Between loads of laundry, we’ve spent a good amount of time on one of our video games-of-the-moment – Excitebots.  It’s a ‘trick racing’ game involving bugs that turn into vehicles.  The first time he played it was with his Dad while I was at prenatal yoga.  That afternoon he introduced it to me and made me go through all of the training before I was allowed to play.  It turns out that was a good thing because he still beat the pants off me on every race.  “How long did you and Dad play this morning?!”  I demanded.  He said, “Oh, maybe an hour or an hour and a half.”  Consequently whenever he asks me to play I have been doing so grudgingly because I just find it frustrating that no matter how hard I try I can’t beat him.  Don’t get me wrong.  I knew this day would come.  And I’m really not all that surprised that it happened at the age of six.  I’ve been more surprised at how much I care.

So while he tooled around choosing different vehicles and races and trying to rack up stars this morning, I made a game plan:  Play with the same few vehicles on the same course until I improve.  The first bit was still a little comical as my son (sounding very much like a younger me) got annoyed because I wasn’t hitting certain buttons fast enough.  Then I’d veer off the track in places and he’d sigh, “Oh… Mom…”  (Can’t everyone relate to that kind of frustration with your parents?)  But here’s the awesome part:  Right before we quit, I finished my one track with ONE MORE STAR than what he had gotten on it last!  It wasn’t enough to advance us, but, oh, the taste of sweet victory!

Plenty of the things on my list are obvious:  I’m grateful for the baby I’m carrying.  I’m grateful that my son is so thoroughly excited to meet him or her.  I’m grateful that I have such a supportive husband.  But one of the things that I became aware of is the fact that I’m managing my time better and, in general, taking better care of myself.  Some of you may remember how much I struggled last semester with my son starting full-day Kindergarten.  I suddenly had seven hours a day to be – what else? – productive.  Since the beginning of this semester, and since the discovery that I was pregnant, I’ve had a much easier time figuring out what to do and when.  And, also, when to do nothing.  Even though this child is isn’t running around needing me, I understand that taking care of me is the same as taking care of them and I give myself the permission I need to do what’s best.  (The scary thing will be six years from now when this one starts elementary school and I find myself falling into the same habits – my mother’s – where all I do is race around.)  I’ve settled into a good little routine where I spread errands out over the course of the week, I look forward to watching certain shows when I fold laundry or eat lunch, and I seize opportunities to chat with friends whenever I can.  I’ve figured out which days I can work out and which mornings are set aside for just doing what I want.  I’ve also done an average job at fulfilling my New Year’s Resolution, which was to spend more quiet time praying or meditating.

I also knew before becoming pregnant that I would need to be proactive in maintaining my mental health.  Now that I’m not so nauseated, I’ve been trying harder to eat healthy.  I really try to get at least two trips to the gym in a week.  I’ve been taking a prenatal yoga class at a yoga studio on Saturday mornings.  Every once in a while, the three of us will light a candle at church and pray for the health and safety of the new baby.  I try to nap when I need to.  I have friends at my church who tell me that they regularly pray for me.  So far this time around has been so much more positive, and so much more spiritual.  I feel a thousand times more supported than I did last time and if I ever start to feel like maybe God gave me more than I can handle, I need only think of the huge grin my son gets when he listens to the recording I brought home of the heartbeat.  Or think about how often he counts on his hands how many months we have left.  Or how he knows important upcoming dates better than my husband.  Or how he’s practicing his reading so he’ll be able to read to his little brother or sister.

A time to be grateful indeed.

My son:  I sure am glad the sun is out today.  Aren’t you?

Noah:  (pause)  Yeah.  My Grandma said it’s ‘posed to get warmer.

My son:  Mm.  That’s good.

Noah:  Yeah.

Simple, I know, but it touched my heart for two reasons.  One, when my son was three, four, and five he had a tough time having conversations with friends.  Being an only child, he was very used to asking a question and having someone answer it in an appropriate way.  Then, during playdates, my son would ask something like, “Now do you want to play this?”  And most times the other child wouldn’t even acknowledge that he had spoken, nevermind actually answering.  And when they did try to answer, it was usually something nonsensical like, “I’m gonna go to McDonald’s today.”  My son would just furrow his eyebrows and look at me and I usually felt just as helpless.  So, when Noah paused before answering this morning, I was instantly like, “Please God!  Let him answer and let it make sense!”  When he did, I was so relieved.  I kissed my son goodbye and watched the two of them walk in together.

The other reason I enjoyed it so much is because I realized this is still such an innocent age.  It didn’t matter that this wasn’t a friend that my son doesn’t usually talk about.  Neither one of them belong to any sort of cliques.  Neither one is harboring any past injustices from the day before.  They each saw a familiar face that was going to be walking to the same classroom, and so they walked side by side and had kindergarten chit-chat.

And because God blessed me with the gift of being a mother, I got to relive that beauty and innocence.  Lucky me!

Okay, God.  Seriously?  I get it.  Life with the new baby will require sacrifice just like it did the first time.  Things will get hard.  I will have to plow through and keep a grasp on faith and hope.  But… seriously?  Can I catch a little break?  I was really proud of how I was taking everything in stride:  An entire 11 weeks (that’s pregnancy weeks, only 6 actual weeks) of nausea and one week (plus some) of a nasty stomach bug (complete with hospital stay).  This on top of the general worries that naturally come with pregnancy and my unique worries about anxiety and depression.  I was handling all that.  I was staying positive, resting when I needed to, eating what I wanted, giving myself permission to “forget” that I’m pregnant at times.  Then, the grayness.  The constant dull gray sky and consistent temperatures in the 30s and below.  Then, on Thursday the record thirteen inch snowfall that brought with it asthma issues like I’ve never had before.  Thank you for my husband who was able to pick our son up from school when they released an hour early, and who went straight to the drugstore to get me a third inhaler.

But, then, last night???  A prediction that the slushy roads would turn icy and a son who had the worst fever I’ve ever seen him have.  He was convulsing, on fire, with labored breathing.  An already difficult evening continued its downhill descent as we drove the wet (Thank you God!) roads to the ER at 10:00 pm.  We arrived at 10:30, were the only people there, and left at 11.  (Thanks again God!)  Despite two round of Motrin in him, his fever was 102.7 when we arrived, and when we left it was 101.6.  We came home and continued the difficult night with the fever rising again, vomiting, and diarrhea.  I slept near my son at the opposite end of the couch, and rubbed his calf every time he shifted and moaned.  I set my cell phone alarm to keep up the Tylenol and Motrin regimen, which meant about 3 hours of congested, head-pounding, stomach-churning, cotton-mouth sleep from 4:30 until 7:30am for me.

Was it all for this, God?  For this morning?  The reminder, once again, that I am resilient.  I am capable.  The sun doesn’t always come out, but a new day dawns nonetheless.  We’re still battling the fever and diarrhea, and my husband and I are becoming reacquainted with all of the fun discomfort that goes along with sleep deprivation…  but we’re okay.  We’re making it.  And even better, the sun is predicted to reappear today.  Can I ask for that one, God?  A little sun would mean the world to us today.

The history:  My mother likes to give.  Excessively.  She shops because she is lonely, but she doesn’t shop for herself because she feels guilty.  My father will work weekends and until as late as midnight (quite honestly I suspect affairs), and so she shops.  As the dutiful daughter, I have always accepted.  Herein lies the problem:  Accepting isn’t as simple as just accepting because the giving is a form of manipulation.  It’s a way of making sure we feel indebted to her; it’s something for her to bring up and throw at us as an example of why she cares for us; it’s a way of having her say on how we live and how we raise our children.

Some examples:  She decided it was disgusting for my son to reuse a plastic cup when he brushed his teeth (after all, that is not how she raised us) and so she bought him a Dixie cup dispenser and cups with cartoon characters on them.  After wasting money on paper cups for months, we hid the dispenser and went back to our way of doing things.  She also once decided that my son’s coat wasn’t warm enough, and his mattress was too hard, so she bought him new ones.  The funny (and annoying thing) is that she often calls from the store “to ask permission.”  If I offer any kind of rebuttal whatsoever, I am bombarded with accusations and defensive tones and arguments as stupid as, “Well, who wouldn’t love to have TWO of those?!”  The other part of the problem is that she uses giving in place of actual caring.  When I was in labor at the hospital she came into the room and instead of saying helpful things like, “You’re doing so well!  He’ll be here soon!”  She stood directly in front of me with shopping bags and proceeded to pull out a new robe, slippers and comfy pants for after my delivery – regaling me with stories about what a deal they were etc.  As the pre-therapy, dutiful daughter I did my best – between contractions – to offer my gratitude, knowing that I would need to thank her again after the baby was born and things were calmer.

So… last week I talked to my mom about the possibility of borrowing my aunt’s Medela breast pump again and she admitted that she was going to ask if she could buy me the $250 piece of equipment.  We talked about it and I said okay, being sure to show full gratitude, but making mental notes to be on my toes because I knew she was trying to get her foot in the door with this grandchild already.  (I did tell you about the yelling/crying match last year in which she confessed to obsessively worrying that I was going to shut her out of my son’s life once he was born, right?  She has forever harbored fears about one day never being needed and being shut out by everyone.  When I asked why she started worrying about that, she actually cited my marriage as an example of how I starting shutting out “the family.”  ….cray-zee….)  Well, when she and my father showed up at my door on Sunday (forgetting to call first, by the way, so I was in the middle of scrubbing a toilet) she came not only with the breast pump, but with bath toys for the baby, about six shirts and two pairs of pajamas for my son, two workout shirts for me, two electric toothbrush sets valued at about $200 each (which is a whole other freaking-annoying story), a snack bag for the family, and a Valentine’s present for my son.  My husband later noted that when I read the back of the breast pump box, I commented that I wasn’t sure what something was, and my mom replied, “We’ll figure it out.”

Ugh.  Friends, blog-friends, what else can be done besides what I’m doing?  I see her about once a month.  My therapist had said that if it was easier to just accept her “gifts” rather than argue about them, then to do that.  I appreciate having the items, and I even appreciate the gesture, I just don’t know if I can handle the implications that come along with it.  Thoughts???

January is absolutely my least favorite month of the entire year, but this year offered an extra challenge with my constant nausea.  During my first pregnancy (seven years ago!), I felt sick to my stomach for maybe a week or two.  I was also busy teaching high school theatre and didn’t notice it too much.  This time around, I have experienced everything from vomiting nausea to a subtle sea-sickness since January 2nd.  I hate thinking about food.  I hate seeing food commercials.  I hate grocery shopping.  And, as sad as this is, I usually hate eating.  Before the nausea started I craved salt and enjoyed eating salty things, but all that changed overnight when I suddenly couldn’t stomach anything besides a can of Pringles and a frozen French bread pizza.  Since the nausea took over, I had a slight craving for Ranch dressing, but I still didn’t enjoy it much as I ate it.  I’ve tried all sorts of things:  ginger, ginger candies, ginger ale, sea-bands, saltines, peppermints, peppermint gum…  After my stint in the hospital I filled a prescription for some good drugs, so I’ve taken those a couple times since my stomach bug has cleared up.

There are so many things to share… like my son’s reaction, and how things are going to be different (and better) this time than they were with my son.  I so appreciate all of your support during this past year of discernment and doubt.  Since I can’t really count on family, I’ll be counting on faith and friends during the difficult times.

I’m hoping to continue my blog with the same intentions I had when I started it – finding God in the everyday.  With this big transition upon us, I’m guessing it’ll come even easier than before!  Thanks for being a part of it!

After a tiring week full of bone-chilling rain, I found myself focusing on this evening.  The plan was for me and my son to meet my husband for dinner after my son’s swim lesson.  I’ve already talked some about the drama that accompanies swim lessons, and I absolutely hate the 40 minute drive there.  I hung in there though, and before I knew it my son and I were seated at one of our favorite quiet little restaurants waiting for my husband to join us.  When he walked in, I got to enjoy one of those neat moments that are especially appreciated after ten years of marriage:  I thought he looked hot.  I so genuinely appreciated being able to see him and have him walk toward us and sit at our table.  Then, after gorging ourselves on the world’s best pancakes, we drove home separately.  My sensitive son chose to ride with my husband which meant I could turn the radio up as loud as I wanted.  Every song that played on the way home made me think of summer and I basked in the first colorful sunset we’ve had in maybe a week.

I was content.  At peace.  Grateful.

Don’t give up on me!  I hope to post again soon…