Excuse me, but he weighs HOW much?

My son. Just call him beefcake. 16 hefty pounds of gorgeous baby! It's heavy enough to demonstrate that he's going to be big and broad like Jerry (and Jerry's dad). And that I'm probably going to have to watch him with the donuts down the road.

We had Sam's two month pediatrician's appointment this past week, and his doctor was in shock at how hefty he is. As was I. She wasn't one bit worried, however, as his height and head size are above the average as well. He's happy, healthy, and strong. And will probably be starting solid foods right around the time of his next appointment, since his appetite is so monstrous.

I am grateful he's not one of those obscenely fat babies, though. You don't look at him and think, "Gee, that baby is in the 99th percentile for weight." He's surprisingly solid. His shoulders are so wide! He's still comfortably in some 0-3 months clothes, however.

With growing maturity and weight come longer sleeps. He's going to bed later, which bothered me at first. And then he slept for 5 hours one night. And then 6 hours. Last night? I'm actually embarassed to admit that he slept for a whopping 9 hours! He woke up once around 3:30, but I didn't even make it to his room before he had passed back out.

My mother came to help me out last weekend, thank goodness. After about 3-4 weeks, I hit the wall and need a weekend of homework and sleep. This usually coincides with a big paper coming due. This weekend was no different, and once I handed off my son to my mother, my brain seemed to click back on. Paper done in no time, and I felt human again.

We decided to hit the mall to get the adorable shark outfit I saw at Gymboree for Sam. At the same time, I decided to give up and buy some bigger clothes. Anyone who has followed my blog over the past couple of years has gotten to see my journey with weight loss. I went from a size 14 to a size 6 over the course of a year in order to get my fertility under control. I was in love with my new body. And the healthy lifestyle obviously served its purpose. I have a beautiful brute for a son! But my figure is shot, and I hated staring at my clothes, knowing that only about 5% of them fit. So I bought some bigger clothes. And stored the smaller ones where they aren't on display, mocking my baby weight.

Speaking of the mall, my husband and son are there. I'm not sure why Jere wanted to take Sam to the mall today, other than Jerry realized the gift card I got him for our anniversary was still sitting in the drawer. I should be taking the opportunity to exercise or do homework. Instead, I think I will take a nap.

Today's lesson: What you see is not always what you get. Whether it's a normal looking baby who weighs as much as two gallons of milk, or a size 12 with the closet of a size 6.

Morning person

Oh, this can't be my kid. They must have switched him at the hospital. There must have been another baby boy born that night who happens to be the spittin' image of my husband. Because there is no way I gave birth to this small person who is grinning and giggling at six in the morning.

Welcome to eight weeks and the beginning of our schedule. Sam went to sleep around six last night, which wasn't the plan at all. In fact, it was so not the plan that we hadn't fed or bathed him and had to do so when he woke up a little before 10. He passed back out and mommy and daddy took some alone time to engage in some sweat inducing physical activity...




Wait, wait, not that! We played Just Dance on the Wii. Hilarious, and it made for a date night that didn't involve us watching TV while on our respective computers in the same room. Well, for awhile anyhow. Had to watch the new South Park. One more feeding a little after midnight, and SuperSam slept nearly five hours.


Mornings are contentious around here. I object to waking up. No one is going to be happy in this house until I'm sitting down with my first cup of coffee. It means that Sam wakes me up with his screaming, and I make him wait. He gets to continue his fit in the crib while I put on the coffee, make his bottle, and grab some breakfast. Sometimes I even make him wait while I make myself some eggs! I subscribe to the airplane "loss of cabin pressure" theory of child-rearing. I put my oxygen mask on first, then take care of the small child.

Of course, I feel awful by the time I go get him. My punishment is usually soggy cereal, cold eggs, or tepid coffee that I take in with the one hand I have free during his bottle.


Sam will be two months old at the end of this week. Jerry and I are trying to integrate him into our normal life a little more, so we booked our yearly vacation to Myrtle Beach. We'll see how that goes. If he's good, I might take him to Michigan in June. Maybe.

Other updates? He spends a good amount of time chewing on his hands. I prefer this to outright sucking his thumb. He loves music and lights, and refuses to live without this Baby Einstein toy I picked up for him last week. I sing to him at night and found that "American Pie" is a good lullaby, except when I can't remember what order the verses go in. He's wearing some 3 months clothes, and should be headed to the pediatrician next week for a routine visit (depending on if we can get in or not).





Sam and I spent Easter at his Nana's. Jerry stayed home to catch up on his sleep and the laundry. That meant a two hour drive in each direction without my extra set of hands. It went surprisingly well. He managed not to cry on the toll road, which is all a mommy can ask. He fussed most of the time we were there, but managed to make friends with my aunt's puppy.





Sam's Grammy will be here tonight to take care of him while I dig myself out form this pile of schoolwork. Despite giving birth while in the middle of taking my last class, I managed an A. I'm trying desperately to continue the trend. That's me. Always in pursuit of perfection.

Wait. What's this? A mid-morning nap? Yeah, I guess he is my son...




Today's lesson: It's one thing to see the physcial genetic traits you've given your child: his daddy's ears, my nose, his aunt's lips, his Poppa's hair and eyes. It's so much more amazing when you see bits and pieces of your personality mirrored in the tiny image. Unless, of course, you realize that your son dances like your husband. It must be genetic, because it certainly can't be taught.

Dealing with guilt

When it came to my pregnancy, nothing went as planned. I feel guilty, but I have to admit that despite praying to get pregnant, I hated it. Hopefully the very act of admitting that will help someone else to realize that it is possible to be overwhelmed with joy and still be miserable. The day I rolled over into my second trimester, I was attacked by debilitating migraines. The first one lasted three straight weeks and involved three trips to the ER and one extremely fantastic neurologist. At 25 weeks, one side of my pelvis decided to sit higher than the other, and I added a weekly trip to the chiropractor to my to do list. At 26 weeks, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and had to give up everything I was craving. I made it to 35 weeks without a single stretch mark, and then my belly broke out in angry lines that caused my husband to gasp in, well, I'm not sure what. I was found to be group B strep positive. And then the due date came...and went.

My doctor induced me at 41 weeks. My doctor broke my water 9 hours into the process, which brought on nightmarish contractions. I went from no contractions to less than two minutes apart within 15 minutes. I screamed for an epidural. And then the anesthesiologist hit an awkward spot in my back and I ended up having a bad reaction, so she had to do it again (note: not her fault, actually, as my back is a mess anyhow, and I loved her). I still wasn't dilating. The baby still wasn't dropping. They started pitocin. The baby went into distress, I was put on oxygen. After watching the baby, my doctor checked me again and I was only at 3 centimeters. The baby's heart rate concerned him, so he decided on a c-section. I agreed, since we were 24 hours into the process and going nowhere. They sent Jere off to get ready, and I cried to the anesthesiologist through the whole surgical prep.

The c-section was fantastic. My son came out healthy. I was healthy. But mentally? I wasn't ok. It wasn't because of the surgery. The surgery was easy and quick and gave me a beautiful son. It was GUILT. They gave Jere the baby and then offered to lay him on my chest. I said no. My husband followed our son back to the recovery room while they finished closing me up, and the anesthesiologist patted my forehead while I said over and over, "Is he ok? Did I screw him up? Why didn't I want to touch him? Why doesn't it feel like he belongs to me?" And she answered, "He's fine. He's perfect. You'll want to hold him later and never let him go, I promise."

I made it back to the recovery room, and my family was there passing Sam around. And I still didn't want to hold him. Then the nurse asked if I wanted to breastfeed him, and I said yes, and she cleared everyone from the room according to my wishes. The two nurses helped me try to feed him, but he didn't seem ready. It turns out he never would be. More guilt. I sent him to the nursery the first two nights on the advice of the best nurse in the world. I let everyone else take care of him. I tuned out. I hurt. He wouldn't feed. The first lactation consultant told me I just had to "try harder." I was grateful when another LC came on duty and checked Sam's tongue. He was severly tongue tied and couldn't latch. By then, I had already started letting him supplement with formula and pumping as well.

Long story short. I ended up staying in the hospital FOREVER. It took three weeks to organize with our insurance to get Sam's tongue fixed. I was exhausted from pumping and feeding (remember, it takes twice as long when you have to feed the baby, get the baby to settle down, and THEN pump...only to have to repeat the process almost immediately after finishing...do you see time for sleep in there?). And by the time they clipped his tongue, his latch was so unbelievably screwed up that feeding him actually caused me to scream and sob. Jerry and I decided Sam had gotten plenty of breastmilk over the last three weeks, and it was time to cut our losses. More guilt.

So the guilt, in list form:

1. I feel guilty about the medications I had to take during my pregnancy to control my migraines. Maybe I should have just dealt with the pain.

2. I feel guilty that I ended up with gestational diabetes. Maybe if I'd controlled my eating, it wouldn't have happened.

3. I feel guilty that I wasn't able to give birth to my son "naturally." Someone once told me I wasn't built to carry children. I will always feel like that is true.

4. I feel guilty that I gave in to an epidural. I thought, at the time, that the screwed up epidural was my punishment, and the resulting spinal headache was a continuation of that punishment. I hear all these stories about women giving birth without drugs, and I don't understand it. Mentally, I will always wonder what would have happened if I had just hung in there with the contractions. Maybe he'd have come out on his own.

5. I feel desperately guilty about not breastfeeding. I'm sick of hearing that I should have worked harder and stuck with it.

Today's women live in a world where they're inundated with stories of harrowing drug-free births and the "breast is best" mantra. The heroes are those women who can push their children out, go home the next day, and breastfeed them for a year. Instead, I couldn't put in any of the work. I was in the hospital for 5 days. And I was actually relieved to switch to formula. But the guilt still stares me down. It's there when I'm cuddling my son and he tries to root through my shirt and I have to distract him with a bottle or pacifier. It's there when I see him stick out his tongue. It's there when I find a stray nursing bra that hasn't made its way into the storage box. It's there everytime someone asks if I'm breastfeeding. And it's there in every book I own that has 90 pages on breastfeeding and 3 pages on formula feeding, every health article, every support group, every fan club. I have more than once cried to my husband that I feel like a terrible mother.

I hope that someday, the guilt goes away. My son is happy and healthy. Well, mostly happy. He's a very serious baby, just like his mom.

Today's lesson: My anesthesiologist was right about one thing. I did eventually want to hold my son. And sometimes my husband has to pry Sam from my arms so I can get some sleep.

Back in the saddle?

It's been a busy couple of weeks. We're trying desperately to return to our normal life (yeah, right). My poor son had a slew of doctor's appointments, and I know he's grateful all of that is over. And my husband and I are slowly adjusting to parenthood. We've thrown some good advice out the window in favor of doing it our own way, and are actually starting to feel like we can successfully raise this boy while still maintaining our sanity. Or at least Jere's sanity. Mine was already being calling into question.

There came a point where I was crying because I wanted out of the house. I wanted to go on a car ride that didn't involve the doctor. And my wonderful husband obliged. We packed our son up and took him to the mall. Sam fussed the entire time and demanded to be carried. We stopped in the family lounge to feed and change him, and what a wonderful invention! We bottle feed, but it was nice to have some privacy so we could sit down with him. I managed to get a little shopping done, thank goodness, and then we went over to dinner. And you know what? He slept. We've taken him out to dinner two times since then, and he sleeps! It's fantastic! Granted, he gets home and has a cow and stays up until 4 AM. But we're slowly starting to develop a life WITH him.


And then my wonderful husband gave me a 6 hour break so I could attend a luncheon with my friends. I love this yearly luncheon, but I haven't been able to go for the past few years. I wasn't sure I'd make it to this one, either, but Jere took the baby from me, loaded me into the Mustang, and yelled, "NO GUILT!" out the front door as I drove away. And I swear I only called to check on him once. During the luncheon that is. I MAY have called on the way home, too.

Everything is settling into a shaky routine here. It doesn't really have a same time each day pattern. But we're getting closer to it.

Today's lesson: It is possible to keep pieces of your old life when you have a baby. Though the pieces are likely to be covered in spit up and other choice bodily fluids...

All it took was a single cup...

This cup, to be exact. I'm trying to get into a routine with my son. We wake up, and I go out to the kitchen to get both our breakfasts ready. Warm his bottle. Brew my coffee. Putter around and get together random breakfast foods while those first two things accomplish themselves. If I'm lucky, Sam waits patiently. Today, Sam was not patient. He was already screaming, and I was trying to rush around to get organized. So everything was ready and lined up on my bedside table. Everything except the coffee.

I poured in some cream, stirred it up, turned to put the spoon in the sink, and then turned back to grab the coffee.

I wish I'd gotten a picture, but my mind obviously didn't go there at that moment. Or for several moments after.

I spilled the coffee. Obviously. And I don't mean spilled it on just the counter or just the floor. No. I did a grand job. Start with the counter. The momentum carried the coffee onto my stovetop, into the drip pans, and then under them. Then it sloshed down the front of the cabinets, where it immediately stained. Continue down the door of the oven, and into the oven, and down into the storage drawer. And then the floor. The coffee hit the tile floor with force, splashing it across the room and under the refrigerator. It was, for lack of a better word, spectacular.

But I think I handled it well. I swore. I swore so terribly that, were I Catholic, I would be left hoarse from the number of Hail Mary's it would take for atonement.

Next logical step would have been throwing things, right? Or crying? Screaming? Nope.

I sloshed through the mess, put the mug back under the Keurig, stuck in a fresh coffee cartridge, and pushed start.

You can't tackle that kind of mess without coffee.

Today's lesson: When you go two weeks without mopping your kitchen floor, it will inevitably find a way to force itself to the front of your attention. And this means drowning out the screaming, desperate baby while you get your surgically wounded body down on its hands and knees to mop up the mess. The upside? Kitchen floor's clean.

There once was a woman...

There once was a woman...

who left a prayer on a wall.

One week later, that woman was in Rome...

and saw the beginning of the prayer being answered.

And after many months of waiting, the woman got to see her prayer face to face.

And for that? I have no words.

Welcome to the world, Sam.

I am becoming a walking (waddling) joke

Welcome to my due date. How nice of you to come. I have the nursery completed, all the clothes washed, the cradle next to my bed, and the carseat installed in the car. The only thing missing?


The baby.


Last week, the nurse practitioner examined me and announced that the baby is "done." However, baby is not aware of that. Despite the lovely contractions I had the day before my appointment, my body has made no progress whatsoever. And then the NP said the most lovely words I've ever heard: "Don't worry. We're going to induce you." YES!!! I was so excited that I went skipping to the front desk. I signed a little paperwork and was told the scheduling coordinator would call me after my doctor reviewed my chart. I thought the end was near!


Then I got the phone call the next morning. They'd like to schedule my induction. For two weeks from that day. That was a week ago. Still another week and another doctor's appointment before the baby comes. Which is, of course, perfectly fine and perfectly normal and very prudent of my doctor. But there's a problem.


When I got pregnant, I started to frequent a pregnancy messageboard for moms who were going to give birth in February. My doctor and my nurse both told me that was the worst thing I could ever do, because everyone's pregnancy is different. But did I listen? Uh, no. And despite the fact that I'm due at the beginning of February and everyone on the board has due dates spread out all over the month, half of them have already given birth. And 2/3 of those births have been by induction. I know my baby is healthy and happy and can wait another week. So what is with these women giving birth by choice SO SOON?? Now, I'm not talking about perfectly healthy moms having perfectly healthy inductions around 39 weeks because that's when their doctor has room in their schedule. Or the moms who develop pre-eclampsia or other problems and NEED to deliver early. I'm talking about the crazies who are electively inducing as early as 37 weeks. I know how bad they want the baby out, but seriously??


On top of it all, I have gestational diabetes. Doctors will quite often induce diabetic mothers at 38 weeks to keep the baby from getting too big. Not me. I had to be obsessive about controlling my sugars, and my son is of perfectly normal size and still has room to hang around for the extra week. 41 weeks of pregnancy. I will hold this extra week against my son down the road when he complains about making his bed.


So even though I'm uncomfortable and impatient, I am eternally grateful. Because my doctor is doing his job. And as he's told me several times, he's impressed with the way I've done mine when it comes to the gestational diabetes. My hard work means my son is safe and healthy, and can afford to live in the belly condo a little longer. I get one more week of happy baby kicks to share with my husband.


This doesn't mean I haven't given every single old wives tale about inducing labor at home its fair shot. Especially the spicy food. Next try? Pineapple.

Going out to dinner has become interesting. It's really the only place I go these days. I'm too uncomfortable to do anything else. But now when we get seated by the host, they all say, "Two of you tonight? Oh, well, two and that baby!" I had a woman in the restroom of a nice restaurant reassure me that if I went into labor, there was a nurse sitting at her table. And the looks I get! My husband is smart enough to stay close, otherwise I look like I'm 13 years old and hugely pregnant. I've put up a picture of me from a week ago at 39 weeks. I haven't taken the 40 week one yet, but I'll get right on that. *rolls eyes*


Today's lesson: Hard work can really pay off. And comparing yourself to others can make you miserable. And it took the help of my nurse practitioner to realize it. "You are not everyone else. You are healthy. You've done everything you can to stay that way. Stop comparing!" And then she very sweetly saved me from having to beg for an induction by suggesting it herself. Blessed woman.