License to cry....

Sometimes I have to stop and ask myself, when did she grow up to be this beautiful young self-assured young woman who is responsible enough to be driving my vehicle?  Answer to that would probably be....right under your depressive nose you crazy loon!  But that would totally kill the moment.

Hormonal surge and reflux...Lord, why do you hate me??

I have been surfing the wave of hormonal tween for the past 4 maybe 5 months.  I don't remember it starting this early with Olivia but then again Hannah seemed to do everything faster than Olivia did for the pure and simple fact that when you have two children the younger one tends to want to do EVERYTHING that the older one is doing and not wait until the same age bracket to do it in.

Case in point.  Hannah started walking at the lovely age of 9 1/2 months.  Olivia was closer to 14 months.  Hannah potty trained over a few months and was peeing like a champ on the potty by age 2.  Olivia held out for reinforcements (ie: my mother who had to travel from Florida to Ohio) in order to coax that tushy out of a pull-up and into Big Girl panties. This was accomplished after she was 2 yrs old.  Olivia breastfed until 18 months, Hannah dropped that and the bottle by 9 months and demanded a sippy cup. 

So while Jon and I steeled ourselves for the fact that "it" meaning puberty was coming, we had NOT in any way shape or form prepared ourselves for the fact that striking double digits on the birthday cake would bring about a tidal surge of dramatic outburst, raging mood swings and the onset of what appears to be a reflux disorder. 

My AH-Mazing Trip to FL - Part 3 (I'm "fair"ly certain that this was fun and my meeting with you "can be my Doug")

"Must find french fries...it's my only means of survival."

The problem with truth telling....

Before I ever thought of having kids or becoming a mother I had what I thought was a VERY wonderful idea about raising my imaginary offspring.  I told myself that I would never lie about the important stuff.  I'd never tell them that loved ones or pets don't die.  I wouldn't lead them to believe that shots won't hurt and I'd never tell them that they'd always be happy and never have their heart broken.

Simple right?  Wrong. 


The easiest of my "promise" seemed to be the shots.  From the time they were babies I'd tell them these words before shots, "big stick, bee sting, cuddles and then a prize".  It served me well for the most part.  The only time it truly backfired on me was when the girls needed to get their shots up to date for school here in Louisiana.  I inadvertently mixed up who needed what shots when I was preparing them with the whole "big stick, bee sting...." yada yada yada.  I had told Olivia she would be getting one shot and that Hannah needed three.

Olivia, while she was not overly joyed about needing any was completely over the moon with the idea of torturing her baby sister who'd have to be stuck not once, not twice but three whole times.  "That's two more than meeee"...she sing songed all through our wait time.  She'd reach over and pinch her baby sister which would send Hannah to wailing and then Olivia would say..."oh come on...that's just one stick...imagine three of those back to back", and so on and so forth.

There was two things that Olivia didn't count on and they were karma and my ability to keep the kids shot records straight.  When Olivia galantly led her little sister to the slaughter...ergh, I mean chair, she all but passed out when the nurse stuck Hannah once then released her from the seat and handed her a lolly proclaiming that she had been a "very big girl" and that she was "all done".  Those two phrases and the fact that Hannah knew the difference between her getting three and her only getting one.  She'd done the quick math and trained her eyes on her sister.  Olivia chose that exact moment to turn into a psychotic animal who first tried to run out of the building but was strong armed by Jon and then as she wailed like a banshee she attempted to hold onto the door while bracing her feet against the frame.

Yeah, my honesty about shots wasn't going too well on this occasion.  All Jon and I could do after they were finally able to immunize her,  was to walk out shaking our heads and apologizing to every one we came in contact with in the building.  I do believe we apologized to a janitor that day and to be honest with the way our kid was screaming I think he appreciated it.

My first go around with using honesty in regards to death of a loved one was when my grandmother died and my oldest was on a Girl Scout camping trip.  It's not that Olivia hadn't dealt with death before, on the contrary actually...the poor kid had her 7th birthday postponed because my grandfather, her great grandfather, bit the proverbial dust.  Nothing like blowing out the candle on your one piece of restaurant cake while the entire family is gathered sniveling and trading stories of the dearly departed at an elongated table of a bar & grill that just happened to be conveniently located next to the funeral home.    Well that and the fact that she was actually at the nursing home visiting him with my parents when he died.  Yep, that's definitely one for the scrapbook!

While I rushed to Florida to console my mother and help with the funeral arrangements, poor Jon had to make up some kind of song and dance about where I was when she returned from camp so as to allow us both to be there to break the news to her.  From that experience I learned never to wait 5 days until I am in the same state to break news of that magnitude.  While she was upset about her great grandmothers passing she was more upset that she was not notified immediately.  Jon and I learned that Olivia was not one of those kids that dealt well with being the last to know anything.  Hell, if we run out of toilet paper you better go notify her first or else there will be an issue.  That's just her thing.  She likes to be in the loop.

On the other end of the spectrum is Hannah.  When my first min pin Aden passed away suddenly over the summer while the girls were away we made a point to tell them both.  Fearing a repeat of great grandma and the wrath of Olivia not being notified we figured that honesty when the event took place was the best policy.  With Olivia that was fine.  She took the news, was saddened and moved on.  Hannah on the other hand who had been too young to really comprehend the news of her great grandmother's death, when it occured, was a bit trickier.  She had a meltdown of unworldly proportions and we were almost deemed horrible parents for breaking the news while she was close to 600 miles away.

When we were plagued by a second pet's death less than a month later Olivia was back at home and unfortunately along with us had to bear witness to the little guy drawing his last breath.  She was heartbroken as were Jon and I but seemed to process it and deal with it fairly well considering it was her dog.  We didn't tell Hannah this time and instead saved the news for when Jon could be there with her.  She was upset, but took the news far better because she had Jon there to hold on to.

So with death and shots my plan of honesty has been doing pretty good with preparing the girls with the realities of life.  When it comes to heartbreak though, I've had a bit harder time sticking to my rule.

As the minutes and hours have turned  into days, weeks and now months of Jon and I grappling with the state of our marriage, one of the things that has weighed heavily upon my mind and heart has been my kids.  What to tell them and when.  Olivia being older and of the mentality of tell it to me now and let me process it myself I chose to be a bit more forthcoming with her.  Hannah being the baby and the one that would rather not know something until it's actual, factual and has already taken place has been pretty much left in the dark although I know she's not blind or deaf to the amount of tension and arguing that goes on between her father and I. 

Tonight though I was backed into a corner while we sat at Sonic to pick up something to eat.  Hannha had just returned from a weekend soccer tournament with Jon and I was taking her for ice cream.  While we waited for our food she began to ask questions.  I figured they would come seeing as Jon and I had a rather loud verbal exhange within minutes of him coming in the door.  It's sad that after 30+ hours apart we couldn't make it a full 30 seconds without launching into a disagreement.

The questions came quietly and timidly from the backseat.

Hannah:  Mom, are you and Dad angry at each other?

Me: (don't lie, don't lie, don't lie) Yes.

Hannah:  How is that even possible...you like, just saw each other?

Me:  (don't lie, don't get defensive, don't lie) Well Hannah ya know how sometimes you and your friends don't get along...even when you haven't seen each other in a day or two?

Hannah:  Um, yea....

Me:  (don't get defensive, be honest, don't snap at her) Well, me and your dad are like that right now...we aren't getting along....

Silence falls uncomfortably in the car and then the food comes.  I contemplate just letting the discussion go but as I look into the rearview mirror I can see tears in the corners of her eyes and I know there is more she wants to say.  Part of me wants to scream at her to just stop it and let it go, but then I have to remember that she is only 10yrs old and this very much affects her life.  Be honest, I keep reminding myself.  Be honest in 10yr old terms...don't lie.

I remember back to when I was younger, after my sister had been killed and my parents would argue so much that I thought they would never get along again, I take a deep breath focus on that feeling as probably the one that she is having at this very moment and hope for the best.

Me:  Hannah, if you have something on your mind that you want to ask me or talk about you should just put it out there.  No matter what it is, I will answer you honestly and I won't be angry...I promise.

Hannah:  (hesitant but looking very determined) Are you and Dad gonna split up?

Me:  I don't know Hannah and that's the truth.

Hannah:  Ok.  But....ummmm.....but.....

Me:  Hannah whatever it is just ask me.

Hannah:  Do you still love him?

Me:  Very much.

Hannah:  Does he love you?

Me:  Yes.

Hannah:  I don't get it.  If he loves you and you love him then why do you fight ALL of the time.

Me:  Because sometimes people that love one another have things that take place that make them so angry that it becomes difficult to just be happy loving the other person.  You want to know that the person you love is being honest with you and if you think that they aren't or know that they aren't it tends to make it very difficult to just be happy being in love.

Hannah:  Oh.  Well, hmmmm.....do you think you guys could, ya know...just work it out or something cause I'm tired of listening to you not get along and I'm sure Olivia is tired of it and well....yeah....you guys should just work it out.

I sat quiet for a really long time.  Hannah didn't even seem to notice because she was over the moon for her Oreo ice cream blast.  Then she spoke again.

Hannah:  Mom?

Me:  Yeah Han.

Hannah:  I'm sorry I asked about you and dad.

Me:  Hannah, don't apologize.  You have a right to know what is going on to a point.  I know that these things affect your life.

Hannah:  I know.  But the reason I said that I was sorry was because you looked really happy before I asked you.  Like...just sitting here you and me...you looked happy. 

Me:  Well I am happy just sitting here you and me (I let my face break into a goofy smile to get her to laugh).

Hannah:  (she chuckels at my face and then turns serious again) I know....but I think you were happy because dad wasn't here.

Me: (unable to speak)

Hannah:  It was nice to see you happy for once.

Silence became all consuming and the only thing I could hear was her scraping ice cream out of her cup and the wheels of the skating car hops.

See, that's the trouble with truth telling...it brings with it a whole new line of questions.

~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 5

Part 5: Sometimes you've gotta fake it until you can make it...all the way to the delivery!

When we...meaning me...began to creep towards and then past the 37 week mark I began to go from happy that I'd managed to carry this baby past the fears of pre term labor to being completely pissed that he was now refusing to vacate the premises.  Seriously what the fuck??  COME OUT ALREADY!!

I was swollen.  I was tired.  My breast refused to cooperate unless they were coralled in a nursing bra AT ALL TIMES!  I'd begun to have these bizarre dreams that I'd be pregnant forever and that pretty soon you'd be able to see an imprant of this childs face pressing up against my belly as if he were stuck behind a glass window.

The days of Jon not getting any nookey were LONG gone.  I...like every other expectant mother had read "What to Expect When You're Expecting" on top of a slew of other maternity books and was determined to subscribe to any and all proven or even slightly plausible actions that may possibly enduce labor.  My first strategy was to have sex until this kid screamed, "ENOUGH ALREADY!  PULL OUT SO I CAN ESCAPE THIS WHORE HOUSE".

Unfortunately, the one that screamed enough first, was in fact my once sex deprived husband.  Useless.  Completely useless.

You're gonna whine cause you don't get anything.  Not even a hint of sexual action in months and then when I'm all, "hey baby...ya wanna (wink, wink)"...he can't keep up!

He began to make excuses.  He was tired.  He wasn't feeling well.  Lies...all lies.  I don't care how tired this man said he was...he'd stay up for sex.  My god he was 23 years old...how tired can you possibly be at that age?  And the not feeling well crap...well, we had been together almost two years and he'd NEVER had so much as a sniffle in all that time.  When the lies stopped working he would just try to avoid me.  It wasn't hard to do because I was huge and I couldn't cathc him when he ran away.

I cried. A lot.  I was so miserable.  I couldn't understand how at 29 weeks my body was insistent that this child GET OUT but at 36, then 37, 38 and now creeping ever closer to 39 weeks it was all "hey you like this womb??  You should totally stay here FOREVER."

I was becoming desperate so I did what any person with a shred of sanity would do...I called my doctor.  I figured he is the only one with the power to help me.

I had complications dialating and then delivering Olivia.  After 28 1/2 hours of "pure hell" they had to do an emergency c-section.  Later on it was determined that I had cephalo pelvic disproportion and that unless Olivia had been like 5 lbs with a teeny tiny head...she was never gonna make the final pass into the birth canal.  Thanks to the drugs I didn't feel much like going and kicking in the doctors teeth that had lied to me for 4 1/2 hours while I pushed.

Him and the bitchy ass nurse kept saying "great push"..."good job"...."keep doing that".  I kept thinking the mere definition of doing a good job means you are progressing towards an end result.  The end result was delivering this baby...apparently they didn't see it the same way.

They had me convinced that if I just "tried harder" or "gave it may all" she would come out.  Even as they were wheeling me to the operating room I kept telling my parents, "maybe if I just push for a little longer she will come out"...yeah, not gonna happen.

Apparently at that moment my ability to push life into the world was broken.  This was something that was discussed MANY times during this current pregnancy.  I wasn't afraid of trying for a vaginal birth.  I actually was on board with it.  My doctor didn't try to dissuade me either but early on we had discussed the definite possibility that I may end up right back in that same failed pushing situation.  What the hell is it with my failed lady parts anyways??

He offered me the chance to just schedule a c-section.  I didn't accept at that time but now...now I was tired...I wanted this baby to come out....I wanted my option for c-section back.

Me:  Dr. Doran...I'm tired...I think I wan't to go ahead and have a c-section.

Dr. Doran:  Tired huh?  Well you're gonna be even more tired when this little one arrives.  Enjoy this time with just your daughter.  The baby will come when he is ready.

Me:  Okay.  Yeah.  Umm...I get the whole wait for the natural progression...but I'm ready.  I'm like...really, really, REALLY ready.

Dr. Doran:  (polite doctor laughter...scribbling in chart...totally ignoring me)

Me:  So are you saying that I can't have a scheduled c-section?  (on the verge of tears)

Dr. Doran:  I am saying...(dramatic pause to show that he is so in control of this situation)...that you are barely 39 weeks.  What's the rush?  I can carry you safely to 42 weeks if need be.

Me:  (tears have dried up completely and sheer anger has ensued)  Are you married Dr. Doran?  Because if you are I am going to hunt down your wife and tell her that you are now threatening me with another 3 weeks of pregnancy.  If she has ever been pregnant I am pretty sure she may want to kill you for that remark.

I leave the office.  Escorted by a nurse.  I go directly home, call Jon and commence with having a nervous breakdown.

Me:  Babe (sniffle) I hate my doctor.

Jon:  Are you crying?  Oh my god...what's wrong?  Do I need to come home?  Is it...oh my god..is it time?

Me:  NO!  NOOOOOO!!!  It.  Is.  NOT.  Time.  Didn't you hear me??? I hate my doctor!!!

Jon:  Okay.  Okay..sorry...it's not time.  You had me worried.  I'm sorry..why do you hate the doctor?

Me:  Because he's mean.

Jon:  (trying not to laugh because he knows that even though he is currently safe by being 20 minutes away...I do, however, have the ability to get in my car, drive over to his work, and attempt to kick his ass)  Why is he mean?  Did he say something about the weight you've gained.

Me:  What?  What?  Why would you bring up my weight?  Now you're mean.  (starting to sob)

Jon:  I didn't bring up your weig....nevermind...lets focus on why you hate the doctor.  What did he do?

Me:  Okay so you know how my due date is September 25th?

Jon:  Yes I am painfully aware that is your due date...you talk about it constantly.  Now that we are over obsessing about the number 35, I can see your new favorite number is 25.

Me:  Okay...so the date today is September 16th.

Jon:  Yes I know that too...is there a point to this?

Me:  Well the crazy ass doctor who I thought held my salvation and would grant me a magical c-section is now saying he can carry me "safely" until October 9th if I don't go into labor on my own...naturally.  

Jon:  Whoa...hold on...wait a minute.  He said what??

Me:  Yeah...ya heard me...OCTOBER!  9th!!  That's like almost another month!

Jon:  Oh HELL NO!  I can't do this for another month!

Me:  YOU?  YOU CAN'T DO THIS FOR ANOTHER MONTH...WHAT ABOUT ME!  HELLO...REMEMBER ME...YOUR WIFE??  CARRYING HUMAN...IN HER OWN BODY???  LET'S NOT LOSE FOCUS ON WHO IS TRULY IN NEED OF THIS DELIVERY!

Jon:  You want me to come home so we can have sex?

Me:  (pretty sure I am now sounding like Freddy Crougar) NO you had your chance...you failed... I WANT THIS BABY O-U-T!!  NOW DAMNIT!

I slammed down the phone and immediately began thinking of any and EVERY possible way to accomplish this.  I was a woman on a mission.  I didn't care how cooky or possibly embarassing it may be I was not going to keep this child in for a minute over September 25th even if it meant camping on my doctor's door step!

I went on the internet.  I consulted friends that had recently had a baby.  Some suggestions were helpful like the one that said walking would enduce labor.  My neighbor Stacy, who lived directly across from me, would come over every night and lead me around our apartment complex for a good hour.  She would drink a glass of wine and we would chat about our kids.  We did this for a couple of nights and on the 20th I thought I had finally hit pay dirt.  I was contracting.

I waited for a little while and sure enough they were coming every couple of minutes and getting a little stronger each time.  I alerted Jon and we took Olivia to our friends house that was on the way to the hospital.  As soon I was hooked up to the monitors the contractions began to fizzle.  I tried not to be upset because they still needed to check me.  The nurse came in and did the exam.  I prayed for a 7 or 8.  I new that was the magic number that meant I could stay.  I was at a 4.  Some women would be excited by this.  Me, not so much.  I had been at a 4 since I left the hospital after the pre-term labor.  I had been holding a 4 for just about 10 weeks now.

After about an hour more of monitoring and announcing that the fetal heartrate sounds "perfect" and there was "no change in the cervic"... we were cut loose.  I was dissappointed but hopeful.  If walking brought contractions...then more walking and other things would surely start them back up and get this show on the road...right??

Two days later I thought for sure this was it!  Now back when I was pregnant with Olivia my water broke and then the contractions came...but they didn't start until I was at the hospital.  This time I seemed to contract first but no water breakage so I thought...hey don't lose hope...just cause there is no waterworks can't possibly mean that this isn't the real deal.  I had been contracting for the entire time that Jon was at work.  I figured 9 almost 10 hours of solid contractions that started at 10 minutes apart and worked their way down to just north of 1 1/2 minutes apart definitely meant we were in business.

So we took Olivia to my parents this time.  And with bleary eyed husband at the wheel we made it to the hospital just at about 7pm.  I was still contracting when they strapped on the bands.  Good sign.  The room was filled with the sounds of the heartbeat and the whooshing of baby body parts moving.  The nurse came in to check but had to wait out several good contractions.  Great sign.  I awaited her announcement that I had dialated to an acceptable number.

Nurse:  Good news.

Me:  Yeah??

Nurse:  You've progressed.

Me:  Oh thank god.

Nurse:  Now you're a 5.

Me:  What??

Just after midnight the doctor came in to see me since he was there doing a delivery.  No change and contractions had once again died out.  I felt like one of those women who kept hearing a squeaking sound every time she pushed the brakes in her car but now that she was actually at the mechanic it failed to duplicate.

I was all..."I swear...I was really have these STRONG contractions...like doubled over praying for rescue..painful...contractions".  The doctor just looked at me...smiled politely and declared I was good to go home and wait for "actual" labor to commence.

Since this doctor was not the one I usually saw, but was in the same practice, I thought I could sob my way into a c-section.  Or at least gain sympathy for a possible tribunal to be held where all the other doctors in the practice would scorn my doctor for torturing me in this way and he would finally feel horrid and grant me a c-section on my due date just a mere 2 days away now.  It didn't seem like it was going to happen.

I had to wake Jon up as he dozed in the painful looking chair that was crammed in the corner of the exam room.  I offered to drive.  He politely refused and we made it home in time for him to grab about 4 hours of sleep before he had to be up for another day of work.

Desperation at getting this kid out had now turned to sheer craziness.  I spent all day walking.  My mom took me out to the beach thinking that maybe walking in sand would help.  All it did was give me crazy charlie horses and make me extremely tired.  I tried not to sleep...I was like a Navy Seal during hell week...I had to keep training.  But for what??  I was training my body to go into labor.  It was utterly ridiculous.

September 24th rolled around and the weekend was within our sights.  What I had deemed, privately, to be our final Friday as a family of 3 started out quiet at 5 a.m. when I got up to get Olivia ready for Kindergarten.  We lived out of district so I would drive her to my moms house and she would take her in when she took my sister.  Oh how my baby sister enjoyed being in the same exact elementary school as her niece.  A niece that happened to have been introduced for the first time at just 4 months old to this exact school as a sort of "show and tell project".  Yep...early signs that we were indeed on track for our own reality show or at least a guest spot on Jerry Springer.  Magic...pure magic.

I had dropped off Olivia and headed back home to do some laundry and make sure everything was truly ready for this baby.  I tried to keep the irrational thoughts of attempting some ridiculous manuever to coax this kid out of my belly.  Instead I decided to drink castor oil.  What on God's green earth was I thinking??

Thankfully I couldn't handle more than half a swallow and therefore didn't have to endure what I'm sure is the painful wrath of that choice.  All I managed to do was make myself puke from the sheer disgustingness of the taste.  Apparetly I wasn't as determined as most to enduce "actual" labor.

Everyone checked in with me during the day to see if I had any progression in either the crazy department or more importantly the labor department.  Each time I advised no...on both counts.  The weekend was still young though.

That night we decided to eat out and when we came home I treated myself to 1/2 a glass of wine.  I only got 1/4 of it down before falling asleep.  I woke up completely startled at a little after 1 a.m.  I thought for a second that I was in labor.  Turned out that I was having extreme gas from the steamed brocolli I had decided to eat for dinner.  It must have been really bad because Jon had wedged a pillow above his head.

I went to the bathroom and then made my way to the nursery.  I sat there for a long while and imagined a sleeping baby in the crib.  I then willed myself to start contracting.  All I actually accomplished was falling asleep on the double bed we had in the nursery for middle of the night breast feeding.  Jon found me sleeping there a little after 7 a.m. when he woke up to no pregnant wife in bed and began to search the house in a panic.

I laid there for a good while with him laying next to me and wondered why wasn't I in labor.  Jon told me not to rush it.  I began to hate him.  I tried to force that idea out of my head because I couldn't bare the thought that "if" I did go into labor and "if" I was fortunate enough to have this baby in a timely manner all I wouldn't want to retell the story years later to him and be like, "the day you were born I was SO pissed at your father for telling me not to rush it".  In hindsight...now knowing how things turned out...that would have been a far less scarring and possible psychology trip enducing story for our child to hear.

As morning turned to afternoon and then evening I was once again a mad woman.  I called my girlfriend, Jen, and asked if they would like to have dinner with us.  At her house.  Apparently along with my inability to control the ever expanding size of my ass...I had in fact also lost my ability to have manners.  Who the hell calls someone to have dinner and insist that it be at the other persons house??  Ummm...that would be me.

She agreed and then I asked her possibly "the" most embarassing question that I have ever asked a female friend.  First let me say that she was training to become a doula.  She had two children already and was very wonderful with labor and delivery.  I missed her first child being born because...well...she adamantly told me NOT to come.  Her second child I missed being born because...well...I think she actually sneezed and that baby came flying out.  Thankfully a nurse was there to catch her.  She had no drugs with either and was now very interested in helping other woman labor through in a natural way.  She was also privy to "ways" that could help you contract and dialate.  I no longer faulted her for the failed castor oil attempt from the day before, so I thought if anyone could get me to labor & delivery tonight...outside of my unwilling doctor...she was it.

So I asked her to help soften my cervix.  Yep...you read that right.  I...crazy pregnant woman...had just propositioned one of my very best friends to stick her hand where no self respecting friends hand should EVER have to be placed!  She was stone cold sober when she actually agreed.  I decided at that exact moment that she should be the baby's godmother.  It only seemed right after what we were about to attempt.

I announced to Jon that we'd be going to Jen's for dinner.  He was fine with any distraction from what the day was supposed to be, but clearly was NOT producing.  I conveniently left out what else would be going on outside of the consumption of spaghetti and letting our kids play.

Jen was completely professional about the whole exchange and finally I decided to tell Jon, once we were at her house, that this is why I wanted to come over.  After he went through a litany of girl on girl action jokes he just nodded his head and steered clear.  There was NO reasoning with me at this point.  I wanted this child out.  Jen lived less than 1/2 a mile from the hospital I'd be delivering at so in the event that this worked I was right close by.  I even threw my overnight bag in the trunk for good luck.

Nervous chatter ensued as she "attempted" to strip my cervix.  Guess I should have advised her that I had a bum cervix that was very uncooperative to anything close to child delivery.  After what seemed like a lifetime but in truth was only 20 or so minutes...we gave up.  Failure...once again was the tattoo that I should have placed on anything below the waist but about my knees in regards to my body.

Instead we chatted and ate dinner.  Jon and her husband just stared at us through the meal.  Around 9p we began to have restless kids that whined and fought more than played so we announced it was time to go.  I felt crampy.  I decided to go to the bathroom before leaving.  I was hit with a rather large contraction right off the bat.  I must have been in the bathroom for awhile because when I came out I had three sets of eyes on me, with questioning glances.  I hugged Jen goodbye and swore we would keep this between us (too bad I decided to get a blog 10 years later...oops) and she made me promise to call her if anything began to happen.  I promised but I felt empty inside because I didn't forsee a damn thing happening.  This would be like ALL the other moments of contracting and then nothing.

We drove home and got Olivia into bed.  It was close to 10pm and I couldn't sleep.  I was 2 hours away from being technically OVERDUE!  The clock was taunting me and I was so uncomfortable.  No position seemed to help.  I went and took a shower just to let the water relax me.  All that seemed to do was make it worse so I got out after only a few minutes.  I tried to lay on my side.  My back.  I wanted desperately to lay on my stomach...but even after constructing a pillow frame to around the outskirt of my body and lumbering on to my stomach I couldn't stay in that position for very long because I hurt so bad.

I didn't want to wake up Jon but it was getting increasingly worse and to the point where these were definitely the worse contractions I had to date.  I went to the bathroom for the millionth time in the past hour and found that I had lost my mucus plug.  For me...I deemed it was "time".  I woke up Jon and stupidly asked him what to do.  He said maybe we should wait.  For some reason...I thought it sounded like a good idea.

I continued to contract through the night and at around 5 a.m. I declared that I just could not handle another minute.  I called my mom to see if she could take Olivia.  I kept apologizing for the early hour in between gritting my teeth in pain.  I went and woke up Jon who had fallen asleep on the couch. 

I was continued right on contracting.  The whole time leaving the house, driving to my parents house, kissing Olivia good-bye and then making our way to the hospital.  Jon literally thought about pulling over a few times because I was panting so hard to keep from crying.  I was hurting....but ecstatic.  It was baby time!!

It was so quiet in the parking lot and the sun was barely pinking the sky.  Jon helped me out of the car and it took an additional 10 minutes to make it into the building.  We had to stop every few steps because I was consumed with contractions.  Once upstairs the nurses greeted us cheefully and put us in the exam room.  The monitors recorded each contraction and once I had a good mountain range of peaks and valleys registered they came in to examine me.

I was at a 6.

OH MY FUCKING GOD!

I didn't have time to harp on the number I was being thrown into another horrendous contraction.  This continued for another 2 hours when the nurse announced they would need to check me again because surely "with all these contractions your cervix must be dialated more".

Apparently my cervix as it seemed did not get the memo that contractions + crazy pregnant woman desperate to deliver baby in womb = dialated cervix.  The nurse announced that I was still at a "solid 6".

What?  How in God's name is that even......ugh...can't breath...fucking painful contraction that is apparently NOT having any affect on the gates of eternal child birthing bliss....possible??

And then before I thought I could not take another possible second of contracting...they stopped.  Not sputtered out.  They just downright stopped.  Done.  Finito.  Nothing.  NADA.

I was mistified.  I had been going strong for close to 4 hours and then boom...nothing.  They came back to check the bands assuming that they had simply fallen off or that maybe I had tried to escape...who knows.  Another 10 minutes.  Nothing.  The nurse checked me again and announced still a 6.  I wanted to kill her.  But I thought for sure they would keep me.  I had lost my mucus plug...they saw that I was contracting...what the shit??  Get me a room people...let's do this!  I am so ready!

Apparently in the world of L&D you need more than a mucus plug.  You need water breakage...a 7 or 8 cm dialated cervix... a never ending barrage contractions to actually be rewarded with an admittance bracelet.  The nurse began to unstrap me and tell me that it "will happen in its own time"...and "wouldn't you rather labor in the comfort of your own home than be cooped up here".  I was like ahhh...hey bitch...you guys have fucking awesome ice, jacuzzi tubs and rockin grill cheese sandwiches...nope I'd rather be here so lets get me a room!

Another 10 minutes and they were cutting me loose.  Waving at a bleary eyed Jon and a wild eyed possibly completely crazy and still pregnant me, who was now a good 10 hours overdue and not willing to take this shit another minute.  As we stepped into the elevator I began to hatch a plan.  I couldn't change the status of my broke down cervix or break my own water but while I had been hooked to the monitors I noticed any time I tensed up it mimicked a contraction.  Brilliance...pure brilliance.  Now the question was do I tell complete zombie of a husband or just make it look like the evil contractions had miraculously returned.

I went with option #2.

What did I have to lose??  I had to get this baby out!  I couldn't go another round of thinking it was time and then being turned away.  At this rate it would take another week possibly two to get to a 7!  And the thought of going to 42 weeks and letting my doctor prove that he was indeed right...well that shit was not gonna happen if I could help it.

We were just about the clear the threshold of the hospital when I stopped mid step and grasped Jon's arm.  If I was gonna do this I had to make it believable and that including possibly maming my husband.  Small sacrifice on his part...I mean I WAS THE ONE DOING ALL THE WORK!

Jon winced as I tightened my grip on his arm and braced himself for whatever else may come along.  Then approximately 30 seconds later I straightened up, took a deep breath and tried to act like I was fine.  He immediately asked if maybe we should go back upstairs.  Yes...this could work...but I can't be too obvious.

I looked at him with sad eyes...

Me:  No...I'm not going back up there...they'll just tell us to go home because of my stupid cervix.

Jon:  I know.  I know..you're tired of this, but you've never started contracting again so soon after being taken off the monitor.

Me:  (shit...did I just blow this by acting too soon) Ummmm....(better to fake another contraction) ouch, ouch, ouch.....

Jon:  Here...here...(dropping my bag to the floor)...lean into me.

He cradles me against him as I rock side to side.

Jon:  Breath.  Don't forget to breath.

Me:  (feeling slightly bad for lying to him) hee hee hee hee whoooooo....

Jon:  Good...good breathing babe.  How ya doin...you coming out of it yet?

Me:  mmmm...hmmm....

Jon:  Seriously babe...I think we should go upstairs.

Me:  Umm...lets just go walk around the parking lot for a few minutes and see how I do.  It may just stop again.  I can't handle being sent home...again.

Jon agrees completely unaware that I am doing perhaps my best acting...ever...and we walk back to the car.  Conveniently stopping every so often to drive home that I am "actually" contracting.  After another 30 minutes of being led around the parking lot like a show pony and really only feeling one...maybe two...true contractions but making it seem like I'd had over two dozen Jon was not taking any other answer except the one that led me back up to the 5th floor.

When the elevator doors opened the nurses looked at us like we were complete morons.  Jon was like...weeeeerrrrrre baaaaaaaack!  And I maintained a woeful yet strained facade.  The nurses put us back in the same exam room.

It was showtime.

I was checked every hour because the monitors were reflecting "such a beautiful strong pattern" so "you must be dialated more"...yep, these babies weren't stopping.  I tried not to laugh when first the nurse and then about 3 hours later the doctor stood mistified that I had indeed not gone any farther than a 6.  Stupid 6.  I hate the number 6.

I worried that for sure they would send me home.  But whether it was fear that I would harm myself, the child...a small group of innocent people...I don't know what but the next thing I knew I was being banded and led to a room.  It was just after 12p on Sunday, September 26th.  I had made it to a room.  Surely they couldn't cut me loose now that they had admitted me.

I wasn't about to find out.

However, faking contractions...is a little tiring.  The nurses and the doctor decided that in order to rev these bad boys up they wouldn't confine me to the bed and monitors so I was free to roam about the room.  I could use the birthing ball or soak in the tub (since my water hadn't broken) and then every so often they would check me.  SCORE!!

Turns out a husband left to peruse television channels unbothered does NOT notice that you are even in the same room as him...even when you are about to bare his child.  Men.  But that was fine by me because it allowed me to rest.  I actually took a little nap.  Called and checked in on Olivia.  Sat on the birthing ball...which I deemed to be demonic.  Whoever decided that a person who is at the moment in their life when they will most definitely be their heaviest (unless you are like me and carrying on a mad passionate affair with Ben & Jerry) would want to balance on a ball is a complete an utter fucktard!  For lack of a better word.

Every so often I would turn on the contractions, especially when I knew it was about time to go back on the monitor and be checked.  The nurses would come in and seem completely shocked that given the pattern on the monitor I was still only a 6.

Did I mention how much I hated that fucking number yet??

Night was approaching and I did finally begin to have some real contractions.  I had been advised to sit in a lukewarm bath with the jets if I was okay with that.  The nurses surmised that I must be too tense and that was why I wasn't dialating.  I sheepishly agreed and sat in the tub.  About 5 minutes later I could feel actual contractions.  It took everything in me not to say, "Jon I'm having a contraction".  That would have been bad.

After my bath I made my way back to the bed and continued honestly contracting.  So much so that when I was checked again a few hours later I was miraculously a 7!  Lucky number 7!

I did the math.  If I had gone back home and waited for the "real contractions" to start again I would have been just now coming back to the hospital.  It was a little past 11pm.  I didn't feel guilty in the least.  Especially since I'd had almost 12 full hours of yummy ice!

I tried to get some sleep but found that I was antsy as all hell.  Jon managed a few moments here and there on a the fold out chair/bed contraption.  I had a couple of hellish contractions that made me call out for him but it was a pretty quiet night.

When the shift change occured at 7 a.m. I was introduced to my new nurse and immediately I knew that I loved her.  She walked in and her first words to me were "my goal today is to get you delivered before I leave".  I worried that meant another 12 hours because that is what the other nurse had told me when I asked how long their shifts are.  So I said..."delivery before 7 tonight sounds like a plan to me".  Then she said the words that made me want to kiss her, "honey...I'm leaving early at 3p today...so we need to get this show on the road".

Ahhhhhhhhh....(choir of angels sing)

She came and checked me and announced I was at an 8.  Yippee.  I didn't know what prize that bought me nor did I care...all I knew was 2 more centimeters and I can push and this nurse is bound damned and determined to deliver this baby on her watch!  Let's roll!

Next thing I knew the doctor was in.  This was the same doctor that had performed my biopsy and informed us that "stopping the birth control in December" we would be able to get pregnant by "spring...summer at the earliest".  It was fall and I was just 2cm shy of being ready to push.  Maybe he should re-calibrate his fertility calculator.  Just a thought.

He asked if we would like him to break my water and hopefully get things moving faster.  I was on board for anything that would get this show on the road.  Plus, I was getting tired of faking things still unsure of whether I was "laboring" enough to keep me there and not get sent home again.  I figured broken water equals no possible way in hell I'd be released without a baby in my arms.  I barely uttered yes all the way and he was gloving up and busting my sack.

Within 10 minutes...maybe even less I couldn't decide if he was my new favorite person or if I hated him because the hellish contractions that brought us to the hospital just a day or so before were back...full throtle.  But before I could really settle on hating him for putting me in pain...they stopped again.

Jon and I just sat there thinking...this is ridiculous.  Noticing the stalled contractions the nurse came back with the doctor in tow and he checked me again...still an 8! It was just after 11 a.m.

He began to lay it all out on the line.  I'm full term.  I have a history of stalled dialation.  Once I am dialated I have problems delivering vaginally due to the cephalo pelvic disproportion...blah, blah, blah...medical talk.  I had two choices...he could start me on pitocin which would amp up the contractions and get me to 10cm and hopefully I could push the baby out but most likely would need a c-section like the last child and there was no way to guarantee how long that approach could take seeing as with Olivia it was 28 1/2 hours...I'd come in to the hospital with her at a 7 and it took 231/2 hours to get to 10 then push for over 4 hours only to be rushed into the OR for an emergency c-section.  There was no way to predict that this wouldn't be the same, different in a faster way or worse...different in a longer way!  Or we could just do the c-section.  I looked at Jon.  He gave me the gaze that said, "it's your decision".  I turned to the doctor and said, "when can you do the c-section"?  He checked his watch and said I have an open slot at 12p.

Holy shit that was less than an hour away.  Everything after that began to move incredibly fast.  The anesthesiologist came in and assessed me for the epidural.  I was nervous.  Epidurals meant this was really and truly happening.  No turning back.  Plus my epidural with Olivia had been horrible...a complete failure.  This one though...she was great.  I was settled back and ready to roll in no time at all.

The nurse came in to take us to the operating room.  She smiled down at me as I was beginning to tear up and my teeth were chattering from the anesthesia.  She said, "I told you we'd have a baby before I left today".  Yes, yes you did...I thought to myself.  She asked, "so what will we be welcoming in there?  A boy or a girl?"  Jon did the honors of announcing we'd be welcoming Garren Jesse...a son.  I was too busy trying to keep my teeth from busting.

The nurse smiled and said "a boy...that's great...we've had lots of girls today...a boy would be nice."

At that precise moment my husband said, "babe the name of the bed that you are laying on and have been laying in this whole enitre time is Hannah.  Isn't that bizare?"  At first I had no idea what he was talking about but then I had remembered last night while moving about the room each of the pieces of the equipment in the room had a name tag.  We asked the nurse and she said that instead of numbering them they named them.  It was a unique thing they did on the Labor & Delivery floor.  While we had taken notice of the name of my IV pump, the baby warmer and the O2...we had never noticed the bed.

"You're right"....I chattered...."that is bizare".  The nurse inquired why it was so strange and we explained that before we knew we were having a boy we made sure to pick out two names.  One girl.  One boy.  Just in case.  She laughed, said that we were smart for being so prepared since you just neve know and then it was time to move from the bed named Hannah to the cold steel operating table....

~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 4

Part 4: What’s in a name anyways?

About two weeks into my bed rest the words “stir crazy” took on a whole new meaning. I was craving contact with the outside world and sadly I had none. I began to think of the people on soap opera’s as my friends and would refer to them that way in daily conversation with Jon.

At first he thought I had visitors until I mentioned how one of them had come back from the dead to find out that the baby she’d had when she was dying was actually not hers. For a moment he’d thought I had begun drinking. I assured him that while it was tempting the whole point of this was to get that baby “safely” to full term…not kill it with fetal alcohol syndrome.

I finally stopped talking to him about the most recent story lines on Young and the Restless or Bold and the Beautiful and instead focused on baby names. I had nothing else to do but name this unknown sex of a child. I became obsessed with having a girl name and a boy name. Jon thought I was taking preparedness to a WHOLE new neurotic level. I didn’t care.

Deciding a girls name seemed far easier than settling on a boy name. We had it narrowed down to Bailey and Hannah. Early on in my pregnancy we had been out to dinner and there was a woman calling her little girl and her name was Hannah. The little girl came bounding round the corner with curls and these gianormous blue eyes. It stuck in my head. Jon agreed if this little bean was a girl it would be a Hannah Michel.

Finally, after all the things going NOT according to plan we had managed to check one thing off our list. It didn’t seem to matter that we had no idea what we were having, nor did we have a crib or half the stuff actually required to care for the baby…we had a name which covered at least half our chances in the sex of the child department. We took what we could get.

My only outings during this period of bed rest were to the doctors and my reward for cooking this kid was ultrasounds. Our first ultrasound after the hospital stay was when we got to know what we were having. I remember going through the water torture and thinking wouldn't it be cool if this time we could actually see something. Ya know like something other than the fluttering heart, the feet or that magnificent profile. All that was great don’t get me wrong but I’m not gonna lie to you….I wanted the money shot!

My bladders hard work was rewarded. After measuring the head, then the spine, then the femur the sonographer turned to Jon and I and asked the question that every parent to be is asked, "do you want to know the sex?" Jon's eyes lit up and for a second I had to remind him that she did not indeed ask if he had wanted to have sex. You gotta remember he had been banned from any sexual contact for the past few weeks and now he wasn't gonna get anything until I made it to 35 weeks or until after this baby made it's grand entrance. The word sex in any context made him giddy.



Once I got him back on track we both agreed that yes, we did want to know. The room seemed intensely quiet and it was like the words came out in slow motion, "congratulations...it's a boy".

I cried.

I was ecstatic. A boy. We would have one girl and one boy. Jon just sat there smiling. First he knew the baby was healthy and now a boy. It was a good day.

I was excused to pee and then we left. The whole ride home and every moment there after was spent really focusing on boy names.

A boy. We were going to have a boy. It seemed so surreal.





I immediately had to shut down Jon on his suggestions that we name this child after one of the Manning brothers. Or possibly both…hmmm??






Jon: Babe...what do you think of the name Peyton??






Me: Really, babe? Peyton?? Our last name is Pettus. You want to name our child Peyton Pettus?






Jon: ???






Me: Why don’t we just name him Pee Pee.






Jon: (clearly NOT getting it) Or how about Eli?






Me: I like Eli...but...hmm...why do those names sound familiar?






Jon: (smiling as though he may just get away with this) Yeah babe we could name the baby Peyton Eli Pettus.






Me: PEP…naaa…I don’t think so. But seriously why do I know those names?






Jon: Maybe you went to school with someone that had similar names?






Me: No, no...I remember hearing those names very recently...like on t.v. or in the paper...why do I know those names? (trying to rack my pregnancy brain)






Jon: Don't worry about it. So what do you think...Peyton Eli Pettus? Sounds good right? Rolls right off the tongue?






Me: Wait a minute. Do mean like Peyton and Eli Manning?? You seriously want to name our child after football players?






Jon: (trying not to laugh) NO! No...I just like the names. So you agree on it right?






Me: I am NOT naming my child after football players. What's next you'll suggest we name him after your favorite baseball player’s.






Jon: (looking semi intrigued…but unwilling to open his mouth)






Me: I am NOT...repeat NOT going to be the mother of little Sosa McGuire Pettus. Do you hear me??






Jon: Yeah. I hear you.






I became a fanatic about names. I had nothing else to occupy my time. I clung to anything that could possibly get me through the long and lonely hours laid up in bed or on the couch.


I refused to be one of those woman that I dealt with at work that had to consult tea leaves or tried to sneak out of the hospital without naming their child.






Honestly I had a woman tell me as she was being wheeled past my office on the way to her vehicle with newborn in hand that “indeed in the state of Florida you have up to one year from the date of delivery to name your child”…I never looked it up because well…that is just downright insane. I would not be bringing home “Baby Boy Pettus”…this baby would have a name come hell or high water!






Not only was I crazed about names. I was worried about initials. How would it look on a monogrammed towel down the road? After being concerned about that I also found myself obsessing about how a name can be shortened. For example…loved the name William…not so much in love with the name Bill or Will!






Every name I came across in books would seem okay at first but then when I ran it through my litany of criteria…was it unique, but not weird? Did it flow with our last name? Could it be shortened into something vulgar? I mean in all seriousness do you really think the first person that ever named their kid Richard thought down the road to the day their kid would be called Dick?? I think not.






Then I’d have to deal with Jon and these random kicks he would get on. For example there was the day he was on his Russian kick…






Me: I was looking in the baby books and I just don’t see any names that speak to me. How bout you?






Jon: I like Vlad.






Me: Seriously?






Jon: Or Viktor. But it has to be spelled with a "k" instead of a "c"...it's more Russian that way.






Me: You do know that WE are NOT Russian, right?? Like..our heritage is NOT in the least bit Russian? You do honestly get that right?






Jon: Why so negative?






Me: I'm not negative. I just think there should be some thought behind a child's name.






Jon: I am putting thought behind it. I just watched "The Saint" with Val Kilmer and they had all these Russian names....oooohhhh...wait...what about Ivan.






Me: No. Come on. Seriously??






Jon: Or Mikal? Yeah..yeah...I like Mikal.






Me: Like Barrishnakov?






Jon: Who?






Me: Have you been drinking?






Every name discussion ended the exact same way. Him frustrated that I wouldn’t “just consider” naming our child Skeletor Megatron Pettus and me wishing I could slit my wrist with the baby name books. It was agony.






Another couple weeks passed and we found ourselves back at the doctors. I was a day or so shy of 33 weeks. The heartbeat was strong. I hadn’t been contracting over the 4 weeks that I had been home from the hospital. Baby’s head was no longer down, so the doctor was willing to reduce my captivity but only by allowing me to be on my feet a whole 2 hours per day with no more than 30 minutes at one time. Party time.






We asked if there would be another ultrasound because he’d said he wanted to perform them every 2 weeks, which would equal a total of 3 over the 6 weeks until I made it to the magic number of 35. He said it wasn’t necessary this time but we could revisit it at the next appointment.






I celebrated my new found 30 minute freedom by taking a LONG shower when I got home from the doctors. But later I found myself craving another ultrasound. A baby shower had been planned and the nursery was taking shape. The little one was moving all the time, but I desperately wanted to see him again.










I had turned into an ultra sound addict. Here I had been sorta kinda…in my crazy mind… promised another 2 ultra sounds and now it was a “maybe”…”we’ll see”…at best. Oh hell no…I’m a mother. I know what “maybe” and “we’ll see” means…it’s code for NO, not gonna happen but I’m gonna say this BS answer and hope that you don’t throw a fit here in Target and make me look like Mommy Dearest.






I had no choice… I went straight to my dad and whined.






He worked for a hospital across the bay in Tampa and he just happened to be in the radiology department. Perfect. I began to court him with the idea of getting one of his people to do an ultra sound. Not for any diagnostic purposes. We just wanted to see him again. I couldn’t bank on a maybe…I needed a definite.






This was before the days of the 3-D ultra sound places that you could just go to and get a stunning picture of your soon to be cuddly baby. No, this was 1999 and I was at the utter mercy of the ultra sound nazi’s as I viewed it. I wasn't basing things on chance...I was taking control of this situation. So far this seemed to be the only thing, outside of choosing names, that I indeed could control. I felt drunk with power.










A week later I got my way and we were watching our little boy on the medium sized screen. We left that day with pics in hand and I became even more convinced that I needed a name. Not just any name. A great name. A name with meaning.






I went from crazed to obsessed to completely looney over picking the perfect name. I was stuck on the name Leighton for some reason. Jon was completely against it. He didn’t just dislike it…he downright hated it.










We agreed that we wanted to steer clear of any “J” names. With me being Jessica and him being Jon we didn’t want Olivia to feel left out. Especially since she didn’t share the same last name.






Next name I became obsessed with was Riley. Then Rory. Jon shot them both down. Citing too girly for Riley and "seriously what the fuck have you been smoking" I believe was the exact kiss off for Rory.






Finally one day I remembered a patient that had a little girl shortly after I started working in the birth records department. She also had a little boy and his first name was Garren. They were English and the poor kid had about six names in total, plus his last name. There was something about that name that just stuck with me.






I was hesitant to bring it up to Jon. I was running out of unique, non weird, can't be shortened into vulgar or pansy ass get your kids butt kicked on the playground kind of names.






He’d shot down every other name that I seemed to fall in love with. I tried to find it in one of the millions of baby name books that we owned but I couldn’t. I thought maybe if I casually put it in front of him and he stumbled upon it he’d bring it up to me and I’d be all “good job babe…I LOVE it”…he’d feel all proud and at last we would have a name.






It became abundantly clear that this scenario would not be occurring. So I bit the bullet and threw it out there.






Me: Hey babe?






Jon: Yeah.






Me: I found a name that I like.






Jon: Okay…what is it?






Me: (deep breath) Garren.






Jon: Hmmm…not bad.






Me: Really?? You like it?






Jon: Yeah…yeah I do.






Me: Oh my god…we just picked out our baby’s name.






Jon: Are you crying?






Me: (sniffing) No.






Jon: Are you happy that we have a name now.






Me: (trying to non chalantly wipe at my eyes and still sniffing) Yes.






Jon: Good. Now what is the middle name gonna be?






Me: (completely deflated) Crap.






Jon: How bout Peyton or Eli?






Me: (staring at him as if I can actually KILL him with my eyes)






Jon: I’ll take that as a no.










Now that we had a first name it was time to select the middle name. Really, how hard could this be? Apparently I had not closely examined how long it took us to select the first name. Stupid, stupid girl.






Immediately we were drawn to the name Alexander. Of course that flew out the window when I realized his initials would be GAP and his monogram would be GPA. Fail.






Then I thought maybe we should choose a name from the family. Jon agreed that trying to honor his father, who had passed away in 1994, was out of the question seeing as our choices would be Lester or Clinus. Epic fail.






Finally we settled on acknowledging my dad, Jesse. I was one of three girls and thus there was no one to carry on the family name. I adore my dad, especially since he is my step-dad and he came on the scene when I was at the unruly age of 11. He put up with a lot of my shit and I thought giving my son his name as a middle name would be a great way to say how much I loved and appreciated him.






We sat on the name for 2 more weeks. We had made it to 35! Another doctor’s appointment brought the blessed news that I could indeed be free of any restraints. If this little tyke wanted to come out and play they were on board. The doctor told us to enjoy our remaining time and keep him apprised of any problems. He would see me back in a two weeks if not sooner for problems or possibly in hospital for delivery.






We went over to the hospital to register and sign up for Lamaze classes. Since I wasn’t a newcomer to this rodeo we took a three night class. Kind of like the Cliff’s Notes of Labor & Delivery. We also called my parents and asked to take them out to dinner. It was time to unveil our name.






A few nights later we met at one of our favorite restaurants and with just my mom, dad and sister we spoke the baby’s name for the first time outside of our home.






Me: Well, we wanted to invite you here tonight so we could tell you that we selected a name.


Mom: That’s great. What is it?






Me: Jon do you wanna do the honors?






Jon: No, babe…it’s all you.






Me: (getting kind of misty eyed cause I’m a pregnant ball of hormonal emotions) Dad, are you listening?






Dad: Yeah. I’m listening. You wanna tell us the name for the baby?






Me: Okay…it’s Garren Jesse Pettus.






--- S I L E N C E ---






Me: (looking nervously at Jon and trying not to cry)






Jon: (looking at me trying to figure out why the hell I’m gonna cry)






Olivia: I have to pee.






Me: Is anyone going to say ANYTHING about the name of this baby?






Olivia: I like it. I have to pee.






Me: Ok. Is anyone else that hasn’t heard this name for the past two weeks gonna say anything about the name of this baby?






Olivia: I really have to pee.






Me: Yeah. I heard ya. Cole (my baby sister) I’ll give you $1 if you take her.






My sister thankfully escorts my cross legged child to the restroom and I attempt to not kill my parents with the steak knife resting in front of me.






Me: Okay. (becoming slightly shrill) One more time…is ANYONE…preferably the SOMEONE whose name is being used…going to comment on the name of the baby?






Dad: You only get called by your middle name when you are in trouble. This kid is gonna hate me.






UGH….this whole name shit sucks.






We left dinner and that night while we laid in bed I finally did cry. I was hurt. I wanted so badly to honor my dad, but strangely…he did have a point. I couldn’t bare to go back to the name selection game. We were now rounding into the 36 week mark and I was convinced this kid was coming at any second.






Jon agreed that whether it was used just as a name on the birth certificate or to scold the child when he acted out of turn, we knew what it meant to us in our hearts. So Garren Jesse Pettus was this baby’s name. I placed my hands on my overgrown belly and felt a kick. I concluded that the baby agreed and it wasn’t a topic of discussion again.






Now all that was left to do was get him here so we could meet him face to face…how hard could that be...





~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 3

Part 3: This is where you stop mocking me and start doing WHATEVER IT IS I ASK OF YOU!

I really hate hospitals.  But if you had to be laid up in one for a long period of time...this one was pretty damn good.  They had fabulous ice.  I'm a self professed connoisseur of crushed ice.  On my list of "best ice EVER" this place was towards the top trailing only mildly behind The Great American Cookie Company (back in it's heyday at Clearwater Mall).  Another perk was the fact that they would make me grilled cheese with bacon for like every possible meal and they never frowned at Jon for bringing in Chic-fil-A or Marble Slab ice cream.  Even when it was well after visiting hours.

My secret suspiscion is that he bribed them in the hallway with treats but as long as I got what I was craving in the end I could give a rats ass if he was actually performing sexual favors out there.  When you're pregnant pure rational flies out the window in the face of meeting the demonic voice of satisfying whatever it is that your body wants at that precise moment only to be dissappointed 3 seconds later because now you have what you thought you wanted but your mood has changed, thus perpetuating the vicious hormonal cycle.  

Before having to be whisked off to the hospital for being in a "beautiful contracting pattern...shamefully at the completely wrong time" I was plagued by horrible cravings.  The only thing worse than my cravings was the unbelievable sickness I had.  It wasn't morning sickness.  It was 24/7 sickness.  This was NOT how I was when I was pregnant with Olivia.  I had the textbook first trimester morning sickness that would shut off at exactly 12p on the dot and once I hit the second trimester I never had issue with it again.

Not the case this time.  I would wake up nauseated and start vomitting once my feet hit the floor.  I slept with a bowl by the bed.  It was horrid.  And it didn't let up throughout the day and into the night.  Usually the last thing I did before going to bed at night was throw up.  It was magical.  Jon thought he had impregnated the exorcist.  Minus the spinning head...it was kinda true.

I would be throwing up and crying.  Then 10 seconds later I would be begging him to get me whatever it was that I was demonically craving.  It wasn't ever anything unusual.  The biggest thing was Chic-fil-A nuggets with boat loads of pollynesian sauce.  So much so that the people at our local Chic-fil-A knew him by face and would just put it into a separate bag.  Sheepishly asking, "is this enough" as if for some reason if he returned with an improper amount he may be harmed and it would be ALL their fault.  Let it never be said that those people aren't smart.

Every once in awhile he would get some zit faced punk of a teenager that would try to give him a hard time and he would be forced to say, "my wife is pregnant and if you don't give me a shit load of that sauce she may infact kill me for putting her in this state of utter misery therefore you will have blood on your hands you little fuck"...or at least that is how I imagined the speech going.  He always came home with the sauce.  Thank god.  I was too tired from throwing up to actually have to physically harm him for forgetting it.

As soon as I would start to eat I would begin to feel sick.  Again.  And then I would spend the next 30 minutes negotiating with my body in something reminiscent of the movie "The Negotiator" to just keep the food down.  I was all Kevin Spacey to my body's Samuel L. Jackson.  Finally Jon got so tired of this routine... me crying for something...getting it and taking a few bits...then crying because I was now throwing up the very thing that I had craved and begged for.  His suggestion to end this problem was instead of continuing the madness he should just take money out of his wallet and flush it down the toilet.  He said that way he wouldn't have to leave the house, drive to wherever, pick up the food, bring it home, watch me take a few bites and then have to listen to me throw it all up.  He felt it was only logic.  I did not find this funny.  He however thought it was downright brilliant and somewhat hysterical.  I punished him by making him go and get me ice cream because that is what I wanted right then.  Stupid man.

I was well into my seventh month and "morning" sickness was still a very active participant in my day.  While in the hospital the nurses tried to make me feel better saying that every pregnancy was different.  I took little comfort in that while I was heaving my guts.

Every day spent in the hospital was a roller coaster of emotions.  I felt helpless because I had another child that needed her mother.  You begin to feel torn between doing everything in your power to get the child in your belly to full term and also not neglecting the one that is already here.  I did a lot of crying.

Jon on the other hand...did a lot of juggling.  He was having his first taste of full time parenthood without someone else there to break up the stress.  He was running on all cylinders.  He'd wake up at the crack of dawn get Olivia up and off to pre-school...call and check on me see if there was any news from the night before that had occured since we talked before he had gone to sleep...then head to work...sometimes he'd sneak in to see me before he went to work...if he could break away at lunch he'd come to the hospital usually bringing me whatever I had been craving when he placed the call that he could make a stop by...then back to work...pick Olivia up from school if it wasn't a day that her father picked her up or if my mom couldn't grab her...then swing by the hospital...if Olivia was with him we would try to eat together so at least she had that interaction of family dinner, although it's not the same when monitors are going off every 5 minutes...then home for the bathtime, bedtime routine...he'd get Oliva in bed then do laundry, make lunches and call me to see how things were going since he left the hospital...if it was a night when he didn't have Olivia because whe was with her dad or staying the evening at my parents he would come back up to the hospital and stay with me for as long as the nurses would allow.  Then he'd sleep, get up and do it all over again.

I spent just over two weeks in the hospital.  Everyday I would hope this would be the day I'd get to go home.  I stopped asking after day 5.

I spent most of the time hooked up to what I have now deemed to be the 2nd most heinous drug in the child carrying and bearing experience...magnesium sulfate.  A step down from the horror that is pitocin, is this drug.  While I appreciate how it, combined with the efforts of terbutaline, stopped my contractions and kept our little peanut in the womb it brought with it horrid side effects and I felt worse being released from the hospital than I did going in to it.

The day that they released me I thought they were joking.  My day nurse came in and asked me the same question she did every day.  I had begun to hate her for taunting me.  She'd walk in, take my vitals and say, "wouldn't today be a beautiful day to go home"...I'd be all like..."yeah, that would be great"...to which she would say, "but I bet tomorrow would be even better".  What kind of fucked up mind game are you playing here sister??

But on this day when I solemnly said, "yeah that would be great" she said, "yeah I thought so too so I'll help you pack".  I was like...huh...what???  I thought I had won the lottery.  The doctor came in and declared that I had been contraction free for 3 whole days which I knew just from watching the monitors and said that I was good to be released albeit with strict precautions.  Bedrest.  I could get up to pee and could walk around a total of 30 minutes every 24 hours and no more than 10 minutes at one given time.

On the day I was discharged I was 29 weeks and 1 day.  I had to stay on bedrest until I was at least 35 weeks.  This was gonna be the longest 6 weeks of my life.  And on top of that it wouldn't be like being at the hospital.  I mean who would bring me yummy crushed ice or make me grilled cheese with bacon at the drop of a hat??

Jon tried to assure me that things would be fine.  He could handle it.  He would make sure that everything was taken care of.  There was only one small four legged problem.  And her name was Max (this is what happens when you assume the dog is a boy and let your child name it only to be advised it really is a girl and said child REFUSES to change the dogs name).

We had adopted a puppy for Olivia for her 5th birthday in June.  We had wanted a dog for awhile and now that we were in a bigger place it seemed perfect.  Knowing that a baby would be coming in the next few months we figured get the dog now, get it trained and comfortable in the house and it's surroundings so that there would be no issues when the baby arrived.

No one ever imagined that a little over a month after getting her I would be put on bedrest and although at home, I would not be able to care for her.  When I was in the hospital we had her staying at my parents house.  It was only gonna be a short term thing.  Or so we thought.

After finding out that this was gonna be a long term situation there was no way to expect my parents to keep the dog.  Foolishly I thought, they will stop the contractions and things will go back to normal.  I will go back to work and regular routine.  This was not part of the plan.  None of what was happening was part of how I had imagined things to go.

We attempted to have the dog stay with friends and family.  The only one willing to take her on such short notice was my grandmother who had a huge yard.  After transporting her down to St. Pete, about 30 minutes from us, we were called 2 days later to come and pick her up.  "She's too rowdy" was the chief complaint.  I didn't have it in me to argue that she was a puppy and didn't exactly prescribe to having to go to bed at 7pm.  It was a pointless argument.

I had only been home from the hospital 4 days before Jon declared we would have to find her a new home.  Another 4 days went by with no bites and me sneaking to take her out for pee breaks...Jon caught on and called me out.  It was the baby or the dog.  Olivia was heartbroken. Years later she would tell us that she blamed the baby for the fact that she lost her pet.

I bawled, partly because I felt like I had let the dog down and partly because I was a tightly wound ball of emotions.  A day later we took Max back to the shelter.  The lady who had handled the adoption was a complete bitch and made me feel like a speck of dirt on the sole of her shoe for returning the dog in order to preserve the health of my unborn child.

The baby wasn't here yet and it had already pissed off it's sister and offended the ASPCA.  Great.  Just fuckin great!  What next?

I was too exhausted to think what could possibly happen.  I began to stop planning anything and just looked at my life in a moment by moment turn of events.  My only goal became getting to the 35 week mark.  My only plan was what I would watch on television to pass the time and what list I would make for Jon to stock the fridge for my few precious moments of time moving about to forge for food.

35 became my new favorite number.  I had it locked in my sites and the countdown was anything but exciting...

~JP

For once I was speechless....

Every one dreams of rasing well adjusted, strong minded and happy children.  Jon and I just hope we can get both the girls safely into their adult years without having to be commited.  We keep our expectations low.

It amazes us when the girls will react in much more mature way then say we would have had we been in the situation.  I know this is the part where I am supposed to add that I mean in the sense of how we would have acted when we were were that age.  Ummm...yeah, that would be a bald faced lie.  I don't exactly know how we accomplished raising these two girls but when I do figure it out I am writing it down, publishing it, selling it, putting the word "Dr." in front of my name, having a meeting with Oprah and giving that big southern drawl of a man Phil a run for his money.

Monday night I had made dinner and we all sat down as a family.  At the dinner table.  It's amazing that you can have a whole meal there when it isn't buried by laundry.  Completely fascinating find.

Within moments of sitting down and beginning to eat the standard litany of questions began, "how's your day", "what did you learn today", "do you need any help with homework", "anything exciting going on", "anything planned for the upcoming week that we need to know about"...etc.

Both Jon and I were prepared for the ho hum answers of "nope", "nothing", "stuff" and blank stares that come at our childrens bewildermint that all meals aren't consumed at the coffee table in front of the precious flat screen.  But tonight was bound to be anything but ordinary.  I don't know if Olivia was inspired by the fact that I had made her favorite fettuccini alfredo or if she was fed up with a situation at school....

Me:  So how was your day?

Hannah:  It was okay.

Jon:  That's it Han...just oka??

Hannah:  (nods her head and takes a bite of pasta)

Me:  What about you Liv?  How was your day??


Olivia:  Crap.

Me:  Okay.  Why was it crap?

Olivia:  Because of the whorefaces.

Jon: (trying desperately not to spit out or choke on the water he has just drank)

Hannah: (aww struck...drops fork)

Me:  (trying to hide shock) Uh.  Huh.  Well...would you like to elaborate on that?

Okay seriously...let's take a pause here...what the hell would you have said??  Part of me wanted to admonish her for the word but the other part of me was damn curious at what could possibly drive her to use this phrase.

Olivia:  Ugh.  I just hate girls that are all like...ya know...talking stupid, putting "a" on the end of EVERY word, hanging on guys...especially one that I am dating and they are just putting their "no no squares" out there.

Jon:  (really choking now)

Hannah:  (completely dumbfounded but still absentmindedly eating)

Me:  (having spit out my own drink and now wiping it up) Ummm...okay...I was kinda following at whorefaces and the long "a" thing...but ya totally lost me at...what is it that you said last??

Olivia:  (laughing) "no no squares"...you've NEVER heard that??

Jon & Me:  (nodding no in unision and looking at Hannah to see if possibly our 9 1/2 yr old is more in tune with the language of the moment)

Me:  (internal sigh at the fact that Hannah seems oblivious and is now consumed with making sure she gets equal pieces of garlic bread) Would you care to elaborate Liv?

Olivia:  Well there are these girls that I see around school and they are all flaunting themselves pushing out their "no no squares" (motioning towards her chest) and being all...well...just all whoreface.

Me:  Ummm...okay.  Well do you...ummm, uh...put out your "no no squares"? (gesturing meekly at my chest)

Jon: (begins to die a slow painful death at the amount of estrogen flowing around the table...still speechless)

Olivia:  Mom...it's not just your boobs....you have two "no no squares".  Ya know like...(begins singing) "no no don't touch me there..these are my no no squares" (gesturing towards her private areas).

Me:  (beginning to feel mixed joy at her awareness and illness at the fact that husband has now been subjected to this...slightly aware that 9 1/2 yr old is still at table)  Hannah...I am sorry that you had to hear all of this. 

Hannah:  Don't worry, I don't even have any "no no squares".

Laughter erupts at the table and Jon is on the verge of tears from sheer hysteria.


Me:  Oh god.  (realization has set in that I may need to point this stuff out to her)

Olivia:  Hannah...yes you do...

Me: (complete fear sets in at what is about to come out of her mouth but not able to react fast enough)

Olivia: ...your bathing suit covers them.  Hello??  You learned this in school.

Me:  (huge sigh of relief only last a second as extreme fear that Olivia will begin teaching Hannah the song and Jon will spontaneously combust at the table) Okay.  Okay girls.  I think we have to give your dad a break.

Olivia:  Well don't you even want to know why these girls that are all pushing out their boobs and vaginas out at people...mostly guys...and talking like idiots...don't you want to know why they are aggrivating me??

Jon & Me:  (completely aware that the house has become painfully silent and that there is no possibility that Hannah didn't hear that whole comment...we stare at one another as to how we should proceed)

Me:  (I find my voice first) Ok...well, hmm...(trying to think when I EVER said the word vagina in front of my mom let alone my dad and coming up blank...nope 32 yrs and NEVER SAID THAT WORD) yeah...ok...part of me wants to know what happened but part of me thinks this conversation should take place when your sister isn't around. (gesturing with my head to Hannah)

Olivia:  What?  What did I say?

Hannah:  Mom it's fine...I've heard that word before.


Immediately I am wishing I had wine.  For some reason I feel like this situation can only be softened with some kind of alcohol.  Jon looks as though he is one breath away from death and I...for once...am completely speechless.

Those hopes of showing up Dr. Phil have been killed by one dinner time conversation.  It was so close...and yet so far away.

~JP