Little Mother

Sly turned six weeks old today. And I breathed a sigh of relief. Not that he is a particularly tough baby (he is really very good, all things considered), or that the last six weeks have been difficult (though, yes, I guess they have been significantly hard), but because five and a half years ago my mission president told me I could survive anything for six weeks. I often whisper that advice to myself, and when those six weeks are up, I congratulate myself for surviving and then let the next six weeks begin.  It's a handy way to get through life: survival mode.

We are all adjusting around here. It feels like Sly should only be a week old and yet it feels like he is three months old and then it feels like he has been ours forever. I suppose he has, even when we did not know it.

This second baby has been a whole different ball game than number one. They are not complete opposites, but almost. Kevin is our sunshine baby. She was born at high noon and has always been afraid of the dark. Sly, on the other hand, was born in the middle of night and likes to sleep in a quiet, dark room. Kevin was a good two months behind developmentally, and Sly--well, it seems he keeps hitting milestones a lot quicker than I want him to. I have always tried to tell myself not to wish for them to stop growing up so fast or even to grow slower or stay a baby forever because growing up is such a good thing for them to do--who am I to wish that blessing away? But, I will be the first to admit, when Sly seemed to grow out of his 3 month clothes overnight and I put a pair of jeans on my daughter this morning that made her seem more like a preschooler than a toddler....I do wish there was a way to freeze these moments in time so that someday I can revisit these days and appreciate my children for who they are now, today, instead of wanting them to somehow stop growing and grow up faster at the same time (can we just skip potty training altogether, please?).

Last night I prayed for charity. When days are long (because I work all day and there is always something undone) and nights are short (because I never get enough sleep), it is so easy to lose patience and be too quick to reprimand or be unkind to that toddler who is just done with trying to make naps happen. So last night I asked Heavenly Father to show me how he views my daughter and to help me to be quicker to recognize her divine nature and slower to nag her or hurry her up. Lately, I have not been the mother to her that I would like to be. Requests to play in her room or color or play that annoying matching game or read the same book or repeat any of these activities over and over when all I want to do is fold laundry or clean counters or put on clean underwear takes more endurance than I have at the moment. So I simply asked Heavenly Father to show me. And he did.

Today, I appreciate her smiles, her help that is not always helpful, her giggles and how she always gets into trouble without meaning to. I appreciate the time she lets me hold the baby without complaining and the reminders that sometimes I need to put him down and play with her instead.

I suppose that we are both learning to share.

She is learning to share her home, her parents, her grandparents, her toys, her blankets, and her time.

And I am having to learn to share my baby.

Last night, while Scott was hanging out with the young men, I put Sly on his tummy to give him some tummy time (and hopefully wear him out faster so he would go to sleep before 11 pm). I sat there by him, cheering him on, as Kevin enjoyed a bedtime snack at the kitchen table. Her snack was quickly forgotten as she joined us in the living room, cheering her brother on. "C'mon, c'mon! You can do it!" We spent the next several moments totally enthralled in watching him try to remember how to roll over (because somehow the extra poundage he's put on has made this trick much harder). "Mommy, help him!" she would plead with me when he got especially upset. "Not yet, sweetheart," I would tell her. "I think he can do it on his own. Let's watch and see how he does." Within a minute, he had flipped from his tummy to his back and Kevin and I were giving each other high fives.

That was the moment when I realized that as I go about my days, I am not just raising a toddler and caring for a baby.

I am teaching her how to be a mother.

Case in point: two days ago she went to hand me her baby to hold (apparently she knows what Grandmas do) but then retracted her baby and said, "Mommy, wash your hands!" while pointing to the magic soap (the Kindergarten term for Germ-x). Once I had rubbed it all into my hands, she happily handed me the baby I had not asked for and went about her business.

"At least she is starting to catch on," I thought.

And oh boy is she catching on. I often hear her repeating my words to her brother. "It's okay, it's okay!" "Big burp, buddy, big burp!" "Does that scare you?" And when she isn't talking to him in her newly-acquired, high-pitched motherese voice, she is trying to kiss his cheeks and hold his hand and stuff a binky in his mouth. I often find her reading to him, shushing him, and trying to stuff toys in his hands and face (he did not so much appreciate the Little People Cinderella she shared with him the other day). And though my first response is to scream, "Be careful!" when she gets too close, I often realize that she is just trying to do the things she sees me doing (because, you know, his cheeks are just so kissable).

I tell her daily she is my best helper. And though it offends her father, it really is true (although there is MUCH to be said for a husband who willingly gets up with the baby night after night!). She is always quick to help take care of her brother.

And me.

So we take turns holding him. She provides the burp cloths and I do the burping. She reminds me to eat when I get so busy that I would probably forget the importance of "break-sas." She lets me know when he is "hun-gy!" and when he needs to "wiggle" and makes sure he has a buddy nearby when he gets lonely laying on a blanket on the floor. We both beg him for smiles and get excited when he does new things.

And when I think of everything that she is, all the talents and skills that define her, I now add two words.

Little mother.

And, while I am taking a selfish moment to blog, here she is making sure he has a binky and entertainment and wiping up his spit-up. "Dere you go! You're okay! Don't cry!"

For the rest of his life, I may be his champion, but she will be his cheerleader.

How lucky is he?

The Story of My Life

Many of you have wondered where my "Rinda's Reads" reading lists have disappeared to. Unless you count rereading the Hunger Games and Harry Potter series in their entirety (entireties?), I haven't gotten a chance to read anything new or worthwhile since November (ten months ago, if you catch my drift). Something has been missing in my life.

I had twenty LOVELY minutes today where I got that something back. My wonderful, thoughtful husband got me a new book for my birthday. Not just any book, though--he wanted to make sure it was something I haven't read and would love. So what did he do? Texted the husband of one of my bestest friends and said, "I want to get Rinda a book for her birthday. Does your wife have any ideas?" And because his wife is one of my bosom book buddies/kindred spirits, she knew exactly what I had read and what I hadn't and what books I'd already read and wanted to own. That's a good friend.

Anyway, I got a new book for my birthday (in July. Like five weeks ago.) Remembering all the wonderful hours I spent reading while pumping, feeding, and cuddling my newborn Kevin, I decided to save said book until after Sly arrived. I picked it up in the hospital and read about a chapter. Since then I've read 1.5-5 pages a day (which, for me, is not much). Usually this is a sign that I dislike a book. After three weeks I would have given up on a book at this rate...but the thing is, I knew this book was excellent. I treasured the few pages I snuck in here and there as I pump what little remains of my sad, sad milk supply in an effort to avoid mastitis.

And today, after I'd taken my unhappy little baby to the doctor for fourth time in three weeks (seriously, I don't think we've gone a single week this whole year without visiting a doctor's office!) and spent several minutes praying for the patience to appreciate my creative, chatty, beautiful daughter, a miracle happened.

She went to sleep.

He went to sleep, all cuddled up on me.

AND I GOT TO READ. Something that wasn't Curious George or the Berenstein Bears.

For more than one page.

For like fifty pages.

And suddenly, it seemed that life could be beautiful again.

And, as so often happens in truly good books, I came across a piece of genuine wisdom that perfectly sums up my life at the moment.

"Life does often get in the way of one's reading," agreed the Major.

Thank you, Major Pettigrew.

So there's your answer, folks. Life has gotten in the way of Rinda's Reading.

But if you want to read a book that I am quickly falling in love with, even though I'm only halfway through it, pick up Major Pettigrew's Last Stand from your local library. Never have you loved a 68-year-old widower/retired military Englishman so very much.

I am His Mother

Yesterday was a big day for me.

I failed and I succeeded all in one day.

We brought our son home on Friday. Folks, he is truly adorable. And though labor and delivery is never fun, I would do it all over again to have him here and to be able to look into his round little red face covered with tiny pimples (because his mother was very hormonal) and one little dimple and remember what happiness feels like. For the last several months, I just haven't been able to feel happy. Or joyful. Or passionate about anything but sneaking a treat and getting some extra sleep (which was undoubtedly uncomfortable anyway). The minute I delivered that baby, I just felt...better.

There were so many things I was hoping would go differently this time around, and for the most part, everything felt pretty near perfect. Yeah, would have been nice to say I could have done it without the epidural, but I'm convinced it would have taken three times as long to get him here without one. Yeah, would have been nice to hold him right away, but there was something so magical about watching his daddy be the first parent to snuggle him--and lucky for us, the doctor took her time cleaning me up, so I got to sit and watch him marvel in our new little miracle. Not only that--but we got that moment. The one where the baby comes out and you know he is okay, so you look at each other and there are tears and that unspoken communication of "look what beautiful thing we created!"

Yes, Italy was kind to us indeed.

We got to bring Sly (*not his real name, but since it seems to be the thing to refer to my children as my little brother does, this little man has been Sly since before his parents were married) home less than 48 hours after his birth. Actually, he was home 37 hours after he was delivered. I can't even tell you how many hours old Kevin was when she got to come home! We are so blessed that everything has been different this time around.

Except...one thing.

The one thing I counted on being different has been very much the same as it was with Kevin.

I wanted so badly to be able to nurse this baby. I mean, really get to nurse him, not just the whole pump-and-bottle routine I did with Kevin. I always thought that the reason she never learned to nurse was because she was so old before she got to try. Now I know differently.

The first time I tried to nurse Sly, he latched on right away and did great. It was a bit painful, but I expected it to be that way. I fed him twice that night and then, at about 7:00 am, my nurse came in and instead of bringing him to me, told me that he'd had a slightly low blood sugar reading so they were going to give him a bottle. I asked if they wanted me to nurse him but they didn't seem to think that would bring him up fast enough, so I agreed. He still latched throughout the rest of the day, but we were supplementing with little bits of formula through one of those small tubes I'd come to loathe when Kevin was in the NICU. He was still in my room and at my chest, though, so I counted my blessings. By the end of the day I was very sore and slightly bloody, but we were doing it!

Scott took Kevin swimming the evening we brought Sly home. I was resting in bed and listening to the baby monitor when I started to feel that something wasn't right. When I went in to check on him, Sly was looking slightly shaky. I was worried about his blood sugar getting low again, so I tried to nurse him. He just screamed. So I gave him a small bottle. He was fine a few minutes later.

This became our routine: try to get him to nurse, succeed in making him scream, and finally give up and feed him a bottle. Each time he would latch for less and less time until he refused to try to latch at all.

So I decided to enlist the help of my old friend, The Pump.

I have a love-hate relationship with that thing. Scott and I agreed when I stopped pumping after six months with Kevin that if it ever came to that again, we would go straight to formula.

I didn't give in so easily to this plan, though. If I can just get my milk to come in, I thought, then maybe it will be enough to get him to latch again.

I pumped and I pumped and I pumped. Each time, I was getting nowhere near the colostrum amounts I should have been getting. And my milk still didn't come.

Have I mentioned our son is over nine pounds?

The kid would have been starving had he been trying to live on that alone.

I prayed and I prayed and I prayed for a solution. Was there something I hadn't tried? Was there a magic answer? Could a lactation consultant fix our problem, or were we beyond help? Would be going straight to just bottles now be giving up too easily?

I sat there, in my son's room, in the middle of the night and listed the pros and cons of breast vs. bottle in our specific case. The main two pros in the breast feeding column came down to bonding and pride. The pros in the bottle list were much longer and made more sense: I could get more sleep so that I could be a nicer person to both of my children and my husband (Scott confessed that this was his main reason), pumping was a hassle, I could give up the insulin and get back to a normal health routine much faster, he could be fed by grandparents and bond with them, my milk wouldn't be enough even if it did come in, we might get a date night once in a while, he would be a much happier baby, I would be a much happier mommy...the list went on and on.

And I knew then, at two am, that failing was my answer.

I'll admit, I felt sad. I felt guilty. I couldn't give my child what he needed from me, and now anyone could fill his needs--nourishment would come from a can instead of from me. I'd never get to use that adorable and thrifty nursing cover my mother-in-law helped me make. I'd never get to know what it felt like to not have to pack bottles everywhere we went. Breast is best--and all along my goal with this pregnancy was to give this child his best chance at life. Neither of us would be getting the benefits if I gave up now. As a woman, I felt very much a failure.

That morning, Scott went back to work. I was on my own with a two-and-a half-year old and a four-day-old for half a day. I was nervous. I was tired. I was emotionally drained.

And, as comfort so often comes to me, it came again, in the words of a book.

I laid Sly on a quilt on his floor and had Kevin bring me a book from his shelf. Reading to them was something I could do that wouldn't favor one over the other, so it seemed like a good option. Kevin brought me two small board books that the Easter Bunny had left in Sly's mini basket. She handed me the one with the bird on the front cover.

"Are You My Mother? By P.D. Eastman," I began to read.

"A mother bird sat on her egg. The egg jumped. 'I must get something for my baby bird to eat!' she said. So away she went."

I know that feeling, I thought. It is always about getting them something to eat. And it is the mother's responsibility.

"Inside the nest, the egg jumped. It jumped and jumped and jumped. Until...out came a baby bird! 'Where is my mother?' he said. He did not see her anywhere."

Interesting, I noticed. He doesn't care about food. It's his mother he wants. But she is so caught up in how to feed him, she doesn't even notice.

And for the next several cardboard pages, I waited for the little bird to find his mother. And I realized that although the mother thought that it was all about the food, to the baby bird, it was all about her. The kitten, the hen, the dog, and the cow could not replace her. Conversely, all the doctors and nurses and mommy bloggers and relatives in the world can't replace what my baby needs from me--and that isn't food. It's love.

"Just then, the baby bird saw a big thing. 'You are my mother!' he said.

"The big thing said, "SNORT!'"

And at this point I had to laugh...because snorting is exactly the kind of sound The Pump makes.

"'Oh no!' said the baby bird. 'You are not my mother! You are a scary Snort!' 

"The Snort lifted the baby bird up, up, up. Then something happened. The Snort put the baby bird right back in the tree. The baby bird was home!"

The Snort machine did the same thing for us, I realized. It put my perspective back where it should be. Through everything I went through with this pregnancy, how can I look at this chunky, pink, beautiful healthy baby boy and consider myself a failure? 

"Just then the mother bird came back."

It isn't about how he is fed,  I realized. It is about how he is loved.

"'I know who you are,' said the baby bird. 

"'You are not a kitten or a hen or a dog. You are not a cow or a Snort! You are a bird, and you are my mother!'"

And now, if you will excuse me, I have to go. My baby boy is crying because he needs me.

Because I am his mother.

Ready or Not

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would still be pregnant on August 12th. August 1st or 2nd maybe...but certainly not the 12th.

I am counting my blessings.

And my stretch marks, medical payments, bruises, and hours of pregnancy left...

Tomorrow is the big day. When we originally found out that we were due on August 17, I thought it would be so neat if he came on August 13th because that is my "MTC birthday" as my trainer put it. Six years ago tomorrow I entered the MTC and started my Texas mission journey. Tomorrow I begin a whole new kind of mission.

Mothering a little boy.

Six years ago, my mind raced all day and time moved so slowly and yet raced past at the same time. I had dozens of things written on my to do list, but only the very most vital things got done, and most of that happened after nine pm that night. Today has passed much the same way. Tomorrow, everything changes and I have no idea what to expect.

That might sound silly, since I've been at this mothering thing for twenty-nine months now. But everything happened differently then. By the time we reached four days before my due date, I was back into normal clothes, a pro at pumping breastmilk and taking care of my girl, and planning my graduation day and her baby blessing that weekend.

This time around, everything has happened according to schedule. The only real surprise we've had is that nothing surprising has happened. The nursery is done, I actually have a hospital bag packed (I may have to blow the dust off of it, since it has been packed for two months), we have a schedule figured out for people bringing in meals, and there is an actual reality that we may be home--with a baby--by Saturday morning at the latest.

I'm sure this baby will find ways to show us he is still in charge and that childbirth (and parenting) is not something I have complete control over. Case in point, last Thursday. I had back-to-back appointments that afternoon, so I had coerced my parents into taking Kevin for a day (and keeping her another day so that I could have a childless "Day of Rinda" and a last one-on-one date night with Scotty). I began the day tired but hopeful that everything would go smoothly. I ended it by crying myself to sleep.

The appointment with the endocronologist (diabetes doctor) went well. We ran a few errands in between and then headed to the Women's Clinic. The doctor was running on time but they still decided to do the Non Stress Test (NST) before I saw my doctor. Baby boy decided not to cooperate and wouldn't give them satisfactory readings on the NST...he was moving enough to keep us all from being really concerned, but not enough for my doctor to give me the okay. Since she had two patients in labor and one waiting for a C-section, she decided to just send me up to the hospital for a biophysical profile (BPP). I'd had one of these at the perinatologist's office the week before, so I wasn't very concerned.

Somehow, between leaving the clinic and making it to the hospital (less than five minutes drive), the plan had changed without us being told anything. I wasn't given a BPP, but rather admitted and hooked up to monitors for what ended up being a three-hour long NST. And, to make things even more fun: enter extremely painful contractions.

I stayed pretty optimistic through the first hour to an hour and a half or so...and then I looked around and started reviewing the day and the PTSD kicked in. There were so many similarities between this day and the day I went into labor with Kevin: it was a Thursday, I went to the Diabetes doctor, it was supposed to be a routine checkup, the hospital room felt dirty and forgotten, I had been told what was going to happen to me rather than asked permission, Scott didn't know what to do and so he settled in a corner and started watching TV, I hadn't gotten to see my actual doctor...there were too many things the same to count them as coincidences. About the only thing that wasn't the same was the fact that this time I wasn't really in labor (that would have been nice, actually).

It is not a good idea to put an almost-overdue diabetic pregnant woman in a dark room with bad cable and non-functioning air conditioning and no water and make her suffer through both snack time and dinner without any food. It is a recipe for an emotional breakdown and that's just what happened, later on that night when the PTSD really kicked in.

"I can't do that again," I cried to Scott. I can't do childbirth the same way I did it with Kevin. I can't do it alone this time and I can't do it without getting some positive attention from medical professionals (tylenol and ambien don't cut it) and some questions answered and somebody listening to my needs and wants. I felt like the whole time we were at the hospital on Thursday I was just reliving what I'd already been through--and more than anything, I was mad at myself for not demanding things go differently. I knew all he needed was the BPP. I should have made them send me to the ultrasound department instead of letting them admit me. I should have demanded someone get some air flowing and bring me a huge glass of ice water and let me eat a snack. I should have, I should have, I should have...but I didn't. All I did was steal the remote back from Scott so that I didn't have to suffer through contractions and  Seinfeld (I like Seinfeld once in a while, but this was not the right time) and make him get me a cup of water so I didn't die of dehydration and so my contractions wouldn't be as painful.

All evening, I had conversations with God. I was mad at Him. Furious, even. "Why would you do that to me?" I asked. "Why would you make me relive all of that when I'm days away from facing it again?"

I still have no answer. Scott gave me a beautiful blessing that night, but when he didn't say exactly what I wanted to hear ("this is going to be easy"), I shut down and only half-listened (probably not the best idea). I was told that I would get exactly the help I needed--and that should have been enough for me that night, but somehow it wasn't. I was mad, upset, and more than slightly terrified of what it is to come.

In the days since, my heart has softened (even if my cervix hasn't). I have seen many of the promises given in that blessing come to pass. From the smallest things, like multiple texts and phone calls from friends and neighbors making sure I had the help I needed and my aunt being able to take Kevin last-minute during my appointment on Monday, to the biggest things--like baby boy passing his NST at the perinatologist without having to do any extra time (first time he's done that in six weeks!). I was so worried about how I was going to make it through today (because I am exhausted and I have an over-active two-year-old) and make it a happy day for us to remember (it is our last day just the two of us, after all), and Kevin has been perfect. She has played by herself just enough to give me a break, but taken lots of time to let me hold her. AT one point this morning she even suggested we go lay down in my bed and watch a show, like she knew I was going to fall asleep for half an hour and she let me do it!

I am still scared about what is going to happen tomorrow.  I know much of it is out of my control, just as that day almost two and a half years ago was not mine to direct, and just as the day I entered the MTC six years ago was unexpected and long and hard. It worked out then...and even though last Thursday I might have said something different, today I have faith that all things will work out for our good.

I've given you your best chance, baby boy.

Ready or not, the day has come!

Coming Back: An Apology and An Explanation

Hello friends.

It has been a while.

I'm sorry.

I just haven't liked people in general for the last several weeks (months).

But guess what? Our air conditioner got fixed yesterday, so now I am back to wanting to do normal things and not just get mad at every person I see.

So this is good.

You can be grateful that I have spared you all the pregnancy woes for the past three or four weeks. I'm miserable, yes, but I'm also still pregnant, so we will all be grateful for that (So this is what it feels like to be nine months pregnant?). And tomorrow I get my last progesterone shot (on my birthday), with which I have had a love-hate relationship for the last 20 weeks. I know they have worked, but they have also been horrifically painful and inconvenient and made me very, very grumpy. And Grumpy Mommy has not been a very fun person to be around for the past few weeks.

And then there is Kevin. Kevin has been on a roller coaster of emotions herself. And while it really bugs me when people (aka my sister) say "It's just because you are having a baby" (like, what? We are never supposed to add to our family? She wouldn't be into the terrible twos if I weren't ruining her life? Teething has nothing to do with her constant whining and crying and mischief?) she is starting to get used to the idea and catch on. It'll still be a shock to her when brother gets here, but she is all about playing with her dolls and giving loves and kisses to them and she tells everyone about her baby brother (although she will still change the subject if anyone other than mom and dad brings it up). Also, I apologize to anyone I ever said the previous "just because of the new baby" comment to. Even if I wasn't wrong, which I probably was, that has got to be the most annoying thing any pregnant woman with a toddler was ever told. I get it. Never again.

We've also coined two new terms around our house to define the kind of days we are having: Ramona Days and Alexander Days. Both come from some of my favorite children's literature: Beverly Cleary's loveable Ramona Quimby and that cute picture book we all identify with, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Kevin is the Queen of Ramona Days. Ramona Days are ones in which you don't mean to make mistakes, but every time you turn around you are doing something wrong. Things get broken, moms get mad, misunderstandings abound...but it doesn't really feel like it is your fault, you've just made a few mistakes and had some bad moments. Sometimes on these days you feel like being extra cuddly and nice to make up for your blunders. Have you ever had a day like that?

I, on the other hand, am Queen of the Alexander Days. I seem to be having a lot of them lately. These are days when everything counts against you and everything goes wrong and by lunchtime you are so grumbly that you cause even more bad things to happen to you. My Alexander Days usually start with sleepless and painful nights, and then Kevin will wake up before I'm ready for her, and the kitchen will be messy, and people will need me to do things, and I will end up not liking people, and Kevin will have a Ramona Day, which leads me to want to quit Motherhood (ask Scott how many of those emails and texts he's gotten in the last nine months, I dare you), which leads to tears and depression and a messy house and nothing getting done and high blood sugars.

In short, Ramona Days mixed with Alexander Days are not very fun. And while I know there will be plenty more of them in the future, it helps to have a way to label them. Somehow, if I can pass it off as "She's just having a Ramona Day" or "Today I feel like Alexander" then tomorrow becomes an Anne Shirley day. Because you know what Anne Shirley always says-- "Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it."

Quiet Milestones

Today. Today is the day.

Warning: This is a pregnancy post. There is no way around it.

Today I am 31 weeks and 5 days along in this pregnancy.

The last time I was 31 weeks and 5 days into my pregnancy, I had a quiet day planned, much like today. I don't remember much before 10 am, when I experienced that mysterious gushing and a few hours later, after going to work for an hour and making muffins for a family in our ward, I figured out that something wasn't right and I should probably go get checked.

What followed was one of the biggest nightmares and traumatic experiences of my life. Yes, we made it through, we survived, Kevin survived, and everyone is now healthy and happy (unless it is naptime or bedtime, that is).

But something about being a pregnant a second time is forcing me to relive many of those experiences and wonder why I didn't do things differently. I've always said that it would take more courage to have a second baby and now I am discovering that sometimes it is hard to muster that courage--even when you don't have any choice. Do I know enough now to do things differently this time around, or will I have to go through six IVs and not get my epidural until the very last second and then not be able to hold or nurse my baby right away again?

Is it even possible to plan for Italy when all you know is Holland?

So many questions. No answers.

Just a lot of waiting, hoping, and praying.

Every child is different, and so it follows that every pregnancy will be different. There have been some things that have been easier this time around (a significant decrease in morning sickness, better overall health, and not having to balance three jobs and a full class load with pregnancy) but also things that have been much more challenging than hourly dates with the toilet.

In addition to the blood sugar checks, abundance of appointments, daily insulin shots (total is nearing 350 shots I've given to myself in the last twelve weeks), weekly progesterone shots (which sometimes feel like getting stabbed with a three inch long quilting needle, depending on the nurse), carpal tunnel in my wrists, back pain, cramping, and other general pregnancy symptoms (I left many things out)...there is the mental game I have been playing with myself for the last few weeks.

It isn't just a general round of being depressed. It isn't that I've suddenly become a cussing queen (my grandpa would be proud) or that I have turned into an introvert who now struggles being in large crowds and holding conversations or being around people in general.

It's the fear and the knowledge that I have so little control over how this pregnancy will end. We have so many questions, the biggest of all being when will he come? But then there is also the question of if he will spend time in the NICU and how much time he will spend there and how we will balance everything if that is the case. There is the question of how big he will be and if I will be able to deliver vaginally or if we will be stuck with a C-section and how do you recover from that while taking care of a toddler and newborn all day? And how will Kevin handle all of this? Are we ruining her life, or making it better? And how do we balance a child at home and one in the hospital? And what happens when grandparent detox meets new baby brother meets a teething toddler? How will we survive?

For now, we have survived today. That is something. The hospital bag is halfway packed, the nursery is 80% put together, and we have a name picked out.

We aren't ready, but we are.

Fathers of Daughters

It was yesterday, 10:00 pm. Since the sun refuses to go to bed, my Kevin refuses to go to bed also, and neither of her parents were up to fighting bedtime for an hour, so we just let her stay up. We're weak like that. And exhausted.

So when we finally decided to attempt bedtime and family scripture study last night, we agreed to read half as much as we usually do and call it good and hope to get to sleep before midnight.

I started reading. I made it through a few verses. By the time I got to the middle of the page, I couldn't hear myself think, much less comprehend what I was reading. 

I looked over and Scott and Kevin had started an epic game of "stick the stuffed kitty on the top of daddy's head and laugh hysterically when it falls off."

I shook my head, smiled, and kept reading until I had gotten all the way through our normal routine of reading two pages. The two of them barely noticed. 

It's just their thing. I'm starting to get that. It's what they do.  Like how after dinner, she crawled into my arms, looked at Scott, and said, "I need a tickle!" or how she runs away from him every day when he gets home from work until she decides she just can't help but hugging him.

Or how, the night before, when she wouldn't go back to bed after teething pain woke her up at 2 am (seriously, are we ever going to catch a break?), she eventually woke up all four of us (baby brother included, he loves middle-of-the-night parties), and as she was enjoying a snack of graham ("gaham") crackers dipped in milk, all of the sudden she looked at Scott and asked,

"What happened? To your face?"

Here's the answer: she happened.

There should be something special about every relationship between a parent and a child. There is something so beautiful about mothering a daughter. There is something untouchable about that cliche "Mama's boy." But that daddy-daughter relationship? I'd venture to say it results in more tears, giggles, butterflies, shotgun sales, hugs, kisses, and smiles than any other relationship on earth.

So while this daughter of ours drives us completely nuts, it still breaks my heart when I wake up to her crying at the crack of dawn, moaning, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy to work!" because she heard his car drive away as she was waking up.

And I've gotten used to certain behaviors where he has shifted the focus from me to her: Saturday morning cuddles. Matching his tie to her Sunday dress instead of mine. Planning our weekends around what activity would bring a big smile to her face.

I remember talking to my dad on the phone a few months ago and complaining about how I had spent all day doing things for my daughter--reading, playing, battling, feeding, cuddling--and how she wouldn't even give me a hug but the second Scott walked through the door, she ran to him with open arms and planted a big kiss on his cheek.

I could hear the smile in my Dad's voice when he said, "That's just what daughters do to mothers."

And I realized: that's exactly what I did (and still on occasion, do) to my mother.

My dad's statement wasn't a commentary on the daddy-daughter relationship as much as it was him revealing a truth to me: no matter how close I get to my daughter, I will never be her daddy, which means he gets all the kisses and hugs and I get the leftovers.

Good thing #2 is a boy. 

Because guess what else I've realized in the past few weeks? 

Momma's boys make the best daddies.