Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name?

Whew! Finally got the time to catch my breath and do a little blogging. And right next to me is a wee little lady, fast asleep in her swing. :)

Click under the cut for all the nitty gritty details (well, most of them, but be warned that there is talk of birthing and girl parts).

The calm before the storm

No baby yet, and after nearly a week of labor that cannot decide whether it wants to get going or stop completely, I’m at my wits’ end. So tomorrow morning I’m going in for an induction, hurrah hurrah.

We tried to make an end-run around induction last week with a nifty little procedure called “stripping the membranes”, which my friend Anne believes should be outlawed by the Geneva Conventions. But it usually works, so I was willing to endure it. And after they peeled me off the walls and took the dented bullet out of my mouth, I was hopeful that I’d be in heavy labor post-haste.

Ha ha! NO. Baby Girl was clearly not ready to get off the Barcalounger. And just for good measure, then I caught the Sprog’s cold. So for the last three or four days I’ve been sitting around the house, timing contractions and sniffling. When we got too stir-crazy on Saturday, we packed up a bunch of bread heels and went to Jacobson Park—the boys fed the ducks, and I walked.

I’ve heard walking can help facilitate labor, right? And you know me, nothing goes by half-measures. So I walked all the way around the lake. Yes, that one. There were a lot of uppity ducks on the golf course, but I persevered. And what do I have to show for it? No newborn, and very sore hips.

I’m hoping that I won’t need much intervention tomorrow to get things going, so I can get the IV disconnected and go on to have a delivery without an epidural. Last time I was hooked up to a bunch of machines the whole time, couldn’t move or change position, and was generally miserable. Here’s hoping this time will be different.

And in the meantime, the husband and I are puttering around the house, getting last-minute things ready: sterilizing the bottles and binkies, assembling the stroller, double-checking the hospital bag, tidying up for the inevitable guests (translation: you can now see the top of the kitchen table). And throughout it all, a current of nervous energy.

I’m so excited about tomorrow—after all, it’s not every day you know you’re going to meet someone you’ll love for the rest of your life.

How to go into labor

Step one: Make it so that your preschooler comes down with a nasty cold, thereby ensuring the maximum amount of inconvenience for everyone involved.

Step two: There is no step two; step one worked quite well on its own.

Will keep you all posted.

Edited to add:

Dear body,

Please make up your mind and stop teasing me. You are NOT ALLOWED to keep yanking me around like this. This “contractions for an hour or two, then nothing for a while, then horrible back pain and cramps” thing? Is not endearing you to me. Not in the least.

No Love,
Heather

Where were you?

I was reading Rich Copley’s blog this morning, about Christian music albums that happened to be released on September 11, 2001, and it kind of goosed me. It’s been six years, but I guess it’s one of those things where you never forget exactly where you were and what you were doing when you heard about it.

For me, the portal to that day has always been the song “Smellin’ Coffee” by Chris Rice. Whenever I hear that song on my mp3 player, I almost always experience a second or two of near total recall: driving to work that morning and singing along in the car, thinking to myself what a gorgeous day it was, sipping green tea from my travel mug.

I was a deputy court clerk in Fayette Juvenile Court, which was then housed in a big trailer next to the old District Court building. I got there on time, went into the courtroom and did my job wrangling files during the arraignments and detention hearings. Afterward, around 9 a.m., I went back down the hall to the clerk’s office and saw all of my fellow clerks, along with a handful of lawyers and social workers, standing around next to the office radio, staring off into space.

My supervisor turned her head and looked at me, and for a fleeting second I wondered if I had messed up a file. Then the phrase I heard all day, all week: “Have you heard?” Then the further shock as the news trickled down about the second plane, the third, the fourth.

Nobody wanted to work, but the work had to be done, so someone thought to wheel a TV into the clerk’s office and turn it to the news. So all morning long I typed arrest warrants and kept an eye on CNN. Rumors flew. And after lunch, when I left the trailer to deliver paternity orders for the judge to sign, I remember looking up and realizing that there was not a single airplane or vapor trail in the normally busy sky.

Later I heard reports that people were donating blood in record numbers, so I went to the Central Kentucky Blood Center to help out (I had volunteered there before). The line wrapped nearly around the building. For nearly four hours I sat answering phones as people from all over the state called to ask if their donations were needed, if they could get a Bloodmobile out to their town for a blood drive. It was profound to me, then and now, that the first thing people thought to offer up in an emergency was their own blood.

I went home and collapsed in bed that night. Stared at the ceiling and tried not to think of the people still trapped in the rubble. Finally fell asleep around 3 a.m.

That’s my small part of the story. I don’t mean to rehash it to death, and I’m certainly not shooting for pathos, but I think the narrative of 9/11 is more than what happened to people who were directly involved in the terrorist attacks that day. That’s a story we are all part of.

So, readers: what’s your part of the story? Where were you on September 11?

Gameshow goddess

Jeopardy just called. They just called me. Me. And they said they want me to go on the show.

I am going to fly out to Los Angeles in mid-October and I AM GOING TO BE ON JEOPARDY.

More later. I think I need to go lie down now.

Too cool for school

Friday was the Sprog’s first day of preschool, a day we’d both been looking forward to for some time. And if I was a little anxious, well, I didn’t let on and dampen his excitement.

We’d looked hard and found what seemed like the perfect school last spring, so I figured he’d be fine. My biggest worry was working with the other parents. Growing up, I had tended to view PTAs and other school committees in a somewhat less-than-complimentary way: petty dictatorships ruled by catty women in Mom jeans, characterized by stupid struggles over who was in charge of the decorating committee. But at the Sprog’s new school, the parents are all just cool people and I feel comfortable around them. Bonus!

But I guess the million dollar question is, was the Sprog happy with it? He loved it when we went for an exploratory visit last year and during the orientation day last Monday, but how would he do when Mommy or Daddy wasn’t there?

I shouldn’t have worried. He walked in and immediately got involved with an activity while I learned the ropes of checking him in. Then I took him to the toilet before I left, since he tends to have accidents when he gets too caught up in playing.

“Sweetie, are you going to have a good day today?” I asked as I stood outside the stall. “Mommy will be back soon, but you can have a good time playing until I get back, right?”

The child looked over his shoulder at me. “Mommy, I need you to be gone in a few minutes.”

Ouch. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, indeed.

But I’m glad he was more inclined to be independent than clingy. He’s a brave, secure little guy and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Although he did come running after me for an extra goodbye hug and kiss on my way out—and then right back to playing with his new friends. I think we both needed that.