I'll be seeing ya in 2011....

Every closing of a year is the end of a chapter in ones life.  

Deep breath....now open your eyes

It's the eve of 6 months of the wildest ride of my life.  Cancer.

Here I thought I'd gotten past the madness which was life as a teenage mother, then mother of two girls and the business that is marriage.  No one...not even me the eternal worrier made plans for fighting for my life.

I went from thinking I was sick with mono and having my biggest worry be making sure I was able to get back to work on May 3rd to wondering how I'd make it through my first round of chemotherapy and the life that I intensely prayed would follow.  I really contemplated whether I had the drive to get from behind it and be able to have a life.  Any kind of life.  I was willing to rewrite "normal" as long as it meant me still in the equation.

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."

My AH-Mazing Trip to FL - Part 2 (I cried, I laughed and at one point I wondered what the hell is that taste in my mouth)

"19 years can pass quickly when your living life, but you never really forget about the ones that aren't there living it with you." 

And with this I bid another Christmas good night...

I'd like to say that my house is quiet right now...as the clock ticks past midnight, but Jon is snoring up a storm and just barely heard over that is the sounds of Hannah watching "Tale of Desperaux" on the flat screen in the living room.  For a moment I had to check and make sure she didn't have surround sound on because Jon's snoring usually drowns out the television I have playing in the same room so being able to hear one over the snoring, my t.v., through a closed door and down a hallway is pretty impressive.  Turns out she didn't have it on she just had it up REALLY loud.

Instead all I found when I ventured out to be the cranky mom commenting on the "too loud" television is my baby girl snuggled down with pillows and blankets.  She had asked Jon and I if she could sleep on the sofa tonight so she could watch television.  Our agreement to this question marked the four dozenth time of her proclaiming..."this is the BEST Christmas ever"!  I don't care who you are, if you are the parent of one or a dozen, those six words just melt your inner being and will make you relent even when you think you shouldn't.

Not that her sleeping on the couch is a huge deal....it's just that I don't get it.  It truly cracks me up that once again one of our kids is so excited to sleep on the couch.  I.  Just.  Don't.  Get.  It.  Have I ever fallen asleep on my couch? Yes.  Have I ever HAD to sleep on my couch? Yes again.  Would I pick my couch over my bed if I had the choice?  Hell to the no.

But my kids...LOVE sleeping on the couch.  I told Jon that I think it is because right now both of the girls don't have satellite service in their room, so the couch is the only way for them to lay and watch shows.  I think that now that they have cleared the destruction and clutter in their room allowing me to go in there and contact our cable provider to have them assist me in finding the problem that soon we won't have to deal with a kid sleeping on the couch.  I'm hoping that this theory is true because with a hubby that snores I really like the idea of having my couch clear if I wanna escape to silence to write, read or even watch a show without having to strain to hear dialogue through his mind grating snores.

But enough about that...on Christmas Eve we let Hannah open the obligatory (in her mind) gift and she got the boots that she was so gaga over.  Think the Gap commercial and the adorable little girls singing "I love my comfy sweater...I love my comfy sweater...how cute are these boots"...yep now she is the proud owner of those cute boots.  She was so happy over them that she wore them to bed.  Not just on her way to bed but actually into bed and slept in them.  I don't think I have seen her that excited about anything since....hmmmm, I'm thinkin....ummmmm...yeah, I don't know when she's ever been this excited about a clothing item.  She was excited last year over her Nintendo DS, but to my knowledge she didn't sleep with it.

That moment of adoration that follows your child opening a gift and then the beaming of enthusiasm that follows is a drug that should be bottled and kept for the moments when they leer at you and profess how you have "ruined their life" and how "you are the WORST. PARENT. EVER".

My first taste of holiday victory came yesterday when I tackled the chore of gift wrapping.  Although I've spent the past six months in a life funk I did manage to get gifts wrapped Christmas Eve morning and NOT wait until the ungodly hour of midnight so I was able to just relax and get to bed at a decent hour.  Of course we had a repeat of last year where Jon turned in and I was left awake to place the gifts.  I don't know why we play this game anymore since the "magic" of Santa has been dispelled in our home.  I'm just a teensy bit heartbroken about that but not so much so when I realize that come next year if I am not good about getting the gifts wrapped early that I won't have to stay up another few hours to make sure that the children are asleep already so I don't destroy their belief.

This morning Jon was up and at it early and then came Hannah.  I, of course, was NOT a morning person but I was coaxed out of bed with coffee and then the gift opening extravaganza commenced.  Gift after gift Hannah's eyes twinkled.  I thought she might be disappointed at the fact that the gift count this year compared to others was visibly less but I was thrilled when after the last of the gifts were unwrapped she exclaimed that she had gotten everything that she had wanted. 

Perhaps the most treasured gift of all was the fact that she had scored her beloved boots and her sister had not been given any.  Just as my heart warmed with the spirit of the season I realized that the true gift that my girls seem to relish is when they get something that they believe the other may want but didn't get.  I swear sibling rivalry and promoting jealousy between each other is the gift that just keeps on giving in their eyes.  It wasn't an intentional move on our part but her admission as to why she seemed so happy almost made Jon and I keel over with laughter.

If I ever thought that I may be able to deny that this child was mine...this cleared up any concerns.  She is my daughter through and through.

We had a little break in between when we opened gifts and when Jon's mom arrived to go have Christmas breakfast with us.  Love me some Waffle House on Christmas.  I should feel bad that people had to work and wait on us because I'm a lazy person who didn't want to cook for my family, but we made up for it by tipping the waitress close to 50% of our bill.

After Jon's mom left we just lazed around the house.  I decided to grab a quick nap because the anxiety was getting to me.  I woke up fully rested and ready to go see "Alvin & the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel".  It was...hmmm...it was a kids movie.  Not a breakthrough performance that will affect my life like say "The Blindside" but it did make me laugh and allowed me to watch Hannah laugh and smile.

We made our way out of the theater and went in search of dinner.  After driving from one end of our city to the other we settled on Chinese.  A few servings of sweet & sour chicken, pork spare ribs and fried rice later it was time to head home.  Jon unfortunately has to work Saturday and Hannah was still hoping to squeeze in a board game before the dreaded bedtime.

Hannah had picked out "the Office" trivia game for us to play.  For anyone who is a fan of this show...I highly recommend getting this game.  We are Office obsessed so we were cracking up playing the game.  Our family is one that loves trivia.  We can pass hours just asking each other question after question about movies, music, etc.

I won the game (because I'm the Monica) and Jon came in 2nd which of course only means that he was the first loser.  Hannah thought that observation was completely hysterical.  It was a simple ending to a wonderful day.  The only thing missing was Olivia.

So here I am....house semi quiet....another 364 days before we will do it all again and I wonder.....

I wonder what lays in store for me...for our family in the coming year.  I wonder if this will be the year that we will actually save money ahead of time to pay for Christmas and not have to scramble at the last minute putting off a mortgage payment or other household bills.  If we will shop early and wrap as we go, like we've said we would do for the past 12 years.  I wonder will we be celebrating the season in one home or in between two.  Will Jon and I still be a we or will it just be two single entities?  Is there a career in store for me?  And will I see more light in my life instead of the same darkness?

So much to think about in the coming days and so much to wonder about for the coming year.  I hope this holiday season finds you enjoying the simple joys such as kids and their boots or the giggle that arises when you see yourself moving towards the finish line of a game.  The world and life ahead is unsure and uncertain, it's these little serendipitous moments that keep us warm and comforted during the day to day grind.

Enjoy the wonder.  Enjoy the moment.  I know that I will....even if only for tonight.

~JP

Finding common ground....

I stayed up all night last night.  Big shocker.  I had spent the last several weeks pouring through web sites about marriage and repairing the damaged marriage, fixing the broken person...blah, blah, blah and I remembered last night that a friend of mine had given me a book a few years back called "The Five Love Languages: How to Express Hearfelt Commitment to Your Mate".  I became obsessed with finding that damn book.

First I thought I might use it to bludgeon Jon to death with but then I figured it might be more useful if I actually read it and then tried to utilize the tools that it may teach me.  Thank God it wasn't in the garage or attic or in a box that was still packed from when we moved into this house just a mere...ummm...cough...ergh, 5 years ago.   But this post isn't about my inability to unpack boxes, fear of garages or attics in the middle of the night or even my fantasies of beating Jon to a pulp with great works of self help books...it's about this book and how I HAD TO FIND IT.

Priorities people...priorities!

Once I found it....conveniently located on a bookshelf, who'd of thunk...I then became obsessed with reading it.

ALL OF IT.

In one night.

I have an addictive personality...once I set my mind on something...it becomes a friggin obsession!

It was as if the expanse of the past three years of fighting and silent treatments, ultimatums, asking him to leave, letting him come back and then me leaving and the final action of taking off my wedding band and telling him "I'm done" was boiled down into to what the hell I was gonna do in the span of time that it would take me to read all 175 pages.

I'm a fast reader and I literally read this book until I could no longer hold up my head or hold open my eyes.  I fell asleep reading it then woke up and finished it.  While I slept though was when I received a message from Jon who had taken it upon himself ,without talking to me, to find his own guidance in the midst of our seperation.

We have spent a great deal of time standing on separate sides of what should be one unified relationship.  Being pig headed and stubborn has not served us well and we've both held on to the "I'm right and you're wrong", mentality so long that I don't event think we care to explain what it is that we think we may be right about.  After three years of battling you gain a great sense of entitlement to your feelings. 

After three years of battling you also get a lot of looks from the other people that have lived in the house with you through that period of time.  I'm pretty sure if we allowed the girls to use curse words, they would have some colorful choice ones for us.  I'm also pretty sure that is why the dogs piss and shit near our belongings.  It's their way of saying..."dude, either work it out or split up...this shit is annoying".

Tonight was different though.

While we have gotten good at silence and catty glances, making mountains out of the proverbial mole hills and hitting below the belt with words, tonight we simply chose to compliment one another.  It was a suggestion in the book that I had ravenously consumed and thought about bringing up to Jon but then felt like I shouldn't have to because...again...I feel that I am right in my feelings of how the past few years have gone and that would make him wrong.  I'm pretty sure it is becoming abundantly clear as to why there is no resolution to our problems.  I seriously think I may make a shirt that says "I'm right.  You're Wrong.  What's the problem again?"

So while sitting in that self entitled mindset I was shocked when he sent me a text asking if I had read the email he had forwarded me earlier about the things he was reading in order to help him better understand where he and we had gone so wrong in our marriage.  I responded that I had and I tried very hard to keep the sarcasm out of it.  Again that little voice of entitlemnt was rising up and trying to bang on the keys of my Crackberry.  I fought if off though and remained both civil and intrigued that he was making a first move.

It was a cautious feeling of intrigue though.  I mean come one, I may be on a euphoric high from the book but I'm not stupid, we've been down the heartfelt rosey posey road of make believe before.  It got us a $10,000 bill for therapy and here we were no better for the experience.  But I was good and told him that I had.  He asked if I had read the part about making the list of 3 good things about your spouse/partner.  He told me that I would need to write them down and we would share them when we saw each other later.  I said that I had written them down, I didn't bother to divuldge that this was along the same lines as what I had read in my book and had actually mentally completed the night before.  Fixing this marriage is not about what came first the book or the text.  It was about both of us trying.

I feel like I've been the only one plowing through the trenches for the past few years so for the first time in a REALLY long time I was struck by his initiative.  You gotta know this, therapy...was my idea.  Seperation...my idea.  Reconciliation...my idea.  Seperation again...my idea.  I'm thinking you are getting the picture.

With the therapy it was an ultimatum put to him when he had made what I deemed to be the biggest mistake to have happened in our marriage at that particular point in time.  My husband, in all his infinite wisdom, had chosen another woman's feelings over my own.  I'm not talking his mother or his sister.  Nope I am just talking about an old friend.

Yep, that man I love so dearly and had created a life with and was busy raising two children with had stood in our driveway and with my pleading eyes upon him had chosen her over me.  When all was said and done, I knew something in him had changed that day and with all that I could muster I told him it was counseling or he could pack his stuff....he chose therapy.

Now looking back and knowing some of the other things that transpired to keep him coming back to sessions week after week, sometimes twice a week, it is no surprise to me why the years worth of marital counseling did nothing more than to fatten our therapist bank account and keep us emotionally bankrupt.  Another factor for me at least has been watching the systematic demise of some of my friends marriages.  It's hard to remain upbeat about your own future when those around you that you care about are hurting.  Watching their struggles amplified my own and thus created this feeling of just wanting to break free of all of it.  It was getting to the point of suffocation because all around us there was seperation, infidelity, mistrust and discord.  

I don't in any way blame our failures on those around us, but when you are struggling to bail yourselves out of a precarious situation it helps to have some solid ground around you...for us there wasn't anything like that close by.  We were forced to rely on each other and THAT was a huge problem because I no longer trusted him and I was pretty sure he felt the same way about me.

Now that we've come to the point of sink or swim, we've decided that it's every marriage for themselves and we cannot rely on what is around us in order to decide if we will fail or succeed.  I think, for myself at least, that realization made his gesture so powerful. 

Could the feelings of goodwill die tomorrow?  Absolutely.

Will the road to our security and a strong marriage be rough?  Absofuckinlutely.

But do I think it's possible to come back from the abyss of "I'm done" and possibly find more than just this tiny sliver of common ground?  I have hope that it is and that is far more than I had within me when I went searching for that book.

I'll take my common ground.  I am thankful for it and I look forward to what may come as I take ever so tiny and well thought out baby steps towards something better than where I am right now.

~JP

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

Maybe it's time to rewrite the traditional fairytale.....

Once upon a time.....isn't that how they always suck you in?

Well this ain't no fairytale.  That's for damn sure.

Back when I was younger the only thing that I seemed to want was to be part of a two some.  A couple.  I probably should have been a twin.  That fact would have more than likely resulted in my mother going crazy faster than she actually has.

It seemed from birth I was just one of those individuals that flourished in an environment where I could be with someone else.  My mom probably fostered this by allowing me to sleep in her bed until I was a toddler.  Then while she was a single parent we almost always shared a room.  That continued until I was 11 years old and she married my step-dad.  I had my own room for a whole 7 months.  Then came my first sister and then my second sister a mere 15 months later.  I shared a room with them until I visualized smothering them both in my sleep.  My parents realized teenage-dom was upon them and I evicted myself from the co-op bedroom and out to my own space.  Sadly it was the front porch.  I mean what can you expect when you are living in a 2 bedroom house with 5 people, 2 of which are a screaming baby and toddler respectively. 

The "porch" as it was named was actually the standard Florida "sun room".  So it was completely enclosed.  The stupid part of my move was the fact that my room was the first thing that people saw and had to walk through when they came to my parents house.  Let's just say I had the cleanest teenagers room EVER!

It was also one way to insure that your teenage daughter doesn't do anything inappropriate with any boys in her bedroom.  There are times that I wish we had this same arrangement now that I have older daughters.  But then I take a stroll into their rooms and realize that if we did have that set up we could never have anyone over.  They'd never make it through the sea of crap in order to make it into the rest of the house for a visit.

But enough about my bedroom from age 12 to 14 years of age.  After the death of my sister Alicia I would go and lay in bed with my baby sister Nicolle in order to soothe her.  From the day she was born she had shared a room with both me and Alicia and then just Alicia and now she was alone.  So I'd lay with her.  Then just a few short years later I had a little one of my own to occupy my bed. 

It wasn't just sleeping either.  It was life in general.  I don't think I was ever meant to be a singleton.  At a young age I befriended a neighbor and we became the best of friends.  From the age of 3 up until 16, I don't think there is one good memory of my life that doesn't include her.  We were like two peas in a pod and I liked it just fine. 

After friendships came dating.  I always seemed to be happier when I was part of a couple.  I'm beginning to see that there is a pattern of confidence issues.  So now 12 years into the longest pairing I've had since the birth of my first child I am lost in the fact that we are taught young that every fairytale is all roses and fairies and pumpkins turning into carriages.  Outside of the mother's being audibly missing out of almost EVERY Disney story for as long as I can remember just about ever story of falling love has no mention of depression, finances, liars and heartbreak. Yeah they may start out realistic with the orphans and the working in your own home for your evil step-mother but then you are whisked away and have rodents to do your housework.  That's a step up in my books.  Not reality and yet we eat it up and ask for seconds.

Now I sit pondering the last few years of my life and as I think about the ever changing dimensions of my coupledom I wonder if my inability to stand on my own two feet and worry about what I want and what I need has possibly left me contemplating how a lifetime of being part of a two some has made it next to impossible for me to think of just myself.  Alone. 

As a mother I can never truly be alone.  Hell just trying to pee is a friggin affair.  If I don't announce it I will undoubtedly have a knock, a random walk in or an all out search and rescue mounted if I don't answer when yelled to from another room.  I'm in the bathroom.  I'm taking a piss.  LEAVE ME ALONE!  Sadly I feel I should mention that my kids are 15 and 10.  They are walking, talking, thinking, able to make toast and not burn down the house, wipe their own ass, tie their own shoes and probably do more on a computer than I ever care to know how to do...individuals.  But the second a drop of my piss hits the toilet water....they become so unbelievably needy.  It's a curse of motherhood throughout the world.  No matter what their age....from infants to adults....you go to cop a squat and they are on you like white on rice!

Every decision that I have made since my children's conception has been with them in mind.  Whether it be at the forefront or in the back of my mind, I try to keep them ever present in everything I choose to do.  Sometimes I wonder if never taking a step back and making a choice solely based on what I would like, enjoy, want or so forth has been the best mode of thinking.  Then add in the partnership of marriage and suddenly I find myself farther down the pole of priorties. 

Even when I try to make what I deem to be a semi-selfish decision I find myself second guessing it and wondering how it will affect the ones I love most.  Never once thinking about how I should be loving myself which would in turn allow me to be a better _________ (fill in the blank with title) to __________ (fill in the blank with recipient).  Yet out of selfless decisions comes pretty selfish children and at times a selfish husband.  How I have managed this...I still am not sure.  I know that I cannot control Jon's mindset or behavior, but my kids... it is the age, for the most part, but sometimes you just wonder....if Mother Teresa would have had kids...would they have been selfless saints as well??  Hmmmmmm.......

Here was my attempt at doing something just for me tonight.  I left the house to go take a walk at a local park and then decided to stop for a some chai tea on the way back to the house to warm me up.  Now I am sitting here thinking there were probably at  least 10 other things that I could've/should've done in that 45 minutes and with the $5 that I just spent.   This line of thought then leads me to going out last night with a girlfriend of mine to VooDoo Fest.  I haven't been out like this since....hmmmm....April.  The tickets were free.  Parking was free.  And yet I feel like an ass for not including my family.

It's borderline ridiculous.  Where is the pill that turns off the "over caring about every little miniscule detail of every second of my day and what I am doing with it and how it may possibly be affecting those around me"? 

Where's the fairytale about the princess that falls madly in love with her prince and then he does something ridiculously stupid and leaves her in a depressive tail spin without any dwarf's or magic fairy godmother to snap her out of it??  Where's that story?

I think I shall write it.....right after I stop feeling guilty for sitting back here on my laptop and not being out in the living room with my kids who are glued to one or another multi media device. 

~JP

Patriotism afloat upon the Mississippi River....

In true me fashion I slept through a once in a lifetime event.  Way to keep the loser streak rolling Jessica!

But I am happy to report that Jon and Hannah were able to go and partake in viewing the USS New York voyage down the Mississippi River from Northrop Grumman's Avondale shipyard.  The amphibious transport dock ship which is an impressive 684 feet long and whose bow stem was constructed using 7 1/2 tons of steel from the World Trade Center that was salvaged after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack was making it's trip from the shipyard to the Gulf of Mexico.  It will continue on to New York where it will commisioned on November 7th and then finally set sail to it's homeport in Norfolk, Va. 


Jon and Hannah crawled out of bed in the wee hours of morning...leaving me peacefully slumbering after a night of debauchery with my girl friends....and headed to the Riverwalk in New Orleans.  Gathered with others in the foggy morning they awaited a view of the ship.  Along the way to their spot they encountered a dinosaur....

.....only in New Orleans.

You couldn't help but notice the World Trade Center in New Orleans barely visible behind the foggy morning.

Hannah while too young when 9/11 occured to remember why it is that Jon was so moved to partake in this moment was just as eager to see the ship.  We may not have gotten a son but it's so true when people call Hannah "Little Jon" because she is definitely her fathers daughter.

 

The fog was holding on and when the estimated arrival of 7:45am came and went with no ship the text messages began to come through about whether or not they would actually be able to stay around long enough to actually see the ship make it's way down the river.  When we had talked about going down to the river to see ship we had assumed that with the original estimated time of sailing that we would have the kids back in school just about an hour late.  Weather apparently has no concept of childrens school schedule and Jon told me that the ship didn't pass until around 10am.

View across the Mississippi River

Harbour Police signaling that the ship is on it's way

Bagpiper playing "Amazing Grace" and "Anchor's Aweigh" (the sound of this made Jon VERY emotional)

 

The first sign of the USS New York (sorry it's not a good pic...was VERY foggy)

 

Ship passing just in front of them.  Service men are standing on the ship, but it's hard to see due to the fog.

 

USS New York making it's way past New Orleans.

Thankfully they were able to hang on long enough to see it.  In the waiting they were interviewed by the Times Picayune.  A video and a clip of the article are posted on NOLA.com.

Here's the part of the article that featured Jon and Hannah:

Jon Pettus, 33, and his 10-year-old daughter, Hannah, woke up at 4 a.m. to drive about 30 miles from their Slidell home to the French Quarter's Woldenberg Park to wave small American flags at the 260 Navy sailors aboard the ship as they passed.  Hannah was just 2 years old when the World Trade Center's twin towers fell, Pettus said. Though she risked receiving an unexcused tardy day at school, he brought her with him to honor the lives taken by terrorists.

"If we don't remind ourselves, we become complacent, (and) it's just a bunch of lives lost for nothing, " Pettus said. He said the twin towers' steel carried in the ship's frame is " a piece of history".


I am glad that Jon got to be there to see this moment in history and that Hannah was by his side.  This last picture is at Jon's request.....

~JP

And the countdown to 10....concludes....with Part 7

Part 7: It's not the destination....it's the journey!

The beauty of motherhood is lost on those who can't seem to smell anything past the vomit that seems to get into places you never thought imaginable.  It's also lost on those who are pretty sure they would sell a kidney or lung JUST to gain a full night of uninterrupted sleep.  I was TOTALLY that person.

What am I saying....I still AM that person!  I may no longer have to sustain my children's life by feeding them from my own body, but believe me you, they are busy sucking other things out of me like sanity, my ability to retain information, my will to live at times and the capacity of my ass to reside in the lower two digit numbers.  Oh hips...where have you gone??  Oh wait...that's right, you now reside on my curvacious daughters.  Ugh!

Even with all that I've had some of my best moments being their mom.  I've also had some of my most embarrassing ones as well.

Those are the stories that Jon loves me to focus on.  He's sadistic that way.

When Hannah was approximately 3 to maybe 3 1/2 months old I had breastfed her on the couch while watching television.  It's was a leisurely Sunday afternoon and we were busy just passing the day by being completely in love with every sound and face that she was making.  It's these moments...these memories that make you want to have more children.  What happened next is what makes you think twice about motherhood and possibly how easy it may actually be to mame your spouse.

Jon:  Wow she's a little piggy.

Me:  I know.  I think this is the most she has eaten in a while.  She usually just snacks.

Jon:  I think I'd snack if I was down there too.  It'd give me more reasons to snuggle up to your boobs.

Me:  You'd have to get in line behind your infant daughter.

Jon:  Why ya gotta be so mean?

Me:  Why do YOU have to be such a pig?  I'm busy feeding your daughter and your making sexual inuendo's.

Jon:  I'm just saying...I support breastfeeding.

Me:  You're just saying that because you want me to breastfeed you.

Hannah begins to make gurgly faces as I am burping her.  It kind of looks like she's rolling her eyes at Jon's lame attempts to dig himself out of this hole but that's just my interpretation of the memory.

Finally she lets out a huge burp and follows it with a toot and then seems completely content to just sit there and check out the world.

Me:  (singing to Hannah while blowing bubbles on her tummy) I love you...mommy loves you.  Who loves you...mommy loves you.

Clearly she is digging this.

Me:  (beginning to wiggle her arms and legs in a vague dancing motion)

Jon:  You probably shouldn't do that she just ate.

Me:  I am not doing anything.  I am just moving her about.  My god she is barely moving.

Jon:  I don't think you should do that.  You always yell at me NOT to do that.  You say she'll puke.

Me:  (clearly he doesn't understand that him doing what I say and me doing what I say are two totally different things) *rolling my eyes*  Okay.

Jon walks out of the room and the coast is clear to go back to the dancing.  I proceed to move Hannah about.  She's going from slightly subdued moves to busting out her show stoppers.  I decide to end with a little airplane and a kiss....

BIG FUCKING MISTAKE

Bleeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh......

Me: (gurgling sound) bay bay...

Jon: (no response...)

I can somewhat hear Jon moving around in the kitchen

Me: (gurgling sound) bay bay BAY.....

Jon:  Are you calling me?  You know that I can't hear you...speak up.

Me:  (trying desperately NOT to swallow what has been launched into my mouth by my once beloved infant daughter) bay bay...BAYYYYYY...ga ma a tow a bay b pu n ma mo....

Jon:  (sounding more than a little aggrivated)  WHAT??

Me:  (really trying not to puke while trying NOT to swallow what is being swished around in my mouth with every attempt to speak) I sa...ga ma a tow a bay b pu n ma mo......

Jon  (choirs of angels come down from heaven and sing as my husband in all his fucking brilliant retardedness who can't hear me scream from another room has now deciphered the god damn Da Vinci Code of "baby vomit speak")  I'm sorry...did you just say that you need a towel because the baby puked in your mouth?  (laughter)

Me:  BAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY......a men a...hu up n ga m a tow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jon:  (attempting NOT to piss himself, because clearly that could be used against him in this completely embarrassing moment of me choking back a mouthful of my own regurgiatated breastmilk) Hahahahahahahahahaha.....ok, ok....oh my god....oh my god...my sides hurt....ok, ok...here...give me the baby...here....oh my god...oh this is too funny...oh my god...here's the towel...

Stuff like that...10 years later...still funny.

I remember a time years later when Hannah was 3 years old and she learned how to use air quotes.

Correctly.

Neither of us know how she learned this.  It definitely wasn't something that we had done.  We aren't big air quote people...I mean really, who is??

I was coming up on a jaw surgery to treat chronic migraines, worsened by TMJ, which had completely debilitated me.  Poor Hannah had gotten very used to sitting in semi quiet, semi dim rooms with mommy by this time.  We had her in Mother's Day out programs so she wasn't a complete shut in, but there were still those few hours between when the program ended and Jon came home.

She was perched on the end of our bed watching Disney Channel.  I, as usual, had my head wrapped in a towel to shield my eyes from light and an ice pack on top for good measure.  I heard her crawling to the top of the bed towards my head so I peeled back my shroud.

Hannah:  Momma?

Me:  Yeah babe.

Hannah:  Momma...when dinner is?

Me:  (slighty out of it...trying to angle head to see the clock)  Ummm.  Soon babe...daddy will be home with it in just a little bit.  Okay?

Hannah:  Tay.  Cause we need dinner is.  It's "night time".

Me:  (slightly baffled by the air quotes, I decide to press the matter)  Hannah what do you mean by "night time" (repeating the same air quotes)

Hannah:  (cocking her head to the side and squinching her eyese at me as if I am possibly the silliest person she has met in ALL her 3 years of life) Momma..."night time" is when it "dark outside"!  (she then puts her hands in fist down on her sides as if this gesture combined with the double air quotes will of course drive her point right on home)

Very true Hannah dear.  Very true indeed.  Thankfully she did a repeat performance for Jon when he got home and we both had a good laugh at how sassy she was.

Life with girls is NOT all frills, bows and pink sparkliness.  Nope...life raising Hannah so far has been a manic mixture of Sporty Spice, Power Puff Girls and Disney Channel girls that are clearly 20 playing 10 year olds who my daughter wants more than anything to mimic.

Welcome to my hell.  The water is warm...jump on in.

Hannah can be rough and tumble like the time we had gone shopping for new jeans.  She had picked out 4 that she absolutely loved and "mom I will never ask for another thing if you only buy me THESE pants".  Oh lord...go sell your lies somewhere else sweetheart...my grandmother didn't buy those lies with my mother, my mother didn't buy those lies with me and HELLO I'm not buying them from you or your sister.

Not more than 48 hours later Hannah is on our front lawn with one of her friends playing.  Another few minutes after that she is at the door crying and the friend is trying not to laugh.  Clearly something embarrassing has befallen our daughter.  Days like this make parenting so magical.  Days like this make all the moments they make you feel like a jackleg by standing in the middle of Wal-mart screaming "you're not my mommy...I wan't my mommy" because you have denied them the Pokemon card, Power Puff Girl, Barbie, Coloring book, speck of dust...whatever...and now they are going to make you pay with public humiliation and maybe, just maybe a few dicey moments in the back of a police car explaining exactly why it is the little girl is so insistent her "real" mother lives in Pennsylvania and raises horses.  Yes...your childs embarrassment at the fact that they and not you has done something to bring said embarassment...those moments are the lottery of parenthood.

Jon:  Hannah what's the matter?

Me:  Why are you crying?  Are you hurt?

Hannah:  *sniff*

Me:  Hannah...speak up...what happened?

Hannah:  (quivering lip) *sniff...sniff*

Jon:  Hannah Michel...you have until the count of 5 to tell me what is going on.  1....2....3....

Hannah:  (bawling)....*sniff*....I....was....playing....and, umm...and I thought I'd be....ummm...I...*sniff*....I thought it would....*crying*....*sniff*...umm...I thought it would be fun....to umm...(becoming quieter)...fun to be a....(barely audible)...fun to be a dog....

Me:  Huh...you thought it would be fun to be a what?  Babe...we can't hear you?  (I clearly had heard her, but I wanted to make completely sure I heard her)

Hannah:  *sniff*...I thought it would be fun to be a dog....

Jon:  Uh...huh.  And how does that factor into the crying??

Me:  Did you get hurt?

Hannah:  *sniff*...ummm...*sniff*....not exactly

Me:  Okay then what "exactly" is the problem?

Hannah: *sniff*....I RIPPED MY PANTS....(complete hysterical bawling)

Jon:  You ripped your new pants?

Hannah:  Yyyyyeeeessssssssssss....*sniff*

Me:  (completely incredulous that this is in fact the truth)  How?  How did you rip your pants?  Show me.

Hannah:  Well...I had her (pointing the unsupecting and very uncomfortable looking friend) hook the lead for the dogs to my belt loop.....and then I ran around in a circle...playing like a dog....*sniff*.....and my pants....well...they ripped.

Jon & Me:  (stiffling laughter) (unable to stiffle laughter) (about to choke as we realize we can NO longer stiffle laughter do the only thing we can possibly do which is turn our backs on our crying child in the door)

Me:  (from over my shoulder)  Have a seat on the porch Hannah and your dad and I will be out in a moment to deal with this.

We shut the front door.  High tail it back to our bedroom.  Lock ourselves in the bathroom and bust out laughing for a good 10 minutes.

We made her wear those pants until they were highwaters.  Every....single....time she came out in them we had to fight not to pee ourselves laughing at the day she decided to play dog.

These are just a few of the moments in my 10 years raising my sweet baby girl.  I'm sure there will be many more.  I record them to use as blackmail later.

As Jon and I watched her blow out the candles on her cookie cake covered in too much make-up from the make overs they were performing on one another for the sleepover we realized that all those moments have led us to this one.  All the tears, fears, laughter, joy, pride, guilt, sleeplessness and so many more have culminated in this one little girl.

Motherhood...hell parenthood is one hell of a ride.  The admission isn't free.  The side effects are permanent and the pay is...well, it sucks.  But the moments of shear madness that lead to some of the bar none, hands down most amazing memories you will ever create while sober are worth the journey.  If you haven't jumped on this train I highly recommend it.  Plus, it's kind of like a pyramid scheme...the more of you that I get to do it, the better the prizes for me.  Get to it people...make babies.  Make memories.  Make me not be the only crazy lady.

~JP

And the countdown to 10...continues...Part 6

Part 6: I'm all for jokes...but really, is this the time??

Once I was firmly situated on the operating table I began to feel really, really...REALLY nervous.  I know it sounds like a moment of brilliant retardedness but at that exact moment it all seemed real.  It was like the past 40 weeks didn't even happen.  Like I had just showed up at the hospital and they announced, "hey you look like a nice woman who'd enjoy a new baby...come on back and we'll cut one out of your belly".

When they talk about pregnancy induced amnesia...I'm pretty sure they are referring to moments like this.

The anesthesiologist began to push the meds and they made sure I was good and numb.  I was elated because when I'd had Olivia I had an epic failure of an epidural.  They didn't insert the catheter properly and when they went to push the meds I could feel them leaking down my back.  Unfortunately, the monitors began to signal that Olivia was in fetal heart distress and she needed to be out.  NOW.  So they couldn't take the time to try and reinsert the epidural and I had to be put completely under.  I was the absolute last person to greet the arrival of my daughter.  I didn't want the same thing to happen with my the delivery of my son.

Once the drugs began to take affect I began professing my love to the anesthesiologist...the nurses...some dude that was bringing in gloves.  They figured that was a perfect time to bring in my husband.

They laid out the rules of how he was NOT to touch the sterile curtain that shielded him from a full view of the surgery that was about to reveal the baby.  I secretly wished them luck with that endeavor because I'd been telling him not to touch stuff in doctor and hospital settings through this whole pregnancy and HE WOULD NEVER LISTEN TO ME.  You have no idea how scary it is to watch your husband screw with a piece of equipment that probably cost as much if not more than a years salary.

They provided a stool and he took it...just in case.  I was worried that he would pass out.  He didn't do very well with blood.  Or surgery.  Or gore in general.  But I was high as a kite on pain meds...if he hit the ground...I was pretty sure one of the scrub clad individuals and that random dude with the gloves would handle it.

Then the doctor came in.  He explained that I'd feel some tugging and pressure but if I began to feel pain that I should just let the anesthesiologist know and she'd fix me right up.  I felt like saying, "dude...you do your job and don't you worry bout me and Sarah (that was the first name of the anesthesiologist) will be JUST FINE over here".

He asked if we were ready to go and we chimed in with a yes.  For a split second I wondered what would have occured if we would have said no.  Would he have been all like, okay..."I'll step out for a latte and come back in a few and see if you are ready to do this thing??"

Jon asked how long it would take before the baby was out.  The doctor explained that since their was no distress he could have the baby out in about 3-4 minutes.  I was amazed.  Made me ask how fast they could have a baby out in times of distress and was floored when he said less than a minute if need be.  Holy crap.  He said that getting the baby out was the easy part.  Putting everything back in was the long part.  Hmmmm...could have gone without the last part of info.

And so it began...

Jon says that he remembers seeing smoke from the laser.  I don't have any memory of it.  All I remember is feeling tugs and the anesthesiologist asking "are you okay"..."are you hurting"...the haze of her pushing more meds because apparently I said yes and then the sound of crying started.

Next came the voice of the doctor..."congratulations....IT'S....A.....GIRL!"

WHHHHAAAAAAAATTTTT?????

I turned to Jon willing him to verify that the doctor was in fact the King of Bad Jokes!

Jon looked down at me with misty eyes...."babe....it's a girl"!

I think I actually uttered the words, "stop joking...that's not funny" before finally looking up and seeing that in fact I was the proud momma of a beautiful baby girl.

Garren Jesse....was in fact a beautiful...perfect...10 fingers, 10 toed...little Hannah Michel!

I kissed Jon and told him to please follow the baby to the nursery.  I didn't want her out of our sight and since I obviously wasn't going anywhere...that left him on baby watch.

I got some more magical pain meds and the doctor continued with bad jokes saying first, "let me just make sure there aren't any more babies in there" and then asking "sure you don't want me to tie up any loose ends while I am down here".  To the last one I actually said yes...but he said, "no".

Next moment I can remember is waking up in the recovery room with my nurse checking my vitals.  I asked if I could see my daughter.  I then asked if it was in fact a daughter that I'd had and not just a dream.  She confirmed that it was in fact a girl and that I could see her once I was back in my room.

A few minutes later Jon strolled in all proud papa like.  Feeling drunk with the love of his first born or maybe just drunk he decided to be a jokester.

Me:  Hey...hey...is she okay.

Jon:  She's beautiful. And don't worry about the whole boy thing...doc says we can try again in like 8 weeks!

Thankfully...for him I was numb from the chest down so I couldn't physically get out of the bed and kick his ass.  However, my recovery nurse who was 3 months pregnant herself actually told Jon to, "go ahead and start running now...I'll give you a head start".

He left to go back to Hannah's side and I waited, albeit impatiently, for the moment when I could finally be properly introduced to my baby girl.

A few hours later I was rolled back to my room and in came the little lady of the day.

She was beautiful.  Absolutely captivating.  I was in love.  Everything that had taken place to get to this day just faded away.  I had my husband and two beautiful daughters...life, in this moment was perfection.

When we began making phone calls to announce our new baby we had a lot of "are you shitting me" and "no...come on...stop joking" to deal with.  Even my mom was blown away by the fact that we had absolutely NOTHING for a baby girl and rushed to buy something pink and frilly to bring home our newest family member home in.

Three days later we were heading home with our newly nicknamed Hannah "Banana" Michel Pettus.  I know...super original, right?  Well shortly after birth we noticed that she had jaundice so until we could do the sunlight treatments like the doctor prescribed we'd have a little Banana to love on.

I made Jon stop at the store because apparently my craziness hadn't stopped with delivery and I was intent on buying as much pink stuff for my new daughter as a woman who has just given birth can manage to get her hands on.  Once we got home this pretty little girl would be inundated in mass amounts of blue and Paddington Bear.  I needed something to break up the masculine undertones until I could feminine it up!!

Olivia got the first look at her baby sister when we arrived home.  She had gotten sick while I was "laboring" so we chose not to have her come to the hospital.  First thing she said when she saw her was, "hey wasn't she supposed to be a boy?"

Too tired to deal with another smart ass comment, even if it was from my 5 year old daughter I decided to just pop a pain killer and settle in to enjoy all the magic and mania that is being the mother of two girls....

~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