"You Can Endure Anything for 10 Seconds"

DISCLAIMER: I'm not super graphic in this post, but I'm writing about my labor and delivery. So, if you're squeamish about this sort of thing, watch this instead: Cute Kittens Compilation.

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My friend, Kelsey, brought on my labor. Totally true. She called at 3 pm Sunday afternoon (March 29) and during the call, I started feeling contractions. Throughout the next 15 minutes, they got stronger and came every few minutes. There was no need to wait for that 5-7 minute benchmark. So, if you want to have a super fast (yet still painful) labor, give Kelsey a call near your due date.

"Holy crap, you're totally having your baby!" Kelsey said over the phone each time a contraction came. 

I wasn't quite convinced, but six hours later, Isaac was born. Six. Hours. Did I mention that Kelsey brings on SUPER FAST labor? 

Before anyone who has suffered through 30-40 hour labors punches me in the face, at least know it was intensely painful. Everyone knows contractions hurt, but nothing truly prepares you. My goal all along was to try to deliver naturally, without pain relief. I wasn't set on going natural, which was a good thing since I decided to get an epidural on the ride to the hospital.

Around 3:20 pm (I know almost exact times because of the text my mom and Ryan sent to Ryan's parents who were driving from Indiana to come as close to the birth as possible), my mom started timing the contractions. They were already 1-2 minutes apart and HUUUUUUURT. They definitely weren't those false contractions. 

Ryan was mowing in the backyard and by 3:40, my mom waved him inside. I thought of some movie I'd seen where the husband is plowing a field and some friend comes running out to him, saying they should call for the doctor. I couldn't imagine already being ready to go to the hospital, so I said we had time and Ryan took 10 minutes to finish mowing. In-between contractions, I tried adding last minute things to my suitcase, but by the time one contraction ended and I got up to add one or two things, another started.

By 4:15, the on-call nurse from the OB's office said to head to the hospital, so off we went. It must have been clear where we were going, as Ryan and my mom threw bags in the car, because one neighbor shouted, "Good luck!" when Ryan got into the Jeep. It was about a half-hour ride and, thinking I'd be in labor for 20-plus hours (they don't let you eat while in labor), I ate about five pounds worth of peanut butter crackers. Belvita biscuits, yogurt, and anything else grabbed from the kitchen.

The food was also a mini-distraction from the PAIN. Each contraction felt like a searing knife in my abdomen. Even without the pain, the contractions felt like panic attacks and that really freaked me out. If you haven't had a panic attack, imagine the hollowest, sinking feeling in your chest combined with the inability to breathe and then add on top of that the certainty that the world is going to end. 

The abdomen stabbing was bad enough, but I was thinking, "How can I go through labor while having panic attacks????" Really, they weren't panic attacks because in-between contractions, the feeling went away and I felt fairly normal. Ryan made a few jokes and I could still laugh.

Ok, I'm good. I can do this. Surely that last contractions wasn't THAT bad, I thought, eating another biscuit.

CONTRACTION

The knife started stabbing, all the light in the world vanished, and there was nothing but me, pain, and panic. 

Noooo, I can't breathe. My chest is hollow and this knife is twisting so deeply. How can I deliver without an epidural? Slowly, the pain eased and my optimism came back.

Ok, that was bad, but the worst of it lasts only a minute. I can ride it out. Lalalala, sun in shining, everything is beautiful, my life is together...

CONTRACTION

Noooooo, darkness. Decay. Ruin. Life is ending as I know it.....

And so on. When we got to the hospital, we parked in front of the entrance and, as I was still able to walk and didn't want to wait on a wheelchair, I powered toward the front doors like it was the only shelter in a hurricane. Everyone smiled knowingly as Ryan and I got on the elevator and it stopped...

At. Every. Single. Floor.

Granted, my water hadn't broken yet and even though I knew by then I wasn't going to be in labor long, I wasn't too worried. Just what are the odds?

Mom drove behind us, so we registered while she was parking, which was weird. How do you fill out a simple form when a universe-ending contraction hits and you can't process anything other than a searing knife of doom in your abdomen? Well, I managed to get my name, birth date, etc., written down and they hooked me up to a bunch of straps to confirm I was in labor.

Uh, pretty sure that wasn't in question, although I guess it made sense that they wanted to see how the contractions were looking. By 5:30 pm, I was 6-7 cm. dilated and my water broke. They took me to the delivery room right on the way and a super-comforting conversation took place between two nurses as they wheeled me through the halls.

"I just don't want to wait too long for anesthesia. There might not be time. It's not going to be long and I'm not sure about her Harrington rods."

"We'll just have to get anesthesia down here fast and see if we can get around them."

I had back surgery for scoliosis in 1999 and my OB said the titanium rods might interfere with an epidural. While I knew this, at the time the OB had seemed confident they wouldn't be a problem. So, the thought of not getting an epidural sounded like torture.

"Are you okay with a morphine drip if they can't get the epidural running?" one of the nurses asked when we got into the delivery room.

"YEEEEEESSSSS."

Fortunately, the anesthesiologist came soon, but it took him almost an hour to get the epidural to work. In the meantime, I got a morphine drip. An angel in the shape of a nurse explained the drip to me and guided me through the contractions. Basically, with morphine they can't keep a continual drip and only start the pain relief when a contraction starts, so that the baby is exposed to as little as possible. Angel Nurse told me that once a contraction started, the morphine would work in 10 seconds. Those 10 seconds were hell, but Angel Nurse had me sit at the edge of the bed and put my hands on her shoulders while she did the same to me.

Each contraction, Angel Nurse counted down from 10 with me until the morphine took away the agonizing, stabbing pain and the feeling of a panic attack. I wish I could explain in words how much those contractions hurt. Not that I have exclusive rights to this kind of pain...I just like being able to explain things. The only other description that comes close is that it felt like I was being torn apart and sewn back together, only to be ripped apart again.

"You can endure anything for 10 seconds," Angel Nurse said after the morphine overpowered one of my contractions.

Even in that moment, I loved how much that logic applies to everything in life. 

Because of the pain, even though it was only 10 seconds at a time, I didn't pay much attention to the anesthesiologist who was working hard to get the epidural past my back rods. He and another nurse talked and poked and prodded. By 6:40 pm, the anesthesiologist got the epidural in. It hurt to have the needle poking around my spine, but I didn't care as long as it would get the even stabbing to go away.

No one told me at the time (rightfully so), but most women with Harrington rods can't get an epidural. Later, one of the nurses said I was only the second person with these back rods she'd seen who got an epidural to work. I didn't know if I should feel glad or empathetic for the "other women." I guess I was both.

Although, it wouldn't have been the end of the world if I had to stick with the morphine drip. Once the epidural got through, though, life was peachy. My body literally slackened and I felt my muscles unclench. I only had to suffer the contractions for a few hours, but it felt like an eternity.

I was 9.5 cm. dilated by 7 p.m. and the nurse said I probably would have delivered within the next half-hour if not for the epidural. I was fine waiting a little longer without the pain! Since I still felt alert enough, I didn't mind giving up on my "all natural" goal so early on. By 8:10 pm, I started pushing and I felt nothing.

Am I even pushing hard? I wondered most of the next hour. There was a nurse next to me the whole time, telling me if I was pushing the right way.

Ok, I'm pushing as hard as I can, but I feel nothing. Can I get a baby out of me if I can't even feel if I'm pushing hard or not? Everyone was saying I was doing great, but everyone says that, don't they? Who's going to say to a woman in labor, "Sweetie, that push was pathetic. Next time, do better or you'll hurt the baby."

I pushed for the next 45 minutes and at one point my mom held up her pocket mirror so that I could see Isaac's head. His dark hair poked out and there was even a lock falling out. Since I really wanted a baby with lots of dark hair, this was by far the most exciting part of labor. 

By 8:55 p.m. the doctor asked if I was okay with an episiotomy because the baby wasn't tolerating the birth canal well. He didn't say that last part at the time, but I figured the doctor knew what he was doing and thought, "Well, my body's already been shredded, reassembled, and reshredded multiple times. Why not add something else?"

Then, just 10 minutes later, Isaac Edward Detzner's head popped out. One push later, a body fortunately came along with the head. Ryan cut the umbilical cord, which I saw, and the doctor showed me the placenta (I asked beforehand to see it because I'm weird and just wanted to know what mine looked like). In about two seconds, the nurses cleaned Isaac and put ointment over his eyes (helps with infection). Then Isaac was put on my chest. 

I didn't cry like women do in the movies...maybe I was too numb from the epidural to feel much of anything. But I was alert and in shock that this was my baby. About 20 minutes after delivery, someone came in to see if Isaac would latch for breast milk and if ever I'm going to brag about my baby, it's to say that he's an awesome latcher. After all the emotional and physical roller-coaster rides from that day, I could have cried from relief if I wasn't so numbed from the epidural. 

I don't remember many other specifics during the following "magic hour" when the doctor and nurses left us alone with Isaac. However, the delivery my body didn't feel at the time caught up with me. Thinking I was having a seizure or something, I started shaking and wondered why no one was worried.

"Oh, that's just from the pain," a nurse explained after the magic hour.

Riiiight. I didn't feel anything at the time, but my body totally freaked out in delivering a baby. It's not like you get an epidural and...BAM...everything's normal again. All night and through the next morning, I shook and only slept for two hours. Well, it wasn't really sleep - more of a foggy haze that I floated in.

I was taken to a special recovery room that night because my blood pressure decide to go freakishly high during delivery. Otherwise, Isaac and I were doing well. People checked on us throughout the night and Ryan slept on a couch next to me. Isaac stayed in a bassinet next to me the whole time. 

At one point, I stupidly put Isaac in bed with me and fell asleep. Even at the time, I knew I wasn't supposed to do that, but wasn't thinking clearly and was freaked out having him a whole foot away. Around three in the morning, a nurse found me in probably the most unglorified state ever...I was in the fog version of sleep and had slid to the very end of the bed (which was incredibly long). I'd tried to breastfeed Isaac and couldn't figure out how to cover myself back up with the hospital gown, so gave up and was practically naked, twisted in a sheet. Basically, I was a hot mess, drugged and probably crazy-looking. Isaac was next to me, at least blocked from the edge of the bed with a pillow. Later, I was relieved I at least had enough sense to put the pillow there.

Needless to say, the nurse had some cleaning up to do. Once I was redressed, at a normal position on the bed with Isaac safely in his bassinet and my bedding changed, I just stared around the room until about 4 a.m. when Tim and Brenda, Ryan's parents, arrived from their mad flight from Indiana. Seriously, they're awesome. They had their van ready to go and literally left as soon as they could. Even through my hazy fog, it was wonderful to see them and have them hold Isaac. They didn't stay long, since it was so late, but at least got to hold Isaac so soon after birth.

I might have dozed off after that; I just don't remember. Around 7 a.m., the pediatrician and a woman who talked REALLY fast came in to say they had to take Isaac to the nursery to "warm him up."

"Sometimesbabiesjustgettoocoldatnightespeciallywhenit'slessthanadaysincetheyweredeliveredbutitwon'ttakelongtobringuphistemperatureokayweshouldtakehimnow...."

Ryan woke up right away and we, of course, asked a billion questions. What do you mean, "warm him up"? How long? What?

Once we were more awake ourselves, pediatrician and fast-talker explained that Isaac's temperature was down to 93 degrees, which can be normal just after birth, but the baby has to be put under a heat lamp and on a heating pad for about a half-hour to warm back up. So they wheeled Isaac away and, sure enough, he came back, warm and asleep.

That next day involved a lot of cuddling and a constant flow of doctors, nurses, birth certificate people, nutrition and lactation consultants, and plenty of others I forget. I was moved to a new room around noon, but still had to stay in bed because I was hooked up to a magnesium drip to control my blood pressure. Apparently, magnesium has awful side effects, but fortunately I didn't notice anything.

Oh, and I was peeing...a LOT. I had a catheter, which was good because I wasn't up for going to the bathroom every five minutes. Basically, the nurses said they weren't concerned about my kidneys since they had to dump the "bladder box" every few hours. No one knew exactly where all the fluid was coming from, but it was probably a combination of the magnesium, my own water intake, and water I had retained during the last month of pregnancy. 

Whatever the case, I was irrationally proud of my kidneys.

I wasn't proud of my blood pressure, though.

A machine read my blood pressure every half-hour and it ranged from 135/85 to 187/97. The magnesium seemed to help, but not enough. In the meantime, I just chilled in bed and enjoyed having Ryan, my mom, Tim, and Brenda around all day. 

Isaac slept the whole day, which was kind of nice because I could just look at him and start to process that this is my SON. I MADE this little person. With no conscious effort other than eating and exercising, my body created LIFE. This little baby with the cone-shaped head that would soon round out is a PERSON and I'm a MOTHER. There's no way to prepare for those thoughts. The fear, the joy, and more fear.

What if I fail? What if I can't handle it all? What if he grows up and hates me? What if I drop him? What if he spits up in his sleep and drowns because he can't move his head? Can that even happen? What if he gets sick? Okay, obviously he's going to get sick! But what if he gets REALLY sick? What if I don't like him? His face looks kind of weird. No, it doesn't. Well, kind of. There's something about his lips that's creeping me out. But that hair. Oh, I love his hair. No, he's cute. Okay, I can do this. I do love him...but what if I fail?

And so the thoughts ran and ran all day. Now that it's been over a week, I feel some semblance of normality and I have no doubt that I love this little baby who snorts when he's hungry and coos in his sleep. I still have plenty of freaked-out moments, but nothing as severe as when I was in the hospital or those few days after coming home.

Besides, I had and have awesome support, which makes the world of difference.

That Monday night, the nutrition people brought me and Ryan our "celebration  meal." I actually loved the hospital food, and thought the meal was awesome...grilled chicken, baked sweet potato, apple pie, and sparkling grape juice. I'm not sure what you call them, but Ryan had brought little pom-pom party decorations to stick in the glasses and in my chicken. He did that because when I first heard we got a "celebration meal," my first mental picture was lit sparklers in a hamburger. That idea sounded super fun, but obviously a hospital wouldn't allow for sparklers, so Ryan surprised me with fake ones. He's awesome.

A friend, Justina, came by to visit, and she was a nice reminder of the outside world. Since I hadn't slept much (or deeply), I felt like I'd been in the hospital for a week instead of a day.

That night, I started getting really overwhelmed with the thoughts of raising a baby and life being forever, always, and everlastingly different. From this point on, Ryan and I were parents. We'll never not be parents. We'll be other things, sure, and still have our former identities, but this is the biggest responsibility we've ever taken and ever will take.

Basically, I was freaked. My mom held Isaac until about 11 and I think I drifted off, but woke about an hour later because Isaac was finally awake and rightfully hungry. After that, I couldn't sleep and didn't sleep more than an hour or two for the next three days. I'll get to that in a later post.

During the night, Ryan slept and I tried, but I was too wired and had to feed Isaac every hour or two anyway. We'd been struggling to swaddle Isaac correctly and he seems to sleep well only when swaddled (he flails his arms and they wake him up, which is cute, but a problem when he needs to sleep most of the day). Anyway, at one point, I had changed his diaper, which was no small feat since I was still sore from labor and couldn't get out of the bed because of the magnesium drip and blood pressure cuff constantly strapped to my arm.

Anyway, once I had him fed and wearing a clean diaper, I held him in front of me and just stared. It was dark and the middle of the night; I hadn't really slept since Saturday night. Those small, but important details help explain why I got royally terrified. I was staring at Isaac, who looked like a little Amish baby from the 1800s (which sounds cute, but at the time creeped me out). I just sat in bed, terrified as I looked at him.

I have to raise him. I have to be a mom all the time. He needs me like no one has needed me before. Is this baby really mine?

There were some other thoughts that can't even be put into words, but I just sat like a statue, staring at this weird little baby. I was too afraid to even blink, and probably looked like a wide-eyed statue with a baby held with outstretched arms. Finally, I numbly laid Isaac back in his bassinet and...he spit up. Nothing unusual, but in my current mindset, this was the equivalent of seeing an alien's head explode. Right at that moment, the blood pressure machine decided to take a reading and it started beeping because I was at 187/109. Apparently, fear doesn't lower blood pressure. Good to know.

Shaking, I wiped away the spit-up and hit the button for the nurse, knowing I was losing my mind and just needed someone to tell me the baby wasn't an alien.

Sure enough, Isaac wasn't an alien. Phew.

The nurse swaddled Isaac perfectly, which I still can't do, but don't have to because of the genius who invented Swaddle Sacks. He went back to sleep and I laid in a daze until morning came.

The next morning, the nurse unhooked the magnesium drip and blood pressure cuff. I slowly went to the bathroom and took a long shower. That shower was great, washing off the hours and hours of fear, pain, and emotional upheaval. My body looked like a weight-loss patient's, my stomach hanging loosely and legs drooping from the lost fluid. By now, I feel like I have most of my body back - breast feeding apparently helps with that. But that first shower was surreal, as if I was becoming a human again.

Anyway, we left for home around 1 p.m. that Tuesday and I'll write later about the crazy spell I had over the next few days. In the meantime, I should change Isaac's diaper because he's been sleeping on my chest as I've written this last part and I'm pretty sure he wet himself.

Prego Thoughts

With just a month to go, I don't have much to complain about. Perhaps my only legitimate complaint is that I don't have any fun cravings stories. I really wanted a crazy craving story. During the first trimester, I mostly just ate a crap-ton of stuff I already liked. The first day when I knew I was pregnant, it was either hormones or the power of suggestion, but I ate an entire loaf of bread. At one go. To be fair, it was a delicious cinnamon loaf my in-laws had brought from Harvest Bread Co. And during the first 6 weeks, about once a week I would furiously desire a burger and fries, launching some fun trips to Culvers. I guess that's a craving story after all...just not an exciting one. Oh, and during that time I didn't want tea. That was weird.

I could complain about being tired/grumpy/sad for the first 6 weeks, but considering I was still able to teach without any students noticing or asking, "What's up with this chick?" it wasn't too bad. I just came home after class and watched Seinfeld for six hours straight.

And I only have one or two stories of unsolicited/weird baby advice. I've seen more people on the other extreme of not wanting to say ANYthing offensive, which is funny in itself. "Oh, you're breastfeeding? Good for you. I only did it for a few months, but for YOU that's awesome. I didn't mess with cloth diapers, but that's great you're trying it. Not that there's anything wrong with doing cloth. To each her own. Do your thing. You're going to let your baby cry for hours on end and only feed him twice a day? Um...that could be risky, but don't let ME tell you what to do. Wait, um, you're going to leave him alone in a bathtub next to a plugged-in hairdryer and recently opened package of razors? I...uh...maybe not the best...idea...but, um, don't let me tell you what to do...er..."

Obviously, the last four sentences are jokes and I love that most everyone is thoughtful in not forcing their opinions. Although, it's totally fair to disagree on stuff, so no one should be afraid to defend an opinion in the right setting. Like, if we're talking about baby stuff and diapers come up, tell me all about how you did diapers. That's cool. But if I just met you and am talking to someone ELSE about breastfeeding, I don't need to know about your granddaughter whose baby developed a lactose allergy, causing the granddaughter to stop drinking milk for nine months. Not that it's terrible information to know about...just a weird situation to bring it up.

Sure, some of the jokes get old, but I don't mind much. I like my big belly and I'm sure I say the same jokes to other pregnant women without realizing it. I could do without the stretchmarks, but also don't mind those much. It wasn't worth it to me to buy fancy lotions to try to prevent them. Besides, when there are weeks when I'm POSITIVE this little baby grows five feet, I don't see how any lotion can prevent stretchmarks. And how often does anyone SEE them anyway? I rarely go swimming and Ryan doesn't care. It's beautiful and sad at the same time how I care 100 times more about how I look than Ryan ever will.

Me: "Waaaaaa, I gained two pounds this week!"
Ryan: "Good job."

That's pretty much his response every time I whine on the scale and I love him for it. I'm not even that worried about my weight, but still want the validation every week or so that I'm not fat, just pregnant. I'm trying to stop commenting at all on my weight, though, because it's stupid. How many people have commented that I don't look like I'm 8 months along? So, I can't even blame media/society because it is SO clear how supportive people are of pregnant women and their changing bodies. Well, ok, I can at least partly blame companies like Target for hiring nursing bra models who clearly have not just had children. Oh, really, Target? I'm going to have a flat, six-pack stomach within the first year? Good to know.

So, in efforts to actually stop commenting on my weight, I'll shut up about it now. I'm done. See? I'm not talking about it anymore. Yay me!

However, I will talk about the body changing I like. I love my belly. It's creepy how big it gets, but I love it. Also, I never actually minded being small-chested before, but the extra two cup sizes are a fun change. I even like the pre-contractions. I can say that because they don't hurt much yet. They're just proof that the baby will be here soon!

The closer the due date comes, the more I feel ready, which is a nice change. Historically, anything I can't control sent me into panic/anxiety mode and for perhaps the first time in my life, I'm welcoming the changes. Sure, I already miss the freedom of taking off wherever and whenever I like, having Ryan all to myself, sleeping whenever I want, etc. But I'm so freaking ready to have this little baby curl up and fall asleep on my chest, preferably with a mop of curly hair. I wish we could have an ultrasound to see if he has hair or not, but it's fun to have that be a surprise at his birth.

I'm even excited about labor. There, I said it. I hesitate to say it because of the inevitable flood of comments like, "Come to me and say that in four weeks," or "We'll see if that's true when you're in hour eight of labor." Whatever, I know it's welcoming the haters, but I really AM excited about birth. It's like life's ultimate challenge and I want to see how I do with it.

Will it hurt like hell? Uh, duh. Will I want it to end before it's even close to over? Obviously. Is it terrifying because there's no way to know if everything will go smoothly? Do I worry that the baby or I will be hurt? Wouldn't it suck if I have to have a C-section and can't even try to do it naturally? Yes, yes, and again yes.

But I'm still excited about giving birth. Because of the years and years of anxiety over things I can't control, I welcome this excitement. It's not like I'm at the end of my seat, but there's a warm feeling of peace and anticipation. I'll take it.

Dear Baby

Dear Mr. or Ms. Baby,

Four-and-a-half months remain until we meet, yet I'm intimidated by you on every level. The babies and toddlers at church and in stores are all super cute, but I don't want to raise any of them. What if I feel the same way about you? What if we just don't like each other? Really, the day of your birth will be like a first date - exciting, awkward, and with the great potential for a lot of tears.

We know nothing about each other. Will you hate fruit? If so, that's a pretty big deal, I'll have you know. Will you have a closeted fear of television static? If so, I totally understand and we can bond over the evil of white noise. Will you love reality shows? Please, above all things, prefer well-written shows with deep character development and, if possible, subtle metaphors that help everyone view life more completely.

So, I guess we'll have to learn about each other. Everyone says we'll bond, even if it doesn't happen right away. Just promise that you'll like me, despite the inevitability that I'll let you down in some way, whether it involves my eating your special cereal when you're a toddler or you catching me in a lie when you're in high school. Just as you aren't perfect, neither am I, but I'll sure try to love you well.

And that's where I'm scared the most: what if I'm just not a good mom? I like sleeping. Like...a LOT. What are the chances that you'll have a natural love of naps? Baby, of all the gifts you can give me on our "first date," loving naps would be at the top of the list (along with never getting into major accidents or contracting a serious illness).

One thing you don't know about me yet: it's really hard for me to play baby games for long periods of time. It's fun for about 20 minutes and then I want to go read or do anything other than Peek-a-Boo. Maybe I'll want to play more with you, though, since you're MY baby. Speaking of being my baby, how are you inside me right now? And why won't you kick already? We're at 20 weeks, baby. It's time to strengthen those muscles already. Sheesh.

20 weeks. Wow. Up until last July, my body was a purely selfish organism, functioning for my own benefit. Now, everything I put in it has to be evaluated for your sake...

That tuna or cold meat sample at Costco? No can do; the mercury and potential Listeria might hurt you.  Open bar at three separate weddings? Ask the bartender, "Hey, make me something super pretty without alcohol." Large bag of leftover Halloween candy? You lose, baby, because I'm totally eating these mini-Snickers. Okay, maybe just three since I don't want you to have diabetes at the age of three.

Really, the diet and alcohol abstinence don't bother me, but the fact that all of these changes are because you're forming inside my uterus is quite frightening. Don't get me wrong; I love being your mother/hybrid for this brief time. At no other time in our lives will you depend upon me so completely. You literally can't survive without me, baby. Ha, who's in charge NOW?

I haven't even touched on my other fears...me going stir-crazy while staying at home more and working less, having you grow up to resent me for whatever reason, you one day dating/marrying a meth addict (if you're a girl, stay away from that Jessie Pinkman - if you're a boy, stay away from that Jane Margolis)...

Mostly, I'm just afraid that I won't be enough for you, that I'll fail you in some way. And there are SO MANY WAYS TO FAIL A BABY...health, exercise, nutrition, sleep habits, mental development, oral hygiene, car safety, safety in general, vision, hearing...

Let's at least agree that I'll also find many ways to love you, baby. If you grow up and tell some therapist, "My mom was a cold, distant woman and never once said she loved me," then you are not only deaf, but blind and immune to the sense of touch. Don't think for a second that I won't hug-attack you every day of your childhood or that I have any qualms about continuing hug-attacks into your adulthood.

Since you'll be a full-fledged baby soon, the most important thing for you to know is that I will...and I mean WILL...poke you. A lot. On the cheeks, on your arms, on your belly. Mostly, your belly. It's your fault, too, for being a baby with an automatically-adorable belly. And so...many...kisses. You'll wonder why this world is full of Kiss Monsters and how the government hasn't done something about them.

So, you terrify me, baby, but I'm glad we'll meet each other soon. While our "first date" won't include a multiple-course dinner with red wine, we can get to know each other over my breast milk and your poopy diapers.

Four months, one week

According to the What to Expect When You're Expecting app, I have 22 weeks and four days left until Mr. or Ms. Baby arrives. The baby's about the size of a turnip and is possibly doing a somersault as I write. Even though I can't feel the baby moving yet, it's crazy to know that it is moving.

Here's something to shock you: lately, I've talked a lot with people about pregnancy and raising kids. This isn't another blog about how rude people are or how we should treat pregnant women. Really, I haven't heard anyone be rude or suggest stupid things. It's been a pretty easy ride and, for that, I'm grateful. Sure, there were the three weeks of constant sadness and full-on grumpies, the month of not pooping without the aid of an entire army of prunes and Fiber One bars, and the high school-level acne. What else? No odd cravings, no sickness, little dizziness...I can't complain.

In general, I feel pregnant. My belly has a sweet bump and a box of clothes is stored in my closet, awaiting the day when I can hopefully wear them again without looking like a potato stuffed into a finger puppet. Yeah, I guess the weight worries me if I'm perfectly honest. I think about it too much. After losing a bunch of weight after college and working hard to keep it off, gaining a pound a week definitely stretches one's comfort level.

Besides, when else can I justify cherry pie in the morning? Or buying a huge Costco box of Goldfish and Bagel Bites? Hey, the Bagel Bites have calcium and baby needs calcium. Really, I'm still eating healthy, but it's super fun to give into random things I usually don't.

Otherwise, I really don't feel any different yet. I believe the doctors that there's a baby inside me. That would be a mean and very impressive trick. The baby just doesn't seem real. We have a room set aside as the baby room and it's painted green. That's about it so far. Right now, the room is still housing an assortment of random stuff until we get this house arranged. I don't think baby will like being changed on a pile of Stephen King books, so I should get around to that whole nesting thing.

Anyways, I've gotten a lot of questions about how I'm doing and I appreciate everyone who cares so much. Just thought I'd write a little update, saying I'm doing well even and enjoying the imminent need for a larger bra. Now that the sad grumpies of the first trimester are gone, I feel like myself. We'll find out if the baby is a mister or a miss in three weeks. Maybe then the baby will seem like an actual person that will one day hate naps.

Why I'm Not Cute

It doesn't happen a whole lot, but occasionally I'll be talking with someone and I mention something that labels me as "conservative" or "traditional." Ironic, since I feel like I'm super open-minded even if I do have convictions. I've never shied away from an open, calm discussion even if I super disagree with the other person.

Just getting married in my mid-20s got some surprising comments from co-workers at the time.

"But you're still so young."
"You seem independent. I'm just surprised."
Or best yet, "Are you pregnant?"

Nope. Just met a man that's awesome and that I want to spend my life with. Scratch that....an eternity with. Seriously, I may start a petition in heaven if marriage isn't a thing and I have to stalk Ryan just to be around him.

But that's a small example of what I'm getting at. Perhaps a better one is when I had a late-night girl talk with someone in college and was about to explain why I wanted to wait to have sex until I was married. The girl I was with was also raised in the "conservative, Christian" household, but only saw abstinence as unnecessary pleasure-deprivation and the result of too many centuries of repressed female sexuality.

Granted, I understood those points and agree to a certain point that sexuality is not appreciated enough in the church. And that women are held to different standards than men when it comes to sex.

Although, the frustrating part was that, instead of listening to my reasons, my friend said, "Oh, you're cute. I wish I was innocent like you."

Knowing my friend, this was a compliment, but it irked me. As in, I was pissed. Years later, and several times called "cute" or "innocent" when about to explain why I choose to be more "conservative" (if there really must be a label) I realize more why it rubs me the wrong way.

First, there's nothing "cute" about it. "Cute" implies that I'm some kind of naive little kitten that lives in a fairy world separate from reality, skating on rainbows and living on cotton candy...when, in fact, I'm fully aware of reality. It's not that I ignore the world, but I reject a lot of nonsense that it offers. Such as, the misconception that The Notebook is a good movie.

Second, I'm not innocent. Far from it. Am I a good person? Sure, I guess, since I try to be, but in the deepest part of my heart, I know the evil and cruelty that lurks in the dark places.

Another friend of mine once said, "You're the only person in the world that could feel bad for a serial killer." Pretty much, because there are very few times when I can't at least attempt getting inside another person's head to understand their side of the story. One of those rare cases is Walter White. Granted, he's not real, but still...I hate that guy.

Anyway, all that's to say that I totally understand why people disagree with what I think is right, but it's not fair to smile and label someone as "cute" or "old-fashioned" when they have really good, specific, logical reasons for living life in certain ways. There's nothing cute about seeing pornography as a crippling distortion of true sexual intimacy, or waiting to sleep with someone until marriage because I believe it's the ultimate physical expression of love and being with multiple partners creates a lot of physical and emotional risks. There's nothing cute about disliking the "torture porn" entertainment industry because, well, it's awful. I shouldn't have to explain why, but if you really care to hear all my reasons, please ask because I'll rant about it forever.

In conclusion, feel free to call me cute if I wear an adorable dress or host a Fancy Brunch party. I'm totally cool with that.

Why Heaven Freaks Me Out

The idea of heaven is a great one...joy and love for all of eternity. No more pain, crying, sorrow, bills....

However, heaven has always freaked me out. As a kid, I pictured heaven as an endless, glaringly white room full of shelves of toys. Toys are great, right? How would that picture freak someone out? Well, because I figured I would get bored with the toys eventually and wonder what I would do for the rest of eternity. Hell seemed much worse with all its fire and pitchforks, but this white room wasn't where I wanted to spend an eternity.

It was common knowledge at my private school that people wouldn't know each other in the same way once they got to heaven, which meant my mom would be some strange lady wandering a golden street while my sister sang in a choir in some white, nameless void on the other side of heaven. Maybe there would even be angel guards keeping people from seeing their families and friends in case they got any funny ideas about kindling past relationships.

And where did all that WHITE come from? There wasn't a sun, of course. Why would heaven need a sun? For that matter, why would heaven even need toys?

So there went the only fun part of heaven. No, there wouldn't be toys because God wanted endless praise and that means singing, singing, and more singing. Now, I enjoy singing, but could I really "sing of Your love forever"? I always lie when I sing that song. If the lyric was, "I could sing of Your love for exactly two hours and then I really need a break," then I would be all in.

Twenty-some years later, I'm older and wiser, but heaven still freaks me out. I don't care anymore if there are toys in heaven, but now my desires center on my husband. I am not okay with us not being married in heaven. Not only does it terrify me to be without Ryan if he dies before me, but for death to be the END of our love? How could that be possible in heaven? If I have my same heart and mind in heaven, then all I can picture is wandering streets for eternity, looking for him. And if I find him, is he going to be working on some diamond-encrusted mansion, saying, "Oh, sorry, but this is my new life. These mansions won't encrust with diamonds by themselves. Guess we had a good life together, but that doesn't matter now"?

Obviously, I don't actually think this is true of heaven, but the images of heaven are the opposite of glorious to me.

Many years ago, I went to a funeral where the pastor spoke of heaven in a way completely different from the visions of gold, singing, and mansions I pictured growing up. The woman who died was a gardener and an amazing cook. The pastor said he believed she was watering flowers and cooking as he spoke. He saw heaven as a place of ACTION, a place where people held onto the gifts and passions they had in this life.

Very rarely do I have epiphanies, and this was no exception, but that idea of heaven being a perfected earth slowly seeped into me. That's my true desire for heaven, to live in a perfect reality with God and other people. I don't want to float around with angels or sing worship songs all day. I want to act in plays, write novels, travel, practice piano, learn the violin, do crosswords, eat blueberries, and finally learn Spanish.

I had a dream about three years ago. Normally, my dreams involve something awkward or inconvenient. At least a few times a year I scream in my sleep. But this was a rarely happy dream.

There was this beach with bright sand and glittering water. A city of castles was on an island a few miles from the beach and it was the most gorgeous sight. This was clearly paradise. There was someone next to me and I asked them if there was a place with snow and mountains.

They said, "Yes, but it takes forever to get there. It's thousands and thousands of miles away, and it literally takes forever."

Crying, I lamented that there was only this one location in paradise I could reach. It was beautiful, but I mourned that I never would see snow again and worried I would get sick of this place despite its glittering water and castle island.

The person was surprised at my crying and said, "Why are you crying? That's why we HAVE an eternity."

That is literally the happiest dream I've ever had, seeing heaven as a place where I can journey and grow, a place that isn't stagnant.

If some angel wants to belt out hymns in my ear, I guess that's fine (especially if I can get earplugs), but when I think of heaven as a place of action with God and a place where I still have my identity, it actually makes me want to go there.

Banishing the Writer Demon

My unemployment streak is now two months old, not to mention the months of working maybe 15 hours a week since I wasn't teaching in case we moved before the fall semester ended. This has easily been the hardest part of moving...the free time. Technically, I'm employed by Educate Online where I'll be a higher education composition instructor, tutoring through an online classroom. The hiring process is now in week three and there's no guarantee of hours once I'm trained. I'm thankful, though, to at least having something coming soon job-wise.

This seems like the perfect time to complete beautiful writing projects, using my imagination to weave tapestries of words and dreams. I could set up at different coffee shops each day, writing for hours on end, sharing stories that bring hope and life and compassion to all sharing the human condition. Maybe I would sip at a cup of hot tea, staring thoughtfully at passersby through a window, soaking in the new ideas streaming through my mind.

It's such a lovely idea, and one I feel so strongly that I should pursue with all these hours of time to myself. But actually doing it is the hard part. I'm at 43,000 words on my current book, which may sound impressive and I guess I should give myself enough credit to say that this is a good amount of work, but being that I started writing in November, I keep beating myself up for not being done already. Once I'm writing, ideas come and it's a lovely feeling when I've crammed out a few thousand words. The writer's anxiety is just intense, though, before actually sitting down and doing it.

The story I'm writing about the first trip I went on with mom and Kristin is a good one. When I thought of writing it last summer, I knew it was the "next project." Once I started writing it, I also knew it was good and even now I like how it's turning out. So why does this hesitation and fear to write keep me from progressing that word count? I waste so much time sleeping, watching YouTube, and dawdling (such a great word) around the apartment, which is fine if I could balance that with doing what I know I should be doing.

Really, I need to stop beating myself up. Whether I write enough or not, or whether anyone works on what they know they should, punishing for each failure just blocks future attempts.

So, thanks for those who have been so encouraging with reading what I've published or posted so far and giving me props for the writing itself. It's especially great how some of you have given specific feedback or even helpful criticism. Parts of this book are just hard to write because of the dormant emotions that they bring out. While it can be painful to remember what certain things felt like, like the lonely, hollow feeling during Christmas when I would see so many "complete" families opening presents and feeling like we were outsiders looking in, these emotions prove that I'm writing something real that needs to be told.

If you've read this far, thanks! I was getting the computer out to work on the book and immediately ran into the "writer demon" that said, "You're really going to try this again? Just pull up another YouTube clip of people with crazy addictions. That's much easier and you can't fail at watching a video. Writing on the other hand..." So I wrote this post and already I feel better. Boo to you, writer demon!