I'm going to San Diego!

At my January 3 midwife appointment, I received severely disappointing news.  Despite an original due date of January 4, they were moving my due date to the last of three dates.  Three different ultrasounds gave estimates of January 4, 6, and 12, and considering we had reached January 3 with no indications of impending labor, it was a “safe” idea to move the due date to January 12 to allow Baby to enter on his own schedule rather than using medical intervention.  Birth Center protocol only allows for a baby to be delivered up to two weeks “overdue” and by changing my EDD to January 12, we were protecting my right to a birth center birth without the hassles of hospital protocol.  Though I knew and understood the reasoning behind the change, it was still a devastating thing to hear.  Even worse, the final cutoff for Marek’s arrival was January 26, the day AFTER we were scheduled to return home from San Diego.      

Saturday, after an exciting week of visiting with Grandma Kowalske, I was rapidly giving up hope that Marek would arrive while she was here to help and I was starting to worry I would have to cancel my trip to San Diego.  We attended J’s first birthday party in the afternoon out in Sudbury, an hour from our hospital, almost as if I were daring a rapid labor to start.  Looking back, I remember feeling a few twinges at the party, but nothing different than the last three weeks that would indicate progress. 

We ate dinner and I put Pete and Chester in bed, this time I actually started timing some of those twinges, mild, but lasting 30 seconds and coming approximately every ten minutes.  And then… they stopped.  I was upset, but this had happened between 7-10pm several times a week for the last three weeks and it wasn’t surprising to me at all. 

About 8:15pm, I started feeling a general sense of pressure, and I was having momentary twinges, just a few seconds at a time, and sporadically, a minute, then three minutes, then one minute apart.  They didn’t form a pattern and lasted at most three to four seconds.  Remembering how quickly Chester’s labor went from “mildly uncomfortable?” to “OMG that’s a baby!” I decided to call the midwife on duty for a chat.  She reviewed my history and agreed that I should come in to get checked, if only for peace of mind.  I really thought I would be sent home.      

When we arrived at the birth center at 9pm, I measured at 3cm and based on my description of the pain we decided it most likely wasn’t labor but she suggested we stay for an hour to confirm there was no progress.  Ryan watched the Lions game on NFL.com and I listened to music and tried to solve a crossword puzzle.  The “real” contractions returned at 9:30pm, so I was encouraged, and found comfort hanging over a birth ball.  By 10:15pm, Reina checked me again and I measured at 6cm.  I was officially admitted, she filled the tub and put me on the monitors.  Ryan called our friend Sarah who would be photographing the birth, and sadly my friend Meghan was visiting family in Maine and she would miss the birth.

The contractions got stronger, but not significantly closer together and I wondered how this birth would go.  Every birth has the potential to be different from the last, and I was a little nervous of my ability to handle the pain if it didn’t end soon.  I was in the tub and begged to be checked again, but I couldn’t move to allow her access.  I had no concept of passing time, but was able to joke and laugh in between contractions.  I focused on the music each time a contraction hit, closing my eyes and envisioning my hips opening, trying to relax through it and open instead of tensing to fight the pain.  I hummed and moaned through each contraction and I’m pretty sure I got a little loud.  Suddenly I could feel movement, and I thought I might poop.  All I could think was that would be very embarrassing with my friend there to watch, even though all the books tell you it happens quite often.  I didn’t want to poop, but with the next contraction, I no longer cared and decided to let it happen.  That’s when I realized it wasn’t poop, but his head coming.  I paused to listen to the music, and heard Il Divo singing Amazing Grace, pushed again and his head was out.  Another push and his shoulders emerged.  The midwife had me lay back and reached in to guide the baby to the surface as I gave one final push and his body slid out.  I looked at this guy and just thought how small he was.  He felt small, he looked small, he had been predicted between six and seven pounds just a few days before, but he was actually NINE pounds and two ounces.  I guess it’s all relative! 

Marek Jacob Kowalske, born 1/7/2012 at 11:44pm.  Nine pounds, two ounces and twenty one inches long.  Another fast and easy birth to make up for a long and miserable pregnancy. 

Big brothers Pete and Chester are in love with their new baby brother.  Pete even wanted to bring him home “already” (his favorite word when I tell him he needs to wait or be patient) and Chester brought him cheerios to share.  I see many discussions of what babies are and are not allowed to eat in our future!

Hey, what does this button do?

I've been so focused on waiting for this baby to come out that I've completely neglected this blog.  Earlier this week, I recieved a blog award from one of my oldest friends LVDMF who writes about her experiences as a doggie foster-mom here,  at A Heartbeat at My Feet.  I'm still a tad preoccupied with the impending baby, so rather than actually follow through on the rules of the Liebster award, let me just be lazy and instead say I'm honored that a non-Mom would be reading and laughing at my mom-blog.  I miss you and I wish we all still lived a few miles from each other so we could sneak out at night together like in High School... (if you're my Mother or LVDMF's mother, ignore that last part)

Back to what you've missed in the last few weeks.  Chester climbed up on the chair tonight while I was making dinner with a friend, and started playing with the alarm keypad by the back door.  L jumped up to move him, but I reassured her that the keypad is disconnected.  I know this for sure, at least I do now! 

Two weeks ago, as I prepared dinner, Chester pulled up a chair and stood up to press buttons on the alarm keypad.  I didn't blink an eye because he's done this a million times before, and it makes a very nice, satisfying "beep" sound with each button he presses.  It's entertaining for him, and as far as I knew, it was harmless fun while I focused on dinner.  After all, that alarm isn't activated, it's not connected through a phone line to a call center, nor to the local police.  When we bought the house, we didn't get an alarm code, the alarm had been inactive for years before we even moved in.  What I didn't know is that the alarm still has a loudspeaker on the outside of my house, and that there's a sequence on my keypad  that acts as a panic button to activate a local alarm.  More than five years after we bought the house, Chester discovered that sequence and set off the alarm.

There's total chaos as our alarm is sounding, dinner is on the stove (probably burning), both boys are running in circles trying to figure out what the heck is going on!  Ryan is yelling over the alarm, asking why I'm not watching the boys, letting them play with the alarm, and how do I turn it off?  Ryan checked outside for wiring to clip, but the alarm is attached 20 feet off the ground, so he retreated to the basement to look for the power source.  I was reading the panel on the alarm, searching for instructions, which to my dismay indicated I should enter the alarm code to disarm it.  Then I remembered there's a master panel in the front closet.  I grabbed a screwdriver and opened the panel.  I clipped every wire I could find, and the alarm stopped.  The whole incident only took five minutes, and thankfully my neighbor was already on the way over to check that we were okay.  I love the R family for being our surrogate family and keeping an eye out for us! 

Sadly, the alarm panel no longer gives Chester that satisfying beep when he pushes buttons, but in the grand scheme of things, I'll take that over a repeat performance of the alarm incident.  So he can stand there, for as long as pushing buttons is entertaining to him, because at least I know for sure now that he can't do any further damage.

Attached at the hip and teaming up against Mommy.

It is every mother's dream to have children grow up without sibling rivalry, instead loving and sharing with each other.  Pete and Chester, of course, have days where they beat on each other.  This morning, I had to send Chester to time out for clocking Pete in the head with a hockey stick.  But for the most part, my little guys love each other and are becoming totally inseparable. 

Weeks ago, as Chester started learning two-word phrases, he started with "Pete, wait!"  Every Tuesday and Thursday, the drop off at pre-school is agonizing, dragging Chester back out to our car while Pete hangs up his coat and heads into the music room. 

You may think it's just one-way, that Chester idolizes Pete and Pete could care less, but that's just not true.  When I take Pete out for his special date to Dunkin Donuts or the grocery store, he asks "Where's Chester?"  and "Can Chester come too?"

It used to be a problem putting them to bed together because they would get out of bed and play together.  Or if Pete could be convinced to stay in bed, I would find Chester in Pete's bed, jumping on his head while Pete tried desperately to pretend he's asleep.  So we've been putting them to bed separately for about the last year, waiting for Chester to fall asleep before adding Pete to the room.  Last week, we bought them a big boy bedroom set complete with bunk beds and suddenly, they want to go to bed together.  Chester won't go to sleep without Pete in the top bunk.  Chester climbs out of his bottom bunk and comes out to find Pete, over and over until I finally send Pete to bed too.  In the morning, if Chester gets up and comes to our room, we hear "Mommy, where's Chester" once Pete wakes up and misses his brother. 

But tonight takes the cake.  I put Chester to bed, and let him keep his sippy of water.  Pete headed to bed too, and started whining that he was thirsty.  Though I don't allow Pete to have extra water at bedtime (this kid is a peeing machine all night, and often wets through his pull-up, soaking the bed) I relented because Chester got out of bed to get up and offer Pete his "bup".

It warms my heart to see them run and play together, totally worth the struggles and hassles of two boys 21 months apart.  I love to see them giggle and "getcha getcha" but I can't help feeling like they're starting to team up against me, and with the addition of a third soon, I know I'm in big trouble. 

Come out, come out, wherever you are!

Okay, I actually know exactly where you are.  There's no hiding from me, little baby dinosaur!  I have decided on the "if you pack it, the baby will come" method (and thank you to Kim for helping to name that method)

Today marks just shy of 38 weeks, and as of Wednesday, I'll be eligible to deliver at the birth center (instead of the associated hospital).  For those keeping stats, this morning I measured at 1cm which is not surprising at this stage, but also doesn't indicate impending labor.  I warned the midwife that the baby is nice and low, and she was still surprised this morning because his head really is right there.  I am hoping for a nice, easy, quick, birth center water birth just like last time.

I'm also prepared for things to go differently, and have planned accordingly, arranging back-up childcare for the older boys and considering all the different requirements for a transfer to the hospital if necessary.  The extra hospital forms are on file, and I've taken a tour of the hospital. 

The cradle is ready (Thanks Jennie and Shannon!) the car seat is ready, the diapers are folded and the clothes are washed and put away.  The list of people to call when I go into labor is complete.  The iPad is loaded with music for labor, and the Nook is loaded with books for reading while we hang out in the hospital for two days after the baby's born. 

Earlier this week, I shaved my legs and gave myself a pedicure.  I also picked up water-proof mascara, as my current mascara is merely smudge-proof and certainly not birthing-tub-proof.  Laugh all you want, some women say the last thing they're thinking about is looking good while giving birth.  I think anything that gives you confidence as you're going into labor is worth the effort. 

I packed my bags with comfy clothes for the birthing tub, and extra clothes for after I get out and dry off to hang out with my new baby.  Also packed my makeup and favorite soaps and shampoo.  Don't forget the hair dryer!  I didn't pack one with my first baby because it wasn't on the hospital's packing list.  I guess they don't expect new Moms to want to shower and dry our hair?  Again, no problems if that's the last thing on your mind, but getting back to presentable makes me feel better, and a hair dryer is pretty important to that process. 

I am ready and impatient, just like all the other moms-to-be are right about now.  Scheduling a birth is a modern convenience that comes with additional risks that I'm not willing to take, so instead I will just wait.  Impatiently.  I want this baby to come for the 2011 tax break.  I want this baby to come so I'll be sufficiently recovered to enjoy my trip to San Diego in January.  I want this baby to come so I can sleep comfortably with fewer than five pillows.  I want this baby to come because my last one was over ten pounds at 41 weeks and I'd prefer a nice eight pound sized baby.

But in reality, this kid can hang out as long as he needs to, and I'll let him come in his own time (minus a few gentle methods to coax him out like primrose oil and walking the mall) because a happy healthy baby is more important to me than the tax deduction for 2011.  I am blessed not to be affected by pre-eclampsia or any other medical conditions requiring medical interventions in my delivery, so this baby will show up when he's good and ready.  Besides, we still need to come up with a name...

Chivalry (or perhaps Pity) is not dead.

Last week I went grocery shopping on a Sunday night.  Anyone in my local area will tell you Sunday night at Market Basket is the worst idea ever (even worse than the Commissary on the first of the month!).  I was actually pretty excited about it because I scored an evening shopping with only one child, while Ryan kept Chester home to get ready for bed. 

The grocery closes at 7pm on Sunday nights.  I arrived at 5:30pm with a short shopping list, including some turkey and cheese from the deli.  Pete pulled a deli number for me- number 52.  I checked and saw they were only on 15.  Seriously.  15.  The deli was mobbed, as expected, with everyone who packs a lunch for work or school every day.  I finished my shopping, checking back often to make sure I didn't miss my number.  After finishing my entire list they were on 31.  So Pete and I settled in to wait for our number, and I mentally prepared myself for a tantrum or meltdown.  We compared his number (that's five-two for the three-year old crowd) to the deli number and I chatted him up about school, and what letters he learned this week (J and K), and what starts with letter K (kite, kitten, kangaroo). 

Either we were the most annoying cart in the deli area, or this older gentleman was truly an angel because he walked over and told me he had pulled a number, and his wife had also pulled a number, so would I like number 37?  I can't exactly jump for joy, and in would be inappropriate to kiss a total stranger in the grocery store, so instead I just thanked him earnestly and accepted his extra number.  Even Pete must have been relieved because he also said "thank you sir" (I seriously love this kid, I can't claim I've been the best mom, but he is the best three year old I know!) and started comparing his new number to the deli numbers.  "Mom, we're three-seven, and that says three-two, are we next?" 

Less than ten minutes later I ordered our turkey and cheese and we headed for the checkout.  Checking the clock as we left, I realized that without that gentleman's kind offer of his extra number, we wouldn't have gotten our deli order before the store closed. 

So thank you, kind man at the deli counter, you made our week.  Or at least our sandwiches this week.

It's finally acceptable.

For months, I've been lying about my due date.  I just got tired of the shocked or horrified look on people's faces back in July when I told them I was due in January.  So when some well-meaning stranger asks when I'm due, I just pick an appropriate fake date and smile.  Random strangers have no agenda, they're not trying to ruin my day or my self-esteem.  They just want to be part of a happy moment, this beautiful time when you're creating life and what's the harm in that?

Please note, this does not excuse family, who, KNOWING the due date, continue to make remarks like "you look huge" or "are you sure it's January" or "ohh my, HOW much weight have you gained".  Shame on you.

Aside from the fact that this beautiful time of creating life is really quite painful and miserable, there's no harm in a stranger wanting to congratulate you and celebrate with you.  So instead of getting worked up over these strangers, I've chosen to give them what they want without horrifying either of us.  I lie about my due date. 

I was tired of explaining that this is the third baby in four years or that I started ten pounds heavier than with the first two, while the well-meaning stranger tried to back peddle or just plain looked embarrassed (for me being so huge or for them being so rude, I'm not sure which).

Around 10 weeks, I hadn't gained a single pound, yet I was already in maternity pants and looking quite puffy and round.  The bloating made me look approximately five months pregnant, and the vomiting made my face as puffy and round as my belly.  Most people haven't even announced their pregnancies at 10 weeks, but I was already claiming September as my due date.   

At 20 weeks, and only up 4 pounds, I looked like a beached whale at my cousin's wedding.  I'm wicked glad the focus was on her stunning dress, his adoring smile, and their bright future because it pre-empted most of the standard "when are you due" questions.

Starting around 28 weeks, I got the "you must be glad to be almost done!" to which I just started answering, "yes, I am glad, we're very excited, thank you."  About 96% of babies born this early will survive, so yes,  was very excited to be at a point where my baby would likely live if he were born today.  And "almost done" is a relative term, so I wasn't quite lying.   

Finally, at 37 weeks, I look like I'm 37 weeks.  We attended a holiday party for the District One Admiral yesterday, and if felt great to answer "yes, due just after Christmas, any time now is just fine with me" to all the sweet older ladies asking when I am due and if I am ready yet. 

Here I am, huge as a house, but it's finally acceptable.  Please excuse the lack of makeup, I've come to the point of simply storing it in my car, since that's the only place I have time to apply it. 

The snuggles keep me from going bat shit crazy.

Despite any (okay, a lot) of frustration with the pre-schooler recently, he really is my sweet little guy.  Pete will be four in April, and he's finally giving up naps.  I'm a little sad, because it means I'm losing about two hours of my day where I could also lay down for a break.  Realistically, adding in the third baby next month meant I was going to lose that two hours anyway, so now is a good time to accept the new routine.   But the consequence of an overtired pre-schooler around here means he can dissolve into a fit of tears over the slightest provocation that wouldn't normally phase him.  It also means he is quite hyper, literally running into the walls, the couch, the chair over and over while screaming made up songs in an effort to fight the sleep.

Pete is now typically able to make it all day with just a quiet time after lunch while Chester sleeps, but occasionally he just can't take it anymore.  Here's what happened while I cooked dinner earlier this week:

Tonight I could see that Pete was having a rough afternoon, barely keeping it together while I made dinner (a failed attempt at General Tso's but that's a whole other blog).  We pushed up the time for jammies, cleaning the toys and 30 minutes of a special show (the current favorite is the DVR of Ice Age Christmas) and by 7pm we sat down to read a book in our rocking chair.  I snuggled him up on my lap and read the Lion King book.  And then he fell asleep in my arms as we rocked.  It's been years since Pete has fallen asleep in my arms and it's one of the sweetest things in life.  It's enough to give me the strength for tomorrow, and one day at a time is all you can ask for with soon to be three boys under four.