racial epithet. I reminded him that it's not racist if, in fact, you are actually talking about raccoons.) I refused to believe that it would be any of our neighbors, even Santa.

I didn't see what happened this evening nor did I have a chance to grill Husband for the details, but I do know that Husband was setting up the BBQ in the backyard when all of a sudden food came sailing over the fence. Husband somehow managed to verbally accost Santa which is impressive given there was an 8-foot wooden fence between them. Santa admitted to all deeds, past and present, and Husband got him to agree never to do it again. Santa even felt generous enough in spirit to congratulate us on our newborn. No mention was made of the gift that Santa has for Little Husband, thank goodness.

I am proud of Husband. In the spirit of cohesiveness, I plan to have a word or two with Santa myself. Santa loves Le Pooch Grande and I intend to let him know exactly how many times he's made her sick. Perhaps I'll even mention the $225 we spent getting the carpets cleaned and disinfected after one particularly bad episode (LPG let loose in the baby's room, of course).

Oh yeah, Santa's on my list and he's been naughty...

Introducing Little Husbaaaaaand!!!

2008-11-18T22:34:00.001-08:00

Here he is. I love him so much. I am a puddle.

He looks just like his daddy!

Hospital Update #2

2008-11-13T13:50:00.000-08:00

Nothing new to report. Love the epidural enough to marry it. I can feel Little Husband inching his way down...

Hospital Update

2008-11-13T11:23:00.000-08:00

Halfway dilated, dozing on and off...we're naming this child "Epidural".

Can't remember who I stole that idea from, but it's a good one. That stuff is liquid heaven!

Back to sleep...

Me and The Dogs Three

2008-11-12T11:35:00.000-08:00

The dogs are on bedrest too...

The World is a Better Place

2008-11-12T10:43:00.000-08:00

My mom's coming, my mom's coming! I wasn't expecting to see her until December! She must have heard the fear in my voice when I called her yesterday to give her the news. Knowing that she had six children, I feel as if the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. I can't wait to see her--she will be a tremendous help.

Regarding the Gum...

2008-11-11T16:08:00.000-08:00

Regarding the mysterious gum in my hair, I've decided to pin the blame squarely on Melek. Here's my thought process:

Melek is a tall, leggy blonde (5'20"?) and probably weighs in the neighborhood of 102 lbs. I am a short, large-with-child brunette and weigh nowhere near 102 lbs. Obviously, Melek is jealous of me. I have deduced that when I hugged her good-bye the other night, she surreptitiously spat her blue, peppermint gum in my hair.

This is irrefutable as the only other two people to hug me that night were Husband and my 65 year-old cousin, neither of whom would be caught dead chewing blue gum.

I would chew blue gum, but I wouldn't spit it in my own hair, so it wasn't me.

I did once throw up in my older sister's hair while she was sleeping, but at least it wasn't blue. It was an accident, anyway. I still kind of feel bad about that.

Ah, the joys of bedrest! So much time to think and figure things out!

Ready or Not, Here He Comes!

2008-11-11T15:50:00.000-08:00

It's inevitable: Little Husband will be arriving on Thursday. I'm glad that it's Thursday because Wednesday is Charles Manson's birthday and I don't want our precious child to share a birthday with Charles Manson. Who would?

Anyhow, I type this from my bed as I have officially been assigned bedrest due to early signs of preeclampsia. They're hardly noticeable, really, except for all the panting and wheezing that goes on whenever I climb the stairs (or put on a pair of pants). You'd think I gained 150 pounds, the way I carry on.

Anyway, we check into the hospital tomorrow night and on Thursday morning they begin induction. I am terrified of a long, painful labor but several friends got wind of this and have been calling with all sorts of calming advice. I'm much better now. I'm blessed with some incredible friends.

Wish me luck, my friends, as I segue into another chapter of my life. The most exciting and rewarding one, to be certain.

Preparing for Motherhood

2008-11-08T12:44:00.000-08:00

“Honey, can you do me a favor and put the wash in the dryer? I just don’t think I can do it right now.” Bent over from more contractions, I headed for the stairs.

“Where’s the wash?” Husband looked like a deer in headlights.

I turned, ready to explain that the wash was, in fact, in the washing machine but decided that Husband needed to relearn some of that autonomy he’d mastered during his bachelor days. My being a housewife appears to have rendered him slightly helpless.

“I’m not even going to answer that question.” I replied, ever the diplomat. A surge of pain seared through my hips and lower back. I started up the stairs.

Husband figured it out quickly. In his defense, he’d actually misheard me the first time.

Yes, things are tensing up around here as we await the arrival of our baby boy. Last week the baby doctor spoke of induction next week, provided my cervix shows some signs of dilation. In honor of that, I went for a 2.25 mile walk with a friend with the hopes of moving things along. What a mistake that was!

Mid-way through our walk I could feel a familiar tingling in the portion of the sciatic nerve that runs in front of my shins. Now, the tingling doesn’t bother me as it’s not painful and is really just more of a nuisance. It’s when I bend slightly and the tingling turns to a shooting pain that I get distressed. After the first mile I was walking like a baby taking his first steps. At the two mile mark I was walking like a zombie: big clomping steps with legs straight, no bending at the knees. My friend, in her infinite kindness, pretended not to notice.

I can’t help but resent my body a little for its betrayal of me. This is the first time in my life that it has refused (with a vengeance) to do the things I command of it. Even yoga, the activity I do when I am feeling lazy, leaves me breathless and fatigued. I’m mad at my body for aching when I don’t think it should ache and giving out on me after only one hour of being awake (especially after a peaceful night’s sleep!). I once read that with pregnancy you learn a whole new respect for your body. This is true.

Yesterday I woke up with some light contractions but hopped out of bed anyway to brush my hair and my teeth. The hairbrush got caught on a tangle so I jerked it slightly to undo the knot. The hairbrush held fast. I jerked the brush again but still it did not move.

“What the…” I asked myself as I leaned forward to inspect the knot in the mirror. I spied something blue. Picking up the clump of hair, I brought it around to eye level only to find that somehow, in the dark recesses of the night, a clump of blue mass got stuck in my hair. I brought it to my nose and sniffed. Peppermint gum. My first thought was that I do not chew blue gum. My second thought? Husband.

“Did you by any chance chew blue gum last night?” I asked Husband, somewhat amused.

“No,” he said, looking up from his newspaper and coffee.

“Are you sure? No blue gum? No blue breath mints? Nothing blue?”

“No—you were with me all night. You know I didn’t eat any gum or candy. Why?”

I showed him the clump of blue stuck in my hair. He burst out laughing while I busted out the peanut butter.

How the blue gunk got in my hair is still a mystery, but I figured it was good preparation for motherhood as I imagine there will be many a time that I find some foreign, icky substance attached to me somewhere. Just as long as it’s not boogers. I can’t deal with boogers.

Mom, Why Did You Make Me Return that Mood Ring?

2008-11-03T15:18:00.000-08:00

When I was approximately five years old (1976?) my parents took me and my older brother and sister on a trip to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington, DC. It was there in the first floor ladies' room that I found an elegant mood ring forgotten on a sink ledge. Thrilled with my discovery, I excitedly raced over to my mother and proudly presented my findings. My exuberance was quickly dashed, however, when my mother glanced at the ring and said in the same breath, "That ring does not belong to you. We will have to turn it in to the lost and found."

Dumbstruck, I numbly followed behind my mother and silently handed my precious ring over to a kindly security guard. Tears welled as I watched him place the ring in a box under his desk. Even at that tender age, I knew that if the owner never came forth to claim her ring, I still would not be named its rightful heir. I cannot remember anything else about that day for I was so upset by my great loss.

I have been obsessed with jewelry, specifically rings, ever since.

This past Saturday morning found me sleeping in until the delicious hour of 10:15. I padded downstairs to greet Husband and The Dogs Three. I put a pot of coffee on to brew and checked my phone for new email. Scrolling through the messages, I found one from my auto loan company. Since they send me a statement every month, I barely paid attention as I scanned the dollar amount applied to our loan. Then I did a double-take.

"Um...honey--did you pay off the car loan?" I asked Husband, eyes still glued to the contents of the email.

"No, why?" Husband asked.

"Because they sent an email saying that we paid "X" amount on the loan which almost pays it off," I replied. We have three years left on this loan so the amount is significant.

"It's a phishing email," Husband responded all-knowingly, "just disregard it."

"Hmmm...I don't know. It doesn't look like a phishing email..."

Way ahead of me, Husband pulled out his laptop and logged into the financial website.

"The check was mailed in so it's not like they drafted it from our bank account accidentally," he reported. "They must have applied someone else's check to our account by mistake."

Countless jokes ensued about how we should quickly pay off the remainder of the loan, get the title, swallow it, then plead ignorance. We even called my dad to see if he paid off the loan (as if he could--he's got six kids and doesn't exactly have the means to go around paying off all of our car loans nor is he given to favoritism). No answer from Dad but we knew what the answer would be. My mind flashed to that day at the Smithsonian.

"Dammit--looks like I'll be calling the auto-loan company on Monday," I declared. "No sense in bringing our son into the world with a pair of felons for parents." Husband readily agreed.

I called the financial company today and the customer service rep was wonderfully helpful. "Wow--you're so honest. I've never run into this situation before but I will remove the payment immediately while we research this."

My mood was sour as I silently cursed my parents for teaching me not to steal.

"Hey--has anyone told you about our rewards program?" the customer service rep asked me.

I brightened. "No, no they haven't," I replied. Rewards program? Were we going to get a reward for our honesty? Would it be money? That is so cool!

"Oh yeah," the rep expanded, "we have a credit card that gives you a reward with each purch..."

Disappointed, I tuned her out. In no way did it ever cross my mind that we would get a reward for doing the right thing, but I wasn't expecting a sales pitch for a credit card either.

As I type this I can think of only one way to feel better about my two great losses: Mama, I want my mood ring!

Another Baby Update

2008-10-29T18:52:00.000-07:00

My older sis left a message the other day wanting to know how I'm doing and letting me know that she's been checking my blog. Obviously I haven't been as diligent about posting to it. No reason, really, except that I have this slave-driver Aussie boss who likes to send me random email at all hours requesting that I build spreadsheets with information that could just as easily be found in the pre-defined QuickBook reports (you know who you are).

Nah...I'm just kidding, really. I'm lucky if I log 7 hours per week at my bookkeeping job and that's somewhat too bad because I actually enjoy the work.

Speaking of crazy Australians, have you read this? Whatever you do, do NOT go to Australia and order a hot fudge sundae!

I have totally noticed that whenever I see something absolutely *crazy* in the news, it happened in Australia. Just an observation. Must be all those criminal genes.

In other news, we had our baby doctor appointment today where they performed another non-stress test to check Little Husband's heart rate (or whatever it is they are checking during this test). The baby doctor said his test results were "textbook beautiful". He also said that this baby doesn't appear to be coming out any time soon. "Oh, I predict he'll be here by Thanksgiving," the baby doctor said, "but I don't think he'll be early."

This was a tremendous relief to me and Husband. Tomorrow I will be 37 weeks pregnant and, quite simply, we're not ready! I mean, we're ready with the baby gear and the nursery and my hospital bag is packed and all that, but emotionally and intellectually and maturity-wise we are soooo not ready! You know, 'cause all that will magically change in three weeks...

Baby Update

2008-10-16T21:25:00.001-07:00

Husband and I went to the baby doctor today and had our 35-week ultrasound. Here's our little man just waking up from a nap. He's starting to look like my side of the family. What chubby little cheeks!

He's a little on the small side but nothing alarming. I'll go in for tests next week to measure his movement. I don't know why they need to test anything--this child moves all the time! If I walk, he sticks out his left foot to, presumably, brace himself. If I'm sitting, he pokes out his butt. Tonight he was doing all sorts of crazy things with his hands. For a while there it felt like he was practicing his boxing technique!

I actually had a contraction right there in the doctor's office. As I started to lay back on the examination table, my pelvic area was suddenly seized with a tremendous pain. I thought it was a muscle cramp. "Just a sec," I told the doctor, "I'm getting a cramp but it's passing."

"Actually, you're having a contraction," the doctor told me, "I can see it when I look at your stomach."

He wasn't alarmed so I decided not to be alarmed either. The contraction gradually passed but geez--those things hurt like a mofo! I was actually dizzy and disoriented for a few seconds afterward. If that's what a mild one feels like, I'm not sure how I'd handle the severe ones!

Our baby doctor then went on to describe what Braxton Hicks contractions feel like. "Like mild menstrual cramps," he told us.

"Oh...like I was having on Sunday night." I looked to Husband for affirmation. He nodded. So I'd experienced the famous Braxton Hicks and didn't even know it.

What's next? My water breaks and I just blow that off too?

I Am Pregnant Landscaper

2008-10-14T08:59:00.000-07:00

Today, as I sat up in my office perch overlooking our front "yard", I found out why our lawn is riddled with trash from time-to-time: it turns out that the landscaping company who maintains the condo complex next door is using a leaf blower to blow all the parking lot trash onto our yard. Not fair! Our lawn guy was just here yesterday and he worked hard to make our postage stamp look green and clean and trash/leaf free.

Mildly amused and wondering how I could handle this situation with humor, I decided to put on an outfit that makes me look my pregnant preggiest. I then hauled tail out the front door, trash bag and tiny rake in hand (I chose the tiny rake to look most pathetic), and proceeded to clean up all the leaves and trash. As I set to work, I made it a point to subtly strain and groan each time I bent over. I was playing on the sympathies of the Mexican workers, you see. I found out long ago that Mexican men are true gentlemen and they hate to see a lady doing manual work. Time after time after time I have had a Mexican gentleman take over whatever task I was performing all the while saying, "This is not work for a lady."

Sure enough, the workers came rushing over, horror in their eyes, and cleaned up our front yard. The only things I can say in Spanish are, "I am not afraid of you", "I am going to punch you in the face" and, "Thanks, my best friend". I chose the latter since it was a little more appropriate than the first two. Hey--at the moment they were my best friends!

I was actually going to take a video of my buddies blowing the trash into our yard (for your viewing pleasure) but I was too slow on the draw. Next time. Of course, my hope is that the next time they're cleaning the parking lot with a leaf blower they will remember me, my pregnant belly and my tiny little rake.

Come to think of it, the next time I see them out there I should run out, set up a ladder and start cleaning the gutters. In December I should set up that same ladder and start stringing lights on the roof. Of course, the baby will be here by then so I'd have to put him in our Baby Bjorn. Either way, I may be able to get a lot of work done around here without having to lift a finger.

Addendums on Finances, Mothers in the Workplace and Motherhood

2008-10-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

I heard this today and loved it:

"Stop trying to keep up with the Joneses because the Joneses are broke!"

Love it.

Also, Husband stayed with some friends in Dallas this weekend after the big UT/OU rivalry game (HOOK "EM HOOOOOOORNS!!!!). The wife was put on bed rest during the second month of her pregnancy and will probably continue to do so until the baby is delivered (she is 12 weeks pregnant now). She worked as a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company and immediately after she told her superiors of her diagnosis, they fired her. I can understand that being on bed rest prohibits her from being able to perform the duties of her job, and I understand that she is of no use to them if she cannot perform her job, but dang that's cold. Now she is on an expensive Cobra plan that will run out after so many months (6 months? A year?) with no hope of joining her husband's health plan due to "pre-existing conditions" or something along those lines.

I'm curious--could she have filed for disability immediately after receiving her diagnosis in order to prevent being fired? Does anyone know? I heard of a pregnant co-worker doing that once and I always wondered if it was effective.

In other news, I think that Little Husband dropped over the weekend. I had some weird symptoms that I won't get into 'cause my Dad reads this blog and he probably doesn't want to hear about "icky pregnancy stuff" (even though he fathered six children) (all by my mother, lest there be any confusion). The most compelling piece of evidence that I have to support my "baby drop theory" is that he is no longer up under my ribs, I can breath more easily, my acid reflux is gone (no more squished stomach) and whereas I used to feel his kicks at the top of my belly, I now feel them in the middle of my belly. There you have it.

Mothers in the Workplace

2008-10-11T09:03:00.000-07:00

This article made me seethe. In fact, it so struck a nerve in me that in an unprecedented move on my part, I dropped the paper and wrote to the author.

I'm not sure if it's the lack of support for mothers (read: families) in the workplace or the lack of support between women that gets me more. Probably the latter. I can tell you that one of the reasons I decided to stay home as a mother has to do with this very issue. Once-upon-a-time not too long ago, I was a VoIP installation engineer and worked almost exclusively with men. In fact, I'd say that during the last 8 years of my professional career, I worked almost exclusively with men. I cannot count how many times I'd witness one of these guys roll their eyes and say, "the receptionist (or office admin or recruiter or whomever) had to stay home today because one of her kids is sick."

"What else can she possibly do?" I'd ask myself. "She can't take them to daycare, she can't bring them to work and she certainly can't leave them at home alone!"

I'd then start thinking, "Why, in the workplace, do we not support families? Why are we pressured to place our jobs before that which is most important to us--our children's well-being? Don't these guys have families? Weren't they children once?"

It could be my imagination, but this sort of disdain was even more pronounced when the woman was a single mother.

Because I was only seeing this behavior from men, I figured it was a male thing. Of course, this logic is flawed since I didn't have any experiences with women for comparison. I did always assume that women would be more understanding. Now that I see it runs both sides of the fence, I am, well, discouraged.

It was after enough of these episodes that I realized that I intended to avoid this situation, if at all possible, by staying home with my children. Right now I am lucky enough to be able to stay at home, but next year--who knows? Husband works in a volatile career and anything could happen to his job. Anything.

In the meanwhile, I will thank the author of this article for shedding light on the issues that mothers in the workplace confront, and I will make every effort to thank God for each day that I am afforded the privilege of staying home with Little Husband.

My friends, if you ever hear me complaining about it please feel free to show a little of that woman-on-woman hatred and slap me. I'll deserve it.

Counting My Blessings

2008-10-10T13:37:00.000-07:00

This is a conversation I am 100% confident that I will never, ever have with my parents:

"Have me arrested, Mama! Have me arrested now! Have me arrested and just take all my money, Mama!"

This is a conversation that Santa is having at this very moment with his own mama. I know this because:

1) I truly am becoming the neighborhood busybody, and
2) He's having this telephone conversation at a rather loud volume with his front door wide open. One of my corner office windows overlooks his front door. Naturally I had to open my window so that I could better hear what he is saying. That's what makes me a busybody (that and the fact that I then broadcast the conversation on my blog).

I will keep a watch out for the police. After they come and haul him away, I probably should start digging around for all his money. Just a thought in these troubled times.

I am *so glad* that M2K2 cautioned me out of "hollering" at Santa for Little Husband's gift.

Creative Financing

2008-10-08T07:57:00.001-07:00

"You know those baby bibs I bought at the consignment sale last Friday? The plastic ones that came in a pack of 14?" I asked Husband as I fixed dinner last night.

He glanced up from his reading material. "Sure."

"Well, something's wrong with them because they stink terribly. I noticed it when I opened up the package. I even tried washing them but their stench remained and even tainted the rest of the laundry so I had to throw them away. Maria even commented on it when she emptied the trash. They were made in China so Lord knows what's in them!"

"Well that's no good," Husband replied, "how much did you pay for them."

"Oh, they were only $2 so no big deal."

"A cup of coffee!" Husband declared. "You could just skip having a cup of coffee one day to make up for the loss."

I chewed on this thoughtfully for a moment.

"Better yet," I quipped, "We could just not feed the baby during one of his scheduled bottle feedings."

I'm not Done Yet

2008-10-08T07:01:00.000-07:00

More on the Credit Crunch...

I jut spoke with a dear friend of mine whom I've known for over 14 years. He is a lawyer, financially responsible, makes an excellent income and is conservative in his spending habits. He makes it a point to save money and also contribute to his 401K each month. His credit rating is impeccable. He has one credit card that is paid in full, on time, at the end of each billing cycle. Yesterday he received a call from this credit card company. They told him that they are reevaluating his line of credit and are freezing the account until they can determine whether or not he is worthy of a continued line of credit.

He, being the responsible person that he is, has no other credit cards. Therefore, it's not as if his creditor is worried that he has too much accessible credit.

If this is happening to someone with a credit history like his, what about the people who use their credit cards as a lifeline? That is to say, what about the people who have no choice but to use their credit cards for staples such as gas, groceries, and utility payments?

Time for a plan B.

-------------------------------

ADDENDUM: I keep meaning to mention this but it continues to slip my mind. The Wall Street Journal had an article in it yesterday about credit card usage. I didn't feel that it was terribly informative and certainly not alarming so it was hardly worth a mention in my posts. One "fact" that they did mention gave me a lot of food for thought. They mention that we, as consumers, really haven't tapped into all our available credit (the exact quote is "Consumers aren't close to maxing out their cards") meaning that we are "fine" because we are not maxing out our credit cards. I beg to differ. Husband and I have two credit cards: one that we use (and pay off) regularly and one that we have in case of emergency. I can't remember the exact credit limit of the combined cards but suffice to say that it's somewhere in the neighborhood of $70,000. Let me just tell you now that if we ran up that much debt we would be bankrupt in a matter of months just trying to meet the minimum payment. That's a fact. Okay, it's not really a fact, it's a guess. I haven't done the math. But, knowing our budget, there isn't much wiggle room in there for additional payments of any kind so let's say it's an educated guess. What on earth is going on here?!?!?

Letter from Nephew

2008-10-07T13:44:00.001-07:00

Today I received a random letter in the mail from my four-year-old nephew. You know, the one who punched me in the gut when I explained to him that I am pregnant? Anyway, I can't decide whether or not this letter is meant for informational purposes only or if he is writing to appeal for my help in freeing his cat. Either way, I hate cats (which pits me against everyone else in my family) so this is clearly a problem. In fact, it gives me great pleasure to know that the cat in question is "trapped" and therefore cannot attack my head (this has happened a few times with other cats) or gouge my eyes out (hasn't happened yet but it very well could).

I am rather disturbed by the depiction of his mother in the far left corner of the illustration. Where are her arms? Her hair? Did the cat get them? Why is her head cocked to the side, an idiot's grin plastered across her face? My sister-in-law is no idiot, by God! And when did my young nephew learn to write so well?

Feeling the Crunch

2008-10-07T11:05:00.000-07:00

I have long had a soapbox that I like to climb on from time-to-time that involves the ever-increasing use of credit cards to finance a lifestyle that some cannot afford. I do not hold myself above anyone else as I have been guilty of this behavior myself. It takes one to know one, so to speak. Still, in my single days with little more than groceries and rent to pay for, I often wondered how acquaintances who made far less than I did were able to afford $700 purses when I felt like I could not. It just didn't make sense. Somewhere along the lines we, as a society, were losing the conservative spending nature taught to us by our parents and grandparents in favor of the trappings of materialism. If not the generation before us, who exactly were we emulating?

Last Fall Husband and I took a trip to Vegas (I on business, he along for the ride). We stayed at MGM's Signature hotel on my company's dollar. It cost $200 per night which was far less than the going rate for almost all of the other hotels on the strip. We dined at the restaurants in the MGM Grand and spent a pretty penny to do so. In one restaurant there wasn't an item on the menu that cost less than $34. Everything was a la carte so the meal price added up very quickly. One steak on the menu actually cost $188!

Shocked by the prices of what is otherwise a very nondescript establishment, I glanced around to see what kind of people patronized this restaurant. They were almost all in their mid to late twenties.

"Trust-fund kids." Husband surmised.

"No, no way," I disagreed, "there aren't that many trust fund babies who would frequent this place---it's not glamorous enough."

That begged the question: if Husband at 45 and I at 36 felt like we could not afford this restaurant on our healthy, dual incomes, how could they?

"Credit cards." I told Husband decidedly. "They're maxing out they're credit cards."

But why? What was prompting this sudden movement of irresponsibility?

I still don't have the answer to that question but, in studying my own behavior, I can make a few good guesses. For instance, I'd never even heard of spending $400 on a pair of Manolo Blahniks until Sex an the City became popular. Through Carrie Bradshaw's character the show glamorized maxing out credit cards in the name of couture. Looking expensive was so damn important, the message told us, that it was worth missing a month's rent payment to do so.

(Note to Dad in case you're having a heart attack right now: I have never spent anywhere near $400 on a pair of shoes. I did on a dress once and felt stupid forever after, so I learned my lesson.)

Then reality shows joined the band wagon. Paris Hilton and her friends became en vogue and, with an insider's view into their lifestyles, we all craved a lifestyle that we could not afford. Or could we?

We opened multiple credit cards and simply transferred balances as the introductory interest rates expired. We made minimum payments and transferred money from savings as we struggled to cover our ever-increasing debt. We did this because buying nice things felt good and we craved the praise we received from our friends with each new purchase. The benefits were affirming and far outweighed the guilt we felt each time we saw our credit card balances rise.

After a while we just quit looking at those credit card balances as we continued to book those trips to Vegas and the slopes of Colorado. Multiple vacations in one year was the norm. We told ourselves that we "deserve it" and that we can "always make more money". We ceased putting money in 401K's and savings was a thing of the past. Who needs savings when our tech stocks will recover and once again catapult us to the ranks of millionaire?

Once upon a time, not too long ago, a LOT of people in Austin were millionaires on paper. They are no more.

This post comes about because I ran into an old acquaintance of mine at Starbucks this morning. (Side note: why am I frequenting Starbucks? I did the math the other day and realized that I could easily waste $100 a month if I gave into my urge to go every day. That's at least one week's worth of groceries for our household.)

Back to my acquaintance.

We were catching up on each other's lives and suddenly she looked crestfallen and placed her hand on my forearm. "You've always been responsible with your money," she began, "can I ask you for some advice?"

"Of course you can." I replied, failing to see the irony as I sipped my $4 decaf latte.

"I'm declaring bankruptcy." she whispered, glancing around with her head ducked in shame. "It just got out of control. I've tried everything to prevent it but it seems inevitable. I've had my house on the market since July but it won't sell. We just lowered the price yesterday and, if it sells, I won't make one single dime off it. I have $29,000 racked up on my credit cards and, with my child turning 18 this past summer, I no longer receive child support. I thought I was using it for her, but I guess I was using it to support my lifestyle. When I was married my husband made well over $200K, you see, and I guess I'm just accustomed to that lifestyle. I have a hard time cutting back. I really like nice things."

I murmured sympathetically. I do understand. Completely.

She continued. "I have spoken with two attorneys and we determined that the best thing to do is cash out my 401K and either use the money to pay off my car (which she bought brand new in 2006 for $40,000) or have my car repossessed and buy a newer model car that will last longer. What do you think? What would you do?"

Inwardly I was freaking out for my friend but outwardly I remained calm. Here's why I was freaking out: this woman is in her fifties and is going to cash out her 401K. What on earth will she do when she needs to retire? How will she replenish that money in time? Also, she bought a car, a nice car, for $40,000 in 2006. $40,000 is a LOT for a car! I can understand wanting a nice car, but the used car market is pretty good and far more economical. There are ways to afford things you want, if you're willing to put your ego aside. In addition, I distinctly remember her asking me for financial advice in 2006 because she was overspending. This was before she bought the car. What happened?

Then there's the issue of having a car repossessed. I remember not too long ago that having a car repossessed was something people kept to themselves out of shame. Bankruptcy too. Now, I guess, it's just so common that no one thinks twice about weighing the pros and cons of it over gourmet coffee.

"This is all my own fault," she confessed, wiping away her tears. "I mostly spent money on helping my kids and giving them the things they need. I mean, my daughter needed a new car for college so how could I not do that for her? And then there's my adult son who needs help from time-to-time. My 83 year-old mother has helped me out financially to the point where it should be embarrassing but still I am in this mess. My ex husband has even helped me out financially--he's given me thousands and thousands of dollars to get me out of these holes--yet I still have to sell my house and declare bankruptcy. I did it to myself."

My heart broke for her. Clearly she is responsible for the situation she is in but it is just as clear that she is willing to accept the blame. Her justifications were interesting. No college kids needs a new car, necessarily, but that's not for me to judge. What's worth considering is that she's having all this trouble yet not one major financial catastrophe has befallen her such as a serious illness or disability. What happens if it comes to that? What happens if you declare bankruptcy and then have something serious, like a huge medical bill, to pay? I honestly have no idea.

I do know, however, that given the right circumstances I--hell--any of us could be in her Manolo Blahniks.

Coming to Terms

2008-10-06T20:12:00.001-07:00

“I’m almost full term!” I declared to Husband as I set down my laptop and stood up to make my point. “Full term!” I declared again, leaning towards him, fists clenched, eyes like saucers.

Husband glanced up distractedly from his laptop. “Full term?” he indulged. (Really, he was busy and I was distracting him with my banalities.)

“Yes! Apparently full term is 37 weeks and I am almost full term. Wwwwow!”

And with that, I did what any normal pregnant woman would do in a moment of extreme excitement: I ran off to use the bathroom.

Of Wayward Pizza Dough and Gentle Pushes

2008-10-06T08:28:00.001-07:00

I continue to shake my head at the fact that I am now a full-blown 33 weeks pregnant. I think back to when I first found out and told Husband that we are expecting a baby. It seems like only last month!

We're almost fully prepared for the baby and are so excited although I definitely have my moments. For the most part this has been a good pregnancy save for those horrible stomach aches I get from time-to-time (the doctor says it's pregnancy-related and should cease after the little babola is born). Thank goodness for that!

This is why I get stomach aches:

At 5'2" tall and with legs that are long for my height, there isn't much room in my torso for the babola. Consequently, he's squashing everything. Look at the intestines in that diagram!

This past weekend was particularly tiring physically. Husband took me out on a romantic date on Friday night. We went to a nice Italian restaurant for dinner and then on to the lounge at The Four Seasons where our corner table allowed us to monitor the comings and goings of the beautiful people of Austin. Husband ordered a Merlot and I ordered a glass of skim (milk). I am so glamorous!

Saturday I attended a Pilates/Yoga fusion class at my gym. There was another pregnant woman in the class who was five months pregnant and obviously freaked out to be exercising during pregnancy. I felt sorry for her as she continually drew the instructor's attention as she struggled with each pose. Hey, I struggle too but for some reason the instructor left me alone. This is possibly because if I cannot do a pose and the instructor looks my way, I glare back defiantly as I perform my own modifications to the pose. Anyway, at the end of the class I heard the instructor tell the woman that the class "isn't really for pregnant women."

"Well I'm coming anyway!" I announced, butting into their conversation. "I only have about five good weeks of exercising left and I don't intend to give it up. There are only a few classes offered here that pregnant women can participate in and I think it's too bad that you're discouraging us from coming to this class. I find that the stretching alone is tremendously beneficial to my pregnancy."

I'm certain that I shot myself in the foot with this instructor. Next week she'll probably make the class harder just to show me that I can't do it.

Yoga aside, for some reason I was *exhausted* this weekend. We were pretty active so I'm sure that has a lot to do with it. Also, Little Husband is definitely going through some sort of a growth spurt so I was achy and tired most of Saturday and Sunday. I hate that feeling. I hate not being able to predict my body or, at times, my moods. I guess I'm not one of those women who embrace pregnancy. It's fine, but I don't love it like some of my friends did. I feel very lucky that I have an incredibly kind and understanding husband who encourages me to rest when I am tired and never makes me feel like a lazy sot if the laundry isn't put away the minute it comes out of the dryer. In fact, if he sees that I am aching he'll jump up and, after gently pushing me towards the couch, finish whatever housekeeping task I was in the middle of. Then he'll join me on the couch and rub my back. This is a good man.

I'm also lucky that Husband is incredibly understanding about the various moods that accompany late-pregnancy. Last night I felt like I was going to have a meltdown because the homemade pizza dough wouldn't stretch the way I wanted it to (feel free to laugh!). For some reason I did not have the resources to deal with wayward pizza dough and I about went over the edge. Husband, in his infinite patience and kindness, talked me down from the cliff and within minutes I was back to normal.

Yes, with pregnancy comes its ups and downs and I'm finding out how important it is to have that man by your side who will support you either way. At least three times per week I will walk several miles around my neighborhood or the lake. If he's home, Husband will join me. I've mentioned in past blogs that I treasure this time with Husband as we have our best conversations when we go for long walks. What I didn't mention is that during these walks, almost without fail, I will feel Husband's hand on the small of my back, gently pushing me as I struggle up the hills. I've never asked him to help me, he just does it. I guess you could say that he's literally "got my back".

This is a good man.

No you can't pinch an inch on meeeee!

2008-09-22T14:42:00.001-07:00

So... I am sitting here reading email, absentmindedly pinching the side of my waist in order, I guess, to see how many inches I can pinch. Know how many I came up with? None! It turns out that when your belly is distended and stretching your skin all taut-like, there’s nothing left over to pinch. For the first time in months, I feel skinny!

I, too, live in a bubble.

2008-09-16T15:39:00.001-07:00

This came to me in an email today from a local gym. I had no idea it was this bad...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Femme,

A story from a friend of BodyBusiness...

On Saturday afternoon I was running errands and went to Randall's in Rollingwood. An older lady was holding the hand of a little boy and staring up at the store. I walked past her and thought she must be confused or something, but kept on with a cart full of kids and ice cream. When I got to my car and was unloading she approached me and with her voice quivering she asked me for a ride back to the shelter at Hill Country Middle School. She had walked over to Randall's looking for her husband, who had left the shelter hours before, and was with her 7 year old grandson. She was hot and exhausted. I gave them a ride to the school and saw the people there outside looking a bit sad in more than one way. The lady looked at me and said, "May I ask you one other favor?" Now, living in the bubble I do I thought she was going to ask for money. But, she didn't. She asked if I would pray for her and her family. She was so scared that they had lost everything. Her family had ridden the bus from Galveston and they were not allowed to return. Her daughter and 3 year old granddaughter were inside the shelter. Then she said she was going to pray for me, because God sent me to her at that very needed moment.

I left and drove out feeling empty. I felt like I should have done more, but what? I thought about that family all weekend and called the school today to see if they were still there. Their evacuees had been relocated to the Convention Center.

I called the convention center and wasn't able to get much info. They said the evacuees are being locked in and no one else is coming into their section. She referred me to the Austin Red Cross and the Capital Area Food Bank. The lady at the Red Cross said the Food Bank was providing all their food, but the Red Cross was taking care of their shelter and basic needs. I asked what they really needed and she said, "It's a bad, bad situation. They need so much." She said donations are needed to them of course. I thought about those little kids being locked inside and asked if I could take some toys up there and she said I wasn't supposed to, but she felt as though I wouldn't be turned away.

The Food Bank had a sadder story. As of TODAY, they ran out of money and food to support the 2000 (+) evacuees. They have nothing left to give until they get donations of money and food. The evacuees are going to be supported by random shelters and groups until something happens. I didn't realize how bad the situation was in Galveston until yesteray. Those folks may not be able to return home for a month. Can you imagine?

Donate online to American Red Cross of Central Texas: Click here.
View most needed items at the Capital Area Food Bank: Click here.

BodyBusiness will be collecting items to deliver to the Capital Area Food Bank from now thru Friday.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'll have to speak with Husband tonight to see what we can do to contribute. We can't let the food bnk run out of food--that's unthinkable.

I Crushed It With My Bare Hands!

2008-09-11T15:43:00.000-07:00

Today the lamp shade was delivered for Little Husband's new nursery lamp. This was good news because the lamp itself was delivered several weeks ago and has been sitting, bare and alone, on top of the dresser. These were shower gifts purchased at Restoration Hardware Baby so they aren't items that can be replaced inexpensively.

I unwrapped the lamp shade from its packaging and dashed up the stairs to affix it to its base. Not satisfied with the seemingly crooked angle of the shade, I worked the shade to try and straighten it out. The angle didn't change so I grabbed hold of the base and harp and attempted to align the shade by bending the harp. The next thing I knew, I heard a shatter and looked down to see the lamp base in one hand and the shade (still attached to the harp) in the other. I was crushed.

My first thought was that of Husband killing me for busting a brand new lamp. Being one of six kids, I am quite adept at covering up my screwups. If, for some reason, I couldn't cover them up, I'd blame one of my siblings. I didn't have this option as I immediately raced downstairs for the Krazy Glue. (Side note: my older sister, known as "Blank" in the comments section of this blog, was especially good for finger pointing purposes. One time when I was 9 or 10 I wrote myself a check from my mother's checkbook. I made it out in the amount of $1,000,000. When my mother asked me about it, I denied all knowledge and blamed my sister which was a pretty bold move seeing as how the check was made out in my handwriting.)

Krazy Glue in hand, I attempted to piece the lamp back together. Having no patience, I liberally poured glue all over the cracks and tried to set the pieces. It didn't look that great but the cracks were at the top of the lamp so I figured that the shade would cover them. Then I realized that Krazy Glue had dripped (and dried) all down the sides of the lamp as well so I busted out the nail polish remover.

Here is the net result:

Turns out that nail polish removes removes everything (i.e., glaze) from a lamp *except* Krazy Glue.

In-tro-doo-cing Little HUSBAAAAAAND!!!!

2008-09-08T15:51:00.000-07:00

I had a DVD laying around the house that they gave us after our 28-week 4D sonogram. I decided to look at it today thinking it was just more of those creepy "Elmer Fudd in a Casket" photos that I really don't care to see. Imagine my delight when I discovered that it was actually video footage of Little Husband! Here he is sucking his thumb. He takes after his mother there, I cannot lie.

Football! Basketball!

2008-08-27T22:09:00.000-07:00

Lately Husband has taken to lying his head gently on my belly at bedtime while talking to our son. Oftentimes Little Husband will move around and "thump" at Husband's head which never fails to delight us. Last night, however, Little Husband was steadfastly unmoving as we tried to cajole him into responding to our voices.

Then husband started talking about the upcoming football season and my son became a whirling dervish.

Tonight Husband laid his ear against my belly and again started talking to the baby but there was no movement. Then, as a test, husband said, "Football". The baby thumped against Husband's ear so hard that it physically moved his head! "Football! Basketball!" Husband called out. Thump thump replied the baby. I was incredulous yet laughing to the point of tears.

My hope is that the baby was responding to the excitement in Husband's voice as he named off his two favorite sports. My *fear* is that I am surrounded by sports nuts and will never again have control of the TV remote!

Neighborly

2008-08-03T18:05:00.001-07:00

From my perch up in our office loft I stare out the window that overlooks our front yard and can't help but notice the comings and goings of my neighbors. I guess, unwittingly, I am the neighborhood busybody. Since my busy street is on a bus line there are a number of characters who pass by my house daily. Truth be told, I worry about them if I don't see them for a few days.

There's "Sundress Lady" who wears thin, brightly colored cotton sundresses and walks with an osteoporadic stoop that belies her years. She has the dull skin and gaunt frame of someone who prefers to nourish her body with drugs rather than food. Then there's "Crazy Box Guy" who can always be found wandering around the corner bus stop at 1:30 in the afternoon. With a file box tucked under one arm, he curls his free hand into a fist and pounds at the sky while cursing his enemies, real or imagined.

And then there's "Santa"...

I've mentioned my quirky neighbor Santa in a previous post. I see him no less than twice per day as he makes his way to and from one of the many bus stops that line our street. I always make it a point to wave and call out "hello" to him, even if he doesn't always return my greeting. Santa is quite a mystery to me as I can never quite place a pattern on his comings and goings. He leaves his house at all different times and never sits at the same bus stop twice. Some days I've seen him waiting for the bus for as long as two hours yet I've never actually seen him board a bus. I assume he has a job somewhere as he carries a lunch thermos and sometimes wears what appears to be a uniform. Other days find him wearing a ratty t-shirt and shorts. I can't imagine what type of job he's reporting to in that attire, but the lunch pail lends credibility to the fact that he's going somewhere that involves a lunch break.

While backing out of our driveway this morning I noticed someone stopped dead on the sidewalk, as if I'd cut off their walking path with my car. Embarrassed, I glanced over and saw that it was Santa and he was staring at me with a very level gaze.

"Hey there, how are you doing?" I called out, all friendly-like.

His rheumy eyes continued to stare at me as if he found it difficult to focus. Finally, in his deep east Texas drawl he spoke.

"Ah been good. It's a mah-ty nice da-ay. Say...Ah got sumpin' fer ya. It's fer the new addition to yer household."

For one confused moment I thought he was referring to the sunroom addition that we built last year. I was thinking that he intended to gift us with a potted plant, or something. Then I realized that he meant the baby.

"Well, wow!" I called out. "That's incredibly nice of you!"

"Ahhhh, ain' nuthin' to it. Ah, kind of found it, actually. Yew see, it has to do with some property that was stolen and then replaced. Ah cleaned it up good and got it workin'...yew see, some property was stolen but it didn't cost hardly nuthin' to fix it up...it'll be somethin' for your little baby to learn with over the years."

Stolen property? Cleaned up? What on earth...

"Well it's wonderful of you to think of us. I can hardly wait to see it."

"Okay now, well...yew just holler at me next time yer home and Ah'll bring it on over."

As unusual as the gift might turn out to be, I am touched. Unbeknownst to me, all this time we've been keeping tabs on Santa, he's been keeping tabs on us as well. In thinking about it, I realize now that his front window looks directly up into our nursery. He's probably seen me puttering around up there--moving a picture here, placing a lamp there, and dreaming of our little baby. Somewhere along the line, I guess he got caught up in the dream too.

Defining Wealth

2008-08-01T21:44:00.000-07:00

"What's on your mind?" Husband asked as we walked along the shore of Seven Mile Beach.

"Oh, nothing!" I replied, a little too quickly.

Husband knows me better than that. "Out with it," he responded.

"Oh--it's really nothing. I was just worrying about Maria a little bit. I think she's having financial problems. I mean, her cell phone's been cut off..."

Husband groaned outwardly, knowing all too well what was on my mind.

"Don't worry," I assured him, "I'm not going to do anything about it."

The truth is, I was at that very moment planning exactly what I was going to do about it. I was going to find stuff to sell on Ebay in order to help her out.

"We can't save everyone, you know."

Husband was right. We can't. Still...if it was money that I earned from selling something of mine, then it wouldn't impact our family. Six months out of work and I still feel bad about blindly spending the money that Husband works so hard to earn. One day I will get over this, but for now...

"I was thinking about finding some of my stuff to sell on Ebay!" I blurted out. I can't keep secrets from him. "Then I could give her the money as...as a bonus, or something!"

"A bonus?" husband asked.

"Yes, I mean, she's done a fantastic job as our housekeeper so why shouldn't we give her a mid-year bonus. Honey, I really think she's in trouble financially and her daughter's birthday is coming up."

It doesn't take much to convince my sweet husband to do something nice for someone else. He is extremely generous.

"You don't need to sell your stuff, that's silly. Let's give her that bonus!"

A few days later I shyly (I don't know why I was shy about it) approached Maria with the money. I explained to her how grateful we are for all of her hard work and wanted to show our appreciation. Much to my surprise, she burst into tears.

"Oh God bless you, God bless you!" she said in her thick, Hispanic accent. "You have no idea how much I need this right now. May God bless you and give you much more! "

I was dumbstruck that my instincts were so right but aware enough to at least give her a warm hug.

"You absolutely deserve it," I told her.

A few nights later found us dining with some friends at a moderately priced Mexican restaurant. We only get to see this couple twice per year but still consider them to be dear friends. The conversations are usually lively and informative and tonight was no different as the husband half of this duo waxed eloquent about the real estate they just bought, the fancy cars they drive and the private school they send their children to.

"I mean, I make a lot of money--a LOT of money--and if I want to buy property and flip it for profit, why, that's good for the economy! If the politicians raise the taxes of the wealthy, then I couldn't afford to buy that second house which would be a shame because I am providing jobs for people!" The husband was on a roll.

Something told me that even if his taxes were raised, he could afford that second home. Something also told me that if the taxes of the wealthy aren't raised, then the burden may be distributed among all economic classes. My mind flashed to Maria.

I don't profess to be a Rhodes Scholar when it comes to political matters and I don't argue points that I myself don't understand. For this, I kept my mouth shut but inside I was churning.

Later that night as we walked the dogs I noticed that husband seemed down.

"What's the matter?" I asked him.

"Oh---I just wish I could provide for you more than I do."

"When you say 'provide', do you mean that you wished you made more money?"

"Something like that," he said.

I stopped walking, stunned. We *just* returned from a trip to the Cayman Islands. He bought me a piano for my birthday. Our home is nice, our cars are new and we eat out regularly. We have a housekeeper, for crying out loud! We manage all of this without going into debt. We want for nothing.

"Sweetheart," I stepped in front of him and looked at him earnestly, "You are a fantastic provider. Flawlessly so. You provide a loving home and immense security. More importantly, we have a happy home and you are the primary reason why!"

"I don't know about that," he hesitated. "I just wish I was as successful as some of my friends."

"Do not compare yourself with others for either you will become vain or bitter," I quoted.

"True." he replied, but I could tell that he wasn't convinced.

"Honey--first of all, you are successful. Second of all, we are wealthy--just in a different way. We may not have the tremendous monetary wealth that some of our friends do, but do you know what? Even if we did, there would always be someone who has more, so don't fall into those trappings. Instead, think about all the things we do have. We have our health. We have wonderful families. We have a great marriage, great dogs and a baby on the way. We have fantastic friends. All of these things mean so, so much more than a bank account that boasts seven figures. The truth is, there are far more complications tied to wealth than there is happiness. I love our life the way it is, and I love the way that you provide for us. You're home at a decent hour every night, you can take time off whenever you want, and you're never too tired to give yourself to your family. In my opinion, we are wealthy beyond measure."

I know I said a lot more than this because I talked non-stop for a quarter mile. When I know what I'm talking about, it's almost impossible to shut me up.

As his spirits raised mine sank a little. It always breaks my heart when I discover that something's bothering Husband. Glancing inwardly, I thought about that new car I've been hinting for. The home renovations I keep suggesting. The fancy gym I'd like to join. Husband always responds to these requests in good humor, but my materialistic streak must put a strain on him. When is enough enough? I realized that it is my actions that make husband feel like he's not making enough, and this has to stop. If there's anyone who needs to remember to be content with what they have, it's me.

I think about Maria and how she must feel as she makes her way through our home, carefully wiping the dust off all of our possesions. I think about the things I take for granted such as cell phones and birthday parties. I think about how wealthy Husband and I must seem from her perspective and I feel ashamed for ever wanting more.

Celebrations

2008-07-30T23:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday (which still feels like today since I am typing this at 1 am) I turned 37 and today Little Husband reached 24 weeks. A milestone for both of us since I don't like the number six and longed to reach the next age. As for Little Husband's milestone, well, it's always good when he turns a week older. Now I can sit comfortable knowing that I am officially 37 years old and that Little Husband has developed that much further.

I spent the day spending spa gift certificates which I found to be an excellent way to celebrate a birthday. My older sister eerily read my mind yesterday and sent me an e-giftcard for a one-hour off-the-charts pedicure. I literally opened the email minutes after thinking, "Oh yuck--I really need a pedicure!"

In other birthday news, the love of my life gifted me with a new love of my life--a full-size digital piano! I have wanted a piano ever since I was very, very young. Once upon a time my parents had an old, beat-up black upright but they got rid of it after repeatedly instructing my brother and sister and me not to bang on it (although our banging on it is probably not why they got rid of the piano). I loved banging on that piano and have missed it ever since.

After playing my piano for a few hours this evening I asked Husband if I could take it to bed with me but he said "no". He's unreasonable like that. I had to console myself by playing it for another hour after he went to bed. Now I need to give it a name...

Fortunately, this is not its permanent place of rest. The piano store sold husband the wrong stand so he is going to correct the situation after work today. He's also going to buy me a bench. Of course, in no time I will be playing like Harry Connick Jr. so a bench won't be necessary!

There's Poop in There!

2008-07-22T10:59:00.000-07:00

"I see now why your A/C hasn't been working properly," the repairman said to Husband, "someone's been dumping poop into your duct work.

Not surprised, Husband turned my way. "Aha," he said, "That's what we've been smelling these last few weeks."

"No, no--that was the dog and she was sick. We had that carpet cleaned already. Remember? It cost us $200!"

I was having a hard time understanding how Husband could forget that incident. It will be forever etched in my mind.

"Excuse me sir," I directed towards the repairman, "Would you mind telling me how you troubleshot this situation and any steps I might be able to take myself to fix it?" This is common question that I pose to repairmen. They rarely take me seriously and thus never seem to mind schooling me on the ins-and-outs of their trade.

"Well...I don't know. This is pretty complicated stuff." The gruff repairman looked dubious.

"Just an overview, then," I negotiated. "I know a little bit about A/C units and can even troubleshoot the LEDs on some models."

He relaxed. "Oh...okay. Normally I wouldn't take a little lady like you seriously, but you seem like you would absorb this pretty well. You see, it all starts with the compressor..."

Suddenly I realized that my head felt groggy and my speech was sluggish. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open. In fact, suddenly my eyes were shut and I couldn't seem to open them. My head weighed a ton and was pounding. I needed to lie down.

Then I realized I *was* lying down and my eyes wouldn't open because I was asleep and having a dream. A vibrant, lifelike, poop dream.

Yesterday my equally realistic dreams were about rats crawling in my bed.

Gotta love being pregnant.

Business Here, By God!

2008-07-20T14:23:00.000-07:00

I contacted my Professional Business Coaching buddies in Florida to see what they could do for me. They not only "polished up" my hairstyle and dress, they also managed to polish 20 years off my face and body. Unfortunately in the midst of all that polishing they seem to have rubbed my eyebrows off, but I forgive them. Miracle workers!

I'm Calling "B.S."...

2008-07-20T10:29:00.000-07:00

This woman is not pregnant.

Do you know how I know? Because I *am* pregnant and pregnant women can spot their own. Why do they take an emaciated teenager, slap a belly pad on her and stick her in a maternity dress? Where are the boobs? The bloating? The altered stance resulting from chronic lower back pain?

Judging from her belly if she were pregnant, she'd be about 8 months along and would NOT have stick arms.

Nope, not pregnant.

I Have Just Become That Parent

2008-07-16T13:40:00.000-07:00

I just mailed off a preschool application for Little Husband. I do believe that this pregnancy has brought me to a new low. The next thing you know, I'll be attending fundraisers and rubbing elbows with tenured professors in order to secure his spot in the Ivy League.

No need to say it--I make even myself sick.

Business Where?

2008-07-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's 2 am and I'm suffering a little mid-trimester insomnia these days so I decided to peruse the Internet for information about Perdido Key, FL. Perdido Key is significant because we plan to take a trip there in August. I stumble upon one of those chamber web sites and start clicking on all the links to see where they will take me. I click on the "Local Services" link which lists local businesses such as tax accountants, photographers, etc. This picture actually accompanied a business that specializes in "Professional Business Coaching".

I'm not saying she looks bad by any stretch, because she doesn't. I'm just saying that if someone coached me into that hairstyle, those sunglasses and that tank top under the guise of "polishing my professional image", I'd want my money back.

Then again, if I looked like her I probably wouldn't need my money back because I would have picked up some rich, Floridian retiree.

And while we're polishing our professional image, how about we polish the cover of that laptop!

Oh Yeah...

2008-07-07T13:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I walked four miles, then hiked another two. On Saturday I lifted weights for an hour. Today, I parked here:

I felt a little guilty so I arched my back and, for the first time in the history of my prenancy, attempted to look more pregnant than I am. Fearing that wasn't enough, I put my hand on my lower back and groaned a little. Regardless of whether I deserve rockstar parking or not, I intend to take advantage of this all. throughout. my pregnancy.