From DEFCON 3 & back

In an effort to blog more, I'm attempting this from my beloved iPhone. The events of today really needed me to give my writing muscles a good flex.

Georgia to Maine, everything went all to hell by 9am. I should have started packing earlier than last night, but my motives are questionable, and I chose to a playdate with pals instead. I loved the socializing, and even responsibly did three loads of laundry in prep mode.
Packing for myself and two babies is an organizational feat that results in stress overload. I am too much of a scatter brain to add "packing for a trip" to lists of strengths on my resume. (FYI, my current market is domestic engineering).
Exhausted, I dragged my tired tush to bed at 11:00 half packed in both mine and the kids suitcases. Quote, "I'll pack myself tonight and help you however you need tomorrow," Ron.* (names may have been changed to protect this subject from getting ripped a new
&$$hole).
T-minus two hours to leaving for the airport, I left my husband, his unpacked suitcase, two unfed & undressed babies to drop the dogs off to be boarded and grab last minute supplies at the Target. Did I forget to mention "Ron" was starting a load of his own laundry as I walked out the door?
Target happened first, and I returned to the car to find my very panicked Chihuahua had deuced in car and proceeded to freak herself out all about the interior. Nothing starts the morning right like enjoying a car full of aroma de dog shit the thirty minute drive roundtrip to the kennel. All before 9:00am. But by the grace of God go I, where I found the patience in very recesses of my sanity, I will never know.
Thankfully the rest of the day only got better. We made it to the airport, checked in, went through security, and boarded as seamlessly as can be expected with our cute yet challenging travel companions. The plane was wide open, so we had an entire row of 5 seats for our clan. It was lovely. Fin napped, Grace didn't, but we made it safely anyway.
Although the day started out shitty, literally, it got easier. We are still two hours from our final destination and I'm tip-tapping out this blog as our rental car zooms up interstate 95 in the cold dark Maine night. Sitting here next to my beloved "Ron," it feels good to be hoME.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Maine

Happy. Happy Birthday.

Blogging with two young-uns is tough. I've been meaning to blog about my birthday for a month now. Considering it's October 14th, that would be exactly a month. Really, I just stopped celebrating in the past couple weeks. Insert Earth, Wind, and Fire's September here.
My birthday is September 14th, but I started feeling special the beginning of the month and didn't stop until the end. I feel EXTRA important the actual day of my birthday. I LOVE LOVE LOVE birthdays. Not just my own, but birthdays in general. If ever informed of some one's birthday, I will often respond with, "It's your birthday?! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!" with a ginormous heartfelt grin on my face. Birthdays are significant. They mark the day you were born. The day you became a person. The day you entered the world. The beginning of your life. When someone wishes you a Happy Birthday, how can it not validate your existence? When I say it, I mean "I'm happy you were born," and more often than not, "I think you're pretty fabulous."
I turned 28 last month. Not sure what 28 is supposed to feel like, but to me it feels pretty damn fabulous. I have much to be thankful for. Receiving a heartfelt voicemail from a dear friend that day brought tears to my eyes thinking of all my blessings.
Rob surprised me with lobster. Umm, hello I love this man. When you're a Mainer, nothing says HOME or (in our family) LOVE, like real Maine lobsters thrashing at you angrily as their lives are about to end for your dining pleasure. It was a perfect gift and made me happy in so many ways.
The cake was made for me by my pal Deb off MMMM cakes, PLUG. It was chocolate cake with a white chocolate frosting and pink fondant polka dots (perfect for plucking off one by one for a birthday-tastic naptime treat for Mommy). By the time Rob got home from work, it looked like it had seen a flock of pecky seagulls. No, just me and my anxious little fingers. Unfortunately we didn't have the correct candles, but using a 7 and a 1 to represent the 8 suited me just fine. It was a yummy yum yum cake, just perfect for me.


My birthday was lovely. It was an ordinary day in my extraordinarily blessed life. I can only hope I have same enthusiasm and joie de vivre for many birthday celebrations to come.

Lilah of New

To say I've been busy lately would be a ginormous understatement. It's been a slow descent into fuss-filled chaos with the baby boy. Finley may or may not have the C-word (the one that rhymes with "frolic," not to be confused with the C-word that rhymes with "hunt"). Reflux medication, changing formulas, propping his bed, propping his head, changing his bottles, and purchasing a $20 bottle of Colic Calm all lead me to final swallow my pride and read up about colic. It described too many of Fin's symptoms to simply be coincidental and we've realized we were probably the one in five parents of a newborn that didn't dodge that bullet.
It's been the challenge of challenges, but surprisingly to all parties involved, I've risen to meet these demands. Rob and I spend many an evening tossing Fin between each other like a hot potato, and tag-team the toddler wrangling like a couple of rodeo clowns. The Lilah of Old would not have gone so quietly into these dark nights. Lilah of Old would have been a spoiled, sleep-deprived mess. I don't handle stress well, but I am worlds better than I used to be. Old me would have been kicking and screaming right along side these other two. Looks like I'm becoming an adult after all.
Many friends had informed me that life with two young children is very chaotic, but you "just do it." Like a super-mom themed Nike commercial, I suddenly know exactly what pals have been telling me. My commercial features a Baby Bjorn clad me in a 50-yard bottle making sprint while simultaneously changing a poopy diaper. Forget the inspiring theme music, and insert me singing "Don't park so close to me" (to the tune of the Police's "Don't Stand so Close") while maneuvering a parking lot. I can do it, and am doing it with the best of them. The endurance and stamina required for a colicky newborn and fiercely independent two-year old is nothing short of athleticism. (Nike, please feel free to contact me for further marketing ideas with this mom-empowerment campaign).
Lately there have been many times I have never felt so exhausted, frustrated, overwhelmed, guilty, inept, and out of control. But there are new developments as well. Better time management, coping skills, extreme multitasking, and huge improvement in suck-it-up factor have all been added to my momming-repertoire. I guess you just do it because you have to. It's part survival and part innate mothering capabilities. Woman have been mothers to two or more children for centuries, but this is a big life transformation for me. We're going stop while we're ahead and stop making babies. I was created with two arms for a reason. If God wanted me to have a whole Gosselin-load of children He would have given me more hands. I'm feeling tired and anxious most of the time, but most importantly, capable. That is all the can-do this fabulista needs.

Post-partum moment of the month

Setting: Sitting outside Athens Regional Medical Center.
I had just been discharged earlier that day and absentmindedly forgotten my perineal cleansing bottle. After going to two pharmacies and a medical supply store, Rob dropped me off at the hospital to get another one.

Me: don't cry, don't cry (as Rob drives up with the pizzas and Grace in the car)
Rob: "What's the matter???"
Me: "THE NURSE WOULDN'T GIVE ME ONE!" sob sob sob...
Rob: "Why not?"
Me: big sigh, trying to collect my overreactive self, "She said couldn't give me one after I had been discharged already. She said it was just a ketchup bottle, but it's not, IT'S NOT A KETCHUP BOTTLE!" sob sob sob...
Rob: gives me a sympathetic glance
Me: wiping my eyes, "Ugh, I'm sorry, I feel ridiculous right now, I have no idea why I'm crying about this. I'm ok now."
Rob: more of the sympathetic glance, gently pats me on the leg.
Me: "I JUST LOVE IT SO MUCH! IT CLEANS ME SO GOOD!" sob sob sob...
Grace: starts trying to cry in response to my crying
Rob: laughs, "I'm sorry I'm laughing, but this is so ridiculous and funny."
Me: sniffle, sniffle, "I'm not mad about you laughing, I'm just obviously not feeling like myself right now. Did you happen to pick up my Cymbalta prescription from the pharmacy?"
Rob: "YES."


It's not a ketchup bottle, bitch.

out of the womb and into world: Fin's arrival

It's been over two weeks since Finley arrived, and although life has been nothing short of chaotic and sleep deprived, I've been itching type this story out. I'm currently watching "The Wolfman" with mom and Rob and Fin, but although gory and fabulously entertaining, I'm determined to get bloggy with it.
Quite frankly, I'm convinced I was in early labor with this guy since Wednesday June 9th. There was lots of cramping, "obvious" clues in my undies, false alarms, lost sleep, and overall bitchiness. Sounds like the perfect recipe for early labor a la Lilah to me.
Saturday evening, June 12th, things changed. I started having what must have been back labor and was really uncomfortable all night. Of course, being the thoughtful and considerate wife that I am, I insisted Rob go sleep in the guest room so he would be fully rested in the event we were about to embark onto the actual labor trail. Really, I just knew that if any sleep was to be had, it would not be accomplished by Rob snoring peacefully next to me.
Cramping, successfully uncomfortable, and exhausted, I spent most of the evening rocking around on a yoga/birthing ball and waddling my pregnant self all around the Navy base. Not so restful sleep happened between the hours of 1:00 and 4:00a.m. By the time I awoke again I was determined to get out of my house and within a decent range of an epidural before my sweet tantrum-tastic two-year-old daughter woke up. Rousing Rob from sleep, he interrogated me about the timing and duration of my contractions. Having little to no patience by this time, I intended to answer him with, "None of your damn business!" Instead I "politely" requested he call our neighbor pal Christina over to watch Grace and put our already packed bags in the car. Believe me, he instantly got the message.
We arrived to the hospital around 6ish but really weren't checked in until around 7 that morning. I was praying that all the discomfort was not in vain and that there had been some serious dilating action going on my with my cervix and my uterus would proudly register an active contraction pattern via the handy dandy Tocco monitor. When I noticed not all of my contractions were registering, I began to sweat. Thankfully I was over 3cm dilated, but not quite 4cm and good ol' Dr. Elder was willing to get the show on the road.
My epidural arrived literally within forty minutes (administered by the ever trustworthy Dr. Lavelle, same miracle worker that gave me Grace's epidural. Huge win). Pitocin began flowing and it was game on! At this time I would like to credit Evening Primrose Oil for it's fabulous cervical ripening capabilities. For both my babies, I took 1,350 mg three times a day for exactly 14 days before birth. An amazing alternative therapy, this stuff works, my friends.
Dr. Elder predicted it would take a good bit of time to get to 5cm and then it would all go pretty fast after that. It made for a long boring morning filled with Facebooking on my iphone, Kardashian on TV, and texting to pals. I attempted to accomplish some knitting, but there were too many bracelets, IV lines, and pulse/ox monitor attached to me. By noon I had finally reached 5cm and was quite bored. My pal Sarah of Early Girl Photography was making her way over to us to record the blessed event, but I had informed her to take her time, bring along her knitting, and have no need to rush.
By 1:00p.m. the nurse checked me again and predicted we'd be having a baby within thirty minutes. Rapid dilating, batman! Rob called Sarah again and thankfully she was minutes away. It was lovely to have a friend around for the event and really nice for Rob to just participate and be part of the birth without having to also be camera-man. If you are at all interested in labor photography, I give it two definite thumbs up.
I had received a bolus dose of epidural shortly before pushing, so unfortunately I had no sensation of pressure, pain, or any physical feeling related to pushing. One of the negative aspects of getting an epidural, but totally worth it if a pain free labor is what you're after.
They asked if I wanted a mirror to be able to see Fin crowning and I was daring enough to accept. However, watching my lady parts in all their birthing glory was WAY TOO distracting and I couldn't concentrate on pushing. Before ditching the mirror I was able to comment on how well I had done mom-scaping my area down there. Having to haphazardly take blind stabs with my Lady Remington, I expected everything to be all patchy and uneven. Much to the entertainment of everyone in the room, I was thrilled it was quite an even trim I had accomplished mere days before. Win.
Everyone involved was awesome. The labor nurse, Rob, Sarah, and Dr. Elder were so encouraging and supportive whilst I was blindly trying to squeeze life out of myself. Sarah double checked to see if I would like action shots of Fin crowing, but I was determined to make the documentation of Finley's arrived G-rated and requested all photos be "snatch-free." She was fabulous and snapped away not just as a photographer, but as a true friend and active member of my birth. It was an amazing gift and I cannot thank her enough. I'd also like to give her another shout out for being at the right place at the wrong time and catching my apple juice on it's return trip, post-birth. Candidly speaking, labor isn't labor until somebody vomits.
I pushed for 30 minutes, and my baby boy Finley arrived at 1:57p.m. (June 13th). He was and still is perfect. With a crown of strawberry blond hair and light dusting of soft blond fuzz all over, he truly looks like a little Georgia peach. He was the sweetest, cutest baby boy ever born.
It was a fabulous labor and recovery. As much as I don't enjoy pregnancy, I'm convinced I was made for birthing babies. I rocked Fin's birth and am proud of every moment. I will remember his birth as amazing and wonderful because it was my own. At the end of the day we had a beautiful, healthy little boy and life will never be the same.

Finley Peter Kalloch, June 13th, 2010 1:57pm 8lbs.12oz. 20.5 in.

uterine eviction notice, SERVED.

Dear Son, you have until 6:00 a.m. Monday June 21st to vacate the residence known as MY uterus. If such time occurs and you are still an occupant I will not hesitate to load this residence full of Pitocin and send you on your merry way towards my "happily" dilating cervix (that is once the epidural is installed.)
Can't wait to meet you, love always, Mom.
This kid's days are numbered, and the heat is really on. For the past few days I've been experiencing mild to "holy shit, am I having my period?!" cramps off and on with wavering regularity. I pulled the false alarm button (much to my disappointment) early Wednesday morning. We all know how I hate to be wrong.
These signs of impending but not actual labor have left me very angry, just ask Rob. Wednesday morning our the bags were packed and arrangements made, and all that was left was to get in the car and drive the three blocks to the hospital. Frustratingly, all the labor-pattern cramping action in my region stopped. Fucking fabulous. I was so upset I insisted we still go to the hospital (hoping once I told my woeful tale of this miserable pregnancy, someone would have pity and throw some Pitocin or Cervidil my way). When that didn't convince Rob, I threatened to ingest the remaining Evening Primrose Oil pills (as if someone could overdose on a prostaglandin). He then called my bluff and I reluctantly admitted defeat.
I'm not one to complain (insert sarcastic laugh here) but the past few weeks have included much exhaustion, dizzy spells, and even fainting at the OB's office. Which quite frankly was his fault entirely. Midway through an exam ON MY BACK I informed him, with a very light head, that I needed to sit up. That was all I remember and the episode left me mortified once I came to about thirty seconds later. As a medical doctor specializing in obstetric care, you would think he would know better than to position a woman with a ginormous child-carrying uterus pressing on the blood vessels that supply the entire upper half of her body. Sorry mens, but it just goes to show no matter how smart you think you are, if you've never been on the business end of making babies, you just don't know.
As miraculous as pregnancy and child-bearing is, I still think the process sucks. I hold fast to my opinion that this body was made for one occupant, Me. From a structural standpoint, I wouldn't want to live in a home with cracks all through the foundation. So there is really nothing "normal" with a parasitic relationship that stretches your body to it's maximum dimensions and beyond. Stretch marks are nothing if not visible stress in the skin, or the foundation that holds a person together. Enough said. Don't even get me started on what the hormones do to you.
I'm ready. I'm ready for this pregnancy to be a distant memory. I'm ready to meet my child and first learn the little face I will cherish forever. For lack of a better phrase, let's get this "bloody show" on the road.

LGDD and my Jen Lancaster crush

Has it really been over a month since my last blog? Wow, that's just sad. I really do need to blog more. There are plenty of witty, fabulous wordy bits floating through my head on a daily basis. The problem is I just don't sit down and write them out. I may be pregnant and the proud owner of a very energetic two-year old, but I make sure I get lots of free time. I just prefer to piss away the opportunity by knitting, sleeping, or Facebooking (the ultimate time suck). That and I do suffer from LGDD. LGDD, or Lilah Gets Distracted Disorder, is similar to adult ADD. You may have noticed my language based symptoms if you've ever tried to have a conversation with me. I often ramble and frequently start a story that I don't finish. Pair this with extreme extroversion and a filter-less mouth, and you get a lot of verbal diarrhea.

I start something without finishing ALL THE TIME. So much so that I would really like to change this about myself. Venture in my house and you will see that I am the anti-organized mom. Lots of piles and lots of clutter mixed in amongst the chattiness I welcome you in with. This is how my mind works, lots of ideas, all of them fabulous, tumbling and bumbling for their chance to come to fruition. The end result is lots of half-completed craft projects, organizational attempts that just end up with different piles shifted to another location, and blogs that just never get written. (insert sad face here).

This must change. I must blog more because a) I love to write and feel so accomplished when I do, b) people love the blog and nothing makes me happier than entertaining my friends and fam with my wit, and c) I nearly shit my pants a few weeks ago when I recieved and email informing me that JEN LANCASTER was following me on Twitter. *FYI, I don't tweet, just stalk celebrities from my privacy of my iphone*

For the record, it is not my intention to harrass Jen Lancaster until she throws me a publishing life-line. On the contrary, I do believe that we would actually be friends. Scratch that, I'm pretty convinced she and I were separated at birth. Truthfully, my ultimate goal IS to someday see my name splayed acrossed a published work o'fabulousness at the local B&N. However I wish to be "discovered" at the "right time" rather than shamelessly plug myself with half-assed work to talented authors who probably see it everyday. (At least this is how it plays out in my mind when I imagine the E!True Hollywood Story of my amazing writing career).

I think Jen Lancaster is AMAZING and I am currently gobbling up "My Fair Lazy" with shameless enjoyment and LOL while reading all the time. One could imagine my instant excitement to open my email to find a title reading "Jen Lancaster is now following you on Twitter." Not to overload my blog with tween verbage, but OMG I just about died from the adrenaline rush. Thinking to myself, "Has she seen my blog? Did it make her laugh? Does she totally want to be my friend?!?!" Unfortunately this celebration was short lived when I found out via Twitter that she follows EVERYONE that follows her. To the tune of about 11,000 or more people. Junk. That does not work for our blossoming friendship. *In hindsight it really makes sense because a) I don't Twitter or Tweet, whatever you call it, and b) I don't link my blog info to my Twitter account.*

Needless to say, if Ms. Lancaster and I are to become friends or even frenemies (let's face it, we both have very loud overwhelming personalities and it's hard to have a balanced friendship when both members are the life-of-the-party types), I need to beef up my blog and tell an accurate if witty account of my day-to-day life. I've got the ideas, sometimes the words, and need to make the time. Plus if I want to be discovered by the publishing world, this gal needs to practice all she can. LGDD or not, if you are friends with me, please start harassing when it's been too long between blog posts.

dark and light...no, pitch and bright.

A few blogs ago I vowed to complain less. Well, then I didn't blog for a while because sadly I didn't have anything good to say. I've always been very forthcoming about my personal journey with mental health issues. It's the one soapbox I'm always more than happy to get on. Depression is as near and dear to my heart as one would ever WANT depression to be. I've struggled with depression and anxiety most of my adult life (and probably earlier). Thankfully I've never been ashamed or scared to get help. Nor have I ever shied away from being open and talking about my symptoms, my relapses, my losses, my victories, my doctors and therapists, meds that I've loved, meds that I've hated, and how all of it affected me.
Just in the last month, a cold Grace brought home and kindly shared turned into pneumonia for me. I felt exhausted, drained, and still so nauseous. Every morning was a struggle to get out of bed and the day was only an uphill battle from there. It was only then I realized that I felt overwhelmed, lethargic, catatonic, hopeless, and beat down. When I announced to Rob that I was going to see a doctor for the hole I was sunk in addition to the respiratory issues, his response was, "Finally." Often times I don't recognize just how far I've fallen until I'm there.
Fast forward 3-4 weeks. A therapeutic dose of antibiotics and Zoloft later, suddenly I'm a new woman. I will stubbornly admit that I'd had the prescription for the Zoloft since my first OB appointment last fall. You just don't leave a gal who loves and thrives on Cymbalta hanging with nothing for nine months; that's just asking to take a nose dive off the edge of emotional wellness. My doc was very proactive about this and made sure I left with my prescription in hand. It was my omnipotent self that ventured into a hyper-emetic pregnancy SSRI-less with nothing more than some saltines, ginger ale, and Flintstones vitamins to try and see me through until delivery. Not only am I slightly crazy, I'm also fucking stupid.
I know better. I SO know better! In my defense, I had used Zoloft in my early twenties without noticeable improvement and moved on to try something else (under the supervision of someone qualified, of course). If during pregnancy it wasn't safe to take the drug that I knew worked best for me (Cymbalta), then why the hell was I going to bother with "something safe" that I was pretty convinced would not be working for me. If my go-to wasn't proven safe, then nothing was safe in my opinion. So stubborn and so stupid, WHY?! I'll tell you why, because I'm pregnant. Any mother would do anything and everything she could to protect her child. I want my children to be happy and healthy, but more than anything depression-free. My biggest worry is that the meds I would take now would mess with the development of their neurotransmitters and make them that much more likely to develop mental health issues. I braved Grace's pregnancy with nothing (not unscathed either) and was determined to battle through even the darkest days for this little guy on my maternal drives alone. Yeah right, tell that to my depression.
The dark takes over the light. For me the spectrum is so broad that I would even describe my best and my worst as a bright, amazing, fabulously fulfilling life versus a pitch black darkness able to void everything I love about this life. Please don't worry that I have thoughts about hurting myself or others, especially Grace. Depression leaves me voided. It is the absence of light that is so prevalent and unmovable that I feel. Cymbalta changes all of that. 60 mg a day helps me be me. It's that simple. There is no amazing superhuman emotional strength from that bottle. I have good days and bad, just like everyone else. The stark difference is that I CAN where before everything is a something I simply can not handle.
The darkest dark of this pregnancy occurred in December when I was so sick I needed to be hospitalized for IV rehydration. Secretly I longed for the baby to just go away. Life had become such a physical and mental struggle that I just wanted to be myself again. The recent memory of how fabulous life was lingered heavily on my mind, and I wanted to get back there at any cost. Now that I'm rolling through my 3rd trimester and so enamored with the son I'm going to have, I feel so sad for the me that was then. I needed help and some mental relief, it's just too bad I didn't get it until now.
In a rare moment of clarity recently, Grace and I were sitting in her room singing, cuddling, and laughing before nap time. I realized that I was happy and enjoying the moment and that I hadn't been enjoying these moments with her for a long time. It pains me that depression turns my acts of mothering into a chore. I knew I was getting myself back in that moment; my clouds opened up and there was light. Like a long overdue smile from a dear friend, there was my happiness. Pregnancy may have to ability to bring me so low, but (with a little pharmaceutical help) it is being a mother that also brings me so much joy.

Oh BOY

It's a boy. At the big 20week ultrasound we saw it, a penis. It was exciting and shocking all at the same time. It was there, unmistakable, as if to say, "Look at me world, these are man-parts." I don't know who was more excited, me or Rob. I was thrilled to be right (I had thought it was a boy) and he was grinning ear to ear at acknowledging the reality of a son. As I lay there all goopy from ultrasound gel, I thought about mother-son dancing at his wedding, toddler size polo shirts, and little boy hair cuts. I also thought about the penis. The little boy parts he would possess began to freak me out.

We left the doctor's office with our VHS tape in hand, evidence of our little boy. (It is entirely outdated technology, but my doctor is on the verge of retirement and thinks it's the greatest thing when he informs you to bring a VHS tape along to record the ultrasound findings. I had grudgingly purchased a 5-pack (because they no longer sell single tapes) to insure we would have these memories for years to come. That is, once we convert the media to a source we can actually view.) The drive home was cliche-ridden and oh-so-super-sweet. Rob teared up and gushed about how perfect it was to have one of each. I confessed that I hadn't known until that moment that this was exactly what I had wanted. As amazing as that moment was, in the back of my mind a little seed of anxiety began to sprout.

The days began to pass and news spread among our family, friends, and strangers at the supermarket (talking is one of those things I have a hard time not doing). I became bombarded with the same two questions. "Have you picked out any names?" and "Are you going to circumcise?" One of these inquiries left me a little unsettled. Unsettled by the fact that everyone wanted to know, and uneasy about the quandary regarding this newly discovered penis. Regardless if we circumcise or not, I'm starting to think it's none of MY business, let alone anyone else's.

Needless to say, I'm a little anxious about becoming a mom this second time around with the addition of male reproductive parts. It never bothered me with Grace, "cleaning out all the nooks," as people say. "Oh, boys are SO much easier," they inform me. Really? Keeping Grace's diapered bits in working order doesn't strike me as something of difficulty. There is a comfort, or ease to having a daughter. You have the same parts, she has the same parts, and it's all pretty straightforward. Now a penis on the other hand, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?? The only penis experience on my resume is of the adult consensual kind. Not the appropriate kind of behavior to bolster mother-son bonding. I know I'm over thinking this, but watching friends change their baby boys lately has got me thinking (and also feeling a smidge like a pedophile).

I will look back once this is all said and done and probably laugh at myself. While it will make for some great stories, I'm sure my adventures with the boy will be pretty standard. Mothers have been having baby boys for centuries, I can probably handle it. Just not too much handling, I don't want to get reported.

complain less, blog more...I really should

If you've ever read this blog you have more than likely noticed A LOT of complaining in the last few posts. And if you've run into me in the past couple months there is no doubt in my mind I have informed you that a) I don't feel well, and b) this pregnancy SUCKS.

Time to change my tune. I need to have more empathy or sympathy, or maybe a little of both. As fabulous as I may be, it is not a Lilah-centered universe. So I have been doing a lot of thinking, and some crying (it's the hormones). Feel free to keep reading and indulge in some of my conclusions.

Here is a bit of background, I had one miscarriage. One. It happened in November 2006. Rob and I had barely been married a year and lived in Jacksonville, FL. It was the first time I had ever lived so far from home. We had our first appointment at 9 weeks and were able to see and hear the heartbeat. The excitement of that first time pregnant is like nothing else. You are fearless and throw your heart into a future you believe is guaranteed. I was there. Two days after that first appointment Rob went out to sea and I miscarried alone in the middle of the night.

I wallowed in my grief. As my pregnancy would have progressed I would see pregnant women and imagine what my growing bump would have looked like. I tortured myself as the months passed, calculating when we would have had a newborn, and then a one or a two month old. My arms felt empty and I longed for my child.

Then came Grace. As sick as that pregnancy made me, I wanted her so badly. I imagine I complained a lot less because as difficult as it was physically, I wanted that baby more than anything else in the world. In the end it was everything and more. I had an AMAZING labor and the sweetest angel baby God could have ever sent my way. After having Grace I was able to accept my first pregnancy was not meant to be, because she was. There were no more feelings about what might have been the first time. If there was ever a baby that was meant to be, it was my Grace.

Even though I don't know the pain of multiple losses or the struggle of fertility treatments, I have friends who do. These things don't happen to "other people." They happen to those near and dear to my heart. So, as nauseous as I may feel, I am going to complain less. If this is the struggle I have to endure to have my baby then I should be grateful that I don't have it worse. I need to remember the time before Grace and realize that some of my friends or family are still at that place longing for a child.

This pregnancy does not suck. What sucks is having miscarriage after miscarriage or painful fertility treatments that take a toll physically, emotionally, and financially. What sucks is what is happening to those poor people in Haiti. Although my stomach is constantly upset I do have a roof over my head, I don't worry where my next meal is coming from, and if I need medical attention I can get it. I have the most amazing little girl that ever was and a husband who's goodness is only surpassed by the size of his heart. Everyday I am surrounded by wonderful people, friends and family. I may feel sick but that will end and I will have a precious little child because of it. I need to stop complaining when I have much to be thankful for. I need to remember that my glass isn't even half-full, it's overflowing.

belly full of ugh, uterus full of baby

I am 19ish weeks worth of pregnant. Almost halfway there. Sweet Lord, I am almost halfway there!! It has been too long since my last posting, but I will try to fill in the blanks. Things have improved, tremendously. My days are no longer spent living in the bathroom interfacing with the toilet. Vomiting doesn't happen every day, but on occasion my meals are launched into the the white porcelain bowl of disposal. This is great improvement, but does still leave room for advancement in my opinion.
My digestive system may no longer be on life support, but it still feels very much like it resides in the ICU. The slightest altercation or incident can lead to evacuation at a moment's notice. The tummy is always slightly nauseated, an ever present sour taste, and there is an overall feeling of "ick". I'm not one to complain, yeah right! I am one to complain, so my opinion of pregnancy remains the same. It is a giant load of suck.
With these improvements, I have been giving Zofran tablets another try. While they do not cure all, they can allow me to keep dinner and just scrape by with an upset stomach for the evening. However, Zofran is like the off-switch of my lower intestines. Halts the process, full stop. This leaves me having to "facilitate" what mother nature usually handles quite well. I feel like a hostage negotiator with my bowels. This often leaves me wondering if it was worth the pea size tablet I dissolved on my tongue a mere few nights before. The jury is still out with this one.
Most importantly, my outlook has changed. I still do my fair share of complaining (and then some) but I am starting to believe I may just survive this. I am also no longer paranoid that these efforts surviving pregnancy will be in vain. Whenever I hear the heartbeat roaring back at me like it belongs to a line-backer instead of my fetus, I realize that I am the one on survival mode and this child is kicking my ass from the inside out. It is oddly reassuring and leaves me with a smile on my queasy little face.