That Darn Cat

Matt's mother left us early Tuesday morning to return home. After two long weeks of her company I'll readily admit I had a little bit of a breakdown at the prospect of doing this whole Mothering thing without her help. This is mostly because at around 6:30am each morning she'd willingly take and look after my son for 2-4 hours so that I could get a little more sleep. Man do I ever love just a little more sleep.

But, no matter how hard it was for me to adjust to life without her, for Peter it was much much worse. Forgetting the fact that Terri is amazing with children and therefore my son, she had been here for half of the kid's life, so I can understand how he took her departure poorly. For two days my sweet, mellow baby boy became very unhappy. He cried and yelled more in those 2 days then I think he had up until that point in his whole entire life.

I don't know for sure, but I think Gramma was sad to go as well. She didn't really say goodbye outright, which might have had something to do with her not wanting to cry (this I know because I felt the same way.) Also, Monday night before bed I caught her trying to put Peter in her suitcase. I only wish I had a picture of that.

Anyway, happily, on Thursday, Peter mellowed out again. This worked out well because I had a Doctor's appointment and I don't really know if the Doc, the nurses or I could have handled it if my baby had cried the entire time.

He even got back into our normal night time routine. I generally go to bed at about 10. Peter then wakes up to eat somewhere around 1, then again at 3 or 4 and then he's up for good around 6. It's not ideal, but since he's still sleeping in a bassinet right next to my side of the bed its working.

So then this morning at 4:30 I was up feeding Peter when the cats started meowing and scratching at our bedroom door. This got Brutus upset which in turn woke up Matt. Soon it became apparent that Peter was not readily going to go back to sleep for awhile and I was hitting my wall so Matt bravely crawled out of bed, took the baby with him and herded all the animals with them downstairs so I could get snooze awhile longer.

Around 7, Matt came in to get me up to feed our boy. He also mentioned that Chase might be missing. It's never easy to tell, since cats are good at hiding, but apparently the cat was no where to be found and he might have gotten out in the yard and jumped the fence.

By about 8 there was still no sign of him. Matt had looked everywhere in the house at least twice and the yard was definitely empty. :( I left the baby with Matt
and decided to drive around a bit to look for him. When I came home empty handed and on the verge of hysterics we put the baby in the stroller and headed out on foot for some more searching. When this still returned nothing I went home and printed up some "Lost Cat" posters and hung them around the neighborhood.

Later when I started to cry again, Matt decided to drive around some more but still came home without the cat.

It was so awful not knowing where he was or really what had happened to him. I was happy we hadn't found him smooshed in the road anywhere, but also beginning to give up on ever seeing him again. I kept staring out the windows hoping to see him and finding myself dissapointed. I tried not to hate Matt for letting him get lost, but it was really not going well. We own two cats, KC and Chase... and to break up the set would really be sad and depressing. I tried to block out my heartache and take a nap but it didn't work. Instead, I laid in my bed and prayed for the cat's safe return. (God must really be great like they say He is, because man does He have to listen to some doozies from me.)

At some point, Matt was downstairs trying (not) to do his homework. Then for some reason I guess he decided to go outside and try calling the cat.

"KITTY KITTY KITTY KITTY!!"

I'm sure I never would have done that. What on earth kind of cat comes when called?

Or answers for that matter.

Mine does.

From somewhere Matt heard him,

"meow. meow. meow. meow."

The cat, as it turned out, was 4 yards over, on the other side of 4, 5 feet tall privacy fances, hiding in a neighbor's yard. How exactly he ended up there, I have no idea.

All's well that ends well I guess.

Chase, it seems is no worse for the wear. He just has a few burrs stuck in his fur. And I put his collar, which has my phone number on it, back on him.

He HATES his collar.

When I make him wear it he tends to pout and hide under the furniture. Case and point, because this is what he's doing now:

No matter. I'll take an angry pouting cat over a lost cat anytime.

Allow me to rant a little....

Call me stupid and naive or idealistic if you'd like, but I really wish the world would just get over labelling people by the color of their skin and calling it race.

You know what race every person is? Human. We are all members of the human race. Period.

And I don't mean to disrespect people who use their skin color as a defining characteristic of their culture, but I believe culture is something very different and so much more interesting that should in no way really be related to color/race.

Skin color is just the result of genetics and sun exposure and is such a dumb way of identifying anything. No matter what race a person is, they still can come in a whole range of colors, so why do we try to create labels based on color?

Why not label a person, if you have to label them at all, based on their culture? That is, based on their heritage, where they come from and how they live their life, since these are much more likely to define who a person actually is. I personally have genetic roots from at least 4 European countries/cultures (England, German-Saxon, Hungarian and Czechoslovakian) yet nobody cares about any of that because my skin is "white."

Because my skin is "white" I've been told, by some, that I can not experience prejudice or racism so therefore I can not possibly "get it." Well, I'm here to tell you for starters that is 100% not the case. Forget the fact that most Hungarians (some of my ancestors) historically were essentially wandering Gypsies who weren't welcomed anywhere in Europe. Just forget that and consider my own experiences of the 2 years I spent living in Japan. There, for whatever reason, a great many of the native people have negative attitudes towards outsiders. Outsiders of any race. And don't get me started on some of their views on members of the American Military. Ugh. While I'm certainly not comparing my own experiences to the horrible way some minorities have historically been treated in America, the way I was treated was often based on racial prejudices. And let's just say I wasn't always treated well.

When I lived in Texas, I was informed by some people that I was an "Anglo." This was interesting me since at the time I was roughly 23 years old and had never heard the term before. It seemed to me that suddenly I was being erroneously labelled and grouped just as if I went around assuming every Spanish speaking person in the Southwest came from Mexico. Wouldn't it be more interesting to label me for my heritage instead of for my pale-ish complexion? Or, in the very least label me "European American" which at least calls homage to who my ancestors actually were.

The other day we were at Basken Robbins getting ice cream. Behind us a large family with about 5 children came in. All of the children had fair complexions except for the youngest girl who appeared to be African American. I noticed them, first, because there were so many of them and it was a tiny ice cream shop, but then I noticed the little girl for her uniqueness. I wondered to myself if the group was a family at all or if the parents might just be babysitting. I wondered if perhaps the adults were foster parents or if the littlest child might be adopted. The family, with its diversity made me smile. Especially when I heard the little girl call the woman "Mommy."

I don't know their story. But I kind of liked what I saw.

I bring this up now, because of this post on my friend's blog. Lori's experience got me to thinking.

Seriously who cares about color? Color is beautiful. Color is diversity and it makes everything more interesting to look at. But, if suddenly all the colors were removed our world would still be the same world. People would still be whoever they are they would just have to define the themselves, or each other in other ways. Like, maybe by finding out who they actually are.

Baby Growth and Garlic

It's crazy to me how you spend an entire pregnancy preparing for a newborn and in a flash they are done with it. As much as I try to hold on to his newness, Peter is growing like gangbusters. He outgrew newborn size Pampers last week and his newborn clothes are getting very tight. He has now worn several of his 0-3 months outfits, and they are no longer humongous on him. Also, his face is filling out. His big eyes and pointy chin no longer dominate the features on his face, because now chubby cheeks and a little double chin are taking over as his baby fat starts to fill in.

We're also beginning to notice his personality starting to emerge. Already he sleeps so much less and when he's awake it's for much longer periods of time with an actual alertness in his eyes. He seems to look right at whoever is holding him and he'll turn his head towards a sound or to search for his lost pacifier. He's starting, slowly, to discover his hands by reaching towards nearby objects like toys or, in most cases his lost pacifier. The pacifier, as it turns out, is becoming a major concern in my young son's life. Try as might have to keep him from getting hooked, he just LOVES it too much and after about the first week it was the only way to calm him down when he got worn out or over stimulated.

So far, he's generally such a pleasant boy and I feel blessed to even know him. He stares up at us sighing and cooing contently when we hold him (which, if he had his way we would do ALL the time) and he prefers to fuss, grunt or whine to get what he needs instead of crying. (Don't get me wrong, he'll still scream bloody murder if his needs, like saying replacing his lost pacifier, aren't met fast enough.)

We're amazed every day at how strong he is as each day he holds his head up for increasingly longer periods of time. His Gramma and I are also half convinced that at any day he will roll over. What's that you say? Four weeks is entirely too early? Well, yes, you're probably right, except that this child can escape from ANY swaddle (even the ones that velcro shut) and constantly gives his Mommy tiny heart attacks when she awakes to find him sleeping on his side. This same child also had his parents giggling hysterically the other morning when they found him sleeping soundly with a bare foot poking out from between the snaps of his Footie-Pajamas. The corrosponding jammie leg meanwhile, was just laying there empty. I missed getting a picture of the foot, but here is is sleeping on his side as I so often find him. Matt and I have searched high and low for the name of this practice/medical condition. Finally, Matt got on the phone with his friend Dr LT Kristin and with his brother, almost Dr Jono, and confirmed that he is, in fact "squirmy." That's the medical term. We are still looking for a medication that might help with this condition.



But who am I kidding? None of you are logged onto this blog because you want to read about how he's doing, you want to see pictures, pictures and more pictures. And, since I am a digital camera addict (is there and anonymous group for that?) I am happy to oblige. We'll begin first with a few shots of my boy on his floor mat activity center which he's now learning to enjoy (as opposed to say screaming his head off.) He wiggles and reaches like crazy when I turn the lights and music on, he happily stares at his own undoubtably blurry image in the mirror and when safely enclosed in the warmth and security of footie pajamas he will stretch out, wave his arms and kick madly when laid on his back under the arch of dangling toys.





In other news, the other day, gifts from my Aunt Jeannine and Uncle Joe arrived, including a Baby Bjorn carrier. When Matt was giving it a try, I caught this picture of Matt and Peter which I ABSOLUTELY adore.



On Saturday, Matt's older brother Jeff and his wife, Amanda flew in for the weekend from Seattle to meet their new nephew. They came bearing gifts, including a "Future Submariner" onsie and bib (since Jeff used to be on Subs in the Navy) and a computer camera so that their kids can talk to their new cousin over the internet. Jeff and Amanda's 3 kids are currently on the East Coast visiting their other set of Grandparents so Uncle Jeff took the opportunity to demonstrate the camera and video-chatting program to his new nephew while intorducing his kids virtually to their new cousin.



This weekend also happend to be the world famous "Gilroy Garlic Festival" in Gilroy, CA, which is just about a 45 minute drive north of here. If you think I'm kidding about the "world famous" part I'm really not. About 4 years ago Matt and I were stuffing ourselves silly at Garlic Joe's Italian restaurant in Yokohama, Japan and we noticed a poster for the festival on the wall. We've been planning to attend, once we got to Monterey, ever since. Here are some photos of our Garlic filled day:

The inflatable Garlic Man-



Jeff, Amanda, Matt, Me and Peter (who's hidden under the stroller canopy) in front of a festival sign-



Amanda and Jeff tasting some Garlic ice cream. (If you think I'm kidding notice the sign above Amanda's head.)



Me, enjoying some yummy Garlic pizza-



Matt cooling off in the shade while giving Peter the chance to cool off (outside of his stroller) and stretch his legs, or in this case, entire body-



Me again, this time infront of some flaming garlic-



Signs announcing some of the variety of Garlic laced, breath destroying foods available for purchase-



And of course here is Peter's Gramma Terri, with her two oldest boys just before Jeff and Amanda needed to head off for the airport-



In Gilroy, unlike Monterey, it was HOT. Maybe our heat-resistance has aleady built up after living in the moderate 50-70 degree temperatures of the Monterey Peninsula for an entire month, but I don't think so. I think it was just hot. Terri must have agreed because she suggested we stop at the beach on the way home and dip our toes in the freezing cold ocean to cool off. They did (I did not) and apparently, the water really was freezing. Moreover, the waves were huge and enormously intimadating. All in all, I think we lasted at the beach for about 5 minutes total.

This last picture would be the "Before" shot. Before the temperature of the water pooling around Matt's ankles occured to him. Before the water touched Terri at all. Mostly, before a humongous wave came rushing in soaking their shorts and sending all of us (including me with the baby and my camera in hand) racing back up the beach.



So I guess it was a another good week and another even better weekend. (Too bad Gramma Terri has to go home tomorrow and then I'll need to survive four whole days until my Grandma comes.)

On a final note, I'm paying for all the garlic I ate yesterday. Forgetting any gastro-intestinal consequences I personally might be suffering through, Peter is making me sorry. He's NOT happy with my milk today. He lets me know this by gulping a few times then spitting entire mouthfulls back at me before taking a large breath, turning a nice shade of magenta-ish purple and then wailing as if I'm starving him to death. Eventually he tries again with a similar reaction and after a few rounds of this he shuts down and goes to sleep only to wake again, 45 minutes later hungry and cranky all over again.

What's in a name?

When Matt and I were somewhere in the neighborhood of 3 months pregnant we began serious discussions about what we were going to call our first born. (We'd been having not-so-serious discussions along these lines on and off for the past several years.)

In our previous conversations, we'd both agreed that we liked the names "Peter" and "Phillip" for boys. (I have no idea why those are both "P" names.) "Peter" seemed like a nice classic name that isn't popular anymore and I've never had a student named Peter to ruin it for me. We liked "Phillip" for the same reason, plus the added bonus that every single boy named "Phil" whom I've ever known was blindingly HOT. I figured it might be nice to give our kid a decent chance with the ladies when he grows older. There were always other boy names in consideration, like "Justin" and "Jacob," but "Jacob" is way too popular thse days and for some reason Matt just never seem to like "Justin" as much as I did.

As far as girl names went, we never made as much progress. Matt suggested "Samantha" randomly once a million years ago which I sort of like and I love the song "Cecilia" by Simon and Garfunlkle so that was always sort of in the running... except for the part about how the girl in the song is sort of a slut... so for girls, all in all we had nothing.

Anyway, back in January when we were 3-4 months pregnant and we started serious naming negotiations I began to have doubts about our boys names and a serious nervous breakdown at the sheer number of cute girl names. A friend gave me two name books. One was a list of names and how they are in some way related back to the Bible and the other listed names and their popularity over the years.

The Bible-Names book was a little ridiculous. At one point I randomly opened it up to a page and found the name "Bubbles." Then after this most ridiculous name it referenced how Bubbles was a derivative of something else which somehow related back to some Biblical story. Alrighty then. And my I just add, whatever!

For the next several weeks I began to refer to my unborn child as "Bubbles." It was just ridiculous enough to terrify people when we mentioned it.

:)

Obviously we weren't making a great deal of progress.

Then late one evening a few days before our 4 month ultrasound (the one where we could find out the baby's gender) Matt was flipping through the name books reading aloud to me as we lay in bed before going to sleep. I was exhausted, it was easily 2 hours past my normal bed time and Matt was wired and driving me crazy. He simply would NOT shut up. To make matters worse, more than half of the names he was throwing out there made "Bubbles" seem like a very reasonable option.

So I made him a deal: as long as he quieted down immediately and let me go to sleep, and promised to take the naming of our child seriously, and didn't intentionally pick something I hated, he could pick the name.

Call me crazy, but I really needed to get some sleep that night.

In the morning I really began to regret our deal, but I didn't try to get out of it.

Matt went ahead and bid his time quietly, relishing his new found power until our ultrasound.

When the unltrasound tech told us (and showed us) that we were going to have a little boy Matt didn't really react. He looked at me (checking for tears no doubt) and asked me if I was okay with that. I thought briefly about every story from Matt's childhood and told him we probably needed to go ahead and fireproof the house.

Now, I'm not 100% sure on the timing, but I think it was only a few hours afterward that Matt told me we'd be calling the baby "Peter."

I'm not going to lie. I had some concerns. I had no power to change it after all, and I also seriously doubt if anyone ever feels completely sure when they pick their child's name. But since we weren't announcing the gender, we weren't announcing the name so I had plenty of time to get used to the idea.

Peter is just such a friendly name. I have friend named "Peter" and he is probably the friendliest person I know. And Peter Pan is one of my favorite children's stories. And, for some reason, I remember when I was little sitting in church listening to the Pastor preach and every time he talked about Peter it seemed like such a good name to me.

So, "Peter" it was, and then we (make that I, because I didn't give Matt a choice in the matter) chose "Joseph" for the middle name after my Uncle, who's named after my Grandpa who was named after my Great Grandpa. It's a whole family thing.

Which gave us:

"Peter Joseph"

Little "P.J."

Hmmmm.

The new nickname for the baby while I was pregnant quickly became "Jammies." Get it? "P.J." - "Pajamas" - "Jammies."

Heeheeheehee! I crack myself up. Seriously.

And then at some point Matt started refering to him as "Pete." Forgetting a few total jocks I once knew who went by Pete I still liked th ring of it. (Even if I don't actually call him that.)

So you know, the kid has options. "Peter," "Pete" or "P.J."

And then he was born and for some inexplicable reason I started to refer to him as my "Friend" (which is what I often called my students.) And then Friend, quickly evolved into "French Fry."

My little "French Fry." "Freddie French Fry."
(I have no idea why , but I just started calling him that.)

And on occassion he's "Tater tot." Or sometimes "Sweet Potato."

Mama, apparently, has a thing for starches.

Matt on the otherhand takes a different approach. On day 2 of Peter's life, when the baby was cleaning his system out by pooping up massive ammounts of dark nasty baby crap, my child was dubbed "Poopasaurus Rex."

Then when we came home we both started to notice how we are blessed with a baby who rarely cries. Instead he prefers to let us know of his needs by whinning and fussing. Fussing a lot.

To this, my loving spouse, the father with whom I am proud to share this parenting experience with, came up with the best funniest (and most random) nickname of them all:

"Fussleupagus"

(In case your wondering, 32 or so odd years ago, there was a little boy in Ohio who had quite a love for Sesame Street and all things Snuffleupagus.)

Adventures with Grandparents

It's been several days since my last update. For those of you who've ever been a new parent I'm sure you understand. For those of you who haven't, well, let's just say that the days and nights can tend to run together and time looses all meaning except in relationship to your infant child's last feeding or diaper change. While it's an exciting adventure, there is a strangely monotonous quality our new form of daily of existence that doesn't lend well to interesting blogs.

Peter continues to be a very good baby who rarely cries but prefers to fuss and whine to let us know when he needs something. His Daddy is still often adorable with him and is the champion baby-burper in the household. Mommy, on the other hand has become obsesses with these adorable 10 little piggies.



He is also quite possibly one of the cutest sleepers on the planet. This bodes well for him, since he really prefers to be held until he is very soundly asleep and his cuteness gives me something to obsess about while I hold him.



Late Wednesday evening Matt's parents arrived. Here is Terri holding her newest grandson who is sporting his new Ohio State hat for the first time. (It's still a little big.)



Peter seemed to enjoy soaking up the Grandparently love.



Friday afternoon, we all went out to check out the touristy sights in Monterey. Peter was less than thrilled to get into his car seat, but once he calmed down he spent the entire afternoon sleeping soundly.



We started at Fishermen's Wharf where we ate lunch and then headed down to Cannery Row to explore the shops and the waterfront views.







This next one has nothing to do with anything, but I really think Peter's outfit is adorable. Incidentily, these were SUPPOSED to be his homecoming clothes but it was too cold that morning.



Yesterday we decided to load up the car and explore 17 Mile Drive. This is a toll road which takes tourists along the shore exploring the sights of the Monterey Peninsula at stopping points along the way and winding between various famous golf courses, most notably including Spyglass Hills and Pebble Beach.

One of the stops was at a nice little beach area. Forgetting that the water is somewhere just north of FREEZING and the weather was foggy, overcast and supererbly windy I had to take the opportunity to introduce my new little man to the beach for the first time.



I even dipped his toes in. And by "in" I mean I put one or two of his toes down into the foam between waves just barely avoiding dunking (and therefore soaking) my poor unsuspecting child as a rather large wave snuck up on us.



Then Matt's Mom decided Peter needed to leave his first footsteps in the sand.





Of course we took lots more photos along the way.



Some deer made an appearance on one of the golf courses.



And eventually we made it to the most popular stop of all. Apparently this tree, growing haphazardly out of the shore rocks is known as "The Lone Cypress" and is, like, really famous or something.



Here is Terri, the tree and Matt. The picture makes me laugh a little bit because both my husband and his mother are standing exactly the same way. Sometimes they are so much alike it scares me.



So finally....

After all the excitement of the weekend so far, Peter was really, really in need of a bath. I'd already given him two Sponge sorts of baths to avoid the pungent aroma of stale breast milk clinging to my sweet boy, but this morning it was time to go for the real thing.

So, without further delay, may I present to you baby's first bath. :)


Peter handled it like he does everything else, like a champ. He only fussed a little but mostly stared in fascination at the bright orange wash cloth hanging on the side of the tub and cooed peacefully while I washed his hair.

Ladies and Gentleman, may I present.... a belly button.

Yesterday evening, right before dinner I was feeding Peter and his umbilical cord stump fell off.

Ew.

I'd noticed that the little lump was no longer where it had been poking through his onsie. Little peices of the stump had been coming off all day when I changed him, so I sort of suspected it might be happening soon but I admit I still wasn't really prepared.

I called to matt for help who was making dinner. He told me to bring him the baby. I thought he'd bravely pick the little stump up out of his child's onsie and toss it in the garbage. (How depressing is that by the way? The last remnents of the cord through which I nourished my child for the first 9 months of his life goes in the trash!) But no, my brave spouse was not looking to impress me on this occassion. Instead, he took the baby gently from me, unsnapped the bottom of Peter's clothes and asked me to hold the trash can open while he gently dangled our first born over the can and waited for the stump to fall out and into the garbage.

Apparently Matt found the notion of touching the little peice of dead tissue grosser than I did.

My Hero.

Or, you know, not.

Anyway, what I really want to know is if his stump has fallen off does that mean he's not a newborn anymore?

:(

Birthday "Presents"

Today is my 31st birthday. Oh. Boy.

I really need to say that I can NOT believe my long anticipated 21st (drunken) birthday was 10 years ago. Where on Earth has the time gone? I feel kind of old. However, like always I find some consolation in the knowledge that Matt will always be 3 years older than me. No matter how scary 31 might seem, 34 is still a whole lot worse. :) Also, everybody still guess my age to be between 25 and 28, which I will very happily except. Always.

Also if I think about where I was last year (in the middle of the deployment with my husband very, very far away and desperately wanting to have a baby) it's hard not to be thankful.

At 12:46 am this morning when I woke Matt up to take the baby for a few minutes lest I loose my mind after 2 hours of feeding, burping, pooping and an overall refusal to settle down unless someone was holding him.... I realized it was my birthday. Matt told me that my birthday needed to wait until atleast 6:00 am. I would tend to agree, but at that moment I was too busy just being happy to have a husband for my birthday.

Also, I can proudly say that I managed to meet my "goal" of having my first child when I was 30. I just made it, 10 days before my own, self-imposed deadline. Yahoo!!

I don't think we really have plans to celebrate and that's totally okay by me. Instead a long afternoon of baby-care and laundry awaits us.

I don't really expect any presents either. I haven't really thought about it. I got the best present of all last week. (Cheesy, but true.) Peter, however, has been doing his part to make my day special in his own little way. At 4:00 am he unlatched and proceeded to give back the entire contents of his stomach. (Yuck.) Baby spit up in your belly button is not fun to clean up. To further the celebration, during his 6:00 am post-feeding diaper change he waited until I'd finished wiping him for the exact instant when I went to switch to the clean diaper and turned his sprinkler on. As soon as I covered him up to contain that mess he pushed and... poo. went. everywhere. (Are you beginning to see now why I have volumes of laundry to do today?)

All in all, this might go down as one of my most memorable birthdays ever.

How things are going

It's still probably way to early to really pass judgement on how this whole parenting thing is working out for me. And, to be honest, I'm a little worried about even generalizing how things are going so far, for fear that karma will come back on me and everything will change.

That being said, I think I've got a pretty good baby. And this is in no way bragging or judging by his cuteness or any of that... this is me saying he's pretty, um, well behaved.

That's probably not the right choice of words.

The thing is, he really doesn't cry much. Yet. He really doesn't cry much yet and when he does cry I find myself instantly wondering if my luck is changing. But then I figure out whatever is bugging him and he goes back to the happy boy I know the rest of the time.

He does fuss sometimes for quite, but usually he will settle down once his diaper has been checked, his tummy is full, he's had a good burp or Mommy finds brings him a warmer blankie. Go figure. Aren't those like basics of a happy baby? I'm so NOT complaining.

My one issue is that I can't seem to have any success burping him. Daddy/Matt, on the other hand is CHAMP! I sling him over my sholder (not literally, so stop panicking) and pat/rub his back for an hour and all I get is, eventually, a fitfully sleeping ball of baby curled up on my sholder as if he's back in the womb. This little angel, immediately wakes up and starts to fuss again as soon as he is moved off my sholder.

Daddy, on the other hand, takes him and within 4 minutes my first born is rivaling the frat boys burping at a keg party. It's sort of not fair. I mean, don't get me wrong, its GREAT when Daddy/Matt is home, but alas, Mommy/Jen is no longer gainfully employed so somebody has to go to work (or in this case school) and keep our little one in diapers.

This burping dillema made for sort of a long morning is all I'm saying. Mommy is apparently wholey inadequate at baby burping.

Perhaps it is because at this point Mommy could easily take a job working for the local dairy, keeping not only her own child but probably at least 5 others happily in Breast Milk. Seriously, I'm overflowing here, to the point where my little guy has to stop and catch his breath every few moments in order to avoid choking or coughing on the flood being poured down his tiny little through at meal time. Seems like if I wasn't drowning him every 2-4 hours, he'd probably need burped a lot less.

Oh, and don't even get me started on what happens in my hot morning shower.

Ew.

You think I'm kidding don't you? Well, on average my healthy little 8 pound boy eats each time for something in the neighborhood of 8-20 minutes total before he's filled to the brim and passed out peacefully once again. (According to all the books, it really ought to take longer to satisfy him.) I worry that he's not eating enough, but my the pediatrician promised me that as long as junior continues to produce dirty diapers, he's getting plenty.

And he's producing. No worries there.

My friend assures me things will even out in about a week. Trust me when I say that. can't. happen. soon. enough.

So anyway, back to my baby. He rarely cries, he eats like a champ in record time and so long as his father is around he's a world class burper. How on earth did I get so lucky?

At night, I'm pretty sure he'd sleep for 6 hours straight if I'd let him. Unfortunately I wake up every 3-4 hours anyway to check on him and also to avoid exploding breasts. So again, I ask, how did I get so lucky?

There's just no way this can last. Right?

RIGHT?

Here's hoping... :)

What a difference a week makes!

This time last week I was sitting on the couch becoming overly engrossed in "I am Legend" on HBO and trying very hard not to think about the fact that at any moment I needed to leave for the hospital.

This time last week the one and only true love in my life was my husband.

This time last week the baby in my tummy seemed like a vague and very surreal notion that I couldn't even imagine clearly.

This time last week I was starving and very very hungry because I wasn't allowed to eat.

This time last week I had pretty small boobs. Lol!!

This time last week I was terrified!

Yes, that's right I am sitting here dorking out about how much everything has changed for me in the last seven days. Peter is going to be a week old today and it almost seems impossible to me that I haven't known him longer. At this point, we've spent half of us his total life span in the hospital just waiting to bring him home and get started on reality.

His arrival into my world is such a blur now. As I wrote about his birthday party a few days ago I was amazed at how many of the details I had to ask my husband about. This is the sort of thing a woman should be able to remember isn't it? If for no other reason than to hold it over her husbands head, right? (Ok, maybe not.)

My first night as a Mother. In the hospital... Wow. Matt had gone home to take care of the cats and Brutus and sleep in his own bed (something that I never thought I'd be okay with, but I do really love my dog so I had to go along with it.) I found myself alone in my room for 1-2 hours at a time and each of those time periods stretched on like an eternity until they brought Peter back to me. I tried to sleep but couldn't. Me. Unable to sleep. Fathom the irony of that. Of course there was the night nurse to keep me company. She and I babbled on about our babies, she took off the I.V. and eventually the catheter was removed and SWEET JESUS be praised, I was allowed to get out of bed!!!

Meanwhile at regular intervals the night nurse from the nursery brought me my sweet baby boy to nurse. (Wow, say that sentence a few times fast.) I have to say that I wasn not exactly a fan of that woman. If you've ever seen the movie Austin Powers she looked, and acted a lot like the random little Nzi German Lady in there. I'd been warned about the C.H.O.M.P. nipple Nazis but had managed to avoid meeting any until her. At our first feeding together I was trying to explain my feelings issues concerning feeding my son and she almost grapped him out of my arms and insisted that I give up and she go get us a bottle right away. (What a bitch!)

Please don't try to tell me that I'm the first mother she'd ever dealt with who had mixed feelings, heightened emotions and a few tears over the matter. In the end, she saw what a marvelous job Peter was doing, despite all my crap and she eased up. Near morning she even brought me a "hospital approved" bottle to use when/if I decided to go with my original plan to supplement with formula.

The next day was a long one. My nurse was very nice but kind of seemed to go missing in action a lot. Of course everything was always smooth sailing until Matt would go home for lunch or dinner. Then my pain pills would wear off, the baby would pee everywhere, I'd be without a washcloth to clean him up and without the pain medication wasn't strong enough to get out of bed comfortably to walk across the room to get one. I tried very hard not to fault her. I'd heard nurses chattering about how babies were being born like crazy and they'd already had to move to families to "overflow parking" over in pediatrics. Matt said at one point he literally saw people running up and down the halls. Dr. Ramseur told me he delivered at least 2 more babies that day. But still, at one point when she came in after a lengthy absence and at least 2 unanswered calls for help I could swear she smelled a little like cigarette smoke.

Night number 2 really went very well. Peter was allowed to stay with me and he slept like a champ for 3 and 4 hours between feedings. Not that it mattered much, I was already magically programmed to wake up approximately every 45 minutes to check on him.

As we moved into the third day of my little man's life things got a little more interesting. Fairly early in the morning a nurse showed up to do his PKU test which involved a heel prick and filling 5 little circles on a form with his blood for some sort of mandated screenings. I was annoyed from the beginning because I sort of thought they'd already been taken care of that first day while he was in the nursery. Then the (stupid) nurse took forever to get the work done. My baby, who honest to goodness rarely ever truly cries (knock on wood) screamed his little head off for 20 minutes. T-W-E-N-T-Y MINUTES! All while this dumb nurse took something in the neighborhood of 10 drops of blood.

Not 5 minutes after I got Peter settle down and snuggled back in my arms, Dr. Ramseur showed up and told me he was going to do the circumcision. My poor child. I didn't attend and both nurse and doctor said he went through it like a champ, but judging by the screaming child returned to me approximately 40 minutes later, I'm convinced that by about his 47th hour of life my baby had given up on the idea that anyone loved him. He screamed himself to sleep and then refused to nurse at all for the better part of the rest of the day.

Matt went home for lunch around noon and I kid you not, 57 seconds later the Charge Nurse came to tell me they had more babies on the way and we were going to be moved to Overflow. I tried not to be upset. I called Matt to tell him and bravely stuffed all our junk back into bags. It was easy to do because my baby was sleeping soundly and giving the cold shoulder anyway. About 30 minutes after that my lunch arrived and then Matt was back and the wheelchair and cart arrived all at once.

We all rolled over to the new room, me in the chair, Matt pushing the cart of our stuff and another nurse pushing the baby in his little Tupperware container looking bed/cart. We got to our new room which was newer, with a better TV but much smaller and relly just not as good and tried to settle in. Then I noticed my lunch hadn't made the trek. Someone was sent back for it and when finally got it and started eating the awful turkey sandwich and salad I noticed my strawberry filled cake dessert had gone missing. This was pretty much the last straw.

I started to cry. Over cake, of all things. (Goodness I'm getting upset just thinking about it again now, but) of course it wasn't just the cake. It was the change in venue, and the change in nurses and the fact that I was no longer in the happy and brightly colored Family Birth Center but now was in the depressing side of the hospital where sick people were. It was the my poor baby, sleeping like a ROCK in his Tupperware bed refusing to be woken up with a bandage on his heel and his poor little ruined boy bits bandaged up inside his diaper. Hopefully my hormones were just overloading but I kept thinking about how my perfect little angel was already scarred for life and it had been my choice to do it and oh by the way WHO THE HELL STOLE MY CAKE?!?!?!

Matt was pretty good about it. He let me wet down his shoulder nicely with tears and snot and told me everything would be okay. He fed me chocolates he'd picked up at the store the day before (although if he REALLY loved me he'd have gotten me more cake) and played a game of scrabble with me while we continued to watch DVDs of Friends (that he'd brought the first day in case nothing was on television) and did his best to distract me back to normal.

Thankfully it worked.

Night number 3 was not good. Peter, after having slept like a rock from basically 11:00 am until something like 6:00 pm decided he was done sleeping at 1:00 am. Done. Period. He fussed, he nursed, he pooped, he nursed, he fussed, he whined, he spit up, he nursed, he fussed, he spit up, he pooped, he fussed, he nursed.... etc. Finally around 5:30 that morning the Nurse asked me if I wanted a pacifier.

The answer to this was of course no. The suddenly emerging super-mommy in me had been told no pacies until 2 weeks if at all so no I did not want to have to "pacify" my baby with a stupid rubber and plastic piece of junk that would inevitably give him germs and mess up his teeth and forever ruin his ability to self soothe. But, what other choice did I have? I was exhausted. I relented, the pacy arrived and Peter settled in enough that for 30 or so blissful minutes I slept.

However....

Promptly at 6:00 am 2 ladies came in from the lab. They woke me up. They woke Peter up. They're lucky I didn't slap them both on the spot. Then they told me they were here to do his PKU blood test.

Um, excuse me what?!?!?

I told them, in no uncertain terms that he'd had the test already (they could check for the scab on his foot and the sticker on his ID card) and that frankly it had traumatized him (probably for life) and there was no way in Hell they were getting anywhere near my baby with another needle.

They did check, and then they got sort of confused and went away. A few minutes later my nurse came in a verified he had the scab and the sticker on his card. She seemed awfully confused too. The test had only been ordered for my baby that morning and there was no reasonable explanation for why it had already been done. Apparently there was the completion card in his record, but it had another baby's name on it. Another baby's SIMILAR last name (I presume) but not my baby. So the DUMB ASS, incompetent nurse from the day before had done her test ON THE WRONG CHILD!!!! The nurse went away again to try to figure out how to handle the situation.

Meanwhile, I lost it again. I called Matt sobbing and begged him to get back to me ASAP. Thankfully he did. He kept me "calm" when the nurses decided that they were indeed going to have to repeat the test. He argued my point and wiped away my tears and looked pretty sick to his stomach as well as they repeated the test, but to appease everyone (mostly me I'm sure) this time they used the sugary-syrup stuff to appease him that they use during circumcisions so that he didn't scream his head off. It was an acceptable solution, but if I ever see either of those nurses again... well, God help me.

Needless to say when Dr. Ramseur came in around 10:00, still dressed in scrubs and a surgical robe and looking like he'd had even less sleep than me, and asked if I wanted to go home or stay one more night I choose the first option. You could not have gotten me out of there fast enough. So, on the 4th of July, after waiting for prescriptions to be called in and jaundice test results to come back, we were released around noon!

Thankfully, since coming home things have been a lot less eventful. Our time is divided up into 3 or 4 hour periods between feedings. We feed, we diaper, we feed some more, we burp, we re-diaper, he sleeps, we struggle to keep him wrapped up and keep his right sock on. (Why only the right one? I have no idea...)

Our day is highlighted by our afternoon stroller walks with Daddy and the the dog. Sunday we did take the baby out to the commissary because we needed groceries and there was no way Mommy was going to let Daddy leave her side unnecessarily. I'm doing better about the freaking out. Better, but not perfect. That's all I'll say about that. Daddy goes to school each day around 7:30 and has been returning in the early afternoon which is pretty nice. He's still very helpful, if, and this is a big if, he actually hears Mommy when she speaks to him. (I'll never stop being amazed at how a man can tune his wife right out.)

Yesterday, Peter and I made the short trip up the street to see the Pediatrician. I was ecstatic to find out that he is already back up to his birth weight... a little over actually. (8 pounds, 3 1/2 oz!) She looked him over said he looks great. Then she talked to me.... FOR-EV-ER! It was nice to have her listen and field my questions but we got home from our 11:30 appointment AFTER 2:00. Geez. The good news is since he's already at weight and almost no signs of jaundice we don't HAVE to go back for 6 whole weeks. (Of course then they're going to want to do shots, but Mommy isn't going to think about that right now....)

So, all in all, things are good. :)

This week I can barely pay attention to whatever is on television because I'm so preoccupied with my baby.

This week I have fallen in love all over again with my husband as I see him in the role of Father, but this love is seriously rivalled by the love I have for my new man.

This week, the baby is very, very real to me. So real I can't really imagine how my life ever was without him and how I could ever go on if something happened to him.

This week I not starving but often quite hungry because I don't have enough time to eat.

This week I have rather enormous boobs!!! (These terrify my husband, really feel like they might burst a lot of the time and frankly could probably feed a small army of babies. Seriously... where am I getting all this from and what on earth am I supposed to do with it all???)

And last, but certainly not least, this week I am terrified on a whole new, but also kind of beautiful level.

Baby Pictures

After having returned to my room and getting myself composed, Peter had finally had a bath and here we are for a more composed Mommy and baby shot.



Out first family photo. The interesting angle is due to Matt taking the picture himself while trying to lean in over the hospital bed rail.



Trying to burp the boy. Instead, he preferred to curl up in a ball and go right to sleep on my shoulder.



Dr. Ramseur proudly showing off one of his latest deliveries (he had 4 or 5 while I was in the hospital.) He's an amazing Doctor and a very nice person. I feel very lucky to have had him deliver my child.



At some point I looked down and noticed Peter asleep with his finger in his nose. Like father like son I guess.



Happy 4th of July! Although, the the weather was cool and cloudy, around noon we were released from the hospital. Here is Peter all bundled up and buckled into his car seat for the journey home.



Later that evening I found my boys napping together.



Here is Peter getting his 15 minutes of sunlight to help chase away any bit of jaundice while Brutus looks on protectively.



Brutus, in case you're wondering, is doing awesome and taking his new role of big brother very seriously. He won't let the cats anywhere near the baby, he is constantly using his nose to push around the blankets trying to tuck Peter in and when there's crying he sometimes goes and gets his toys and offers them to the baby.

What a little stud!



Enjoying his little chair.



Finally, I couldn't resist this onsie:

The Birthday Party

Getting Ready
The night between June 30 and July 1st was probably one of the longest in my entire life. I couldn't sleep. I didn't really feel afraid, just anxious. As I've mentioned I'm not very good at waiting. At 3:30 in the morning I got up and ate some toast and a bowl of cereal and chugged a big glass of OJ and some water as I wasn't allowed to eat after 4:00 am. Mostly, all this accomplished was making my nervous stomach upset and grumbly. Somewhere in the very early dawn hours I think I finally fell asleep for a little while, and then I awoke at around 8:00 am.

I got up, and took a shower. Matt played video games. I shoved more and more crap into my suitcase, just in case and Matt played more video games. At 9:00 I am Legend came on HBO and since I have never seen it I became really engrossed and I didn't want to have to leave. But, before I knew it, it was 9:30 and we were loading up the car and heading to the hospital.

As soon as we checked in a very nice and patient nurse took us to our room. She showed us where to put our things. I got changed into my hospital gown and other garb and then once I was in bed she put in an I.V. The doctor wanted me to take in a whole bag of fluid before the surgery ever began. Mostly this just made my arm cold and meant I had to pee about 12 times in those 2 hours before the surgery. Time moved slower than I ever thought possible. Matt grew very nervous as they explained to us all that was going to happen and eased his mind by asking thousands of questions. He learned from the nurse not only all the pertinent details of the upcoming procedure but also the inner-workings of the I.V. machine, the blood pressure monitor, and the machines which were monitoring the contractions and the baby's heart beat. I can't actually believe that the nurse was patient and kind enough to explain all of it to him.

At about 10 minutes til 12 Dr. Ramseur came in to do a quick ultrasound and verify that the baby was still breech.

Before we knew it the clock said noon and Matt and I found ourselves sitting alone, still in my room, waiting.

Then everything started to happen very quickly.

Pre-Op
About 5 minutes after 12 the nurse brought in this ridiculously tan, bushy headed blond and pretty good looking surfer type dude in off-purple scrubs. She introduced him as the anesthesiologist. He shook my hand very firmly and then continued to hold on to it tightly for several minutes while he leaned in a little too closely and explained his side of the procedure to me. I have no idea what he said. All I could think about was "Why won't he let go of my hand?" and "Gosh he's leaning in close to talk to me!" and "Oh my he is sort of cute... teehee... how on earth can he be talking to me this closely in front of my husband when I'm about to have a baby."

Then he went away again. Matt and I both looked at the nurse as if to say "Is he for real?" and she just sort of shrugged and said something about how he is older than he looks. Apparently he'd taken off several years to surf before going to medical school. Go figure.

The nurse told Matt to put on his funny shower cap and bath robe and follow me as she walked me and my new I.V. rolling-tower-friend to the operating room. Matt was told to wait outside with one of the nurses while I went on in and got set up. Once everything was ready he'd he allowed to join me.

The operating room was bright and stifling. The lights in there were so powerful the made the dull colors of the doctor's and nurses scrubs come to life and the metallic instruments shown blindingly and everything seemed very surreal. Several more nurses were introduced to me. Once in particular, a teeny little woman said "Hi, Jennifer my name is something or other and since you'll be numb and won't be able to, I'm going to help out Dr. Ramseur by pushing your baby out for you today." Then a very nice, soft spoken nurse who I would soon come to love intimately for the lovely care she gave me, came in and said she was going to be my nurse for the rest of the day. She helped me onto the table and then held my shoulders while I tried my best to slouch over appropriately as the surfer dude Doctor took care of the epidural.

The Surfer Dude Doc told me to lean forward in a curved shape and push my lower back towards him. Not a very easy thing to do with an enormous preggo belly, let me just tell you. The nurse held my shoulders and I tried very hard to keep still, and breath and ignore the fact that the surfer dude was now face to face with my exposed butt cheeks just a few inches below where he was working. He told me as he made some marks in ink, then he told me as he cleaned the area. He told me as he put some sort of protective cover over my back and gave me a shot of some sort of local numbing agent. (I felt that bit go in as very quickly a hot and heavy sensation moved from the pricking spot towards my butt crack.) Finally, he told me from then on all I'd feel would be pressure. I felt this pressure for several more minutes while he tried to get the needle in. The nurses meanwhile were giggling in the background about someone having a mild shake in their hand. My eyes bugged out a little thinking they were talking about the Surfer Dude Doc who was about to stick a needle into my spine and then everyone assured me they were just talking about Dr. Ramseur being a perfectionist and always having to line up his dots perfectly when closing a patient. It did occur to me to wonder whether or not the Doctor, who was about to cut my baby out of me, did indeed have a shaky hand.

Eventually the Surfer Dude Doc asked for a smaller needle and finally got the epidural in and I quickly was laid out on the table while the feeling drained out of the lower 2/3 of my body.

All vanity or modesty I might ever have felt evaporated as they put in the catheter and set me up in the correct position for surgery. Meanwhile Dr. Ramseur was bouncing around the room with a smile under his mask going on about how we were going to have a birthday party and how much fun it was going to be. Then he started started drawing marks on my lower tummy, the nurses splayed my arms out on either side of me and a plasticy sheet was erected in front of my face to protect the sterile area and also block our view of the proceedings.

I started to freak out. Matt as still outside. The only other person on my side of the tent was the surfer dude and the view blocking sheet was hanging about an inch in front of my nose. This combined with the rubber oxygen mask on my face was making me feel COMPLETELY claustrophobic and I started to cry. (No sobs or anything, just tears.)

The Surfer Dude Doc tried to stretch the screen sheet a little further to get it off my face, then Matt came in, grabbed my left hand, took a seat beside me and they got started.

The Cesarean Section
Going into it, I felt that I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. I'd talked to many people who'd had their babies via C-Section. I'd talked to several doctors and one fourth year-med student about the procedure and what was going to happen.

In reality I had no idea.

I heard a doctor or a nurse or somebody say that I'd feel the pressure as the initial incision was made. I did and it was, okay. I kept right on weeping and trying to look at my very blurry husband (who had my glasses in his pocket because they wouldn't fit over the oxygen mask) and tried to remember to keep breathing. The "pressure" continued as the doctor worked through the layers to get to my uterus. Several people had told me what these layers were, but I can't remember any of them besides "skin" and "uterus" nor can I even remember exactly how many there are supposed to be. Then I found myself wondering why anybody would ever call the feeling I was having down there "pressure" because from my perspective it felt a lot more like "pulling" or "tugging."

Pulling and tugging my guts out to be exact.

The surfer dude doctor, who I suddenly noticed did indeed have surf boards on his surgical cap, was sort of narrating and rubbing my forehead right along with Matt. Matt, told me later he was gently rubbing Matt's shoulder as well. Apparently, the Surfer Dude Doc is also very sensitive.

Suddenly I heard Dr. Ramseur say "I see toes!!" and then to me louder, "Jennifer, I think we were right about it being a boy or else those little round things between his feet are going to be a real problem." (The doctor told me later, in the womb the baby had his feet tucked under his buttocks and crossed around his little scrotum. How, um, lovely.)

Things went on, the tugging sensation grew worse and worse and I just tried to keep breathing. I kept thinking about how this was definitely not the pain free procedure I'd heard described to me. (In retrospect I do realize that most of the women I'd talked to did not have breech babies.) I heard words like "push" and "hang on" and "turn him" get thrown around and at some point in there the whole table was shaking as whatever it was went on down below the privacy screen. I think it was the doctor tugging. Tugging hard. I started to feel sort of woozy and dizzy and the chaos went on for while longer before the I heard Dr. Ramseur say "He's Out!" and then the Sensitive Surfer Dude Doc started whispering in my ear about what was going on again.

"They've put a mask on the baby to help him breath and that's why you don't hear him crying," he told us, "its not that he isn't crying its just muffled by the mask." A few moments passed. "They're just working on him and trying to get him cleaned up and warm so you can see him." Matt bravely peeked around the screen to the corner where the baby warmer was located, but told me he couldn't see the baby because there were nurses and doctors surrounding him.

Honestly, at the time, I can only remember thinking that I wished I cared more. I was feeling a lot of pain and I just really wanted the whole thing to be over. I tried to listen for the cries or the APGAR scores but my attention span wasn't really holding.

Side note:
Two days later, before the circumcision, I asked Dr. Ramseur about those scores and got the rest of the story there. (Well, technically, some of this he told me in post-op, but for continuity's sake, let me just put it all here, now.) Apparently, when the nurse tried to push so that Dr. Ramseaur could pull the baby out he was stuck. His hands were up near his chin and both together they kept catching on, I don't know, something. With some difficulty they were able to unstuck the hands and chin only to find the cord wrapped, TWICE, around the baby's neck. After unwinding the cord, he was finally able to take the baby out. However, after the "trauma" (that might not be the best word) of all the pulling and tugging the baby had been sort of "depressed" and was basically unresponsive upon making his entrance into the world.

The mere thought of this, kills me now. But, basically, Dr. Ramseur explained it like this: You know how when a baby animal gets picked up in its mother's mouth (think Tiger cubs) it just goes limp to avoid getting hurt. This is what happens to a baby in childbirth. When a contraction happens their hearts slow, and they go limp and almost lifeless to prepare to get pushed out and not get hurt. But in childbirth the contractions and the pushes are spaced out. In our case I was having contractions making him go limp already... then the doctor was trying to pull him out, relaxing his system and then on top of that there was the cord... all of which caused him to relax, for a little to long, and a little too much.

Thankfully, babies are resilient and he was "easily" revived once they got him over to the warmer and did their thing. (What they did, I don't know, because I haven't spoken to the pediatrician about it.)

Matt reminds me that lots of babies enter this world in less than perfect condition and turn out absolutely perfect. Obviously I'm pretty convinced my own son is now living proof of this. But the mere thought that for even a few moments he was not 100% after birth, scares the bageezus out of me. Especially as I look at him laying beside me now.

Anyway.

During the time that they were, um, getting him to cry, my own Doctor was starting to stitch everything back up and the Sensitive Surfer Dude Doc told me he was going to give me something to make my uterus contract. The resulting cramping feeling literally made the room start to go fuzzy for me and this was when I finally heard my child cry out. Somewhere in there I heard a nurse yell out that the baby was peeing (on the pediatrician) and then a moment later the pediatrician FINALLY brought the baby to us. The doctor, who looked something like Jim Henson with his mask on over his full, grey beard... or maybe a very tall Papa Smurf... brought him over all bundled up in blankets and there was this little, perfect pink face with enormous dark blue eyes staring at me from underneath a ridiculous pink and blue striped hat. I tried to remind myself that this was a moment I'd long been dreaming about and looking forward to. "Tried" being the key word there. I looked at him and pretty much thought to myself "Alrighty then" and went on about my business of feeling like complete crap. Matt tells me I said he was cute, or something, but I have no memory of that at all. My memory is too busy remembering that at that point the baby was being taken to the nursery and Matt (under my own orders) was to go with him. Trouble was I didn't want Matt to leave ME. I didn't stop him though, I forced myself to think sensibly about who needed him most, kissed him goodbye through his surgical mask and suddenly found myself to be very alone.

Alone except for the team of Doctors and Nurses doing their thing and of course, my Sensitive Surfer Dude Anesthesia Doc. The room was literally spinning and I told him I felt like I was going to pass out. He pulled my I.V. Arm away from my face where it had been the entire surgery as Matt held my hand and told me that would help the medicine get through. It must have, because before long I started to really feel like vomiting instead. For this I was given some other medicine and left to lie on the table feeling crampy and in agony. All I wanted was to be able to curl up into a ball and lay on my side (as per my normal response to cramps) but of course I could not. I distracted myself by listening to the nurses count and recount tools and sponges. I tried to count the little clicks as Dr. Ramseur stapled up the incision and rejoiced that the whole thing was almost over. I started thinking about whether or not I'd forget how terrible the whole thing felt as any mother will tell you that you do.

Then suddenly the the tent was coming down. The blanket over my chest and neck disappeared and the heart monitor stickies were pulled off. There was counting and someone telling me about how I was going to feel like I was falling as they shifted me back onto a bed and then suddenly the bright lights were fading and I was being wheeled out, into the hall and then into a small recovery room. Somebody made the bed sit up a little and I immediately felt at least a thousand times better. Dr. Ramseur was there before long and he told me that the baby was stretched out in the nursery sucking on the back of his hand while they did their thing with him. Matt came in next and then before long they brought the baby to me.

The events of the operating room and all the yuckiness immediately started to fade in my brain. He was just so beautiful. And perfect.

Post-Op
Before I knew it I was having the fantasy meeting with my son that I'd been imagining for months and hadn't had in the operating room. I looked into his big round, dark blue eyes and giggled at how he only wanted to open one at a time. I traced the slope of his adorable little nose. I stroked his teeny tiny little lips and immediately noticed they slant gently down on the right side just like my husband's on crooked grin. I counted his fingers and toes and laughed at the ridiculously small little nails growing on them. I peeked under his funny little hat to find a full head of soft, medium brown hair- still crusted with some of the amniotic gunky stuff. Matt started taking pictures and before long was making phone calls. While Matt was in the hall on the phone, my nurse, who might go down on record as the nicest and most patient person in the history of the world, helped me through my anxiety and fear and got me nursing my beautiful boy.

The rest of my baby's birthday is kind of a blur. After I nursed my son for the first time, and found the process to be surprisingly easy (I think the baby was going easy on me since I was full of issues) they took him away again to be bathed and I was taken to my room to rest and relax for awhile. They brought me the baby soon and he stayed with Matt and I for most of the rest of the day. Because I'd had a c-section and was still regaining feeling in my legs and couldn't really lift my boy on my own they had to take him to the nursery when Matt went home for dinner and for the night to take care of the dog and the cats. That was the hard part, letting them keep taking him from me. I spent the alone time talking on the phone and trying to absorb the day's events. I kept trying to decide if I felt like a Mommy yet. The longing to be near him that I felt every time he went back to the nursery that first night and my absolute inability to sleep without him near me quickly answered that question.

So there it is... the story of the day my son was born.

Now, may I proudly present, Mr. Peter Joseph
(Peter because it is a nice normal name that isn't used much these days, Joseph after my Grandfather and Uncle Joe.

Born, Wednesday, June 1, 2009 at 12:51 pm.
8 pounds, 2 ounces. 20 1/2 inches long



Here I am in post-op holding him for the first time.



Matt was all about holding his son and getting to know him that first afternoon. He's an amazing Father.



Peter had some trouble staying warm but snuggled in nicely once a nurse brought the extra large, warmed blanket.