The Elijah Cannon: Part 1, Early Labor

Today's probably not the best day to be writing this.  I think I'm fighting the blues, but I'm not sure what else to do at the moment.  Throughout the weekend of the 9th, I was getting lots of Braxton Hicks (BH) activity, which was really exciting.  I'd gotten some during my first two pregnancies, but I don't recall having them with this frequency.  All day Saturday, with fair regularity, I was getting a mix of BH and mild contractions.  It felt so good to see my body at work, doing what it was supposed to do.  Sunday seemed like a "break" day, with only the occasional BH.  That felt a little disappointing, even though it was still only my 39th week.  I was excited to get this thing going.

Sunday night I went to bed with mild, regular contractions.  Monday morning, about the time Brian gets up for work, I was having more painful contractions that had been keeping me up for a couple hours.  I told Brian they seemed very regular and close, so I got in a warm bath and we started timing, as he got ready for work.  They were right around 3 or 4 minutes apart, sometimes two minutes.  I sent Brian to work, knowing that if this was the 'real deal' it could very well go on for hours or days.  I finished out a full hour of timing to be sure.  The contractions required a fair degree of focus, but I could still talk through them. As per my instructions, I called Dr. Tate to inform him.  To my dismay,  he wanted me to go into the hospital to get checked out, and make sure the baby was doing well.  I called my doula, Kim, and told her I'd let her know what the hospital said. She set my mind at ease about the visit, reminding me that after triage, it was still my choice whether to check in or go home.  I also gave my parents the heads-up that something might be happening.  Since we had to get the boys together, packs some bags just in case, and arrange for a sitter, Brian turned around and headed back home.

I was glad Brian was there, because it would have taken me forever to get everything together, stopping every 3 minutes to crumple over in pain.  Brian called our friend, Emily, who answered the phone with, "Is it baby time?"  We got the boys up and took them over to Emily's so they could play with their friend Luke, and headed to the hospital, making sure to eat on the way.  We arrived at Emory University Hospital Midtown around noon.  Dr. Tate has an outstanding reputation and record with VBACs (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean) and difficult deliveries, and although EUHM has to stick to its policies, many of the nurses respect him and seem to give his patients as much slack as they feel permitted.  I was not real keen on the internal exam this time because I'd come to the notion that it really didn't tell me anything.  My body wasn't telling me I was anywhere close to the finish line, so I knew that it would be just a number.  If I was 2 cm, I could be that way for days or minutes.  Regardless, I made my official prediction of 2cm, 80% effaced.  That seems to be my magic number.  It's where my body was with the last two pregnancies when it seemed to be the beginning of the end. To our nurse's amusement, I was spot-on. I kept my own clothes on after the exam. It helped to mentally bolster my feelings that I was in control of my body and that I wasn't going to be tied down there yet.  The nurse ( I wish I'd remembered her name - she was so awesome), hooked me up to the monitors. I noticed that as soon as I was on my back in bed, the contractions began to fizzle.  It's just like taking your car to the mechanic and it fails to show the problem when you get there.  The nurse started talking about the baby looking sleepy and she wanted to get him to look better so I'd have a better shot at being able to walk around.  I sat up a bit and asked for a drink.  She made me promise not to need an emergency c-section and slipped me a few cups of apple juice.  I chugged those and got out of bed, and the baby responded positively.  She thought the readings looked great and called Tate to let him know.  She reminded us of EUHM's policy for VBAC patients, and practically told us it would be wise to leave, since I would have to be on continuous monitoring and would be stuck in or beside the bed, possibly end up needing augmentation with Pitocin, and on down that track to another C-Section.  We high-tailed it out of there as soon as we could and headed over to IKEA to do some walking.

IKEA turned out to be an ideal place to do the labor walk - chairs, bathrooms and drink fountains around every corner. It was getting late in the day, and I was feeling like this time could be better spent playing with the boys, so when I could walk no more, we decided to head back to Emily's house to pick up the boys. By the time we got there, my contractions seemed to be fizzling down to 10 minutes, then 15 minutes, then I quit counting. Emily has some magic perfume or something that puts children under a spell.  Her house is about the only place I can show up and have my kids tell me to "Go away. I want to stay with Luke." We lingered there for a while, delaying the war that would erupt when we ripped them out of their place of contentment to head home.

The evening ended in an entirely unexpected and confusing way - with nothing.  I never realized early labor could behave that that with such regularity and intensity and not progress with continuity to more labor and a baby.  I reasoned it out that I was in a pattern of contraction day, rest day, worse contraction day, and figured the next day would be a rest day, hopefully followed by a real nasty real-deal baby-pushing day. Tuesday was in fact, a far more comfortable day than I cared to have. When someone asked me how I was feeling, my response was "unfortunately great." Wednesday came and to my dismay, it was also far too painless.  I was tired.  So tired. We curled up in bed and plodded on through "just one more story" with the boys. The last book was about to be snapped shut when  I said, "Uh oh, I think I'm leaking. Yep. Definitely leaking. Brian, my water just broke."

What's another word for hindsight?

I know, I know.  I'm slacking.  I'm also typing with a crippled keyboard, which is part of the reason I'm slacking, so if I miss a G, H, or ', it's not that I can't spell.  My superduper awesome sister is my laptop supplier.  I'm so stoked about this recent addition.  I looks really slick, but is a little alphabetically challenged. So, while I await my new keyboard delivery, I meticulously copy and paste "G"s, "H"s and  """s into my compositions.  I also engage in Elmer Fudd-ish exercises of thesaurus-fishing for non-G and -H-containing synonyms.

My second excuse for my blog tardiness is I'm simply trying to remain conscious.  This third-trimester stuff is exhausting.  I'm about 2.5 weeks out from my due date.  I feel like I could turn just a certain way and my legs would fall out of my hip sockets and collapse to the floor.  I pour Maalox on my cereal each morning. My meals and breaths could fit in a shot glass together. I keep reminding myself this is the easy part.

Ian's really quite an empathetic fella'. At my last prenatal visit, the office was unusually crowded and Ian and another boy ended up frequently vying for use of a particular truck.  At one point, the other boy became distracted with another toy, then got put in 'time out' by his mother for something while Ian enthusiastically enjoyed some peace with 'his' favorite truck.  He was crying on the floor next to a couch.  Ian observed the boy for a moment & came over to Brian and I and started talking about the boy being sad, and why he thought he was sad. Then he walked over to the boy, crouched down, and handed him the prized truck, trying fairly successfully to help the boy feel happy again. I was pretty impressed.

He frequently asks me "What's the matter?" or gently requests that I not feel mad.  He likes to play games with making faces or pretending to express a certain emotion.  He's lately gotten into defending his little brother.  He will say to us, "Igick doesn't want his teeth brushed. Don't make baby sad." He's pretty good, for a little guy, about using "I feel" statements.

Ian is apparently also a Discovery Channel junkie. Yesterday, he told me he wanted to watch Adam and Jamie (Mythbusters).  I didn't know he knew them.  This evening as I was cooking, he was singing the Boom-da-yada song Discovery had on its commercials.

I may have mentioned this before, but Ian has a perpetual Christmas spirit. He always has a song in his heart - mainly Jingle Bells, and loves any occasion for celebration. Isaac jumps right in on it too.  I could learn a lot from these guys.  They fill any room with such joy and enthusiasm and infectious laughter.

Isaac is a little mimicker.  He repeats what he hears with astonishing accuracy and clarity.  I think he has remarkable diction at times.  He's taking full advantage of having an older brother to learn all sorts of mischief from.

I'm so curious to see how the dynamics change with #3.  I can't imagine a more fun world than raising these little boys.

Eureka! I've found my floor!

Here we are, home again, with three merry iterations of Christmas sadly behind us. I've finally found enough of my floor to justify stopping to update the blog. It was so fantastic to be around family again for a week. We wish we could always be a part of our 'village.' Perhaps some day, everything will line up so that we can live near family again. Ian seemed to remember and be almost immediately comfortable with most everyone. Isaac too a little warming-up, as expected.

Poor Isaac. He will leap off of nearly any cliff, but is afraid of anything cute:  puppies, kittens, bunnies. It took him a hard part of the week to re-acclimate to my parents' dogs.  They were particularly scary (i.e. cute, cuddly, friendly).  Both boys surprised me with their self-control around the Christmas trees. For the most part they left them alone and otherwise remembered their 'one-finger touching' rule. It was rather hard to get to the trees in the first place with all those tantalizing presents in the way, but they restrained themselves there too.

A couple days before Christmas was my husband's niece's birthday dinner/party at his parents' house.  Ian has a particular love of all things party.  Any reason to celebrate, really.  He knew what was going on, and we could tell by the way he wasn't eating his dinner that he was saving plenty of room for cake.  Brian requested of him that he take one bite of his dinner.  Ian refused the many attempts, until Brian finally made it clear that no bite, no cake.  Ian's mouth shot open to accept the spoon.

I'm not sure the boys quite knew what to make of Christmas.  It was like a toy wonderland.  They were so fascinated with each thing they got, they didn't quite want to stop checking it out to open the next one. My family has always celebrated Christmas Eve night and Brian's family does Christmas morning, so it works out great. Some of the toys, we knew we'd better keep boxed up and our precious little boys wanted in so badly, but were very patient. When the car-packing day arrived, we truly thought it would take a miracle to fit everything in.  We did leave a couple old ride-on cars and Brian's new globe (to be shipped or brought up later), but somehow everything else made it.  It was like super-mega Tetris.

Ever since we've been home, it's like the boys' imaginations have been unleashed, surrounded by their new trains, puppets, a gourmet kitchen, ride-ons, a wooden castle, etc. I get such pleasure out of watching them work at playing and how they combine toys from one set with another.

The boys quickly transitioned back to our normal 'schedule', if you can call it a schedule.  The other night, after a bath, Isaac was crying about something. Ian, with his shirt still off, squeezed his 'breast' and said, "It's O.K., Baby, you can drink my milk." As I mentioned before, Ian has been weaned since about 2 1/2, but since he's figured out about the new baby on the way, he keeps reminding me that "Baby is making more milk for me." Finally it came out different this morning.  Ian woke up and said, "Mom. Baby is making more milk for...Baby. I'm going to have a new baby soon!"

Brian came home the other day and Ian approached him about a snack.  Ian said, "How about pizza?" Brian replied, "How about yogurt?" "How about s'ghetti?" "We only have yogurt." In his final attempt, Ian cheerfully proclaims, "We only have birthday cake!"

I ought to get back to unveiling more floor space.  I got an amazing Dyson vac for Christmas.  Before we left, I did an aggressive clean on the floor with our old vac.  I tested a strip of hallway with the Dyson and had to stare in amazement, excitement and disgust at all the stuff it sucked out of our "clean" floor! Vacuuming never sounded so fun - I'm actually looking forward to doing more. Is that the depths to which SAHM-hood has brought me? Hi ho, a derry-o, a vac-ing I will go!

Domo Arigato

The boys have been absorbing some of my pregnancy struggles.  Isaac has started grunting with the strain of picking toys up. Yesterday evening, I sunk into a chair for a minute to relax while holding a very sad Isaac. I had put my phone on the armrest, but it had vanished.  I asked Ian, who was sitting on the floor studying a toy catalog, if he would help me find my phone.  Without looking up, he replied, "I can find your phone later, but I'm tired." Later that night, he puts a toy to my belly and says, "I can hear your heart beat. Your belly is getting bigger. I'm getting bigger and bigger and bigger too (sticking out his belly). Wall-E robot is in my belly."

Wall-E robot is his new alter-ego.  I'm fairly sure he has never seen the movie, but he has a pair of underwear bearing his doppelganger.  At bedtime, he says, "Wawwy is tired." Sometimes Wawwy provides generous catering services.  Ian scoots up along side me and says, "I'm Wawwy. I have a hand on my back. I have cheese for you (leaning his back towards me)." He also instructs us to push his colorful buttons.  They never seem to do anything but beep.  I asked him one time what the Red button does. "It says 'Stop'," he informs me.

They are both pretty fascinated with mirrors lately.  Especially Isaac.  Every time I change Isaac's clothes or put a hat or coat on him, he requests, "Meer," and then flirts with his reflection when we take him.  This morning, Ian brushed his hair and looked in a hand mirror, saying, "I look SUPER handsome!" I had to agree.

In Our Sleighday

I have approximately 8 weeks of pregnancy left. Yikes. I'm so anxious to meet our new little guy, but I keep reminding myself not to wish time away, because life is much simpler with him in my belly. Plus I'm trying to cram as much playtime in with the boys as I can before I face the excitement and guilt of caring for a newborn while feeling like a complete traitor to the other two.

I think it's a sick joke that during these last couple months, when I want to boost my reserves, I'm destined to flop around in bed all night like a spooked moose, trying to find comfort.  Listen here, my little womb-mate. I know what I'm up against. You, on the other hand, will like me much better when rested.

This morning, I gave up trying to sleep about an hour early, lit a fire and tackled some of the Thanksgiving aftermath in the kitchen.  Within 30 or 40 minutes, everyone else was up and we lazied our way through breakfast, showers and more tidying up.  I had the idea that we'd go to a mall and window shop for Christmas gift ideas, and maybe snag a few bonus sales. We piled into what Ian calls the "new van" -- a Ford Flex we picked up in August -- and headed to a mall I remembered seeing about 40 minutes away. Thirty-five minutes and two sleeping boys later, my mommy brain reset and I realized that the place I was thinking of was actually 45 minutes in the other direction. We circled the nearby shopping plaza, only to find that they were the exact same stores we had - maybe slightly bigger. Since the boys were still sleeping, we decided to head back to stores near town.

We ate some ultimo-delicious Five Guys burgers and fries and squeaked in some totally fruitless shopping that looked more like two frazzled adults dancing around a hot toddler hive, clumsily trying to untangle kid leashes from one end of the mall to the other. At one point, Ian and I broke free of Dillard's, and while waiting outside for Brian and Isaac to emerge, Santa walked by and stopped at a cluster of kids. Ian asked me where his sleigh was. I told him I wasn't sure, but he could go ask Santa. He seemed to think that was a good idea so we walked over to Santa, very, very cautiously, of course. Santa said hi and handed Ian a small toy. I prompted Ian to ask his question. He murmured "Where's the sleigh?" and Santa said it was at the North Pole getting ready for Christmas. Always the skeptic, my brain launched into self-dialogue, demanding to know how he got here without his sleigh, but my prefrontal cortex managed to keep my lips closed. Ian asked Santa if he'd found Marty's truck [One of Ian's favorite books is Santa's Peppermint Rescue. Marty is the delivery mouse for Santa's candy]. Silly Santa thought Ian was asking for a truck. Is that how Santa deals with his primary candy supplier -- feigning ignorance? Or...do we have an impostor on our hands?

As Santa walked off, up trots a horse pulling a fancy Cinderella-looking carriage. Ian tries to hop on. I try to rein him in as I crane my neck to see if the guys have made it out yet. Just in time, Brian and Isaac walk up and we all climb on the carriage and under a blanket for our complimentary ride around the parking lot. The boys love it.

Back home, Ian dashes to the refrigerator for a snack. A couple weeks ago, he ripped the child lock off, and has since enjoyed his unfettered access to Snackland. He pulled out the egg carton and begged for an egg. Brian hands him an egg. Ian holds the egg at arm length and announces, "Now a chicken's going to pop out. Bawk bawk. [Sniffs] It smells like an egg." Then he gets a look in his eye and starts to dash after Isaac. Brian swoops in to rescue the egg and cooks up a snack for the boys. Ian repeatedly asked for ketchup, honey and peanut butter on his eggs. I resist on moral grounds. He begs some more. Sigh, who am I to tell the boy what he likes.

Of Ramen Descent?

I had another bizarre-o dream last night (One of the many uber-strange dreams I get when pregnant).  My baby was packaged in one of those blocks of Ramen Noodles and needed to be cooked out.  He didn't quite cook long enough, so the noodles were still fairly blockish and stiff, so instead of fishing him out of a soupy bowl, we had to pluck the noodles off  and he was all gummy.  Ever tried to wipe spaghetti up from a table or floor and all it wants to do is roll around?  It was like that.

So is this my subconscious fear that he won't "cook" long enough (I have a rambling, resenting vent about the way my first two deliveries went down, starting with my water breaking/leaking "too soon" before labor would kick in on its own...maybe I'll share some time), or that we'll end up with some clumsy home birth?  Am I envisioning his poor little future of "pasta night" at home with two big brothers?  More likely, the "cooking" I've been doing in my exhaustion has led to an MSG hallucination.