I'd rather be sleeping

I'm trying very hard not to disappear from the blogosphere now that Beckett is here, but I have to admit, posting regularly is slightly difficult right now. This is mainly because it is very rare that BOTH my children are sleeping at the same time, and if by some off chance they are, then I'm rushing around the house, trying to be productive -- washing dishes, doing laundry, mopping and waxing the floor, planning a strategy for the implementation of world peace... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Yeah... I'm totally lying. If my kids are snoozing at the same time, you better believe I'm curled up in the fetal position right there next to them, trying to soak up some of the silence and stock piling a few hours of shut eye to prepare for the "dark time" (aka night, aka the time when I want to cry for several hours in a row b/c my son will not sleep, aka HOLY GOD WILL THIS INFANT EVER GET DAY AND NIGHT FIGURED THE FUCK OUT?!)

Ahem. Sorry. 

Anyways, with all that said, stories and information and general randomness keeps piling up over here, so I'm doing a quick round-up post to update everyone on life around the EdelSpot. It goes a little something like this:

1. Showering has become something akin to a religious experience for me. Seriously. My house is never, and I mean NEVER quiet any more. There is a baby crying, a toddler melting down, a dog barking or the television/radio blaring nearly every single moment of the day, and half the night. So when I shut my bathroom door, and turn on the blessed white noise of the shower, I very nearly weep with joy. I love opening the shower door and getting hit with the puff of steam I've let build up, I love that first moment when I step into the slightly scalding water, and I love (WITH A PASSION) the feeling of relief I get as all the dried milk, baby spit-up, finger paints, and random food items (sometimes smushed in my hair) gets washed away. For those 10-15 minutes I have a lovely feeling of being just a woman (and not a mommy), and it is delicious. Even though I know it will only last a few moments before I'm once again scraping peanut butter off my arm or wearing a t-shirt with an apple juice stain on it. And I'm okay with that. As long as I get my time in the shower.
2. It is official that second children get treated differently than first children. Haven't decided yet if that is a good or a bad thing for Beckett. On the good end of the spectrum, second children seem to be (at least in our household) worried over less, which probably will lead to a healthy and non-twitchy kiddo. On the bad end of things, I have about two photos of our little man and instead of stressing about whether things are clean, sterile and steam sanitized, I find myself using lukewarm water and a prayer (on a good day) or my very own spit to clean items from pump parts to pacis.  And once I let the dog lick something clean (I think it was Beckett's head).
3. Some things never change. See this post about my magical nipples. Apparently, they have not lost their ability for good since Kate was a baby, as they are working their witching ways with Beckett. GOOOOO BOOBS!
4. Speaking of boobs, Beckett weighs a hefty 7 lbs. 14 oz. now, which means mine have moved to udder status quite well, thank you very much. Today was our two-week check in, and Beckett's stats are 22.25 inches long (95% so we have a tall boy like his daddy), 7 lbs. 14 oz. (45% so slightly below average) and his head circumference is 35.8 inches (40%). Really, nothing too interesting here, but have to put in the pertinent info because as I've outlined before, baby books likely ain't gonna happen, so I'm just planning to tell my kids to Google their info when they ask some day.
5. I picked up a pamphlet about temper tantrums at the doctor's office today. The title of the piece is "Temper Tantrums: A Normal Part of Growing Up." I don't really plan on reading it, but the subtitle makes me feel good somehow, so I'm just going to hang it on my fridge and stare at it every time Kate blows a gasket because she can't find her Cinderella doll, or I won't let her have a second brownie, or global warming pisses her off.
6. I also learned at the doctor's office that I am not a terrible mother (well, actually that wasn't confirmed, but ONE of my fears was laid to rest). For the last several days, I've been thinking that Beckett always has a load in his diaper because he smells funny, but half the time he is clean. So last night I'm holding him and thinking how much I love him, and then I'm thinking how bad he smells. And wondering if it is normal that I think my child stinks instead of thinking he smells like happiness. And THEN I start to worry that maybe HE doesn't smell, that I am smelling ME, so then I get all paranoid about my hygiene AND I think I'm a bad mother because I STILL think my baby smells bad. Fast forward to the doctors office and I find out that his umbilical cord is getting ready to fall off, and that is why it smells bad. There is nothing wrong, it isn't infected and he isn't going to always be the stinky kid in class, but that just happens sometimes. Whew. Still, I can't wait until that damn thing falls off so I can snuggle my baby and NOT think about breathing through my mouth instead of my nose.

I think that is about it for now. The house is still slightly quiet (except for the a/c repairman who will leave before my children wake up if he knows what is good for him) so I'm going to take a moment to make sure the house is in order, do some ironing, maybe bake some banana bread.... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Beckett is already hosting important business meetings with his stuffed animals. That or they are planning a raging kegger. 

My babies.

Kate during her daily dress-up routine -- I have to admit she makes an adorable Cinderella. However, everything must be just right, including her makeup, gloves, shoes and purse or she has a temper tantrum. But its okay, its "A Normal Part of Growing Up." Whew.

Hitting the bottle, one last time

As you blunder through life as a mommy (or daddy) you make judgement calls along the way about certain issues. I like to call this "parenting" -- and while it is hard to say if there is really a "right" or a "wrong" when it comes to making these decisions, somewhere down the line you may realize you made an earlier judgement call that is coming back to bite you in the ass... BIG time. That ass-biting is happening in our household right this VERY INSTANT.

You see, we had some trouble getting Kate to sleep as a newborn. Shocker right? Baby NOT sleeping? We were total amateurs who expected more from our little bundle of newly born perfectness. Now we know better. Newborn = no sleep. Got it. But after several months of little sleep, Ben and I were frankly ready to do anything, including running away to Mexico to leave the other parent stranded with the sleepless baby... SUCKER!

Long story short, by the time Kate was six months old we had taught her to sleep through the night. She just had to have her lovey and a bottle before bed. THATS RIGHT I SAID IT. A bottle before bed. We were desperate, and sleepy, and frankly, if my baby wants to hit the bottle before bed, who am I to tell her no? But it worked, Kate sleeps 10-12 hours a night. The only time we have sleep issues is when she is teething or sick, and she is easily rocked (or bottled) back to bed.

Even during the day, Kate loves to just unwind with a bottle. It is her early morning and mid-afternoon veg time. Like mommy and happy hour. And while she will drink water from a cup like a champ, if you put milk in that same cup during bottle time, girlfriend looks at you like she wants to run you over with a steam roller. Basically, the cup isn't the issue so much as the lack of bottle during appropriate bottle drinking times that causes much wailing and gnashing of sharp little baby teeth. By teaching her to unwind and relax with a bottle at night, we've caused her to become dependent on the bottle to relax and unwind during the day as well. My baby truly is a bottle milk-aholic.

But now, she is a big girl. She is a one-year old toddler and I have been informed by Kate's pediatrician that if she doesn't get off the bottle, she is going to have hillbilly teeth for the rest of her life and no one will love her. Ever. So starts the battle for the bottle.

I tried to cut her off last week when Ben was out of town. I wasn't strong enough. After much crying and pointing and wailing and sleeplessness, I gave in. But today, with Ben back in town, we are starting it again. And all I can think is that Kate got her last bottle this morning with Ben and she didn't even really know it was the last time she was going to have that pleasure. I feel like we should give the bottle a going-away party, or at least let her know that "Okay, this is the LAST TIME... so savor it."

And, maybe I'm making it a bigger deal than it is, but like anything that I've seen go by the wayside, it marks another part of her childhood, her babyness, that is ending and I find it really bittersweet.

But if I never have to wash another damn bottle in my life it will be SOOOO worth it.

Me and My Lazy Cervix

Yesterday was my doctor appointment with Santa, and the jolly old guy did not disappoint. He gave me a few high-fives during my appointment (which can be awkward when he is also in between your knees) and basically told me I was doing great. I think "great" is a technical term, but if you want me to get really detailed, here is what I learned.

(By the by, if you are of the male persuasion and NOT my husband, or if you are female and girly/pregnant-y type details gross you out, you may just want to skip this post and continue to think that Baby E is going to magically appear thanks to Leprechauns, space aliens or the Tooth Fairy. It will just be easier for all of us involved.)

I'm about 50% effaced, which means my cervix is thinning out -- and although the medical details for why this is necessary is still slightly fuzzy, I do know that it has to happen for the baby to be born and I'm halfway to 100% so that has to be good.

Next, Ben and I were right... Baby E HAS dropped. A lot. As in, when Santa was doing my internal exam he told me he was TOUCHING HER HEAD. As in, well, if HE could reach in and touch her head, I probably could too if I were so inclined to try (I'm not by the way). She is at a station minus-2, on a scale of -5 to 5 (5 being when her little head is popping out). A zero means she is "engaged" which means I'm in labor (hopefully) so I was thrilled that she really is starting to get into position.

Finally, the not so exciting news. I'm not dialated at all. Even with these other great pre-labor signs, not a darn thing is going to happen until I start dialating, so I'm trying to mentally coach my cervix to GET WITH THE PROGRAM. My doctor suggested walking at least 30 minutes a day. If that is going to get me to have this baby sooner rather than later, I'M ON IT. I sacrificed today at lunch and walked around the mall with a colleague who wanted to shop and I stood by while she purchased adorable clothes that didn't have waistbands made of ELASTIC and I turned green with envy at her ability to fit into clothing that doesn't look like a circus tent. It was torture for me, but it was also me standing and walking around for a good half hour, so that should tell you something about how badly I want this baby OUT OF MY BODY.

However, to keep this positive, Santa did tell me that he felt I would have the baby naturally and close to my due date, and hopefully I won't have to be induced (yeah!) Then again, he also guessed I was having a boy when he listened to the heartbeat (um, wrong there buddy) so Santa may not be the MOST qualified to guestimate my delivery. My next appointment is with THAT WOMAN (my actual doctor) next Thursday, so hopefully my lazy cervix will have done something by then and I'll have more news to report!

Week 37: A Wish for Santa

Today marks the start of week 37 for me and Baby E. For my troubles, I received a massive kick in the ribs this morning as a wake-up call and then for good measure, a little bouncing on the bladder. Apparently Baby E is a morning person.

This Thursday, I FINALLY get to go in to see the doctor again. Most everyone I know goes to see their OB-GYN every week from 35 weeks on, but not my practitioner. OH NO, she apparently is getting no "it could happen early" vibes from me, so I'm still on the every two weeks cycle. Which is completely FREAKING ME OUT. Because, how do I know that I'm not totally dialated and ready to have this kid? In fact, she even has me scheduled with her colleague this week instead of with her. Apparently, she doesn't feel the need to see me, since, you know, I have, like, a FULL TERM BABY INSIDE ME.

I'm almost hoping my doctor's colleague is on call for my delivery instead of my doctor anyways. Her colleague in the practice has been named top OB-GYN in Dallas for like, 30 years running. He is extremely calm and comes across very caring, lovable and father-like. And, I don't know why this delights me so much, but he has this great tuft of gray chest hair that peeks out of the tops of his scrubs. His eyes even twinkle. Seriously, they TWINKLE. Its like if Santa Clause decided that delivering gifts to ungrateful children everywhere was no longer fulfilling, and he decided instead to care for the vaginas of the world. Now THIS is a man I could have deliver my child. I'm thinking of asking for his on-call schedule and by sheer willpower having Baby E while he is working.

But until that day, Baby E and I are just trucking along. Ben and I are almost positive she's dropped, which is something that typically happens to first time moms soon up to a few weeks before the birth. Ben says my belly looks lower, which I can sort of see, but MY telltale sign that she is lower is my need to run to the bathroom every 20 minutes since she is using my bladder as a recliner. Oh, the joys!

A few pictures so you can marvel at the week 37 belly. The OMFG HUGE week 37 belly.

33 weeks and growing

As promised (a week or so ago) here is the latest belly photo. As you can see, I'm the size of a small air ship and no surprise but my doctor just about fell out of her chair when she saw how much weight I had gained over the last three weeks. Apparently, I'm some kind of super-human eating machine. Neat.

When I tried to explain that I normally have my appointments first thing in the morning before breakfast, and today my appointment fell just after lunch so that might add to the total weight gain, she just looked at me and asked if my lunch salad had possibly weighed 10 pounds.

Touche.

I acted so baffled by the weight gain, she took pity on me and shared with me how I might THINK I'm eating healthy, but really not. As in, I might eat a WHOLE banana, but really, because of the sugar content, I should limit myself to HALF a banana each time I sit down to eat one. I should drink skim milk, and cut juice out of my diet.

At this point, I realize that if those are her suggestions, I probably AM responsible for my weight gain and should just own up to it. Nope, sorry doc, its not those late night apple juice cravings or sneaking one whole banana at a time that is doing this to me. Its more the cookies, brownies, cakes and doughnuts that are turning me into a female Jabba the Hut.

I mean, last week when Ben was in class, I had a Cinnabon for dinner for God's sake. A CINNABON.

As punishment, I'm forcing myself to go to yoga tonight, and then I'm going to eat something miserable, like a Lean Cuisine. And then I'm going to cry myself to sleep.

Week 28 -- The Best is Yet to Come

I'm officially in my third trimester, and I'm happy to report that with this new stage of pregnancy, I've also experienced some fun new "symptoms" (for lack of a better word), including burping, nose bleeds and extreme stupidity.

The burping and nose bleeds aren't enjoyable, but besides being embarrassed because I giggle every time I burp (I've never been ABLE to burp before so now I find it highly amusing) I can deal with these little annoyances.

What I can absolutely NOT fathom is my newly found extreme stupidity. Extreme. Sure, I've complained of "pregnancy brain" -- the forgetfulness that comes with having a baby (and which leads my husband to tell me that the baby is sucking my brain) but I had an experience this Sunday that later led me to wonder if perhaps Baby E really IS sucking my brain, and will I have any brains left to work with after she is born?!

Chances are not good. Because on Sunday morning, I woke up in a fog and rolled over (ungracefully -- got that big ol' belly, remember?) in bed to ask my husband "What is today's date?" to which he told me it was December 28 and I realized I had forgotten my Dad's birthday the day before (December 27). FORGOTTEN. I felt awful. I felt like an ingrate. My father is such a doting, caring and loving guy, and I had just basically wiped my feet with his special day. I spent the morning mentally head slapping myself and generally feeling like I was the scum of the Earth. But it didn't end there.

As the whole Edelbrock clan loads up in the car to head to church, Ben announces in the car that I've forgotten my father's birthday (okay, maybe he didn't "announce" or "point fingers" but at that point in my guilt-ridden morning I was fairly certain that he had just told my in-laws that I was the worst daughter on the face of the planet). And with that, the guilt multiplied because not only was I a bad person, but people KNEW I was a bad person now.

And to top things off, when we get to church the priest starts talking about the theme of that Sunday which was family, and how important family was and I swear in less than 30 seconds I had tears ROLLING DOWN MY FACE. Pair extreme guilt with pregnancy hormones and a normal person doesn't have a chance -- Hell, SUPERWOMAN wouldn't have a chance.

I was a wreck.

But as I slowly pulled myself together, the TINY part of my brain that hasn't been taken over by the baby started to struggle with why I was upset. Because that TINY part that can still think rational thoughts is reminding me that I've never been in town to celebrate my Dad's birthday with him over the Christmas break. And that is because my Dad's birthday isn't on December 27 at all.

Let me repeat that.

My Dad's birthday is 100% NOT on December 27, but on December 29, the NEXT day. I had NOT missed my Dad's birthday.

I HAD however, been completely and utterly convinced that his big day was on the 27th. Despite 28 years of knowing this date the EXTREME STUPIDITY of pregnancy made me absolutely SURE that his birthday had been the day before and I had missed it. And in turn, my husband's ENTIRE FAMILY would soon know that I was suffering from extreme stupidity.

So I did what any self-respecting person would do and willed myself to forget what I had just realized. I sat through church quietly, praying for God to return my brains and didn't tell Ben what I had realized until about SIX hours later when we had driven back to Dallas and he was pestering me to call my father. I tried to make it into a big joke "Isn't this funny Ben?" but he just looked at me sideways and turned back to the basketball game, which made it pretty clear that this episode had surpassed pregnancy brain in a BIG way.

So joy to the third trimester and all it brings us this New Year.

My week 28 picture from Sunday night. I also had a doctor appointment this morning, although besides gaining an unheard of EIGHT pounds in four weeks it was fairly routine -- she called me a fatty (albeit nicely), suggested I eat more veggies and less pie, and sent me on my way.