Someone to barf over me

Sunday, July 30:

There was, ahem, an unfortunate experiment in quilting a few months ago when I tried to make a quilt for my friend who had her baby last month. (He's already six weeks old!) As I've mentioned, it's now a giant pot holder that she will never hear about. And which no one in the blogosphere will ever see. (I did give her a make-up blanket that basically called for me just to sew binding around the edge of already-quilted fabric.)

But I learned a lot from my mistakes made on that quilt, which I just jumped into without knowing what I was doing. It was my first quilt, after all.

And so today I completed a quilt for my own baby!

No matter how proud I am of this quilt, I'm sure it's just a matter of time before the baby throws up on it ....

I guess it's not called Growing a Life for nuthin'

Saturday, July 29:

The weekly BabyCenter.com e-mail I've been getting (week 35 now!) tells me today that my uterus is 15 times its normal size. It could be 1500 times its normal size compared to the way I feel, and I'd go along with that.

I think I need to lie down ....

Questions for the day

Friday, July 28:

Why do all new baby clothes and other cloth items (like wash cloths) come folded and secured with enough tape to wrap and re-wrap Christmas gifts for the entire town of Whoville? None of my clothes come taped ....

And why do all the neutral baby items have ducks on them? When did ducks become the equal-opportunity symbol of gender? Ducks are cute, but I think there’s some kind of poultry conspiracy going on here. I never imagined my baby stash would be filled with so many ducks.

Why does my cat now want to massage my stomach, when before she massaged my chest and arms?

And why do strangers smile at my big, round pregnant stomach? From what I understand, these same people probably won’t be smiling a couple years from now when my baby is a toddler throwing a tantrum. Maybe they are smiling because they know what’s ahead, and they think it’s hysterical someone else is going to go through what they have already gone through. Or maybe these people smile because they’re glad it’s me and not them.

When people tell me I have that pregnant glow, don't they realize it's just makeup?

How come I seem to be the only person on the planet who doesn’t know the “why” behind pregnant women not picking up heavy things?

If you’re not supposed to sleep or work out on your back, how come the first thing they want you to do at the doctor’s office for your checkups is lie down? And how come many medical professionals seem to think lying on your back is a good way to give birth, essentially pushing out your baby uphill?

How did I mindlessly eat 10 chocolate chip cookies yesterday? Ten?! After the baby, I’m cutting out all sugar until my weight comes down again.

Does the baby know how much I can’t wait to see him/her?!

Let me tell you all about my wife's placenta

Thursday, July 27:

"An assistant at my office said because you have a lot of heartburn, it means the baby will have a lot of hair," JP says to me.

"What?! You're going around telling people I have heartburn?"

[unintelligible mumbling and stammering]

"I hope you won't share the details of any of my private parts," I say, just to let him know I wouldn't appreciate that. "People don't need to hear about my uterus or how much I dilated in the hospital or anything like that."

"Well, people ask me how you're doing," JP says. He's sweet; he's an innocent; it's part of why I love him.

"They're just being polite; I just tell people I'm fine."

No need for full disclosure of my reproductive system to people I don't even know!

So in yet another old wives' tale that continues to be perpetuated, hair makes heartburn ...?

JP and I were both bald babies, so our baby will probably be bald, too.

And I need a Boy Scout to help me cross the street

Friday, July 27:

My stepmother, Ann, e-mails me:

"How are you feeling? Any new pictures?"

In a fit of chattiness, I respond:

"Things are going OK, but I feel very pregnant .... Overall, I have very few bad symptoms compared with some other women, so I guess I can't complain. Some days I wonder what I have gotten myself into and think I must have lost my mind to even entertain the idea of having a baby! It's weird."

So she thinks she needs to counsel me:

"Honey, what you are experiencing is very common. Including your emotions! Your hormones are raging right now, and the closer you get to delivery, it could even escalate. I feel sure once you hold your baby in your arms for the first time, you'll know exactly why you did it."

I was just trying to be funny. But if she feels as though she saved the day with her e-mail, then I'm happy for her. Being so far away, it's probably one of the few ways she feels she can contribute.

Sonograms: You've come a long way, baby!

Wednesday, July 26:

Stupid mama

Monday, July 24:

On Saturday, JP and I wrangled the baby car seat into my car. Man, you go to college and get a job and get promoted ... and then you have to install an infant carrier in your vehicle, and all your smarts drain from the top of your head down and out the bottoms of your feet.

And we probably put it in wrong anyway. Will check with local fire or police department ....

So today I pumped out the ungodly sum of $50 for gas in my car while I cleaned the windows and looked at the strange sight of this cute little car seat in my car, imagining myself making faces at the little person while cleaning the windows, when I realized:

I have no idea what people do with their babies while they are pumping gas.

You can't leave the baby in the car with the windows rolled up and the engine off. I think that's against the law where I live.

If you leave the engine and air conditioning running, you're just inviting someone to steal your car -- and your baby. There have been more than a couple carjackings in my area in the past few years when babies and young children were taken along with the car, so I'm not being paranoid. Am I?

If you leave the engine off but roll all the windows down for the baby, your baby breathes in the gas pump fumes. And someone could still kidnap the baby by reaching in through the open window.

That really leaves only one other option I can think of, which is to fuel up the car while someone is watching the baby at home (or if there is at least a second adult in the car with the baby). And hope you never run out of gas while driving around with the infant.

Unless I'm overlooking another option ...?

Gifts for my baby

Friday, July 21:

I am driving to my baby shower in the rain. The tea room where my sister-in-law Sabee is having the party is a half-hour away, so I have lots of time to think about how my hair is limp and greasy from a deep condition gone wrong the night before, followed by not getting any sleep, then how my white maternity pants are feeling a little too tight and how I wish a friend were coming to this shower. Oh, and then there's the obsessive thoughts over how I haven't felt the baby move much the past day. Then traffic creeps to a crawl, and I feel overwhelmed and not much like a party at all.

But I'm determined to be at my best for the shower, for everyone else's sake -- mostly because I feel guilty over not wanting to have this last-minute shower in the first place.

The tea room is charming in a shabby chic kind of way. Topiary and garden murals are painted on the walls. Lamps with tiny little shades are on the tables. Cute English/country everything. Everyone is already there -- all three of them: Sabee, JP's mom MM and MM's close friend. Another family member was coming but called to say she had to take a friend to the doctor.

We're the only people in the place for at least an hour, so it seems strangely quiet. I was worried the others would ask me, tireless interrogation style, all about the baby and the pregnancy and possibly even some questions I don't want to answer about plans JP and I have for our little person. But instead, the three of them talk about other people they know but I don't know, and I wonder which kind of conversation is worse. I almost want to say, "Hey! If this is really my shower, clue me in!" But I just sit there like an invisible, pregnant lump until MM tries to talk to me about someone named Martha, which gives me the chance to remind her I don't even know who this Martha person is. Most of the conversation has nothing to do with the baby or me. Everyone is pleasant, but no one seems to be having fun.

We're celebrating a new life here, ladies!

The food is excellent and served in courses (it's not High Tea, but lunch), and we end up discussing what could possibly be in the food and what things we all have cooked lately (MM: peach pie; me: chicken and dumplings). The genteel English server tells us about the new owners, who are from Switzerland and speak French, and MM insists I get the chance to meet them because I speak fluent French. I protest that I really don't speak fluent French and get that stage-fright feeling.

(Later, the chef and his wife do come out, and I do end up speaking with them in French a little bit. But mostly, thank goodness, it's in English. One little weird fact about me is my mother is French Canadian -- I know, not at all like the Swiss French -- and my father was, well, hillbilly. Go figure how that happened.)

When other customers begin to arrive and it's time to open the gifts, I think everyone gets more relaxed. We can focus on the cute little baby things. There are lots of receiving blankets (Why aren't they simply called blankets?) and onesies. Sabee gives us a tub, rubber ducky and some nice bath-related things. And she sends me home with several balloons.

The shower was nice, and I'm grateful for the gifts and well wishes. Besides those gifts and well wishes, though, I also take away the knowledge that I need to be more, I don't know, present, in these kinds of situations. If I had been more of myself at the shower, maybe I wouldn't have felt as uncomfortable as I was. But instead I tried to match my mood to the others'. If I am in a similar situation in the future with my baby, I want to be more there and be the person my baby will be used to me being, as we are at home -- not get weirded out in awkward social situations.

That will be one useful gift I can give to my baby.

Same old, same old -- I'll take it

Thursday, July 20:

Ho hum, another regular appointment with my Ob. I think I'm getting bored with being pregnant. I guess that's a blessing -- there are no problems.

In fact, it's all good. Both the nurse who listened to the baby's heartbeat and my beloved nurse practitioner (whom I saw in place of a doctor this time) commented I don't have any stretch marks. Yet. I know this baby is going to get much bigger still. But maybe the stretch mark oil I have been using is actually working. Either that, or as my friend Roo has said, my "mature" skin is already kind of loose, so it expands better than younger skin. (She's the one who is my age but had her baby at 20.)

Either way, something to be thankful for.

Trying out some (motherly?) instincts

Tuesday, July 18:

Did you ever have to make an important decision and did so basically just by instinct?

When I was in the hospital, the staff asked me who the baby’s pediatrician is. So I asked a friend if she could recommend her kids’ doctor, and I go for a prenatal consult.

I told JP if this meeting wasn’t too horrible, we should go with this doctor. The practice was recommended by our friend, takes our insurance, is nearby and next to the hospital. The doctor’s license and other information checks out on the state Web site, too. I did have an appointment with one other pediatrician, but I canceled it because my friend said her kids went there before they went here, and it wasn’t that great -- the waiting room was dirty, the front desk people were rude (there it is again!) and once they told her, “We only see sore throats on Wednesdays.”

Have you ever heard of anything more ridiculous?

I just can’t over-research everything, I am learning. Even though I have read some women put more care into choosing a pediatrician than they do into the actual father of their child, I guess I’ve reached a point where enough is enough, and I have to move on to the next important decision to make in regards to this baby.

The pediatrician is just a few doors down the hall from the genetic counselor we were seeing. There are plastic chairs in primary colors, separated into two rooms by a wall, and colorful art. After filling out a couple forms, I find a seat where the other people are waiting. After about a half-hour of trying to watch the Cartoon Network on the TV, I look up and notice a sign that reads, “SICK waiting room.”

Oh. That explains why there is a wall dividing the waiting room.

But hey, I’m the one who just finished more than two weeks of antibiotics for my infection, so whatever.

The doctor leads me down a hall decorated in fun art to an exam room. She is pleasant. She is extremely detailed in her answers to my questions. In fact, at some point, I make a passing comment most people would just nod their heads at, and she responds with a five-minute discourse that goes way too deep into the comment. That’s kind of annoying, but I figure if I ever have a question that’s really important about my baby’s health, she’ll be just as detailed and will tell me everything she knows about the subject.

Plus, the office is open every day of the week and will see patients until 10 p.m. No “We only see sore throats on Wednesdays” business.

So, little baby, weary as I am with all the planning that JP and I have done since we found out about you, we’re putting your health in this doctor’s care with little more than a recommendation and good vibes. And, of course, we’ll be looking out for you, too.

Giving up -- gaining more

Monday, July 17:

I am giving up painting with pastels.

I am giving up making bead jewelry.

I am giving up creating Christmas ornaments.

Not that I really painted, made jewelry or created Christmas ornaments in the first place. But if I wanted to, I could have, because I had a couple drawers full of stuff to do it. Had.

The work table where I stored my craft-related items -- including my sewing tools and odds and ends -- is being kicked out of the future baby room. So the unused stuff had to go, too.

Now the sewing tools I can’t live without (along with a pocket folder of scrapbooking materials and an empty scrapbook) are stored in a 10-gallon tub.

My creative aspirations, stashed away in a plastic container.

This is what I was so afraid of ten, even seven, years ago: that a baby would come into my life and take away the me-ness of myself. That I would have to give up too much. The baby would be all-important, and I wouldn’t matter anymore. Having a baby seemed like an ultimate cruelty to myself, too sacrificial, too back seat. How could I allow another person to take myself out of my own life?

But as JP and I clean up the room of doom (yes, he’s allowing me to help him now, praise be) and as we uncover layers of stuff from our life together, I realize most of the stuff really isn’t so important.

There are other symptoms of this change of heart: I’ve turned away the chance to buy advance tickets to concerts I’d normally be crushed not to go to, just because they are taking place around the time the baby is due. I skipped free tickets to another concert last month because JP and I were going to our childbirth prep class. I declined a paid speaking engagement in a resort town because it’s taking place weeks after the due date.

The strange thing is that, rather than feeling oppressed by the needs and demands of this little person (who isn’t even here yet!), it’s almost a feeling of freedom to think about someone else instead of me, me, me all the time.

I blame it on falling in love with the baby. There may be no other kind of love in which you can be smitten with someone you haven’t met, seen or even had a conversation with than the love for your unborn baby.

And while I may be putting this child first, I have learned good mothers also take care of themselves and do things for themselves once in a while -- I’m not disappearing, as I once assumed motherhood was all about. Besides, what kind of role model would I be for my child if I had no personality of my own?

So I’m keeping my sewing and scrapbooking supplies.

I want to make some maternity clothes. A baby quilt. A handmade baptism outfit, when the time comes. A scrapbook of our family with all the wonderful new memories we’ll make.

And some spring ’07 couture for moi.

Breakdancing

Friday, July 14:

"Honey, come here, the baby is moving all around."

"What's 'e doing?"

"I don't know. I think 'e's breakdancing!"

"I told them no breakdancing." Frowns.

"You told who?"

"The sperm."

"You told the sperm no breakdancing."

"It's inherently understood."

Thursday Thirteen ... kinda sorta ... whatever ... um

Thursday, July 13:

OK, so I'm curious about this whole Thursday Thirteen business bloggers are into. I don't know how it started. But I have seen enough of them around, I think, to take a crack at it myself.

I'm a first-timer, so please be gentle.

Thirteen things I hate and love about being pregnant

Hates

1. Keeping antacids on my nightstand. I hate the heartburn. My throat has actually been sore almost all year. Not good for singing. Fortunately, recently my doctor said it was OK for me to take OTC Pepcid AC, which helps.

2. Bloodying lots of tissues. I hate the nosebleeds.

3. Rolling -- and I do mean rolling -- out of bed at 3:30 a.m. I hate getting up in the middle of the night to pee. (But I know it’s good practice for when the baby will be waking me up at all hours.)

4. Wasting my time. I hate having to go to so many doctor appointments and waiting forever to see somebody.

5. Being grossed out. I am squeamish, so I hate reading or thinking about all those gross birth things that (can) happen. I actually made myself sick once just reading about birth -- I had to put my head down because I thought I would faint. I know birth is a beautiful thing. And I know you think I’m a wimp. It’s just bodily-function stuff I can’t handle. So go ahead and throw your rotten tomatoes and eggs at me and tell me how I’ll never hack it as a mother.

6. Telling people the baby’s sex will be a surprise, and we like it that way, for the umpteenth time. I hate when people ask, “But deep down, what do you really want?” as though we're not telling the truth. I want a child with a kind and generous heart. Someone who will, say, find the cure for a dreaded disease or reverse global warming. Someone who can play a mean guitar riff.

Loves

7. Having the perfect excuse for having a tummy. I love not having to hold in my stomach like the proverbial “lady” (although sometimes I still do just out of habit -- fat lot of good that does!).

8. Not having a period. I love not having a period!

9. Being, er, carefree. I love not having to think about birth control!

10. Eating. I love giving into food cravings!

11. Feeling blessed by others' well wishes. I love that people are so happy and excited for us!

12. Thinking about the freaky-cool mingling of genes and so much more. I love knowing my husband and I will always be together in the form of this new life!

13. Thinking about my baby! I love knowing at the end of all this, my husband and I will have a baby to hold!

Pink hair: One dream realized

Wednesday, July 12:

Back in March, I came up with a list of things I wanted to do before the baby is born. Unreachable things, but also some serious things. Personal things.

Last night, I accomplished one: I gave myself some pink highlights in the strands of hair around my face! Third time's a charm. L'Oreal's Color Pulse in Funky Cherry finally got the job done right and didn't wash out after the application like the previous tries.

I realize there's a chance I look like a freak now, what with the pink hair and a big tummy and the fact I'm not a teenager. But what could possibly be more freaky than having a human being living inside of you? So the pink hair just sends me over the edge of freakiness.

Looking back at my original list, the other things I've accomplished are:

None of them.

Bummer.

However, I have read most of the novels on my nightstand, and I might get a chance to record some vocals for a song a friend wrote (might happen after the baby). I did buy some chocolates at Godiva when my mother and sister were here a couple months ago (along with Godiva's fabulous chocolate drinks for each of us), but we shared them.

Now there are about two months until the baby gets here. What else should I do?

What do you dare me to do?!

Shower power

Tuesday, July 11:

The invitation for the baby shower JP's sister -- "Sabee" -- is giving for me arrives. It's a single piece of heavy paper with a baby on it and glittery edges. Cute.

The shower is taking place in the middle of a weekday at a tea room. That means people who have a regular job won't be able to come. And none of the invitees is a friend of mine. I had already given Roo the list of all my friends; this second shower came up afterward. I was hoping at least Star would be able to come (because she's going to miss the shower at Roo's house), but her trip has been rescheduled yet again, and now she'll be away at that time.

All this makes me a little sad, but at the same time, I feel guilty about my previous rantings and ravings over this shower. Sabee is just trying to do something nice. And she is a nice person, if a little distant or distracted lately.

I need to tell myself not "make the best of it" but to find some genuine, positive feelings and make it a memorable experience not just for myself but for everyone. Because what we're really celebrating is the baby.

And, I have to admit, I'm curious about that tea room.

But I have nothing to wear!

Tale of the seven doulas

Monday, July 10:

Back in May after talking to some people and reading articles about doulas, I thought I'd check some out.

Then it just became another chore, and I never called any of the ones I found in my area.

After our stay in the hospital last week, though, JP has been pressing me to look into doulas again. That's right -- he's actually encouraging me to find a doula. Neither my mother nor stepmother, nor anyone else I know, is expected to be there on the Big Day. Maybe he feels having someone there with us all the time -- not like the hospital staff, who will come in when they get the chance to -- will take some pressure off him.

So today, I go back to the list I saved. I decide to contact seven of them.

Three aren't in practice anymore. One of them even tells me there wasn't any money in it for her. OK. And why are you telling me this? To make me feel guilty?

One I e-mail because I can't figure out which is her phone number. She e-mails back right away to say she might be available around my due date and gives me her phone number, but one digit is missing. Then I get a second e-mail from her right away, kind of like a PS, inviting me to a babywearing meeting. Babywearing? Do I get to try them on?

Another doula seems promising because she's apparently an RN and has done the whole baby scene for more than 30 years. On the phone, though, the phrase that comes to my mind repeatedly is "drill sergeant." (Sound off, one! two! The doula rules, three! four!) She tells me exactly how long she will stay with me and that she'll make me pee every hour on the hour. But I don't cross her off my list because maybe a drill sergeant is what I need. Hmm ....

The next doula is also a lactation consultant and has a baby who will be a year old around the time of my due date. She seems very, I don't know, mommyish on the phone and really normal. She tells me congratulations, for one thing, and seems personal and warm.

Then there is a "group practice" doula who has offices in a couple of locations. She has the best-looking Web site of all the doulas I checked out -- a plus in my book (even though I know you can't judge a book by its cover) -- and invites me to an open house party at their newest location this coming Sunday. Also, these women were recommended by one of the doulas who isn't in practice anymore.

So I'll just let my impressions of these doulas roll around in my head for a while, try to make it to the open house and see which ones I eventually want to call to talk some more.

Anyone have a good or bad experience with a doula?

Out, out, red spot!

Monday, July 10:

[peek]

[crickets]

I guess no one is going to lynch me about the comment fiasco ....

Whew, thanks!

I had a follow-up appointment today about my ankle/foot infection and have to take another week of antibiotics because, er, it's still discolored. (Sorry if that's too much information.) The front desk people messed up my appointment time, but they still let me in.

Putting up my foot all weekend (um, yeah, that's what I did, 100%!) really helped, but I wasn't good at it. There are still so many things to do to get ready for the baby in the next eight weeks. And who knows, the kid could come sooner than that.

If the baby was already here and I got this infection, and the doctor told me to put my foot up all weekend, I probably would have just laughed until she threw me out of the office ....

So I better get all injuries out of my system now while I can.

PEOPLE HAVE BEEN LEAVING COMMENTS?! I AM A BLOGGIN' IDIOT!

Thursday, July 6:

Oh.

Man.

There you are, wonderful people, commenting on my blog! I had no idea until I just put up the new blog template design. I thought maybe three people were reading. Maybe.

I went ahead and published every comment. I promise to read all comments soon.

I am so sorry! I had no idea!

And I'm so embarrassed that I may never blog again ....

New template!

Thursday, July 6:

Yes, again!

So soon, I know!

The pink just wasn't doing it for me.

So I made this one myself. Here I am with my foot resting over my head per doctor's orders, and instead of doing the things I should be doing (that is, things you can do with one foot propped on a stack of pillows on your computer desk), I wallowed in self-pity and had some fun redesigning the blog template.

Doctor appointment: Footfalls

Thursday, July 6:

Back to my Ob/Gyn's office, my first two-week appointment.

Except hardly anything seems to be about the baby. All the attention is on my foot.

And wouldn't you know the nurse who told me not to worry about my cat scratch is the one taking care of me today!

I don't realize it is her at first -- I have only a voice to go on, after all. But based on her reaction to the sight of my red ankle and swollen foot, I am shocked to find she is the same nurse who saw me during the appointment back in January when I found out for sure I am pregnant. I thought she was so on the ball at the time . . . .

"That's not a scratch," she continues, "your cat mauled you!"

"Yeah. But it's just this one little spot here that got infected. The other scratches or bites didn't get infected," I say.

The elf doctor has come in on this conversation, so I figure I don't have to bring up how unimpressed I am that a nurse there told me to nevermind my injury. The doctor doesn't like the looks of my ankle.

This hurts because I am so proud of my ankle. I couldn't wait to look at it this morning to see how it healed overnight, and it did. It looks better. And there's no pain at all when I walk. It now looks as though I just got a sunburn and my foot has puffed like a warm marshmallow.

However, the doctor tells me to stick to complete rump warming and keep my foot elevated above my heart. And come back on Monday for a follow-up. Unless I develop a fever (which I haven't yet, not even in the hospital). Or unless the redness goes outside the line she draws on my ankle with a pen (yee-ouch).

And yes, I'm still in my Ob's office, not a dermatologist or podiatrist.

I'm so disheartened. No errand running. No weekend (again). No fun.

And I don't even remember to confirm the results of my gestational diabetes test from my last visit, or find out anything new about the baby.

On a happier note, happy birthday, Karen!

A stay in the hospital

Wednesday, July 5:

I came home Monday late afternoon after a two-night stay in the hospital.

The baby is fine -- my hospital stay didn’t have anything to do with the baby, thank goodness. But they put me in the “baby area” along with all the other preggos and new parents.

What happened was I got an infection from a cat scratch (or bite) from my cat when he attacked me early Thursday morning.

I called the vet to ask about my cat’s behavior. He meant to attack one of our other cats. Probably due to lingering testosterone in his system after being neutered, the vet said. The vet also recommended I call my Ob/Gyn about the scratches/bites even though I cleaned and treated them.

I forgot to call until the next day -- Friday -- when one of the scratches/bites started looking red and swollen. A nurse at my doctor’s office told me the scratch was nothing to worry about.

“Oh, I get scratches from my cat all the time,” she said. “The redness goes away after a while. It will be fine. One thing that really helps is if you do dishes.”

Do dishes? “But the scratch is on my ankle,” I told the nurse.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I was thinking because my cat scratches me on the hand, your scratch was on the hand, too.”

What an airhead.

Anyway, on Saturday, my ankle was looking so much worse. Not just red, but purple. And it hurt to walk. I’ll spare you the rest of the yucky details.

JP and I went to the emergency room, where the ER doctor wasn’t impressed that my Ob’s nurse said not to worry about the scratch/bite.

So after IV antibiotics every six hours for a couple days in the hospital -- during which time I was a rather impatient patient and announced I wanted to go home every 12 minutes -- both the elf doctor from my Ob’s office and an infectious disease specialist said I could go home and continue on oral antibiotics.

My ankle still looks bad, and it still hurts to walk.

The first day in the hospital, I kept worrying about what all this was doing to the baby. The staff assured me the antibiotics they were giving me were in a class that wouldn’t pass through the placenta. I kept worrying that the infection would get into my bloodstream and then go to the baby, which is what one nurse said could have happened if I hadn’t come in sooner.

The best part of the whole ordeal is how wonderful JP was to me. He slept on the chair that converts into a bed (very loose interpretation of a bed here), brought me things from home (as well as two new magazines and a Godiva dark chocolate bar), brought us dinner the first night because no one at the hospital offered me so much as a drink of water for nine hours since first visiting the emergency room, and he asked questions and kept a level head when all I could do was worry about the baby and staying the hospital on a holiday weekend. He even cleaned the house.

It was also good to get to know some of the wonderful nurses and PCAs because I’ll be seeing them again in a couple of months when we go to have the baby!

Roses in Baghdad

Saturday, July 1:

JP brings me a dozen yellow roses for no reason.

"Oh, thank you!" I say. "They're so pretty. I wish I had an equally nice place to put them. But our whole house is a wreck."

"Did you say our house is like Iraq?" JP asks.

"Yes, it kind of does look like Baghdad in here."

Sometimes, weekends just aren't enough! Now that the nighttime childbirth prep classes are over, maybe we can spend some quality time getting room of doom stuff out of the rest of the house, too.