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!