From the moment I saw two pink lines on the pregnancy test, my life became measured in weeks; 40 of them to be exact.   I’ve noticed that there are two measuring standards for pregnancy.  Pregnant women live and cry by the forty week gestation count while the rest of the world labels pregnant bellies by months.   Try telling the cashier at the grocery store that you are 17 weeks pregnant and their eyes will glaze over as they murmur a polite “mmmhmm”, but tell them you are four months pregnant and you will immediately get some sort of response like “Oh my sister’s, husband’s cousin is pregnant too, but she’s five months along.”   Everybody understands that at six month’s pregnant you have a cute little bowling ball belly, and at eight moths people stare slack jawed at your enormous girth and wonder if you’re going give birth right there in Mc Donalds, but nobody looks at a pregnant woman and says “oh let me guess…you’re about 24 weeks pregnant, right?”.    I am quite happy with this duplicity, and will continue to perpetuate the confusion, primarily because it gives me (and knocked up women everywhere) a lot of leeway.  It allows me to say I’m 3 months pregnant at 12 weeks, or 6 months pregnant at 24 weeks even though no month but February is actually ever exactly 4 weeks.
  
So here I am at almost 29 weeks, or 7 months, or more accurately 6.6 months.  The magic 28 has come and gone, and the no-mans-land stage of pregnancy has passed.    For me, weeks 22 to 28 are the nail biting weeks, because survival is possible…but not terribly great.   Neither the heart wrenching finality of an early loss, nor the reasonable assurance of taking a live baby home; thus a veritable no-mans-land of hoping and praying.

However, Charlie has attained and conquered the magic 28 weeks, and seems quite happy, chilling in his private resort.  I had another perinatologist appt last week and the sprite baby is reaching new heights of normalcy.  His height and weight is in the 48th percentile, amniotic fluid=textbook, kidney function=normal, umbilical doppler=smack dab at perfect.  Pretty much he’s so normal, he’s a freak of nature, a genetic miracle that previously lived a hypothetical life in medical reference books.  
The only thing that’s not normal are the braxton hicks.  My uterus far surpasses the recommended daily amount.
Dr. Dowling (the Perinatologist) said I had to go in if I had more than 10/hr, but I told him that I’d have to pack a toothbrush and sleeping bag if I went into triage every time that happened.   We compromised with a vaginal ultrasound (who doesn’t love being being accosted by a giant plastic ultrasound wand wearing a condom?) to check my cervix.  The consensus was my cervix is everything a cervix should be.   It is the Shaquille O’neil of the cervix world and it shows no sign of being the least bit rattled by the constant barrage of contractions.    It is very relieving to know that Charlie is safe and sound despite my uterus’s inhospitable complaining, but this is where going to a high risk clinic has its downside.  I could have really milked the braxton hicks thing for all it was worth, but now my cover is blown.    I’m still supposed to go in if the contractions “change” (whatever that means), but otherwise they’re just incredibly uncomfortable and annoying.

I forgot to post last weeks pic, but here it is for your viewing pleasure.  I’ve managed to pack on ten inches in my waist so far.

   If this is the terrible two’s then I understand why people actually procreate.   It’s not nearly as bad as the mind numbing exhaustion, and incessant screaming that marked Jamie’s infanthood.   Of course everyone tells me that the terrible three’s make two year olds look like a mute cherub on ritalin.  I however, refuse to get pessimistic about it. After all, Jamie will be three around the same time we have an infant again which means we can kill two birds with one stone.  The crying infant will drown out the the whining three year old (or vice versa) and the mind numbing exhaustion will ensure a foggy type amnesia that will make the memories more precious than horrifying. 

   But D-day still seems very far off into the future and meanwhile, I will continue to enjoy every second smirking at Jamie when he’s not looking and smothering my laughter when I’m supposed to be disciplining him.    He has perfected the art of eye rolling and sighing which just looks way too adolescent on a 22 lb bundle of baby fat and curls.  He seems to be a rather social kid who really hates to play alone.  Thankfully he thinks washing dishes and mopping floors is more fun than Disneyland, and nobody has yet told him they’re mundane chores he’s supposed to despise.   I would be annoyed by the less than beneficial help I get from him (everything takes twice as long when he helps me), but I think it’s fair trade over having to play with blocks and legos all day long, and I’d much rather mop up the kitchen after doing the dishes with him than color for two hours.

   My sisters have been trying to convince me to straighten Jamie’s hair just to see what it would look like, but it seemed like way too much effort and work to tempt me, so yesterday Liz did the dirty deed herself while she was babysitting him.   She only got the top done before he started wiggling too much.

The result was hysterical.          

Jamie just got a hair cut last week otherwise it would have been way longer straightened.  yikes!

As it was, he was terribly frustrated with the hair hanging down and he hated it so much he kept trying to tear his hair from his head.   Fortunately for him, it defied the laws of gravity and his hair sprang back to its normal curliness while he took his nap.

 Our baby naming party last Friday was a ton of fun; proof
positive that you can still entertain when you have a house the size of
a matchbox.  We cleared out all the furniture into the bedroom and set
up chairs around the perimeter to create more room.  The food was
fantastic.  I don’t know how I managed to pull that off, but the menu included:

When Jamie goes tearing through the house with a fireman’s hat on and my shoes, whooping like a banshee at unhealthy volumes, it’s easy for me to forget my curly haired monger was once a bald, scrunchy little tomato baby, attached to wires and tubes in an isolette.

I googled our local hospital recently and was taking taking a virtual tour online;  admiring the spacious rooms, marveling at the 24 hr round the clock coffee bar when I caught a glimpse of something so familiar I could momentarily smell the antiseptic and hear the beeping monitor.  It was Jamie’s pod in the NICU.  For whatever reason, his particular corner of the NICU is the one pictured on the hospital website and even though many babies have inhabited that space before and after Jamie, it still feels decidedly like Jamie’s corner.   It brought back a flood of memories, and once again I am grateful for God’s grace.   

Ever since Jamie’s birth, we’ve walked in the March of Dimes to help prevent prematurity and lower infant mortality rates.  It’s always in April and always at Balboa Park, this year however (our third year), we had a whole team join us.  My parents, siblings, Jeff, Gabrielle, and Zach.   It was a blast, even if rather hot for this time of year.  It was awesome to see hundreds of kids who shouldn’t even be alive, all running around laughing.  It wasn’t all warm fuzzies though, there were plenty of people who were walking for babies they lost and one little boy who was walking for his twin sister.  He came home from the NICU, she did not.

Made me grateful for the textbook pregnancy I’m having this time.  Sprite baby is almost to the magic 28 weeks where his chance of survival greatly increases.   So here’s to healthy pregnancies and babies:

Team Jamie

…you cry at a rock concert. 

Jim got us tickets for the Seether/Flyleaf concert and amidst all the goth’s, emo’s and  pot smokers, I managed to tear up when Flyleaf played There For You.   Such an a amazing band, and an amazing concert.  I think Sprite baby enjoyed it too. 

After the concert.  Freezing cold and covered in a fine layer of smoke and beer.

Jamie and I were missing Jim so much, we threw some stuff in the car and headed up to the mountains after I got off of work last Wed (that and Jim needed a ride home this weekend).   I almost changed my mind when I had to fill up at $3.75/gallon *gulp* but we conquered the asphalt and managed to squeak 29 miles per gallon out of my beloved Altima.  Not bad for a car that literally eats hairpin turns for fun and can also fit two strollers, three carseats and a pack n play with room to spare.

Lake Arrowhead is still home to me although I’d rather live in San Diego if I must tell the truth.  I didn’t mind it so much as a kid, but now it seriously bugs me that everything shuts down by 9pm up there.  Where are you supposed to go and what are you supposed to do?  I’m used to dinner reservations at almost that time. 
But thats ok, a slower pace is always a good break every  now and then.  At the moment I feel like I could live in one of those huge lazy boy recliners and never move.

This pregnancy is so incredibly different from the last one, I feel like I have no idea what to expect.  Last Thurs the braxton hicks turned up the heat a notch.  Since then I consistently get between 6-10 of them every hour; they make my lower back ache, I feel like I’m about to start my period (very crampy feeling), and my uterus gets rock hard and sticks out at weird angles.  I know this technically should send me to the hospital for pre term contractions, but the perinatalogist has checked my cervix and it’s a mile long and as a impenetrable as fort Knox.  The contractions are doing absolutely nothing (thank goodness) and furthermore they go away as soon as soon as I sit down or rest.   I now understand why women can gain 60 plus lbs when pregnant, all I want to do is recline in a giant lazyboy for the next three months.  I feel like such a wimp since my tiny little basketball bump doesn’t look worthy of causing me any such misery, but I can hardly feel joyful looking forward to the next three months.  It’s sort of like being told you’re going to have a migraine for 15 weeks and there’s nothing you can take for it. 

However, all things considered, I think the sprite child has been doing very well.  July 29th is looming up in front of me at break neck speeds and if I could choose to be pregnant an extra few months I would (at least that’s my opinion at the moment…ha).  Even with all the braxton hicks, aches and temporary alzheimers, it’s still far far easier to be pregnant than it is to take care of a newborn, or horror of horrors: breastfeed.  

I’m pictureless today. (pure laziness)

But we’re having a wine and cheese party at our house, in an effort to find a name for the he-child fairy who probably won’t want to be called “Sprite” for the rest of his life.

    It’s Fri April 25th, so if you’re in the area or feel so inclined, come by and join us perusing name books, or at the very least have a glass of vino and chat for a few minutes.  

There are certain drawbacks to living in a Clint Eastwood film (milieu-wise), namely it’s pretty much a losing battle with the wilderness.   I already have a propensity for killing plants and flowers but combine the weather and varmints where I live and the poor fauna doesn’t stand a chance.   I was given a rather pretentious looking geranium for mothers day last year and I set it out on the front porch…. in less than 6 hours it had been reduced to one lonely, bare nub sticking out of the pot, with a scattering of bunny droppings left as a calling card.    The same thing happened with our attempt at grass, tomatoes, and herbs.   If it’s not the wild cotton tails it’s the rats, or snakes, or hawks, or owls, or coyotes, but that’s ok, they can have all my ill fated plants, but don’t touch my car.

We mostly live in peace with our wildlife, we don’t bother them and they don’t bother us (as long as I don’t take up gardening again), but a few months ago the rats decided to turn our sport tuned Altima into a food pantry and Jim declared war.   We set out every type of trap on the market, sprayed with all sorts of deterrents but with no success.  One day I was driving down the driveway and sniffing the delicious smells of the neighbors bbq when Jim flagged me down (he was working down the street) and drew my attention to the dead rat hanging underneath my car.   Suddenly I realized that the neighbors bbq i had been smelling was really roasted rat.  Ugh.
 Our rats are not cute Disney chefs, but rather giant, hideously ugly, fat rats.  Field rats that measure a good eight inches in length with a tail at least that long, and it’s not just one…or two..or even a family of them, but an entire wilderness behind our house that supplies a steady population of rats to chew our car.  Intolerable.

Lately they’ve been been packing all the crevices in the engine block with leaves and twigs, which poses an obvious fire hazard beyond the simple chewing of wires (thankfully they’ve done no permanent damage yet).   We’ve discussed ways of suspending the car from the air at night, or putting it up on blocks in a pool full of piranhas, but nothing seems feasible beyond what we’re already doing.   We finally broke down and got bonafide rat poison from an exterminator and since Jim is gone, it’s my odious task to deposit chunks of it around under the hood at night, and then asses the damage in the morning.    Today I had a dr’s appt so I put Jamie down for a nap, got ready to go, popped the hood of the car and found myself greeted with another engine stuffed full of leaves, rat poop, and half eaten rat poison.   They keep eating the poison, so I’m sure we’ll killing them, but I have to wonder just how many rats we have to kill before our car becomes some sort of sacred burial ground with bad voodoo in their minds.   

I had ten minutes before I had to leave, but I couldn’t drive the car with all those dry leaves packed in there without setting the car on fire, so I manufactured a long hook out of a coat hanger and went to work picking out rat crap and chewed leaves.   Jamie of course chose this moment to appear at the front door insisting he go “byebye” with me.    I warned him to stay inside, reminding him that the day before he had played outside barefoot and gotten two feet full of tiny hair like needles from the cacti like weeds in our yard (it took me almost two hours to pick them all out with tweezers).   He didn’t heed my warning and I couldn’t discipline his disobedience considering the amount of rodent feces on my hands.   I told him if he didn’t go back inside he was going to end up covered in thousands of hair like needles.  He may not talk a lot but he’s got a firm grasp on the English language as proven by him looking at me, raising one eyebrow and purposely putting one foot into a patch of weeds. Experience is the best teacher and a fool learns by no other.  After running around until I satisfactorily cleaned out all the leaves, Jamie’s feet were absolutely covered in those tiny hair like needles that are irritating and painful enough to frustrate the most tenacious person.   He couldn’t walk and consequently was dragging himself around like some sort of biblical cripple, moaning and sobbing, but I had to go.   I was already late for my appt.  I gave my sister Lydia (who arrived to babysit him) a flashlight and a pair of tweezers, kissed Jamie goodbye after explaining to him the consequences of disobedience.   Hopefully he learned his lesson. 

These types of lessons are cheap (because the consequence are obvious but not harmful), however I’m more worried about his current rock and hole obsession.  We’re right at the beginning of snake season and he won’t stop climbing around in the crevices of the large rock formations we have around our property.   He also is fascinated with snake holes which he loves to stick his hand down.   He is an obedient kid (most of the time)…but it takes a hell of a lot of training and stubbornness before he gets there.  He’s not naturally obedient.

I don’t even want to know how harmful rat feces are for pregnant women.  Hopefully they’re not too dangerous, because I don’t have much of a choice.  There’s no one here, but me and Jamie.

It’s so much easier to sin when pregnant.   The desire to go on a hormonal rampage is so strong I feel like Bruce in Finding Nemo.  Give me a whiff of blood and I’m out for the kill.  Especially when it comes to food.

All my food aversions from the first trimester have been replaced with an insatiable desire to horde food, and not necessarily for eating.  I just want to know it’s there and available or I feel panicky.    Don’t steal food off my plate, don’t help yourself to my fridge and horror of horrors don’t drink my water (I’m far far worse than Joey in Friends).    I love my water and it has to be perfect.   I am thirsty a lot these days and I like my water to be cold, but not too cold, and I don’t like lots of ice in it…but I do want some ice.  It has to be that crunchy ice that falls apart easily when you munch on it.  My water can’t be refrigerated otherwise I can taste vague remnants of last nights dinner in my water and that’s just gross.  So the perfect glass of water requires filtered water, and three (freshly frozen) icecubes  which has to sit on the counter for at least five minutes until the condensation drips down the side of the glass, the water is properly cool and the ice cubes reach munchy goodness.   It’s heavenly.  Nothing on earth tastes better. The other night I was doing dishes and was horribly thirsty, but
patience is a virtue and I’d rather wait five minutes and have the
ideal glass of water instead of giving into temptation and drinking
water straight out of the filter, so I was day dreaming about how wonderful that water was going to taste and how delicious those ice cubes would be, when I turned around and saw Jim drinking every last drop of my water.   I cried and possibly ranted and raved, I forget, but poor Jim, who would have thought that drinking a glass of water on the counter could carry such dire consequences? 

The cravings have also hit full force, and although I’m half convinced that pregnancy cravings are all a myth, I can’t seem to conquer them nonetheless.   So real or not, I am absolutely addicted to calamatta olives, artichokes, tomato soup and wheat free waffles with some prosciutto and cheese thrown in there for good measure.   I figure it could be worse, at least it’s not ice cream and chocolate, but it’s breaking my pocket book since that food is hardly inexpensive.

Here’s last weeks picture.  The skirt sort of hides the true largeness of my belly, but you can still see I’m a lot bigger.   Everything from here on out is new territory for me, because this is how big I was the day I delivered Jamie.  

23 weeks (or a little over five months)

Unfortunately it takes more than golden curls and a toothy grin to be a good ringbearer.  Thankfully Jamie is well loved by his his uncle and new aunt and they didn’t mind his less-than-model behavior at their wedding.  I’m not sure the wedding coordinator was too pleased, but hopefully enough people found it amusing and not irritating.  Besides, what kind of two year old can be depended on to walk down an aisle with 500 people staring at him?  It’s not exactly the sort of thing one can practice for.  (unless you hire 500 people to come to the rehearsal)

Jamie performed beautifully at the rehearsal.   He fell in love with one a the flower girls, a three year old sweetheart named Stella.  She could talk circles around him and every time they got more than 5 feet apart she would start calling “Jamie…Jamie…JAMIE!”.  They held hands walking down the aisle and it was pretty much the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.   Of course that was in an empty church after a nice long nap and a good snack.  Saturday arrived in all its spring glory with just enough sunshine and just enough random cloud cover to make any wedding photographer happy (thankfully it wasn’t me).   Pictures were at balboa park at 12:30, smack dab in the middle of nap and lunch.   Wonderful.   Jamie fell asleep in the car despite our best efforts to keep him awake.   We woke him up when we got there, but a fifteen minute nap that got rudely interrupted is a sure fire way to piss of any toddler.  He glared at the photographer and screamed whenever we tried to take his picture.   I finally left for a few minutes hoping he’d behave as soon as I got out of sight.  It worked…or so I was told. 

Of course as any parent knows, as soon as the grumpiness wears off there is nothing a tired toddler is better at than being super incredibly hyper.   Grant was holding him while we were waiting for Jim to pull the car around and he put him down for a second and that’s all it took for Jamie to shoot out into the busy street.  I heard brakes being firmly applied and I turned around in horror to see Jamie running in front of traffic.  There are no words to describe the feeling, nor the gratefulness that followed when I realized he was not hit or run over.    I have always been able to outrun Jamie (at least for a few more years) but with my dress and high heels on he definitely had an advantage and I couldn’t catch him without slipping them off and tearing after him in bare feet.   At least I didn’t have any stockings to ruin.

At this point a nap was out of the question, so we girded our loins and hoped for the best.   The plan of attack was to have Jim at the top of the aisle convincing Jamie to go down and me at the bottom of the aisle luring him with my motherly love and affection, or more importantly the forbidden fruit…his bottle.  (we figured it was time to pull out the big guns).   At first he refused to walk down the aisle but Jim told him that mommy and his bottle were waiting for him at the bottom and he took off down the aisle like a horse at the race track.   He made it about halfway down when he suddenly looked around and saw 500 people staring at him.   He said “uh oh”, did a one-eighty and headed pell mell back up the aisle as fast as his legs would carry him.  Jim tried to convince him to try again, but Jamie flat out refused so Jim picked him up and walked him down the aisle.   Oh well for adorable children walking hand in hand strewing rose petals.    At least everyone laughed.

I had my camera but honestly it was all I could do to walk around in high heels chasing a toddler, so I only took a half a dozen pictures. 

I got this one of Jamie

But Veronica got much better ones proving that Jamie’s disdain of cameras and having his picture taken only extends to me.   When I call his name, he stubbornly scowls and glares at the floor, but when Veronica called his name he fell for it every time.  These are a few she got.

I love this one

This is what Jamie’s hair looks like freshly washed and combed out.  Normally it’s just some variation of fuzz and dreadlocks.

Wow.  I am exhausted.  I haven’t been home for more than ten minutes or a short night sleep since last Tues.  Jeff and Gab got happily hitched on Sat and it’s been a non stop whirlwind of parties, family and good times.

Jim headed up to the mountains last night, then Jamie and I said our goodbyes and got home around 11 pm. I had to work today, so I am just now surveying the week worth of damage, and it ain’t pretty.   My house was spotless last tues (since I thought I was going to be showing it off to family), but a week of filling the car up with stuff and dumping it in the house and then tearing out again has come with consequences.   It’s so scary in here I just want to sit down and cry.   The health dept would have to evict us it’s so bad.  Jamie also emptied most of the toilet onto the bathroom floor, and all I did was shut it and lock it.  Incredibly gross.

I had another u/s at the high risk clinic yesterday, and everything is perfect.  I couldn’t be more text book if I tried.   The sprite baby is currently 1lb 2 oz and we’re pretty much in love with him.   The tech was sweet enough to switch to 3D so we could get some clearer pictures.  Sprite baby was sleeping with one arm stretched up above his head.  We couldn’t see his face very well, so we poked at him and woke him up.  He stretched and rolled over,  rubbed his eyes,  sucked on his fist and kicked his feet around.   I also noticed him curling up his toes a lot which must be a Ramsey thing because Jim, Jeff and Jamie all do it all the time too.   We also watched him “breathe” (amniotic fluid) practicing those lungs for the big day.   He waved ciao to us and we were all quite touched as only parents can be.    I used to think that those 3D/4D ultrasounds were a waste of money, but now I see why people dish out the dough for them.   You get to watch your child live and play, months before you have to actually take care of them and get up in the night when they scream.    I have to admit I’m loving this stage of pregnancy and it is flying by too fast.   They’re so easy to take care of at this point in their life.  My uterus is a built in babysitter, refrigerator and crib all in one.   I don’t have to worry about him running in front of a car or making sure he gets his nap. 

I know that ultrasound pictures are very alien looking, but here is the latest greatest one.  He’s curled up with his hands up by his face.  You can even see fingers!