A Sunday Well Spent

Coffee and a book.
Small home improvement projects complete with instant gratification.
Sunshine and a run with my husband.
Playing in the grass with our son.
Beers and burgers on the deck with Nana and Baba.
A good shift at work.
Today I am remembering to be grateful for the little things.

My Intentions

That is this year's theme for me: catching up with my own intentions. For so long, I have intended to be better. To be better about opening a book before I turn on the TV. To be better about keeping up with my blog. About washing my face before I go to bed and taking my vitamins. To be better about not giving in to those impulse buys and spending money so easily. And on and on the list goes. And I'm tired of it. I'm tired of not being the woman and the wife and the mother that I have always intended to be. The ones I see around me that I respect and admire. You know, the ones who take their kids for an outdoor adventure every day, and make dinner every night, and eat all their fruits and veggies, and don't stress out over the mess of their kids' craft time, and work out, and read to their kids every day, and have good posture. I look at them and say to myself, "someday I'm going to have it that together." And now I'm saying, "someday starts today."
So that's it. I'm done. This year, I'm going to live with intentionality. I will not be swept away by the emotions or whims of a day. I will move through my life with purpose.

I fully intend to be:

a woman who is active and strong, but cares little about a number on a scale;

a mother who makes wholesome meals for her family, but never lets a diet come before a relationship;

a wife who respects the hard work of her husband by spending wisely and frugally;

a writer;

an up-cycler, re-cycler, and home made gifter;

a mother who values making memories over finishing chores, but never laziness over chores;

a friend who remembers to call, and sends a card just because;

a consumer who spends conscientiously, and doesn't let what's cute over shadow what's important;

and a few other things that, quite honestly, are just a bit too personal to share.

I'm going to start by going back and writing a few of the key blog posts that I had been intending to write for so many months. I'm going to back up a bit to get a running start at my forward progress. So yes, we will be rewinding all the way to Thanksgiving. Hang in there. Or don't, I guess. It's up to you. This is just something I feel like I have to do.

For today, I'm going to leave you with this very funny, very cute video of my son, just because. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do, though I suppose that's actually kind of impossible...

The Morning Nap

Most days, Drake doesn't last very long in the morning - even though he is the one who insists we get up! - before he needs a morning cat nap. They generally aren't very long  - 30 to 45 minutes maybe. It's like he realizes an hour after we got up, "Man, I was so not ready to be out of bed." So he eats and he passes out. And if we're at home when this happens - if we're not out running some errand of Mom's -  he'll pass out in my arms. This is, by far, one of my favorite times. I let him sleep there, even though it means a very unproductive time for me. (I know that if I expect to keep my house clean, I have to do things while my son sleeps.) But I don't care. I can't bear the thought of putting his chunky little body down. I hate the idea of disturbing his sleep and I'm greedy for time spent cuddling with him. I know it won't last long, this period where he wants me to hold him. It will be over before I know it. And even sooner his thunder thighs will go away, and his pudgy little feet. And his huge cheeks and his pouty lips and his puffy hands - all that wonderful "babiness" will leave one day far too soon. And just look at how sweet they are when he's limp in my arms!

The Baby Coma

Little Man passed out at the dance studio with Paige, about three weeks ago.

I don’t know if you’ve heard of it before, but it’s a real thing. It’s that state that babies live in for the first couple months of their lives - completely unaware of what happens around them.  They sleep when they are tired, which is always. The wake only to eat, which inevitably makes them so tired again that their eyes roll back into their heads and they pass out, at the breast, with milk running down their chins – it’s a corresponding phenomena often referred to as Milk Drunk (a very technical term).  They could sleep through a rock concert. My son slept through the trains that pass only a couple blocks from our house – several times a night - and lay on their horns like they’re leading a holiday parade.

But then, I’m finding, something changes. Apparently somewhere around three months of age they start to become aware: aware of people who come to visit; aware of the hustle and bustle of their parents; aware of the dogs in their faces; aware of the jostling of the in and out of the car on errand days; painfully aware of trains. And so my poor baby boy has become overly tired several times in the past week because his Momma can’t figure out how to adjust with him. My errand running plans nearly always interfere with his plans for a good snooze.

My inexperienced, first time Mommy brain thinks that the answer to this problem is a good schedule -regular naps that are easily planned around. The thing is, I have no idea how to establish one. I sat down two nights ago and wrote one out. It looked beautiful on my yellow legal pad: hour for hour descriptions of a perfectly harmonized Drake and Mommy day. I went to bed determined that the next day was going to hum along according to my new plan. I’m sure the veteran mommies out there are laughing at me right about now. Because that is just not how it works. If there is one thing babies are good for, it’s reminding their parents that life does not always (read “ever”) work out the way you had planned.

So for the past two days I’ve just been paying attention to the clock as Drake did his own thing, and I’m amazed/concerned. Little Man spends the first half of his day in almost perfect one hour increments: one hour awake, one hour asleep. Later in the day, he stretches the “awake” portions to something more like two hours. That’s just not gonna work. There is no way to run an errand – and be back at the house in time to put him down! – in one hour. Not gonna happen. Not to mention the crazy amounts of gas I would waste if I only ever ran one errand at a time.

What do I do? Is there a way to help encourage him to stay awake longer? He is so sad when he’s tired, it sort of breaks my heart to think of doing it. I would love any advice or feedback.

One year

Approximately one year ago, something happened silently inside me that would change my world forever. I didn't know it when it happened. I didn't plan it. But I am so, so grateful for it.

One year ago, I was immersed in my second semester as an English Major at Carroll College. I stressed and obsessed and fussed over writing assignments. I typed furiously on my laptop - late into the night - in my favorite corner of campus or some all-night diner. I was trying to figure out Who I Was; What I Sounded Like. I was worried about finals. I was dreaming of becoming a successful, well-paid writer.

These days, my writing assignments are self-assigned. I try to challenge myself here on this blog. I try desperately to remember, and to practice, the knowledge I soaked up in that one year. I’m still trying to find My Voice. I struggle to remember the “What?” and the “So-What?” of each post I write. Why am I writing it? Who am I writing it for? Myself? Drake? My readers? These days, I tend to write my blog posts from my couch, often with just one hand, with a sleeping baby in my lap.

 One year ago, I wasn't getting enough sleep. I sat up nights with a stack of papers and a highlighter. I went cross-eyed staring at my computer screen. I hardly ate. I was completely stressed.

These days, I still don’t get enough sleep, but my late night company is a baby boy who needs me. My eyes are tired and heavy, but they are greeted with gummy smiles and chunky thighs. These days, I eat whenever and whatever I want. I am completely content.

One year ago, I felt as though I was navigating heavy decisions, important tasks, and weighty subjects – the stuff that would affect my future, my well-being, my success, my happiness. I had to work my tail off to make sure I set myself up on the path I wanted (yes: I, I , I).

These days, the biggest decision has been made. My future is my child. My tasks are smaller, but the ripples reach so much further into the future. They go beyond my life time. My days consist of regular feedings and diaper changes, but each is performed with the heart-stretching knowledge that (God willing) this well fed, clean little boy will out-live me. Out-learn me. Out-do me in ways I can’t even imagine yet.

One year ago, I was stressing about the few pounds I put on in my freshman year.

These days, I’d pay good money to see that number on the scale again.

One year ago, my husband and I had a great sex life.

These days, well… there’s a baby in our bed. (Hey, it’s one of the major ways my life has changed. It seemed wrong to let it go unmentioned.)

One year ago, I had never changed a little boy’s diaper. I had never shopped for a breast pump. I had never worn a nursing bra. I had never made a baby blanket for my baby. I had never packed up the clothes he outgrew. I had never “worn” a baby during a workout. I had never spent a date with my husband wondering how my baby was doing. I had never met my son.

One year ago, I had no idea what a difference the next year was about to make.

Nothing gets done (and that's ok)

It's Sunday evening and we've just gotten home from a long, but fun, weekend of social engagements. You're passed out in your car seat, so I leave you in it on the living room floor. Maybe now I can finally do those dishes that have been piling up since *blush* Friday morning. Maybe I can even put away the non-perishables that have been sitting on our counter since my last grocery trip. But first I need to feed the dogs. Oh, and pee.
Just as I'm headed for the bathroom, a whimper comes from your car seat. I tell myself it's nothing. Just a dream. But by the time I've finished peeing, you're full-on crying.
So here I am: sitting on the couch, chicken pecking at the computer keys with my left hand while you nurse in my right arm. In a minute you'll need to burp, and that takes two hands. Then we'll change your diaper and put you in some jammies. I'll try to get you settled in bed, and that will likely take nursing again. Which means me crawling in bed with you.
And so it will be gone. My little burst of energy that I had when I came home will be spent. It will be after 11 pm and I'll be exhausted. And the dishes still won't be done and the food still won't be put away. Not to mention the state of the floors or the dusting that's been neglected for too long already.
I know that taking care of you - feeding you, loving you, breathing you in - isn't nothing. In fact, it's the greatest kind of "something" I am capable of doing. I tell myself not to worry about the mess, to savor these moments, because already I feel them flying by.
Sit on the couch with you in my arms for thirty more minutes. Snuggle with you in bed for one more hour. It's all that really matters.
The dishes do not.
But they're driving me crazy.

A Step in the Right Direction

(Alternately titled: The Dream is Still Alive)

Justin and I got up at 6 am (very early for a couple of people who very rarely go to bed before midnight or get up before 8:30/9) this past Wednesday morning to hit the road to Bozeman. We had two appointments to make before heading back to Helena in time for Justin to be at work by 2 pm. Two very important appointments with two different midwives at two separate birthing centers – because I haven’t given up yet on my goal of an out-of-hospitalbirth.

I mentioned before that there are currently no midwives in my town that will deliver at home. There are midwives in neighboring towns that are willing to travel to Helena to attend a birth, but my husband has never been super thrilled with the idea, and frankly, considering we’re due in December in Montana, it sounds less than ideal to me, too. December typically isn’t a very severe storm month, but you just never know. And when the roads around here are bad, they’re just plain nasty. So when the idea first came up that we drive to Bozeman to deliver in a birth center, I was pretty quick to dismiss it. Justin, however, was surprisingly ok with the prospect. I gave him a hard time. “So, you’re worried that a midwife might not make it to Helena because of bad roads, but you want to drive your laboring wife an hour and a half to Bozeman??”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug.

So I thought about it. And I met up with a girlfriend who just delivered a beautiful baby girl in one of the birth centers in Bozeman. Her water birth story was beautiful. “A labor that had more hours than a marathon has miles,” as her adoring husband put it, and she had been a warrior. And the midwife and birth team sounded like exactly what I was looking for. “But,” I told myself, “Mary was due in August.” Despite the fact that my timing was presenting a slightly larger challenge, I decided that at the very least I wanted to meet the midwives. See the birth centers. Ask as many questions as I could think of. And I wanted Justin to go, too. So I got lucky, was able to make two appointments for the same morning, and if all went well, Justin wouldn’t have to miss work.

The drive was gorgeous. Can I just tell you, I love my state. Driving east into the sunrise sits at the top of my list of Best Ways to Start a Day.

We got to Bozeman in an hour and twenty minutes – really good time. The road construction is easing up for the year (people often say of Montana that it has two seasons: winter and road construction) and we were lucky never to get stuck behind a tractor or one of the many other kinds of farming equipment that often travel along that road. We even had time for Justin to get a second cup o’ joe in Bozeman before we headed to our first appointment at The Birth Center.

What a serene environment! Something like a yoga studio or good day spa, but instead of a massage table and steam room you find a birthing tub and a European stall shower with a fold down bench large enough to house mom, dad, midwife, and doula. The staff was warm and welcoming, and all in all The Birth Center felt like a dream birthing environment. Mikelann, the main midwife in the practice, met with us and did a brief “meet the baby” exam. She was able to tell me exactly how he was situated just by prodding at my belly. It was really neat being able to follow her hands and know, “This is my son’s head, this is his butt – he he – there are his feet.” So cool.

Unfortunately, there were some major concerns about whether or not our insurance would cover the (flat rate and very reasonable!) fee at The Birth Center and, reasonable though it was, it represents a much larger amount out of pocket for us then we would be paying in a hospital setting.

A little unsure  of ourselves and our options (did we have any?), we left with time for a quick breakfast (Main St. Overeasy – yummy!) before heading over to The Birth Place to meet Stacey. We took the tour – another glorious birthing suite with a wonderfully large birthing tub. A much smaller shower, but really, I don’t imagine myself spending too much time in there when there is a tub available. Another round of questions. Another run down of what’s and how to’s.

But the the thing worth mentioning about The Birth Place is Stacey herself. Her demeanor immediately put both of us at ease. When Justin had financial questions (my ever so practical husband worries about these things pretty constantly) she answered them directly and professionally. We run a test claim – simple as that – to see what the insurance will cover, and we go from there.

And then something really amazing happened. She asked me to describe my ideal birth story. At first, I was stumped. I knew a lot about what I didn’t want, but hadn’t thought much about what I did want. I sputtered out an answer about wanting to allow my body to do what I trust it to be capable of doing. That’s all I could think of. I just want to let my body do what it has to. But as she commented on the wisdom of that plan, it hit me. No. There is something I want. Desperately. Something I had been clinging to but was almost afraid to talk about until now. I had been protecting it, holding it close so no one could take it from me. I want to hold my baby. Right away. I want him on my chest and I want to keep him there. I don’t want anyone to take him from me to weigh our measure our otherwise test. As I told Stacey this, I started to cry. Even now, I am tearing up a bit. The thought of that moment – the promise of the feel of my son’s skin against my own – is the one that is going to get me through these last few months and the trials of labor. I need it, and so does he. I wept a little as Stacey told me that, as long as baby is doing well, she guards that time fiercely. For as long as it takes for him to initiate breast feeding, which he should do instinctively if we let him.

And with that, I was sold.

We left The Birth Place knowing we would try to figure out a way to have our son there.

There are logistical details to be worked out, to be sure. But we will work them out. After knowing what I can have, there is no way I’m going back.

The picture is from a little over two weeks ago - I was 24 weeks at the time. Trying to be better about posting belly pictures!