Welcome, Bebe!

We all know that I tend toward being a little longwinded extremely detailed in a good way.  And obviously the birth of my second child is probably something I could get carried away with, so I'm going to do my best to hold it to a minimum with as little actual medical terminology as possible.

Maybe.

Unless I change my mind.

...

On Tuesday, May 5 at 8:26, we welcomed a sweet little daughter to the world.  Yep... the Bebe is a girl.  Not that I was surprised since everybody and their brother (including a woman in Best Buy's restroom) had been telling me for approximately 7 and a half months that I was having a girl.  I'm glad everybody else in the world were such great prognosticators because I apparently have zero motherly intuition.

So, we arrived at the Labor & Delivery department of our local hospital a little after 5:30 AM so I could be prepped for a 7:30 c-section.  My doctor had instructed me to get there between 5 and 5:30, so in keeping with every other appointment I'd had during the pregnancy, I showed up a few minutes late.  My ever-punctual husband decided that going through town would be a smarter idea than taking the interstate since there would be no traffic at that time of day.  What he didn't count on was the fact that stoplights work on timers during the wee hours, so we sat at several of them... all alone... in the dark... no one else at any of the other lights.

For once it was his fault we were late.

I'm sure he would interject some well-thought-out (and probably accurate but nobody tell him I said that) argument at this point were this actual conversation and not my blog and therefore 100% governed (however creatively) me and me alone.

I'm already being longwinded... er, detailed.

So, we got to the hospital and after saying "I can't believe this is finally happening" about 443 times as we walked in we made it to L&D.  I don't remember my nurse's name, but pretty much the first words out of her mouth were, "Take off everything and put this on.  It opens in the back." To which I replied, "You aren't even gonna buy me a drink first?"

Next came the hook up of monitors, allowing me to hear the swoosh swoosh swoosh of my baby's heart for the final time.  Not that I was feeling really sentimental about it.  Because I wasn't at all.  I was ready.

Next came the smattering of fun questions like "Any history of mental illness?" "Do you use any recreational drugs?" and my personal favorite, "How much do you weigh?" That one's funny to me because these nurses who have been working in L&D for years honestly think that a full-term pregnant woman still looks at the scale.

During the inquisition, another woman came in and my nurse introduced her as who would be shaving me and putting in my Foley.  Now, since this wasn't my first rodeo I understood that by "Foley" she meant Satan-spawn little plastic tube that is a urinary catheter, but couldn't she have just said that? 

After the questioning was over the real fun began.  Nurse #2 came in and shaved me, which is not glamourous and employs one of those little buzzy beard trimmer things that tends to grab your hairs and run for the door.  The poor nurse apologized numerous times, but I reassured her that I'm tough and could deal with whatever I had to do since, well, I had to do it.  Her response to that was, "Well, how do you feel about catheters?" At least she didn't call it a Foley, but what kind of question is that.  How do I feel about catheters? I had only ever met one and is that really enough to base a whole opinion on?

Yes.  Yes it is.

I told her that I obviously wouldn't want to get one every day, but since I had to have one I figured I might as well just grin and bear it.  I can deal with even the most uncomfortable things as long as I know it's going to be over at some point.  She told me I had a good attitude which I was pretty sure should have entitled me to... something.  Maybe a big badge that said "This patient has a good attitude about catheters."

I should add that this same nurse, when actually administering the catheter, told me that the "trick" with catheters is to relax as much as possible and just get totally loose.  Her advice to help me do this was to imagine myself laying on the beach.  The advice didn't really help so much since it caused me to alternately think of the looks I would get if I were laying on the beach in that position and sand in extremely uncomfortable places.

She had barely finished up with the catheterization process when nurse #1 came in to put in my IV.  I had a major abdominal surgery looming in my future and I actually felt the blood drain from my face when she said the word IV... even though it's not really a word at all, just a 2-letter abbreviation.  Getting shots and having my blood drawn doesn't bother me, but getting an IV really almost makes me feel like puking.

Once that was finally done I actually had a few minutes to rest and let my blood pressure return to normal.  It was getting close to 7 AM and I knew all I had to wait for now was my epidural. Something else I was dreading big time.  Call me crazy, but having a ginormous needle scraped against my spinal cord makes me a little uneasy.

It was a little after 7 when the cRNA showed up complete with his little cart of doom and torture and the surgical tech gal who was wearing a floppy blue hat with frogs on it and referred to the catheter bag as my "purse." Again, at least she didn't call it a Foley.

As an aside here, I've been trying to figure out what the "c" in cRNA stands for.  RNA is registered nurse anesthetist, right? So what is the "c"? Certified? Who knows.  I think his name was Todd, but he referred to himself as "Sweet T" and sang Three Times a Lady to me. He reminded me of my husband's uncle which somehow didn't make having most of my bare behind exposed any more awkward.

After that was done, I was all set and ready to go.  I just had to wait for somebody to come wheel me away.

For effect, I should add this flattering picture my loving husband took:

This shot almost makes it seem like I endured some actual labor, but in reality I was just yawning.  Does anybody else yawn uncontrollably when they're nervous or is that just a me thing?

Pretty soon after getting the epidural, they wheeled me off to OR #10, the same room the Kiddo debuted in.  And it was every bit as cold and scary as I remembered it being.  I had a couple of minutes to look around before they strung up the drape and I noticed that they had the same stereo stuck in the wall that we have in the Pathfinder.  I've yet to figure out the purpose of a stereo in an operating room, but being the chatty gal I am I mentioned it to the floppy frog hat surgical tech gal who asked me if I had brought any CDs.  I wish I'd had the presence of mind to tell her to check my purse.

I didn't.

And the rest is pretty much history at this point.  I laid there in a state of drug-induced stupor.  At some point, they let my husband come in and I think he was afraid I was dead because every time I closed my eyes he would say, "Are you OK?" And after about 15 minutes, I heard my baby girl's first cries.

Then I spent an hour in recovery feeling good and coming out of an anesthetic fog.  And after 2 nights in probably the most uncomfortable bed in the universe, I got to come home and start doing laundry again.  I can't remember, by the way, if I actually did laundry on the day I came home or if I waited until the next day.

It was a very smooth surgical procedure and has been a textbook perfect recovery up to this point 2 weeks later.  I feel in no way like I had a baby or a surgery anytime in the recent past.  Best of all, I don't feel pregnant anymore! Yippee! I can now comfortably stand on one foot and I can talk on the phone while moving around my house without getting the slightest bit out of breath.  Best best of all, I have a very healthy sweet baby who is already growing and changing every day.

All of these are things I'm thankful for.  I prayed for these things the whole time I was pregnant.  I prayed for these things while I was on the operating table.  There's no way for me to appreciate God's goodness and there's no way I could ever say thank you enough for the things He's done for me in this situation and all the rest of my life.

In the end, all of the nervousness, the awkwardness, the discomfort, and so on and so forth... it was all worth it.  Every bit.  And here's why...

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running into the tower

I have a very small but very sweet thought on my mind tonight.

Life is just full to overflowing with troubles and hurts. We've been promised by Someone who sees it all that our days, from the time we're born until the time we die, are going to be full of those things. Happiness seems in so many instances to be overshadowed by the bittersweet... and this kind of downer blah-ness could go on and on. Especially since it's after midnight on Sunday night and I'm really tired but avoiding going to bed because I can't stay comfortable in one position for much longer than 45 minutes.

But that's not what I'm thinking about right now.

I'm thinking about a man who lived here and walked on this earth just like I do many, but many years ago. He didn't have much in the way of material possessions. He didn't even have a home of his own. Many people did everything they could to make him out to be a terrible person and some even hated him. His whole life was overshadowed with the awful cloud of a burden for the souls of all mankind. As his time on earth drew short, he wept - alone and scared - and asked God if there were any other way but the way he'd been handed.

But there was no other way.

And so he continued to carry his burden, and he carried it all the way to Calvary where he agonized - again, alone - and died under the penalty of my sin.

He died under the penalty of my sin so that I wouldn't have to. And as if that weren't enough, God's plan through him made a way that I could not only die in the safety of his love, but also live in it.

So yes, it's true that life is bitter. But, thanks to nothing more than God's love and mercy, sweet blessings just seem to fall down from heaven and pile up around me higher and higher until the ones on top start sliding down the sides making the pile even wider and bigger and taller all the time... every minute... of every day.

And it's true that sometimes I'm handed things that are hard to deal with and I have to say a lot of prayers and cry a lot of tears about some things. But I've never yet been handed anything I couldn't handle with the assistance of a mighty and oh-so-near God.

And sure, it seems like the clouds aren't far away from my sunshine a lot of times. But if it weren't for the clouds, could I really, truly appreciate the sunshine?

So, in the light of all this jumbled, scattered mess of thoughts, I finish with this:

I know I have no need to fear the things of this world and this life because I am God's (Isaish 43:1).

I'm human, though, so sometimes I get scared anyway. Thank God that he knows what I'm made of and understands (Psalm 103:14);

...and has furthermore forgiven me in all my unworthy filthiness and claims me oh-so intimately (Isaiah 49:16).

I know it's ok when I have to go crawling to him in a big crumpled heap and am so thankful that he's always there, for the smallest things and the biggest things (Philippians 4:6).

And it's a good feeling knowing that I have somewhere I can run for cover (Proverbs 18:10).

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cobbler breakthroughs

I just wanted to announce that I have had a breakthrough in the whole housewife/homemaker area today.  Or else not so much.

I had toyed with the idea of not making the kiddo take a nap today because it's really getting to be hassle in that he wants to lay there and goof off for an hour before going to sleep. And, well, since I never helped him understand the concept of going to sleep by yourself, I have to lay there and pretend to sleep while he goofs off for an hour. So I was thinking maybe it's time for the nap to go the way of the dinosaurs (at least on some days), but then I decided I wasn't ready to give up my hour and a half or so of selfish mom time, so I laid down with him anyway.  After making special efforts with repeated This Little Piggy-s as well as singing Rip van Winkle from 25 down to 16 years, he actually drifted off in under a half hour. Not bad.

So, then it was selfish mom time and my initial thought was a very familiar one: "I'll get a shower." Because what in the world is better than a quiet house and a shower not interrupted by a 19 month old attempting to break down a baby gate using a shopping cart/ball popper/tractor/big wheel as a battering ram

But this is when the breakthrough happened and I had my very first Betty Crocker-esque homemaker-y moment: "I think I'll get a shower, but first I'll just throw together a cobbler." What, I ask you, is more homemaker-y than a cobbler, after all? And what makes it even more homemaker-y is the fact that I actually thought the phrase, "I'll just throw together..." And furthermore, I let the cobbler encroach upon my selfish mom time.

Now, next question: Why?

Well, I had a can of peaches in my cabinet and, while Paula Deen's recipe called for what I'm thinking were home-canned or maybe even fresh peaches since it said to bring them to a boil with water and sugar before putting them in the cobbler, I was fairly certain that a can of Del Monte sliced peaches in heavy syrup would do the trick without that extra step. Oh, and for those of you who don't habla Espanol, "del monte" means "of the monte."

For another thing, I've found that pregnancy is a time of great justification.  Early on it's like, "I'm pregnant, I'm going to order the medium instead of the small." And then later it's like, "I'm pregnant, I'm going to have a third helping." But then when you get down to the last few weeks and you find yourself regularly thinking things like, "I can't possibly get any bigger," or "Surely I won't get any more stretch marks," but then you realize you can and you have and then you think, "I'm pregnant, and I think I'll just throw together a cobbler."

So, I threw together a cobbler.

I thought the casserole dish looked a little full and I couldn't remember if cobblers had a tendency to expand so I fortunately did have the forethought to put a cookie sheet on the rack below it just in case.  Good thing, too, because if I hadn't then all of what ran over would have ended up on the inside of my oven and not just what ran over the side of the cookie sheet.

The recipe said it should cook 30-45 minutes, so I set it for 30 since my oven tends to cook things faster than the recipe says.  But after 30 minutes, it still was pretty pale looking on top, so I set it for another 10 minutes.  After those 10 minutes it was still somewhat pale in the middle but was starting to look pretty brown around the edges so I thought I'd rather err on the side of caution than end up with a burnt cobbler.  Because a burnt cobbler in addition to having stuff run over and scorch on the inside of my oven was not something my pregnant emotions were prepared to deal with.

So I got it out of the oven and willed myself to let it stand for a while before diving in.  I managed to distract myself for, oh, maybe 2 and a half minutes and then I went to get myself a bowl.  My first thought other than, "This must be what we'll eat in Heaven," was "Is it supposed to be this soupy?" But I figured that it had enough butter in it to solidify at some point, either in the fridge or later in my arteries, so I made the executive decision to forego added oven time.

My next thought as I took the first bite was, "Is the crust supposed to be this chewy?" And then I decided that maybe it was a bad idea to forego the added oven time.  But, in the end, the answer to either "Is it supposed to be this soupy?" or "Is it supposed to be this chewy?" is "Eat it anyway," because it's cobbler and it wouldn't really matter if you were eating the peaches out of the can, drinking the batter out of the bowl, and eating the butter like a popsicle.  Cobbler is good and its goodness covers a multitude of sins.

So maybe I thwarted my own homemaker-y-ness by being pregnant and in a hurry to get that cobbler in my mouth.  And in doing so, I added a new level to pregnancy justification.

I'm pregnant, and I'm going to eat this whether it's done or not.

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not sorry

I've been thinking a lot here lately about stuff.  And when I say stuff I don't necessarily mean I've been thinking about a bunch of random here-and-theres.  I mean I've been thinking about material trappings and whatnots, how much we have and how much we actually need.

The Hubby has a good job that keeps us well provided for and comfortable, but things definitely get tight from time to time.  The biggest material thing I've been wishing for lately what with the arrival of Bebe very quickly approaching is a van.  Now, nobody need remind me that it was an amazingly short time ago when I said that you wouldn't catch me driving a van like ever and that I was going to be one of those cool SUV-driving moms.  But the prospect of a 3-foot wide door in which to load and unload my kids PLUS a whole extra seta for plunder PLUS a very large space in the very back for my new (and station wagon sized) double stroller... well, all of those things are getting more and more attractive to me.  And a DVD player doesn't sound too bad, either.

Regardless of all the minivan-ish goodness I can fathom, though, we just can't afford one right now.  And regardless of the rust and the ceiling liner falling down and the not-so-much-space issue and so on and so forth with the Pathfinder... well, it's paid for.  And I'm satisfied that we'll have it until we're forced to have it hauled away.

This week has been one of those particularly tight times.  You know, one of those weeks when I ask about going to the grocery and Hubby gets this uncomfortable look on his face and says, "Um, you'd better wait until Friday." I just want to say from the offset that no one should feel sorry for us, because our money issues are 100% self-inflicted and we both know that.  It's something we both know how to fix and something we work on from time to time, but we both still have a boatload of problems denying ourselves.  Stupid? Yes.  Immature? Definitely.

So, last night we went out with the in-laws (because they're generous and will foot the bill) and were admiring various vehicles in the parking lot of the restaurant as we left.  Later when we were driving home Hubby said, "I'm sorry I can't buy you a van... I'm sorry I can't buy you anything... I'm sorry I can't buy you groceries."  And the first thought that came to my mind was so odd and uncharacteristic that I know it couldn't have originated in me at all.

"I'm not sorry."

Yes, I'm sorry that we aren't good stewards of what God has given us and yes, I'm sorry for the poor example we're setting for the Kiddo.  I definitely want those things to change.  And maybe Hubby would have something to be stressed about if we really and truly could not afford to buy groceries, but the fact is we can afford to buy groceries.  Having to wait until Friday is not a tragedy and does not mean that we're going hungry.  Only being able to buy clothes for ourselves or our kids at certain times does not mean that we're cold and going around in rags.

The simple fact is that we are so blessed.  We own a great house in a nice neighborhood and have never been late on a payment.  We have 2 reliable vehicles.  We have nice furniture, we wash very few dishes by hand, and I've only hand-scrubbed about 3 articles of clothing since we've been married.  Even our station wagon stroller is evidence of how blessed we are because really, we bought the thing so I'll still be able to go to mall easily after Bebe gets here.

If we had only what we absolutely needed, we could easily live in a one-room teepee.  But look at what we do live in and how every nook and cranny is filled with stuff.

And so I'm not sorry, my dear, that you can't buy me a minivan.  I'm not sorry that there a few things here and there that we can't have or do right now.  I'm not sorry that it seems like there is never any extra left over at the end of the month because you I know what is there during the month takes care of what we need.  I'm not sorry that circumstances force us to deny ourselves sometimes since we seem to have such trouble doing it alone.

I'm not sorry.

Oh, and I'm married to the best and sweetest man in the universe.  But nobody tell him I said that.

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(Not So) Wordless Wednesday

I decided to share with the world a timeline of me and my awesomeness.  Ok, not really.  I just thought that since I hadn't done a (Not So) Wordless Wednesday in a while that these would make a nice switch from pictures of the kiddo.  Besides, I felt like going through a bunch of old pictures and I picked out my favorites to share and comment about.  Enjoy!

This is me and my sister I'm guessing not too long after I made my debut given the hospital gown.  Either that or they had more stringent wardrobe rules in hospitals 23 years ago.

I think I was a couple months old in this shot.  I don't know where this was taken, but that faux fur lump I'm leaning on is fabulous.

And here I am a couple years down the road having a charming tea party with my football player width shoulder ruffles and 2 Cabbage Patch dolls whom I christened "Canna" and "Day." I just brought these guys?/girls? home with me from my parents' so the kiddo could play with them.  They are every bit as bald and every bit as naked as they were in this picture.  Hey, also if you look closely you can see I had on white knee socks and black patent leather shoes.  Oh so stylish!

This would be "Hayes Beach" and it consisted of the lawn chair you see there which was on of those made of plastic tubing (you know, the kind that your legs stick to and that leave a strange stripey pattern on your butt), a kiddy pool, an oscillating sprinkler, and my dad in blue jean cutoffs.  Oh, and apparently me in a yellow terri cloth bikini.  The plantation-esque place you can see in the upper left hand corner of the shot is my grandparent's house.

I'm guessing I was about 3 or 4 here, posing with my parents.  My mom looks thrilled and given my dad's awkward pose and how I'm looking at him, I'm guessing he set the timer on the camera and sprinted to get into position.

I think this one got out of order and should probably be back with the tea party picture, but I'm going to leave it here because it's too much trouble to move it.  This is one of my all-time favorite little kid pictures of myself mostly because of the bruises all over my knees.  I was such a delicate flower.

Christmas morning and new dress-up clothes.  And that's a box fan sitting next to my rocking chair.  Not so sure why that was necessary in December.

I think that this is one of the first of many trips to a traveling photographer who set up at Castner Knotts once or twice a year.  I think his name was Greg Montgomery and he was loud and probably obnoxious and he told me I was beautiful and played with my hair and I can't really remember now if it seemed inappropriate, but I'm guessing my mom probably would have decked him if it had.  Anyway, I loved having my pictures made and getting to visit with Greg.  My mom made the jumper I'm wearing in this shot.

Here's my dad and me either right before or after my sister's wedding.  I would have been 6 years old.  I have no idea what face I was making, but at least my little flower wreath head thingy was cute.  I wore pink sponge rollers to achieve the poof you can see there.  My hair does not poof without a lot of encouragement.  My grandmother made my dress and all the bridesmaid's dresses as well.  They were all that color and our shoes were dyed to match perfectly.

Here's another Greg Montgomery Castner Knotts shot.  Does anybody remember Castner Knotts? I assume it was a "chain" department store and wasn't just here in my town.  I'm thinking I was 7 or 8 here and I have to say my hair was stunning.  I wish it was still that long and soft and kid-like.  I don't know how my mom got it to stay in those long spiral-y curls.

Ok, fast forward about 10 years.  I don't know where all the in between pictures are, but I probably wouldn't include them anyway because... well, that was middle school... and I had a very extended awkward phase.  And several bad haircuts.  And this way we can just totally ignore the fact that I had a chubby stage.  So, here I am in 2002 and I would have just turned 17.  This was smack dab in the middle of mine and the hubby's pre-dating flirting period.  he took this picture of me in his green Jimmy.  That thing in my hand is a pirouette coffee stirrer thingy and not any kind of tobacco product.  We had just left a Thanksgiving church service.  This is one of his favorite pictures ever of me.  I think I look kind of like Casper with red hair.

I think this was sometime during the early part of my senior year of high school.  This was taken in my room and look how teeny-tiny I was.  I don't really like myself that teeny-tiny.  I think we were about to go to Wednesday night service.  Check out all that junk in my closet.

This is one of my senior pictures.  Probably one of the most photogenic couple of hours of my life.  And I don't think my hair looked that good ever before or after then.  Interestingly, we also took some outdoor pics around a pond and I stepped on a frog with no shoes on.  I mean I had no shoes on.  The frog might have, but I didn't feel any when I stepped on him.

Here's a shot taken in hubby's room at his parents' house.  He moved back in with them briefly before he bought the house we live in now.  I guess I was 18-ish here.  I see the edge of a classic Nintendo controller in my hand, so I must have been playing Tetris.  That's pretty much all I did when I was over there.

Fast forward a couple of years :-) Actually maybe not a couple... I was 19 when we got married.

This was taken my last day as Kindergarten teacher at my alma mater.  I think I was just barely 20 years old.

Sometime not too long after that modeling the outfit I was planning to wear to our church's Christmas program (maybe?).  

I was about to head to a career/life celebration for my old principal.  It was the closest thing to a high school reunion I've ever been to so far, so I was (for whatever reason) way concerned with how I looked.  Hubby was so impressed he took a picture.  I made some kind of weird cheesy muggy face and posed awkwardly.  Meanwhile, those white shoes make me think of Cousin Eddie on Christmas Vacation.

Riding on the luggage caddy during one of our many trips to Gatlinburg, TN.  Having a kid changes everything, man... we used to go multiple times a year and now we haven't been in nearly 2 years.  Oh well... I guess that's what retirement's for.

Awww... here I am pregnant with the kiddo.  This was when I was still at the cute stage and before I reached scary swollen hippopotamus ankles stage.

Another preggo shot with my best friend April.  This was more toward the hippopotamus ankles stage (7 months-ish) She and I hosted a personal shower/sleepover for a mutual friend and this was shortly before we went out for a while.  My chins and I were the unfortunate (and uncool) ones who got to trail along, panting, behind several more energetic and thinner young ladies while thinking about how much my feet hurt.

Because everybody needs a Facebook/Myspace picture...

This was several months after the kiddo was born and my face had returned to normal.

Here's my sweet little family in March '08.

And here's the most recent picture I'm willing to post.  This was when I was just barely pregnant with Bebe.  Have I ever mentioned that I had just started a running regimen shortly before finding out I was pregnant? I didn't realize how buff I was getting (ha).  Seriously, though, my tininess in this picture makes me depressed.  This was also before I had the unfortunate idea of getting bangs cut... which also makes me depressed.  Someday I'll be normal again.

And so there's a picture timeline of me.  And this took extraordinarily longer than I ever expected so it's nearly 1 AM and I still haven't done my Bible reading.  And my butt is asleep.

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