Happy Thanksgiving!

We celebrated our Thanksgiving on Tuesday, which created a surprisingly low-stress holiday, except managing my mom, who always gets very tense over holidays (even though my sister and I take care of the cooking and cleaning). But that's neither here nor there - there's a lot to be thankful for. After all, she was good enough to spend an entire month with us helping us with our pre-schooler and then our newborn.

I won't go through the list of things I'm thankful for - that'd take forever. Suffice to say that life is good and my complaints in comparison are pretty petty and lame.

I don't know many people who get a brand new baby for their birthday, and today we get her all to ourselves. And next week, she's mine - all mine! With Ragsy, I was terrified to be left alone. This time, I'm a little confounded as to how I'll stimulate this baby until I can take her more places (she's ridiculously alert), but at least I don't want to beg my husband not to leave. I'm sure I'll think of something.

Oh, well. Speaking of stimulation - I've let Ragsy watch way too much TV already this morning in celebration of regaining control of our remote (no more daytime TV - yay!). Time to turn it off, feed him and poke Evelyn awake for her breakfast. It's great that she sleeps so well, but it can take up to an hour to wake her - like her dad, she's pokey waking and pokey eating.

I should have expected that

There are several things I expected from having another kid: dealing with a certain amount of pain initially, exhaustion (especially at the start), defiance from my current kid. What I stupidly didn't expect was the complete lack of privacy I've experienced in the last few days. Not only has my husband and my mother (who refers to women who breastfeed as "those" people or "mother earth") seen me sit around topless trying to figure out the best way to get as much boob as possible into another human being's mouth and not only has my three-year old become intrigued with the fact that someone else is getting all their food from my chest, people keep freaking walking in on me while I'm pumping. No amount of door locking, telling people to leave me alone for just 15 minutes or outright hiding seems to do the trick.

I'm pumping because I seem to have a bit of a supply issue. I just can't keep up with this girl's appetite. So I pump and I pump and I pump some more. When I'm not pumping, I'm breastfeeding. I don't really mind people seeing me breastfeed so much, but must my family really see me hooked up to a contraption that's so similar to what they use on cows?

Never wake a sleeping baby?

I have a conundrum: every bit of wisdom I've received from lactation consultants says to get your kid up for feedings at least every 3 hours, even if it's the middle of the night, regardless of how deeply they're asleep. Four hours is apparently the absolute outer limit. However, I've also read articles that you should never wake a sleeping baby, especially one in the middle of a growth spurt because when they're asleep their body is releasing the hormones they need to grow (most of which happens while they're unconscious). So far, I'm going for the latter since she'll nurse for three hours at a time. It seems silly if she's already actively eaten for so long to drag her awake and force her to the breast, particularly when it can take up to an hour to get her fully awake and ready to eat.

Hmmm... So, never wake a sleeping baby or wake her up for a feeding? I've never, ever had a good sleeper, especially at such a young age, so this is completely new territory to me. While we were at the hospital, she'd wake every 3 or 4 hours at night, waking a bit more frequently during the day. Now, she's awake and eating most of the time (or sleeping on the breast and eating) and sleeps 5 hours a night starting 1 a.m. or 2 a.m., which is almost a full night. We're taking her in Monday to make sure she's gaining weight appropriately. I guess that'll tell us if we're doing the right thing or not. She has long periods of quiet wakefulness where she just hangs out and takes in the world. It's awesome. Again, I have no experience with a newborn who's actually happy and alert but not shrieking.

By the way, I'm hoping not to make this blog all about my children. Believe it or not, I plan to write something that's of interest to someone other than me. However, this is really all I can think about now, and probably will be for several weeks until we settle into a pattern. Then I'll be complaining that she's broken her pattern. So there.

On the subject of boobs...

I'm sure you expected this, but I'm going to talk about breastfeeding. Since this blog is all about me (you knew that when you found it), it'll be about my experiences with it. I know she's only six days old, and I have no expectation that any pattern she gets into will be one she continues, but... For the last two days, Evelyn had been nursing for two hours at a stretch, almost every single time she nursed. Yesterday I spent a total of eight or ten hours nursing. The previous day was even more because those two-hour periods were interspersed with shorter cluster feeds. Having never breastfed exclusively before, I never realized what a total drain it is. Yeah, I got sleepy with Ragsy, but I didn't feel like I'd been fed off of by a vampire. Thank God for lactation consultants.

I had been concerned that I was having a latching issue, but apparently the issue was that she had lost enough weight after birth that she was making up for lost time and just needs to become more efficient. Today was a vast improvement - she spent an hour at a stretch, but that's a heck of a lot more doable than two, particularly given that her nursing sessions were interspersed with an hour of naptime and quiet wakefulness where she lay fascinated by the patterns of sunlight and shadow on the walls. So, basically textbook breastfed baby behavior. I can handle that. And so can my boobs. Ta-dah!

Number Two

If you haven't heard already, kid #2 is here. Evelyn was born November 13 at 4:58 a.m. She was 7.7 pounds and 20 inches long. I couldn't be more excited. The kid already has a distinct personality - she's a LOT like Ragsy so far. Unlike Ragsy, she was born after just over five hours of hard labor. I began having really strong contractions on the night of my birthday. Finally at 11:43, I threw in the towel and called the doctor, who suggested I go in for evaluation, saying it might just be showtime. And it was.

There was actually a very funny part of the whole evening: apparently the bed I was laboring on had a bubble in the lumbar area. I couldn't tell - I was 8 cm dilated and had not yet had an epidural. So, here I am, in just a hospital gown, with two nurses banging on this bubble in the middle of the bed, bouncing me up and down. After a while, they found the janitor, who came in to try to fix it. Then the woman who's in charge of facilities came in and she tried to fix it. So everyone's staring at my naked bum while I'm bouncing up and down because everyone's trying to press the bubble and is moving the bed up and down.

Finally, everyone left, I got some pain medication (which conveniently wore off while I was pushing - that really burned) and managed to get Evelyn out about an hour later after just five minutes of pushing.

This whole experience (despite being seen by an audience and despite the pain meds wearing off) was just awesome. No seizures, minimal elevation in blood pressure, and a fast, fast, fast labor, topped off by the birth of a beautiful and somewhat curmudgeony little girl. You can't get any better than that.

Something chocolately, something blue...

My birthday has not sucked. I don't know if it's luck or what, but today was actually kinda good. My son woke up happy and told me I was pretty and said he thought I was great. My husband got up with both of us, so we all got time together and I got a hand in the morning ritual, which is almost unheard of.

My mom got up shortly after and was also in a good mood. I got to work on time for a change, to find a decorated cube. I went to the doctor to find that I'm 4 cm dilated (how does one do that and not go into labor? Aren't I supposed to have a baby by now? I've had contractions all day, but anyway...). By this time last time I was nearly screaming in pain. I'm almost enjoying the mild discomfort in comparison.

The sun shone all day. I got home with a cake with blue icing and my son began to dance and sing like I'd just handed him a piece of the sky. We had cake and the night was topped off by one of the best things ever - this quiet time I'm enjoying right now. Even better, I'm enjoying it with minimal contractions. You know how sometimes internal exams can trigger contractions? I had had them from about 11:30 until I began lounging on my left side to de-puff my feet. I'm finally, finally comfortable for the first time in nearly 6 hours. And tomorrow is my last day at work until I'm back from leave.

I'm not sure how today could be better. Talk about the little things: family, friends, absence of pain and quiet.

Oh, crap. Another contraction. That one actually hurt. Well, three out of four ain't bad.

Did I just bake my own cake? Again?

I've gotten into the habit of baking my own birthday cake. It may make me a control freak, but I've found that that's the best way to ensure I get what I want, which this year was a rich, chocolatey, gooey dessert capable of being warmed and served with ice cream. So I made brownies with chocolate ganache.

I got into this habit when it became clear that, unless given a very compelling reason not to do so, my mom will visit every single year. And every single year, she will make me a birthday cake that she says is my favorite but is generally something she's been hankering for for a while. It doesn't bother me - it's one of her quirks. Kind of like ignoring what I say and pretending I didn't tell her that I'd already ordered a blue cake for my son and instead going out to buy cupcakes with blue icing like she did today. Oh, well. The more blue icing the better, I guess. Some of the cake or cup cakes can be shared with pre-school when the baby is born.

Though I guess the birth of this baby means that I will never, ever have another mom-free birthday again unless I leave the country. Ah, well. That can be arranged.

I've been complaining too much about my mom lately. I'm glad she's here. She's been picking Ragsy up from pre-school every evening and generally handling dinners, which I certainly can't complain about. And unlike my husband, she also cleans. It's a huge load off my shoulders and I know that, once the baby comes, I'll appreciate it even more. So, when I complain about things like cakes and table manners (she keeps demanding my son get his elbows off the table and wait to start his meal until others are served - given that he's 3, he's not too keen on waiting) I'll have to at least temper it if not shut up entirely since she's helping incredibly.

It's not news, it's me.

I just had an entire discussion with my mom about her best friend's arm pits. Ugh. I won't go into the nitty gritty, but I can tell you that boils were involved and I feel violated and dirty now.

How's that for news?

Now that I've grossed you out, I have good news - they're not going to induce me until next Tuesday. Why on earth they're going to induce me the day before my due date is beyond me, but I assume it has something to do with a combination of scheduling and wanting me to carry as long as possible. I must admit to being disappointed. I was looking forward to not being pregnant sooner rather than later; however, I like that nature's being allowed to take its course longer than originally planned.

In other news, well... I have no other news. Just someone else's arm pits. Sorry 'bout that.

Kid = divining rod.

Have you ever noticed how freaking intuitive kids are? I mean, seriously - Ragsy has always been like a dousing rod for my emotions, but it seems like the more contractions I have, the more drawn to my lap he is. It's amazing. I feel like I'm being turned inside out from the nether regions up (oh, did I forget the too-much-information warning?) with each hardening of my uterus and tightening of my back and almost every time it happens unless it's late at night or at my desk at work, I wind up with a kid perched on my lap, leaning back and putting pressure against my very large, low stomach, demanding that I help put shoes on or assist in some other task that involves leaning over a gargantuan boulder that happens to be lodged in the middle of my gut. Scary.

Birthdays.

My birthday is coming up this Thursday. Don't worry - I'm not fishing for gifts. In fact, that's one of the problems I'm having: my husband and mom are pestering me to tell them what I want. So far, I've come up with the following things that I would really love from my husband:

1. A birthday cake with blue icing for Ragsy
2. Something chocolately and hot for me with vanilla ice cream
3. Time - time to take a workout class, if only for once a week, at the Y after I've recovered from childbirth and the baby is about 3 months old or older
4. Help - someone to help us keep the house tidy once or twice a week, backing off to once a week to every two weeks after we've gotten into a routine

I suspect I'll get 1 and 2, but my husband is confused by 3 and 4. Ah, well. We'll see. My birthdays don't mean nearly as much to me as they used to. My last truly wonderful birthday was when I was 30, just before Ragsy was born. Adit threw me a surprise party at a friend's house. Actually, that was the best birthday I've ever had. Subsequent birthdays were more trouble than they were really worth - you know, when you feel obligated to have fun because it's your birthday, but you have other things on your mind, such as a sick kid, crying kid, a parent who insists on visiting every birthday, preventing you from doing anything other than what she chooses.

Last year, I wound up dealing with a two-hour tantrum, being late for work, falling in the parking lot once I managed to get to work, then spilling coffee all over my already-wet pants and having to do my work standing up until my pants dried, only to go home to have to make dinner and get into an argument with my mom (who was visiting) when she said something particularly thoughtless to me. So at this point, I'd settle for tolerable. But most wonderful of all would be me having a new baby. I'm not convinced this thing is ever coming out, and I can't wait to meet him or her. Earlier I didn't want to share my birthday with someone else, but I think that would be nice. Knowing how much I enjoy how Ragsy reacts when I do something special for him, no matter how small it is (like him dancing for joy the first time I took him to a bakery), if I could have that on my birthday most years, or even have a year of firsts every year, that'd be enough.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record...

Will these freaking contractions ever end?!? For two weeks, I've been awakened occasionally to anywhere from 20 minutes to two hours of contractions, then...nothing. Then yesterday afternoon, I woke at 5:30 a.m., had two hours of contractions, which went away, then had another two hours in the middle of the day and they were 7-10 minutes apart. Thankfully I was at my OB's office, so they checked me and not much progress.

The good news - I should have a new baby in my arms by the end of next week. The bad news - because my mom has never had Braxton-Hicks contractions and both her labors were well under 6 hours from her very first contraction, she keeps telling me that I've "read too much" and acting as though I'm making this stuff up. She also told me that she really doesn't care to hear more - she was just being nice. Wow. That's super supportive. Regardless, she's been helpful so far with Ragsy, so my worst nightmares have yet to come true. If this is the biggest complaint and no life-threatening complications pop up, I think I'm doing pretty well.

Still, I'm tired, irritated and may have to be induced, which wasn't really what I was wanting, but I understand why they'd recommend doing it. But that's contingent upon me making it through the weekend.

Urgh. My legs, hips and butt hurt like I've been doing squats and my gut feels like I've been doing crunches for days. Probably because, in a sense, I have.

CRRRRUUUUNNNNCH!

This rant brought to you by the letter H (for help me not hurt someone) and the number 2.