Conversations with The Boss

About a month ago in my parents living room as I prepared to leave for work, my son walked up to my father and said

Grampy, there's a baby in my Momma's tummy.

Oh! My father played along as though the news was new to him as well. So you are going to have a baby brother or sister?

Brother, my son shot back without so much as a blink or a breath and then turned to play with his truck.

On this there is no debate - he is having a brother.


Two weeks ago, on a weekend trip planned for seeing barnyard animals and riding Ferris Wheels, I spent a restless night in a hotel room with my children. Before tucking them in, I saw red in the bathroom. A sucker punch. A gut check. I wondered - Can I go through the motions of motherhood, of kisses on foreheads and bedside prayers. Can I make them feel safe, when I myself am alone and worried that I might bleed more, might have the baby slide from me in my sleep?

By the early hours of the morning, my children had each crept from their bed and come to lay with me in mine. We tossed and turned together, pushed pillows, twisted sheets. None of us slept, but I was unwilling to wake up.

Hours later, I had an appointment set and we were packing. My father reasoned that it made sense to do so, even though the weekend was only just beginning. Still, he thought, in the event the news at the hospital was bad, we wouldn't need to drive back to get our things.

I tugged a sock over my son's heel and he asked me, What are you doing?

I'm putting on your socks and shoes, I told him but his puzzled expression stopped me and I held his sneaker in my palm.

Are you taking my brother out? He asked.

On the van ride home, as the kids sat on the bench seat behind me watching Disney's Fantasia, I tried to keep my crying as quiet as I could, tried to time my breath with the swelling of the music.


This morning, a beautiful October morning with sunlight and orange tinged leaves peeking through my bedroom windows, Lila and The Boss climbed onto my bed,each with their blankets, their blankies one might say. It's cold, The Boss announced.

It is.

Can I put my blanket on your tummy to keep the baby warm? My son asked, and he did just that.

Baaaa!

Baaaa!, originally uploaded by Mellahaney.

And now that I've shaken the dust off of this blog by dazzling you all with a photo of a child gleefully squealing from behind a cardboard painting of a sheep - let me say, I'm not dead.

I am however, pregnant.

After the initial shock, (which was quickly followed by happiness and then trailed by fear) came the dissolution of my mental capacity, and therefore, my ability to write, either here or elsewhere.

Despite having seen the heartbeat at the beginning of September, last week I was certain we were having a deja vu moment. The doctor ordered an ultrasound, my kids and parents and I packed up our trip to CT and my husband left his job to be by my side.

They did not turn the monitor to face me and when the technician first pressed the wand to my abdomen, I was asked about my other two children. How old are they?

Questions of distraction. Never mind me, don't read my expression, let's talk about the spacing between the children you already have.

I cried, as I knew I would.

But it was at the relief of finally seeing our baby waving, the heart beat flickering. Strong.

So, that's me. That's where I've been. There's more, much more. Trips. Weekends away. Some new writings making their way out to the world. New jobs. But for now, I'm going to settle back in slowly...and hopefully not disappear for another month at a time.

All Saints Day

. . . for when a child is born the mother also is born again. ~ Gilbert Parker

The arrival is impending, looming just beyond this mountain of a night I'm supposed to make it past - without running around the house like a child before Christmas. It's going to be impossible to sleep through the whisperings of my mind...tomorrow, I'll hold her and know beyond words that I've known her forever.

My husband and I are waking before dawn to make the hour long drive to the hospital where they'll hook me up to monitors, pump me with IV fluids, then break my water. If all goes well, I should be meeting her by the late afternoon.

And hopefully, I'll be able to post her story and pictures here soon.

Thank you for all your thoughts and prayers and notes of encouragement.

Thoughts at Two and a Half Centimeters...

I'm not in the mood to have a baby.

I actually said that to my husband last night - as though having a baby is something that requires the right feeling at the right moment, like choosing between Chinese or Italian or Action or Comedy.

And, if I'm being nakedly honest here, I'll admit that what I said is not untrue. Life right now is comfortable and nice. The three of us have created for ourselves a home and a routine that works and makes us all happy...and yes, I'm nervous about adding a new person to the equation. Sleepless nights and the hard work of learning to navigate my way around an a new infant aside - it's this time in my life that I'm not ready to let go of. The moments of just The Boss and I at the park, or playing countless games of pat-a-cake and The Itsy Bitsy Spider. Or watching together at the door as his father pulls into the driveway and makes our family complete.

Of course, of course, I realize that these feelings are natural and normal and that any apprehension I'm having is strictly routine to the point of being boring. Yes, I'm sure. But still, at two and a half centimeters dilated and the end within days, we've reached a true point-of-no-return, and stubborn as I am, it's hard to not want to dig in my heels and hold firmly here.

All Fall Down

The thing is, I'm a defective Weeble.

I'm round and I wobble, sure. But I do not bounce back up. My son finds this particularly hysterical, as he'll push me over and proceed to climb up over my belly, laughing and swatting at my face.

And of course, I'm laughing the whole time, so he doesn't realize that I'm actually stuck like a turtle turned over on her shell, limbs flailing, but there's no hope of righting herself.

I blame my husband and mother-in-law for this. Not for being round and unable to pull myself to a sitting position (although, technically, I suppose that is partially my husband's doing), no, I blame them for wrestling with my son. They both do it, roll around on the ground as he pummels them. Both play the part, letting The Boss think he's the victor.

Recently though, I think my son has caught on. Now, he runs to attack - only to plop himself, with great dramatic flair, to the ground, much like how my husband acts when pretending to be overpowered. And then he giggles.

It's so much fun to watch.

Watch, I tell you. Not to participate in. Though, I'm sure it's pretty funny to watch me flail on the ground, genuinely overpowered by a toddler.

Who Needs a Belly Shot?

34 Weeks

Six weeks left, assuming that we go to term - but please God, take pity on these tired eyes and this beaten body and let her come early.

Oh, I shouldn't really complain. In all honesty, this pregnancy hasn't been that difficult. No restless legs or aching hips, no sore back, no extreme nausea, no pimples or stretch marks (knock on wood) or anything else to point at and say see, see what havoc this baby is wreaking on my body? It's difficult, this time around, as the havoc is mostly internal - the fatigue, the hormonal turmoil, the inability to focus on anything.

But, I took this picture tonight and saw it - the intangible 'it' that this pregnancy changed about me. I'm not sure what 'it' is, exactly, but this picture is missing something, a part of me. It's either missing, or it's buried (or sleeping - I'd like to think that at least part of me is getting rest while I'm tossing and turning with heartburn and a full bladder.) In any event - I think this picture of pregnancy is far more telling than the rounded shape of my stomach, which looks much the same as it did when it held my son.

The picture also leaves me unsettled. It reminds me a little too much of my father - Not that he's an unattractive man, or because I fear waking up middle-aged to find myself with a sunburnt bald patch on the crown of my skull - but because he's the person in my life I may never find the words enough (or the emotional energy enough, pregnant or not) to write about. It's a reminder of our similarities, physical and non. It's almost enough to make me not want to post it.

Almost.

Mindless Monday

It's amazing the things that filter through an awake mind at two and three in the morning. I laid last night, watching a montage of minutia spread itself over the length of my minds eye, as I waited (and waited and waited) for sleep to come and take me away.

My husband works in the hospitality industry and while he loves his job and is quite good at it, his climbing of the ladder has left him as the one whose phone rings at 10 pm because the overnight auditor can't come in. And so, after thirty minutes of calling around and searching for resolutions that didn't involve him covering the shift himself, it became clear that there were no other options.

Being that I'm a blubbering -hormonal-preggo-scaredy-cat, I broke down in tears as he got dressed to leave me at 11 o'clock to cover the stupid abandoned shift. Because he's a sweetheart, he asked if I wanted to go with him, even though it entailed packing up our 21 month old and him getting to the hotel later than he'd planned.

Long story short: Husband wound up working the entire shift while The Boss and I spent a rather sleepless night in a hotel room of our own. My son slept a little, as I watched, laying precariously close to the edge of the bed, unable to move for fear of disturbing the delicately sleeping babe, (who woke this morning at five and decided that the day was anew and time was a-wastin'.)

It's now past noon and I'm spent, sitting at the desk of my one-day a week job, typing this rather than working on 'work.' And I'm getting remarkably irritated by the most random minutia, like how the woman at the reception desk said Libary, as opposed to Library - or how the poppy seed bagel I had this morning tricked me into thinking it was just as harmless as any normal un-schmeared bagel, until I went to Dunkin' Donut's online to look up the nutrition facts and discover that it actually contains seven grams of fat on it's own!

You see the lengths I go to for the sake of procrastination? Not only do I look up the nutritional information of my breakfast, but I take the time to write an entire post about it here. For shame.

Skin

This time, it's beautiful.

I am.

In the mirror, draped in shadow and streams of light, I see this body of mine through new eyes. Like a first encounter, meeting myself in this pregnancy, in this mirror. The skin of my stomach is tight, but smooth and unmarked. No fat to pinch between my fingertips. The light spreads over my skin, milky-white and it curves, naturally around me.

I see what I wouldn't look at before, what I spent months loathing while carrying my son.

I see that this is beautiful.

I am.

This time.

Halfway There

Well, technically, we were halfway there (20 weeks along) last week, but I haven't been around enough to post these pictures.

Taking pictures throughout pregnancy is something that I didn't do when I was expecting my son, and I regretted it after the fact. So, I'm trying to do more this time around. I won't post them all of the time, but I thought the halfway point should be shared. Now, I can tell myself that we're coming down the other side and that it's almost over (though, as you can see, the worst of it is still yet to come...Gah, I hate pregnancy, but that's a whole other post all together.)

Twenty-Week Tummy Shots

(Obviously, I didn't do any tanning while we were away.)

My Daughter

We'll call her Lila

Musings from the Sandbox

The question occurred to me today while kneeling beside my son in a sandbox, smiling (effortlessly, even in the oppressive heat) at his determination as he filled his pail with shovelfuls of slippery sand. I love him, admire him and adore him with so much ferocious maternal love that my heart actually aches beneath weight of it all.

So, how can I possibly love another human being as much as I love this one?

Summer asked me this question when she was expecting her second daughter and I, childless and all knowing, responded with some sort of cliche "oh, you'll be surprised how much love your heart can hold" or something equally ignorant and ridiculous - never thinking that I'd ever find myself doubting my own words.

But now, I see she was right to wonder.

Soon - there will be two children with my heart attached to their sleeves running around playgrounds and schools and the world at large. There will be another small hand looking to fit in the fold of my fingers, another warm pulse wrapped in my arms and beating against my own. The very thought makes my heart quiver - scared of the ache, of the weight, of the potential for explosion - overwhelmed at the very prospect.

And then s/he bumps me gently from inside, nudging me back to reality, where I smile and press a palm to my stomach, realizing that it's too late. I'm already there.

Bump

And so it begins...Taken this morning at 17 weeks 3 days along.

And...Exhale

We have a heartbeat.

A strong 157 bpm.

We're still not out of the woods that is the first trimester, but I finally feel as though I can be open about what's happening in my life without sounding like The Girl Who Cried Pregnant.

Now, with this weight off of my mind, I hope to start carefully laying down all of the sweet little moments I've been hoarding for the past few weeks. More to come.

But for tonight, it's me and my bed.

157.

What a great number.

Boo

In response to LJ's gentle nudge (Ok, Mella where ARE you?), I suppose it's time to pull back the covers on this blog-thing and see what unfolds. I've been here yet not for weeks now. Going on a month. Not only here, this small sliver of blogdom where I hide spectacularly ordinary tidbits of my days, but everywhere. Dishes have been left to my husband. The Boss has been tugging harder and harder at my sleeves and pants, desperate to pull me down from the couch. My inbox has been filling daily, read (mostly), but rarely responded to. My cellphone hasn't been charged in weeks.

I've been absent. Moreso, absentminded.

It's not that I haven't been inspired (often), or that I haven't been going through the motions of socializing and cooking and revising stories and enjoying life - it's just that there's been too much I've been unable to say. And, since I have eschewed the luxury of anonymity here, I simply stopped. I thought I would step away until I could return completely open, rather than focus my (limited) energies on carefully constructing little entries about the things floating in my periphery.

Like how my son has become increasingly independant, and an avid climber. He wrestles from my hugs in favor of chasing after the cat with a ball, or to climb on top of his toychest and bang on the windows, (terrorizing the birds nibbling on the feeder.) But just as I start to feel dejected and unwanted, he'll toddle over with an outstretched hand and a twisted look on his face, tug on my pants and push whatever unwanted thing he's put in his mouth out for me to take care of. And I do, gladly, wipe the stale cheerio or mushy cracker from his lips, so happy to still be needed.

Life's been like that for the past few wordless weeks. Little moments lurking around this larger, unspoken lifeforce.

Tomorrow we go to see if this lifeforce has a heartbeat of it's own. And then, whatever the outcome, I'll be able to breath (and write) easier.

Hopeful

So how's this going to work? Mom asks, I mean, with your son, who's going to watch him(when you deliver)?

We're driving down a scenic New England route, winding beneath arches of burnt red and yellow leaves. We haven't even dated the pregnancy yet, I say. We're not even sure we should be telling people... my voice trails off.

Do you think I should stay home with the baby, and he'll will go with you? She asks, Or do you think I'll go with you and he'll stay with the baby? As if those are the only two options. As though either would be fine.

Saltbox homes, white with weathered black shutters. Pumpkins on wooden porches, their stems tied with thick linen ribbons. Wreaths of deep red cranberries adorn doors. The grass is still green, but flecked with patches of tans and browns - spots already surrendered and awaiting the first snow.

A little red farmstead hugs the curve of the road. Cars line the fields edge and children are milling by the entrance - witch hats and capes and Spiderman masks- brown paper bags clutched in their hands. Candy corn and homemade caramel apples, I imagine.

Mella? What do you think?

The car seems small as I turn to her. Hands carefully resting on ten and two. Pillow pressed behind the small of her back. A sweet, soft smile resting on her lips.

She isn't waiting for the results of bloodwork or for the doctor to press a doppler on my belly to be happy. She isn't cautiously optimistic. She isn't even hopeful. She is simply planning for what she knows is to come.

I shake my head and reach across the console to pat her leg. I don't know.

And then I slip into silence.

Hoping to be able to answer her question later.

And hoping for a heartbeat tomorrow.

Sinking In...

Cuddled beneath the blankets, he breaths long slow breaths as his hands slowly smooth over soft fleece. I watch as he dreams. His little lips quiver. His eyelids press tight. His round cheeks pinch and relax.

When I was expecting him, no one told me about times like this. Cozy afternoon naps and the hushed lullaby of baby’s breath. No one told me that this sort of sweetness existed outside of popcorn filled theaters.

I remember what they did tell me. That he'd run me ragged. That I'd be sleep deprived and lifeless. That I'd be sagging breasts and thick thighs and that my skin would be scarred with a roadmap of his journey from womb to the world. Of course, they also told me that I'd love him. But there was no mention of the wonder of times like these. And it's times like these that make it all worth it. Overflowing diaper genies, spit-up stained shirts and purple-faced fussy fits seem like a lifetime away when you're curled up beside a sleeping little one.

My hand smooths over the soft skin of my belly and I close my eyes, listening to his breath. I can do this again. I press my palm gently against my stomach and smile. I could do this foever.