Muffin Top

The flu made me do it.

The flu makes me emotional. Partly because I am a champion pity-party-thrower. Partly because... well I have no idea why. But I do know that I laid in bed for a shameful number of hours watching the 2nd season of Parenthood on Netflix and bawled like a baby.

While watching the aforementioned shameful number of hours of Parenthood, I realized that I am going to sorely regret the lack of documentation I've been making of the life of our sweet little family.

I think I get too caught up in needing to write something really meaningful. Or really witty. Or really wise. And so I don't write. Because who can live up to that?

But what if I could actually get myself to believe it's not about that. What if I write something just average? Would that really not be okay? 

What if I write just to remember?

If I don't write things down, life will get hurried, and I wil forget. I know this about myself. That is why I write the silliest little reminders to myself -- like the huge note I taped to the door that said "TAKE PICTURE" so I wouldn't forget on the kids' first day of preschool this month.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Sidnote - have no fear, Matt finally agreed to get that sweet boy a haircut the next day.)

I mean, one would think that it would be impossible to forget such a thing, but trust me, I'll forget. And I know that no matter how I tell myself I'll never forget what Molly's bed-head looked like that one morning, I'm going to forget.

And as impossible it seems that I could forget the sweetness of finding Owen in his bed, tuckered out in a pile of trucks, wearing the beloved cowboy boots - I know that it's these sweet, small, seemingly insignificant moments that will fade the fastest.

 

So I'm going to write. I'm going to write to remember. And I'm going to write because it will be good enough. It will not be the greatest, the wittiest, or the wisest. But you know what? I'm okay with that. I think I'm finally okay with that.

I'm doing a Bible study written by Beth Moore on the book of Esther. If you've never gone through that study, I cannot recommend it enough. But one of the lessons really broke my heart open more widely than the others (and that's saying a lot).

This particular day in the study really spoke to the perfectionist in me. The me who grew up making good grades & doing well in sports... and then went off to college & beyond, and started living in the real world where there's always someone who runs faster and thinks deeper... and suddenly being "great" at something required being "perfect" at everything.

And, well, that's really hard.

And somewhere along the way, I started believing that if I wasn't the greatest at anything, then I wasn't truly doing anything great at all.

And then I read this from Beth Moore, totally unexpected and perfectly timed, in the middle of the study on Esther:

Christ summons the disillusioned to the paradoxical bliss of spilling life lavishly, sacrificially for the glory of God and the good of man. Those with presence of mind and semblance of health are called to pour out the drink offering of their lives until the cup is overturned and every drop of energy slips - perhaps unnoticed, uncelebrated - into the vast ocean of earthly need. The last imperceptible drop of your well-lived life will sound to the hosts of heaven like a tidal wave hitting the floor of the Grand Canyon.
In effect Christ says, "I'm already great enough for both of us," relieving the willing of their woeful burden. "Just follow Me." 

So, here we go. Whether it's writing or cooking or laundry or whatever. I'm not here to be the greatest. I'm here to follow the Greatest.

Phew, that feels better.

Quote taken from esther by beth moore, p. 173.

... and Molly makes four.

Over a month? Has it really been that long since my last post? Well, let me begin by saying that if words like "dilate" and "crowning" make you uncomfortable, please do not read further. But, perhaps you'll forgive me once I start posting really cute baby pictures!

That's correct - our baby girl is here! Sweet little Molly Jane decided to surprise us all by arriving early. We weren't expecting her until November 8 or later, but she made her grand entrance at 6:29 am on Wednesday, October 21. Molly weighed 6 lbs 7 oz, and was 18 inches long. We think she's pretty awesome. :) Thankfully, Owen does too! He has been incredibly sweet with her, and loves to kiss her and hold her.

Here's the story...

My water broke at 3 am on Tuesday morning (the 20th). I tried to go back to bed and get some rest, but that was futile. Surely, I was going to have a baby any minute! Right? My water broke first with Owen, and he was born just over 6 hours later! Hm, maybe not this time.

My friend Lyndsay came to pick up Owen later in the morning, and then Matt and I scrambled to tie up loose ends with work. Then we were off on a long walk to try to get labor to pick up. When contractions were still weak and irregular at lunch time, we decided to go ahead and call the doctor.

While I was being examined in triage at the hospital at about 3:00 pm, I was still having a hard time believing I was going to have the baby that day. I was dilated 3 cm, but was not in any pain. Just "mild" contractions. When I checked into the hospital during labor with Owen, I was also 3 cm, but I was nearly losing it with each contraction at that point! How was everything so different this time!?

Yes, Internet, this is me IN LABOR. Is that not the most bizarre thing you've ever seen? Oh and PS - I have not had an epidural! I am walking around - and walking, and walking, and walking - and I am IN LABOR, and I am feeling fantastic. Getting tired after so much walking, but other than that, I'm feeling GOOD. My friend Betty came to the hospital to keep us company at about 5 pm - she thought she'd be sitting in the waiting room praying for me, but instead, she was in the delivery room in awe with me as I continued to feel great through each passing contraction.

Then things got a bit frustrating...

Ever seen Groundhog Day? I felt like I was in the Childbirth version of that movie. First of all, the clock in the delivery room died. Here is the photo from Betty to prove it. It was 8:41 for about 10 hours. On top of that, I think it was 3 times in a row that they checked me (spaced about 2 hours apart each time) that the nurse said, "4 cm dilated, 75% effaced, -2 station." Ahhh!! If I had to hear those words again, I was going to freak out.

But really, what was alarming me was that I knew the doctor was going to come back and say it was time to start Pitocin to get contractions to pick up. She had already been incredibly gracious to let me continue to labor without any medication, as I wished, but since my water had already been broken for 18 hours at this point, we needed to move things along. I have heard horror stories of being given Pitocin without having had an epidural, and I was terrified.

They started the Pitocin drip, and I geared up to be hit by a mack truck.

Contractions started coming more regularly, but they were bearable. I practiced what I knew to do to deal with each contraction, and labor continued. I remember closing my eyes and relaxing through a contraction, then opening my eyes and saying, "Okay, that one's over," and then Betty looking at me like I'm a freak of nature. (She's been on Pitocin without an epidural - she knows what it should've felt like.) But I said to her - "It's not that the contraction is so horrible and I'm so strong. I have to concentrate, but I promise that it really is okay."

And then we remembered.

I had prayed a crazy prayer a couple of months ago. I prayed that God would allow me to have a pain-free childbirth. I acknowledged that surely the labor and delivery would be hard work, but I asked that He would allow it to not be painful - and that He would give me the endurance to do the hard work of giving birth to my daughter.

It became clear that God had decided to answer that prayer. I still can hardly believe it even as I type this, and I don't know why He would answer such a seemingly insane prayer, but it is undeniably true.
 

I continued to labor for 7 or 8 more hours - eventually they were upping the dose of Pitocin every 30 minutes. Things definitely progressed well into the "hard work" category... as you can see in that lovely picture of me - deep in relaxed concentration, sitting on the birthing ball.

Around 5:30 am, things got really hard, and I remember thinking, "I don't know how much longer I can do this... I'm just so tired." But it was like God calmed me and said, "Just take it one at a time. Just one at a time." At about 6-6:15, Matt asked if I thought it would be okay for him to go get a cup of coffee - for all he knew, it could be another 12 hours at this point. But I remember saying, "Just wait through one more contraction. That last one felt different. I really think you should just wait through one more."

Praise the Lord that he waited, because I very suddenly was compelled to push and she was almost immediately crowning! I started yelling at Matt that she was coming out, and then Matt was hitting the call button to the nurses' station and yelling that we needed help - with me screaming in the background. Seriously, it was like a scene in a movie. Nurses started flying into the room and throwing chairs out of the way and repositioning the bed. Thankfully the doctor made it into the room a minute later, just before the nurse got to deliver my baby!

The serenity in this picture is comical to me now, having just re-lived the final crazy moments of Molly's birth in the last paragraph. It really was like a switch flipped for about 15 minutes - a long, exhausting yet peaceful 27-hour buildup to a completely insane few pushes, and then she was here and everything was calm and I just remember looking at her when they placed her on my chest and saying over and over, "You're here... I can't believe you're here... You're really here..."

Matt, Mollly, & me... sadly, Owen couldn't be there! Because of flu restrictions, there were no visitors under 18 allowed anywhere in the hospital.


Getting all prettied up for her big ride home.

Owen & Molly meeting for the first time.

Molly Jane

Most common phrase from Owen lately: "I hold Baby Mollly!"

Phew! I finally got this all typed out! If anyone actually read the whole thing, I'm impressed. I really wanted to get all of that down because I just don't want to forget what an amazing experience it all was. And that it really did happen like that! Craziness.

We are so immeasurably and undeservedly blessed! The blessings have continued as we are all adjusting really well - sleep-deprived and a bit rough around the edges, but well nonetheless!

Funny stories still abound, even the 2nd time around with a newborn, so I will try to keep posting at least kind of regularly! (Yes, she has peed on me. Yes, she can poop halfway across the room - and has proven it. Yes, she has already been minorly injured by her well-intentioned brother.)

Stay tuned!

And then he decided.

"Oh wow, he's not walking yet?"

"Enjoy it while it lasts! Once he starts, he'll never slow down!"

"How old is he? Nine months?" (He was 16 months.)

"Don't worry about it - he'll walk when he's ready."

"Have you talked to the pediatrician yet?"

"Just relax. Nobody crawls into Kindergarten."

This is just a sampling of thoughts and conversations that have been a part of our lives for the past 3-4 months... the swinging pendulum of "Every kid is different... Just roll with it... Don't compare him to other kids..." versus "My child has not accomplished a significant milestone that seemingly every other child around us has mastered long ago!"

Before I was a mom, I had a hard time understanding why moms compared their kids to each other so much - clearly they are all really different, and they all seem to do things pretty much when they feel like it - crawl, talk, walk, whatever.

But then it was MY kid.

And he wouldn't walk.

I really wasn't freaking out - I was more just frustrated and disappointed for him, that he was missing out on walking and running. Like, I never imagined he wouldn't be walking and running at the beach with my family at 18-months-old. And let's be honest - it's not super fun, or graceful, carrying a toddler everywhere when you're 5 months pregnant.

Is he a toddler if he's not toddling yet?

So we tried to not worry, and we tried to be patient, and we tried to practice, practice, practice. Soon he was "walking" all over, but never without a hand on something or a strong grip on one of us.

And then he decided.

"I think I'll just go ahead and walk across the room today."

Matt was in the armchair, and I was on the couch. We looked up at the same time to see him just walking - WALKING! - across the middle of the living room floor. We just looked at each other like, "Did he seriously just do that?"

Then we started screaming and cheering and Matt scooped him up and he got all embarrassed and buried his head in his Daddy's shoulder. Just add it to the list of things he'll be talking about in therapy.

This only happened a couple of days ago, and it still catches me off guard when he takes off walking without holding my hand. I am so proud of him, and yes I'm so relieved.

This whole walking adventure has been a good exercise for me as a mom - I know it's on a small scale, and I don't mean to over dramatize the whole thing - but I see now that it really is so easy to fall into worrying & comparing -- and the saddest part is when my worrying & comparing has less to do with actual concern for my child, and more concern for what other people think of me as a mother. Yuck.

I guess we're both kind of finding our legs on this journey.

Cows and Kidney Beans

We had our first ultrasound this morning. Oh what an adventure. I would like to begin the story of this adventure by telling you of my dream. Actually, let's back up even further.

First of all, I took the pregnancy test and found out I was with child on Friday the 13th. Then, my first ultrasound was scheduled for April Fool's Day. Not sure what all of that is supposed to add up to, but it seems notable.

Then I had The Dream.

In anticipation of our upcoming ultrasound, my brain decided to have a little fun with me in the wee hours of the morning. Fun in the form of dreaming of my ultrasound... dreaming that the doctor looks at the screen and says, "Oh look! There's two!" The doctor then proceeds to turn the screen toward me, revealing the contents of my uterus: two perfectly shaped Chick-fil-a cows. Of course this was completely normal in my dream, and my only thought was, "Hm. So that's what twins look like. Cool."

It's fair to mention that I did go to bed that night with twins on the brain, seeing as my midsection has decided to explode, rivaling my first pregnancy measurements and winning by an impressive landslide (read: I wasn't this big until I was 4 months pregnant last time). It's also true that twins run in my family. And it's also true that I have some very dear friends who enjoy gawking at my belly and telling me every day that they will bet me fifty dollars that there's more than one baby in there.

I digress.

Finally, April 1st arrives, and it's time for our ultrasound! Marcy, our amazing ultrasound tech, slathered the wonderfully warm jelly on the belly, and off we went. I stared at the screen in rapt anticipation... will there be cows? Okay, no not cows. But, will there be two!?

And there it was.

One perfectly beautiful little life. One little blurb, the size of a kidney bean, with a little flutter in the middle... one little heart beating fast and strong. One teeny weeny baby, even smaller than we thought... two weeks younger than we thought... one precious son or daughter who, by God's grace, will continue to grow inside of me until the beginning of November...

Marcy said she was going to look around for "some other stuff."

"Are you looking for another baby?" I asked, somewhere between fearful and hopeful.

"No, there's definitely only one in there!"

Matt and I shared a knowing glance... one part disappointment, ten parts relief.

Ultrasound pic to follow. As soon as I figure out the scanner again.

Just when I was about to pull my hair out...

...just when I thought I was a freak of nature, immune to the transformative power of P90X, throwing my hands up in frustration, watching my midsection continue to bulge rebelliously over the top of my jeans, regardless of how many Freaking Yoga X poses I contorted myself into... never mind the push ups, the kickboxing, the Freaking Ab Ripper X madness... just when I considered embracing shame and defeat...

...I took a pregnancy test.

Well, what do you know! Somebody's growing a baby in there!

Hey there, genius! Growing another human life within the confines your body tends to hinder the weight-loss process. (And toning of the midsection.)

Wouldn't you know that my mother's response to my joyous phone call (after her initial "What!? What!?!") was, "Well, that's certainly one way to get out of that workout challenge."

Yes, Mom, you nailed it. That was my plan all along.

Actually, you might even believe that it was, if you could actually see my "before" picture. (Which you will not.) (Ever.) I look at it now and I'm thinking, "How in the world did I not see that I was pregnant!?" I mean, that's one nicely placed muffintop. More like muffinfront. Does that even work?

So yes, internet, we are having a baby! And nearly as exciting, I am no longer limited to five misses on the P90X challenge! Woo hoo! (That actually took quite a bit of begging pleading negotiating, but we have reached an agreement: Matt still gets the original five allowable misses. I will work out "as often as I am able." Score.)

Were we shocked? Yes. Are we thrilled? Definitely.

Mark your calendars - the bun in this oven should be fully cooked at the end of October.