Three words: Feng shui

Feng Shui.  I can't say I've ever believed in it before, but I'm beginning to.

After I found out I was pregnant I began thinking of places to put a crib.  While some people are firm believers of sleeping in the same room with their baby, I'm not one of those people.  We have two bedrooms in our little apartment, so it's not really a necessity anyway.  But as I surveyed our spare room I began to realize there was no room for a crib.  Our book shelves and computer desks took up too much space.

So I stewed.  Like potatoes and carrots.  And when the flavors of ideas had sufficiently steeped the solution fell right into my lap.  Switch the rooms.  Genius, I know.

One long Thursday Paul and I began the daunting task of sorting, packing, lifting, moving, and organizing until our personal belongings and bed were neatly stashed in the little bedroom and the master bedroom sported its new office look.  It all made sense to my little mind, but something felt wrong.

The room with the bed was not my bedroom.  It was just a room with bed.  I avoided going in to the new office and stationed my laptop in the living room instead.  I kept asking myself, "What have I done?"

Then I had my birthday last Sunday, and I received a most beautiful and generous gift from my family.

My own sewing machine.  It was love at first sight!

And just like my old dryer, I immediately started dreaming about the adventures we would share.

We would watch scary movies in the afternoon (because that's the only time I can successfully do that without wetting myself).  That sewing machine could warn me when to close my eyes and tell me when intense parts were over.

We would exchange secrets about our fears, joys, insecurities, strengths, favorite coworkers, hidden candy, smells we hate, what wakes us up at night, the color white, giant squid dreams, chihuahua dogs, five letter words that start with 'M', television shows that have too many seasons, and how cute my husband is when he's drinking apple juice.

We would sneak in the pantry and eat spoonfuls of peanut butter until lip-smacking noises would stifle laughter and metal utensils would clink against the empty glass jar.

We would sit together at my laptop and blog about the men cleaning out the gutters or the Spanish chatter of my landlady cutting overgrown branches from her favorite tree just outside our window.  Or maybe we would write about how uncomfortable we both think industrial carpet can be.

We would take long, luxurious walks around the block in the cool breeze of the afternoon while listening to Jason Mraz or possibly Michael Buble.

We would even pay bills together so we could have light, heat, insurance, phone service, and all sorts of modern conveniences that we'd enjoy while carrying out our various activities.

But most importantly, we would sew!  We'd create glorious quilts and pillows and curtains and baby clothes and pot holders and a bushel of fabricy goodness!

There was just one little problem.  I had no place to put my beautifully new friend/machine.  Fretting ensued.  Sorrow followed.  Then, I was blessed with a solution to my dilemma.  Switch the rooms back!  Though not entirely. 

We can keep the computer desk across from the door in one corner and a sewing desk can sit beside it.  The other side of the room can host our comfy bed and once again resume its role as 'bedroom'.  MY 'bedroom'.

The spare and smaller room will be the library/baby room.

This allows prime sewing time while the baby naps without disturbing infant slumber with the whir of the presser foot.

Now, the tricky part. . . convincing Paul.

Creating is a work of art

I miss making cakes.

I miss stirring up the batter and sloppily scraping the bowl, preserving a generous amount of bowl lickings for myself.  I miss the mystery of not knowing how exactly the cake will rise or fall and the challenge that accompanies trying to fix it.  I miss mixing batches of white fondant and kneading in color until my hands and the dough are tinted to my satisfaction.  There is a joy that comes with a smooth crumb coat and pride that forms with the perfection of the fondant draped delicately atop my cake.  The challenge and creativity of design satisfy something deep inside. . . the need to create something original.  Something beautiful.  I miss all of it.

But I'm creating a person now and it requires much more time and energy and commitment than cake.  Yet, I still desire the outcome to be beautiful.  I've heard repeatedly that your own children will always be the cutest to you.  And I believe that.  But I've met women who post pictures of their little darling or hold them up for you to look upon the face they incubated for nine months, and they say, "Aren't they the cutest?"  Sometimes they are, which inspires most women to reply, "Oh, she/he is adorable!  What a cute baby!  So beautiful."  And the list of wonderful googliness goes on and on.  But occasionally you are shown a baby that is not, (how shall I put this?), very pleasing to the eye.  When asked what you think of this baby you may find yourself saying, "She/he is so. .  special and. . . precious!"

Precious doesn't always mean unsightly, but when accompanied by a 'special' or 'bless her heart' it's time to be worried.  You have just birthed an ugly baby.

I am afraid.  I don't want to be one of these poor women who brag and showcase their little piece of "eye candy" while everyone tiptoes around subject as to keep any postpartum monsters at bay.

Paul and I were cute little kids.  Why am I so worried?

I will show you.  On a rather boring day off last fall I sat at my mom's house in front of her computer.  She was in the shower and I needed amusement so I ventured toward the Photoshop icon on the start menu.  Everything started off so innocently.  I wonder what my future kids will look like?  I searched though our reception display pictures and found two that should be easy enough to blend.  That is where it started to get ugly.

And I mean really ugly.

Meet Dorris

And Sally

Agatha

Harry

Bill

Larry

Ahhhh!  Perhaps we should have adopted. . .

My little ramen baby

 It seems odd that the noise that nearly stopped my heart was a heartbeat:

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

It was short, but definitely there.  The baby kicked the doppler before squirming away, so the midwife poked around on my lower abdomen until another thump thump pierced through the air.  I smiled a smile as wide as my face and then some.  There is really a little person inside me.

I technically knew that before.  No period for months, positive pregnancy tests, puking, fatigue, bloating, food aversions and cravings.  I had to be pregnant.  But without feeling the baby move or seeing a real baby bump, it often didn't seem real.  But that beat was sure evidence that there is something inside me, and it's alive.

It even has a personality.

A feisty personalty that loves to kick dopplers.  I think it knew I don't like anything medical and was acting out to protect me.  Maybe. . . you never know.

I can't wait until I know the gender so it doesn't have to be an 'it' anymore.

And I have some more big news:

Hi. . . my name is Kayla, and it has been two days since I've had a bowl of ramen.  Whoa.

I'm entering my second trimester this week as well as celebrating my birthday.  I can't think of a better gift than decreased nausea.  I've been testing the water the past two days to see what my limits are.  Although, I still have to eat often, I won't die if I don't get my ramen first thing in the morning.  I may never eat ramen ever again if I can help it.  I have dreams my baby emerges not as a carbon based life form, but an MSG creature.

I'm trying to get some exercise too.  I feel bigger than a barn and I look it.  My body is changing.  Hips widening, belly protruding, but not in a pregnant-looking way.  It's more of a 'I'm so bloated I may start floating' sort of way.  And I don't quite understand it.  In the last month I've only gained three pounds.  And went up two pant sizes.  For THREE measly pounds.  But a good deal of walking (and prunes) should help (I hope) with my new fluffy tummy so people will touch my baby bump instead of patting my bloat.

Pregnancy makes you loose all sorts of pride.

Just breathe

I remember in the midst of teenage-hood sitting in a small bedroom and with my friend Kass hugging various pillows and imagining the day when those pillows would be boys.  We would place our hands delicately on the front and lay our heads against the cool cloth while asking each other what we thought it would be like to fall asleep against the chest of a husband.

It's not what we thought it was, Kass.

Last night as Paul drifted off to dreamland I laid my head on his chest.  I still have a desire to fall asleep listening to the sound of his heart so I've tried many times.  Each time ends the same.  I can't sleep, so I roll over and nestle my back under his arm, absorbing his warmth in the silence of our room.

I think my problem is breathing.  While my initial intention is to listen to a heartbeat, it's slowly overwhelmed by the rise and fall of his chest.  My breathing begins to follow Paul's sleeping pattern.  Relatively short inhales and long, deep exhales.  But my waking breaths are not ready for such intake and I find myself gasping for air when my lungs are so depleted yet still waiting to the unspoken permission to breath that the rise of my husbands chest gives.  His short bursts of air intake aren't long enough for me to recover before another long exhale sideswipes me.

I tell myself to relax and ignore his breathing, but it's never long before I'm hyperventilating again.

Be aside from our lack of coordinated sleep breathing, I sure like that guy.

Today's church activities left me exhausted, and by the time I got home at about four o'clock all I wished for was a nap.  But I had cooking to do.  Lots of cooking.  Potato salad for Memorial day, homemade pizza for dinner.  I was ready to give up, eat a peanut butter sandwich, and just call it a day.  My pregnancy exhaustion was getting the best of me, but that man. . . he took me into the kitchen, told me I was remarkable, and began cutting up potatoes.  He minced pickles, grated cheese, cooked chicken, chopped celery, and other such remarkable things.  When the smell of that potato salad made me heave, he did the honors of tasting it for the proper spice ratio, which alone saved my life.

What a guy!  I think I'll keep him.

I love you, Paul!  Thanks for all your help.

Pregnant thoughts

My thoughts have visited some dark places today.  I made the mistake of listening to songs about dying children and mothers saying goodbye and my heart broke.  I never want to lose this little one.

Having said that, I am struggling with the symptoms of pregnancy.  I’ve been nauseous for a month now.  A month with the flu, only rest and twenty four hours don’t end this escapade.  I’ve avoided wishing this away, but it has crept into my mind.  That scares me most.  No one knows these thoughts, these ‘when will this end?’ thoughts, except God, and I forget He’s omnipotent and has a perfect understanding my intentions.  Yet, I irrationally assume that He will know my desires and interpret them incorrectly.  I have nightmares where He takes my baby away. 

That will end the symptoms, and that’s what I wanted, right? 

No, I didn’t mean it like that.

 Or I have these horrid dreams about losing my baby because He knows what I so ardently try not to think about.  I’m not ready to be a parent.

But you never are, really.

Amid all the darkness of this hormonal and queasy state He reminds me how things really are.

“Behold, ye are little children and ye cannot bear all things now; ye must grow in grace and in the knowledge of the truth.  Fear not, little children, for you are mine, and I have overcome the world, and you are of them that my Father hath given me; And none of them that my Father hath given me shall be lost.” (D&C 50:40-42)

This isn’t supposed to be easy, and I’m still growing.  Best of all, I’m not doing this alone.

I am going to be fine, and I think this will be an amazing experience.  Maybe I need an ick factor to help me appreciate it.

Rainbow cupcakes

What do I say about a week that went something like this: sleep. . . sorta, toss and turn, get up to pee twice a night, rise bright and early to partake of the first bowl of ramen, back to bed, up again for work, eat all the time, way too long breaks, more ramen, clock out early, need sleep, can't sleep, toss and turn, etc.?

I don't know.

But I did have a short burst of energy on Saturday, and with a lot of help from my sweet husband (and by a lot I mean he did most of the work), we made rainbow cupcakes.

Take a gander:

 (I had to show this picture of the blue bottoms, because you couldn't really see them on the cupcakes.)

My first Mother's Day

Mother's Day. . . a day of spoilage for my dear mom.  A day for cooking her favorite foods and surprising her with gifts.  A day to say thanks for putting up with me for all these years of hair-pulling torture.

This year was different.

As I awoke to the feeling of instant nausea I grabbed the green puke bowl and shuffled reluctantly to the kitchen to make my morning ramen noodles.  For reasons I can't begin to fathom, chicken flavored ramen is all I can keep down in the morning.  I didn't have the energy to empty the dish drainer to find my favorite pan so I opted to use the microwave.  I sat down at the table while my microwave hummed.  The smell of bananas too dark to eat permeated my senses and I heaved into the puke bowl.  I grimaced and held back the tears that so easily flow these days.  This is harder than I thought it would be.

Mom, was I worth this?

I pulled the steaming bowl of noodles on to a potholder and retreated to the couch with that second and (thankfully) empty other bowl.  I smelled the broth and lifted the fork to my mouth.  I blew, I gagged, I shoved it in.  A second bite was consumed and then another and another.  With both bowls on the floor in front of me, I leaned over and melted into the couch pillows and waited for the ramen magic to begin.  Slowly and predictably, the nausea subsided enough for me to finish my breakfast and return to bed.  It wasn't even seven o'clock.

I curled up next to my sleeping husband and wrapped my arms around him as he mumbled something in his sleep.  All of my desires to wash dishes, bake cupcakes, prepare Sunday school lessons, and be productive became entangled into one singular desire.  Sleep.  I needed more sleep. . . and I drifted off for an hour or so before the neighbor downstairs started his pot of coffee and the smell sent me searching again for that green bowl.

I have to eat every two hours.  I no longer enjoy eating.  Food doesn't sound good, reading through recipes makes me ill, watching my favorite cooking show is unbearable.  But every two hours I eat because without the food in my stomach, uncontrollable heaving ensues.  I'm gaining weight because my body doesn't have the metabolism to keep up with the ramen and saltines.  I want to exercise but don't have the strength to walk to the bathroom, let alone around the block.

I pulled out my scriptures and lesson manual and stared at them for a long time.  I couldn't focus on the words, so I got back in bed.  I began thinking about my anniversary which was the day before and how sweet my husband had been taking me back to the restaurant where we had our wedding luncheon. I remember how hard the smell was and how slowly I had to eat.  I kept smiling at him, assuring him that I was fine and the food was great, which I'm sure it was.  But it just wasn't chicken ramen.

Mom, thank you.  Thank you for doing this time after time to ensure five little spirits received their earthly bodies.

It still doesn't feel real.  It's difficult to imagine there's really a little person inside me.  I can't feel them move or see a bump, but they are there depending on me for everything.

Mom, I'm scared.  I don't think I'm as strong as you.

But I know this is my future and still I feel excitement.  I can't wait to meet this little one, hold them in my arms, and introduce myself as their mommy.  Though, I think they will already know that.