I can easily forgive Baby Blueberry for not reading the numerous studies on all the baby websites that say a warm caffeinated breast milk latte isn't going to keep her up at night. After all she can't read yet, so she's not aware of the facts that say she can't consume enough caffeine via my breast milk to get a buzz.
She should be able to enjoy coffee before bed and expect a nice, restful night of sleep, right? Supposedly, the rumor is, that not enough caffeine enters my breast milk to effect Baby Blueberry, so drink a few cups. After all, I'm a new Mom and up all night long, so I'm going to need the coffee in the morning to survive.
Alright researchers, this is an easy one. We're going to play a game. Have a dozen Moms drink a few grande latte Starbucks coffee drinks in the afternoon and then nurse their babies before bed. We'll put you in charge of the night time care of caffeinated babies and see if your research shows a little bit more insight.
Because I have problems with research that report: Moms who heavily drink caffeinated beverages report frequent night time wakings of their little babies. But than you super smart researchers say something stupid like, 'this wasn't statistically significant. So we can't say if the caffeine was the culprit.'
Are the coffee shops funding your research?
I love the one research guy who said, 'the caffeine is just disturbing Mom's sleep patterns, that's why she's waking up so many times at night, it's not disturbing the infant.'
Really? The coffee is waking me up? Does the coffee cry in the middle of the night until I'm dragged from the little bit of REM sleep I have managed to find in the last two weeks and demand to be fed? Does the coffee stay up, bouncing and jumping and grinning because they're wired?
Does the coffee wake up every hour with a sad scrunched up face and needs to be cuddled? (That or she's after more caffeine and it's a ploy.)
In my twenties, when I had Bean and Abu, I wasn't a coffee drinker. So I didn't worry about the effects of caffeine. But this time; in my thirties and with more demands on me; I have fallen in love with a cup (or four cups) in the morning.
When I was put on modified bed rest with Baby Blueberry, I cut out the coffee. I know that caffeine did not tear my placenta but in my worried, panicked state of mind; I decided I better just stay away from it.
After her birth, I decided I could follow the advice of doctors and have a cup or two of coffee in the mornings. Since I was so extremely tired most mornings from the demands of my newborn; this was considered a necessity. Almost more important than a shower, but not quite.
(Little Baby you can play on the bathroom floor and enjoy the white noise of the shower running while I remember what it feels like to have clean hair. )
The problem though, is that I drink my coffee very slowly. Hero Hottie will drink his in about half an hour and start eyeing my cup if I don't clearly claim my territory.
(To set the scene:We did have a coffee pot. Saved us money and trips to the coffee shop. Then one sad morning, while Hero Hottie was cleaning it; it broke leaving us to make coffee with hot water and a strainer. This arduous method lasted one cup before we decided to buy another pot. Which is actually a funny story and I'll have to share it later this week...But in the mean time we have been stalking the coffee shop in search of heavy doses of caffeine.)
After finishing his 20 ounce coffee, he picks up my measly 12 ounce cup and shakes it.
"You still have half a cup left. You going to finish it?" He asks, quite casually as if he doesn't care either way. But he's licking his lips and he has that gleam in his eye.
"Hey, you had your coffee. Leave mine alone." I say, as I grip the coffee shop cup in both hands, baring my teeth and ready to fight.
He holds up his hands, "Hey, I was just asking. Since you're not done yet."
I glare at him and continue sipping on my coffee as he he makes another run to the coffee shop.
And this is where the trouble starts. Right on into the afternoon I'm still sipping on my coffee. I try to finish it earlier but I can't gulp coffee. By evening, just after I have the children in bed and the baby finally to sleep; I quickly crawl into bed and an hour later I'm awoken by small baby wanted to play or practice her crawling.
Nurse her, convince her it's bedtime and try to sleep.
Wham. An hour later. She's awake again. Happy and content but AWAKE.
Of course, it doesn't help that I'm feeding her more coffee with each feeding.
It's vicious cycle. I drink coffee, albeit not even that much; but I drink it too late into the day. By the time it must reach her milk; it's time for bed. Except now, that little bit of caffeine doesn't seem so statistically insignificant because neither one of us get much sleep that night.
And in the morning that coffee shop looks like an oasis in the desert. But I must resist; it's only a mirage. Coffee will keep small child up, thereby keeping Mom up; thereby causing Mom to appear to be a zombie, stumbling and muttering around the house without any coffee to make her human again.
Moral of the story: No matter how happily hyper Baby Blueberry gets after her caffeinated breast milk lattes; she does not need it.
Now I just have to convince Blueberry's Mom that tired, exhausted Mom doesn't need coffee either. Wish me luck. :-)
Showing posts with label modified bed rest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label modified bed rest. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Friday, August 31, 2012
Practice Run
Three days ago I thought Baby Blueberry was on her way. For the past two weeks I have been having contractions; painful practice ones that remind me that childbirth is a little bit painful.
But Monday night they started, continued through the night, disrupting my sleep and kept going right into Tuesday. By the time we picked up Bean and Abu from school, they were rolling in every 2-4 minutes and lasting a minute at a time.
And whew...they were painful. Suddenly, the practice contractions I had been having in the last two weeks were just minor aches in comparison.
Hero Hottie thought we should probably go to the hospital. I agreed with him as soon as I could take a breath again. We sent the girls off to Grandma's, packed a few things, made a few calls, and left.
He drove because frankly, I had trouble even climbing into the mini van because of how bad it was starting to hurt, let alone drive.
At our hospital we have to check in through the ER, which I have to disagree with. Sending a pregnant woman through germ heaven seems a little silly. I tried not to touch too many things. And I stayed far away from the coughing patients waiting their turn.
Now, during my last two deliveries, the hospital had certain policies and that was it. You had a choice...to agree with them. But this time, I wanted more control over my experience. I found a doctor that was open to the newer ways of looking at childbirth and allowed me to write a birth plan.
(They aren't newer ways, I'm not taking the placenta home and eating it. But I want a less medicalized birth. Less policies and more just listening to my body.)
Still, while I waited for the delivery nurse to come down and get me, I figured she would be bringing a wheelchair for me. I hate the wheelchair while I'm in labor. I don't like to sit down while I'm contracting but it's hospital policy. I guess a woman in labor can't walk anymore, even if she wants to.
But when the nurse arrived, she didn't have a wheelchair.
"I read your birth plan before I came down here. I saw that you want things as natural as possible so I figure you would probably want to walk."
I was flabbergasted. Hell, yes I want to walk. And so slowly, because contractions slow you down, we walked to the maternity floor.
And that was only the start of all the wonderful changes they had made to the concept of giving birth.
First, the gowns were tailored made for a pregnant woman. Oh, my goodness. Seriously. How long did it take the medical system to realize that a laboring woman doesn't feel comfortable in a gown made for a 300 pound man? This gown was sewn to be fitted around my feminine form, with room for my huge belly. It was pink and soft and didn't leave a gap in the back so the entire world could see my bottom. I had been planning on just wearing my sports bra for delivery but I can deal with this gown. And on top of that...it has snaps in the front so later I can breast feed without stripping the entire thing off.
The robes are soft, fluffy and pink. (Pink seems a little stereotypical for a pregnant woman but I don't care about the color.) They were real robes, not old, nasty hospital gowns turned backwards, and used as a robe. I wouldn't mind taking it home, it was so comfortable.
I was taken into the triage room to determine if I was really in labor or just thought I was. The nurse offered me and Hero Hottie bottle waters, to stay hydrated. And then asked if I needed any juice and gave me a huge list to pick from. Wow. I was beginning to feel like royalty. I thought, from my previous delivery experiences, I was going to have to fight for a cup of ice cubes and some attention.
She hooked me up to the monitors. Baby Blueberry's heartbeat was a wonderful sound and it was strong and steady. The other monitor to keep track of my contractions clearly showed that I was having strong, steady contractions. This had to be labor.
I was breathing through the pain when they would hit, watching my uterus form a tight, little ball and then feel Baby Blueberry complain heavily afterwards, with lots of wiggles, stretches and powerful kicks. She hates being squished.
The nurse checked my cervix. I was sure I was at least at 4cms. If not more. With these contractions I had to be quite a bit along.
I think she thought so too, because she starts frowning as she realizes where I am at.
"You're at 2cm." She says, sounding disappointed.
Whoa. Back the delivery truck up. 2cm? That was it? Almost twenty four of contractions and over an hour of serious contractions and that was it.
"Well," she says, "if you want to walk around the halls for an hour, we'll check you again and see if things pick up. Otherwise, you'll be better off at home."
"Lets walk." I agree. I'm still contracting and I might as well try for a bit. But 2cm is depressing.
She grins. "Just stay on the hardwood floor area. That's the maternity area. If you start walking the other parts of the hospital they get really nervous that you'll drop a baby on them."
I nod and start walking the halls. It's a big loop and I have the entire thing memorize in an hour. I saw a couple of babies and they were so sweet. It made me want to hold Baby Blueberry. I can't wait for her.
After an hour. Recheck. 2cm. Contractions are starting to finally...slow down. In three more hours they will stop.
Damn.
The next day I had a doctor's appointment. She says that can happen. The body is warming up, doing things in stages so when it's time, everything isn't changing all at once. My first two weren't like that, once I started with the contractions, I didn't stop until I had a baby.
This little one is teaching me patience. Perhaps she got shy. She does tend to get really quiet and still when she hears unfamiliar voices.
Perhaps she just needs a little bit longer.
I just need to enjoy these last few days of quiet. Enjoy the wonderful feel of her moving in my womb and responding to my voice.
I just need to remember that she made it full term and all those months of bed rest and taking it easy has allowed her to grow strong.
Some time in the next two weeks Baby Blueberry will be here. She just wanted to test things out. Prepare herself for the real deal.
She just needed a practice run.
But Monday night they started, continued through the night, disrupting my sleep and kept going right into Tuesday. By the time we picked up Bean and Abu from school, they were rolling in every 2-4 minutes and lasting a minute at a time.
And whew...they were painful. Suddenly, the practice contractions I had been having in the last two weeks were just minor aches in comparison.
Hero Hottie thought we should probably go to the hospital. I agreed with him as soon as I could take a breath again. We sent the girls off to Grandma's, packed a few things, made a few calls, and left.
He drove because frankly, I had trouble even climbing into the mini van because of how bad it was starting to hurt, let alone drive.
At our hospital we have to check in through the ER, which I have to disagree with. Sending a pregnant woman through germ heaven seems a little silly. I tried not to touch too many things. And I stayed far away from the coughing patients waiting their turn.
Now, during my last two deliveries, the hospital had certain policies and that was it. You had a choice...to agree with them. But this time, I wanted more control over my experience. I found a doctor that was open to the newer ways of looking at childbirth and allowed me to write a birth plan.
(They aren't newer ways, I'm not taking the placenta home and eating it. But I want a less medicalized birth. Less policies and more just listening to my body.)
Still, while I waited for the delivery nurse to come down and get me, I figured she would be bringing a wheelchair for me. I hate the wheelchair while I'm in labor. I don't like to sit down while I'm contracting but it's hospital policy. I guess a woman in labor can't walk anymore, even if she wants to.
But when the nurse arrived, she didn't have a wheelchair.
"I read your birth plan before I came down here. I saw that you want things as natural as possible so I figure you would probably want to walk."
I was flabbergasted. Hell, yes I want to walk. And so slowly, because contractions slow you down, we walked to the maternity floor.
And that was only the start of all the wonderful changes they had made to the concept of giving birth.
First, the gowns were tailored made for a pregnant woman. Oh, my goodness. Seriously. How long did it take the medical system to realize that a laboring woman doesn't feel comfortable in a gown made for a 300 pound man? This gown was sewn to be fitted around my feminine form, with room for my huge belly. It was pink and soft and didn't leave a gap in the back so the entire world could see my bottom. I had been planning on just wearing my sports bra for delivery but I can deal with this gown. And on top of that...it has snaps in the front so later I can breast feed without stripping the entire thing off.
The robes are soft, fluffy and pink. (Pink seems a little stereotypical for a pregnant woman but I don't care about the color.) They were real robes, not old, nasty hospital gowns turned backwards, and used as a robe. I wouldn't mind taking it home, it was so comfortable.
I was taken into the triage room to determine if I was really in labor or just thought I was. The nurse offered me and Hero Hottie bottle waters, to stay hydrated. And then asked if I needed any juice and gave me a huge list to pick from. Wow. I was beginning to feel like royalty. I thought, from my previous delivery experiences, I was going to have to fight for a cup of ice cubes and some attention.
She hooked me up to the monitors. Baby Blueberry's heartbeat was a wonderful sound and it was strong and steady. The other monitor to keep track of my contractions clearly showed that I was having strong, steady contractions. This had to be labor.
I was breathing through the pain when they would hit, watching my uterus form a tight, little ball and then feel Baby Blueberry complain heavily afterwards, with lots of wiggles, stretches and powerful kicks. She hates being squished.
The nurse checked my cervix. I was sure I was at least at 4cms. If not more. With these contractions I had to be quite a bit along.
I think she thought so too, because she starts frowning as she realizes where I am at.
"You're at 2cm." She says, sounding disappointed.
Whoa. Back the delivery truck up. 2cm? That was it? Almost twenty four of contractions and over an hour of serious contractions and that was it.
"Well," she says, "if you want to walk around the halls for an hour, we'll check you again and see if things pick up. Otherwise, you'll be better off at home."
"Lets walk." I agree. I'm still contracting and I might as well try for a bit. But 2cm is depressing.
She grins. "Just stay on the hardwood floor area. That's the maternity area. If you start walking the other parts of the hospital they get really nervous that you'll drop a baby on them."
I nod and start walking the halls. It's a big loop and I have the entire thing memorize in an hour. I saw a couple of babies and they were so sweet. It made me want to hold Baby Blueberry. I can't wait for her.
After an hour. Recheck. 2cm. Contractions are starting to finally...slow down. In three more hours they will stop.
Damn.
The next day I had a doctor's appointment. She says that can happen. The body is warming up, doing things in stages so when it's time, everything isn't changing all at once. My first two weren't like that, once I started with the contractions, I didn't stop until I had a baby.
This little one is teaching me patience. Perhaps she got shy. She does tend to get really quiet and still when she hears unfamiliar voices.
Perhaps she just needs a little bit longer.
I just need to enjoy these last few days of quiet. Enjoy the wonderful feel of her moving in my womb and responding to my voice.
I just need to remember that she made it full term and all those months of bed rest and taking it easy has allowed her to grow strong.
Some time in the next two weeks Baby Blueberry will be here. She just wanted to test things out. Prepare herself for the real deal.
She just needed a practice run.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Nesting Like Crazy
It has taken me over two weeks to write this simple blog. Why? Because I'm nesting like a pregnant lady who has finally realized that in two short months that OMG---I'm having a BABY. I'm not just pregnant...I'm going to be a Mom of a newborn.
Diapers. 3am feedings. (This time of night I can almost guarantee because already Baby Blueberry is waking me up at almost exactly 3am every night with her powerful kicks and sliding motions in my uterus.)
More diapers. More feedings.
Lots of coos and the sweetest baby smell.
So instead of writing, I've been nesting. Especially since a few weeks ago my doctor released me from my modified bed rest. What wonderful news it was too. I had an ultrasound, hopefully the last one, and the tech had to search forever to even find where the bleeding and clot had occurred. Like the doctor said, had they not been looking for the traces of the problem; nothing on the ultrasound would have caught their attention.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Was the refrain going through my head on the drive home. I had to tell Hero Hottie right away and we grabbed lunch together to celebrate our news before we picked up the older girls from Grandma's house.
And being a woman who has watched her house get messier and messier and unable to prepare for baby, what is the first thing I do over the next three days?
It's not as Hero Hottie was hoping, resuming a little activity in the bedroom since we were given the green light on that again...
No, it's clean the house. Top to bottom. Dust. Vacuum. Scrub.
(Then my thoughts found themselves right there with Hero Hottie's.)
But I'm a pregnant woman who has been denied her nesting urges for three long months.
Silly hormones.
I have less than two months before she arrives. I'm clumsy, waddling, and hungry all the time. I'm starting to remember the little things from my last pregnancies that I had forgotten.
Like...
Once the belly gets big, putting underwear on is a feat in balance and coordination that a pregnant lady is not gifted with. Hero Hottie can stop laughing now, it's not that funny looking, me trying to balance on one foot while I can barely bend down enough to pull the darn things up.
Shaving the legs is interesting. Today Hero Hottie is looking at the back of my thighs. "You know you need to shave back there, right? It's really hairy."
"No, I don't know. I can not twist around to see the back of my thighs, (which might be a blessing) and so I don't know if they need shaved."
"They do."
"Thanks honey."
Being hungry in the middle of the night. My first pregnancy, I dealt with this as many first time Moms do. I ate entire bowls of mac and cheese and pints of Ben and Jerry's. Thank you Mr. Ben and Jerry, but I put on an extra twenty pounds because of your delicious concoctions of brownies and ice cream in just the right portions for a pregnant lady.
This time I knew better. I've been snacking on healthier snacks...raisins, carrot sticks, hummus, and just a few pieces of chocolate at a time. They're small. I can eat a few a day. A hormonal gal has to have chocolate. Ask Hero Hottie.
I know it may seem like I'm picking on Hero Hottie but I'm not. Alright, perhaps just a touch. But only because he called me the 'Waddler'. Luckily I was in a good mood at the time and started to laugh. Being pregnant; I could have cried. The poor guy has been an unwilling rider on my roller coaster of mood swings. Then if you add an incredibly hormonal preteen in the mix and I have to feel sorry for the guy.
But he's extremely excited for our surprise addition to the family and when it comes time to be in the delivery room and welcoming her into the world; I know I will be able to depend on Hero Hottie.
So I tried to write about zombies, and I tried to write about losing our television and how the older girls were going nuts without the Disney channel but...
my mind is on babies.
Well, a certain little sweetie anyway. Baby Blueberry. Who happens to kick when anyone calls her that. The poor gal is going to think her name is Baby Blueberry. What a nickname to be stuck with. :)
In the next two months I will try not to be too baby brain but I can't guarantee anything. It's the hormones.
They make us pregnant ladies baby obsessive.
And it's just the way nature intended.
Diapers. 3am feedings. (This time of night I can almost guarantee because already Baby Blueberry is waking me up at almost exactly 3am every night with her powerful kicks and sliding motions in my uterus.)
More diapers. More feedings.
Lots of coos and the sweetest baby smell.
So instead of writing, I've been nesting. Especially since a few weeks ago my doctor released me from my modified bed rest. What wonderful news it was too. I had an ultrasound, hopefully the last one, and the tech had to search forever to even find where the bleeding and clot had occurred. Like the doctor said, had they not been looking for the traces of the problem; nothing on the ultrasound would have caught their attention.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Was the refrain going through my head on the drive home. I had to tell Hero Hottie right away and we grabbed lunch together to celebrate our news before we picked up the older girls from Grandma's house.
And being a woman who has watched her house get messier and messier and unable to prepare for baby, what is the first thing I do over the next three days?
It's not as Hero Hottie was hoping, resuming a little activity in the bedroom since we were given the green light on that again...
No, it's clean the house. Top to bottom. Dust. Vacuum. Scrub.
(Then my thoughts found themselves right there with Hero Hottie's.)
But I'm a pregnant woman who has been denied her nesting urges for three long months.
Silly hormones.
I have less than two months before she arrives. I'm clumsy, waddling, and hungry all the time. I'm starting to remember the little things from my last pregnancies that I had forgotten.
Like...
Once the belly gets big, putting underwear on is a feat in balance and coordination that a pregnant lady is not gifted with. Hero Hottie can stop laughing now, it's not that funny looking, me trying to balance on one foot while I can barely bend down enough to pull the darn things up.
Shaving the legs is interesting. Today Hero Hottie is looking at the back of my thighs. "You know you need to shave back there, right? It's really hairy."
"No, I don't know. I can not twist around to see the back of my thighs, (which might be a blessing) and so I don't know if they need shaved."
"They do."
"Thanks honey."
Being hungry in the middle of the night. My first pregnancy, I dealt with this as many first time Moms do. I ate entire bowls of mac and cheese and pints of Ben and Jerry's. Thank you Mr. Ben and Jerry, but I put on an extra twenty pounds because of your delicious concoctions of brownies and ice cream in just the right portions for a pregnant lady.
This time I knew better. I've been snacking on healthier snacks...raisins, carrot sticks, hummus, and just a few pieces of chocolate at a time. They're small. I can eat a few a day. A hormonal gal has to have chocolate. Ask Hero Hottie.
I know it may seem like I'm picking on Hero Hottie but I'm not. Alright, perhaps just a touch. But only because he called me the 'Waddler'. Luckily I was in a good mood at the time and started to laugh. Being pregnant; I could have cried. The poor guy has been an unwilling rider on my roller coaster of mood swings. Then if you add an incredibly hormonal preteen in the mix and I have to feel sorry for the guy.
But he's extremely excited for our surprise addition to the family and when it comes time to be in the delivery room and welcoming her into the world; I know I will be able to depend on Hero Hottie.
So I tried to write about zombies, and I tried to write about losing our television and how the older girls were going nuts without the Disney channel but...
my mind is on babies.
Well, a certain little sweetie anyway. Baby Blueberry. Who happens to kick when anyone calls her that. The poor gal is going to think her name is Baby Blueberry. What a nickname to be stuck with. :)
In the next two months I will try not to be too baby brain but I can't guarantee anything. It's the hormones.
They make us pregnant ladies baby obsessive.
And it's just the way nature intended.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
No More Lists
Before I was assigned to modified bed rest I had a very detailed plan of how I was going to organize my life before Baby Blueberry arrived. And when I say organized I mean obsessive compulsively organized. Beyond my usual 'everything has a place'. But to the next realm....everything has a place in it's place. It was going to be wonderful. The kitchen cupboards were going to win first place at a Martha Stewart contest. The bathroom cupboard was going to be so sleek, that if I told my husband where to find the Neosporin, he would actually be able to find it.
And even the junk drawer in the kitchen would be sorted and put away.
First, I had to sort my garage. But before I can explain my plan I have to share a little back story. My parents have lived in my downstairs for almost six years now. I have a split level house and originally when Hero Hottie and I moved in we were going to remodel the unfinished walkout basement into a daycare area. That way I could stay home with our girls and still make an income so we could actually make the house payment every month. We had applied for a loan during the times that mortgage loan companies were handing out loans like candy and only cared if you had a pulse to qualify. So we knew it would be easy to obtain a loan but we were smart enough to realize that we would need more money to pay it. Hence, a daycare.
But then I got sick. And then I rapidly rolled down hill into nearly dying. Luckily, I survived. But unfortunately the closer I get to labor the more I realize I have some horrible anxiety about going back into the hospital. Urggh. A few weeks ago because of my torn placenta I had to go to the lab at the hospital and have my blood drawn. I had managed the ER okay a few days before when the bleeding started but for whatever reason having to brave the fluorescent lit corridors of the hospital by myself made me feel just a bit dizzy and I had to force my feet to continue.
I was surprised by my reaction. In my childhood we were raised with the idea that you just pull up your boot straps, ignore whatever, and continue on. I think it's from my German stoic stubborn bullheaded side. And for the most part, that idea works. It would certainty make winning Fear Factor easier because it doesn't allow you the option of quitting.
But this anxiety, which I find I can ignore enough to find the lab, have my blood drawn and even joke and be friendly with the lab tech, is still there running like an underground river.
Enough about my anxiety though. After I was well enough to leave the hospital, I was still in a recovery stage for the next couple of years. Since my parents were having some financial problems and needed to sell their house, instead of making the downstairs a daycare area we made it a separate home and they moved in to help take care of me and have somewhere to live.
My upstairs is only two bedrooms and a bit small. So with Baby Blueberry on the way I had to do some serious organizing to find room for her.
And that's where the garage comes in at. Before the bed rest, I had twenty one Saturdays to get it straightened up. I needed it organized so I could move stuff from my bedroom to the garage to make room for Baby Blueberry. It wasn't exactly an ideal situation and I kept telling Hero Hottie that we just might have to make room for the baby in the living room rather than our bedroom but for now it was the plan.
For the first few Saturdays I accomplished my goals. Man, this making a plan and sticking to it was really working well for me. It was a great feeling to be so accomplished.
And then my placenta tore and all plans were blown to pieces.
Not only was I forbidden from stepping inside the garage but I couldn't even clean the house and fulfill my nesting urges.
My plans for the summer with my older girls...scrapped.
Plans with friends...put on hold.
Activities with the PTO...given to other people willing to help.
What are the sayings? Make a plan and God laughs. Or make a plan and it's a dare to the universe to see if you can actually accomplish it. Life happens when you're busy making plans.
So first I found out I was pregnant and all my plans for the next five years have dramatically changed from the plans I had.
And then I was put on modified bed rest. All plans were put on hold.
Now I'm excited about this little baby, what a wonderful gift to be given when I wasn't expecting another one ever. So most of my five years plans have lost their shine compared to having another child to love.
All my plans for the rest of my Saturdays have finally lost their importance. Tons of time to think on bed rest have made me realize that I spend plenty of time of making lists and planning things I going to do. Or want to do. Or have to do.
And less time just living.
But planning to do things is safe. There's no fear to hold us back. Self doubt is quiet. How safe it is to make a Bucket List...how much more daring it is to live it.
I may not succeed at self publishing my stories but I won't know until I do it.
I may not succeed as the photographer I want to be until I try.
And I may not succeed at changing the world until I realize that it starts with moving tiny mountains, not thinking that if you're not doing something big and awesome that you're not doing any good.
And I'm not going to think about the little time I have left to have Bean as a child and let it eat at me. I'm going to enjoy every minute with her, so in the few short years before she's ready to spread her own wings I have no regrets about the part I played as her Mommy.
I love this song by Rob Thomas, it's called 'Little Wonders.' And part of it goes like this:
'Our lives are made in these small hours
These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate
Time falls away but these small hours
These small hours still remain'
No more self doubt. No more lists.
Just life.
Finally lived without regret.
And even the junk drawer in the kitchen would be sorted and put away.
First, I had to sort my garage. But before I can explain my plan I have to share a little back story. My parents have lived in my downstairs for almost six years now. I have a split level house and originally when Hero Hottie and I moved in we were going to remodel the unfinished walkout basement into a daycare area. That way I could stay home with our girls and still make an income so we could actually make the house payment every month. We had applied for a loan during the times that mortgage loan companies were handing out loans like candy and only cared if you had a pulse to qualify. So we knew it would be easy to obtain a loan but we were smart enough to realize that we would need more money to pay it. Hence, a daycare.
But then I got sick. And then I rapidly rolled down hill into nearly dying. Luckily, I survived. But unfortunately the closer I get to labor the more I realize I have some horrible anxiety about going back into the hospital. Urggh. A few weeks ago because of my torn placenta I had to go to the lab at the hospital and have my blood drawn. I had managed the ER okay a few days before when the bleeding started but for whatever reason having to brave the fluorescent lit corridors of the hospital by myself made me feel just a bit dizzy and I had to force my feet to continue.
I was surprised by my reaction. In my childhood we were raised with the idea that you just pull up your boot straps, ignore whatever, and continue on. I think it's from my German stoic stubborn bullheaded side. And for the most part, that idea works. It would certainty make winning Fear Factor easier because it doesn't allow you the option of quitting.
But this anxiety, which I find I can ignore enough to find the lab, have my blood drawn and even joke and be friendly with the lab tech, is still there running like an underground river.
Enough about my anxiety though. After I was well enough to leave the hospital, I was still in a recovery stage for the next couple of years. Since my parents were having some financial problems and needed to sell their house, instead of making the downstairs a daycare area we made it a separate home and they moved in to help take care of me and have somewhere to live.
My upstairs is only two bedrooms and a bit small. So with Baby Blueberry on the way I had to do some serious organizing to find room for her.
And that's where the garage comes in at. Before the bed rest, I had twenty one Saturdays to get it straightened up. I needed it organized so I could move stuff from my bedroom to the garage to make room for Baby Blueberry. It wasn't exactly an ideal situation and I kept telling Hero Hottie that we just might have to make room for the baby in the living room rather than our bedroom but for now it was the plan.
For the first few Saturdays I accomplished my goals. Man, this making a plan and sticking to it was really working well for me. It was a great feeling to be so accomplished.
And then my placenta tore and all plans were blown to pieces.
Not only was I forbidden from stepping inside the garage but I couldn't even clean the house and fulfill my nesting urges.
My plans for the summer with my older girls...scrapped.
Plans with friends...put on hold.
Activities with the PTO...given to other people willing to help.
What are the sayings? Make a plan and God laughs. Or make a plan and it's a dare to the universe to see if you can actually accomplish it. Life happens when you're busy making plans.
So first I found out I was pregnant and all my plans for the next five years have dramatically changed from the plans I had.
And then I was put on modified bed rest. All plans were put on hold.
Now I'm excited about this little baby, what a wonderful gift to be given when I wasn't expecting another one ever. So most of my five years plans have lost their shine compared to having another child to love.
All my plans for the rest of my Saturdays have finally lost their importance. Tons of time to think on bed rest have made me realize that I spend plenty of time of making lists and planning things I going to do. Or want to do. Or have to do.
And less time just living.
But planning to do things is safe. There's no fear to hold us back. Self doubt is quiet. How safe it is to make a Bucket List...how much more daring it is to live it.
I may not succeed at self publishing my stories but I won't know until I do it.
I may not succeed as the photographer I want to be until I try.
And I may not succeed at changing the world until I realize that it starts with moving tiny mountains, not thinking that if you're not doing something big and awesome that you're not doing any good.
And I'm not going to think about the little time I have left to have Bean as a child and let it eat at me. I'm going to enjoy every minute with her, so in the few short years before she's ready to spread her own wings I have no regrets about the part I played as her Mommy.
I love this song by Rob Thomas, it's called 'Little Wonders.' And part of it goes like this:
'Our lives are made in these small hours
These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate
Time falls away but these small hours
These small hours still remain'
No more self doubt. No more lists.
Just life.
Finally lived without regret.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Oh, Mister Sandman...Send me a dream...
It's official. I'm watching too much day time television. Or at least I have it clicked on while I'm doing other stuff just for the noise. The distraction. Either way, the shows have invaded my subconscious and my dreams. What's a pregnant woman suppose to do? I rather be dreaming about Ryan Reynolds again but alas, no such luck. But that probably wouldn't be such a great idea since modified bed rest includes a lot of no-no's. And lets just say I'm not missing doing the laundry but there are other things I am missing...
Anyway, my dream last night starts in an English Pub with Chef Gordon Ramsey. Apparently watching the BBC and Kitchen Nightmares is not healthy for you. For one thing, the guy annoys me. Yes, he's right most of the time and the conditions he finds these kitchens in are deplorable.
And I'm not sure what a health inspector actually does because rotten meat sitting out on shelves in the freezer seems like it's probably breaking a huge health code. I could be wrong but my Mama taught me not to cook moldy food.
But the guy is rude, and drops the F-bomb like he thinks seasoning his sentences with it is going to make his words seem more important. Personally, I don't know why he bothers with most of these kitchens...if they aren't already cooking with fresh and safe food, don't you think they already failed Basic Cooking 101? Having an Englishman cuss the living daylights out of them makes for great ratings..I have my doubts if it makes for better kitchens.
Back to the dream...I'm in a busy English pub, listening to Gordon Ramsey cuss some poor cook out for their horrible food. Hero Hottie and I sitting at a table waiting for our food when it arrives as a greasy, English fry up. French fries dripping with oil and a sandwich that has taken a dip in a pot of boiling stale oil. I eat part of it and surprisingly wake up with heart burn. Man, those dreams are real.
The dreams continues with a walk with some English dude who is telling us bad jokes about why it only takes one Englishman to get a job done but it would take two Scotsman to do the same thing. Apparently, this guy wasn't a fan of Braveheart. I have both English and Scottish in me so asking me to take sides would be like starting a war with myself. And then if we added my Irish ancestry...
No offense to any of my international readers, I'm just retelling my dream. I'm such a mutt of cultures and I'm glad for it.
But then the dream goes down the way of Auction Hunters. If anyone hasn't seen that show I haven't either until I was stuck on bed rest. It follows these two guys who go around and buy the contents of storage units. It's a treasure hunt show really. And what amazes me is the quality of stuff they find. But in the dream Hero Hottie and I are buying these antique clocks or mirrors with picture frames on them. I was so excited because I won them from the other bidders but I'm frustrated when I can't pick them up because of my lifting restrictions and he has to hold them while he drives the motorcycle we're riding on.
What???? I'm actually being careful in my dream of lifting heavy objects but I think it's okay to get on the back of a motorcycle? I'm sure my doctor would put that on my no-no list.
We're driving away from the auction place when we catch wind of the motorcycle gang riding ahead of us being caught by the cops. What show this is from I'm not sure but the scenery reminds me of the Bayou feeling from True Blood. Luckily, we didn't run into any vampires in my dream.
We verve off some side road, which is highly bumpy and dusty. At this point I start worrying that I shouldn't be on the back of a bike. Like, duh?? And some rich, young guy with enough attitude to makes you wish that he would lose all his money and have to shop at...Wal-Mart like the rest of us...rescues us just before the cops pull us over. Whew...but the dream doesn't stop there.
No, then I dragged into the plot of a LMN movie. Seriously, there's this sleazy guy with lame pick up lines that's almost handsome but there's just something a bit greasy about him so you know you shouldn't like him.
He's going around and marrying different women for their money. He starts out with women that hardly have anything, like a trailer and a junky car. And his pick up line always starts with a Rotisserie chicken from the grocery store deli and some excuse about not being able to cook. This somehow charms women into falling in love with him and after they marry and he steals everything he can he moves onto the next woman.
Moving up in the world until he marries some rich, heiress that has picture frames made out of real gold and gems in her bathroom. Of course, he's slowly having the real gems removed and replaced with copies as he steals from her. But then her teenage daughter from a previous marriage finds him flirting with some rich, Italian lady at the bank. And you know what pick up line he uses on this Italian lady with her heavy European accent...
yep, that's right..."I don't know how to cook. But I make a mean Rotisserie chicken. Let's eat." And he has her totally charmed with his fake American charm.
Luckily, the woman he's currently married to, figures out what's going on and the Rotisserie chicken man goes straight to jail. Thank goodness for the predictable justice of LMN movies.
At this point, the alarm wakes me up. It's not often I feel grateful for the most annoying sound in the world but since the chicken man had been brought to justice it was definitely time for that horrible collage of television to be turned off.
Now, of course I wouldn't be surprised if I saw this movie on next year's line up for an LMN movie but will I get credit for it...no, of course not. But that's okay. I'm giving this idea away for free.
In the mean time, I want to see the show where Gordon Ramsey takes on Bayou vampires and their kitchens, after all you should pick humans from the health food store and not McDonald's; with a side plot by the guys from Auction Hunters buying the storage units of vampires---because I bet they would have some good, old sh*t in there and perhaps we could have the greasy Rotisserie chicken man escape from prison just to be lured to his death by the Italian lady who is actually a vampire set out to rid the world of guys with lame pick up lines.
I wonder what I would dream if I started watching Bridezillas, Fear Factor and What Not to Wear?
Bed rest might just drive me crazy. :)
Anyway, my dream last night starts in an English Pub with Chef Gordon Ramsey. Apparently watching the BBC and Kitchen Nightmares is not healthy for you. For one thing, the guy annoys me. Yes, he's right most of the time and the conditions he finds these kitchens in are deplorable.
And I'm not sure what a health inspector actually does because rotten meat sitting out on shelves in the freezer seems like it's probably breaking a huge health code. I could be wrong but my Mama taught me not to cook moldy food.
But the guy is rude, and drops the F-bomb like he thinks seasoning his sentences with it is going to make his words seem more important. Personally, I don't know why he bothers with most of these kitchens...if they aren't already cooking with fresh and safe food, don't you think they already failed Basic Cooking 101? Having an Englishman cuss the living daylights out of them makes for great ratings..I have my doubts if it makes for better kitchens.
Back to the dream...I'm in a busy English pub, listening to Gordon Ramsey cuss some poor cook out for their horrible food. Hero Hottie and I sitting at a table waiting for our food when it arrives as a greasy, English fry up. French fries dripping with oil and a sandwich that has taken a dip in a pot of boiling stale oil. I eat part of it and surprisingly wake up with heart burn. Man, those dreams are real.
The dreams continues with a walk with some English dude who is telling us bad jokes about why it only takes one Englishman to get a job done but it would take two Scotsman to do the same thing. Apparently, this guy wasn't a fan of Braveheart. I have both English and Scottish in me so asking me to take sides would be like starting a war with myself. And then if we added my Irish ancestry...
No offense to any of my international readers, I'm just retelling my dream. I'm such a mutt of cultures and I'm glad for it.
But then the dream goes down the way of Auction Hunters. If anyone hasn't seen that show I haven't either until I was stuck on bed rest. It follows these two guys who go around and buy the contents of storage units. It's a treasure hunt show really. And what amazes me is the quality of stuff they find. But in the dream Hero Hottie and I are buying these antique clocks or mirrors with picture frames on them. I was so excited because I won them from the other bidders but I'm frustrated when I can't pick them up because of my lifting restrictions and he has to hold them while he drives the motorcycle we're riding on.
What???? I'm actually being careful in my dream of lifting heavy objects but I think it's okay to get on the back of a motorcycle? I'm sure my doctor would put that on my no-no list.
We're driving away from the auction place when we catch wind of the motorcycle gang riding ahead of us being caught by the cops. What show this is from I'm not sure but the scenery reminds me of the Bayou feeling from True Blood. Luckily, we didn't run into any vampires in my dream.
We verve off some side road, which is highly bumpy and dusty. At this point I start worrying that I shouldn't be on the back of a bike. Like, duh?? And some rich, young guy with enough attitude to makes you wish that he would lose all his money and have to shop at...Wal-Mart like the rest of us...rescues us just before the cops pull us over. Whew...but the dream doesn't stop there.
No, then I dragged into the plot of a LMN movie. Seriously, there's this sleazy guy with lame pick up lines that's almost handsome but there's just something a bit greasy about him so you know you shouldn't like him.
He's going around and marrying different women for their money. He starts out with women that hardly have anything, like a trailer and a junky car. And his pick up line always starts with a Rotisserie chicken from the grocery store deli and some excuse about not being able to cook. This somehow charms women into falling in love with him and after they marry and he steals everything he can he moves onto the next woman.
Moving up in the world until he marries some rich, heiress that has picture frames made out of real gold and gems in her bathroom. Of course, he's slowly having the real gems removed and replaced with copies as he steals from her. But then her teenage daughter from a previous marriage finds him flirting with some rich, Italian lady at the bank. And you know what pick up line he uses on this Italian lady with her heavy European accent...
yep, that's right..."I don't know how to cook. But I make a mean Rotisserie chicken. Let's eat." And he has her totally charmed with his fake American charm.
Luckily, the woman he's currently married to, figures out what's going on and the Rotisserie chicken man goes straight to jail. Thank goodness for the predictable justice of LMN movies.
At this point, the alarm wakes me up. It's not often I feel grateful for the most annoying sound in the world but since the chicken man had been brought to justice it was definitely time for that horrible collage of television to be turned off.
Now, of course I wouldn't be surprised if I saw this movie on next year's line up for an LMN movie but will I get credit for it...no, of course not. But that's okay. I'm giving this idea away for free.
In the mean time, I want to see the show where Gordon Ramsey takes on Bayou vampires and their kitchens, after all you should pick humans from the health food store and not McDonald's; with a side plot by the guys from Auction Hunters buying the storage units of vampires---because I bet they would have some good, old sh*t in there and perhaps we could have the greasy Rotisserie chicken man escape from prison just to be lured to his death by the Italian lady who is actually a vampire set out to rid the world of guys with lame pick up lines.
I wonder what I would dream if I started watching Bridezillas, Fear Factor and What Not to Wear?
Bed rest might just drive me crazy. :)
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