Just Keep Swimming,. . .and swimming,. . .and swimming, . . .and. . .

I bought a pair of these today.

And they are pretty and shiny but it makes me a little sad.  Because I’d rather have bought some new ones of these.

By the way, speaking

To Run or Not to Run

So it’s time to face the facts.  Time to stop the I’m-pregnant-so-I-can’t-run-but-I-definitely-better-have-another-cookie excuse, and start getting back into the exercise regime.  It’s hard to believe that there was a time when if I didn’t get to exercise that day, I was actually a bit of a grumpy person to live with.  Me grumpy?  Hard to believe, I know.  Just ask the Mister.  Actually, don’t ask.  He’ll have too many stories to tell on that one.

Yes, somewhere in the past I would regularly get up at 4:45 or 5:00 to run 5-12 miles.  And it looked like this outside.

I have the California excuse for such behavior:  “We’re crazy like that.”

The Mister kindly pointed out that it does not matter the state, my behavior would still be the same.

Harumph.

Harumph means he is right.  I just don’t want to admit it.

But, the new kid in the family, Baby Man, he’s even crazier.  “Let’s get up at 1:30, Mom!”  And, “Hey, mom!  It’s 4:30AM.  Let’s get up again!”  “Party, Mom!  Party!  Party!  Party!”  So, until Baby gets on a little bit of a different schedule, we’re sleeping.  Period.

Grandma decided to help out and loaned us her treadmill for a month or two until Baby comes around to the idea that sleep, at night and not just in the middle of the day, is a very good thing.

Each of the kids got to try out the treadmill. . . .or maybe we can just stand here and press the buttons and see if we can get it to work.

Almost working.


Going a little faster.


There we go!


Ah, even baby wants a try.  Or perhaps he’s practicing his GQ pose.  “Look at my new high tech gift Grandma gave me!”


“Oooh, I’m so excited!  Uh-oh, feeling too excited.  Quick, someone pick me up before I accidentally spit up on it!”


It’s the new time-out.  No more standing in the corner, we’re going to make them work those skinny little calves!


Yep, in sunny Cali, where on a bad day in the dead of winter we face wretched weather of 55 degrees–whilst the rest of the nation is facing yet another record snowstorm–we run on treadmills.   But for the record, I will repeat, this is a LOANER treadmill.  I run outside.  Outside runner, here.  Hmm, I say that as if I think it makes me special.  O.k., fine.   I’ll stick with “We’re crazy like that.”

Labor and Delivery

I can’t believe I’m posting a picture of my toes on the web. Ah well. I promise not to do it again, unless I get another pedicure. I may be a Cali girl but I am on a budget.

The weeks before Baby come onto the scene, The Mister’s co-worker was thoughtful enough to frequently ask for updates. He was amazed at The Mister’s calm demeanor. He told the Mister that whenever The Mister’s phone would ring, he wondered if it would be the call,–water broke, get to hospital ASAP. The Mister and I laughed at the thought of Baby coming with any unexpectedness that would necessitate The Mister dashing out of the office and rushing to the hospital. Surely his kind co-worker, who does not have any kids yet, had simply watched too many movies and didn’t understand that most babies take their sweet time coming into the world.

At least that’s how my babies had been.
But, as it usually goes,. . . turns out the last laugh was on us.

On Sunday evening The Mister and I had not settled into bed until 11:40PM. At 11:45 I shot up straight in bed. My water had broke.

But, I figured, I had time.

I took a nice hot shower. Then the first contraction hit. That was fine, that was good. It meant things were going now.

But, I figured, I had time.

So I put on my make-up. The contractions continued. They went from seven minutes apart to 4 minutes apart.

But, I figured, I had time.

I fixed my hair, making myself presentable. The contractions certainly hurt, but they were short, 20-30 seconds rather than the usual late labor contractions of 45-60 seconds.

So, figuring I had time. . .

I methodically packed my bag and my laptop. Yes, hospitals have wireless now.
At this point my dear sweet mom arrived to watch the other munchkins while we were at the hospital. I took one last look at the munchkins sweet sleeping faces before what I knew would be an event that would change all of our lives a bit.

But I was ready. I had my make-up, my hair done, my bag, and my pedicure. Why the pedicure? Because I’d meant to have one on each of the last three and just never got around to it. Because my labor and delivery nurse friend said she always noticed such things on the patients and nurses always thought they looked nice. And because, by golly this was baby number four and I’m a California girl and this time, when my feet were in those darn stirrups yet again, I was going to look good. This delivery was going to be different. This one was going to be on my terms. . . .Ha, ha! That still makes me laugh.

The contractions were getting bad now even though they stayed consistently at four minutes apart. But that was ok. It was 12:55AM and we were entering the hospital lobby.

“Could you tell me where labor and delivery is?” I queried. This was baby #4 and perhaps my attitude was a bit lax, partly because, as all we moms know, however it happens, the baby will be out at some point. So, I hadn’t worried too much about the details. But perhaps, knowing the general direction of where I’d be birthing would have been a good idea.

Alas I was at the desk of the labor and delivery nurse. I’m direct and get straight to the point, so of course my first question was the most essential for wimps like myself: “Is the anesthesiologist on call?” Yes, he was. And in case he wasn’t, I had my letter in my pocket from the hospital that boasted of their 24 hour on-call anesthesiologist. I then, in proper wimpy style, promptly laid my head down on her desk as another contraction hit. She was kind enough to wait while I crowded her desk. This was the labor and delivery floor anyhow.

We headed down the hall to triage and I had to stop again. This time not crowding anyone’s desk but dropping my backpack and gripping the nice plastic railing as I rode out another contraction.

“They’re coming quickly,” the nurse commented. Yes, but they were still brief in duration so I didn’t think much of it, just that it really hurt.

At triage I cut to the chase again, only one thing on my mind now—and for once in my life it wasn’t chocolate. “Is the anesthesiologist nearby?”

The anesthesiologist was nearby, supposedly, but first they had to get a bag of saline solution in my system to make sure I was hydrated and that would take about 20-30 minutes.

20-30 minutes?! Breathe, girl, breathe.

She then checked to see if I was dilated.
“A nine.”

Suddenly she was moving a lot faster than before and barking out orders to the other nurses. “Multip! Call the doctor.” Multip is nurse lingo for a woman that has delivered at least one child already, hence the subsequent deliveries tend to go a bit faster.

She then wanted to check baby, but in my state of wimpiness I’d also resorted to throwing all dignity out the window to seek any relief from the pain. I’d flipped onto all fours on the bed and did my best to not rip the sheets into tiny little shreds as I held on for another contraction—the plastic railing would have been a bit more durable but I really didn’t need to flash anyone in the hallway with my new lovely attire—hospital gown a la draft in the back.

A new room, a new round of nurses. And of course, my same question. I was seriously becoming a broken record now. Just a bit higher, scratchier, and definitely desperate.

“Is the anesthesiologist here.”

Finally, the nurse said it to me straight. “Honey, I think we need the doctor more than we need the anesthesiologist.” Code for, get ready girl because you’re going to do this all natural, pioneer woman style—and with those lovely stirrups of course. But I was the wimp and all I could think was, “Drugs! Please, drugs! I’ve been a good girl. Never tried a cigarette. Never done any drugs. But now, right now, drugs, PLEASE!”

The floor was completely quiet but for our room. I was the only patient. I didn’t realize at the time that the unfortunate part here was no one else to cover up, or join in, all the screaming I was going to be doing in a few minutes.

The doctor still wasn’t there and I was on all fours yet again, contemplating how to get away from the pain that was all through me.

Finally the doctor swept into the room, with hair done, nice dress slacks, stylish blouse, and of course, matching pumps. It was 1:30AM, but as I mentioned, this is California, and she looked the part. Maybe she could carry it through for the both of us.

Now I must pause to say that I try to push my body to its limits and take on the challenge. I’ve done several marathons, a few triathlons, and once, long ago, jumped out of a plane—and once was enough, thank you very much. But when it comes to natural childbirth, heck, when it comes to getting my blood drawn, I am super wimp. Super, super wimp.

Hence, I won’t give you the gory details of the delivery but that it took nine minutes from when the doctor entered the room, three good pushes, and a bit more screaming on my part than I care to admit to. Let’s just say by the third push and feeling that episiotomy without any pain killers, I was going hoarse with the screaming. What had been a delivery that was to be on my terms had turned into what I should have expected. Because that’s how it is with kids, isn’t it? We parents have the illusion of control and then realize, oh, actually, we never were in control. Well this baby was laying it down for me from day one. So, instead of painted toenails in stirrups, smiles and easy pushes as my epidural dripped through my bloodstream, I found myself gripping The Mister’s hand for all I was worth, and screaming, “Get it out!” Not, “Get my dear sweet little boy out.” Or even, “Get him out.” Nope, we were down to “Get it out!”

And finally, after that last push, Baby made his entrance. And I was done. Sweet little boy came out and they cleaned him up and my head fell back, my limbs shaking like a leaf from the whole thing, my body a bit of a mess, and The Mister holding my hand tight as little Baby was placed on my stomach to peer at me.

And the nurse said, “Oh honey, is that really eye shadow that you’re wearing?”

I wasn’t going to own up to it for anything.

Contractions

And more contractions.

Bonding with Baby

Some friends have told me that I will need to have time to bond with the baby. Perhaps, I have forgotten what that means or I am too busy to think about it, which is the case with a lot of things these days, i.e. dinner, but I just have not quite felt like I’ve understood the import of the idea this time around.

Don’t get me wrong, I am very excited to meet this little guy that will join our family in the next week or two. And I’ve always been excited about the new child that will come into our home. But part of it may be that I feel that for some reason, we’ve been blessed to have that bonding already occur.

There has been something different with this pregnancy. It started the day of the 18 week ultrasound when we found out the gender. I was hoping that perhaps this one would be a girl so that we could even things out in the family, but the doctor was quite clear as he gleefully pointed out the male parts, (why do male doctors seem to get a kick out of that?) that it was most definitely a boy.

Anyways, I knew that either way, a healthy child was more than enough and that we were not complete at three. If God was choosing to send us a boy, there was a very good reason for it and I was just happy we were being blessed with another one.

Still, it all really hit me after we left the office and I was on my way back to pick up the kids. I can remember the exact part of the freeway where I was driving when it happened. Out of nowhere, an amazing feeling of love and excitement came over me and a boy’s name popped into my head. And suddenly, at that moment, I felt completely at peace with this little boy that would be coming. I immediately called my husband on his cell, since he was driving back to work, and said, “This is his name. What do you think?”

It is very hard for us to agree on a name but this was one time where we both found that mutual point of “Yes, that is a very good name.” And everything was settled.

Of course I’ve spent the last four months sifting through names and checking out other possibilities. This is something for life and I don’t want to be over hasty. And, yes, part of me would like some say in the matter. Have I ever openly admitted my stubbornness to you?

Nevertheless, I’ve recounted this story on a few occasions to close friends, and, each time, the same feelings of peace and love come back as before. Perhaps this child already knows that mom is the bullheaded type that needs to be hit over the head a few times before she’ll listen.

It was quite interesting to me though that a few days after this initial experience, my father recounted to me that he’d been thinking about the pregnancy and this little guy that would be coming to the family and that he had a very similar experience of love and peace. “There is something very special about this one,” he’d said. The cautious side of me was immediately terrified that this is to prep me for a real challenge of a kid, i.e. payback for my own childhood.

But, either way, there is something different about this little one and he is very much making his presence known to us before he comes. So when others say, you need time to bond with the baby, for some reason, I feel like it has already happened. And I am very truly excited to hold him in my arms and look in his eyes and say, “Finally, we meet. And this is your name, is it?”

Tangled Up

Little Big Man spent all week asking to go bowling. The idea was planted when he was looking at old photos of a past vacation when we’d taken everyone for a game. But, since we started school this last August I’ve been wanting to play hooky from class and take the kids to a movie. It’s been one of those, “just because we can” things. Of course we could do it during the regular school year at public school, but as you’ve probably noticed, with my OCD and Type A habits, it would be a terribly pathetic lie to say I’m anything less than a follow-the-rules kind of gal. Besides, I was saving bowling for Saturday when Daddy could join us and monitor the activity a bit better. I’m at that point where I look like I just chose to swallow the ball rather than bowl it down the lane.

We all knew that time was counting down to baby #4’s appearance so near the end of the week I began browsing the internet for the local listings and found out that Tangled was starting right NOW at a nearby theater. The theater was still about 15 minutes away but previews are about that long anyways, so, why not?! We flew out the door at an impressive speed and hopped on the freeway.

The Mister gave me one of the best presents this past Christmas, 2 cds filled with the “Best Of” classical music pieces. I love pop, top 40, country, and alternative, but I also have a particular soft spot for classical.

But, The Mister also knows me quite well and hence, wisely left off Flight of the Valkyries from either cd. I remember hearing once that of all music—ALL music—Flight of the Valkyries is the #1 song for motorists to speed to. But either way, we didn’t need Wagner to get us there in time – with two cowboys, one cowgirl, and momma at the wheel, Copland’s Hoedown did the job just fine.

We got to the theater and the movie had been going for a few minutes. We held hands and stuck together in the pitch black, waiting for a scene that would illuminate the whole theater so we could find the perfect seat. We waited. And waited. And waited. No such scene was on the horizon. So, feeling with my toes and instinct, we headed down the aisle. I took a big breath and plopped myself down, praying I wasn’t about to land on someone’s lap. Prayer works!

The movie was great fun and we were laughing all quite a bit. Or so I thought. Suddenly I hear Little Big Man crying in his seat. I coax him over to my lap and he starts saying in that really irresistibly cute voice, “The movie is scawy! Weally, weally scawy!” At that moment the evil mother impostor flashes a magnificent headshot on screen and Little Big Man throws himself against me whimpering with near hysterics. I can’t help but think, “Really?” I mean, this is the same kid that watched the shoot ‘em up, and massive destruction of half a city in Megamind, but he can’t handle the witch? After the film, Miss Firecracker unintentionally illuminated the whole scenario to me in a slightly different light. ”Mom, the witch, with her hair and stuff, . . . she kind of looked like you.” Hmmm. Perhaps wicked mommies hit home a bit more for Little Big Man than action heroes blasting each other. Either way,- – I refuse to dwell on this line of thought any further.

Finally, everyone began to relax and enjoy the movie. Even Little Big Man was laughing at the hilarious horse character that stole the show. We were doing quite well–the wicked mother impostor was gone and the scene was wrapping up in true Disney style. And just as the ending scene got quiet and the audience has the “aaaah,” moment of everything ending perfectly, Little Big Man sits up straight in his seat and asks at full voice, “Can we go bowling now?”

Labor of Love

These Braxton Hicks aren’t all that fun. Of course I’d take them over the real thing. They certainly do have a tendency to just pop up anytime, anywhere . . . such as last week when I was standing at the checkout at Borders, buying a gift card for my dad’s Christmas present. The clerk asked me how I was doing and I debated on telling him that I was having a contraction right there in the middle of his lovely store, and for that reason I was not doing quite as well as I’d like. But he was so young and befuddled looking already, I didn’t have the heart to confuse him further.

See Jane Run

This is my fifth pregnancy and hopefully fourth healthy birth. We’re nearing week 33, (of 40 for those who did not realize, like myself, that pregnancy is really nearly 10 months, not the darn 9 months they trick you into thinking it is). Of course it can be reasonably argued that you aren’t even pregnant the first two weeks, . . . but we don’t need to send the kiddos out of the room and go into a conversation about all that right now.

I ran with my dear friend this morning. It was the usual five mile route. I’m quite surprised to be running at this point and I probably do present a bit of a disturbing sight to behold. But it makes me happy and the day feels so much better after a morning run.

With the first child I ran to week 34 or so and then stopped due to sciatic pain. I switched to riding my bike around the Rose Bowl. Yes, 39 weeks pregnant, belly the size of a watermelon, and cruising the Rose Bowl loop on a ten speed. Fashion statement or not – - not my smartest move.

With the second pregnancy I ran until week 28 and then stopped because of sciatic pain again. Then I just slept in everyday – - heaven.

With the third pregnancy the doctor put me on bedrest at week 20 because of a small hole in the fetus’s heart. Thankfully it healed within a few months but I did not return to exercise. The Good Doctor, who is extremely proficient at what he does, enjoyed scaring us athlete types with many a serious story. Apparently he’d had a patient who was an avid swimmer and she curtailed her regimen because of a similar disorder in her fetus’s heart. The heart healed within a few months and then she came back for a final checkup. Her husband was visibly upset at the appointment. And upon ultrasound check, the heart defect had returned. Mom had been swimming vigorously again.

It really comes down to the Good Doctor’s general advice: You have nine months to build a life and give it the best start. Is that really too much to ask?

Running has been a part of my life since age 12 or so. I found I could perform decently at it – - probably mostly because it takes little or no skill . . . one foot in front of the other and repeat, and repeat, and repeat. But it can be painful.

My mother-in-law does not enjoy exercise but does it religiously because she is disciplined. When I have been injured I have had to switch to alternate forms of exercise: stationary bikes; elliptical machines; and what have you, and I absolutely detest it. On those days my respect for her grows. I cannot fathom the discipline it takes to do something on a daily basis that feels so tedious, let alone all the sweaty smelliness. But when I am running on the road, or even the treadmill, and the sweat trickles down my back and soaks everything, then it is truly a good run and things are right in the world for the moment.

The sciatic has not caused me any problems this time around, but I do feel my body stretching in new ways that concern me. My dear friend calls the soft belly of post pregnancy “The Mommy Trophy.” Perhaps this little guy is working on adding new dimensions to my trophy. Either way, he is certainly making his presence ever more known as I must sit down to put on my shoes and bend my legs in odd angles to be able to tie my shoes. He will tell me when it is time to stop, and I get the feeling that will be soon.

“A funny thing happened on the way to the theater.”

Actually it was on the way to The Good Doctor’s for yet another visit. Apparently I have the Kell antibody in my blood, which can cause hemolytic disease in a newborn similarly to Rh disease. Thus my pregnancies are deemed high risk and I go in for an ultrasound every two weeks to check the blood level of the fetus to make sure anemia is not developing. With the 3D ultrasounds, they really do have some amazing technology these days for previewing baby– The Good Doctor pointed out the fuzz of hair already growing on baby’s head.

But that is not what this post is about. I was running late and although I was close to the last appointment for the day, I did not know for sure if the doctor would be backed up. I parked my ultra-cool minivan—I don’t care what you SUV lovers say, there’s nothing wrong with the soccer mom look—and dashed across the parking lot, as much as a pregnant lady can dash, to the building. My nice boots, that actually hurt and really aren’t worth it except that I am a sucker for boots, tappity tapped across the lobby to the elevator. I could hear “her” coming behind me. I didn’t know who she was other than another patient in the building and now she was heading for the elevator too and she was at that perfect distance behind me in which I had that dreaded choice to make. Do I hold the elevator for her or just pretend to not see her and press the button because she really was just far enough away that I could reasonably be excused? I hopped into the elevator, she certainly wasn’t close enough behind me, and breathed deeply as I pressed the button to go up. But I looked up and saw her coming, our eyes meeting briefly, and I remembered a thought a dear friend had shared with me . . . “So many of our interactions with others are brief and unremembered. But for that moment you have a chance to interact with that individual, . . . to affect how they feel. Will it be for good or not?”

I pressed the hold button, waking from my brief selfish stupor, smiled, and then, like a pregnant lady under stress, still had the nerve to motion for her to come quickly. She thanked me politely and we did the typical silent elevator ride. When we arrived at our floor—the same for both of us—she told me to go ahead. No doubt due to my terrible show of hiding my impatience. I thanked her and quickly took off.

As I sat in the waiting room, staring at the photos of The Good Doctor and his family, it occurred to me that the pretty lady standing next to him had an uncanny resemblance to elevator woman. Yep, it was his wife. You can bet I was counting my blessing right then and there that I’d had that one itty bitty extra ounce of decency to hold that elevator. Ah, the fun little lessons God teaches us when he wants.