A perfectly-timed tantrum

This afternoon, I took Max to a class at an elementary school. It was fun to see him get a glimpse of what older kids are up to - he looked around at the kids in the lunchroom excitedly, and was smiling so big. The floors reflected the lights above, which made him hilariously afraid of walking on them. I ended up carrying him the whole way through the hall and up the stairs. Phew.

When the class was over, he had a hard time parting with one of the toy cars which led to an incredible tantrum. I carried him to the front office to sign out, where he laid on the floor screaming and rolling around. I hurriedly checked out and ushered his shrieks out the front door. He got a little more rambunctious, kicking his shoes off, flailing when I tried to pick him up, you know, the works! To be fair, it was smack dab in the middle of naptime and he had done so well up until this point. I tried to diffuse him by pointing out a penny on the ground, but he just wasn't having it.

It was then that I noticed a girl, a little younger than me, sprinting across the small parking lot. The way that she kept looking behind her while running so fast made me a little nervous. I glanced behind her and noticed a guy following her. Max must have noticed me tense up, so when I reached out to grab him, he finally let me pick him up. I thought we should probably just get out of there, whatever was going on. Then, I noticed a police car in the street. This was all happening so fast. The police car flipped on its lights and screeched through the parking lot, right towards us. I thought he was going to hop the curb and go after the girl, but instead he turned sharply and headed towards the guy. My body was so scared as I heard the tires squeal and I held Maxwell so close. I wasn't really sure what was going on, so I gave the policeman a look like, hello!?!? Could you not run us over please?? Again, this was all happening so fast. Before I knew it, the girl was gone and the policeman had gotten out of his car and was ordering the guy on the ground. The guy wasn't following his orders, so he kept saying, GET DOWN ON THE GROUND GET DOWN ON THE GROUND and in my wild mind, he had his gun pulled, but I can't remember for sure. All I could think was, oh god...there is going to be a shoot out...I need to get out of here...I ran back to the doors with Maxwell and into the front office. I was afraid to turn my back, like the guy was going to run after me in his desperation to get away. I was shaking and breathing heavily, and said "Um, there is an arrest going on in your parking lot..." The staff hurried to the front doors to lock them. As we watched from the windows, I had a realization. The guy was getting arrested right in front of my car. If Max had not been having his incredible tantrum, I would have been at my car, buckling him into his carseat just steps from where this whole scene unfolded. All I could do was laugh and kiss Max and tell him he was my little angel!

After just a few minutes, the police car was driving away. I was still a little shaky and couldn't believe what I had just witnessed. Max kept saying stuff about the loud car, as I made my way down my phone tree (Mike-Britt-Mom-Oprah) to tell them my tale.

I am reading Mindy Kaling's new book, and she mentions a few suggestions of things to bring to a dinner party - a new kind of hot sauce, an old picture of Colin Firth, or a great story of a near-death experience. I think this counts, so better get to an MK dinner party here soon!

What a day, buddy!

Crawl-baby

Miles has been worming around for a few days now, and then all of the sudden, he graduated to a strong army crawl. So, using the same standards I used for Max, I will now declare that Miles is crawling!

I'm coming to terms with the fact that Miles is moving out of "snuggly baby" phase and into "wiggly worm" phase. It's hard for me to realize when a phase is over. Lately when I hold him on my lap. he's been so wiggly. For whatever reason, I've been perplexed like, well what do I do if I'm not nursing him or he's not sleeping on me?? Hello helicopter mom, you can actually put him on the floor to play!!!

Oh.

So, I started to let him worm around on the floor and would you believe it, he's started to army crawl! Look what a little independence does for your babies.

Going for the nerf!

Maxwell kicked off his crawling while I was at work, so this time around has been less boo-hoo and more yippee! Thank goodness.

11.11.11

Four years ago today, Mike and I grabbed a table at the coffee shop across from my office after work. I remember that it was cold, only because I was wearing my favorite neon green gloves and they pretty much stole the show in the few pictures we had taken of us that night.

A deputy from the county clerk's office arrived with a large envelope, and after a bit of small talk, she administered an official oath to us. As a fellow-deputy myself, this was an oath I had given to people hundreds of times. Sometimes I was annoyed and did it hurriedly, not taking the time to savor the moment for the two sitting in front of me. Other times, I was really into it, and snapped photos of them with their right hands happily raised. My mood usually depended on my hunger level and how annoying my co-workers were being on that particular day. But you guys, the woes of my days as a county employee are not the point of this story.

We decided to take the envelope home, to a more cozy space. After grabbing a bottle of wine from the liquor store nearby, we headed to my tiny little house on Sylvan. The place where he dropped me off after our first date and I thanked him for not being a creep. The place where we had our first kiss. The place where I learned what a good cook he was, and he learned what a good cook I was not.

With two full glasses of wine, we got the marriage license out and proudly signed our names. It wasn't one of those magical moments where confetti burst into the air and we instantly felt changed. But the simplicity of the evening brought peace to me. For all the nights I had fallen asleep with a panicked heart, afraid of being alone forever, this night was washing away that gripping fear of never finding "him".

A big part of our story was written that night and reliving it now almost feels more special than it did then.

This morning, as Mike loaded us up into the car (in his bathrobe, like he always does...hi neighbors!), he said, Ash - you did it! You have completed your first term as my wife. As I laughed, Max laughed right along with me, like he totally got the joke too. And for all the days I peel out of the driveway in a hurry to get to where we need to be, this morning, I took a moment to just love life. Love my toddler's hearty chuckle, love my baby snuggled up so cozy in his carseat, love my husband waving at us from the driveway.

What an incredible joy it is to have these simple moments. I know I'll look back at these simple moments as the most special times in my life.

The post where I use the word "wonderful" 100 times

In my quest to not just be 'workin for the weekend', I have really been trying to be mindful of each day and how wonderful it is. Even though being apart from my boys is not wonderful, we have our little nights together and I feel like we are sort of, maybe, kind of, getting the hang of it. So, as each of our nights chugs along and is just plain ol' ordinary, I remind myself that ordinary is awesome. It's so wonderful to not have a pit of worry in your stomach about something. It's so wonderful to just lay around and feel accomplished and snuggle. It's okay that I'm not doing anything incredible right now, because the fact that I'm laying in a house that I share with a husband and two little boys that we created is pretty incredible, so calm down (is what I say to myself)

Some insignificantly significant moments lately...

-Max has been pretending to burp. Oops. I should probably take the blame for that one.
-Max starting to say "Oh my god." I know it's terrible to hear your two year old say it, but also pretty funny that of all the phrases he doesn't say, that's the one he manages to say so perfectly. Clearly an indication of how I speak to my sister on the phone. Again, oops. Blame me.
-Lately we've been going for a quick walk when we first get home at night just to clear our (my) heads and enjoy the cool fall air. We usually end up walking past some tennis courts, and it's a sure thing that each night we'll find a stray tennis ball or two stuck in a bush. Perhaps the moral police will tell me this is stealing, but I think of it as finding a treasure! Normally I give the ball to Max to play with, but this week, Miles started to show his spunk! He let me know in his 7 month old way that he wanted the ball this time, that Max can't have all the fun. Point taken, baby Miles!

Miles in his mountain formal attire at a wedding last weekend.
You can't even see the poop on his pants!

Max studying Mike's concealed weapon
permit book in his Christmas jammies.
Tis the season?

The Value in Weekdays

Yesterday I was in a foggy funk. My day started by dropping my smoothie cup, resulting in having smoothie splattered on my face, freshly washed hair, and in my EYES. Oh yeah and on my ceiling, my newly painted entryway, and all over the boys daycare bags. I mean....it was the worst.

In addition, my body was harboring a nasty bug that had me queasy all day. I finally gave in and puked in my "pumping headquarters" at work. I also took a hot car nap around lunchtime that did nothing but make me extra weird.

So today, I am feeling like a new woman! I was able to drink coffee, and my regular breakfast did not implode. Great success! I think this led me to an invigorated new perspective regarding weekdays. It happened as I was driving the boys to daycare this morning, and I found myself telling them - guys, it's Tuesday! We're getting closer to the weekend! But I immediately felt resentment for having that attitude. Why can I only look forward to the weekends? What's the value of ignoring and rushing through the weekdays? These are our precious days that we only get once!

I kind of know why I hate weeknights...usually Max cries from the second I pick them up until we get home, and Miles needs to be fed the second we get in the door. I'm trying to pack lunches for tomorrow, make dinner for tonight, do laundry, clean the kitchen so my OCD doesn't make me jump out the window, oh and also keep everyone happy and entertained...probably the same sentiments that are echoed from household to household throughout the world.

Nonetheless, even knowing how terrible nights can be, I still felt an urge to make them better...more fun...to just look forward to our evenings instead of "endure" them. But as I continued to pursue this new perspective, I felt a wave of guilt. How is it even possible to make the weeknights what I want them to be? These days, I spend more time nursing the baby than playing with the toddler. I can't do anything I want/need to do as I sit on the couch with Miles. I start to wish away this season. Wish for the days of both boys walking and talking.

And there I go again! Wishing away the current days for future days that I have just assumed will be better and easier. I can't do that anymore. I have to learn to love (or at least find the joy in) my current season.

I want to feel like I'm the one raising my kids, and with me spending 4 days a week away from these kiddos, I have to make the time count. I don't want to ignore the weekdays, just because they can be messy or overwhelming. I want to find the fun and the pleasure in each day, not just the weekends.

In a few hours, I'll be in the car with Max sobbing for a snack, water, a blanket, his dada, etc... and I'll remind myself of all these words I've spewed today. Tonight is my night to live it up! Wish me luck!

Boys showing their Arkansas Valley pride,
courtesy of the one and only Grandma Blanche!

I love when Max insists on holding Miles.
I also love how they look the same size in this picture!

To celebrate the end of a work week,
we stop for ice cream on our way home on Thursdays.
It's a sure-way to stop Maxwell's end-of-day tears :)

Validation

I've mentioned that in college, my sister and I would joke that people always wanted to win the "worst-life competition". It was like whoever had the most homework, the hardest tests, the busiest life, got some sort of prize, so there would always be one-upping conversations of who had it the hardest.

As a free-spirited Communication major, I never entered this competition. My classes were fun (at least the ones pertaining to my major), my teachers were interesting, and if my homework was hard, I just half-assed it so I could get on with my social life.

Well folks, I now find myself wanting to throw my hat into the ring for consideration of "worst life", subcategory "hard situation". And the situation I'm referring to is breastfeeding.

When my sister started having kids and I learned of all that is breastfeeding, that was only half of the picture. When you move from the cautious observing sister to the actual breastfeeder, it becomes outrageous as you begin to understand the hour-by-hour struggle. This might sound dramatic but I assure you that in my case, it's not.

Let me walk you through a typical day:
4:30am - I set my alarm to wake up an hour early so I can lay with Miles and feed him, so that I don't have to pump while I'm getting ready. This also helps me make it further into my work day without having to pump
7:00am - I rev up my smoothie with some enhancements that are known to increase milk supply - flax seed, oatmeal, brewers yeast...can I get a YUM YUM!
10:00am - I warm up a "lactation cookie", which contains the ingredients mentioned above, because, I want to be a milk machine!!!
10:30am - My alarm goes off to remind me to pump. Sometimes I get too busy and forget, or I'm in a meeting and simply can't. But, around this time, my body starts to let me know. Tingly boobs and painful engorgement is hard to ignore when you're sitting in a meeting, so a lot of times I exit early. I assume my co-workers know whats going on, but I run through a few "what would I say"scenarios to make sure I'm prepared should someone call me out on my early exits.
11:30am - Pump session over. (Bonus points if no one has pooped in the bathroom prior to my hour in there.) The amount of milk I just pumped will either break my spirit and make me sad, or leave me feeling invigorated like YES I CAN DO THIS! I AM DOING IT!
1:30pm - Boobs get tingly. Should I pump or can I wait? Should I pump or can I wait? Should I pump or can I wait? I'll have this back and forth until the tingle wins, and I head down to the room of doom, I mean, the bathroom, to pump. After this round, I'll need to wash all the parts. If you think doing dishes by hand is fun, try doing dishes by hand in the bathroom at your workplace. Woo woo!
**sidenote: this is all just a typical day. Some days are just wacky and I'm pumping in my car in the parking lot of an expo; in the bathroom stall of a museum where we have an all-day event; in the basement of the courthouse during jury duty. I mean!!!!!????
2:30pm - Get a text from the nanny "Miles has been hungry today! He already drank 4 bottles!" Well isn't that peachy. Pop a lactation cookie in my mouth and google other ways to increase milk supply
4:00pm - Option to leave now and work out to fight stubborn post-baby blubber. But, boobs are getting tingly again, and working out would be so painful unless I was wearing 3 sports bras.
4:45pm - Pick up the boys. If traffic is bad, I wish I could get a loudspeaker out and announce "Guys, if I don't get home in the next 10 minutes to feed my baby, I will literally explode. SO MOVE IT."
5:00pm - Feed Miles while fixing dinner for Max. This is one of my greatest accomplishments and although I feel like a zoo exhibit while doing it, I always take a moment to high-five myself. So sue me.
7:00pm - Once boys are bathed and jammied-up, this is the golden hour. Max can watch a show while I put Miles to bed.
7:30pm - Miles is asleep. How many hours do I have until my boobs let me know action is required?
2:00am - Answer: 6 hours. Now the question is, do I wake Miles up and feed him or pump? Pumping will wake me up and is also the worst. But waking Miles up might create bad habits in his sleep patterns. I'm low on frozen milk so I should just pump. But I hate pumping and I'll have to wash the parts.
2:05am - I'm pumping.
2:30am - I'm too awake now to go back to sleep. What should I clean?
4:15am - Ok maybe I can fall asleep now...zzzz
4:30am - Time to get up and feed Miles!

Do you see what I mean? All day long. ALL DAY LONG. I had no clue. I thought breastfeeding was just...breastfeeding.

I struggle with the fact that my boobs own me, but I'm motivated by my client, Miles, who I want to keep happy and full. I struggle with the fact that I'm doing what nature intended, but I'm still left googling "how to increase milk supply" and I struggle with the fact that I am trying SO HARD (I hate trying) but I'm still not convinced Miles will make it to his first birthday on breastmilk alone. And no, there is nothing wrong with giving him formula. But the point is, this is something I'm actually trying to make work, and shouldn't it be easier?? What if this was the year 1815 and there was no other option?? Add to that the fact that if I got to stay home with the boys and didn't have to pump, I think breastfeeding would be pretty breezy. But me whining about having to work is a whole different story.

So, I need some validation. I need people to know that what I'm doing is hard and that it consumes me. Why is that? Would it make me feel better if I was among the winners of the sub-category of "Hard Situation" at the Worst Life Awards?

As I write this I know how ridiculous it sounds. There are absolutely harder situations. I know, I know, I know. But this is my hard, in my reality.

I guess, in the future, if Miles and Max have children and the mothers of their children decide to breastfeed, I can support the crap out of them. I can validate them, I can bake them lactation cookies, I can buy them books to read while they pumps and listen to their woes. I mean, assuming they are validation-needing kind of gals like myself :)  And even if they have wives that breastfeed, Miles and Max may never full understand the nitty gritty details of the breastfeeding dog and pony show.

The conclusion I'm drawing is that I have to be fine with doing something so hard and never having it be truly understood and appreciated. And I guess that is true love: giving your full attention to something that you may never get validation for.

Did you poop?

On Sunday we embarked on a cleaning rampage. Nothing makes me happier than to be in the mood to clean. I was working my way from room to room and really going to town, while Mike was deep cleaning the kitchen - putting random gadgets in a "garage sale box", taking apart drawers and cleaning the insides, throwing out old condiments, etc. I was loving every minute of this.

Sweet baby Miles was entertaining himself on the floor with some toys, but Maxwell was all up my business. He was being mostly cute, like using his toy vacuum alongside me and my toy vacuum. But as I was scrubbing the bathroom floor, his cuteness turned to mush. He started spraying me with Windex, unraveling paper towel, stealing the duster and using it as a sword...basically anything that falls into the category of counterproductive. Finally I just turned around and said, "Max, you are so annoying!!!" And as I said it, I realized how terrible it sounds but my goodness, it was so true. Even though Max owns a very large chunk of my heart, that kid sure can be annoying.

However, he is also quite hilarious lately. Just in the past few weeks it feels like he is really turning a corner in his talking. He is learning some key words and phrases to get what he needs. The best part though is that he has now started to accuse everyone of pooping: "Did you poop?" That must be one of the most common things we say to him, as now he's really taken it and made it his own. Ha. The face that he makes when he asks this question is so disapproving, like he's just disgusted with us. I really hope that is not what we do to him...although, where else would he learn it?? And whenever I change Miles, he's the first to exclaim, "Ew!!!" while plugging his nose. Interestingly enough, he doesn't think much of drinking the bathwater that he just watched Miles pee into. I guess he is still developing his cause-and-effect thought process.

Max and his favorite tool: the pointed finger.

One of these days

I love to understand how life is full of various seasons. Each season comes with good and bad, but we know it won't last forever. That's just the way it works. With the all-consuming season I'm currently in, I sometimes forget that it won't always be like this.

I won't always have to step around a kids stool, a kids toilet, a plastic bath, and 5 million toys to get into my shower each morning.

I won't always have to draw up a Super Bowl-worthy game plan just to go to Costco with both boys in tow.

I won't always need to keep a full snack cup in my console just so that Max doesn't cry all the way home each night.

I won't always make dinner for one child while nursing another child.

I won't always know about their poop contents.

I won't always start my day with a crying toddler who doesn't want to get dressed/wear socks/get a new diaper.

And as I look forward to those days, I have to remember what I'll be losing when this season comes to an end.

I won't always be able to hold these boys entirely in my arms.

I won't always be able to hold them as they fall asleep.

I won't always be the first person they see in the morning and the last person at night.

I won't always be the one they need the most.

So even though this season overwhelms me, and leaves me in tears on the bad days, there are enough good days sprinkled in that remind me to just laugh. These tiny humans will one day be fully capable adults. We'll share meals and conversation. We'll all take care of our own hygiene.  This season is just too wonderfully ridiculous to not find it absolutely amusing.

One year ago

One year ago yesterday, I found out I was pregnant with our sweet Miles. We had just returned from a week in Mexico, and I realized I hadn't had my period yet. I was just sure of what I was about to find out, so I loaded up Maxwell and off to the nearest drugstore we went!

I grabbed a box of pregnancy tests, and to keep the trip interesting, I also grabbed some sunscreen, then entertained a 5 minute conversation with an employee about her three kids. If I was her, and noticed a girl holding a wiggly 14 month old in one arm and a pregnancy test in the other, I would probably leave her alone to let her go find out her fate. But that's just me.

Spoiler alert: the pregnancy test was positive. I laughed and freaked out a bit, then tried to have a moment with Max, who had no clue wassup.

Knowing this would probably be the last time I got to tell Mike I was pregnant, I went into a frenzy on how I would tell him when he got home later that night.  My Pinterest/internet/blog search stressed me out, so I just did a little DIY. I took a Popsicle out of the freezer, carefully unwrapped it, then wrote "pregnant" on the stick. I put the Popsicle back in the wrapper then back in the freezer, since I knew my friend Mike would come home and hit the Popsicles hard since it was a million degrees and he had just spent 3 hours at the fields. Thankfully, my artistic ability did not overshadow the big announcement.

Two days later I was on a plane to North Carolina for a wedding.  I proceeded to spend the next 2 days pretending to get drunk. I also thought I was going blind/dying 10 minutes before we walked down the aisle, but it turns out that was just the beginning of a few wacky pregnancy migraines.

Hard to believe that funny week was a year ago. Just as all the old ladies in the grocery store tell me, time sure does fly. But the fun part about that is the memories you capture along the way. Like last night, Max was so obsessed with wearing one of Miles' diapers that I had to put one of Miles' diapers over Max's diaper. I mean come on. He was a hilarious sight, so content to be wearing his lil bro's diaper.

This could become an expensive request.

I told Britt I was pregnant with Max on Addy's birthday, and I told her I was pregnant with Miles the same date she told me she was pregnant with Brynn, just a few years earlier! I love dates. Interestingly enough, Brynn and Miles look identical as babes, and Max and Addy also look strikingly similar as babies. I don't care how insignificant these things may seem....these are the things I want to sit around and force my grandkids to listen to. This is the story we are building!

My new mantra

At the end of a long day (or any day really) I can feel so overwhelmed by life's little tasks. Dishes. Packing lunches. Bathtime.

Because of Mike's work schedule, most nights I'm doing these tasks alone with the boys. It's not uncommon for all 3 of us to cry at some point throughout the night. Miles cries because I've laid him down to get something else done. Max cries because he's two and it's tough to be two. I cry because they cry and I feel like I should be able to handle it all better.

The other night, as I finished up bathtime, I repeated this in my head: "This my privilege. This is my privilege."  I must always remember how lucky I am to be overwhelmed by caring for these boys. I must always remember that doing these simple things is a privilege I've been given. Even when it's hard and even when I'm tired and even when I'm doing it alone for the millionth time, this is my privilege.

Earlier this year, we had an older woman volunteer at our office for a few months. Organization was her "hobby", so she would come in and organize various closets or cabinets. While I was out on maternity leave, I got an email that she had passed away. Even though she was in her 80's, it was still surprising. I read her obituary and realized that this little lady had led quite a fascinating life. Her family fled Germany when she was only 3, and they lived in the Dominican Republic for a few years. Because her parents needed to work so much to pay the bills, they arranged for her to live at a boarding school 6 days a week - Saturdays were the only day they all spent together. As a teen, she was sent to another boarding school in South Carolina, because her parents wanted her to have a chance at a better education.

I can't even imagine making the heart-wrenching decision to send your child away, in hopes of creating a better life for them. I can't imagine having to work so much that you only get one day a week with your child.
For me to get to give my babies baths each night, and to tuck them into bed, and to wipe up their messes and make meals for them - what an absolute privilege.

So, even on the nights when I'm overwhelmed and the only thing I feel like doing is crying, I'll continue to repeat my mantra: This is my privilege.

The story of Miles Edward

Miles's birth story really spans over a week. Since I was pretty convinced I would go into labor on March 20, my last day of work was March 19. All the stars would be aligned and that would give me a week of recovery before my big 30th birthday shindig.

Mr. Miles had a different timetable in mind.

After a discouraging midwife appointment on Friday the 20th, I spent the weekend trying to wish myself into labor. Long walks (waddles) around the neighborhood, keeping busy, etc. But the clock kept ticking and nothing was happening. Nothing! It was becoming a cruel and unusual punishment. Each night I would think, tonight is the night!!! And each morning I would wake up still pregnant and even more discouraged. I would lay awake at night and cry at how uncomfortable I felt. I was a miserable sight.

On Wednesday the 25th, the day after my due date, I had another visit with my midwife, Anne. We made a plan to induce me if I hadn't gone into labor by Sunday. She told me she expected to see me before then. I told her of my birthday party plan and how the window of opportunity had passed to have the baby and be home before the party. She told me I better lay low then =) She was on call all weekend, and I was thrilled that she would most likely be the one to deliver Miles. By the grace of God, I left her office feeling like I wouldn't be pregnant forever. I was rejuvenated and finally out of my funk.

I spent the next two days on self-imposed bed rest.  It was awesome-ish. My snoogle body pillow and I laid on the couch and watched my people get things ready for the party. Friday the 27th was so incredible it deserves a whole separate blog post! Coming soon!

Bedrest at it's finest. Did I mention I also had a cold?

On Saturday morning, I woke up feeling those wonderfully familiar cramps. I couldn't get over the fact that I was in labor just hours after my birthday party ended. Miles really knew what he was doing.

I rode the contractions out for a bit, just to be sure. I showered, and tried to snuggle Maxwell a little bit extra before his world got rocked. After an hour or two, I knew it was going down for real (#gdfr) and I started to get a little panicky.  Because, as everyone had told me, 2nd babies come so quickly!

(False.)

Me: "Ok Max, I'm about to leave so I can give birth to your best friend"
Max: "Cool but can you turn on Netflix before you go?"

I gave Anne a quick call to let her know wassup. She told me to head her way. With spring kickball leagues starting on Monday, Mike started rushing around with final preparations, knowing he would be a little occupied over the next 48 hours. Max left to hang with his cousins, so I sat on the couch and breathed through each contraction while watching Mike race around the yard/garage/house/etc. 

On the way to the hospital, I held on to the door handle to bear the bumps in the road on Monaco Pkwy. I cursed the city of Denver for not taking better care to fix potholes. 

We pulled up to the hospital and I huffed it inside. It was like an obstacle course to get to the right place. We took the wrong elevator so we had to go back down and find the right one. All I could remember from our hospital class was "follow the green line". Once we found said green line, I had to pause every so often along the way to hunch over and breathe through some serious contractions. It was such a great feeling to know that IT WAS ALL HAPPENING!!!!

Finally we arrived on the right floor and we were met in the hallway by Anne and a red head who would be my nurse. Nurse Red followed me into the bathroom as I went in to change into the hospital gown and she pelted me with some unexpected questions: "Is there anything you don't want your husband to know? Any patterns of abuse or any problems at home?" I guess this is what happens when your sister and her friends aren't your labor and delivery nurses.

Nurse Red got right to work with me. I issued her Strike 1 when she used the term "blood bath" while administering my IV. I issued her Strike 2 with her incessant questioning during each of my contractions. I thought she might take a clue when I went silent but she did not.

Because I was GBS+, they were acting fast to get my antibiotics flowing, as they wanted me to have two doses in before I delivered. And as we all know, we needed to get cracking since 2nd babies come so fast.

(False.)

It wasn't long before I was epidural'd up and able to just sit back and relax. That is such a magical time...there is a whole bustling world outside the hospital window, and they're oblivious to this huge life event that is about to take place in this room. Even though I'm not the first or the last to give birth, it feels like I have this special secret going on. Mike and I napped, watched Netflix, listened to Brendan James (of course I was on a serious B James high from the night before!!!)

At 5pm, there was a shift change.  Out with Nurse Red, in with Carrie and...Aaron. A Murse. When he first walked in I thought, oh hell no! I can't have a murse! Then I remembered that a man ultimately ended up delivering Max and what's the diff? So I was over it in about 1 second and soon, my new nurse gang and I were having a great time!!! These two were awesome. Funny when they needed to be, professional when they needed to be...I was so happy to have these two around.

Just me, my nurse friends, and a giant yellow ball called
"peanut" that was supposedly helping get the baby out.

By 6:30pm, my final dose of antibiotics were in, so by 8pm, it was time to start the pushing. We had the Kentucky/Notre Dame game playing on TV, and I thought, oh cool! Miles will be born during the game!  You know, because 2nd babies come so quickly.

(False.)

They turned on the warmers in the baby bed so that it was ready for Miles when he arrived. He'd be here in no time, since we all know, 2nd babies just slide right out!

(False.)

It was like Maxwell's birth all over again. Me, pushing in every position ever imagined. Me, wanting to see excitement in the faces of the nurses, but instead seeing them try to stay positive and try to keep me motivated. I kept thinking, why am I so bad at pushing?! Isn't this how it's supposed to happen?!  I was exhausted, frustrated, starving, and thirsty. I was begging for water, ice, anything!! I felt like I had been crab crawling through a desert for a week. Anne allowed me to have small "champagne" sips of water, but was pretty hardcore about limiting my fluids. (I later learned it was because they were nervous I was on my way to the OR.)

After two hours with little progress, they decided to give me some time to rest. It was discouraging to see them turn off the warmers in the baby bed, since it wouldn't be holding a baby any time soon. I hated this. I was frustrated and I just wanted it to be over. I didn't want to wait. I wanted to keep trying. They gave me an injection to relax my uterus (or something?) and told me to rest. I laid there and tried so hard to not be upset with my body. Sweet Carrie came over to me and I told her I was nervous I was headed for a c-section. She said, "Okay listen...I don't mean to get all 'granola' on you, but you need to imagine your baby coming out. You need to visualize it and send good thoughts to him." I absolutely loved her and was so glad she had put it that way. I started to only focus on Miles being born in that room, not in an OR.

Around 10:30pm, I sent Mike to the nurses station to see if I could start pushing again. I was anxious and determined to have Miles before midnight. They came back in and agreed that it was time. I was in a fog of nighttime hospital room lights and just needed this all to be over. I pushed and pushed and pushed again with all my might. I pushed so hard I felt like I would pass out. Anne promised me a glass of cold, icy fruit punch once the baby was out. Again, I looked for signs of progress on the faces of the nurses. Soon, it felt like I was finally getting somewhere, and Anne began to realize that this was a rather large baby. There was talk of his shoulders getting stuck and what they would do if that happened. It sounded scary and I felt like I might freak out if I thought too much about it, so I had to just ignore the instructions. A NICU nurse came in, just in case. A few other people came in, just in case. Really all of this was a blur. I couldn't focus on the "what-ifs"...I just had to get him out.

With each contraction, I felt more and more pressure, and felt like it was finally happening. Anne asked if I wanted to reach down and feel his head. I was like, absolutely not!!! I felt like if I moved, I would lose the progress I had made. In between contractions, I was miserable, I knew I would only get relief once he was out, but that I would have to wait for another contraction. I just had to surrender to the pain.

Then, at 11;47pm, our sweet Miles was placed on my chest. Any concerns that Anne had were gone, so he was able to lay on my chest while they cleaned him off.  I didn't get to do this with Max, and it was just as incredible as I imagined. He let out his teeny, adorable little cries, and I just stared at him. It's a funny thing to see the face of the little baby that you've just spent the last 40+ weeks with. I was so amazed that he was finally, finally, finally here. Anne and the nurses were guessing at how big he was, and were just sure that he was at least 10 pounds. I don't know much about appropriate baby sizes but I was positive that I wasn't capable of growing and birthing a 10 pound baby.

(False.)

Miles Edward
March 28, 2015
11:47pm
10 lbs, 4 oz | 21 inches

Needless to say, we all love this little fella. It's like he's always been here. Max calls him "brother", loves to give him kisses and appropriately says "eww" every time I change a diaper.

Life is good in this hood.

Dear Baby M

Dear Baby M,

Right now I'm on self-imposed bed rest. I have a cold so I have Kleenex stuffed up my nose, a tub of Vaseline next to me, and each cough worries me that I'm going to set off labor.

You're two days overdue, and we are now in the danger zone. If you decide to arrive now, I will miss my birthday party. Who plans a birthday party for the week of their due date anyway??

Your dad is being a busy bee in the basement. We have a musician coming to play in our backyard tomorrow night and he has a few humble green room requests so your dad is making sure the guest room is all set for him. I love when your dad really takes on a project, because he does things with such care and precision.

I have been a maniac this week. I have been praying and begging for labor, have cried each day that I dropped Maxwell off at Nana's, cried in the shower at the discomfort of my body, cried in the middle of the night as my stomach gets Charlie-horse cramps....then, your due date came and went, and I went from feeling hopeless to feeling invigorated. I'm sure your dad was happy to see that crazy train park. I had a great appointment with my midwife and we made an induction plan for this weekend. The sun kept shining on our backyard and I started to realize that still being pregnant was now a blessing and not a punishment.

I tell ya...the final moments of pregnancy are not pretty for me. I'm a disaster. Bless my village (your dad, Britt, and Jocey) who just know what needs to be done and know how to somewhat manage me and my brain. 

So now, I lay on this couch, propped up by a million pillows, and I wait. I think good thoughts and hope that each cramp is just because of how I'm laying and not a sign of labor.

I remember that a beautiful baby boy is on his way and I am so lucky to have this life and these "problems". Tomorrow all of my best friends will be in my backyard  enjoying a musician who's music has framed my 20's. Life is so good. No matter what.

So little guy, the story of your birth is already interesting! Thanks for keeping us on our toes. If this is an indication of your personality, well shoot-I can't wait! I love you so much already. Now just stay cozy until tomorrow night, then there are a few people who want to meet you 😘

Love,

Mom

Public Service Announcement: This is what 39 weeks pregnant looks like

On Saturday as I ran errands, every salesperson or store employee I encountered had something to say about my body. Most were pleasant and offered congratulations or their blessings, which was wonderful.

However.

Two notable comments make me feel like I owe it to the community of future pregnant women to share this PSA:

This is what 39 weeks pregnant looks like.

No, I'm not having twins. This is what 39 weeks pregnant looks like.

No, I'm not carrying a watermelon. This is what it looks like when you are carrying a fully developed human baby inside of your body.

I understand that all women carry differently and some don't even look that pregnant throughout the 40 weeks. But for those of us who look pregnant, take note. There is nothing abnormal going on, nothing to find an explanation for: this is what 39 weeks pregnant looks like.

Please share the word and for the love of God, stop making dumb comments. Do you really want to be the person who makes an emotionally fragile, extremely pregnant woman cry? Probably not. If you MUST comment, it's acceptable to say you look amazing and tell her congratulations. No need to try out new jokes or lines. 

Got it?!?! Great. 

Pay-it-forward backfire and birth experience expectations (subtitle: I'm annoying)

We pay Max's babysitter in cold hard cash, and so whenever I need to break a $20 to give her correct change, I hit up Starbucks.  Today, I needed change, so I headed to my trusty drive-thru. When I got up to the window, the barista told me that the car in front of me had paid for mine. "Awwww," I told her, "that's never happened to me before!" Then I realized I still needed to break my $20.  Ashley-panic set in: Do I just ask her to break it? Do I pay for the car behind me? What if they ordered a crap ton of junk? I needed to break my $20 with something for less than $5, otherwise my whole system was ruined and I'd have to get more cash out (which by the way, I lost my debit card, so I'd have to actually waddle in to a bank and have a conversation with a human). I didn't have much time to debate this. I went ahead and forced myself to "pay-it-forward" and felt a wave of relief as she told me that their total was $5.29. I fished $.29 out of my wallet and then felt like crying as I drove away, for the following reasons:

1. I shouldn't have to force myself to pay it forward, I should just want to pay it forward
2. I am dramatic and this annoys me
3. I am losing my ability to cope with daily activities and this annoys me

I know I only have two weeks left of walking around like a python that just ate. I know there are much bigger problems in the world than my physical discomfort and my lack of coping skills. But I am consumed by thoughts of inadequacy and annoyance, and I just want to get to the part where I am holding a sweet newborn and they're presenting me with my certificate of honor for most dignified birth experience of 2015.

To add to my crockpot of emotions, I also am back-peddling on this baby's name - I don't know if I will ever be able to say his name showing possession and not question myself (did I say that right??) "That's Miles's".  Errrrmmm?!?!  Just as I was driving today, before the pay-it-forward incident, I pretended to officially decide that his name is actually Mayer.  But who am I kidding, I am not in any kind of position to be making lifetime decisions at this point. Does anyone have any insight? I really am all ears.

In addition, my midwife called to tell me I am GBS+, which I know, I knowwwwww, is not a huge deal, but will require 4 hours of antibiotics before he's born to be fully effective, otherwise he'll have to be monitored for 48 hours after. According to my birth fantasy, I will not be at the hospital for 4 hours before he's born, so that does not work for me!!  (I actually plan to be in the parking lot of the Pepsi Center, having just left a life-changing Garth Brooks concert. Perhaps I can start carrying a few vials of penicillin around in my purse just in case?) I think this gives me the most sadness because when Max was born, he wasn't instantly placed on my chest in a bloody mess.  They had to take him away and check him out, so it was really like 30 minutes before we actually got a good look at him. I want this next experience to be dreamy and magical and make up for all that. I worry that this GBS+ situation will add a new complication and my dream of my sports bra being ruined from snuggling a messy baby won't get to come true.

I have read of women who mourn their birth experience, and I'm totally setting myself up for that to happen again.  But come on, I am with my brain all day. How do I not let it wander into the what-ifs and the fantasylands??

The last month of pregnancy, women should be allowed to sit at home in seclusion to watch Netflix and wash baby clothes. Who's with me!?

Lately, Mike and I call him "Kip" from Napoleon Dynamite..."Yes, I love technology...not as much as you, you see...but still I love technology..."

Let them eat popcorn

Over the weekend, I saw a photo posted on Instagram of a cute little boy (maybe 15 months?) eating popcorn with his grandpa.  The second I saw it, I knew there would be comments about the dangers of popcorn.

One woman commented how her friend's 3 year old had choked on popcorn and died. Another woman said that even as an ICU nurse, she had a hard time helping her child when he choked on popcorn.

Ironically, just that morning, Max had found his way into the pantry and pulled out the bag of popcorn kernels, and then pointed at the popcorn maker on the shelf. I was just too proud of him knowing that much about the popcorn making process to reject his request.  While we snacked away on it, I thought about the days of not letting him have popcorn because I was too scared he would choke on it.  Now that he was almost 2, had the risk of him choking gone away?  Probably not. But I guess I just understand the bigger picture. Terrible, terrible things happen...but if we restrict ourselves based on every tragic story we ever hear, we'll be left to lay in our beds and stare out the window for the rest of our lives.

I've been haunted by the story of a local boy who was in a stroller, crossing the street with his mom (in the crosswalk, with a walk signal) and was hit by a car.  We can do everything right, and it can all go so wrong. In this digital age, we have access to every story in every community across the globe, and we are SO AWARE of what goes wrong, and we feel so compelled to warn others of the dangers we've experienced, even though these warnings can end up robbing us of simple moments that are creating lasting memories.

When a sweet little boy wants to eat popcorn with his grandpa, let's just go with it. When Max wants to squeal with excitement as the air popper fills the bowl, I'm going to savor that moment! Could they choke? Sure. But cancer cells could also be forming.  A plane could lose control and crash into our house.  I'm speaking to myself mostly when I say, let's be carefree but not careless. Don't let the freak accidents rob us of our simple, special moments.

Hobbies and a Pinterest-fail

Lately, my hobbies include:

• Bending over to pick up snacks I've dropped
• Sifting through my stretch pants to find ones without holes in them
• Making sure I'm not breathing too hard
• Taking the creepy elevator at work

Last summer I saw this 3-part photo that I wanted to recreate when I got pregnant. The first photo is you with your positive pregnancy test. The second photo is you, (same position, same outfit) super pregnant. The third photo is you (same position, same outfit) with your baby.

As is everything with Pinterest, my real-life version was pretty barf-tastic.  Obviously, the first photo turned out fine because I had cheek bones and could sit indian-style without sweating. I took the second photo again last weekend and not only did I want to slap myself for wearing jeans in the first pic 8 months ago, but seeing the side-by-side comparison of 'me then' vs. 'me now' made me realize I have probably gained 250-300 pounds. LITERALLY. Stay tuned for how the 3rd photo turns out - I'll be sure to post the finished product so you can all feel good about yourselves.

But besides waking up to a throbbing pubic bone and wanting to lick the floor of my garage (I have diagnosed myself with pica), this really is a pretty fun time.  The anticipation of how this is all going to go down is pretty exciting - plus, this is the time of year when spring starts to peek out and I get really really really happy.

Maternity leave starts in 3 weeks. Woo woo!

33 days and counting

I felt like I was going to avoid this period this time around...the period where I am frustrated by my body and I hate what it looks like/feels like and I am in a pit of self-loathe.  But, with 33 days to go, here we are.

My pubic bone throbs. I can't get out of bed without a struggle. If I move too quickly, I get cramps. I am definitely waddling everywhere I go.  If I have even an ounce of liquid in my body, and I have a little contraction, I feel like I'm going to explode via my bladder and/or my stomach.

I am seeing things happen to my body that I know can't be undone. If I hear one more person tell me their stupid reason for why they think they didn't get stretch marks (welllllll, I rubbed dolphin saliva on every day, and also used fresh coconut peels as a scrub while I listened to a tape of a wolf howling at the moon!) I will LOSE IT. Well now that I've typed that with my dragon fury, it's possible I've already lost it.

I know my body is performing a miracle. I get that. But it's not like Max is coming up to me every day with gratitude and appreciation, "Wow Mom...thank you for doing that. I really appreciate it. You're beautiful and I love you!"  No.,,the reality is that his current phase involves him slapping me probably 5 times a night. And I am one of those annoying people who needs to be recognized and justified and validated and loved. Sue me.

It doesn't help that people around me are constantly referring to my body.  Why is it that people lose their freaking minds when it comes to talking to pregnant women??
"Are you sure you're not having triplets?" I hate you.
"Do you think they have your due date right?" Oh, good point.
"I don't think its possible for you to get any bigger!" I'll kill you.
"Wow...looks like you've really dropped..." What does that even MEAN.

Do I love that I can have babies?  Yes, duh. Do I love that I am stuck in a wind tunnel of frustration with my body, a body that is mine forever and I can't get away from? No, I surely do not. I have a flawed, human mind and this is my reality right now. I feel trapped and sad and I can't wait for the day when my sweet baby boy is here and I can start on a path to recovery and attempting to work on my body.

But until then, it's just me, this pounding pubic bone and this giant stomach. Pity party, table for one.

Hey, at least it's functional.

A day to contemplate life

My heart hit the floor as I heard who the voicemail was from: "Ashley, this is Anne, your midwife...just calling about your bloodwork from last week..."  I get flushed over the littlest of things, so this was a moment where I'm sure my eyes were bulging out of my sockets and my heart was racing.  I called her back instantly, and sat through the terribly long phone tree to finally be connected with my sweet midwife.

I got out a pen and paper to try to take good notes.  No habla medical jargon.  She said that while my levels of the fatal trisomy's were good, the numbers that indicate a risk of down syndrome were closer to "bad" than what she was comfortable with.  I was surprisingly composed as we scheduled an appointment for me that afternoon to get a more advanced screening done.

But as soon as I hung up the phone, I started sobbing.  I was trying to control it, and when I realized I couldn't control it, I was trying to listen for no footsteps in the hallway so I could run to the bathroom.  As luck would have it, our president appeared in my doorway just then to ask me some question about fonts...I had no choice but to turn to him with tears running down my face and say, "Oh, I'm fine!"  He is divorced and only has sons, so I imagine he wanted the moment to end as quickly as I did.

I was finally able to lock myself in the bathroom and call Mike and my sister.  Brittany is my medical voice of reason, Mike is my lifestyle voice of reason.  Thank goodness for the 2 of them.  I was able to get it together and fumble my way through an hour of work before heading to back to my midwife's office.

By the time I was finished getting my blood drawn, I finally had reasoned with myself.  What was it that I was so afraid of?

It wasn't the ability to love this child.  I have no doubt that this child would be welcomed into our home and hearts with no problem.  Max would love and protect this baby, no matter what.  The Sater girls would do the same.  But what gives me anxiety and feelings of doubt is knowing that I would inevitably have to send this child out into a cold world that doesn't always understand differences.  I can't control the way the playground would treat this sweet child.

(Heyyyyyy wait a minute...isn't that a risk we take with ALL kids??)

But as I was working this all out in my mind, I began to see a different light shed on the whole situation.  When my life is over, I want to feel like I've accomplished something great, not just something mediocre.  Sure I've had little things here and there that have challenged me, but this could be the challenge that defines me, that God entrusts me with, that reveals areas of me that I don't even know exist.  This could be what makes my life even more meaningful.  I started to feel proud that I could be trusted to parent a child with special needs.  Could I handle it?  If God says so!

As Mike arrived home that night, I think he expected to walk into the house and find me sobbing on the floor.  But I had this newfound wave of energy.  I was at total peace and almost felt refreshed (but a little emotionally exhausted :)) I felt like whatever was coming our way was just part of our story.

It would be a week before the results were ready, but it didn't keep me up at night.  These are the risks we agree to as we decide to start a family.  Just as it is with every other potential problem that a baby can have - if it's not this thing, than it can be another.  We're never safe from tragedy and from challenges - but if we can try to accept the situations with grace and composure, we gain the clarity we need to see it through.

An added bonus was that this advanced screening would reveal our baby's gender, a whole 6 weeks early!  When they finally did call with the results, Mike took the call so he could know the gender first and then be the one to tell me. I waited patiently all night, wondering how he would finally tell me!  I went to put Max to bed, and figured he would tell me when I came out. But as I got to the last page of Max's book, I saw this:

Oh and I guess the other important part of this story is, my bloodwork came back and the baby is fine. But I guess I already knew that =)

What matters the most

A few weeks ago, I spent my Sunday night feeling discouraged.  Feeling overwhelmed.  I had tried to spend the day with my mom and nieces, and it really turned into me having time-outs with Max every 10 minutes.  He hits, he pinches, he slaps, etc. I can't figure out how to get his attention and teach him this is wrong.

I woke up still feeling foggy and annoyed.  Of all the things I am lazy about, I don't think parenting is one of them. I try so hard to do this right.  And lately I feel like I'm failing.  

When I got to work, I was going through my email.  Of all the sales (50% off rugs at World Market!) and other junk emails, I had one shining email from K-Love, with the subject "How to Remember What Matters Most".  It felt liberating to delete everything but that. 

As I read, I tried to really focus on the words and not just skim it.  It told the story of Mary giving birth to Jesus.  This line caught my attention so fiercly:

"Mary was called to be his mother—no more and no less. To nurture him, to feed and clothe him, to teach him all she knew of his heavenly Father."

If I do anything each day, it should be that: nurture Max, make sure he is clothed and fed, and teach him about all the good in the world.  I don't need to fill my days with unnecessary social outings.  I don't need to do something just to say I did it, or to post proof of it on Instagram.  

I need a constant reminder to simplify my days and that if Max goes to bed with a full heart and a full tummy, I'm doing exactly what I should be doing - no more and no less. 

A long life full of memories

After a couple of days of thinking he had the flu, then passing out multiple times at work and at home, my grandpa found himself in the hospital, undergoing open heart surgery.

My spunky grandpa, who at 85 years old, is still a full-time dentist (my grandma begs him to retire) and will be a farmer until the day he dies (I don't think farmers ever retire).

One of my biggest parental worries is of a life cut short by disease or accident or whatever. I always wonder if there is ever a point of releasing that worry, or being able to breathe a sigh of relief and say, woo hoo!  He did it!  My kids avoided tragedy and lived a long life!

As we visited with my grandpa the morning before his surgery, I watched my grandma sit by his bedside. She adores him and he adores her. They have built a life together over the past 60+ years. How can you not be affected by witnessing a pair with that longevity be faced with the potential of losing each other?

Before I let too much sadness creep in, I have to remind myself: they did it! Their lives have not been cut short. They have decades of memories: of finding love, making a home, starting a family, building careers, meeting grandchildren, and all the random ups and downs along the way.  Ultimately, isn't that what we all strive for? A long life full of memories.

While babbling on and on about this situation, I told Mike I wish there was a way I could tell my grandpa's mom that he has lived a long life. That she shouldn't worry anymore - he avoided tragedy and lived a long, prosperous life. Mike said to me, "You don't think she knows?"  I just love that man and his brain.

So while death is never easy, I do find a small bit of comfort in knowing that of all of the possible end-of-life scenarios, this is one of the best.

No one has died yet, but I guess I'm preparing myself for when the time comes.

From Addy: "Grandpa, this is a note from Addy." I love her!