I guess that's why they call it the blues

I remember how weepy I was with Andrea's pregnancy.  I couldn't get through any movie without crying.  Yes, this includes comedies.  Commercials even set me off.  Geico. Ford.  The power of cheese.  And don't get me started on Folgers.  I cried seeing pictures of newborn socks.  I puddled at the smell of lavender.  I choked when Winnie the Pooh was mentioned in a conversation.  There wasn't much that didn't make me cry at that point.  This pregnancy has been far more tame emotionally.

Last week I was bragging to Paul about how little I've been crying.  I chalked it up to superior self-control, but he claimed I was just as emotional.  When I requested clarification he kindly replied that I wasn't as weepy, but I was angry. . . a lot.  I took umbrage at that insinuation then took some deep breaths.  I tried to explain the reason for all of my anger: sickness, hip pain, demanding toddler going through a rather opinionated phase, school work, home stress, etc.  But he just smiled and, like the wise man he is, replied with silence.  He was right, I suppose.  Everything was making me angry.

The general feeling of powerlessness I have in my life is frustrating beyond words, but I've felt that ever since Andrea was born.  My ability to cope lately, however, has been rather strained, and perhaps it's the testosterone surging from my uterus.  I made a mental note of Paul's critique and have tried very hard this week to be a calmer person.

Today I just lost it though.

After spending the morning working on school work, I came home feeling rather chipper.  I wrote a shopping list, Paul and Andrea accompanied me to the store, and we made dinner together after the groceries were put away.  While Paul scrambled some eggs, I mixed up some cake batter and greased some pans.  Thirty minutes later each layer of warm cake was carefully shimmied onto cooling racks and placed on the counter. Andrea pulled up a stool to watch me bake while she chattered away about how she's a superhero and a big helper.  I turned my back for a moment to clear a spot in the fridge for my still steaming layers, and when I turned around to retrieve them, I found that superhero helper violently stabbing gaping holes through one of my delicate cakes.  I yelped at the sight.  No, I screamed like I'd been shot.  Paul came running.  "What happened?" He gasped.

"My cake!  Look what she's done to my cake!" I shouted.  Andrea sat there, eyes wide with worry.  "That was not a good choice, Andrea!" I scolded, then proceeded to tell her that it upset me, and I needed an apology although that wasn't going to make my cake any less holey.  She started to cry, and Daddy took her from the room to allow me time to cool off with those layers of chocolate sponge.  I could hear him explaining to her that what she'd done wasn't right but it was okay because mommys and daddys make mistakes too.  She can learn and do better next time.

I felt awful and inadequate.  How did I let myself, with all my "superior self-control", let myself lose it like that over a cake?  (A cake that isn't even for a special occasion!)  How did I let a problem to be solved become so much more important than that superhero helper that needed loved?  I spent the rest of the evening battling a snappy, frustrated mood and remorseful depression for my actions.

When the cake was finally frosted and there was nothing left to lick, Andrea started singing her bedtime song.  We brushed our teeth and sat on the couch to read a book. Andrea fiddled, teased, and snatched the book away so I couldn't read it. I curtly told her to let me read the book or she was going straight to bed.  She conceded, but just barely, and I proceeded to read through my guilty tears.  When I tucked her in I kissed her forehead and told her I was sorry for yelling at her and being so grumpy.  She pulled the binky from her mouth and whispered, "I wuv you."

Walking from her room I wondered if this is why they call it the blues because this baby boy anger hurts so much worse than the tears of my first pink pregnancy.

Romantic deep cleaning and a frozen pizza

Being a mother is amazing, but I often find it very lonely.  It seems strange that I can feel that way when I can't even use the bathroom without a escort.  However, I spend most days at home, speaking to a toddler about colors, bananas, and her favorite bear, and I miss and crave the companionship of adult company.  When Paul walks through the front door in the evening I want him to tell me all about his day.  Although I understand little about reconciliations and audits, I drink in his deepish voice and the words flowing from his lips that don't involve Dora or Swiper.  I beg him to watch me stir ground beef or chop vegetables for a salad because his mere presence is like sunshine.  Andrea hugs his legs and sings out "I miss you" in her sweet, high voice, and being all together fills the void we've felt in the house all day.  He removes his tie as I plate his dinner, and I suddenly feel less alone.

I just love that man.

Today was Valentines Day, and I honestly expected very little.  Money is tight as we are paying for our prenatal medical care ourselves, and just days ago Paul told me how much he detested this day of superficial love and commercialism.  Although I couldn't argue about how commercial the holiday has become, I was determined to treat him special regardless.  Sometimes it takes a holiday to remind me about the little things we use to do for each other that have gone by the wayside since having a child.  Monday afternoon I hid little notes for Paul all over the house stating things I loved about him.  Then I scheduled a babysitter for tonight so the evening was available for whatever Paul wanted to do.

This morning when Paul's alarm when off, he rolled out of bed and told me he would make me breakfast as a romantic gesture.  He retrieved Andrea from her room, poured me a bowl of cereal, and then drove away in his blue car.  In his defense, we had very little food in the house.  I cooked Andrea a bowl of oatmeal, and when she had somewhat emptied the bowl, we packed up the diaper bag and headed to the grocery store.  She helped me pick out some not-so-ripe strawberries and a frozen pizza, and we checked out.

At home I melted some chocolate for our strawberries, and Andrea made a mess of herself tasting the romantic confection.  I was so excited for Paul to see the homemade treat and hoped it would brighten his day.

After lunch I put Andrea down for a nap then sat at the computer to do homework.  A stabbing pain began to form in my left temple, so I laid down to fight off a headache.  Forty-five minutes later I was startled awake with what I thought was a burglar entering my bedroom.  I was surprised and delighted to discover it was Paul who'd been sent home early due to a gas leak at work.  He laid beside me in bed and spoke to me quietly as my headache began to subside.  It was the best Valentine's gift he could have given me: company and conversation.

But when Andrea woke from her nap I also discovered flowers in the kitchen he had bought to thank me for the kind notes earlier in the week.  He even bought a rose for Andrea who carried it around with pride.  I called my sister and asked her if I could bring Andrea over early so Paul and I could get a head start on our date.  Once the house was kid-free, I spent an hour cleaning the living room, sorting toys, throwing away strange bits of garbage Andrea had become attached to (old balloons and boxes), and re-plugging in outlet covers (Andrea knows how to remove them).  Paul admired my gusto and ate his strawberries.  After retaking the living room, I turned on last night's American Idol, and we watched while eating that frozen pizza.  It was perfect.  I didn't have to cook.  We didn't have to sit in the Valentine's Day crowds.  Most importantly, I got to declutter and be with my hubby without having Andrea there to distract and compete with.  (Sometimes a mom just needs a break, you know?)  When we went to retrieve the toddler from my parents house I felt so rejuvenated and happy.  I can't think of a better way to spend a Valentine's day.

A blue raspberry slushy

At the beginning of August, 2010, my mother, my husband, and I drove down to Provo for the much anticipated 20 week ultrasound.  I was convinced I was having a boy.  Paul agreed that we could get slushies after the appointment, and I planned on getting a coordinating color to the gender of the baby.  I was REALLY craving blue raspberry and pretty confident that's what I'd be getting.  Alas, the baby was a girl so I got an unsatisfying pink watermelon slushy.

When I started this pregnancy I thought I was having another girl.  I suppose I was so accustomed to referring to a female inside me that it seemed the most natural.  However, at about 16 weeks I started to feel this baby move, and boy, did he move.  His movements were so unlike Andrea's rare and gentle prods.  I was feeling jabs, somersaults, hiccups, break dancing, and some rather forceful pokes.  On a particularly active night, as I tried to lay on my side and study, it seemed as if the baby was jumping on the bed.  I told Paul right then that I was pretty sure we were having a boy.  Blue raspberry slushy, here I come!

Today was the ultrasound (and Paul's 28th birthday) and I had been looking forward to and dreading it.  During the day, I would long to see the face of my baby, find out the gender, and know that everything was developing as it should.  In the quiet evening hours, doubts and fears would settle into my soul, and I often fell asleep wondering if they were a product of my overactive imagination or a warning of something to come.  Last night I had one of those restless nights of dread, fearing an ultrasound would reveal a dead baby and that all the fetal movement had been delusions.

When the infamous blue gel was sufficiently coating my stomach and the baton was place over my baby bulge, I saw a very still little baby.  My heart sank.  I remember Andrea being so active and present.  I remember marveling at how much she moved when I could hardly feel her.  This baby was just still.  After the technician measured the head I asked if she noticed the baby moving.  "Oh yes," she reassured me, and she moved down his body to show me his beating heart.  I was so relieved to see the little chambers pumping that I almost began to cry.  As she measured his femur, I got a good shot of his little package.  In fact, he showed that to us many times as we tried to measure various body parts.  Hoping this meant he was not shy, we tried to get some pictures of his face, but just like his sister, he held his arms firmly in front, completely blocking our view.

Baby number two, still no good profile or face shots.  Bummer.  But we got a lot of his little boy parts.  He's going to love when I tell his girlfriends that story someday.

Anyway, after the ultrasound Paul pulled up to Sonic for our ceremonial slushy.  Guess what flavor was not on the menu?  BLUE RASPBERRY!  I cried a little (in my mind) and examined the other blue flavor.  Coconut.  Yuck.  I got green apple.  Maybe next pregnancy. . .

A sick day

I sometimes wish being a mother was as glamorous as those black and white, retouched newborn photoshoots.  But then, I suppose, we'd have boring stories to pass on to our children.  We wouldn't want that, would we?

Last week Andrea got sick again.  It seems to have been a constant thing this season.  Just when she's on the cusp of recovery from one thing, another bug comes in to take its place.  With each passing illness, I feel more worn down and drained.  How I wish I could be sick in her stead.  Managing myself is so much easier that managing her, and seeing her suffer is heartbreaking.

Tuesday night was an interesting one.  Andrea faded in and out of sleep for hours, and during episodes of consciousness she'd sing to herself until she felt drowsy enough for slumber.  I laid awake listening to her lullabies, wondering what brought about this night of toddler insomnia.  The next morning she awoke happy as usual, but began to run a fever within a couple hours.  I spent subsequent hours holding Andrea, watching Nick Jr., and contorting myself to find positions that were both comfortable to me and comforting for her.  I'd stroke her silky hair and tell her I would take care of her.  She'd respond with a distant expression and demands for more Dora.

At about two o'clock she began to thrash in my arms, unable to find a comfortable position to relieve her of her misery.  Hysterical sobs followed until they climaxed with otherworldly amounts of vomit all over me, herself, the couch, you name it.  I held her for a few minutes until I was sure she had finished, and then I begged her to allow me to clean up.  She agreed as long as it meant me holding her constantly.  I pulled her soiled clothes off and left them with the pukey blanket on the couch before tiptoeing to the bathroom to remove my clothes as well.  I asked Andrea if she wanted to shower with mommy and she insisted a bath would be better.  I sat her down to run the bath water and listened to her sickly sobs.  "Annie snuggle you!"  She kept saying, so I picked up her naked body and sat in the warm water.  She nuzzled her head beneath my chin and instantly fell asleep.

Never being one to nap long on another person, I anticipated the child to wake shortly.  However, I could feel time passing, and as the bath water went from relaxingly hot, to warm, to tepid, to cool, I knew I had been sitting in the bath for far longer than I'd planned.  My legs cramped, fell asleep, woke up, and recramped.  My arms shook from nervousness, chills, then exhaustion.  My backside hurt so horribly from the hard surface below and the pressure of two humans above that silent tears seeped from my eyes.  But I couldn't move.  I just couldn't let myself wake that sick girl from the one moment of peaceful relief she'd had all day.

Then, Andrea began to fart in her sleep.  I could hear the soft poofs.  I could feel the warm breeze.  I could smell that distinct scent.  Please do not poop on me! I thought while staring at the reflection of her little bum in the drain lever.  Please please please please please!  I could still smell the vomit in her hair and I didn't think my pregnant nose or stomach could handle poop too.

Then I heard some soft knocks at the door.  I knew it was my sister, unaware of my current predicament, coming for our weekly date.  I sat in silence and hoped she'd soon give up and leave without taking offense at my lack of communication.  But my phone started to ring in the other room.  Over and over, Gavin DeGraw announced an incoming call until my text tone signaled a voice mail, and all was silent until above me I heard the doorbell upstairs.  She was getting a key from the landlord.  Great.

Had the sound of the doorbell not stirred Andrea to consciousness, Tessa would have entered my home to find the couch covered with puke and soiled clothes, and me, naked and pickled in the bathtub, holding a flatulent, feverish, and asleep child.  Thankfully, Andrea did wake up, and I was able to jump out of the tub, get to the door wrapped in nothing but a towel, holding Andrea wrapped in nothing but a towel, before my landlord arrived, to inform Tessa that our afternoon date was not going to be as fun as she'd planned.  Bless her heart, she came in anyway and did my dishes so I had an empty sink available for the rinsing of some rather chunky articles of clothing and upholstery covers.

Yes, being a mom has it's ugly moments, but I'm sure Andrea's future boyfriends will enjoy hearing this story someday.

The mysterious smell

That pregnant moment when the smell of your own body keeps you up at night.

It's officially 6:45 in the morning, but I've been away for almost two hours already  With how long it took me to fall asleep last night I'm guessing I got a good four hours of sleep.  This is probably the hardest part of pregnancy for me.  You see, I'm a tummy sleeper.  In the first trimester this is not a problem as the baby is the size of a lime and completely unnoticeable   But now the baby is the size of a turnip, and my little cantelope belly is too uncomfortable to lay on.  I try to fall asleep on my side but, based on Andrea's pregnancy, it's going to take me a few weeks to acclimate to the new position.  Until then, I'm expecting many more sleepless nights.  Unfortunately, sleeping on my side is only half reason for tonight's insomnia.

Early this morning I woke to an odd smell.  My pregnant nose found it repulsive and yet appetizing all at once.  I tried to ignore the odor and shift away from Paul in case he was the source.  The smell persisted.  I tossed and turned some more trying to find a comfortable position to drift off in. (but I got that cantelope belly, remember?) Half an hour passed, and I realized my mind had woken up.  Sleep, I told myself.  Just sleep.  But soon my thoughts on sleep morphed into a Christmas song which led to me planing next years Christmas tree color scheme which got me to thinking about slip-covering the pillows on the couch which prompted thoughts about painting my kitchen table and so forth.  It was official; my brain had turned on, and once my brain turns on sleep becomes impossibly elusive.

So there I lay, thoughts racing to all corners of the earth until I got a new whiff of the stench.  My brain focused all channels to my nose and began to analyze.  I turned toward Paul.  He breathed a heavy sign onto my face.  Hormones and senses pulsing from my uterus identified tomato, beans, basil, onion, hits of green (probably peas), and almost twenty-four hours since his last brushing.  As unpleasant as it was, it was not the mystery odor.  I turned away from him and smelled my comforter.  Hints of my own deodorant mingled with hints of Paul's meandered along my nasal passages (we both have the habit of stuffing blankets beneath our arms).  I fluffed the sheets ever so slightly to smell the warm nests which our bodies had settled into.  Essence of feet, lotion, and a puff of stale drifted from the sheets and disappeared into the night.  I laid there in the stillness and willed myself to ignore and give up on the unidentifiable stench.

Then, I got a tickle in my nostrils.  I looked over at Paul in panic as I tried to force down the impending sneeze.  I rubbed my nose and scrunched my face and braced for impact and then. . . Eureka! (and ah-choo)

Garlic!  The smell was garlic, freshly used at dinner, oozing from the pores of my own nose.  Having been months since I'd cooked with fresh garlic, I had forgotten it had a nasty tendency to manifest itself in ones body oils shortly thereafter.  Solving the mystery of the putrid and now understandably appetizing smell grossed me out even further as I watched the clock, waiting for the magic hour when I could get up and wash last nights dinner from my nose.

I hear Paul shuffling around in our bedroom which means the hour is upon me at last.  Farewell!

That pregnant moment

Being pregnant is an extraordinary experience.  There are so many sensations that one rarely, if ever, feels in non-pregnant life.  Sometimes I wish Paul could experience some of these feelings if not to sympathize more enthusiastically, but to not miss these moments that only a woman can comprehend.  Teenagers (and I suppose some adults too) have latched on to an internet phenomenon called “that awkward moment. . .”  I’d like to begin my own phenomenon here on my lowly blog called “that pregnant moment. . .”  I’ve recorded a few in the last four months.

That pregnant moment when you find yourself crying while watching Piglet’s Big Movie.

That pregnant moment when you’re driving and glancing nervously around the car wondering where you might throw up should the urge become too overwhelming.

That pregnant moment when you’re at the OBGYN with your husband trying to explain the purpose of that lamp beside the exam table.  (You should have seen his face when told him.  It sent us both into fits of laughter.)

That pregnant moment when the smell of your husband’s breath keeps you up at night (even when he’s brushed his teeth).

That pregnant moment when trying not to pee yourself while unlocking the front door nearly becomes mission impossible.

That pregnant moment when you bring up the size of your uterus at a family dinner.

That pregnant moment when your daughter tries to imitate the sounds of your teeth-brushing gags.

I think that’s probably a good start.  I’ll add more as occasions arise.  In the mean time, school starts today and while I’m excited for the learning, I find going through school as a mother much less fulfilling.  It seems so unimportant when Andrea is at home playing with her stuffed animals and having every mommy ducky “stay home with Annie ducky.”  Hopefully, I can stay motivated this semester and not fall behind.

Snow

It has been snowing for days.  People are complaining on facebook and at the FedEx store.  But I love it.  The past few winters brought but a little snow and most of the cold months were dry and bitter and brown.  Being outside was depressing; being inside was more so.

This year is different.  White blankets of dusty flakes have descended from the heavens and muffled the typical noise of bustling human life. The cold is wet, energizing, and romantic. The sky is bright and reflective.  Between the glittering crystals covering the ground and the heavy clouds hiding the stars, there is a pool of light that remains illuminated even after the sun has gone down.  When I venture into this world so reminiscent of fairytale lands, Andrea often follows shuffling behind me in her purple boots.  She stops intermittently to search for the source of the snow but struggles to keep her eyes open as winter tickles and kisses her rosy cheeks.  I catch myself staring at her curiosity and unapologetic passion for this white world I brought her into two years ago.

The snow has brought back all of the energy this semester/trimester have drained from me.  I feel like sewing, baking, singing, shoveling, and drinking warm things.  I love bundling in layers of shirts, scarves, wool socks, coats, hats, and gloves so I can enjoy the beauty around me in a cocoon of warmth.  I don't mind the puddles by the front door from wet boots and dripping coats.  When she doesn't protest, I even enjoy dressing Andrea is her sweet Elmo coat and trying to get only one digit into the thumb of her mittens.

How I'll miss the white roads and frosted trees with the sun once again warms the earth to reveal dead grass and empty branches.