Have I told you I’m having a baby? My last baby. The last time I have to have a barf cup handy in the car. The last time I have to waddle from the bed to the bathroom at two in the morning. The last time I have to hear people comment on my protruding bellybutton, the size of my tummy, or have strangers touch and rub my midsection whether they’ve asked to or not.
My last baby. The last time I’ll get to wear zipperless pants for months straight. The last time I have an excuse to make my husband…son…mother…brother get up and get me something, anything I want. The last time I can freely indulge in seconds, in chocolate, in ice cream without that voice in my head telling me to “use self-control.”
My last baby. The last time I will feel flutters, kicks and punches inside me. The last time I will be responsible for bringing another life into this world. The last time I get nine months to imagine what my child will look like, sound like, and who he will become. The last time I get to be this:
35 weeks pregnant. 1 more month to go.
I was inspired by Patience Brewster to share a holiday memory. Patience is an artist and creates adorable handmade and original Christmas Ornaments. Decorating the Christmas tree as a family is something we always did as a kid and a tradition I am cherishing doing now with my own children.
A helpful boost! With each ornament my daughter “hung” on the tree, she’d jump up and down and shout, “I did it!”
Aside from the tree, another big deal in our home was Santa. Being the eldest child, I was the first to learn that Santa was actually a 5’7″ slender blonde mother who at one point during her reign wore shoulder pads (just sayin). Even though some of my so-called fourth grade friends spilled the beans to me on the myth of Santa, I still chose to enjoy the ‘magic’ of the man. You know, for sake of my little brother and little cousins.
The great thing about our Santa was that he always came with the bells and whistles. That one big gift, the one thing we just could not live without usually came with a note signed,
I don’t watch the news. I don’t read the newspaper. My internet is not bookmarked to MSN or NPR. Go ahead, judge. Tell me I should be more educated. Or more informed of world and community events.
My TV is on DVR mode where we watch EVERY. SINGLE. EPISODE. of Paw Patrol. My daily reading consists of Brown Bear Brown Bear, Lego Ninjago, and a blog post on the top ten perks of being pregnant. My computer is bookmarked to PBS Kids (and Facebook). Again, judge. Tell me I need to get a life. Tell me my life shouldn’t revolve around my children.
The truth, both judgments are probably legit. And I lied, a little. I sorta, sometimes, watch the news. Nor do I read Eric Carle every bedtime.
Last Sunday, we were driving home from my mom’s house. With my children asleep, the sound of the radio in the background and a black backdrop lit only by the lights of cars driving to and from, my mind raced. Christmas presents I need to buy… Phone calls I should make… Ways to make my son more respectful… On and on it traveled in an endless road of necessary and meaningless thought.
I looked back at my kids. I could see their silhouettes highlighted by the passing cars. So peaceful. So angelic. So perfect.
Then my mind went there. It traveled into some nightmarish cave. I thought of someone coming into my home and taking my children. Asking me whether or not I believed in Jesus and if I did they’d take my kids from me. I thought of the places I could hide. Where I could go. What if they make me choose a child? How would I do that? How could I do that? Continue reading
I forget things. Frequently. I forget to turn the oven on. I forget to switch out the laundry so I rewash it only to forget again.When people ask how old my daughter is, I just say, “She’ll be two in March.” (I’m too fuzzy for math). I’m pregnant with my fourth child and the forgetfulness has amplified to a whole new level (I chronicled such pregnancy madness over on Des Moines Moms Blog).
While I cannot remember where I left my keys, I do remember the first time I failed as a mom.
It was almost seven years ago, and I hadn’t been a mom for even 24 hours. My husband had gone down to get our son’s carseat. There I sat, in the hospital room, anxiously awaiting to take my baby home. I picked him up, talked to him, and walked out the door to look at the other babies in the window. Not two seconds later I made eye contact with a nurse and she came running towards me. “You can’t leave your room with your baby!” Another nurse came over, checked my arm band, checked my son’s band and told us to get back to our room. I appreciated the concern for not wanting anyone to steal my child, but can you say AWKWARD?! I was so embarrassed, and then had to explain to my husband how I already screwed up. “Shouldn’t a mom know better?” I thought.
After it was evident that I was the mom to this sweet little baby, we took about thirty minutes figuring out how to fit him in his carseat. A nurse escorted us out to the parking ramp. Halfway down I realized I didn’t have my phone. I threw it away. Yes, I threw my phone out with my tray of breakfast. AWESOME. While the nurse ran back to the maternity floor to track down my phone (a pink flip phone, by the way!), there we stood, my husband, new baby and I in a cold and lonely skywalk waiting for a nurse, a stranger, to rescue me from my second mom fail. “How am I going to survive this motherhood thing?!” Before my first son was two days old, I broke an important safety rule and failed to be prepared. I was already an imperfect mother.
We look so young…
She’s my third baby. I’m pregnant with number four. So when I’m awaken by that cry. You know the one. The, “I’m awake there is nothing wrong with me I just don’t want to sleep here anymore and I will get louder and louder until you come and get me!” cry.
I love my sleep. I can sleep anywhere, anytime… except when the stupid smoke detector goes off at 3 am. Beep. Beep. BEEP!
My husband, who is more of the light sleeper, usually wakes up, grabs the Little Ladybug and brings her to our bed. To which she will crawl on me, push me off my pillow, and kick me repeatedly in my stomach… back… face.
“I’M STILL CRYING I’M NOT GOING BACK TO SLEEP SOMEONE COME GET ME NOW!”
It was clear, my husband was KO’d, so as with an extremely unwelcome smoke detector, I was up, blindly making my way to the crib where the Little Ladybug awaits. Arms up, “It’s about time!” She smiles.
That is a VERY fake smile!
Back in bed. A twenty pound snuggle bear now resting on my chest. Sleep. Let’s go back to sleep. Continue reading
The words. The music. Instantly, they take me back to that moment. That moment sitting in the front pew surrounded by flowers and faces, hundreds of faces to which i failed to make eye contact. I sat there, seven months pregnant, in a black dress and purple shoes, gripping the hand of my husband. My dad’s shiny casket sitting directly to the left of me. As the words were so beautifully sung, I soaked them in that afternoon.
So I will I will run. Forever I will run. Run to You oh God. Where else can I go? Forever I will run.
So many times I wish I could run to him. Or call him. Or grab a slice for lunch with him. I’m a daddy’s girl. When in doubt, call dad. Continue reading
After the incredibly wet summer we’ve had “Raindrops on roses” did not make my list of favorite things! Rather, here are a few things I am totally digging right now:
Big Brother 16.
Are you watching? BB is the one show my husband and I must watch! We are totally #TeamDerrick. But #Dadgum Caleb is hilarious. The winner will be announced soon on CBS… and then we will have to find a new show. Any suggestions?