Remember how this was the easiest pregnancy ever and nothing happened at all and it's just been downright boring?
Well, now, Gavin, my mom, and I have a standing date at labor and delivery on Wednesday nights/Thursday mornings.
They answered all their own questions last night because "isn't that the girl who was here last week because she was dehydrated but thought she was in labor?"
Yes, of course it is, but this time she has had at least 90 ounces of water prior to coming up here. (but she was still dehydrated...)
The news (I've had 3 hours sleep so I can't be trusted to label it good or bad right now) this time is that the contractions I was having last night (and continue to have right now as I type this sentence) are real. They are not dehydration/Braxton Hicks contractions. They're actual contractions.
That's only actually good in that I felt much less embarrassed when they sent me home at 6 this morning ("you can stay here and have contractions, or you can go home and have contractions - you are not dilating").
It's bad in every other way. Like in that they hurt. They really hurt. And they aren't doing anything but hurting. The doctor won't stop them, hasn't put me on bedrest and isn't delivering Gavin unless and until I dilate (and as I mentioned I'm not dilating at all). So, for now, I'm just left to hurt and not sleep and spread sunshine and joy across the land with my sleep-deprived, pain-inflicted, crappy attitude.
And it looks like there is no end in sight because the contractions? They aren't going away this time.
I'm perfectly happy to keep Gavin in there for 4 more weeks until his scheduled c-section, but the contractions have to stop before I lose my sh
And my poor mother. How do you even repay a woman that not only endured her own labor to have you but is now enduring your labor (and false labor) in the wee hours of weeknights and then going to work the next day because she's the only one left to hold your hand? How can you ever convey your thanks?
And my poor son? "But where are we going, momma?" at 2 am when I dragged him from slumber for the second week in a row to deposit him at my mom's house with his Pawpaw while we drove 45 minutes to the hospital and then returned to drag him back from slumber to take him home.
Gavin was supposed to be my momma's boy. Should have known better. There is evidently no such thing as a momma's boy for this momma.
Four more weeks, you guys.
Or maybe I'll have him next Wednesday.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
False Alarm
I'm not sleeping enough.
Most nights it is because Silas has reverted to infancy and insists on getting me up in the middle of the night. Then he passes smooth back out in my bed while I lay awake for an hour or two trying (unsuccessfully) to get my brain out of fifth gear.
However, last night, it was because I dehydrated myself.
Driving home after I picked up Silas from the babysitter, I started to have some Braxton Hicks contractions (if you don't know what that is like my dear, sweet, childless friend Casey, Google it - I can't hold your hand through everything).
As the evening wore on, they didn't stop, and they started to hurt. I text my mom and told her to keep her phone handy.
When after two hours it seemed like they were right on top of each other, I downloaded a timer and learned that they were 2.5 minutes apart.
That's when my mom and I freaked the freak out.
"Do you think I should take you to the hospital?"
"If it's false labor, I'm going to feel like an idiot, but if it's not, they have to stop it now."
At 34 weeks (5 more weeks - hey!), the odds are he would have gone to the NICU but been okay if he had chosen last night to make his debut. However, if you've ever had a preemie, you know that you have no desire to ever see another of your babies hooked up to tubes in a NICU.
So, freaking the freak out, off to the hospital we went.
My nurse asked me 100 questions and hooked me up to monitors and checked my urine and announced "you need an IV."
I was dehydrated.
After the first bag of fluid, my contractions got more intense. UM?
"You need more fluid."
After another half bag, they *poof* went away.
What it all boils down to is I kept my mom and me out until 1 am (been a long time since I partied that hard) because I didn't drink enough fluids. I'm embarrassed and exhausted and want to send my mom flowers, but I'm thankful Gavin is okay and that I'm not standing over him in a NICU right now.
I'm thankful that I have a mom to take me to the hospital and a stepdad to watch my son and reassure him there are no monsters as he tucks him in. I'm thankful for my two wonderful friends who both offered to drop everything and come sit with me.
And I'm thankful that in FIVE MORE WEEKS it won't be a false alarm and when Silas asks, "is Gavin here?" I will finally be able to say "yes."
Most nights it is because Silas has reverted to infancy and insists on getting me up in the middle of the night. Then he passes smooth back out in my bed while I lay awake for an hour or two trying (unsuccessfully) to get my brain out of fifth gear.
However, last night, it was because I dehydrated myself.
Driving home after I picked up Silas from the babysitter, I started to have some Braxton Hicks contractions (if you don't know what that is like my dear, sweet, childless friend Casey, Google it - I can't hold your hand through everything).
As the evening wore on, they didn't stop, and they started to hurt. I text my mom and told her to keep her phone handy.
When after two hours it seemed like they were right on top of each other, I downloaded a timer and learned that they were 2.5 minutes apart.
That's when my mom and I freaked the freak out.
"Do you think I should take you to the hospital?"
"If it's false labor, I'm going to feel like an idiot, but if it's not, they have to stop it now."
At 34 weeks (5 more weeks - hey!), the odds are he would have gone to the NICU but been okay if he had chosen last night to make his debut. However, if you've ever had a preemie, you know that you have no desire to ever see another of your babies hooked up to tubes in a NICU.
So, freaking the freak out, off to the hospital we went.
My nurse asked me 100 questions and hooked me up to monitors and checked my urine and announced "you need an IV."
I was dehydrated.
After the first bag of fluid, my contractions got more intense. UM?
"You need more fluid."
After another half bag, they *poof* went away.
What it all boils down to is I kept my mom and me out until 1 am (been a long time since I partied that hard) because I didn't drink enough fluids. I'm embarrassed and exhausted and want to send my mom flowers, but I'm thankful Gavin is okay and that I'm not standing over him in a NICU right now.
I'm thankful that I have a mom to take me to the hospital and a stepdad to watch my son and reassure him there are no monsters as he tucks him in. I'm thankful for my two wonderful friends who both offered to drop everything and come sit with me.
And I'm thankful that in FIVE MORE WEEKS it won't be a false alarm and when Silas asks, "is Gavin here?" I will finally be able to say "yes."
Thursday, September 20, 2012
I can buy my own damn shoes
You remember junior high? How you were pretty sure you were invisible? You probably perpetually had a crush on a boy who had absolutely no idea you were alive.
That is exactly what it's like to be pregnant and single. I feel invisible, and I admit I have had a crush or two during this ordeal. Obviously, the dudes have no idea I draw breath. Which is fine. For now.
What I do take issue with is the men who have never been anything but friendly to me until recently.
There seems to be something about my situation that is making men think that if I speak to them at all I want them to marry me and raise my children. Which, seriously? Get over yourselves.
Perhaps I'm drawing this conclusion because the (multiple) cold shoulder(s) come on the heels of a friend of mine telling me that he will not even consider dating a woman who has children because he thinks she's looking for a meal ticket.
That flat out pisses me off.
So, I want to make it clear that (like a whole bunch of other single moms) I work for everything I have, and I am happy to do so. I need my boys to understand and respect that it is me who is their provider. It is me who will do everything in her power to work every day to meet our needs. Because they are my gift from God and He entrusted them to me.
Now, I have friends who stay at home with their children. I fully respect what they do. I'm not deluded into thinking they lead a pampered life because they don't work a 9-5. I know that staying at home with your children is hard work. Those children who are able to spend the first year or five with their moms are incredibly blessed. Please don't ever, ever think I knock being a stay at home mom. That is not at all what I'm talking about here.
The reason I feel so strongly about myself being a working mom is that my grandmother told me long ago to never put myself in a position where I had to depend on someone else to pay my bills and feed my kids. She told me that because she found herself suddenly being a single mom working two jobs to support her two boys when she was my age. She wanted me to be prepared in case that happened to me. And, oh look, it did.
It is very fortunate that I immediately took her advice to heart. If I could not support myself and my kids right now, I would be in huge trouble.
There are probably very few men who read my blog. But for those of you who do (and feel free to pass it along), my point here is: don't dismiss a woman because she's a single mom. Don't assume that she is speaking to you because she's looking to you to be her meal ticket. Maybe she is just looking for a friend.
Even if she is interested in dating you, don't assume it's because she wants to get in your wallet. That's incredibly jaded and cynical of you. Also, aren't you selling yourself a bit short to think that is the only reason this woman might be interested in you?
Maybe just judge people by their character rather than their circumstances.
When I do start dating, I will be looking for a man who is kind, loyal and honest. A man who makes me laugh and likes my boys.
Nowhere on my list, not even at the very bottom is a man who can buy me things.
I can (clearly) buy my own damn shoes.
That is exactly what it's like to be pregnant and single. I feel invisible, and I admit I have had a crush or two during this ordeal. Obviously, the dudes have no idea I draw breath. Which is fine. For now.
What I do take issue with is the men who have never been anything but friendly to me until recently.
There seems to be something about my situation that is making men think that if I speak to them at all I want them to marry me and raise my children. Which, seriously? Get over yourselves.
Perhaps I'm drawing this conclusion because the (multiple) cold shoulder(s) come on the heels of a friend of mine telling me that he will not even consider dating a woman who has children because he thinks she's looking for a meal ticket.
That flat out pisses me off.
So, I want to make it clear that (like a whole bunch of other single moms) I work for everything I have, and I am happy to do so. I need my boys to understand and respect that it is me who is their provider. It is me who will do everything in her power to work every day to meet our needs. Because they are my gift from God and He entrusted them to me.
Now, I have friends who stay at home with their children. I fully respect what they do. I'm not deluded into thinking they lead a pampered life because they don't work a 9-5. I know that staying at home with your children is hard work. Those children who are able to spend the first year or five with their moms are incredibly blessed. Please don't ever, ever think I knock being a stay at home mom. That is not at all what I'm talking about here.
The reason I feel so strongly about myself being a working mom is that my grandmother told me long ago to never put myself in a position where I had to depend on someone else to pay my bills and feed my kids. She told me that because she found herself suddenly being a single mom working two jobs to support her two boys when she was my age. She wanted me to be prepared in case that happened to me. And, oh look, it did.
It is very fortunate that I immediately took her advice to heart. If I could not support myself and my kids right now, I would be in huge trouble.
There are probably very few men who read my blog. But for those of you who do (and feel free to pass it along), my point here is: don't dismiss a woman because she's a single mom. Don't assume that she is speaking to you because she's looking to you to be her meal ticket. Maybe she is just looking for a friend.
Even if she is interested in dating you, don't assume it's because she wants to get in your wallet. That's incredibly jaded and cynical of you. Also, aren't you selling yourself a bit short to think that is the only reason this woman might be interested in you?
Maybe just judge people by their character rather than their circumstances.
When I do start dating, I will be looking for a man who is kind, loyal and honest. A man who makes me laugh and likes my boys.
Nowhere on my list, not even at the very bottom is a man who can buy me things.
I can (clearly) buy my own damn shoes.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Happy (almost) birthday, Silas
Tomorrow my baby turns three.
As I'm pregnant right now, I tend to relive many of the moments of my pregnancy with Silas these days.
With Silas, I saw two doctors and I had to get shots in my hip every week. I also spent a lot of time being terrified that it would all collapse in on me in the delivery room. I kept thinking, "I just want to hear him cry" because I never got to hear Anabel make a single sound.
When I transport myself back to those hopeful, fearful days of praying, "please just let me hear him cry", I'm amused by just how much noise Mr. Silas has brought into my life. He did cry. Immediately. And he was the loudest newborn I've ever heard. He didn't have that muted infant cry that most babies have. It was a loud wail. And he had colic, so I heard more than my fair share of it.
These days, he hits the ground running and talks ninety to nothing all day long. He likes to bang on things and sing songs and ask five hundred questions a minute and has even invented an imaginary friend to chat with when he thinks no one is paying any attention.
Saturday was his third birthday party.
If you've ever been to Chuck E. Cheese, I don't even need to spell it out for you. I was dreading it. All the times I've been in my adult life, they were family outings with Michael and the kids. Before we'd leave the place, I'd be nearly in tears in frustration with Silas. He was not big enough to do anything yet, but he wanted so badly to play all the games, so it was just an exercise in me trying to keep him from killing anyone with a skeeball and Silas throwing his drink on the ground in anger that things weren't going his way.
That was what I imagined would happen Saturday. He'd throw fits, and I'd be embarrassed but try to put on a happy face because it was his birthday and Chuck E. Cheese was what he had picked to do, and then I'd cry in the car on the way home.
And then the strangest thing happened.
He blew my mind by having an amazing, fit-free time and being big enough to play almost every game he attempted and eating half a piece of pizza without coercion and not shrieking in terror when Chuck E. put his crown on his head and participating in the special birthday ticket blaster booth and making me feel like, "hey, maybe I'm not failing as a parent because my kid just behaved really well in this over-stimulating environment full of sugar and flashing lights for two entire hours and even said thank you for all of his presents."
W.T.F.?
It is moments like those that lend credence to the saying, "it goes by so fast", you guys.
We have spent the last five months figuring out our routine, and we have it down to a science. He still asks about his dad almost every day, but I can tell how much he truly adores me now. I even got a, "you're my best friend" the other night.
I'll take that for as long as it's being offered. Because I'm going to blink, and our special just the two of us time will turn into just the three of us and then I'll blink again, and he'll be in kindergarten, and then I'll blink again, and I'll be shopping for his college dorm, and then I'll blink again, and he'll be marrying his new best friend.
But for right now, I'm just going to cherish the waking me up at 4 am and insisting on sleeping with me and the silly songs and five hundred questions and the noise, noise, noise, noise.
I don't want my life any other way.
Happy third birthday to the most amazing little person I've ever had the pleasure to know. You hold my heart in the palm of your tiny, sticky hand. I love you so much and forever.
As I'm pregnant right now, I tend to relive many of the moments of my pregnancy with Silas these days.
With Silas, I saw two doctors and I had to get shots in my hip every week. I also spent a lot of time being terrified that it would all collapse in on me in the delivery room. I kept thinking, "I just want to hear him cry" because I never got to hear Anabel make a single sound.
When I transport myself back to those hopeful, fearful days of praying, "please just let me hear him cry", I'm amused by just how much noise Mr. Silas has brought into my life. He did cry. Immediately. And he was the loudest newborn I've ever heard. He didn't have that muted infant cry that most babies have. It was a loud wail. And he had colic, so I heard more than my fair share of it.
These days, he hits the ground running and talks ninety to nothing all day long. He likes to bang on things and sing songs and ask five hundred questions a minute and has even invented an imaginary friend to chat with when he thinks no one is paying any attention.
Saturday was his third birthday party.
If you've ever been to Chuck E. Cheese, I don't even need to spell it out for you. I was dreading it. All the times I've been in my adult life, they were family outings with Michael and the kids. Before we'd leave the place, I'd be nearly in tears in frustration with Silas. He was not big enough to do anything yet, but he wanted so badly to play all the games, so it was just an exercise in me trying to keep him from killing anyone with a skeeball and Silas throwing his drink on the ground in anger that things weren't going his way.
That was what I imagined would happen Saturday. He'd throw fits, and I'd be embarrassed but try to put on a happy face because it was his birthday and Chuck E. Cheese was what he had picked to do, and then I'd cry in the car on the way home.
And then the strangest thing happened.
He blew my mind by having an amazing, fit-free time and being big enough to play almost every game he attempted and eating half a piece of pizza without coercion and not shrieking in terror when Chuck E. put his crown on his head and participating in the special birthday ticket blaster booth and making me feel like, "hey, maybe I'm not failing as a parent because my kid just behaved really well in this over-stimulating environment full of sugar and flashing lights for two entire hours and even said thank you for all of his presents."
W.T.F.?
It is moments like those that lend credence to the saying, "it goes by so fast", you guys.
We have spent the last five months figuring out our routine, and we have it down to a science. He still asks about his dad almost every day, but I can tell how much he truly adores me now. I even got a, "you're my best friend" the other night.
I'll take that for as long as it's being offered. Because I'm going to blink, and our special just the two of us time will turn into just the three of us and then I'll blink again, and he'll be in kindergarten, and then I'll blink again, and I'll be shopping for his college dorm, and then I'll blink again, and he'll be marrying his new best friend.
But for right now, I'm just going to cherish the waking me up at 4 am and insisting on sleeping with me and the silly songs and five hundred questions and the noise, noise, noise, noise.
I don't want my life any other way.
Happy third birthday to the most amazing little person I've ever had the pleasure to know. You hold my heart in the palm of your tiny, sticky hand. I love you so much and forever.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
The crazy is back
How can I be eight months pregnant and still have seven weeks left? Because they LIE about it being nine months, which most of us know by now, but at 32 weeks, it makes you mad all over again.
Notice how I'm not all "this is going by so fast!" anymore? Because time is standing still. Because I spend all of my spare time cleaning everything I can find to clean and wanting to cry because the acid in my throat is making me feel like my esophagus is in flames. You cannot sleep when your esophagus is threatening to melt you from within. And you cannot have the amount of caffeine necessary to keep you perky when you cannot sleep because you are in agony because your tiny, perfect child is trying to kill you from the inside out because it isn't good for the tiny, perfect child. Because? Pregnancy is horrible.
My foot (yes, singular) is starting to swell. The one I broke only wants me to wear flip flops. When I wear other shoes, it threatens to burst out of them. That is a terrible plight because I've become obsessed with shoes. When I had a divorce-related melt down the other day, I bought myself a new pair of boots to make myself feel better (STOP JUDGING ME!), and now I'm worried I'm going to be too swollen to ever wear them. (Oh, look, all my crazy came back).
On the plus side, Silas has become convinced the spider (the one he invented when we transitioned to the toddler bed) is back and makes me get on my hands and knees (remember how I'm eight months pregnant?) to check under the bed every, single night to make sure it isn't there and THEN wakes up at 4 a.m. most mornings to insist that it is there and that he needs to sleep with (lay awake squirming with) me.
On the actual plus side, I applied to graduate school, and I ordered all 500 of my transcripts, and so now I'm three letters of recommendation away from sitting by my mailbox praying they say, "sure. Join us. Throw another ring into the circus you call your life!"
One of my bosses predicts that in ten years, I'll be a college professor, married to a college professor at parties turning my nose up at stinky cheese (because he knows I abhor stinky cheese).
I do so hope he's right and that that is why I'm having this insane year.
Seven. More. Weeks.
Notice how I'm not all "this is going by so fast!" anymore? Because time is standing still. Because I spend all of my spare time cleaning everything I can find to clean and wanting to cry because the acid in my throat is making me feel like my esophagus is in flames. You cannot sleep when your esophagus is threatening to melt you from within. And you cannot have the amount of caffeine necessary to keep you perky when you cannot sleep because you are in agony because your tiny, perfect child is trying to kill you from the inside out because it isn't good for the tiny, perfect child. Because? Pregnancy is horrible.
My foot (yes, singular) is starting to swell. The one I broke only wants me to wear flip flops. When I wear other shoes, it threatens to burst out of them. That is a terrible plight because I've become obsessed with shoes. When I had a divorce-related melt down the other day, I bought myself a new pair of boots to make myself feel better (STOP JUDGING ME!), and now I'm worried I'm going to be too swollen to ever wear them. (Oh, look, all my crazy came back).
On the plus side, Silas has become convinced the spider (the one he invented when we transitioned to the toddler bed) is back and makes me get on my hands and knees (remember how I'm eight months pregnant?) to check under the bed every, single night to make sure it isn't there and THEN wakes up at 4 a.m. most mornings to insist that it is there and that he needs to sleep with (lay awake squirming with) me.
On the actual plus side, I applied to graduate school, and I ordered all 500 of my transcripts, and so now I'm three letters of recommendation away from sitting by my mailbox praying they say, "sure. Join us. Throw another ring into the circus you call your life!"
One of my bosses predicts that in ten years, I'll be a college professor, married to a college professor at parties turning my nose up at stinky cheese (because he knows I abhor stinky cheese).
I do so hope he's right and that that is why I'm having this insane year.
Seven. More. Weeks.
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| 8 month baby belly |
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
You complete me
Truth be told, this five month stretch is the longest I've been "single" (technically I'm still married, but that's only because the state of Texas is forcing me to be) since I started dating at the age of 16. When one relationship would end, I'd jump straight into a new one. I was divorced from husband 1 for a mere three months before I married husband 2.
Recently, I read that you should not enter a relationship until you're self-sufficient, and it resonated with me.
For most of my life, I've felt like something was missing. I've felt like I needed to be in a relationship in order to be complete. Then I'd mold myself into whoever I thought my partner wanted me to be and the relationship wouldn't fulfill me either. The relationship would always fail, and I'd continue to wonder what was wrong with me. Why can't I be happy?
And then fate or God or the universe intervened, and I found myself in a position where I was forced to deal with myself. No one wants to date a separated, pregnant girl (and I'm not sure I'd want to date someone who did).
There has been no one to step in and distract me from any of this. No one to mold myself around. No one to "complete me."
And I find myself surprised to learn that suddenly I'm not so empty. Suddenly, I'm forced to make decisions for myself. I'm forced to figure out what it is I like and don't like. What it is I want to do with my time. Who it is I am.
As ridiculous as it sounds, I've gotten up and gotten dressed and done my make up and fixed my hair every day for so long that it's just routine again. Before Michael left, I couldn't make myself do it. (As you should know if you've read my blog for very long).
When it's time to go to sleep so I can get up in the morning, I don't lay awake in bed for hours mulling over where my life went wrong, I go to sleep.
When I have a problem, I look for a solution instead of panicking and calling Michael to deal with it. I deal with it. When I genuinely do need help, I turn to my family, and they are happy to help me.
When I look in the mirror, I don't hate the reflection looking back at me. No, I'm not ever going to be on the cover of a magazine, but I can finally see that I have no reason to spend my life tearing myself down.
And you know what? It's not because anyone is telling me that I'm beautiful. It's because I figured out how to love me for me.
Turns out that for alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll these many, many years, I haven't needed a man to complete me. I've needed to learn to be self-sufficient.
Yes, I have bad days, and I'm sure I still have work to do on myself. But I can say I like myself better now than I have my entire life. I do not look at myself anymore and think, "You are a mess. You are a trainwreck."
I'm not saying I'm magically perfect. I'm saying I'm better. I'm saying I'm not desperate for the day when I can take anti-depressants and anti-anxieties again because I don't feel like I need them anymore. I feel whole. I feel like a normal person with a normal amount of problems and not like a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders.
This is not my way of saying I'm now a man-hater who wants to be single forever. As a matter of fact, I look forward to being in a relationship again when the timing is right for me and the boys.
I look forward to bringing this Michelle to the table because she knows who she is and won't need to mold herself around anyone. She'll be able to enter into a true partnership instead of looking for someone to complete her because she's finally figured out how to be complete all on her own.
Recently, I read that you should not enter a relationship until you're self-sufficient, and it resonated with me.
For most of my life, I've felt like something was missing. I've felt like I needed to be in a relationship in order to be complete. Then I'd mold myself into whoever I thought my partner wanted me to be and the relationship wouldn't fulfill me either. The relationship would always fail, and I'd continue to wonder what was wrong with me. Why can't I be happy?
And then fate or God or the universe intervened, and I found myself in a position where I was forced to deal with myself. No one wants to date a separated, pregnant girl (and I'm not sure I'd want to date someone who did).
There has been no one to step in and distract me from any of this. No one to mold myself around. No one to "complete me."
And I find myself surprised to learn that suddenly I'm not so empty. Suddenly, I'm forced to make decisions for myself. I'm forced to figure out what it is I like and don't like. What it is I want to do with my time. Who it is I am.
As ridiculous as it sounds, I've gotten up and gotten dressed and done my make up and fixed my hair every day for so long that it's just routine again. Before Michael left, I couldn't make myself do it. (As you should know if you've read my blog for very long).
When it's time to go to sleep so I can get up in the morning, I don't lay awake in bed for hours mulling over where my life went wrong, I go to sleep.
When I have a problem, I look for a solution instead of panicking and calling Michael to deal with it. I deal with it. When I genuinely do need help, I turn to my family, and they are happy to help me.
When I look in the mirror, I don't hate the reflection looking back at me. No, I'm not ever going to be on the cover of a magazine, but I can finally see that I have no reason to spend my life tearing myself down.
And you know what? It's not because anyone is telling me that I'm beautiful. It's because I figured out how to love me for me.
Turns out that for alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll these many, many years, I haven't needed a man to complete me. I've needed to learn to be self-sufficient.
Yes, I have bad days, and I'm sure I still have work to do on myself. But I can say I like myself better now than I have my entire life. I do not look at myself anymore and think, "You are a mess. You are a trainwreck."
I'm not saying I'm magically perfect. I'm saying I'm better. I'm saying I'm not desperate for the day when I can take anti-depressants and anti-anxieties again because I don't feel like I need them anymore. I feel whole. I feel like a normal person with a normal amount of problems and not like a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders.
This is not my way of saying I'm now a man-hater who wants to be single forever. As a matter of fact, I look forward to being in a relationship again when the timing is right for me and the boys.
I look forward to bringing this Michelle to the table because she knows who she is and won't need to mold herself around anyone. She'll be able to enter into a true partnership instead of looking for someone to complete her because she's finally figured out how to be complete all on her own.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Heidi
Most of you know that when I was five months pregnant with my first child, Anabel, I was delivered the soul-crushing news that she was very unlikely to survive after birth. I was given the option to terminate - and encouraged by many to do so. However, for my own reasons, I chose to continue the pregnancy and prayed constantly that they were wrong, but I was in a constant state of turmoil fearing they were right.
Michael and I had only recently begun our married life together. We had gotten our first little apartment, and because I couldn't find a job in my condition, Michael worked two jobs. We couldn't afford cable, and I didn't have any friends in Texas yet. So, I spent 16 hours a day alone - crying, sleeping and worrying.
I begged for a puppy to keep me company.
Michael, against his will, got me my puppy for our first Valentines day together (because at one time he adored me and would do anything to make me smile).
I loved her instantly. And as I thought she looked like a hyena, I named her Heidi. She and I spent 16 hours a day together curled up on the couch watching DVDs and sleeping. The only place I ever really went was the video store, and I took her with me there (until they told me to cease and desist). She buoyed me. She loved me. She comforted me. She made me laugh.
When I came home without a baby, Heidi got me through that too. She gave me a reason to smile and a life to care for.
Eventually, we got another dog to keep her company when I did go to work, but Heidi has remained my "man's best friend" dog. The one who sleeps right up against me at night. The one who I can tell loves me fiercely. The one who would quickly rip you to shreds if she thought you were hurting me. The one who never drifts very far from me.
When I made the mistake of leaving her outside one morning several weeks ago, I came back to find her "attached" to a male dog. I was furious with myself for leaving her unattended and with my horrible neighbors for letting their dog run amok.
For weeks, I stressed whether she was pregnant and when it became pretty evident that she was, I stressed that she'd go into labor when I was at work and have complications and die (because we all know I'm a drama queen with internet access and a penchant for over-Googling).
Saturday night she could not get close enough to me. She scooched as close to me as she could get and put her head on my pillow. We were curled up back to back, and I was almost asleep when I felt a warm, wet sensation spread across my back. "Er, did you just pee on me, dog?" After a Google search, I learned that she had not, in fact, peed on me. Rather, her water had broken.
She fled under my bed, which I was not having. I coaxed her out and took her to her kennel in the living room. I threw all my bedding in the wash and lay on the couch watching her. She quickly became frantic and wanted out of her kennel. Scratching and pawing. So, I took a deep breath to brace myself for the impending mess I was going to have to clean and opened the door. She roamed the house for a while and then got up on the couch against my leg. I dozed off after about an hour and was awakened to something wet touching my foot.
It was a puppy.
It didn't cry or move. It was lifeless. And my bond with my dog deepened as I watched her work tirelessly to wake her firstborn. The one that was not going to wake. My heart ached because I know what it is to want your baby to live when that isn't going to happen. I cried, and I prayed. Yes, I said prayed. Yes for my dog. I sent up prayers to Heaven that the next puppy would be alive because she was clearly distressed, and it broke my heart so badly. I wanted her to be able to love at least one of her babies.
When the second puppy was being delivered, I was awake to see it happen. I became amazed at how she instinctively knew what to do. For weeks, I had been terrified because I had no idea what to do. Turns out, it didn't matter because she didn't need me.
When I heard the second born whimpering, tears of joy flooded my eyes. This one was going to be okay. She looked around momentarily for the puppy I had removed while she was distracted but quickly realized she had to focus on taking care of this new one. She cleaned him and brought him close to keep him warm and helped guide him so he could nurse.
I left her to it around 3:45 in the morning and went to bed.
When my bladder woke me at 7:30, I rushed to the living room to find her snuggling three puppies. She was not too keen on Penny (our other dog) getting close. I was very careful in getting near myself, but she seemed to half-heartedly trust me.
Her immediate instinctive protection of them and nurturing of them blew me away and filled me with pride (as if she really is my child - ha!). I've watched her in fascination with them all weekend. She reminds me so much of how I felt in those first few days (weeks) as a mom. Completely consumed by my offspring. Barely taking time to do anything but tend to him. Exhausted but love drunk on that baby.
Toward the end of the first day, Silas and I went to Albertson's to get some things. When we returned home, I went to check on them and saw a fourth puppy. I was stunned and worried, but the puppy seemed fine, and she had taken it in as well. Wow, four puppies.
After about an hour, I went to check to be sure that puppy was doing okay only to find that she had given birth to a fifth puppy. Clearly the runt of the litter.
I joked that I wasn't going to check on them anymore for fear that they'd continue to multiply.
She did not have anymore after the runt came along.
She does not leave them for more than a few moments unless I force her to go outside (take a break, dog. Let me clean the kennel and look at those puppies!). I miss having her undivided attention already, but I am so proud of what a good little momma has is!
I was not on board with this whole puppy debacle until they arrived. Now, I love them to pieces because she loves them to pieces. I know it is going to hurt to have to let them go.
My step-daughter has claimed one of the pups. And I've half talked myself into letting Heidi keep one of her babies - because the mom in me can't bear the thought of making her part with them all (although the mom in me also knows it's insane to take on the care of a new puppy at the same time as taking on the care of my own brand new infant. So, we'll let the heart and brain battle it out for a while and see who comes out on top).
There are still three definitely up for grabs - all boys. The three biggest in the photo above. I want them to go to homes where they will continue to be as loved and nurtured as they are being right now and to a place where they will give as much joy to their new owners as my Heidi has given me for the last five years.
Do let me know if you are interested.
Congrats to my little momma - and thanks for the distraction as I near the beginning of my own journey into being mom to a newborn again (8 weeks and 3 days!).
Michael and I had only recently begun our married life together. We had gotten our first little apartment, and because I couldn't find a job in my condition, Michael worked two jobs. We couldn't afford cable, and I didn't have any friends in Texas yet. So, I spent 16 hours a day alone - crying, sleeping and worrying.
I begged for a puppy to keep me company.
Michael, against his will, got me my puppy for our first Valentines day together (because at one time he adored me and would do anything to make me smile).
I loved her instantly. And as I thought she looked like a hyena, I named her Heidi. She and I spent 16 hours a day together curled up on the couch watching DVDs and sleeping. The only place I ever really went was the video store, and I took her with me there (until they told me to cease and desist). She buoyed me. She loved me. She comforted me. She made me laugh.
When I came home without a baby, Heidi got me through that too. She gave me a reason to smile and a life to care for.
Eventually, we got another dog to keep her company when I did go to work, but Heidi has remained my "man's best friend" dog. The one who sleeps right up against me at night. The one who I can tell loves me fiercely. The one who would quickly rip you to shreds if she thought you were hurting me. The one who never drifts very far from me.
When I made the mistake of leaving her outside one morning several weeks ago, I came back to find her "attached" to a male dog. I was furious with myself for leaving her unattended and with my horrible neighbors for letting their dog run amok.
For weeks, I stressed whether she was pregnant and when it became pretty evident that she was, I stressed that she'd go into labor when I was at work and have complications and die (because we all know I'm a drama queen with internet access and a penchant for over-Googling).
Saturday night she could not get close enough to me. She scooched as close to me as she could get and put her head on my pillow. We were curled up back to back, and I was almost asleep when I felt a warm, wet sensation spread across my back. "Er, did you just pee on me, dog?" After a Google search, I learned that she had not, in fact, peed on me. Rather, her water had broken.
She fled under my bed, which I was not having. I coaxed her out and took her to her kennel in the living room. I threw all my bedding in the wash and lay on the couch watching her. She quickly became frantic and wanted out of her kennel. Scratching and pawing. So, I took a deep breath to brace myself for the impending mess I was going to have to clean and opened the door. She roamed the house for a while and then got up on the couch against my leg. I dozed off after about an hour and was awakened to something wet touching my foot.
It was a puppy.
It didn't cry or move. It was lifeless. And my bond with my dog deepened as I watched her work tirelessly to wake her firstborn. The one that was not going to wake. My heart ached because I know what it is to want your baby to live when that isn't going to happen. I cried, and I prayed. Yes, I said prayed. Yes for my dog. I sent up prayers to Heaven that the next puppy would be alive because she was clearly distressed, and it broke my heart so badly. I wanted her to be able to love at least one of her babies.
When the second puppy was being delivered, I was awake to see it happen. I became amazed at how she instinctively knew what to do. For weeks, I had been terrified because I had no idea what to do. Turns out, it didn't matter because she didn't need me.
When I heard the second born whimpering, tears of joy flooded my eyes. This one was going to be okay. She looked around momentarily for the puppy I had removed while she was distracted but quickly realized she had to focus on taking care of this new one. She cleaned him and brought him close to keep him warm and helped guide him so he could nurse.
I left her to it around 3:45 in the morning and went to bed.
When my bladder woke me at 7:30, I rushed to the living room to find her snuggling three puppies. She was not too keen on Penny (our other dog) getting close. I was very careful in getting near myself, but she seemed to half-heartedly trust me.
Her immediate instinctive protection of them and nurturing of them blew me away and filled me with pride (as if she really is my child - ha!). I've watched her in fascination with them all weekend. She reminds me so much of how I felt in those first few days (weeks) as a mom. Completely consumed by my offspring. Barely taking time to do anything but tend to him. Exhausted but love drunk on that baby.
Toward the end of the first day, Silas and I went to Albertson's to get some things. When we returned home, I went to check on them and saw a fourth puppy. I was stunned and worried, but the puppy seemed fine, and she had taken it in as well. Wow, four puppies.
After about an hour, I went to check to be sure that puppy was doing okay only to find that she had given birth to a fifth puppy. Clearly the runt of the litter.
I joked that I wasn't going to check on them anymore for fear that they'd continue to multiply.
She did not have anymore after the runt came along.
She does not leave them for more than a few moments unless I force her to go outside (take a break, dog. Let me clean the kennel and look at those puppies!). I miss having her undivided attention already, but I am so proud of what a good little momma has is!
I was not on board with this whole puppy debacle until they arrived. Now, I love them to pieces because she loves them to pieces. I know it is going to hurt to have to let them go.
My step-daughter has claimed one of the pups. And I've half talked myself into letting Heidi keep one of her babies - because the mom in me can't bear the thought of making her part with them all (although the mom in me also knows it's insane to take on the care of a new puppy at the same time as taking on the care of my own brand new infant. So, we'll let the heart and brain battle it out for a while and see who comes out on top).
There are still three definitely up for grabs - all boys. The three biggest in the photo above. I want them to go to homes where they will continue to be as loved and nurtured as they are being right now and to a place where they will give as much joy to their new owners as my Heidi has given me for the last five years.
Do let me know if you are interested.
Congrats to my little momma - and thanks for the distraction as I near the beginning of my own journey into being mom to a newborn again (8 weeks and 3 days!).
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