The Gambler

I walk the line between wearing my heart on my sleeve and keeping things close to the vest. I’m sure I’m not alone on that line. One of the things that I’ve had on my heart lately is babies. And I’ve been keeping very much to myself about it.

I have always wanted a bigger family, at least more than 2 kids. My brother and I are 4+ years apart and were never very close. Sure, we had our childhoods together, but at some point it felt like we were two only children whose paths sometimes crossed, usually at our shared bathroom in the morning. And growing up Catholic, I saw enough bigger families than mine and the grass over there looked a little greener to me.

So I had it all planned out: meet Mr. Right (no later than college, of course), get married young, have lots of babies, live happily ever after.

God had a good laugh at my plan!

So when Fella and I started getting serious and making our plans for the future (God wasn’t laughing as much this time,) we settled on more than one (Fella is an only child and he didn’t want any of that for his kids), but no more than three.

It took awhile after the Mayor was born to get back on the more babies bandwagon. There were times that I would have been totally OK if he had been the Only. Even if the Mayor himself was telling me that he wanted me to have 15 (or was it 20?) more babies (that kid LOVES him some babies!) But Fella being the only of an only child, he didn’t want the Mayor bearing that burden.

So along comes wonder of wonders: Miss Thang. And everyone thinks it’s perfect: two—that is, one of each. So you’re done, of course…right?

When I was pregnant with the Mayor, I dreamed about having two boys. Maybe that was just another funny thing my brain was doing while the rest of me was sleeping. Regardless, pretty soon after Miss Thang, I still felt like there was still another person to add to our family.

However, I’ve been crunching some numbers. OK, maybe not exactly numbers, but time. There’s too much going on in the near future that I would rather be not pregnant for. And besides that, there’s the whole being host to another human being for 9 months (although I do love being pregnant. Mostly). Then the next year/+ on this side of the womb before they can eat real food and walk on their own. Hell, MT just hit two and she’s like the toddler version of a Stage 5 Clinger.

You know, autonomy is a really, really nice thing.

I didn’t think I’d be thinking about this much before MT turned two. But certain events accelerated the process a little bit and here I am, elbow deep in wondering if I still have it in me to have another baby. Not only have another baby, but to have three kids! I mean, that’s just crazytown! There is just no way. And as soon as I think I’ve decided that I’m done--enter crisis mode. 

So we know about the quarter-life- and the trusty ol’ mid-life crises. But this is something different. I focused so much energy in my life on getting to the part where I would have kids, the prospect of not continuing to have more kids is...it’s an existential crisis all of its own.

Let’s call it: the Post-Reproductive Crisis.

I mean, what is my purpose in life if not making more tiny humans? Yeah, yeah, I’ve still got those two other little people I’ve already breathed life into to tend to. But their childhood is finite. As is the family planning stage of life, I keenly realize. But to still be in my child-bearing years, looking my lady parts dead in the ovaries, and giving them the finger? I just. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN???

So that’s where I’m at right now: between the proverbial know-when-to-hold-‘em and know-when-to-fold-‘em.

Meanwhile (in heaven)…God holds the cards and laughs heartily.

Two AND a Centennial?

We celebrated Miss Thang (some more) with family and friends this weekend. I try to make things low maintenance (by Pinterest standards, anyway.) Inevitably, some little detail seems to get overlooked. Not that anyone but me really knows better.

I admitted to my fellow moms that the older my kids get, the less I worry about so many of the details. And that the details were definitely more elaborate when I was still working outside of the home. Working Mommy’s Guilt? Perhaps. A testament to having more time to think, plan, and shop online while being a desk jockey? Absolutely.

Last week also marked my Gramma’s 98^th birthday. She and Miss Thang were born on the same day 96 years apart! Upon hearing their ages, a friend of my dad’s remarked that they have 100 years between them. Crazy!

On the Eve of a Second Birthday

You’re speaking more and more clearly these days. I keep thinking how much I will miss hearing you work your way through words. Like how you still say "ssshicken” instead of kitchen (and chicken, for that matter), or “ogurt” when you want yogurt, among others that I fear I’m already forgetting.

I feel a sense of guilt both when I correct you and when I don’t.

And I can’t quite tell the difference when you’re asking to go potty or go party. The past few days it’s definitely been the latter, though you refuse to be pigeonholed as a party girl. Already making good choices!

"Oh gosssh," you say and shake your head from side to side.

Just two days shy of your birthday, you really pulled out the big guns with the first “love you, Mama!” Here, have ALL the presents. Don’t think for a minute I didn’t notice you working on your dad with a “love you” at bedtime tonight.

That hair!

Those eyes!

She’s so smart!

Not a day goes by that we don’t hear these things lauded about you. Based on this alone I could say you’re a triple threat, lest I be forgetting that you are already quite a songstress (that little ditty you made up about your shoes today? Grammy worthy!) And whether it’s Toddler Tunes or Party Favorites that we’re listening to, you always keep the beat (perhaps a Tony in your future?)

ETA: We've definitely hit this milestone right here:

I’ve lost track, but last I checked you were spontaneously counting to 15+ the other day. Funny, no one remembers teaching you so many numbers! Colors, on the other hand…well, we’ll work on those, along with the last 2/3 of the alphabet. Don’t worry girl, you got this.

I’m guessing you picked most of these things up from the Mayor. It helps in the learning department to have a big brother. I can still remember spontaneously learning the state capitals when I still shared a room with your uncle. And play the piano. I’m sure he thought I was a snotty little show-off when I’d sit and play by ear what he’d just been toiling over in an hour of practice.

Don’t let that deter you, though.

Sassy Pants. Lady Lu. Missy Mae.

My girl…TWO!

Welcoming Our Girl

It was the moment I had been waiting 9 months to happen. The contractions woke me early Sunday morning. Because I they hadn’t started on their own the first time around, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but their arrival was unmistakable.

Now the waiting game had hit a fevered pitch. Yet all I could do was, you know, wait some more. I downloaded a contraction timing app for my phone. I probably packed something resembling a hospital bag (I’m not real high maintenance about these things). I went about my regularly scheduled business.

Like the contractions, Sunday came and went like clockwork. I’m not sure home much sleep I actually got that night, but things were moving right along.

Then the sun came up, apparently signaling to the contractions that it was time to back off a little bit. So, off to school went the Mayor. And about my business went I.

Monday afternoon, I had a NST scheduled since we were already well past girl-girl’s due date. I laid back in a chair, they hooked me up to some thingamabob and waited to check for Miss Thang to kick a bunch of times within a certain timeframe. Miss Thang must have been power-hibernating in anticipation of her imminent journey, so they sent me back for an ultrasound. (She was fine).

Contractions continued through the afternoon, getting stronger and closer together. I continued to wait.

After the Mayor went to bed, Fella and I settled in for Monday night TV: The Following. I’m not sure what had my attention more, the tele or the timer app. But as the 10 O’clock news started, I said to Fella: “I think we had better make some calls.”

I called my doctor (who promptly ordered me to the hospital) and Fella called his mom to come stay over with the Mayor. The waiting was over?

Pshaw.

The drive to the hospital? BRUTAL. Riding in a car through contractions is no joke. I had read that somewhere on this vast www, so it was expected. And I thought I had asked Fella to drive gently, but apparently I didn’t emphasize it enough. I suppose I should have asked him to intuit when the contractions would hit and stop in the middle of the road until they passed. Because, duh.

Somehow we made it to the hospital, got checked into L&D, received my ball gown for the affair (the chic open-backed kind!) and plugged in. Since my first delivery was by caesarian, there were concerns of related complications, I was immediately hooked up to monitors while I waited some more.

Night turns into morning and as soon as the sun is up and those pesky contracts slow down. AGAIN!?! There’s no way I’m leaving the hospital, so it’s time for the god awful good stuff: pitocin. It’s white knuckle time.

At some point they bring me a glider because I just cannot be in the craftmatic adjustable hospital bed and endure the pain post-pitocin. And my birth partner? He’s zonked out on the pullout chair these facilities are outfitted with.

I’m not entirely sure how long this lasts, but all too soon the nurse is back to give me more.

“HA HA HA. No.” My exact words to her. It’s epidural time, y’all.  

The anesthesiologist arrived faster than I expected. And as soon as I was comfortable, Fella high-tailed it out of the hospital to get some grub. I tried to convince him to grab some oatmeal from just down the road at Peets, but instead he went all the way home. When he left the hospital, I was only dilated 4cm.

My doctor seemed convinced that I was going to wind up having another c-section because my babies are on the big size. Not a fan of this attitude, I ask my daytime L&D nurse what gives after generations of women on both sides of my family have birthed big babies without incident. She explains all the things that my doctor didn’t do after the Mayor was born to determine if I was not physically able push my puppies out.

It was nearing Noon, the nurse checks out all the things, tells me I’ve got good birthing hips (so-to-speak) and updates my status: dilated to 7cm. Fella’s going to be surprised at the progress!

But where is Fella? Oh right, home.

He shows back up sometime after Noon. And so does my doctor, who checks me again and estimates that the wait is almost over. But first—we wait.

Within an hour, the room is prepped for delivery. And I am pushing. And watching in a mirror, at first to make sure my push technique is right, but ultimately, I end up watching Miss Thang being born. I swore that was of ZERO interest to me. It was, admittedly, pretty interesting after all.

And so Miss Thang came into this world without much fuss and clocked in at 8lb 11oz. She shares her day with her Great Gramma B, 96 years apart.

Edit: Miss Thang is actually over a year and a half now, so this recap was long overdue. To whom? I don't know, other than myself, I guess!