Slow Stormy Mornings and Dear Babies, Leo Loves You Already, But Please Get Off My Left Back Side

It was dark as twilight at dawn, yesterday morning. I woke to a black, foreboding sky and the glare of the street lamp outside. Next to me was a little tangle of legs and arms (most nights, Leo and Ellie end up in our bed at some point). Minutes later, the soundtrack was the crash of thunder and what sounded like a lightening strike across the street (it wasn't, but it was darn close).

One of the sweetest things about being home with the kids now is the slow, early mornings. For the next few weeks, I’m still getting them off to school but knowing I don’t have to get dressed and into the city just lessens the tension. Of course, these mornings sometimes dawn a bit earlier than I might like.

And of course, there was no school yesterday, so it was a particularly "slow" morning. Yesterday Leo was up around 6 a.m., his usual time. I made coffee and he read and played Legos and drew for a while before he finally asked for TV. An hour or so later Ellie called to me from upstairs. There were tears.

“I want you to come lie down with me Mommy! In my bed!”

I told her I was downstairs, that Leo was watching “Jake and the Never Land Pirates” (the new fave around here) and why didn’t she come join us?

She was not budging. There were more tears. And more demands for me to join her in "her bed." And so, because I could, because there were no lunches to be packed or clothes to be picked out and negotiated onto cranky bodies, I went upstairs and joined Ellie in her bed, in her dark, little room. She moved close to me, and we were shoulder to shoulder and she breathed a deep, satisfied sigh.

A few minutes later, Leo emerged from downstairs and burst into Ellie's room (as he is apt to do, he's big on grand entrances), holding an envelope. Leo is “into” writing letters these days. He takes the little envelopes from my desk.

(Sample of a recent letter to Grandpa: “Dear Grandpa, Thank you” (you should be getting that gem any day, Grandpa).

He scooted close to me and began kissing my stomach and saying “Hi Babies.”
Then he handed me this:

Inside the envelope (pictured at the top), he wanted to put the drawing, which in case, there is any question, is supposed to be this guy:

And for good measure, he even generously threw in a real, beloved “Wheezy” figure. He wanted to mail this all to the babies.

“But Leo, you know the babies won’t give you that back,” Ellie pointed out, to a concerned looking Leo. “Because babies can’t share.” She nodded, for added emphasis.

Leo, furrow browed, was concerned about this Babies Can't Share News.

“It’s OK buddy, the babies will give you Wheezy back,” I said.

A wave of relief washed over Leo’s little face and he disappeared downstairs, for stamps, no doubt.

***

In other news, Hello summer! It was a hot Memorial Day weekend around here. There was plenty of this.

This one is titled "Leo, I Have A Idea.!" Ellie is constantly coming up with schemes and games and ideas and has no problem telling Leo exactly what to do to execute The Plan. Here they are sliding the Toy Story Guys down the slide into the sprinkler.


And this was where I tried to stay, as much as possible (though with all the snack fetching and hose wrangling and pool re-filling it wasn’t quite as relaxing as it looks).

That red thing? That’s not an inner tube or a beach ball. No, that’s just TWO PEOPLE. Add to everything the the fact that last night, one of the little bodies inside me seems to have shifted or something and the result is a permanent cramp/knot in my lower left, ahem, back-side. Not good and Very Inconvenient. Now it’s hard just going up and down stairs and feels sort of like I’m scaling a mountain.

It feels like there’s a lot more to do but there really isn’t, so I guess I shouldn’t worry about this new, hopefully temporary limitation. I just despise feeling incapacitated in any way (who doesn’t?). After all, I’m the crazy lady shlepping laundry baskets up and down the basement steps or loading cases of seltzer into the back of my mini van at Costco. Or I at least want the option to be able to do this.

But you know what? We are almost there. Which is a good thing, since at this point, my maternity shirts need maternity shirts.

11

Eleven years ago today.

Every year, she gets farther and farther away. Sometimes it even feels like another lifetime.

I hate that.

I miss you every day Mom. I love you.

"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends," 1 Corinthians 13

Wednesday This and That

The weather is getting warmer. Summer feels close. Some days are incredibly busy (well, as busy as I can possibly be in the shape I'm in right now). There are many house projects as you can imagine, trying to ready our decidedly not huge (though big enough thank you very much) house for two more people. Good thing those people start out small. Of course Erin is doing the brunt of the work (painting, moving furniture, visiting her friends at Home Depot). I keep getting yelled at for doing things like, oh, you know, washing the baseboards. But don't worry, I'm also doing plenty of laying around. I get little (and I do mean little) burst of energy and I just can't help but do something. And so I do it. And then I'm out of breath and contractiony and so I check the DVR and see if there is anything left to watch (there usually isn't).

Speaking of TV, have you seen this ad?

Watching a fair amount of daytime TV lately I've seen it a lot as it's on serious rotation. I cry every dang time. I know, I know, I'm hormonal. And I'm totally doing cloth diapers so this is in no way some kind of endorsement but still, this ad gets me (don't miss the baby with Down syndrome, of course). I know, I know, I am SUCH a sap right now. I know this. That's half the battle, right?

When I'm not crying hormonal tears, I'm focusing on the big kids and getting their rooms in shape. Monday I went to Ikea and got a couple of these (one for Leo, one for Ellie) which I just LOVE. When Ellie first saw it in her room (Erin put it together when she was at school) she called us upstairs--"Mommy! Come see what's in my room!" as if we didn't know it was there.

They are just so clean and cute and as my friend Lisa put it, an OCDers dream. By the way, I highly recommend going to Ikea largely pregnant. I didn't have to lift a thing! A nice gentleman put two bookshelves in my cart and another nice man in the loading area put the shelves in the van (his words: "I didn't want to find out whether you were having a boy or a girl right here in the parking lot.").

Yesterday we broke out the swimming pools (plastic baby pools). This year we wised up and bought two and of course, Leo and Ellie still had to be in the same pool. Those two, I swear. Pictures of that to come. In the meantime:

I don't know what Leo was mad about here. It seems like someone is always complaining about something, someone is always doing something to annoy someone else. But at the same time, Leo and Ellie get along really well, if that makes sense. (Photo credit for these pics is my friend Dorrine, who was recently here visiting from California).
In other news, yes, it's popsicle season again.

This picture. That belly. Holy cow. That's all I have to say.

Ellie must change her clothes twelve times a day. This was Sunday. I think this was outfit #11.

Leo and two of his favorite things. A ball and his dog.

Ears: Cause It’s Not All Babies and Complaining Around Here. Honest.

Lest anyone get truly fed up with me and my pregnancy whining, I will say that there are other things going on here aside from Babies.

Since once the babies (oops, I mentioned them) are born I’ll never do anything normal again/leave the house (I kid, I kid, ahem), the last two months have been Operation Take Leo To See All His Specialists. Thankfully, that list has dwindled over the years and we’re down to just the opthamologist and ENT. Last week we paid a much overdue visit to the ENT and it was, as expected, Not Fun (you may recall that Leo had his adenoids out in December 2009 and is on I think his fourth set of tubes). The ENT is also, without a doubt, Leo's least favorite doctor.

So, for the record, Leo is officially too big and strong to hold down for an exam (my being twelve months pregnant does add to the challenge of restraining him, I’m sure).

No, it was definitely not the greatest appointment. The doctor seemed a little impatient with Leo’s uneasiness (make that a polite word for absolute terror). I know he’s busy but, I don’t know, the doctor just could have been a little more, encouraging? Warmer? It probably wouldn’t have made a difference but I guess I always leave those sort of appointments wondering what I could have done differently to make it better. I tried to hold Leo down in my usual pose of hold his trunk arms down and pin his legs between mine but he was having nothing of it. And he is strong. The doctor made a one-quarter second attempt to look in Leo’s ears before pronouncing it “impossible” and that Leo would “need to be sedated.”

This, after a thirty minute wait.

Not to mention, sedated? Wait just a minute, I protested. Sedated? Really?

I’d be lying if I said this didn’t more than irritate me. I mean, I get that Leo can be an absolute beast at the doctor’s, when he’s, you know, terrified. But still. It just seemed so extreme. I realize the doctor was thinking of Leo’s safety (tiny instruments in the ears of a flailing body = not good) as well as mine (kicked in stomach right now = not good). But, still. I guess I’m just not rushing to sedate my kid for convenience sake, you know?

I convinced Dr. Impatient to get some more reinforcements in, after he mumbled something about me in my “condition” and not wanting anything to happen to me. Two nurses emerged and Leo kicked one of the exam tools across the room. Awesome. Luckily, the doctor was able to get a long enough look that time to see that one of Leo’s tubes was out, so at least we knew something. There could be an actual reason for sedation, other than just convenience.

More discussion. Sedation would also allow for a sedated ABR (hearing test), in addition to a full, non-traumatic exam. The sedated ABR actually really excites me since it’s been, oh, since birth that Leo has had an actual hearing exam (he’s been either too afraid or uncooperative all the other times). His current speech therapist has been on me about getting Leo tested, not because she’s specifically concerned with hearing loss, but it’s always a possibility. I guess.

So, sedated ABR and possible tube replacement surgery is slated for mid-June.

And, as is tradition for all of Leo’s ENT appointments, a few years were shaved off my life.

35 Weeks and Some Tears

I had my first real emotional (i.e. pregnancy/hormonal) meltdown yesterday, which, considering I hit 35 weeks today, is pretty good.

Ellie cried when I left her at school which rarely does anymore. That always puts me in a state and leaves me feeling guilty. It doesn't help that her well-meaning teacher blames everything on the fact that I'm pregnant.

And then, of course, there were some very First World problems, namely, the fact that Costco doesn’t open until 10 a.m. during the week here. I mean, really? I’d bet that fifty percent of their clientele has been awake since at least 7 a.m. I could have been shopped and home by 10 a.m. Also, I bought bananas, and I have no idea where they ended up--I just know they did not make it home with me.

But it was nothing a good cry and a sweet Origins goodie bag from Erin couldn’t fix. The best part was a scented rice-filled pillow that you microwave and put on your shoulders. It was absolutely made for my little eucalyptus fetish.

My right hand is now numb 100 percent of the time. The swelling is pretty bad. I’ve decided I am ready to not be pregnant but am not ready for the babies yet. Not sure how that’s going to work out.

But. I’m in no hurry. I almost want to stop time right now. I get teary and my chest feels tight when I think of the enormity of what’s about to happen, how much things are going to change. I want to hold on to this simple time. I’ll never be pregnant again. I’ll never only have two children. The swelling, the itching, the tears. This is the easy part.

That Much Sweeter

The Breast Imaging Center at my local hospital hands out roses to all the patients. A nice touch. This rose bloomed more beautiful and longer than any rose I've received in a long time.

I spent last Thursday morning at a place no woman wants to be. The breast imaging center at our local hospital. The same hospital where I’m due to give birth to two babies in roughly five weeks.

A few months ago I found a small lump in my armpit. My gene pool is lousy with breast cancer so I immediately feared the worst. I showed it to my OB (I was fairly early in the pregnancy at the time) and she felt the lump, but told me it was probably just extra breast tissue due to hormones (did you know breast tissue extends into the arm pit? I didn’t) and blah blah blah.

Pfew.

But then a few weeks ago I noticed the lump again. And this time it was bigger. A lot bigger. My doctor felt it again at my last check-up and immediately said she wanted me to get an ultrasound, which of course, scared the hell out of me. How could this be happening? For the past seven months I’ve been getting “fun” ultrasounds. Ones that involve heart beats and little hands and feet and the discovery of hair on tiny 32 week-old heads. An armpit lump ultrasound? Decidedly not fun.

Of course, because I was so worried, there was a two hour wait at my appointment. For a five minute procedure. When I was finally called in by the cheery tech, I studied her face as she read the screen. I swear that her expression immediately went from buoyant to tragic. As she gazed at the little gray and white blob on the screen (which she pronounced as “kidney shaped”) she appeared serious, concerned. It was bad. I could just tell. She told me she’d show the scans to the doctor and he’d either come in to discuss it with me and look further, or perhaps just relay results to her. I reminded myself not to be worried if the doctor came in. It had happened when I had a mammogram a year ago and that had turned out fine.

I flipped through a wrinkled, two-year-old copy of Life & Style magazine and three minutes later, there was the doctor. He offered his hand to shake, dimmed the lights, and then immediately came the questions. How long had I had the lump? When did I first notice it? Had it gotten a lot bigger recently?

My heart began to pound. My body felt heavy. The room felt like it was getting darker, closing in around me. This could not be happening. The Doctor slid the ultrasound wand across my armpit a few more times and peered at the fuzzy screen, at my infamous kidney shaped blob. All the Good Things, all the Things To Look Forward To—the babies, the kids, Erin, seemed suddenly very far away.

And then:

“Well this looks totally normal. Benign.”

The proverbial weight lifted. But all I could think was, Why couldn’t the doctor have led with that? With normal and benign? He gave me a bunch of information about hormones and underlying infections and lymph nodes and keeping an “eye on things” but the only thing that mattered to me were the words “benign” and “normal.”

Melodrama aside, I’ll be honest. For twenty-four hours, my little life got quite a jolt. Sure, it was just a little armpit lump, but it could have been something more, something worse. As much as I tried to tell myself it would be OK, willed it to be OK, I knew. It wouldn’t necessarily be. After all, I’m a member of the Club. The Club of Bad Things. I know those things don’t just happen to other people. That as much as we can think positive and hope for the best, we’re all ultimately, just one cross town bus or extra chromsome or abnormal cell away from catastrophe. The question isn’t how could this happen to me, but rather, why shouldn’t it happen to me? To anyone? Stuff just happens. There is no explanation.

I remember after my mom died, I went through a phase where I wasn’t afraid to die. Maybe because I felt I would see her in the afterlife, so how could death be a bad thing? Although I would describe myself as faithful, my religious stance is murky. I don’t know if I’ll see her again. But what I do know is I want to be here now. There are two, almost four little people who need me. And oh, do I need them. Now is not the time to go anywhere. I know what it’s like to lose a parent. And more than that, and to make it about me, I don’t want to lose them. To lose out on raising them.

I didn’t tell anyone but Erin when I found the lump. But when the good news came, I called my dad. I told him about my fear being wrapped up in the kids, in losing them, in them losing me. We got on the subject of time and how once you have kids it seems to speed up. My dad, a practicing Buddhist talked about how difficult it is to grasp time, to appreciate the Now. We all seem to be inherently hard wired to move onto the next thing. He said what helps is to focus on the sensory experiences of life. The smells, the feels, the sounds.

And it’s funny, because the morning of the big Armpit Ultrasound, I sat with Ellie as she ate her cereal and strawberries and felt more present with her than I’ve felt with anyone, in a long time. It was an unseasonably warm day and she wore a little pink cap-sleeved top, exposing the length of her remarkably soft, chubby little arms. I couldn’t help it--I reached over and stroked her tiny arm and she looked at me as if she was about to protest, as if to say “Mommy why are you doing that?” (a common refrain), but instead she said nothing, and went on to take a sip of apple juice and another bite of cereal.

It was just a little moment. A little snapshot. But it was one that made this one, little, happy ending for now, that much sweeter.

Bedtime Chat With Leo

Last night, after we finished books, Leo was getting situated in his bed. As he does any night that I put him to bed, he pulled up my shirt to say goodnight to the babies.

"Goodnight baby, goodnight baby."

The What to Name One of the Babies discussion is still in full force, so I ran two options by Leo. His ability to pronounce the names is something we are considering (it never occurred to me with Ellie although he can say her name just fine).

"How about [Insert Baby A's Prospective Name] or [Insert Baby A's Other Prospective Name]? I asked Leo.

He studied my face for a moment, then broke into a huge grin.

"Rudolph!" He announced, with absolute certainty.

Rudolph, as you might not be shocked to hear, is not one of the names in the running. Rather, Rudolph is the word/name that (blessedly) has replaced "Poopy Head" which, for a while there, Leo was calling anyone and anything, because it was sure to get a rise out of people (Ellie is absolutely lightening quick at tattling "Leo said a bad word!")

"Hmm, I don't know about Rudolph," I said. I repeated the names to Leo and he again chimed in with good old Rudolph.

"You're silly," I said, ruffling his thick sandy hair. Leo rested his head on his purple unicorn Pillow Pet (don't ask), and then shot up again, reached out and felt my stomach.

"When are the babies coming?" he asked.

"One more month, I answered.

"One more month?" Leo repeated, wearing the same frustration both children do when they are told that no, the babies are not coming today or tonight (at least, I hope not).

And then, another big grin from Leo: "One baby, two baby, Happy Mother's Day!"

Truer words have not been spoken, Leo.