Miracle.

Charles Scott joined us on Thursday, January 21st, 2010, after me having contractions since the Monday before. After that, plus some pretty excruciating back labor, I ended up going for the epidural. I was too happy to be out of pain to eat too much crow about my natural labor and delivery plan, and it didn't slow anything down-- I was admitted on Thursday morning around 5 AM at 4 cm, and was at 10 cm by about 10:45. I pushed for an hour and a half, and he was born at 12:17 PM. 20 minutes after that, they brought around lunch. It was ridiculously awesome-- a new baby and food all at the same time. I was in seventh heaven.

I could not has asked for a better support team. Michael was absolutely amazing--- he knew exactly the right thing to say and do at every second, and was so supportive when I decided to get the epidural-- he reminded me that it didn't mean I was any less strong, and I was doing what I needed to do to take care of both me and the baby. He watched every minute of me pushing, as well as the delivery, and was there at every moment right by my side. My mother was amazing too-- she was able to give me massage throughout the entire labor and delivery, help hold my legs, and was actually the one to cut the cord.

The hospital was insane--- everyone and their sister was having a baby that morning. We also managed to get there right around a shift change-- even so, we were treated so well. Every single person form the triage nurses to the lactation specialist were kind and supportive and professional and good-humored. My labor and delivery nurse became my best friend in about two minutes, right after she started rubbing my feet for me and bringing me cup after cup of ice chips. Megan, where ever you are, I love you.

He's now five days old. He's perfect. Breastfeeding hurts when your son is a barracuda, and sleeping is a distant memory. Babies this little have outsized lungs and and outsized capacity to poop. Diapers with a wetness indicator on the front are God's apology for 3 AM fussiness. My life is no longer my own. I wouldn't trade it for a million dollars.

Ooooh, shiny.

Notice the new beautifulness that is my blog? Yeah. It's pretty sweet. This is what I get for sitting through four years of The Husband's graphic design projects in college... I am easily bored and end up redesigning things on a whim. It's helping me keep my mind off the fact that The Bean is due one week from today. Scary, huh? Technically he could come at any point from here on out. The doctor said he'd be surprised if I made it to my next appointment on Tuesday, and my mother is convinced that I'm going into labor tomorrow (Friday). Uh, we'll see.

The Husband has been kicking butt and taking names with the job search stuff over the last few days; hopefully we'll start hearing back from companies soon. I've been on maternity leave from the restaurant since the first of the year, and I'm really paranoid that they won't let me take more than the federally mandated six weeks, which means that I will only have a couple weeks after the baby's born to actually re-adjust before going back to work. Sigh.

Right now, though, I'm going to enjoy the brownies I made... although I probably should actually eat dinner first. Problem is, nothing is defrosted, so I have no idea what I'm going to make. After that, I have a PBS documentary to watch called "the Human Spark" that I Tivo-ed last night. What's the best part? My favorite person in the world is hosting it. Brownies +Hawkeye= a good, good night.

Doh.

So, I had this ridiculously long post written about absolutely nothing in particular. It was all about how I have become both incredibly ADD and incredibly OCD throughout my entire pregnancy. I started it, got really obsessive about it, and then lost interest in the whole post when I decided I was hungry. Here's the very short version:

• I am obsessed with Alan Alda. I even married a man that looks a little like him.
• I am in full-on nesting mode. I have reorganized the kitchen, my walk-in closet, my room, and all of my bookshelves in the last week and a half since going on maternity leave.
• I am also obsessive about really strange things. For example, my pantry is now organized in a very specific manner, and God help whoever puts the flour next to the canned tomatoes. (Baking goods are not canned goods and the two should have nothing to do with each other!)
• I am quite possibly the only person in the world who has her books organized by genre, and her history books sub-organized both chronologically and geographically. Seriously, it's like freaking Borders on my bookshelves.
• Our poor son has no chance of not turning out to be a complete nerd. I really should start a "send Charlie to psychotherapy fund" now.

Imagine each one of those points having two or three paragraphs. Yeah. A little much.

In other news, I am officially on maternity leave, and have been since New Year's. We had a bit of a false alarm on NYE, and I decided I was just not doing the whole "being on my feet dealing with crabby hungry people in a restaurant eight hours a day" thing anymore while carrying around the kid. So instead I pace around the house, check Facebook seventeen times an hour, and do baby laundry four times a week. I have seriously considered starting a Twitter account out of pure boredom. It's that or watch six episodes of The Simpsons a day. (Maybe I'll tweet while watching The Simpsons? Eat my shorts.)

The Bean is due 9 days from now ( as my doctor said, "But who's counting?" He smirked at me this morning when he said that. Not cool, dude), but honestly I could go at any point, apparently. I'm 50% effaced, but not dilated at all, which sucks. So, until I actually pop, I'm keeping myself busy by helping The Husband job hunt, baking an insane amount of brownies, and watching cartoons I never got to see when I was a kid.

By the time Charlie comes out, I'm going to have the mentality of a 12 year old boy. (Let's not talk about how this isn't really much of a stretch...)

Guilty Confessions

I really hate New year's Resolutions. Honestly, I don't think many people are fond of them, but I have always absolutely abhorred them. They smack of false promises to yourself-- I mean, honestly, I have a lot of respect for people who lose 60 pounds, find a fabulous new career, and save the whales all in one year, but honestly, I'm more of a small scale girl. I like to space my goals out throughout the year and make them manageable-- work on furthering my education, try to go for walks or to the gym more often, etc. If you have a big goal, definitely go for it, but do it on your own terms, you know?

That's what I want this next year to be about-- doing things on my own terms. Granted, my focus has changed just a little from last year. Then, I was focused on getting through The Internship From Hell and planning a wedding and graduating from college, all of which happened in a two week period of each other. I never imagined that this year would be the year The Husband and I would be expecting to add to our family, but now, 17 days from the Bean's due date, I've gone into full-on mommy mode--- which to be honest, is a little scary.

I'm a researcher by nature--- when I'm freakingtheheckout about something, I read and study about it obsessively. This whole parenting gig is no exception. In the last nine months I've read literally thousands of articles about everything from epidurals to sleep training. There seems to be one overarching theme in all of this-- guilt. Parents are literally damned if they do, damned if they don't for every decision they make from the moment they conceive. One rather well-known book that will remain nameless but whose title rhymes with "Schmut to Schmecspect..." had me terrified that because I had a cocktail before I ever concieved, my child would come out with three heads. I put that book down rather quickly after that.

So here's my over-arching goal for the next year: I will not succumb to mommy guilt. I will not.

• Yes, I'm going to try to do the birth medication-free. I'd like to see if I can. But if I make the decision to get the epidural or anything else to help The Bean or me have an easier time, I will not feel bad. The end goal is a healthy baby and mommy, not bragging rights at yoga class.
  
• Yes, I'm going to try to breastfeed. (Ohh, this is a loaded one). If it doesn't work, I will do whatever I need to in order to make sure that my son is well-fed and happy. Either way, I will not feel bad. I am doing what I need to to make sure my son is healthy.
  
• On that note, I might just breastfeed in public (gasp!). I don't plan on whipping my boobs out unsheltered-- let's be honest, they're pretty big. I might put out an eye with these puppies. But I refuse to feel bad about feeding my son behind a shield where nobody can see anything, even if I look like an idiot in adult bib. And I'll be damned if I'm going into a bathroom to feed him. Would you eat in a bathroom?
• I know that I will be, by turns, tired, frustrated, exhausted, frantic, and just a little bit psycho. I will not feel bad about asking for help when I need it. I am not Superwoman, as much as would like to think I am. The Husband and I will need support. This is nothing to be ashamed of. I will get my pride out of the way, and I will allow myself to be human and feel human emotions.
• I will make baby-free time for my husband and I. Maybe we'll leave The Bean with Grandma and Grandpa for a weekend and go somewhere. Or just ask someone to watch him for a couple hours while we go for a date. But I will not feel bad for taking time to build up the most important adult relationship I have. Our marraige being strong is the best gift The Husband and I could ever give our children, much more so than seeing them 24 hours a day. If we can first and foremost show our love for each other, our children will always know that they are loved-- they are a product of that love.

There's a lot more that falls under this category, but the main point is this: I refuse to feel bad about the choices I make for my family. I will do everything in my power to make sure we are all--- me included--- healthy, happy, loved, and growing in our relationships. But if I give my 8-month-old a taste of my ice cream this summer, I will not agonize over whether he's going to have weight issues for the rest of his life. If my kid has a pacifier for longer than the books say he should, oh well. Above all, I want to be flexible. So I might be a baby-wearing, non-circumsizing, breastfeeder--or not-- and I might at the same time also be a non-cosleeping, weaning-early, sleeptrainer. And I'm ok with that.