Then & Now, 1 Week Old

When we were first time parents, we had no idea what we were doing. Who does? (Classroom filled with eager students waiting to be called on simultaneously drop their raised hands and slug down defeated in their desks). We were filled with anxiety and expectations and we were beyond exhausted. Willy had a difficult time bonding with Hooper in the first few weeks. He grew impatient easily with his crying and I had a hard time adjusting to my husband complaining about our baby. My mother bear instinct was extreme and I found myself constantly defending my son. There was also a lot of residual anxiety left over from Hooper’s birth, which was much more eventful than Van’s, in my opinion. Hooper must have sensed his Papa’s anxieties because he only wanted me. This fed Willy’s fear that he was not needed or wanted and added more responsibility to my already filled breastfeeding and recovering schedule. Of course interspersed with all the adjusting was a deep love and amazement over what we created. It just took a little while to get settled. The first week, or even the first month, was coined “survival month”. And we survived.
Van’s first week has been drastically different. Willy bonded instantly. With love came patience and it’s made all the difference in this transition. I can’t say our home is peaceful all the time, there are definite moments of chaos and simultaneous crying and diaper shitting and all the other fun stuff that comes along with balancing taking care of a newborn and a toddler. But the love and patience has lessened the challenge.
The difference has made me question medical induction versus waiting for a baby to come on it’s own. It’s interesting that with all we know medically, we still do not know what exactly causes labor to start. Based on my experiences, it seems that they come when they damn well please. I wonder now if Hooper’s introduction to the world was a little rockier based on the fact the doctor decided he needed to come out. Van is much more peaceful in his first week of life and I can’t help but think of the fact he entered this crazy world when he was ready. I suppose there is something to be said for being parents for the first time too that makes the experience a little hairier and begs the question, “Seriously? These people are letting me take this child home?”. We’re much more relaxed this time around and thus, the transition has been fairly smooth thus far. Can’t say for certain, however, what next week will bring…
Side note: Yes, we realize Hooper looks nothing like the newborn that exited my vagina.

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42 Weeks.

 

Boy am I relieved to have company in the final photo of this seemingly never-ending maternity series. It wouldn’t be complete without including the much anticipated Van. Thank you to everyone for the support and encouragement along the way. As soon as I popped (“popped” is totally the wrong word, but I’ll share more when I get around to writing his birth story) this boy out, I felt like a new woman. No more emotional roller coasters. No more anxiety. Nothing but pure and unconditional love in it’s most innate form. Becoming a mother, even for the second time, is such a beautiful thing. I guess the beauty in the end wouldn’t be as meaningful without the challenges that led to it. Lesson learned. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Meet Your Parents.

Dear Hooper & Van,
The photo above was taken via self-timer on the night your Papa proposed we spend the rest of our lives together. We were on our first international trip together, in the Dominican Republic. Here’s the story:
My first impression of the Dominican Republic was to be fearful.  We arrived at the airport in Santo Domingo around 11:30pm.  As we went through customs, we met a local who spoke English.  We told him of our wandering plan of adventure: no plans, no reservations, and public transportation.  He said he’d pray for us.  He just may have, but if by chance he had forgotten, we certainly didn’t need it.  My fear and hesitation quickly diminished.
 We hooked up with another guy at the airport headed to Boca Chica and we split a cab ride there with him.  With Lonely Planet in hand, we arrived at our first hotel in Boca Chica.  It was around 12:30am.  Prostitutes and local hoodlums were still out hanging in the streets around the two food stands that were still open selling meat that I presume had been hanging there all day long.  The room was seemingly nice at first glance.  Behind the bed was a hand painted mural depicting a beach scene, palm trees and birds included.  Upon closer investigation, however, there were a few stains on the sheets and initially suspected blood stains on the floor (Tabasco?).  Between the music playing, the dogs barking, and the pillows made literally of stuffed cotton balls, I don’t think either of us fell asleep until 5am. Unknowingly, this would be one of the first truths we’d learn- and ultimately love- about the Dominican Republic.  Music is always playing.  Always.
This first learned truth leads into the second- its counterpart: the people are always moving.  The Dominican’s are kinetic- no two ways about it.  They radiate with pazazz.  Their smiles linger and seemingly stretch wider.  It’s almost as if their movement is contagious and one person is always passing it to the other.  They dance even when there is no music and yell to turn up the music when it’s serving merely as background noise on the public bus.  It’s nice to be somewhere where there is something that unites everyone.  A blessing, but also arguably a curse in America, is that there are so many cultures and different tastes that public transportation could never get away with playing anything because it could never appeal to everyone.  The truth that later would be shown is that the Dominican Republic would merely be a simple Caribbean island with a few pretty beaches and several daunting all-inclusive resorts in the absence of it’s people; The people are the soul of the D.R.  They aren’t only alive, they’re vibrantly alive.
From Boca Chica, we continued east, hopping from bus to bus.  Four bus rides later we arrived in a small town with only a few dirt roads.  Bayahibe is the town we will be speaking of with sparkles in our eyes years from now when we reminisce on this little memory of ours.
In Bayahibe we stayed in a Cabana owned by a warm and inviting family.  The toilet lacked a toilet seat and the shower was bone-numbing cold, but neither took away from the experience.  Each night, the entire town met in the town center and danced to bachata music (Dominican country music).  Here in Bayahibe we spent lazy days on the beach, played with the children (who loved being photographed), and watched local baseball games.  On the 23rd, we got drinks prior to dinner.  The tables and chairs, of which there were only 3 or 4, sat outside the hut they served you from.  Willy and I got into the topic of engagement and marriage. More and more the topic had been presenting itself.  I told Willy that he shouldn’t feel any pressure… that when he’s ready, I’m ready and the answer would surely be yes.  Looking back on it now, I had felt it coming and truthfully was eager to relieve pressure on both sides.  I didn’t want him to go to extravagant lengths to tell me everything he’s already shown through something much more important- action.  I didn’t need him to get down on his knee- after all it was a dirt road- only to propose what we both were already committed to.  I thought it was coming on Christmas, so I felt it was my job to say all of this prior so that when it did come, it’d be simple, carefree, and natural.  And in a moments notice I got everything I wanted and suspected when I least expected it.  I can remember saying everything I felt I needed to say, feeling good about how I said it, and then in a celebratory moment I took a sip from my drink and a glance over at the water only to turn back and find a ring awaiting me.  “Will you marry me?” he asked.  “Of course”, I said.  We both shed a few tears.  He had been carrying the ring with him all the while, waiting for the right moment.  And the right moment it was.
We spent Christmas nearly stranded as only one of the five or so restaurants were open.  Spanish jingle bells blared through the streets all night long. Again, everyone celebrates Christmas so it’s only fitting that everyone celebrates together.  We left Bayahibe Christmas morning.
Driving northwest we passed through the countryside and then took a shoddy form of a boat across Bahia de Samana and arrived in Samana.  Here we had our first silent night.  The culprit, I suppose, is that electricity didn’t run 24 hours per day.  The arrival of massive cruise ships brought about our departure.  After one night, we hitched a ride in the back of a pick up truck- filled with 18 people- to Las Galeras.  Our room in Las Galeras was the cheapest yet and a chapuza in every sense of the word.

 

Chapuza- Shoddy piece of work.

 

The shower might as well have been a hole where someone pokes a straw through and squirts water.  The painted-over wasp nest adjacent to it is as no bit complementary.  But for the price, we settled for a trickle for a shower, a toilet that wouldn’t flush, and a door that wouldn’t lock.  After all, the beach was gorgeous with a rustic appeal and backed by a forest of palm trees.  We hooked up with another couple from Norway.  As if luck flew our way, they had a rented car and when it was time to move on we hitched a ride from them.  They dropped us on the side of the road at the turn off for Las Terrenas.
From there we jumped into the back of another pickup truck- one hand on our backpacks, the other on the rim of the truck bed- and a half hour later arrived in the beach town of Las Terrenas.  Our room here?  Well decorated with lots of paintings and the most lavish bathroom yet- showerhead included.  A famous phase comes to mind- don’t judge a book by it’s cover.  In this room, we weren’t alone.  We accepted the cockroaches and lizard that inhabited the bathroom, but our nocturnal friend- the rat- refused to let us rest.  We awoke mid-night and found him nibbling about behind one of the paintings.  Eventually we watched as he crawled across the beams that lined the ceiling and exited through a hole in the roofing.  Needless to say, we moved to another hotel the next morning and took a mid-day siesta to catch up on some sleep the rat stole from us.  Went to a cockfight and don’t ever need to go back.
 From Las Terrenas we moved south- all the way south- to Santo Domingo.  After four to five hours of waiting for a bus, we left.  Fifteen minutes later the bus we waited so long for broke down.  After another hour waiting, the journey continued and five or so hours after getting back on the road, we were finally in Santo Domingo.  We spent the few days we had left resting, recuperating, and preparing for the final journey home.  Great to be gone, great to be home.
When you’re ready to settle down with the one you want to love for the rest of your life, visit an enchanted land together. And take public transportation.
Love,
Mama

P.S. Van, you’re Papa and I are over-the-moon about your decision to finally join us. Love is overflowing in our home.

 

Dear Van.

A little someone has finally decided to grace us with his presence. We welcomed Van into the world on Monday, 9lbs. 8oz. and 21 inches long. When I’m ready to put the experience into words, I will be sure to share. 

 

Dear Van, these are a few tidbits I wrote to you while you still remained the stubborn little booger in my belly.
-I committed myself to adding two weeks on to whatever due date the doctor gave me after I was eleven days late, and then medically induced, with your brother. I don’t know why I didn’t follow this advice. I guess in some form or another I knew I’d need the support and encouragement if I were to go past my due date. It’s been difficult fielding the text messages, phone calls, emails, and having to deal with other peoples anxieties surrounding when the heck you’re going to join us, on top of my own. There were a couple of overcast and humid days this past week where we actually got rain (yes, rain in southern California in July) and I fantasized about you coming on either of those days. You did not. Then came your Grandpa Niles birthday, another great day to be born. Again, you did not come. And yes, it’s true, I even visited the magic eight ball website who initially said the answer was hazy and to ask again, but then confirmed that you will be born over the weekend. I didn’t hold my breath, but the little bit of hope it gave was comforting. Please know your mom is an absolute lunatic when she’s pregnant. But only when I go past my due date. Before that, I’m just a nice woman carrying around a basketball.
-I started this baby blog for you and your brother when I found out I was pregnant with you.
-Your Papa has been able to work from home on the days I needed extra help. This has been incredibly helpful as of late. He’s anxious for your arrival too, but not nearly as anxious as I am. This is because he thinks I’m going to die birthing you at home.
-The Olympics start this week. I hope to be sitting on the sofa breastfeeding you while watching the gymnastics. Please add this to your mental “to-do” list.
-Your great grandma Helen turned 95 last month. She predicted that you’d come on your due date, the 15th, which was a Sunday. Her prediction was based on the fact that your Papa would be home and she thought you’d be kind enough to wait for the family to be together. You are not kind and she is a wee bit nutty.
-You made me eat horrible. If you are protein deficient, it’s because I gave the Greek yogurt to your brother and ate a cookie instead. It’s your fault, I eat exactly what you tell me I need.
-You kick and wiggle often. It’s a feeling I remember missing greatly after I birthed your brother. The middle-of-the-night dance parties, however, will not be entirely missed.
-I did no prenatal yoga with you. I went weekly with your brother. If I can’t do the splits again post-birth, I blame you. But, then again, which son really wants to see their mom do the splits?
-Hooper understands my belly is called a “baby”. Sometimes he refers to his own belly as a baby. He often gives my belly hugs and sometimes kisses. I’m more than eager to see your relationship with him develop over the years. Please be a better eater than him.
-There is a lot you will learn along the way, but here’s a few tips to get you started: Our family loves sarcasm, so don’t be a pussy about things. Take it and dish it like a man. Sarah is really loving and sweet, but get out of her way when she’s in romping mode. The neighbor is always out sweeping leaves, that’s just what she does. If you grow up with regrets of not having a pool to play in during the 100+ degree days of summer, remember that we wanted one too. We just couldn’t afford it. So save your own pennies. One day you can invite us over for a pool party. When you’re older and wondering what your Papa and I did after you boys went to sleep, the answer is we ate dessert. Yummy yummy desserts we were too selfish to share with you. And lastly, there’s lots of people that love you. Really, really love you. I’m one of them and I can’t fathom anyone loving you more.
So eager for your arrival,
Mama

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41 Weeks.

My sister left for a hiking trip in Yosemite a week ago. Knowing she’d be gone all week, she wished me luck. I teased that I could still be pregnant when she got back, but you could tell in our giggles that neither of us believed that to be true. Low and behold, here I am. Forty one weeks pregnant. That’s ten months and one week for those keeping a score card. And honestly, it feels like I could be pregnant indefinitely. I try my best to cling on any little change or cramp and am constantly re-evaluating the strength of my contractions (that I’ve had for months, mind you) but nothing seems to pan out. I go to the bathroom with the same excitement I had when I was 15, eagerly awaiting Aunt Flow to come visit (Yes, I was a late bloomer). My trust in my body to go into this thing called labor on it’s own is wavering.
I told my midwife that it feels like I have the laughing-weeping syndrome. As a side note, when I just googled “laughing-weeping syndrome”, wikipedia also co-named the disorder emotional incontinence which made me giggle, giving way to the laughing aspect of this syndrome I’ve diagnosed myself with. I’m being facetious, but in all seriousness, I’ve been a mood-swinging maniac. Mostly on the weeping end of the spectrum.
It can’t be that much longer, right? This baby will come out, right?
On Saturday we went to the Huntington Library in Pasadena to listen to some live music and have a picnic. After asking about my due date, one woman confessed she was “surprised” I was out and about. Maybe she thought I belonged in the hole I’ve been so eager to hide in. What I wanted to say was, “You know, babies don’t just fall out of the vagina. If I didn’t feel good, I wouldn’t be here”. Pregnancy sensitivity.
I stopped at the vintage market down the street from our house yesterday. There’s a point you get to in pregnancy where you just don’t want to hear people’s opinions anymore. Am I wrong? Everyone seems to be compelled to comment on your belly, guess the sex, guess how far along, yadda yadda yadda. It’s gotten draining to admit my due date was last week. I thought I had reached all I could handle until a rough-around-the-edges man came up to me and said, “WOAH! You are preg-nant”. Thanks for noticing, asshole, is what I felt like saying. But I said something better instead, I said, “I’m not sure whether to say ‘Thank You’ or “F&#% You’, frankly”. He quickly tried to redeem himself, feeding me the compliment that I’m “all belly”. Not but 20 minutes later another older man yelled across his booth, “twins?”. I couldn’t even muster anything up to say to him. I really just wanted to smack him clear across his wrinkly face. Pregnancy sensitivity. I’m telling you, it’s a real disorder. I got in my car and left after buying a few really cool things (will share soon) and confessed my new found hatred for the general public to Willy.
So yes, I’m still pregnant. I’ll be following up with my backup OB this week, which is something I clearly wanted to avoid. This path feels all too familiar. And so the anxiety builds…
On the bright side, my midwives are not at all concerned and are very trusting in my body’s ability to get their on it’s own. Van and I are both healthy thus far, so I’m trying my best to share in the same trust. 

 

 

Some additional pics from our weekend…

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Meet Your Parents.

Dear Hooper & COME-OUT-ALREADY-Van,
Your Papa invited me back to Arizona to meet the people I now call my mother and father in-law a few months after we had met back up and started dating. Your Papa will proudly recount the talk he had with his dad after I had gone to bed, where he was warned “not to f&%# this one up”. It was in the warmth of the Arizona morning sun, that your father, my best friend, turned toward me and whispered that he loved me for the first time. I whispered the same thing back and buried my giddy face in the pillow. I spent the rest of the weekend quietly observing your father and making a mental list of all the things I loved about him. I still add to that mental list to this day.
Make sure when you marry, you marry your best friend.
Love,
Mama
PS. You can read more about this story here.

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Bits + Pieces

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Snapshots from the week:
The two finger standard. It occurs anytime his blanket is in site or when he is meeting someone for the first time // Follow the leader. He’ll remind you quickly just who the leader is // Straw goes in, straw goes out. I’ll always remember a co-worker (that’s you, Kris) informing me that boys are always trying to stick shit in holes // Music madness. You can’t beat the Mexican Hat Dance // A sneak peak at our new and updated kitchen. I keep meaning to do a before and after post, but being that it’s not technically complete I’ve felt less motivated. Damn contractors // Silly smiles // Sarah and Hooper cuddle time // Thrifted jacket I picked up for Hooper for three bucks // Labor instructions, waiting patiently to be followed.
Happy Saturday.

Alone in the Night.

It’s 5am as I write this and I can’t sleep. This has been a usual occurrence for the last few nights. It happens right around 4am when I have to get up and pee for the second time and when the left side of my lower back is throbbing to the point of no relief despite position change or the rearrangement of the various sized pillows surrounding me. And then I start thinking. What a mistake, right? And once the wheels start spinning, it’s game over.
I remember getting to this point when I was pregnant with Hooper. The point where scheduling lunch dates and planning day trips to the beach not only got exhausting, but also seemed to inhibit my ability to go into labor. I have this weird notion that in order to start having painful contractions, the kind you can’t talk through, I need to be sitting at home willing them on. I know this is the furthest thing from the truth and is instead a rationalization for giving way to my desire to dig a deep hole, wait in it, and not come out until I have a baby in my arms.
So here I am at 5am with the light of morning bringing a new day and an end to my seemingly endless night. Hoping these feelings of anticipation and anxiety subside. Hoping to go into labor. And wanting nothing more to reside in a hole until these two things occur.
I’ll be back tomorrow with a Bits + Pieces post. Wishing everyone a happy Friday and thanking all for the continued support and encouragement.
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Shits & Giggles.

I saw this video on Tosh.0 the other day. Willy and I must have replayed the video over twenty times, each time laughing just a little harder and each time shedding just a few more tears. I shouldn’t be laughing, after all, I presume my asshole will be hurting soon enough. Either way, this video is just too funny not to share. Laughter is just the medicine I need. I’ve been quite anxious the last couple days and am wondering where the girl who wrote A Family of Three post went as I’m struggling to find that peace I referred to.
Also came across this ecard, which also gave me a good chuckle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hooper @ 20 Months

Growth & Appearance: The inevitable has finally taken place. I convinced your Papa to trim your hair. And by trim I mean you no longer have a mullet. It didn’t happen at all how I expected it to. To be honest, I imagined your first haircut to be in a barber shop geared toward kids where you sat in an elevated car and got a sucker of some sort when you were done. Instead, it happened at the kitchen table, during dinner, in the dark. It was dark because we had not yet finished the electrical part of the kitchen. I asked your Papa if I should grab a flashlight or something. He said no. He cut your hair. And that’s the story of your first haircut. The trimmings are in your baby book. You can thank me later for getting rid of what was destined to be a mullet. 

 

Feeding: I hate this category. I feel like I’m always whining and complaining about what a terror you are to feed. And I don’t really have anything different to report. You’re difficult to feed. You even chew the food you like slow. You do seem to eat better in your car seat or stroller and quite often, as a last resort, we feed you on the way home from wherever we are. You’re just not interested in food, which is clearly why we seem to have to strap you down to get you to eat anything substantial. You eat to live, you certainly don’t live to eat. You’ve recently tried bacon for the first time and you love it. You are a carbon copy of me when it comes to food. You surprisingly, however, do not like pancakes. Scrambled eggs with cheese are still a favorite, along with grilled cheese sandwiches, bagels with cream cheese, yogurt, fruits (specifically berries), mac n’ cheese, ground beef with cheese, chicken with pesto, and chicken nuggets. I’m back to giving you a puree of fruits and veggies mixed with your yogurt because you’ve been such a picky eater as of late. You’re such a typical toddler. 

 

Talking: Whereas everything was “wewwow” (aka yellow) last month, this month you have added “boo” (aka blue) into your color palette. “Added” is not really the right word because what you’ve done is basically replace “wewwow” with “boo”. In fact, yellow does not even exist anymore. Everything is “boo” (aka blue). When we ask you what your name is, you reply with, “Me”. You’ve caught on to saying “peace” (aka please) when you want something. It’s hard to turn you down when you’re being so polite. Papa has taught you how to say the number “two”, which you pronounce “tchoo” through very pursed lips. Just as any question that begins with “what color…” ends with the answer “boo”, the answer to any questions beginning with “how many…” is now always “tchoo”. It doesn’t matter if we hold up two or five fingers, the answer is “tchoo”. “Hi-yee” and “By-yee” have to be my favorite words of yours.

 

Sleeping: You are back to your two naps a day schedule and are sleeping perfectly in your double bed. You sleep about 11 hours at night and total anywhere from 4 to even 6 hours of shut eye during the day. We put you in bed around 9:30 pm and you wake sometime around 8:30am. You go back down for a nap around 11am and sleep until 2 or even 3 in the afternoon. Believe it or not, you’ll go down for another nap around 5pm and sleep for another hour in a half or two. If you’re doing the math, that means you are only awake for 8 to 9 hours, but rest assured, you earn your naps in that time span. Of those 8 to 9 hours, probably 4 of them are spent trying to shove food in your mouth. The other day I heard you playing with your monitor after I put you down for a nap. I went in the room to redirect you to sleep and you very endearingly patted the pillow next to you and said, “mama, mama”, directing me to lay down next to you. How could I refuse? We cuddled for about ten minutes, you, me, and little Van swimming around in my belly. I felt whole and complete and so proud to be the one you call mama. You sure are a sweet little boy.

 

Development: Your game of peek-a-boo has transformed into hide and seek. You’re destined to be the kid reaching into the cookie jar thinking we don’t see you because your eyes are shut. Nothing brings you more joy than popping out from behind a chair or from behind your blanket and unveiling your “hiding” space.
You’ve become a much better listener and are able to hold my hand in public places. It depends, of course, where we are going. If you’re going to be a bull in a China shop, then I still have to put you in the stroller. I brought you into the post office the other day and you stood by my side and held my hand. I’m hoping this good behavior continues.
You can be quite bossy. The other day you ordered me to open the broom cabinet, then you proceeded to take out the broom, bring it over to me and pull my hand to the hallway where you patted the ground instructing me to sweep the floor. You’re very persistent.
We’ve cracked down on hitting. You don’t do it too often, but every now and again you’ll smack Sarah or pinch her fur. Luckily your dog is incredibly loving and patient, but any other dog would snap back in a second. I’ve also witnessed you hit other children from time to time. Usually it’s in a playful way, but not always. We’ve been diligently scolding you, waiting for the day you have enough brain cells to comprehend the fact you can go around smacking animals or people.
Oh yes, and you are able to undo your car seat latch across your chest. We’ve started the “Click it or ticket” campaign to no avail. Screw Graco for making a product a 20 month old can easily manipulate. 

 

Favorites: You’re still into your playskool giraffe, keys, cars, trucks… things that move or facilitate movement. You’re also still into Yo Gabba Gabba, but the obsession seems to be lessening (my fingers are crossed tightly). You love putting keys into locks and quarters into piggy banks.  You’re also gaining interest in puzzles. We bought you a mini guitar as well, which you thoroughly enjoy. One step closer to being a rock star.

 

Upcoming: It’s almost big brother time. Time to show Van the ropes. Also, it BIG news, you made a small tinkle on your potty last night. It was your first real attempt. You managed to muster out a small droplet of piss and we celebrated with a cookie. Papa’s now motivated to try it over and over. In fact, he just sat you back down on the potty and you squeezed a fart out. We’re so proud.

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A Family of Three.

Sunday was my official due date. I picked the latest due date based not on dates (which gave me an earlier due date) but instead on ultrasounds done at seven and eight weeks, which apparently are more accurate. I stuck with the latest date possible for my own piece of mind. I’ve read that second babies typically come earlier and by allowing myself a longer cushion of time it seemed like I was providing myself with the best of safety nets. Though I mentally told myself I needed to prepare to go past my due date, honestly speaking, I didn’t think I actually would. But, here I am with a baby still bakin’ in my womb. Must be a pretty posh life in there.
We spent Sunday on the beach as a family. A family of three. And it dawned one me that even though it feels like this pregnancy is going on forever, Van will be here any day and then we will be four. My midwife said something to me at my last appointment that I truthfully hate to hear. She said, “You know, life is going to get very busy, even hard at times, once Van gets here. Try to relax and enjoy this time with Willy and Hooper”. I say I hate hearing that because it’s so easy for an outsider to say. So easy for an outsider to think logically. I remember people saying the same thing to me before Hooper was born and I vowed never to advise anyone expecting a child to make the most of the time before their child arrives. That’s because once you find out you’re pregnant, you spend the whole pregnancy adjusting your mindset and skillfully planning for the addition. It’s not like you start racing to cross things off your list once you become pregnant… If you planned for it, you do that stuff beforehand and spend the pregnancy, especially the end of the pregnancy, anticipating what’s inevitably going to come. It’s almost impossible to enjoy your time as just a couple because you really have no idea what you’re about to lose.
So as I sat there on the beach with my two guys, it dawned on me that there is a difference between this pregnancy and last: I am able to live in the moment and, as a result, I truly enjoyed our time as a family of three. The thought of it being my due date hardly even passed through my thoughts. I’m trying my best this week to find peace in the wait.

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40 Weeks

It goes without saying that my google searches have lead me to research on natural labor induction. I want this baby out. And not because my body is throbbing and I’m tired of carrying the extra load (even though this is true)… The pregnancy pains pale in comparison to my fear of a repeat of what happened the first time around: induction, constant monitoring, pitocin, delivering on the operating room table, etc. I fear that the later this pregnancy goes, the more jeopardized my birth plan becomes. Remember I chose a home birth based on the fact that I truly feel it’s what’s safest for me and for my baby. While many misconstrue my decision to be emotional, rest assured that there is plenty of scientific research to back up my decision. With that said, I’ve put a lot of love and care and forethought into my decision and the later I get in pregnancy, the more I see my control over the situation diminishing. I digress.
Inducing labor naturally (isn’t that an oxymoron?) at home is a funny thing. All the sites seem to say the same thing: acupuncture, acupressure, pineapple, evening primrose oil, homeopathics, sex, walking, castor oil, spicy food. But there seems to be an asterix attached to each method that states: These methods will only work if your baby is ready to come out. Let me translate this asterix in more plain English: “Listen you crazy pregnant lady, I know you want your baby to come out. You can try A, B, and C, and even E, F, AND G if it makes you feel better and helps fill your days of waiting. Labor will still happen, however, whenever the f*#$@ it feels like happening. Try this natural induction method instead: WAIT”.
And yet I can’t stop eating pineapple after pineapple in hopes of a puddle of amniotic fluid magically appearing at my feet. I went to get a refill on the homeopathic medicine I’ve been taking. I instructed the homeopathoIogist that I’m now at my due date and need the stronger dose. She gave me the instructions regarding dose and frequency and then said something all too familiar, “If it doesn’t work, then your baby just isn’t ready to come and you can try taking the same dose at the same intervals the next day”. My wheels started spinning, I paid the nine bucks, and I waddled back to my car thinking, “Screw her, she used the asterix. What she is basically telling me is that I can take her shit or leave it and either way my baby will come when he damn well pleases”. I came home and bragged to Willy about my epiphany. He said, “So you didn’t buy the stuff, did you?”. And I said, “Of course I did”. I know, silly. BUT, I explained to Willy that it’s like knowing you’re going to die. You can’t just let death happen, you have to die trying. It’s much too hard to sit here and complacently wait. I have to feel proactive, like I’m working toward the baby coming out. I have to fool myself into thinking I have at least an ounce of control. It’s the only way to stay sane.
I’m confused as to whether I’m giving birth to a teenager or a dependant being because if it’s the latter, shouldn’t I be the one calling the shots? What’s that you say? I have to learn this lesson all over again and forfeit all control? Screw you, pregnancy. Screw you. 

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Meet Your Parents

Dear Hooper & TODAY IS YOUR DUE DATE Van!,
Before people started turning up raped and beheaded, your Papa and I used to drive down to Baja, Mexico with friends to surf and camp. We’d set up shop right on a cliff that looks directly out to the ocean. A woman would come by daily selling Tamales and a DJ would play music at a nearby hotel in the night. I farted, for the first time, in front of your Papa on our first trip to Baja and managed to convince him it was actually the smell of his own fart he was inhaling.
We were in the tent when your Papa decided it would be funny to go fart in his buddy’s tent. I knew then I could let my own fart out and blame it on your Papa crop-dusting it back into our tent. It was one of those historical farts that we talked about for years afterward. It was that bad. Your dad couldn’t believe the smell of his own fart could gross him out as much as it did. I knew at this time I wanted to marry this man. Anyway, years later I confessed that it was indeed my own making. He agreed to keep it a secret and we shook on it with the agreement that I could secretly add dog shit to his food if he ever told another living soul. And here I am, spilling my own dirty laundry.
One day, when you’re choosing a wife, make sure you chose one who farts in front of you. Don’t ask why, just trust me on this one.
Love,
Mama
P.S. Van? Can you hear me? How ’bout coming out one of these days…

And The Obsession Continues.

There are few toys that you can honestly say last through various developmental stages. This is why we don’t invest in too many. Okay, okay, it’s also partly due to the cost of new toys and the clutter they add to the house. We don’t have a big home and it’s hardly my goal to fill each corner and crevice with big clunky devices that are hot one minute and cold the next. So why do I love Hooper’s vintage playskool giraffe? I love it for a lot of reasons, really. For starters it was a gift from his grandma. Gotta love awesome gifts. It makes a great photo prop. It’s also been one his favorite toys since he was ten months old and using it as a crutch to start walking. Then he was walking on his own and he no longer needed it for support but was too little to actually ride it, so he carried it everywhere. Then he became big enough to ride it and now he loves for us to push him on it while he lifts up his feet and enjoys the ride. In any case, it’s gotten a lot of use and is one of his favorite toys. So, with no further adieu, here are some pics of Hooper with his beloved “gia”, or giraffe. 

 

Etsy seller Fuzzymama has this one for sale for a very reasonable price, if anyone is interested.

Bits + Pieces

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My growing belly and Sarah (side note, that’s not a pertruding belly button, it’s the bottom of my dress. I had to clarify. I mean the belly button is out, but not that far out)// Hooper’s latest obsession: “TARRR!”, aka, guitar, which he pronounces with a simultaneous fist pump into the air // I celebrated a birthday. It was lovely, complete with some sweet gifts and a yummy cupcake // Sarah chillin’ out realaxin’ all cool because let’s face it, that’s what a dogs life is all about // Hooper’s other obsession: “Pay-pee”, aka, paper and pen. Sometimes he likes to scribble, but most of the time he likes taking the pencils out and then putting them back in // Birthing preparations: lots and lots of pineapple. I don’t really care at this point if it’s an old wive’s tale or purely psychosomatic, it feels good to do something. Doing something has also included walking, mostly at 9am in 90 degree weather… anything to avoid the 100+ afternoons. My best friend, due a few days ago and still pregnant, introduced curb walking to me (please click on the link and watch the ridiculousness that is this video). After a good chuckle, I went outside and started walking lopsided. I know, us pregnant biotches are cray-zeeeee // Milk that expires after I do. I know, I know, it’s a due date not an expiration date, but it really doesn’t feel that way // Hooper’s other obsession (there seem to be a lot these days): “Gongs”, aka “cars”. Not sure where “gongs” comes from but he wants those little four wheeled specimens as soon as he wakes up. Sure beats “Gabba Gabba”, so I’m on board // Cutest little card from Etsy store 3RingCircus, where I made a recent purchase I will share soon.
Happy Friday the 13th… Maybe today will be the day.
Side note: Thank you to everyone who continues to vote daily for The Stork & The Beanstalk on the Top Baby Blog website. I’m currently ranked 24, exceeding my goal of making it within the top 25. Hip hip hoorays all around! And many many thanks you guys for showing me love.

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Mamas & Tykes

On Boy: “All My Friends Are Wild” t-shirt from Etsy seller SodaFountainParty // Vintage Health-Tex shorts from Etsy seller Falabellas // Vintage Moccasins from Etsy seller DirtyBirdiesVintage
On Mama: 1970’s Maxi dress from Etsy seller RustBeltThreads // Vintage sandals from Etsy seller DreFindsVintage
On Girl: 1970’s Mushroom dress from Etsy seller PotatoCakeVintage // Fringed Moccasins from Etsy seller UdasKids

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Moments in Motherhood.

The other day I was watching Hooper play with my mom. He was running in circles and giggling. I asked my mom, “What was I like at this age?”. Of course she had a general answer that summed up my personality for much of childhood, but the rest of her answer is what resonated. She said, “Honestly, I don’t remember. I know you look at him now and think you’ll never forget these moments, but you do”. I felt my heart sink into my abdominal cavity. Then I felt a strong urge to grab a video camera and begin recording, only to never stop and have the final result be one long video of my little love’s life. And then I realized that wasn’t practical for many reasons. Then reality set in. Being a mother is about appreciating moments in time, being part of moments in time, and laughing, loving, and cherishing all that is precious in those moments. Because the moments pass. And new moments take their place. And time keeps moving onward.
I look at Hooper’s little face today and try my best to fool myself into believing that I will never forget those cheeks, that grin, or the sound of that giggle. But, alas, the cheeks will change, the grin will grow, and the giggle will deepen and surely life will still be beautiful.

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39 Weeks

The last leg of pregnancy, for me, is an emotional roller coaster. The challenge is detaching myself and letting nature run her course. It’s an odd feeling to be housing a baby but have absolutely no control over when it comes out. Oftentimes I feel like people are looking to me to have some mysterious sixth sense and answer the question of when he’s coming, though I have no more control or insight over it than anyone else. I put a lot of pressure on myself and in a lot of ways I realize I dig my own hole. Van will come whenever he feels fit, I need to trust in that. Easier said than done, I assure you.
Google is my worst best friend, the kind that your mom always warned you was trouble and you knew in your heart of hearts she was right but you still couldn’t seem to turn down an invite to a sleep over. I want so desperately to waste my days researching natural induction methods and signs of impending labor. In an effort to fool myself into thinking labor is just around the corner, I’m fighting the urge to start tracking the time between my braxton hicks, which granted have gotten stronger but are still not the real thing. But the reality is no matter how much time I spend researching this or that, nature reigns all. I have no control and it’s the hardest pill to swallow this late in pregnancy.
I have tons of “what if this” and “what if that” kinda questions, questions that no professional out there can answer… Questions more appropriately asked to the magic eight ball I so naively allowed to control my fate years back when I had beaded curtains separating my closet from my room and glow in the dark stars pasted all over my ceiling. I’m anxious to say the least and it has me on edge. It’s an all too familiar feeling and the more the script seems to match the prior one, the more anxious I become.
I read a rumor the other day that the Beatles “Let it Be”, written by Paul, was written for his mother Mary who was a midwife. Needless to say, I added it to my labor playlist. I’m trying my best to let things be these days, but trust me, it’s a battle.

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Meet Your Parents.

Dear Hooper & Soon-to-be-Van,
Before you guys were born, we had a life. We had friends that considered us “cool” and some of them still do. We did crazy and stupid things. We did things you’ll hear about over and over in the years to come; stories that are ours that will become yours. Stories that will shape the way you think about us as your parents. Stories you will share with your friends despite our plead for you to keep stories “like that” in the family. And then there are other stories you’ll probably never hear because we’ll never share. Stories our own parents may not even know about us. And still there will be other stories we had no intention of sharing  that will inadvertently slip out after a few glasses of wine on a family vacation in a distant and dreamy land like Paris or Singapore. You’ll tease us about these in the years that follow and we’ll regret ever having a relaxing drink in a romantic place.
And so we start this little series here on The Stork & The Beanstalk entitled, “Meet Your Parents”. My apologies to you, Hooper & Van, this is who we are. Enjoy the stories to follow in the coming segments.
The photo above was taken with a disposable point and shoot camera before your Papa and I were married. We were in Arizona, on a bus, preparing to float down the salt river. The trip included both family and friends, beer, and Creedence Clearwater blaring from a stereo we attached to an inner-tube.
Love,
Mama