Baby

Samuel Paul Rowberry

Born June 19, 2013

7 lbs 10 oz

20 inches long

Delivery was short and recovery has been easy.

I'll write more later.  I'm currently taking it easy, for once.

Four

There is nothing like writing to soothe my soul.  Unless I'm suffering from lack of inspiration.  Then there is nothing more frustrating than trying to concoct coherence from my thoughts.  This is how I feel at this moment.  Incoherent.  Frustrated.

And impatient.

You see, I made a mistake.

I made this mistake once before back here.

I swore then I'd never do it again because I'm too self-aware to be put back in that situation by my own consent.  Then I found myself at my midwife's office, undressed from the waist down, waiting for a lady with a kind face to examine parts of me that no person should ever have to examine.  "My goodness!" She exclaimed as I laid back on the table.  "You are already dilated FOUR centimeters!"  My heart floated out of my chest.  Four centimeters?  That's nearly halfway, I thought.  With my first pregnancy I was already admitted to the hospital before I reached a four.  As my hopeful heart drifted back down into my self so did a sweet hope that by the end of the week I'd be holding my baby boy.

That night I had a panic attack.  I had not packed the hospital bag.  I still hadn't sewn crib sheets.  I had no mattress for the crib.  The house was a mess.  I wasn't ready.  I tried to sleep away the worry but was awoke several times to the fear of my water breaking in bed.  Feeling too fragile to move, I laid in bed until the pain of my position prompted a very slow shift to my opposite side.  Paul shifted as well, placing his pillow over my face and readjusting his head above mine.  I gently pushed him away and gasped for air as my head emerged from beneath his pillow. I hate night time.

The next morning and every subsequent morning after I crawled out of bed, aches and pains wracking my body, and made a rush to the bathroom as usual.  As I washed my hands I looked at the mirror and see visible relief and disappointment in the creases of my forehead.  I had made it through another rough night, but I was still pregnant.

Today I let them check me again.  Still four centimeters.  Four stupid centimeters.  Four centimeters of false hope and agitation.  I may have finally learned my lesson.  I'm never letting them check me again.  Emotionally, I can't handle it.  I let you know next week if I hold on to my resolve.  Unless, of course, I actually deliver this baby before then.  Fingers crossed!

Homeless and homesick

As I observe progress on our townhouse the impending move is beginning to seem more real.  I've started purging, organizing, and making purchases (shower curtain, hooks, rod, etc.) for soon-to-be-occupied rooms that lack basic necessities.  The more I look at videos and pictures of my future house, the more I emotionally detach from my current domicile.  Yet, my future house is still not complete and having not slept underneath it's roof or broken in the oven with a good batch of cupcakes, it does not feel altogether mine yet.  So, while I have a current and future residence, I find myself feeling just a little homeless.  Emotionally.  Sentimentally.

A couple of weeks ago my mother went back to the Midwest for a work conference.  While she was there she was able to visit her family in Southern Illinois.  Hearing about her experiences visiting graveyards, being trapped at the grocery store while tornadoes threatened outside, and being caught in a Midwest torrential downpour that makes Utah's storms laughable has me feeling rather homesick for the place of my childhood.  I often see pictures of my cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmothers, and feel so isolated from their world by this Rocky Mountain divide.  I yearn to go back.  Perhaps being on the cusps of delivery (13 days till my due date) my pregnant instinct is to return to the place of my birth where I found so much joy and comfort, hoping to pass on such pleasantries to my son.  Or maybe it's just because I feel homeless.

Hey June

May has been a long month.  Between potty training and a lack of school work to keep me busy, I'm spent many sore hours waiting out my days for the month to end.  June comes with promise though.  Promise of a new house, new baby, new trials, and my 24th birthday.  I feel like I'm staring down tomorrow with anticipation, dread, and utter excitement.  My nesting instinct (sorta) kicked in today, but due to the sheer exhaustion and soreness inspired by my watermelon belly, my attempts at organization have led me to spread chaos wherever I go while throwing away things I probably shouldn't.  Heck, I'm ready to throw it all away and start over.  There are so many things I packed away when I got married that I thought would prove useful and sentimental that even survived the move to our current apartment almost three years ago.  Now I'm glaring at a toy mouse, hamster eraser, and a Pocahontas cassette tape (just to name a few miscellaneous items) wondering what possessed me to pack these around for so many years.  I didn't even remember I had them!  Out they go.

I'm also fighting the urge to discard the majority of Andrea's toys as I'm sick of picking them up/tripping on them.  Because of the pain I've been experiencing in my hips and lower back, bending over has become rather cumbersome and I admit to staring down an object cast carelessly on the carpet for days before gathering up the strength to actually pick it up.  Yes, I blame it on pain, but there is another factor that comes into play.  Grunting.

Why don't books and websites mention this rather embarrassing manifestation of maternity?  As I shift and move throughout the day, my uterus presses on my diaphragm and out of my mouth emerges some rather strange noises.  It very much reminds me of when Pinocchio is turning into a donkey and heehaws sporadically.  I may or may not have even woken myself up in the middle of the night by a hefty grunt as my body rolled from one side to the other.  You can imagine the noises that tear from my throat as I attempt to tidy the living room.  Andrea, the ever-enthusiastic helper than she is, has started to imitate me.  She spots a block placed precariously on the rug and begins a series of contorted moans as she bends slowly to retrieve the yellow square.  She stands up quickly, her mouth spreading into a wide grin, and runs to the bucket that houses blocks.  She proceeds to toss in the toy with another token "ugh!"  When she's had her fill of grunt cleaning, she climbs onto the couch and rather matter-of-factually states, "My hips hurt.  I just sit here for a little bit."  I join her because, well, I'm out of breath, a little embarrassed, and my hips think that couch looks mighty comfy too.  She looks up at me with those deceptively-innocent blue eyes before scanning the half-picked up living room with pride.

Sigh.  The girl is too adorable.  What am I going to do when a second pair of eyes looks up at me with that same honesty and purity?  I fear the heat of June and my boy's baby blues will have me completely melted before July.

A belly picture and the RhoGAM

I can't help but feel rather big these days.  I've received a few comments about how small I look for how far along I am.  Such comments make me laugh because, well. . . see for yourself:

Me right now at 31 weeks.

Me with Andrea at 40 weeks.

Lumpy belly for the win.

Two weeks ago I went to the hospital and did my glucose test (which I'm assuming I passed since no one contacted me about the results).  I also got my RhoGAM shot for my negative blood type.  Positive and negative blood types don't mix, so women with negative blood types can potentially create antibodies to attack a fetus with a positive blood type.  Since Paul has a positive blood type there is a 50/50 chance each of my children could be positive as well.  Every time I am pregnant or miscarry I will have to have this shot to keep my body from potentially killing my babies.  Lovely, huh?  My great grandmother was RH negative and lost three of her four children, so I'm extremely grateful for this technology that makes my own pregnancies less stressful.  However, there is one downside.

If you've never had a RhoGAM shot I'll let you know they shoot you in the tush.  A sweet nurse comes into a room, kindly asks you to pull up your shirt a bit and then pull down your pants.  She directs you to lean over a table or bed and then. . . POKE!  The pain is very slight, but then she puts on that dreaded band-aid which you get to rip off later in the comfort of your own bathroom.  That part always hurts worse than the shot.

My first RhoGAM experience was a little awkward.  I was taken into a bright exam room.  A wall of windows greeted me, and the mid-afternoon sun streamed in to calm my nerves.  The nurse entered the room and had me lean over a table overlooking the picture window and front lawn of the hospital.  "Alright," she said sweetly.  "Let's just get your pants out of the way."  I tugged at my layers of clothing until I had exposed what she was looking for.  I leaned back over the table and my eyes met a mother and son approaching the hospital.  The boy stared at me with terror, probably wondering if he was going to suffer the same fate.  Distracted by the embarrassment of being on display during a rather personal moment, I barely remember the shot itself.  Next time I'll ask them to close the window, I thought.

The second time a RhoGAM shot was administered to me was the day I miscarried last May.  After spending the afternoon being poked and prodded and crying in waiting rooms, I was finally sent to the hospital for the dirty deed.  I was taken into a long hallway with curtained stations.  The nurse asked me to expose the appropriate spot, and while she swabbed and prepared the injection site I attempted some lightheaded small talk to ease my own discomfort.  "Yeah, RhoGAM shots aren't that bad," I casually commented.  "If it were up to me I'd get all shots in my--"  I didn't have time to finish the sentence because at that moment I felt the nurse stab me so carelessly that I actually jolted forward.  She quickly bandaged the injection sight and then threw opened the curtain as she walked away without a word.  I tugged at my clothes and tried to cover myself as a male nurse or two walked past.  Paul repositioned himself to allow me some more privacy during the re-tucking of all of my many layers, but he was not fast enough to save my pride.  I had just lost a pregnancy, was shot in the butt, and then mooned some strangers.  I insisted Paul buy me some chocolate on our way home.

For this pregnancy the RhoGAM experience was much more pleasant.  I managed to be in a real room with no windows and assigned a gentle nurse who allowed me all the privacy a person could ask for when getting a shot in the bum.  Andrea watch inquisitively but didn't seem too disturbed by the scene.  This is good because I passed down my negative blood type to her.  In twenty-someodd years she may find herself leaning over a table feeling a draft and a poke.

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.

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. . .

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.

The onion

I stared at the onion for a good minute before I sunk the knife deep into the white flesh.  The smell drifted past my nose and settled into my tear ducts.  As I sniffed, I sliced another set of rings, then another, and another, until the onion was in bite-sized pieces.  I slipped the vegetable into my iron skillet to cook while Andrea inquired as to what I was fixing her for lunch.  "Do you want some onions?"  I asked.  She looked at me blankly and then begged for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

After situating her with her a "sammy," I returned to my sweet, sweet onion.  The once burning smell transformed into a nutty, caramely fragrance that sent my senses into overdrive.  I singed the tips of my fingers sneaking bites from the pan.  When the onion was finally done cooking I ate the rest right out of the pan too.  With peanut butter covering the right side of her face, Andrea returned to the kitchen to see what mommy was eating and why I hadn't begged her to try any.  She told me she was very hungry still so I told her to finish her sandwich.  "No!"  She yelled.  "Annie eat onions!"

I slipped an onion into what appeared to be her hand (it was hard to tell beneath all of the pb&j), and she shoved it into her mouth.  Her eyes scrunched uncomfortably as her tongue tried to make sense of the slimy wedge.  She yummed, turned her back to me, and promptly spit the half-masticated onion into her palm.  "All done," she told me as she handed me the contents of that peanut-buttery hand.  I chuckled the first time. The third time I wondered why I kept casing my onion pearls before, well, Andrea.

After consuming most of the onion (my sister showed up and finished it off for me, onion sisters unite!) I was too full to eat anything else, so I had a tall drink of water and went in search of Miss Peanut Butter Hands to see what extra thing I'd been cleaning before noon.

Once she (and her play beads) were whipped down, and Andrea was put down for a nap, I sat in my bedroom wondering how I would explain to Paul that I ate an onion for lunch, especially since there was leek soup in the fridge from the night before.  When he sauntered through the front door around seven o'clock, I presented him with a cheese quesadilla and a bowl of black bean and onion soup.  I hoped the soup would mask the smell of my lunchtime indulgence.  I had eaten with Andrea thirty minutes before but the aroma of onion wafting from Paul's bowl was beginning to overwhelm me.  I reached over and stuck a finger in his soup.  I could tell by the baffled look on his face that I had to come clean.

After my confession Paul gave me half-smile.  "You didn't eat it raw, did you?"

"No, it was cooked." I replied.

"Well, then it sounds like a good lunch."  And with that he scooted his bowl away from me.

Strangest pregnancy craving ever.

Unsung hero of the semester

This semester was pretty crazy for me.  So crazy I'm in shock that it's over and I'm still alive.  Not only did I get called to be first counselor in the Primary Presidency in my ward a week before school started, but, due to some unexplainable bouts of nausea, I discovered I was pregnant just before midterms.  On top of that, Andrea managed to get sick every other week or so for a month, making studying and sleeping difficult.  Had it not been for some divine intervention I don't think I would have survived.  Divine intervention and Paul.

He is the unsung hero of this semester.  Before my first day of class in August, I told him that I would need help around the house and with Andrea if I was to go to school, be a housewife, mother, and fulfill my calling.  He nodded calmly, and I worried he overestimated my abilities and would therefore under-perform where I needed the most compensation.  So, when I came home from Philosophy class to find the living room tidied, the dishwasher loaded, and Andrea sleeping in her bed, I was pleasantly surprised at the service he rendered that night.  As the month wore on, the kitchen got messier, the house got more cluttered, and Andrea wasn't always in bed when I got home, but he kept trying to at least take the edge off some of my household duties.

Then October hit like a Mack truck.  First, Paul became sick.  Then Andrea.  Then me.  Except I seemed to be experiencing some rather different symptoms that weren't going away with rest and time.  On the twentieth of October I told Paul I thought I was pregnant.  Five minutes later, a positive sign proved it.  We anxiously kissed each other and said a prayer asking Heavenly Father (if it was His will) to let us keep this one.  Detailed miscarriage dreams seemed to occur almost weekly, and there were several mornings I ran to the bathroom expecting to see blood.  Sometimes I would wake in tears and lay in bed shaking as Paul held and reassured me that all was well.

After going through the miscarriage, Paul and I wanted to wait until we were out of the first trimester to make any announcements.  The last thing I wanted was a "we're pregnant" facebook announcement only to be followed by a "just kidding" a week later.  However, I was feeling pretty horrible-- so much sicker than I had been with Andrea.  I had to eat hourly to keep from puking (most of the time it worked), but even that could not alleviate the constant nauseous feeling in the back of my throat. Andrea did not understand why mommy was always laying down or hunched over a bowl.  She would poke my face and beg me to get up.  When Paul was home he did his best to distract her.  He'd take her over to her grandparent's house so I could finally rest.  He'd distract her with food, toys, Dora. . . so much Dora, or even his cell phone if he was desperate.

When I  fell behind on my school work because I was too sick in the evening to comprehend opening a text book, Paul would spend his entire Saturday reading an exorbitant amount of board books and playing dress-up, the chasing game, blocks, and coloring so I could slip away in the wee hours of the morn to write papers on Islam and vaccines until evening.

When I couldn't cook, Paul bore the burden of starvation quietly.  One week passed that he ate three meals at his parent's house and survived on crackers at home.  When I realized I was no longer compatible with the smell of food and the look of food and feel of food and, heck, even the thought of food, we packed up and drove to Costco to buy provisions for the rest of the family.  Paul spent the next three weeks eating frozen waffles and Jimmy Dean sandwiches which, I guess, was a step up from crackers.  His coworkers pitied his lack of lunches (that I so lovingly use to pack from leftover homemade goodies) and donated food (a.k.a. granola bars) for his starving belly.  Slowly, but surely, some of my nausea began to subside, and I was able to start cooking again (mostly just soup).  Paul's ribcage and third-world stomach are finally becoming less noticeable.  He still does not complain.

I admit, I've told Paul he was lucky to be a boy.  And one morning while shaking and holding back the urge to vomit I even told him he had it easy.  But he didn't really.  He has been more helpful this pregnancy than he was with Andrea's; he had to do more and give up more.  And I am so so so so grateful.  Thanks for diving in the trenches with me, Paul!

The day before May 4th

On May 4th, 2012, my husband walked across the stage and received his master's diploma at the University of Utah.  It had been an event we had been greatly anticipating and made many sacrifices for.  It was not only the graduation from classes, but the graduation from impoverished student life, constant business, late night paper writing, studying, and hectic and ever-changing schedules.  I began preparing for it weeks in advanced.  In February I bought red cups.  In March I started planning Ute themed confections.  In April I sewed a dress for Andrea.  I didn't think there was anything that could take away from my excitement.

But. . . twenty four hours before I sat in that hard red chair high above Paul in the Huntsman Center I was sitting in the hospital losing the baby I'd been growing for eight weeks.  I went through waves of shock, despair, and acceptance.  I had a feeling when I saw the positive pregnancy test three weeks before that this would not end in a baby.  I assumed the feeling came from my own insecurities about my relationship with the Lord.  We'd been through some rocky times, He and I, and I wondered after denying me so many heartfelt desires if this was one more too-good-to-be-true blessing that would not come to fruition.  I was ashamed of these thoughts and decided to tell immediate family and some close friends that we were expecting.  It was my way of showing the Lord I would trust Him this time.  But when I saw the blood on May 3rd, I knew that feeling wasn't insecurity at all.  It was revelation from my Heavenly Father preparing me for what was coming.

As I sat in the hospital waiting room, holding Paul's hand, I felt the most amazing feelings of love, comfort, and peace come over me.  I think that moment is when I really knew, without any uncertainty, the reality of my Heavenly Father and Savior. For I had never in my life felt them so near.

The next day I put on my brave face and Ute outfit for Paul's graduation.  That morning he received a job offer, which was an answer to our prayers.  That afternoon I sat with his parents for the commencement ceremony, and in the evening we congregated at their house for a celebratory dinner.  Someone asked Paul if he felt any different today.  He replied with a shoulder shrug.  "But, Paul," his mom said.  "Yesterday morning when you woke up you didn't have a Master's degree or a job!"  But he still had a baby, I thought.  I began to cry and tried to hide my face behind my husband, but not before my little niece saw my tears.  "Oh! Do you miss your baby?"  She asked as she touched my arm tenderly.  I could not speak, but I nodded.  Because I really really did.

Life was hard for a while. It's difficult to describe the emptiness one feels after a miscarriage.  It was hard to tell my family and friends that I wasn't going to having another little December baby after all.  I hated that I  had to put on maternity jeans because I bought them just days before the incident to replace my worn out pre-pregnancy pairs.  I hated that I still had to take prenatal vitamins when there was nothing inside me to benefit from those nasty yellow pills.

The passage of time healed some wounds, but I'd occasionally have a little breakdown when I tried to make sense of what happened on May 3rd.  Gradually, the time between mourning moments grew longer until I felt generally happy with life, happier than I had been in years actually, and I thought I was healed. But during the second week of school my philosophy teacher had us analyze a trial we recently went through and why it needed to happen in our life.  I wrote about the miscarriage and was surprised to find myself crying in class.  The truth was I still didn't know why that had to happen.  Why did I have to lose that baby?

As I philosophized, scenes from my new happy life were brought to my attention.  Since the miscarriage Paul and I grew closer together than we'd ever been before.  For the first time in my life I allowed myself to lean on him and share my burdens.  He, intern, opened himself up to me and allowed me to support and care for him in way I'd never been able to do.  Our strengthened relationship allowed us to love Andrea more fervently and feel joy in the family we'd created.  I felt like that impromptu philosophy lesson, not scheduled on the syllabus, was Heavenly Father's continual reassurance that He knows what I need.

Wednesday night I had miscarriage dream that darkened my mood on Thursday.  That afternoon, when my academic reading was completed, I spent some time on Pinterest as I waited for Andrea to wake up from her nap.  I stumbled upon a board of beautiful infant photography.  One particular picture caught my eye.  It was a little girl holding her new baby brother beneath the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree.  I was overwhelmed with sadness because just six months ago I thought I'd have a new baby in my arms just in time for Christmas.  I took a little time for a pity moment, but tried to move on with my day.  Last night I had another miscarriage dream.  This one was vivid, intense, and filled my heart with foreboding.  I awoke with tears streaming down my cheeks.  Heavenly Father came to my rescue again in the form of Elder Bowen's talk.

'I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. Yet a little while, and the world seeth me no more; but ye see me: because I live, ye shall live also' (John 14:18-19).

People say the darnedest things

I've been amazed at some of the things I've heard people say since becoming pregnant and having a baby.  Mind you, the most shocking phrases have not come from uninhibited children or old ladies, but from average middle-aged women.  I began noticing this early in my pregnancy when store clerks who asked about my peculiar purchase of a case of ramen noodles for morning sickness would also ask me about my puking habits. I brushed it off as polite concern, but soon it became a regurgitation of their puking stories.  A few weeks of morning sickness and I was very familiar with all the different foods that the strange women around me had been vomiting.  But aside from the "TMI" factor, what I couldn't understand was why these women were telling an obviously green, nauseous pregnant woman stories about their more disgusting bodily functions.

After fourteen weeks or so the morning sickness subsided and I was able to eat normal foods again.  Naturally, the puke stories subsided too.  By then, my baby was growing and, slowly but surely, a small baby bump began to form in my lower abdomen.  Now, complete strangers felt they had they had exclusive rights to information about my uterus.  Thankfully, after monthly doctors appointments, talking about my uterus seemed so natural.

Next came questions about my weight.  People I hardly knew thought they were privy to such information asking about how much I gained and what my pre-pregnancy weight was.  One would never ask the a woman about her current weight but when she's pregnant she's suddenly suppose to reveal that secret number.  Go figure.

The last couple weeks of my pregnancy as women found out I was almost due a new question cropped up.  Strangers at JoAnn's fabrics and cashiers at Wal-Mart were asking about my cervix, which is yet another organ one wouldn't dream of asking about under any other circumstance.  I had daily inquiries.  Had I not been so proud of my 3 centimeters dilated and soft cervix this, too, could have been awkward.  However, by this point I was practically volunteering this information to anyone who seemed interested.  Apparently, I say the darnedest things too.

After talking so much about my body for eightish months I've lost a lot of my censors.  Saturday night I sat in my parents living room visiting with my dad and I caught myself telling him my rough estimate of how much milk my breasts make. . . information I'm sure he could have lived his whole life without.  I now have a marginal understanding of grocery store women, so these days it's very rare I hear them say something that shocks me.  But last week at Target. . .

I pulled up to the register with my little tag-a-long all bundled in her car seat.

[Exhibit A.]

The woman behind me peaked at my baby and became concerned.  "Does she have a shrunken head?" She asked in a worried tone.  I turned around to get a good look at her serious face.  I was speechless.  (It takes a lot to render me speechless.)  I pulled the blanket off Andrea and said the rest of her was small too.  Looking mortified and embarrassed, the woman apologized.  While my loved ones and friends have given me many phrases I could have used in this awkward moment, I still am in shock that someone actually seriously asked me this question and think if faced with this scenario again I would react the same.  Like a deer in the headlights.  Who honestly says things like that and thinks it's okay?  I like the point my cousin, April, made.  What if her head really was shrunken.  Thank you for pointing out my child's deformity.

Still, I wasn't really offended, just incredibly shocked.  I just. . . I don't. . . wow.

Birth on a half birthday

Sunday night was my due date and the thought of having a baby any time soon was fastly fleeing.  With a doctors appointment on Monday I prepared myself for the news that my body wasn't progressing and that an induction might be necessary.  As much as I wanted to hold my daughter, I also wanted to deliver naturally and I'd heard horror stories about the pain that comes from pitocin induced labors.  My best chance to deliver naturally was to labor naturally.  I went to bed feeling sad.

At one o'clock I was awakened by a new sensation I'd not had before.  My abdomen was tightening like it had been for the last few days but this time it was accompanied by sharp cramping pain.  I breathed through it and watched the clock to see if it happened again.  Seven minutes later I experienced what I was guessing another real contraction.  I turned on to my side facing my alarm clock and watched it closely, taking note of the time between.  By two they were six minutes apart and about a minute long.  At three, they were five minutes apart.

At 3:17 I tapped Paul's shoulder and told him that we might have a baby today.  He grunted.  "Paul, I'm having contractions every five minutes and they hurt," I elaborated.  He was instantly awake asking what we should do.  I had a few things left to pack in the overnight bag and I wanted to tidy my kitchen.  Paul showered and between contractions I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher.  At about four I called my mom and we loaded up into the car, me in a bundle of nerves.  This had to be it!  Otherwise, arousing my husband and folks to adrenaline-induced wakefulness at four in the morning for nothing was something I couldn't live down.

We checked in at the front desk and were sent to a holding room to be monitored and analyzed.  I was in real labor.  The endorphin rush of such exciting moment was short lived because contraction pain was beginning to seize my body.  I couldn't speak or move and breathing took all my focus.  I was feeling nauseated from skipping dinner the night before and I was given a tall cup of apple juice which I threw up within minutes of finishing.  My body started to tremor.  No one mentioned these symptoms to me and I was unprepared for their arrival.  I knew things were only going to get worse, so I asked my mom if she'd be disappointed if I got help for the pain.  She laughed at me!  "Do whatever you want!" she said nonchalantly, supporting me no matter what I chose.

A nurse came in to take me to a delivery suit and, feeling defeated, I asked for an epidural.

Which was. . . AMAZING!!  With my pain gone I could relax, joke, nap, and enjoy family around me as I prepared to hear the magic pushing news.

Pushing was an interesting sensation.  Imagine the worse constipation possible.  Multiply that by 12.8 and add an indescribably strong urge to excrete the blockage.  That's pushing in nutshell.  My epidural was beginning to wear off a bit and although I had a button to increase the dosage, I chose not to.  I wanted to be able to feel if I was pushing.  This turned out to be very useful.  As the baby moved down into the birth canal the monitors were having trouble picking up the contractions because (apparently) I have an odd shaped uterus.  The nurses called it my funky fundal.  Thankfully, I could feel the building pressure and could let my midwife know when I wanted to push.  I pushed for an hour or so, and then, just as I thought I had maxed out all of my energy. . .

Andrea Jane arrived
on 12/13/10 (my half-birthday)

at 2:12 P.M.

weighing 7 lbs. 2 oz.

20 inches long!

Babies don't like that eye goop.

Our first moment, skin to skin.

I had some minor tearing, so small they were having trouble finding it.  I kept bleeding while they poked and prodded and sopped and stitched.  Thank heavens I had an epidural during that!  Afterwards, I had lost so much blood that I couldn't sit up without turning green.  They monitored my blood pressure for hours, the cuff going off every five minutes, and they pumped me with bag after bag of saline solution.  The family got to hold my baby while I recovered.

Happy first-time daddy!

Wednesday morning we got to go home.  That made it feel so official.  She was ours!

And we like her A LOT!

Waiting must be part of labor 'cause it's hard work

 Due date.  I know it's just a guess and having my baby a little early or late doesn't bother me as long as she's in my arms by Christmas.  At least, that's how I use to feel.  Tuesday I went to see my midwife and I finally let her check my cervix and all the joy that comes with that.  She's been asking for about three weeks now if I wanted her to do it, and I repeatedly turned down the chance.  However, I was getting pretty close to my due date so I caved.  She excitedly put on a rubber glove, told me it was about to feel cold, and there might be some pressure.  He. . . he. . .

She was surprised to find me three centimeters dilated and 80% effaced, and she said my cervix was really soft.  We went ahead and made an appointment for me to come in on Monday (the day after my due date) just in case I didn't deliver over the weekend, but my midwife said she thought I'd have the baby by then.  I was stunned at her prediction.  I hadn't washed baby clothes yet or even packed the hospital bag because delivery had seemed so far away.  I went home-- I called my mom. I told my mother-in-law. I scared my husband.  Something was sinking into me.

Up to that point the reality of my circumstance hadn't hit me, but like a bucket of ice water splashed in my face, I was now confronting the fact that I wouldn't be pregnant for the rest of my life.  Tuesday morning giving birth seemed like some abstract idea from an episode of a sci-fi thriller; Tuesday afternoon it became reality and it was knocking at my door.  Wednesday I panicked and began final preparations.  During my first class I started feel contractions that came at regular intervals but died down by noon.  Thursday I walked and walked and walked.  I avoided sitting down, I crawled when at all possible hoping my baby would turn around so I could avoid back labor.  I did three loads of laundry, packed the overnight bag, nearly finished the baby quilt, and hiked two or three miles on campus.

At about three o'clock contractions started again and continued to come every ten minutes.  While they weren't especially painful, just uncomfortable, all the activity was wearing me down.  My stomach got more achy and tense as the evening passed.  It was like someone was standing behind me pulling the strings to an invisible corset and every ten minutes they gave an extra strong pull.  I was excited, nervous, and confused.  Excited because I could feel things happening in my body, nervous because I didn't know what to expect next, and confused because I didn't know if it was real labor or something else.  I decided to sleep on it.  If it persisted through out the night and intensified I would wake up my wheezing husband and give him the famous line I'd see in all the movies: "It's time!"

I woke up three times in the night from abdominal discomfort.  The contractions were slowing down considerably, and by the time the sun peeked over the mountains. . . That's a beautiful image, but it was actually rainy and dark. . . by the time my phone alarm started beeping at seven the contractions were all but gone.  It is Friday evening; they have not persisted much today.

Five days ago I was patient, oblivious to the fact that I'd ever deliver.  But I've since been plagued with the realization that any moment could be the moment.  It has been my ruin.  This is why I waited for so long to get my cervix checked.  I knew myself and I knew that it would effect me intensely.  This afternoon I have sat alone stewing in my own thoughts and trying not to cry.  I wish I wasn't here alone.  I wish Paul was home.  I made him soup.  At four.  I was too restless to wait 'til eight, which is his expected time of arrival.  And I made him a pie too. . . that I've had to wrestle my sorry self away from all day.

As I sat at the counter this afternoon studying for finals, my little baby played a round of Dance Dance Revolution on my rib cage.  My stomach rolled and squirmed with her movements and I began talking to her, which admittedly I haven't done a lot thus far.  I told her I loved her and I promised to take care of her.  I told her that she was miraculous and how happy she's made me in the few short months she's been apart of me.  And I let her know, as awesome as I am, she has a daddy and some grandparents who would like me to share her.  Just sayin'

We'll see if that conversation does any good.

37 Week snapshot

Today was the first real day off I've had in a while.  No school, no work, no schoolwork.  It was beautiful.  Because this semester has been so chaotic my house has been a little neglected.  Bathrooms needed cleaning, dishes needed washing, and the carpet. . . hadn't been vacuumed in a while.  Once Paul left for work I began "project housework."  I felt so alive and in my element scrubbing around the potty and sweeping away the cobwebs (which I discovered were actually still occupied).

I also spent some time staring into here:

I'm working on getting the baby closet organized and after my baby shower on Saturday I actually have something to put in there.  There is still much we need, but we have a great start!  I love opening the double doors and touching the little clothes while imaging them on the body of my unimaginably precious little girl.  I even caught Paul in there this evening.

37 weeks!

I have more pictures to post, but I'm waiting for my little sister to e-mail them to me.

(Cough cough, hint hint, Tessa, cough cough)

Where I'm suppose to be

Certain familiar smells are creeping into the air.  Customers at work are coming in smelling like mall cologne samples and leather.  Christmas shopping has begun.  Outside has taken on its fall fragrance of rich earth, wet pavement, and decaying leaves.  Ironic how the smell of a dying season brings so much life to the one it's replacing.  Upon entering my home, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafts below my nose and I long for holiday cooking and family gatherings.  This is a glorious time.

Just a few weeks away from giving birth and the reality of becoming a parent is slowly nestling itself into my bones, radiating from my core and pulsing down to my toes.  People tell me I still look so small, but I feel BIG.  I feel on top of the world and full of a life I've never experienced.  I feel like I'm home staring in the mirror at a person I barely recognize yet have known forever.  She's always been there, this strong presence, but I've been afraid to see her.  But when I was so weak, the little one inside me pulled that strength to the surface as if to say, "It's about time.  You may need this!"

I don't fear labor and I don't fear pain.  I've been called crazy for wanting to give birth naturally, but I feel so in-tune with my body right now that I can't imagine going through such a transcending experience and not feeling it.  I want to know.  This curiosity burns inside me begging for me to satiate its desire to have such a mortal experience.  I could be crazy after all.

I also know that a birth plan and the actual event can be quite different.  My sweet mother didn't plan on a c-section with her first two, but it happened that way.  So, I'm praying for an opportunity to give birth as I've outlined, but I've told God I'm up for alternatives if it means getting my little girl here safely.

Saturday was my last day of work.  The bittersweet experience did not make me cry as I thought I would.  Yes, there will be people I'll miss, but my heart has been so full of a peace that I can't seem to shake.  Not that I want to.  I feel I'm exactly where I'm suppose to be in this moment.

Sewing again

I walked into my work on Friday and was greeted at the door by a cashier, as are all who enter.  She smiled at me and said, "My, you are looking rounder!"

"Thank you," I beamed.  There will not be many periods of my life where that phrase will be a compliment, so I should enjoy it while it lasts.  Come January or February I might burst into a fit of postpartum sobs if someone dares to call me "rounder".

I have an aunt who was quite the fashionista in the 1970's.  She had many dresses that she wore or inherited from other family members.  Many of them were sewn by my grandmother.  Recently, she was purging her closet and she found some of these pieces.  She thought it would be fun to have a fashion show.  My younger sister and I took turns trying on these outdated dresses and modeling the groovy duds.  She said I could keep any dress that I liked.  I kept a few.  Some were stylish once again, and some had potential.

I finally unpacked my sewing machine today and tuned some of these dresses into more-updated maternity shirts and dresses.  I got an sense of euphoria sitting at that desk in my own home, being all domestic and whatnot.  I used my new counter space to lay out dresses and fabrics so I could more easily cut, pin, and iron.  It felt natural and wonderful, as though I was meant to do this since birth.  Dreams of beautifully home-sewn things danced around my head.  Then a feeling of sadness came over me.

Since April 15th, when I found out I was expecting, I've been saving up a little cash fund to use to buy fabric for a special quilt I planned to sew for my first child.  But, as tight as money is for a young couple, I've watched my fund dwindle until it is all but gone, being spent on things needed a little sooner than a quilt for my little girl.

I stepped out of the room and cried, wishing I had a special gift for her.  Irrational tears and snot began to descend down my face.  How silly I was being!  She will not sleep in the cold.  Her Aunt Janell has already made her a beautiful pink penguin blanket.  This comforted me a little as I took some deep breaths and felt that now familiar movement against my ribs.  Then, I looked in the linen closet and saw my baby blankets resting on a high shelf, clean and ready to hold a infant again.  It turns out I have something to give her after all.  When the penguin blanket is spit up on and in the wash, she'll still be bundled in love.

Here's a couple of the shirts I made from old dresses.  This one was big and shapeless so I cut it off, hemmed it up, and used the scraps to make a bow to tie in the back.

Here's the second.  It's going to be nice having clothes that fit.

Doctor code

Good prenatal care requires many medical appointments.  Before I got pregnant, it had been years since I'd visited a doctor for illness or injury.  I avoided doctors at all costs.  But now I'm beginning to become comfortable with the medical setting.  I've even picked up on some of their secret codes they use to make patients more comfortable in uncomfortable situations.

First, there is the "how are you feeling?" question.  This is asked to gauge how open you are to talking about your bodily functions.  If you answer, "Good, I'm feeling good," they will proceed to probe until you've divulged all your embarrassing stories about peeing when you sneeze and uncontrollable gas in crowded elevators.  I've tried to resist, but they are just too good.  I just answer honestly now.  They ask, "How are you feeling?"  I say, "Good.  I have some pressure on my bladder, but I'm still drinking lots of water and making frequent bathroom stops."  They like to hear that.  In fact, if you add "drinking lots of water" to about anything you say to a doctor it will satisfy some deep inner aqua-pushing urge the medical community seems to possess.

One of my favorite phrases is: "Wow, those are cute maternity pants!"  This means "it's time to pull your pants down."  I noticed my nurse/midwives say this right before they look for my pubic bone to measure fundal height.  But today I was at the hospital to receive my Rhogam shot, which is administered in your tush, and the nurse mentioned how cute my pants were.  As soon as I heard the compliment I knew it what time it was . . .  and I was not disappointed.  By the way, getting a shot in the bum isn't as bad as it seems.  The nurse even put a little band-aid over the injection sight when she finished.  So nurturing!  I think pulling that band-aid off my bum will hurt worse than the shot.

One of my least favorite phrases is: "Go ahead and just lay back while I pull out these stirrups."  This mean things are about to get really drafty.  'Nough said.

"This might be a little cold," usually means, "I just pulled this from the freezer and I'll now rub it on your bare skin!"  I'm actually kidding about this one.  Any time a nurse has told me something might be a bit chilly it has been a reasonable temperature.  I think they got a lawsuit once that involved cold tummy gel and black frost-bitten toes and they are now required by federal law to give a disclaimer.

Another subtle little phrase they use at the my doctor's office is: "The bathroom is available if you'd like."  This does not mean, "I know you have a little person pressing on your bladder so feel free to use our facilities anytime you'd like."  It means, "Go pee in a cup now before the next appointment arrives."  I've pretty much mastered this whole peeing-in-a-cup thing.  There's a ten step instruction chart beside the toilet filled with tips and recommendations to make this experience easier, but I find in this case practice makes perfect.  Before I got pregnant I never thought this would be a valuable skill to have, but it is.  For those of you who've not had this experience yet, it's all about timing and hand-eye coordination.  I'm going to stop there.

We'll see if I get to learn anymore phrases tomorrow when I go in for my 28 week appointment.  Have a happy week, all!

'Due' not open 'til December

Get it?  The title?  'Due' not open, instead of 'Do' not open?  Cause my baby's 'due' in December!  Oi.  That is not only a terrible title but a terrible pun.  (I'm embarrassed to admit I laughed aloud when I wrote it.)  *Shrug*

Yesterday, my mother-in-law (happy birthday!) and I were talking about my baby coming late.  She said, "What if she comes after New Years?"  We both looked at each other in horror.  That would be so sad!  She'd miss her first Christmas by a week and Paul would miss the tax deductions.  I've decided to write her a little letter to help ease any fears she may have so she'll want to come here on time.

Dear little one,

You are getting so big.  I feel you so often now that I start to panic if you haven't moved in a couple hours.  You love to rest your head right on top of my bladder.  It's warm and squishy and you are a snuggler.  Being the queen of snugglers I know warm and squishy are important.  I will have to empty it quite often, if that's okay with you.  You've left me no other choice actually.  But I will fill it quickly and you can have it back for snuggle time for another couple hours before I'm back in the bathroom again.

You love to kick my belly button.  When I press on my tummy you press back.  You especially love when your daddy presses.  That gets you really excited!  My friend said you must like boys already.  I hope not.  I'm not ready for that!  But I'll share a little secret with you.  Boys have cooties.  They are highly contagious and cause insanity.  I hear they go away at about age 16.  Just saying.

I can't wait to see your little face and look into your blue eyes.  At least, your eyes will probably be blue.  With two blue-eyed parents your chances of inheriting that particular pigment are quite high.  I wonder if you will have hair.  Your chances of that are not so high.  I've made a couple bows for you just in case.  If you are anything like I was, matching bows will be important.

I've bought your first little outfit.  It has long pants to keep your legs warm.  The world will be a chilly place when you come.  Snow, there may be some of that.  It's white and cold-- two things that you haven't seen or felt yet.  But it's made from water and can get pretty wet when it melts.  You will understand what wet is really like when you feel what it's like to be dry. 

The houses will be decorated with strings of twinkling lights and the smell of cinnamon and baking will permeate your Grandpa and Grandma Hatchett's kitchen.  Outdoor trees will be brought indoors where they will be trimmed and lit.  Sparkly balls and snowflakes will hang from the branches.  Music will ring out everywhere singing of Santa and Jack Frost and snowmen and reindeer and bells.

Little statues of babies will lay in hay mangers as the Christian world celebrates the birth of another special baby.  A baby born 2,000+ years before you.  You will come to know him as your Savior, Jesus Christ.  Songs will be sung about Him as well.  Those songs will be different, more reverent, but joyful.  Grandma and Grandpa Rowberry will sing them with their choir.  You're daddy and I will watch them on TV this year because you'll be so big and almost ready to make your debut.

If you are quite late and come after Christmas you will miss the festivities and have to wait another year to experience these wonderful things.  Maybe this will motivate you to come on time, baby girl. :)  I may have come three weeks late when I was born but I don't know why I waited so long.  The world is a beautiful place when you are surrounded by people who love you.  And you will be.

Love,
Mommy