TWO FORWARD ONE BACK

So, we're moving in...some days.  Like two and a half weeks?  I have not packed one single box.  Things are optimistically in piles, so our house has entered the stage of Complete and Utter Chaos that so characteristically accompanies any move I attempt, but so far, no actual progress.  Rick is confident that things will get done, because they always do, and we always manage to pull it together somewhere along the line.  I'm freaking out about the size of the truck we chose, because my visual spatial skills are exactly nil.  The conversation went like this:

(Rick, mapping out the approximate size of the back of the truck, and planning where things will go): "So, the bed comes apart and goes here, the chairs go in pairs here, and the table will slip here on it's side...Hey.  Honey.  Are you even listening to me?"

(Me, sullenly giving Lexi her binkie for the 3000th time that hour): "I don't know why you bother.  All I hear is that you think our whole house will fit in 12 feet.  We have a lot of crap you know.  A LOT.  But if you think it will be okay, then okay."

At which point Rick tries valiantly to get me to see what he sees, but for me, it's sort of like the teacher in the Charlie Brown cartoon, and all I hear is "Wah wah wah wah wah."

And he's right, to some extent.  We are procrastinators, the both of us, and having Lexi doesn't make getting things done in an expedient and efficient manner any easier.  But we do work together well, and there has never been anything that we haven't been able to pull together when we need to.  But it's not like we can hunker down for some extreme packing marathon three days before we pull the truck to the house, because, well, there's that baby.

I bought some cards like three weeks ago for various occasions coming up in May.  I went to the store right after I had changed her, and fed her, and she had fallen asleep.  I stood in the aisles, flipping through cards, and periodically shusshing her when she opened her eyes and squawked in dismay at the flourescent lights.  Then I brought them home, and put them on my end table to write.

Three WEEKS ago, you guys.  And now it is May and only half of them are done, because it goes like this: She goes down for her morning nap, and I open my pen "Dear So and So," and then she's awake because she has jettisoned her binkie out of her mouth, and let me tell you, that's a fun game, trying to find it, before she cries hard enough to wake herself completely.  And then it's noon, and time to feed her.  I do, and sit down to write "Happy Birthday", and before I know it, it's 5:00 and we should probably eat dinner at some point, and God, there are burp cloths on every horizontal surface in my house, and also, there are baby clothes hanging over the shower rod.  So, what I'm saying, I guess, is you'll have to forgive some lapses in efficiency around here, all I can say is I'm working on it.

Yesterday was a hell of a day, really.  Lexi hadn't slept more than a handful of hours the night before, and where she was bright eyed and bushy tailed by 5:45am, I felt like something the cat threw up.  So you go through the cycle, the changing, the feeding, the burping.  Entertainment, soothing, binkie, no binkie.  It's kind of like this weird game of charades, except with no sleep I'm not very good at it, and the penalty for failure is the yelling.

Let me take a break to be clear here.  The crying breaks my heart, the real baby tears?  But the yelling I just can't stand.  And even if it's only for 5 minutes, that's approximately 4 minutes and 45 seconds longer than any human wants to hear it.  She furrows her brow, stares you straight in the face and yells with nary a tear in sight.  And when you try everything you know and the angry faced yelling still doesn't stop?  That's when Rick says he's never seen a baby attempt so hard to cuss out her parents, and also, it feels like a pretty crappy performance review.  Like she's saying "Right now, if I could trade you, I would."  And we don't have a lot of days like this, but every once in awhile she pulls one out of her back pocket, and it's right when I need a quiet day the most.

And for most of the day, it was like that.  An extra feeding here, yelling if I put her down there.  Quil barked at me, and woke her up when she had finally fallen asleep.  I couldn't keep my eyes open because I was so tired.  Knowing I need to pack, but just being desperate for some sleep, so instead Lexi and I watched a VH1 special for several hours while I rocked, bounced, tried to play with her, because nothing seemed to work.

When Rick got home, we had to go to Target and Babies R Us.  I had fed her, changed her, and put her in her carseat.  She cried, but then, she usually does in her seat.  Rick worried that the straps were too tight, but I thought they were fine, she wasn't being pinched, and after all, they're supposed to be tight.

We went first to the baby store, with me in the back next to Lexi.  She cried.  We didn't even get out of the car because oh, the crying.  I tried over and over again to soothe her, and by the time Rick got out and we made it to Target, it was mostly over.  So we all went into Target as a family, and the crying started again as soon as we hit the double doors.  Rick pushed her while I tried to find the baby section, with my brain feeling extremely tunnel visioned.  "We're here for formula.  Just find the formula."  But Rick, he shops differently.  He wants to look at everything.  And last night, after a day long fussy baby, and it being 7:00 and past time for dinner, I couldn't have cared any less about anything but the formula.  So I flat out begged him in the aisles of Target "Please, Honey, don't show me anything.  I just want to get her food and go home."  So we walked for a couple more minutes with only the baby making noise, when he sullenly said "We passed like 50 things I wanted to show you."  And I felt like the world's biggest bitch.

By the time we got home, I unstrapped Lexi from her carseat and went to change her diaper, only to find red marks all over her little belly.  Exactly in the shape of the carseat straps.  She stopped crying the second I took her out of that seat, looking at me with big tear-stained eyes that said "That's all I was trying to tell you!"  So, I got to feel like the world's biggest bitch AND the world's worst mother all in one day.

After she had forgiven me for the carseat debacle.

And Rick was nice enough, she was obviously fine, and he told me that's how parents learn, they make mistakes, and look how happy she is now.  But still.  And then, she slept.

We put dinner in the oven, and flipped on the tv.  We watched eliminations on The Voice.  I cried and got a knot in the pit of my stomach.  Mostly because I remembered how happy they were Monday night, and how upset everyone was on Tuesday.  We watched "Smash" where people (yes, fictional people) made horrible decision after horrible decision.  I pulled my knees up to my chest and felt a little bit like television watching is some weird form of emotional masochism for me.  (It's been well documented I take television shows too personally, let's move on.)

At one point, Rick looked at me, and said "You know Baby, today was just a crappy day.  You just have to get through the last little bit, and then you can start over again tomorrow."

So when I went to feed her at 10, I assumed that it would be the same as the rest of the day, a struggle.  But she ate, burped and promptly fell asleep all within 30 minutes.  She stayed asleep on the walk to the bedrom, and didn't even open her eyes when I set her down.  I danced around the room silently, with no one awake to see me, except the dog who raised his eyebrows at me.

And then, Lexi slept for 5 straight hours.  FIVE.  Balance.  Rick fed her, and she went back to sleep for another four.  More balance.  A gift from the Universe.  She slept and so did I.

Today is much better.

That's how my life works these days, endless four hour chunks repeated over and over.

And four hours doesn't sound like that long, at least, to me it doesn't.  And let me tell you, it can go both ways.  

But let me walk you through it.

The four hour chunk starts at feeding time.  I change her diaper, and then feed her.  She has one hour to finish her bottle, and her internal clock chimes again four hours from the time I put that bottle in her mouth.  She generally finishes 4 ounces in about a half hour, unless she's particularly fussy.  So, we eat.  Burp.  Eat.  Fuss.  Burp.  In the morning, we play.

On a good day, this mat gives me about an hour.  I sit down with her, or, if she's particularly happy, I'll pay bills or plan my day, but nothing that's too involved, because I have to be ever vigilant with the animals.

She doesn't really nap in the mornings anymore, so after the mat, I pick her up and try to start soothing her.  I now have about an hour and a half before it's time to feed her again.  I talk to her, we rock.  She's usually fussy during this time because she's almost always tired.  She might doze, but she wakes the second I put her down, so we ride it out.

I feed her again at 10, and she 9 times out of 10 eats without any issues, and then goes to sleep at the tail end of the bottle.  I try to burp her, but I usually don't get one out of her, because she's so asleep. I can put her down in her chair, and this, this is my window to be productive.  Any dishes, emails to be answered, cleaning, laundry, it's all done in this four hour window.  This is when I shower.  Empty the dishwasher.  Figure out my weekly schedule.  But soon, soon, it's 2:00 in the afternoon, and my hours are up.

In spite of how quickly it comes, this is my favorite feeding window.  She's rested, and happy.  I feed her on the kitchen table for a change of place, opening the blinds so she can watch everything outside.  I talk to her, and she kicks her feet, and this past week, she has started talking back.  Adorable little coos that melt my heart.  I stick out my tongue at her, and she mimics me.  We play with her rattle.  I tell her stories.  We are often still sitting here when Rick gets home an hour later.

We might play a little longer, but by 3:30, 4:00, we are back trying to soothe her because her patience has run out.  She doesn't sleep during this feeding chunk either, so we bide our time until 6:00.  Rick helps me with her unfailingly.  We are pretty good at tag-team parenting, if I'm holding her, he'll start dinner.  If he is, then I'll get stuff ready to go, we try to eat at 7, which gives us time to feed her and get her down again, so we can eat dinner together in relative quiet.  It's an important part of our day, family dinners.  And while we've had some nights where we just alternate who eats a hot dinner, that doesn't work for either of us, so mostly we wait until she's gone to sleep to eat.  This period, after she has tired of the table, and before she sleeps after her 6:00 feeding are always, always fussy.  Lots of crying here.  And as much as we love her, this is the hardest part of the day.  We're tired.  Hungry.  She's tired.  Even the dog just wants the noise to stop.

Finally, finally, she sleeps.  We usually have two, maybe three hours together on a good night here.  We might watch television, talk about our days.  I sit next to Rick on the sofa and hold his hand.  At about 9:30, he starts getting the house ready for bed.  He's in bed by 10, which is when I feed Lexi.  As soon as I get her fed and back asleep (anywhere from 30 minutes to 90 minutes), I crawl into bed with him.  He feeds her at 2am, and then, at 6am, I'm up, and my four hour days start all over again.

There are some things I will miss about the newborn stage.  The way she coos at me is one of my favorite things in the whole world.  How sometimes she puts her hands in my hair when she's upset, and holds on like I'm the only one who can fix it.  But right now, I also miss my husband.  On the nights when it feels like we barely get to speak to each other are hard.  There was one night when the emergency broadcast system went off at about 3am in the bedroom, and in my sleep, I said "Rick, I think the baby's crying."  

We're getting through.  And each week gets better.  

But, someday, soon, I hope, I can live beyond my four hour chunks.

We survived our first month with Lexi.  (It's actually been 5 weeks now).  I can't believe it's been a month already, and moreover, I can't believe how much she has changed.  She's so much more interactive now, already, and her personality is shining through.

This was when she was one week old.  All of her clothes were big on her, and while she didn't spend that much time awake, she screamed like all get out if you put her down when she was.  She wasn't crying real tears yet, but she had already mastered her pouty face, which, predictably, makes Daddy jump into action.

At two weeks, we were struggling to find our schedule.  Grandma had left, and Lexi didn't know night from day.  She would cry from 10pm to 2am, and Rick and I would sit in bed, trying to soothe her, trading off in half hour increments, because we would be near falling asleep, even with the screaming.  She still slept a lot during the day, but we made it through the week.

Three weeks we were starting to see some improvements.  Lexi no longer screamed every time we set her down, and she started to watching things (us, the television, her friends on her jungle mat) very intently.  Her umbilical cord stump fell off this week, and we delighted in having a cordless baby.  We began to get her on an every four hour schedule.  She had her first Easter at 3 weeks old, and I went to my first movie alone for my birthday.  I checked my phone probably 50 times in the two and a half hours to make sure Lexi and Daddy were good.  They were.  He's fantastic with her.

Four weeks and we have a pretty solid schedule.  I can now do just about everything one handed.  We learned the difference betwen her angry, tired and hungry cries.  She cries real baby tears as if on cue when she's hungry.  Nighttime can still be complicated, but it's nowhere near as bad as it was.  Rick and I can talk to each other now, most nights.  At her one month checkup, she had gained 2.5 pounds, and an inch!  She's a very healthy girl.

Her cries this month sounded like "A hat, a hat."  She's mostly grown out of it now, but laughing at it kept me sane at the time.  Rick unfailingly delivered her a hat when she cried like this, as if being hatless was the root of all her woes.

It almost never worked.

27.

You guys.  I know some people gracefully accept whatever age they turn, and truly, it is better than the alternative, but I feel so...not 27, that I really don't know how to deal with it.  27 is an adult age, and not even a young adult.  I see movies with people playing teenagers, and I think to myself "I totally see where they're coming from", and then I look around the theaters and see actual teenagers, and it's always a little bit like being hit by a cement truck.

Because I'm not them.  I'm the Mom sitting next to them wondering if they're old enough to even be talking about which "Hunger Games" star is sexy, and whether or not the two teenage girls at the mall are safe when a creepy guy starts animatedly talking to them about how rich people actually maintain their wealthy status.

For my birthday, I went to see "Hunger Games".  I loved it.  However, it was the first time I saw a movie alone since 1999, and that was more than a little odd.  But for 2 and a half hours, nobody sat on me.  Nobody needed me.  I didn't have to clean up anybody's poop, and I was only responsible for feeding myself.  I sat in the theater, ate some snacks, and lost myself in the movie.

But oh, I missed Rick terribly.  You see, we don't have anyone we would leave the baby with here, so we tag teamed the movie, with me going Saturday and Rick going Sunday.  While I was taking my turn, Rick walked around the mall with Lexi.  I packed our pretty pink diaper bag with everything he would need, and he loaded her up in her stroller, and had his own quiet time.

Everything was a little bit different this year, actually.  The day before Easter marked Lexi being with us for three weeks.  We still are sleeping pretty sporadically, and we're still learning how to plan our trips around her naptime, so we didn't make it Easter basket shopping until the end of the week, for one reason or another.  So we made our Easter baskets together--Rick would pull something off a shelf and say "This could go in my Easter basket!"  I would hand him a book of logic puzzles and remark that they would be "just perfect for mine!"  Unorthodox, yes.  But this year, as new parents, it worked for us.

Sunday morning came quickly, and we took some Easter pictures of Lexi to mark the occasion:

And because I am usually overly prepared, she had not only a casual outfit, but a nicer one--courtesy of Grandma.

After picture time, we put Lexi back in her comfortable Easter clothes, and the Easter baskets made their appearance:

We took a break from our regularly scheduled programming to feed, change, and soothe the baby.  But the second, and I do mean the second, she was back down, we went about the business of dyeing eggs.

I said we're learning, not that we've learned nothing.  And one thing that we do know, is that if we're going to get anything done naptime is the time to do it.

The end results--I can't wait until Lexi is old enough to enjoy this kind of stuff:

After Easter Eggs, it was time to feed the baby again, and Rick headed out to the movies, to take his turn watching "Hunger Games."  I was back on baby duty, but she was charming, and personable, and happily awake.  We played for awhile before she went back to sleep.  Oh yeah, I also baked some fresh sourdough bread during this stage.  I'm starting to flex my Supermom muscles, because they must be in here somewhere.

When Rick came home, we started dinner.  Ham, asparagus, and scalloped potatoes.  I was starving.  We talked animatedly about the movie, since we were now both caught up.  Rick finished dinner while I had a Skype Date with my Dad.  (Who shares a birthday with me).

Everything was on plates.  We had ordered a movie on the XBox.  We had a two hour chunk left in Lexi's naptime.

However, something happened, someone flipped the baby switch and she woke up screaming, telling us all about how someone had peed in her koolaid.

I fed her.  I rocked her.  I bounced her.  I put her on her mat to look at her friends.  I talked to her, changed her, tried her chair, her swing.  Nothing would soothe the child.  Rick ate his dinner quickly, and then I ate mine, which was cold.  (I had gotten the hot meal on Saturday, so on Sunday, it was his turn for it.  We try to alternate so neither one of us gets the short end of the stick on a regular basis.)  We watched our movie in 30 second snippets in between screams.  I thought of a blog post I had read a few days back called "Parenting: A constant reminder that no one gives a damn what you want."  It became a little comical, me staring longingly at my plate of food, Quil bringing Lexi every toy he owned, the cat was sitting on the couch meowing and looking angry, and Rick was trying to eat his food so fast I was afraid he would choke on it.  And once we determined that Lexi wasn't in pain, merely tired/overstimulated/bored, we commented on her remarkable staying power, because by God, if she doesn't want to sleep, she's damn well not going to.

I finally got Lexi to sleep by holding her against my chest, with her arms pinned down (when she flails them compliments of her startle reflex, she wakes up).  I ate my dinner, while Rick finished my birthday cake.  We finished our movie, and ate cake.

I usually make a bunny cake for Easter, but since it coincided with my birthday this year, we just chose to make an Easter/Birthday cake to celebrate.

When we laid down in bed, it was about 11:30.  Lexi was supposed to be fed around 12:30, and since Rick was so exhausted, I told him I would take all of the middle of the night feedings that night.  He put his arm around me, and I snuggled back into him.  I thanked him for being part of my birthday with me.

He told me he'd be there for my birthday as many years as I wanted him.  He kissed me, and tightened his arms around me.

I closed my eyes, feeling exhausted in every bone of my body.

And then Lexi opened her mouth, and let out her hungry cry, proving again, that this scheduling your baby stuff is more to give new Mom's the feeling like they've got a fighting chance.

And Rick, already most of the way asleep laughed under his breath, and said "I'm so, so sorry baby."

Happy Birthday indeed.

Half of the time I believe in Fate.  The rest of the time I believe that things happen randomly, or at least people are responsible for their own paths in life.

It's very convoluted.  And changes daily.

However, in regards to how my daughter was born, I believe things worked out exactly the way they were supposed to.  One of my friends even said to me "I can't believe you ended up with a St. Patrick's Day baby...how perfect is that?"

Pretty damn perfect.

But, let's start at the beginning.

Lexi's birth story started on Tuesday, March 13th.  I had been sent to the hospital to be induced due to ever rising blood pressure.  I made some progress (enough to be admitted), but there was a miscommunication between nurses, and they sent us home.  This was a hospital error, and we were livid, but it was about 1am when we were told to go, I had been having horrifically strong contractions for over 6 hours with no break, and I was exhausted.  However, before the mix-up, Rick took a picture of me, and it is my most pregnant full-body picture:

I was less thrilled than I look in this picture.  They would do a check, administer the gel (which hurt worse than maybe anything else, including pushing the baby out), and then I would have to lay flat for an hour.  Then I was allowed 30 minutes to walk, and we did.  I went to the bathroom and then would walk the halls, then I would go back to my triage bed and do it all over again.

Wednesday involved Rick being on the phone with everybody and their mother trying to clear up the mixup.  We had been given an appointment to return on Thursday, but since I wasn't supposed to be sent home in the first place, there was a lot of arguring.  The doctors blamed the hospital, the nurses blamed the doctors, and I was put on strict bedrest.  I cried a lot.  My blood pressure went through the roof.  They told us they would try to get us in sooner, but there wasn't currently any room.

Thursday came, and while I was in the shower, the hospital called and cancelled our appointment.  They said they were still too busy and there was no room for us, so we would have to wait.  Rick called again, and they assured us that we were next on the list, and that we would be called in anytime.  However, they told us that they would call 24 hours a day, so we should be ready to go.

We dropped Quil off to be boarded, and came home to wait.

And wait.  And wait.  I slept very little.  And by 9am the next morning when they still hadn't called me, I went to a regularly scheduled doctor's appointment and cried like a baby.  I had tried so hard to be patient and gracious, but now on my 4th day of being jerked around, I had no more patience in me.  They took my blood pressure again and it was high enough that I was going to be sent to the hospital (again) but I expressed distaste and skepticism with this, saying outright "If I go, they're going to send me home again with a 500.00 bill.".  So, my doctor met with the on call doctor.  I'm not sure whether she said "This girl has had enough" or "This girl has flipped her shit, let's just get it over with", but whatever way it worked out, I was told to go, and that they would not let me leave without a baby, that they would find a way to get me admitted.

So, off we went, and by noon that day we had been officially admitted.  They checked me, and I had made no progress, but they proceeded with the induction they had started on Tuesday, using Cervadil, a 12 hour thing, which proved to be excruciating.  I went through the whole 12 hours with no pain medication, which is as close to natural labor as I ever hope to get.

Our room was big, with a spot in there so that the baby would not have to go to a nursery, as long as there was nothing wrong with her.  However, the hospital bed became the bane of my existence, and there was no way I could get comfortable in it.  My nurses were amazing, and the night nurse let me move to sit in a chair, because I was so, SO much more comfortable sitting up than laying down.

This is a decent picture of this corner of the room.  My phone charged on the bed, Rick napped (when he could) on the sofa, and when I was not required to be in the bed, I sat in this chair.  At this point, Rick had done my hair, because my IV was in a very uncomfortable place that took them four or five tries to hit.  My arm was sore (you can see some of the bruising) and whenever I tried to move it, the whole IV would shift.  This was at least 6 hours into the process, so I was uncomfortable and irritated.  But we soldiered on.

The rest of the room.  There was our own bathroom and like I said, it had a good amount of space.  Both pluses.

After the 12 hours was up, I was checked, and had made very little change.  I was allowed about 30 minutes to be off the monitors, and to eat and drink, which I did.  (I would not be allowed anything to drink for the next 16 hours, something I wish I was aware of before it happened.)  They started me on Pitocin, which is administered through an IV drip.  I took some pain medication, and slept a little.  Around noon or so, the doctor came in, broke my water, and placed internal monitors, since the external ones were having trouble picking Lexi up.  By this time, the pain medication had worn off, so something that had been described as a painless procedure was anything but.  The internal monitors were excruciatingly painful and awkward.  

I kept telling Rick that I was feeling like I was having one long contraction, with no downtime in between.  Nothing was showing on the monitors.  They kept upping my pitocin, trying to get contractions to show up, and nothing, or only very small ones.  I was miserable.  Rick was trying so hard to keep me calm and comfortable as possible, but there was very little he could do.  After what seemed like forever (Rick tells me it was a couple of hours) another nurse came in to see if she could get the internal monitors to work.  She messed with them, and all of a sudden the monitor lit up, showing my contractions exactly like I had been describing them.  Huge one after huge one, with no break, and the baby's heartrate wasn't good either.  She immediately backed down the Pitocin, and called my regular nurse in.

They also took pity on me, and decided that I had made enough progress (still next to none) and that I could have an epidural.

I had been afraid of the epidural, but that part was easy.  The anesthesiologist was kind, and communicative, and remained so every step of the way.  Rick was able to stay with me, so he sat close to my face, and I hunched over, and my only job was to remain still.  At one point, the anesthesiologist told me "You should expect to feel two more contractions", and a few seconds later, I told him "That's one, so I hope you're right."  He was, and in all honesty, it was Heaven.  At that point, I didn't care about the tubes coming out of my business, or the contractions, or even the muscle and joint pain I had been having for near four months at that point.  I couldn't feel a thing, so I was able to lay back in bed and relax a bit.

However, less than an hour after the epidural, my blood pressure tanked and I started throwing up.  Rick stood by me gamely holding the bag for me to vomit in, and one of the nurses got some Zofran, so thankfully, the nausea episode was short lived.  After that, Rick and I talked, I lamented the fact that I couldn't have any water, and we waited.

Probably around 5pm, I started having a lot of back pain.  They tried to alleviate it with ice, and Rick tried to help with some pressure, but nothing worked.  So by 6, my hero the anesthesiologist was back to top off the epidural.  NO one had checked me since early that morning, and this is the only part where I feel someone should have been more on the ball.

It was close to 6:30 or 7 when I felt pressure so bad that I was vocally complaining to anyone who would listen, something I resisted for most of my labor.  So, someone finally checked me, only to find that I was 9cm, plus a little more.  So all of the pressure, back pain and intermittent shaking I'd been having was probably just a signal that the party was almost over.  

By the time that nurse had gotten my regular nurse (shift change was at 7, so she got in there and immediately had to start getting things ready) I was ready to push.  The nurse told me "You can push if you want to, see how it goes."  And I did want to, I was ready to be done, and the pressure was unbelievable, and pushing was the only thing that made it feel even somewhat better.  I told Rick "I'm either having a baby, or I'm going to take a crap on this table."  And during pushing, I wasn't thinking anything soft or maternal, like "It's almost time to meet my baby!"  I was thinking "I want this feeling to STOP, and I want a drink of water."  In that order.

Once I started I couldn't stop, and I saw the nurse rushing around, and heard her call the doctor, who it turns out wasn't even at the hospital.

Rick was phenomenal during labor, he had quite a few reservations during the pregnancy, about seeing what was going on, or seeing the baby all covered and goopy.  He said "I don't want to cut the cord, and I don't want to see her (or anything) until it's all clean."

But he held my hand, and counted for me, nice and quiet, and just like everything else we do, we did it together.  I was vaguely aware of the doctor encouraging Rick to cut the cord, but I just assumed that he would decline, so I stopped listening to that conversation.  However, something happened to him, and not only did he decide to ultimately cut the cord, but he watched the whole birth.  

They kept telling me to save my energy and only push with the contractions, but I could barely feel the contractions at all, since I had just had the extra epidural.  It took me awhile to identify them through the crazy pressure there was, but once I did, it was easy.  At one point, the nurse started saying "One more push and she'll be here", and even in my dehydrated, pushing a baby out state, I was thinking "I wonder if she's saying that because it's true, or because she's trying to encourage me to push harder."  I even asked Rick if she was telling the truth, and he assured me she was.  Soon after, the baby flopped out like a fish, and Alexa Ryanne was born at 8:15pm on a miraculously rainy St. Patrick's Day in Arizona.  I only pushed for 30-45 minutes.

I have to always ask Rick for clarification about what happened next, because it was so fast.  He says that they gave the baby to me, and I held her while he cut the cord.  I held her for maybe 30 seconds, before they took her to clean her and check her (in the corner of our room, she never left).  Then while they were cleaning her, they stitched me up, and the doctor announced to the room that I hadn't used the bathroom while I was pushing.  (Something I forgot to ask, but I was happy to hear anyway!)  I actually have a picture of Rick holding the baby before her first bath, with a cup of water on the table next to me, so I'm pretty sure that I was sucking back water while I was being stitched up.

When she was born she was on the mellow side, perfectly fine, but she took a minute or so to cry.  She was more interested in looking around and taking everything in, much like she is now.

This picture of Lexi makes me laugh, because that suspicious look in her eyes is so her, and we've seen it countless times since this moment.

Finally, finally, they brought her back, and I got to hold her with no one poking, pulling or stitching any part of me.  Rick kissed me, said I was amazing, and told me how proud he was and how much he loved me.

We passed her around, she went first to her Dad, and then to her Grandma, and I, like every other Mom, thought she looked perfect.  And Lexi busied herself with staring at everything.

After awhile, they took her to give her her first bath, and while Rick watched, they cleaned her up.  She cried a bit, but calmed down quickly after it was over.

Lexi was dressed in a St. Patrick's Day outfit sent by my sister, and it fit perfectly.  (Which is more or less a miracle, our family doesn't know what to do with such tiny babies, so she has a wealth of clothes she will be growing into.)

Then she came back to me, and I looked at my little St. Patrick's Day baby, and thought about how if the week hadn't been so horrific, I wouldn't have her born on a day that meant so much to me.  Her Irish middle name wouldn't be such a perfect fit.

Rick marveled about how perfect and beautiful she was, and how he couldn't stop staring at her.

The rest of the night was relatively easy, except for the endless parade of nurses/postpartum counselors/people checking on me and the baby.  We set our alarm to feed her, and fell asleep close to 2am, and when the alarm went off we couldn't figure out what the noise was and how to make it stop.

We were pretty tired.  Lexi, however, slept like...well, like a baby.

The next day was spent visiting, answering questions, and learning about the baby.  I got my IV out, and rejoiced.  We debated going home, but as we wouldn't be discharged until late that evening, we stayed, and ultimately went home Monday morning.  I took a shower at the hospital, and felt like a brand new person.  And since they have an apparently endless supply of hot water, and I was allowed in there without an escort, I stood there for way longer than was necessary.

Monday came, and we were discharged quickly enough, with everyone receiving a glowing bill of good health.  We put Lexi in her carseat for the first time.

And all I have to say is Thank God the hospital is close to the house--I don't know how people who live 20, 30 minutes away from hospitals function on that first drive home at all, because the 5 minutes we had to drive were incredibly nerve wracking.

I don't know that I've ever been so happy to see my little apartment in all the time we've lived here, except for maybe the first time we opened the door after the Move From Hell.  It has been equal parts hard and amazing, but the hard parts are consistant, so as of yet, I've never been surprised by them.  Having my Mom here the first week was awesome--some nights I pulled the pillow over my head while Rick and Mom took care of her at 2am, just because I wanted more sleep.  Watching my Mom love my daughter was something else entirely.  And now that we're finding a routine, I think that I can handle it, and it really isn't as scary as I thought it would be after all.

Truth time: I am so happy with our perfect little family, and even though Rick and I are learning all over again how to navigate life, with the added pleasures of nighttime feedings, endless piles of baby laundry, and my favorite new game "Grocery Store Chicken" (when you realize that you're still pushing a cart with a sleeping baby, and it's feeding time...can you finish before she wakes up screaming?  Or will you get the stink eye from the old lady somewhere near the frozen pizza?) even though those are new parts of our daily life, there is so, SO much good here.  The way I catch Rick looking at me while I'm rocking the baby to sleep, the way he changes diapers without me asking him to, and the best: when he says "You spent all day with her, let me do the nighttime feedings tonight."

I worried incessantly about having Lexi, because my life was so good before, I felt guilty trying to add something so special to it, for trying to make it better.  But it's even better now.

"Why have you been exhausted for weeks, and now all of a sudden that you're a million ( 38 ) weeks pregnant, do you want to be up doing things?"  Rick asked me that this past Friday, looking more puzzled than annoyed.

And to be honest, I sort of blew him off, merely answering "It's normal" before going about my urgent business, which, at the time was organizing my scrapbooking supplies.

What I'm referring to, of course, is Nesting, which is defined as an "overwhelming urge in late pregnancy (particularly in first time mothers) to clean or organize one's home, similar to birds building a nest before laying eggs."

As much as I like being compared to something Avian any day of the week, my nesting has taken on a different form.  Apparently I don't so much care about having things CLEAN so much as I care about having them decorated.  I'm struggling with the urge to make decoration after decoration for St. Patrick's Day, and I don't know what's going to happen if she doesn't come before then, except I'll be 42 weeks pregnant and cutting out Easter Eggs out of Scrapbook paper.

Please God, no.  I don't know if I can take it.

Anyway, I've been working on some of this for a week, but other things I just got a bug up my butt today, and thankfully, Rick helped me.  Even more thankfully, he was relentlessly cheerful, and it really made the day pretty fun!    All the photo credit in this post goes to him, because not only did he help me do things, he took the blog pictures and then cleaned up afterward.  That's right, I AM a lucky girl.

First, we decided to make cupcakes.  I had a box of white cake mix and a container of lemon frosting, and when I bought the two, that was perfectly fine.  But in the interim between purchase and baking, I went crazy, and settled on the idea of them being rainbow colored.

"Why in God's name would you do that?"  Don't worry about being subtle.  I can hear you.  Because where the the damn Leprechans hide their pots of gold, so rainbows make perfect sense.

Gosh, brush up on your Irish mythology people.

Also, a rarely seen picture of (some of) my pregnant belly.  It's big, I know.  You don't have to tell me twice.

So yes, you make the cake mix according to the package directions, then divide it equally into 6 bowls, and dye each bowl.  It takes lots of food coloring, so don't start this project if your containers aren't at least half-full.  Go buy new ones first.  Trust me.

Then, you simply spoon about a teaspoon of each color into the cups, in reverse order so the red is at the top.  Here is a picture of the cupcakes in different stages of the stacking process.  Also worth noting: if you're anal retentive (like me) you can shake the cupcake tin after each layer to get the layers flat.  If you like things a little bit whimsical, (like Rick), then don't bother.  You'll see the difference in a later photo.

After they're baked: that's when some magic happens.  I may or may not have squealed with delight when they came out.  But wait, it gets better.

A close up shot of the sides: white liners look best if you want the layers to peek through, however, if you use the foil ones, people would be in for a nice surprise!

The finished dozen.  Worth noting: we did have some extra cake batter leftover (not of all of the colors) but it wasn't a lot.  We maybe could have gotten another two cupcakes out of everything that was left.  We got 12 large cupcakes.  If you wanted smaller ones, then just adjust the amount of color accordingly.  

So let me clear this up for you right now.  I didn't have a party to go to.  We don't even have anyone to give these two (although we might drop a few by Rick's office during a Puppy Field Trip (TM) tomorrow).  I frosted them fancy, and handmade the flags because it freaking made me happy.

And clearly I'm itching for someone to have a birthday party soon.  But Rick said that the hand-drawn flags are when I crossed into crazy town, so I'll save you the speculation and just tell you all right up front.

The finished tray.  Look, I'm not going to admit that I danced my big old belly around the kitchen.  I refuse to confirm that I invited the dog to dance with me.

If you're looking for official word on the subject, you're on your own.

Once the wrapper comes off!

Ta da!  So here's what I was talking about, the top three layers were shaked straight, the bottom three layers weren't.  It looks fine either way no one is going to remark about the straightness of your cupcake layers (and if they do, you don't want to be giving them cupcakes anyway.)  

And yes, as a matter of fact, they were delicious.

So when we're not busy making rainbow cupcakes without just cause, I've been busy sewing.  One night when Rick was at work late, I got it into my head that I was going to cut shamrocks out of fabric.  I wasn't totally sure what I was going to do with them, but there was a clear need for this task to be done, so I did it.  These are all from scraps of fabric I had laying around the house (including some fabric that is in our wedding quilt.)

Which still isn't finished.  One project at a time, people.

After I cut out the shapes, Rick and I did some consulting (seriously, I love when he helps me figure out and execute my projects.  I'm the dreamer, he's the planner.  Otherwise, I stand in the middle of my room holding two things and saying "It's broke, it doesn't work!"  Then Rick fixes it and everybody's happy.

This is what we ended up with:

Lastly (WHEW), after all of our Valentines Day stuff came down, Rick lamented that our door was looking a little lonely.  So I made this, and it sums everything up:

There are always going to be those occasions where I'm out doing normal person things, and I kick my own ass for not having my camera with me.  (Probably why I should start carrying it with me al lthe time, because, with the way this baby is going, she's going to do all of her amazing things when I'm as far away from my camera as I can possibly get.)

But today, Rick and I were out running errands, and there seemed to be an overly odd assortment of people out.  Like, way more so than normal.  First, at the gas station.  Imagine the biggest truck that you can possibly see.  Now imagine it bigger--because it's lifted to obscene heights.  But wait--then you have to visualize the camo trim that was around every window, and door, all down the bed, and around the wheel wells.

And in case you thought I was done, imagine naked girls hidden in the tan parts of the camo.

"Wow," Rick muttered, climbing up next to me in the car.  "Who do you think is feeling the need to swing their dick around?"  We watched people for awhile, and when we saw a little old man coming out of the gas station convienence store, he said "I bet it's him, he was a jerk inside."  

Sure enough, Mr. 85 year old man climbed into that truck, that was at least twice as tall as he was.  "God," Rick said.  "I want to go over there and tell him what a jerk he was."  I shook my head vehemently.  "NO way!  You don't know how many guns he has in the back of that thing!"  Rick laughed, because, holy crap, overcompensation at it's most blatant.

Later on during the day, we were leaving the Wal-Mart parking lot, when we saw a motorcycle parked in one of the spots.  There was a helmet and a pair of goggles hanging from one handlebar, and on the back, behind the seat was a wire basket.

With a medium sized dog inside it.  Who was also wearing pink goggles.

"What the HELL is that?"  I asked.  I was quite tired and cranky by this point, nevertheless, Rick instantly knew what I meant.  He started laughing.

"Is that a real dog?"  He asked me.  We couldn't be sure, because this dog wasn't moving a single muscle.  "I don't know if it's more funny if it's real or fake!"  

"I want to SEE."  I told him.  (Note to my readers: this last month of pregnancy is making me snappish, dramatic, and really quite childish.  Rick is a saint for putting up with it as gracefully as he has.)

"Okay, baby."  He said, making a loop around the parking lot, and finding a space where we were facing the dog.  (Which still hadn't moved, by the way.)

After about 90 seconds of us staring intently at this dog (who was only moderately smaller than Quil), she finally turned her nose, ever so slightly to the side.  We watched for awhile longer, when the owner came out, and began to put his helmet on.  But, we weren't the only people enamored by this very well behaved dog, and so we rolled down the windows and eavesdropped on the cart attendant asking about it.

"How do you get her to stay in there?"  He asked the owner, who seemed used to these questions, and replied in a heavy Russian accent.  "Because I am good trainer.  She is good dog.  She has been in basket for twelve years."  

That answer wasn't quite what the cart attendant was looking for, so he continued.  "I guess, what I mean is, how do you get her in there in the first place?"

Now the owner looked moderately frustrated.  "Because I am good trainer!  I put her in there when she is very small!  She does not jump out."

Rick and I stayed there and watched the motorcycle man drive away with his immaculately well trained dog, and then drove to Petsmart, where we picked up ours.

Who learned a new bark, by the way--now, when he barks, he sounds like a Yorkie.  Everyone stares at the tiny noise coming out of the very big dog.  He barked probably 15-20 times in a row while we were trying to check out of the Pet Store, and me, tired as I was, just let him do it.

So I guess it ended fairly, because, by the end of the day, we were the ones being people watched.

It's no secret by now that we love holidays in our house.  Rick, who used to indulgently roll his eyes at me when I said things like "C'mon, we have to get out the Valentines Day decorations", or "You know we need green towels for St. Patrick's Day!" now doesn't even blink an eye, and in fact, looks for more decorations for me because he knows they will make me happy.

But this year, Valentines day fell on a Tuesday, which, what kind of crap is that?  I don't know about the rest of you folks, but the idea of trying to fight for a table after Rick has been at work all day on a Tuesday is right up there with the idea of waterboarding, so we decided pretty early on in January to just postpone it until this weekend.

But, as the days passed, I was met with this nagging feeling in my gut.  I couldn't do NOTHING.  Yes, perhaps it is a contrived holiday, but I still LOVE him, and though I try to show it every day, there is nothing wrong with a little extra over the top love-showing.  It's the one (maybe 2, if you count our anniversary) day a year that I get to be extra corny, and no one gets to mock me for it.

So, a couple of weeks before V-Day, I put my plan into action.  See, I get tired now.  Physically and mentally.  So gone are my days where I could finish a whole project in two days.  I think back to last year, and how I put together a whole St. Patrick's Day dinner in one day, complete with sewing a table runner, and I laugh.  And also cry a little, because there's just no way in hell I could pull that off this year.  I can only do a little bit at a time before I get tired and have to put things away.  But, I got it all done, so Monday night, after Rick was asleep, I put my pregnancy insomnia to good use:

Try not to focus on how stained my coffee pot is (especially if you're my Mom), and pay attention to the story okay?  I know it's a tiny thing, but I got the coffee ready for Rick to drink the following morning, and put together a smally bag of treats that I had baked earlier in the day.  Also, I made that card, and I'm pretty much in love with it, I think it looks awesome.

But that didn't feel like enough, so good thing I had also planned this:

On each of these hearts I wrote a thing I loved about him.  And I could have kept going.

How very, very lucky I am.

Pick up any Womens Magazine, and they'll tell you the same thing—women are complicated, men are simple. Women can never say what they mean, and men ONLY say what they mean.

Unless of course they're lying, cheating manipulators, in which case, if your instincts tell you so, it's perfectly harmless to check your partner's text messages, Ladies!

On the other hand, if he reads yours, he CLEARLY has trust issues, and you should run don't walk the other way. Also, he'll probably always choose his mother over you anyhow, so you're just saving yourself years of heartache and arguments.

It's no small wonder that some women are so screwed up. It's also why I tend to give those magazines a wide berth, preferring instead to immerse myself in child raising, home decorating, and recipes for really great chocolate cake.

But sometimes, during a seemingly harmless bout of internet searching, I get a bit lost. I start out watching videos of cats on youtube, and then before I know it, I've wandered down some dark alleyway, and I'm reading horrified, mouth hanging open about how if I cut my hair wrong he'll never love me again, and if I don't lose all of my baby weight (not that there is any, big fat knock on wood) pronto, I'd better start reading those text messages and hacking his Facebook.

And I've come to the conclusion, after a few too many bathroom trips at 2am where my brain springs to life unbidden, is that I don't know the men these articles are about. Even back in High School, my primary experience was with men (boys) who didn't ever say what they meant. Take my first two boyfriends:

#1: “You shouldn't come drop me off at college, there's a lot of hills on campus, and you just got stitches.” (True.)

What he meant was: I already have another girlfriend lined up, and I know we've been together for several years, but don't worry, I'll break up with you in an email later, and blame you for not caring enough to drop me off at school. (True story.)

#2: “My grandma has been encouraging me to take some time for self-reflection, and I think I have to do that alone.” (Who the hell even knows.)

What he meant was: I have no clue what I want, but I will spend the next ten years calling and emailing you and begging you to take me back. At the same time I will blame you for the failure of all of my subsequent relationships, and then wonder in long messages why you never ever pick up the phone.

Of course, High School boys aren't the only ones who are guilty of not saying what they mean. Rick says things with hidden meanings all the time. He says things like “Do you have your cell phone with you?”, “I'm not moving this car until you put on your seat belt”, “Go back inside the house and put on some real shoes”, and “Don't you get out of that chair until you've finished all that water.”

What do all of these things really mean? Well, I've gotten better at man-speak since High School. It's as obvious to me as if he were simply screaming it in my face.

They're all just ways of saying “I love you. I want you to be safe. I want to keep you forever.”