Almost There

After reading Sarah’s recent entry and realizing that she has way more going on than I do, I decided that there really is no excuse for the fact that I have not updated in almost two months.

I am feverishly trying to wrap things up at work, and it has been stressing me out to a great extent. Hence, my lack of updates or checking in on others’ blogs. I feel like I owe (to whom I am not sure—to myself? to the baby?) a thoughtful, emotional post that reflects on the last days of this pregnancy, most likely my last pregnancy (although that’s definitely a topic of another post). But the work is weighing heavily on me, and I don’t feel in a position to write something—anything—that really makes sense.

So here is the dull and dry update on what’s going on.

Baby: Still not here, but moving around lots, making it somewhat uncomfortable at times, but I can’t complain. I do enjoy feeling him move, even if he kicks my ribs or punches my cervix, making me wince in pain for a few seconds.

Me: Spike in my usually “barely alive” blood pressure around 36-37 weeks. Lots of blood and urine tests (including the lovely 24-hour urine test, which was both gross and comical at the same time). Results come back normal. BP still high a week later, so they begin to worry about preeclampsia. I am sent to the hospital for monitoring for a few hours. More tests. All normal. They send me home with another 24-hour urine test jug (fun!). Modified bed rest prescribed. The 24-hour test comes back with elevated protein levels, but not high enough to think about inducing labor. However, I am to remain on bed rest until the baby arrives. I begin panicking about work—my replacement doesn’t arrive until October 29, and I was planning on spending a week training her. I have so much to do before I leave. Stress is not good for my blood pressure, so it becomes a vicious circle—I worry about work that’s not going to get done, which raises my blood pressure, which makes me worry about the baby coming any day now, which makes me worry about work that’s not going to get done, and so on. The night of October 21, I wake up in painful contractions. I spend the next 90 minutes trying to figure out if there is any pattern to the contractions. I keep saying, “No, not today, I am not ready for this today, I need at least one more week.” And that’s when I finally—and suddenly, as if someone slaps me in the face—snap out of this ridiculous concern about work. I remember how much I wanted this baby. I remember how much I prayed that he be healthy. I remember how much I begged that he would have an actual birthday—not another unrealized due date. And I feel at peace. I feel so excited to meet him, so excited that this could be the day. My contractions fade, and I fall asleep.

My to-do list is still long, and it is still on my mind. But at this point, I am taking it one day at a time. I try to end each work day as if tomorrow I won’t be turning on my computer. The world will continue to turn if my work goes undone. I would still prefer to make it to November 3, the actual due date, but I am ready for my new little man at any time. I can not wait to meet him.

Trouble with Love

Child was 10 days late. He was scheduled to make his appearance on Saturday after Thanksgiving, but instead we celebrate his birthday in the second week of December. My water broke at home, and the midwife on call suggested that we wait to go to the hospital until the contractions got more frequent and powerful. For some reason, I imagined it would be a mad rush to the hospital when I went into labor. That’s how it is in the movies, right? Instead, we stayed at the house for about six hours, with nothing to do. The bag was already packed. The car seat was installed. What else was there to do? Thus, I chose to spend that time having a major breakdown. Leaning over the exercise ball to help with back labor as I watched reruns of the old Saturday Night Live, I realized that after today, after we walk out the door this evening, my life would never be the same. And I suddenly decided that I very much liked my life the way it was and very much wanted it to remain the same. I didn’t need a change. I was not ready for this baby. Who did he think he was, to just barge into my life and turn it upside down? I already had someone whom I loved more than the world itself. I could not imagine loving anyone—anyone—more than I loved Husband. My heart was full, there were no vacancies. And despite feeling absolutely in love with this little being inside my belly for months and months, despite waiting for his arrival with such excited anticipation, at that very moment, I did not know if I could love this baby as much as he deserved. And so I cried.

By the time we got to the hospital, labor was taking over my body and mind, so I could no longer continue thinking about any of this. I had a task at hand—to deliver the baby.

When they put him on my belly, so long and so big, I could not believe he fit inside me. They cleaned him and swaddled him and gave him to me to hold. He was all mine. With those plump cheeks and red lips and squished nose. I was in awe. He was all mine, and I could not imagine loving anyone more.

There is no question that I want everything to be OK with this baby, the one who is currently swooshing around in my belly. I have wanted him so much and for so long. I absolutely can not wait to meet him, to hold him, to watch him grow. But I have to admit that there are rare moments when I feel just as I did that evening almost four years ago—that everything in my life is perfect just the way it is. I have an amazing husband and a perfect little boy who makes my heart melt. And I wonder if I could ever love this baby as much as I love them. And the guilt of these thoughts is completely overwhelming.

Honey Sweet

When I first found out that Child was going to be a boy, I was a bit concerned. What am I going to do with a boy? I had no idea how boys worked. I am a girl, after all, and an only child. My mom is a girl, also an only child. My side of the family did not have any exposure to little boys for many, many years. So I felt a bit unprepared for all the boy things. Will I be able to relate to a little boy? In retrospect, my thinking and my concerns were very stereotypical and somewhat sexist. I worried about how I would deal with his thrill-seeking nature, complete lack of fear or inability to stay put for a minute without running off to do something. All those are huge parts of his personality, and I have learned to accept and love them because they are what makes him who he is—a very typical boy. But what I was not prepared for was the amount of love, the compassion, the sweetness, the sensitivity and the caring that are housed in his little body. Nowhere did these attributes exhibit themselves more strongly than in relation to the coming baby.

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Child: Mommy, where is the baby going to sleep?

Me: He will sleep in mommy and daddy’s room in a little crib.

Child: Can the baby please sleep with me in my room? My bed is big enough, and I can keep the baby nice and warm and rub his back if he cries.

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When we first told him that a new baby was growing in mommy’s tummy, he asked two questions: How did the baby get there and how is it going to get out. Interestingly enough, although Husband and I discussed how to share this news with Child on several occasions, we were not prepared for those questions coming from a three-year-old. But we managed. Our very basic explanation seemed to satisfy him, and then he said, as if he has been thinking about this for years, “If the baby is a boy, we will name him Alex. If it is a girl, we will name her Sarah.” Mind you, he does not know anyone named Alex, and while we have a friend named Sarah, Child does not see her often enough to think of her name right away. After we found out that the baby was a boy, he renamed the baby Fireman Sam (after a PBS cartoon) and there is absolutely no arguing with him about it. “It is not Sam. It is Fireman Sam.” I think it is starting to grow on me.

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Child: Mommy, is it dark in your belly?

Me: Yes, it is pretty dark.

Child: I don’t want the baby to be scared. Do you think we can get the flashlight to the baby through your belly button? I can share it with the baby, and he can give it back to me when he doesn’t need it anymore.

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Every night, before he goes to sleep, he kisses my belly and says goodnight to the baby through my belly button. The routine is repeated in the morning when he wakes up, except at this time, instead of whispering, he treats the belly button as the loud speaker.

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Child: Mommy, can the baby come out now? I really, really miss him.

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During a recent severe thunderstorm, he hugs my belly and says: “Don’t worry, baby. I am here with mommy and I will keep you safe.”

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Before heading to the hospital to check on the baby when I fell, Child rushed upstairs right as we were heading out the door. Lots of commotion ensued, and he finally emerged from his room dragging the baby car seat, the baby bouncer and a few baby toys that were stored in his closet. “We have to get these set up for the baby. When he comes home, I want him to know I have been waiting for him.”

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Seriously, sometimes his sweetness makes me cry.

Never a dull moment

Just when I am ready to finally relax and stop worrying about one thing or another, something new pops up. I guess I am a worrier. I guess it could be a lot worse. And getting this out on virtual paper makes me realize that I am a very fortunate person in so many wonderful ways. So instead of complaining, allow me to simply list two of the adventures of the last few weeks in the most objective manner possible.

1. Child, my fantastic sleeper who slept through the night at a tender age of two months and never really had sleep issues, began having night terrors about three weeks ago. He wakes up roughly two hours after going to sleep, absolutely frantic. His eyes are wide open, he points to the door or the shelf or the wall and either speaks gibberish or says something that absolutely doesn’t make sense (I don’t want babies to blow bubbles, for example). His legs are hard as a rock. He is completely inconsolable. Five to 10 minutes later, he lays down and falls back to sleep. I can’t even begin to tell you how unsettling it is to see your child like this.

At first, we thought he had major leg cramps, and that’s what was waking him up screaming. We thought it was growing pains or potassium/calcium deficiency or just a result of being too active during the day. We pushed water and bananas before bedtime. We massaged his legs. About a week later, we realized that he didn’t acknowledge us when this happened. He was in his own world, completely overcome by fear and not able to snap out of it. And it was then that I finally remembered reading about night terrors a couple of years ago. We.bMD article described his behavior to a tee. Except that I have no idea why he started having those. His sleeping pattern has been the same for a long time, there has been nothing new in our lives (seems that the stay at grandparents was too long ago to be a suspect), he has not seen any scary movies. Not knowing the answer makes me uneasy.

2. Last Friday our nanny was on vacation, so I took the day off to hang out with Child. We had a fantastic day, and after his nap, we headed to a farmer’s market in our neighborhood to pick up some fresh produce. As I was crossing the parking lot, I tripped on the curb and took a dive right in front of a moving car. I was holding Child’s hand and let go before I fell, but he continued holding on, so he went down with me. Thankfully, the car stopped, although it would have been nice if the driver offered to help instead of yelling, “you OK?” through the window. I got up, picked up crying Child who scraped his hands, picked up my bag and moved to the sidewalk to assess the situation. Child calmed down quickly and began the never-ending string of questions (have I ever mentioned that he is incapable of not talking for even a minute) that began with “Why did you fall?” He seemed OK; the jar of jam that I just bought did not break; so it was time to assess me. And that was when Child and I both looked down at my legs, and he started wailing at the sight of blood flowing freely from my scraped knees. Damn, I forgot how much it hurts to scrape you knees! My sweet, compassionate child was in a complete state of panic because he was so worried that I was hurt, so I had to pick him up (the whole 44 pounds of him) and carry him across the parking lot to an ice cream parlor with a bathroom. Thankfully, there was a cake in the display window with a big excavator design, which made him forget his worries and stop crying (because construction vehicles have that impact on three-year-olds), so I could go use the bathroom to clean up the bloody mess.

About half an hour later, as we were driving to the metro to pick up Husband, I noticed a fair amount of discomfort in my belly, and for the first time, the thought hit me like a bolt of lightning: “What if I hurt the baby?” I can not tell you why this did not occur to me earlier. Obviously, taking care of the child who is outside the womb takes a much higher priority than the one inside the womb. I don’t know if this is instinct or what. But I felt like a horrible mother to the baby. I called the doctor, and of course, they told me to come in. So we, as a family, spent a lovely Friday evening at the hospital (I say it sarcastically, although Child actually seemed to have a great time because all of the nurses were doting on him with popsicles and cookies and letting him press all sorts of buttons on the bed).

Everything turned out fine, thankfully, and we were back at home before midnight. But it made me realize just how much I am afraid of preterm labor. As we were checking in, I overheard the nurse making NICU arrangements for a 29-week-old baby boy who was born just minutes ago. Two years ago, a close friend gave birth to a 32-weeker. I knew absolutely nothing about preemies then, so I did all of the reading I could get my hands on. I wanted to know how to support my friend and what was in store for her baby. She is now a tall, chunky, beautiful, brilliant two-year-old. But will that baby boy who was born on Friday night have the same fate? I sure hope so.

So let me make a full circle to the first paragraph. I am grateful for every day that this baby stays in my belly and continues to grow. I am grateful that Child’s nighttime troubles appear to be harmless and do not affect his activities or attitude during the day.

While I am far from grateful for the 110-degree heat index outside (I kid you not), I am grateful for my air conditioner and for the opportunity to spend a few days in Chicago next week to escape the heat.

I am grateful that my life is just the way it is—with some adventures and so many things to be grateful for.

So it WAS nothing, but…

He is fine. He is perfectly fine. He is perfect. He has two lips and a nose and all those other facial features that we were missing in the last scan. He was very cooperative for the scan and was constantly opening and closing his mouth. It was awesome, and I could not believe how much clearer everything was—compared to a month ago.

But… There is one minor, tiny, completely insignificant to the big picture “but.” He is measuring roughly two weeks ahead of schedule and weighing in at 2 ½ lbs. The significance of the weight did not hit me until I remembered that my most recent weekly e-mail from babycenter said that the baby should be measuring at roughly 1 ¼ lbs. at 24 weeks. Yowza. The lil dude is twice the size of a normal baby at this stage!

And that’s where having a point of comparison becomes both reassuring and somewhat unnerving. It is reassuring because four years ago, Child’s development during this scan measured roughly a week ahead of time and his legs were measuring two weeks ahead, so obviously growing bigger babies is what my body does. It is, however, somewhat unnerving because Child did end up greeting the outside world at 9 ½ lbs., and this makes me wonder just how big this baby is going to be if he is already a week ahead of his older brother.

Husband and I are not small people: he is 6’3”, I am 5’8”, but our weight is in the normal range (though I have been a bit frumpy from lack of regular exercise over the last few yeas). My weight gain in the second trimester has been above average, but I blame a week of glorious food in Vegas for that.

So being a normal, reasonable woman who is not at all prone to overreacting, I have now successfully self-diagnosed myself with gestational diabetes and sentenced myself to a c-section. OK, I am exaggerating a bit, but those thoughts have crossed my mind. Neither of those two issues would be a huge deal, but I would prefer to avoid both.

I have my glucose screen in less than three weeks, so I will have at least one of the answers then. In the meantime, I feel so blessed and so lucky to be where I am. Just look at him, isn’t he gorgeous?

It is probably nothing, but…

These really aren’t the words you want to hear in relation to your unborn child. Sure, there are much, much worse things to hear, and all of us have played out those scenarios in our heads, so I am not going to go there.

During my last appointment, the OB mentioned that the results of my level 2 scan were not in my file (the ultrasound practice operates independently of my OB/GYN practice and sends the results to the doctor’s office a few days after the u/s is completed). She said she would find my results and give me a call only if there was a problem. That evening, the phone rang, and as soon as I saw the caller ID, my heart started pounding. I did not expect the call; I was so certain that everything looked good—that’s what the radiologist said during the scan. When I picked up the phone, the conversation started with those five words: “It is probably nothing but…” I had to sit down, just in case. The OB did not like what she saw on the pictures of the baby’s face. The pictures of the lips and mouth were either not clear enough or nonexistent (I was panicking, so I can’t remember for sure). She asked if we had any family history of cleft lip or cleft palate. I said that I did not think so, but there is a lot in my family history that I don’t know about. “Would you like to go in for another scan?” Of course, I said yes.

To be completely honest, I am not that worried, which is evident by the fact that I have not googled the condition at all—and that is pretty rare for me. I do actually believe her that it is probably nothing. If it is, indeed, a cleft problem, we’ll deal with it. There are far, far worse things that can happen. I even hesitated to write this post, especially after what Bumble, Watson, Faith and Julia have been going through these last couple of weeks with their babies. But as today’s scan approaches, I am getting more nervous. The baby is a month older now—what if they see something else that wasn’t quite obvious before? What if?

I had lots of worries when I was pregnant with Child, but probably not more than any “regular” first-time mom (meaning, one who did not experience IF or pregnancy loss). He gave us quite a few scares in the first trimester with lots of cramps and bleeding, but even after that, I worried. I worried about what I ate and drank, I worried about accidentally waking up on my back, I worried about water being too hot when getting my pedicure, I worried about not doing enough Kegels, I worried A LOT about labor. (It is amazing how much I do not worry about any those things this time around.) Back then, I could not wait to finally have him out of my body just so I wouldn’t have to worry so much. And then he was born, and I realized that the real worry had only just begun.

You never stop worrying about the “what if.”

The Trip

Or: When years of good luck come back to bite me in the ass

So as I bitched about previously, the last few months of my work life have been preoccupied with preparing for our company’s annual conference. It is always a busy time for me, but this year, the word busy did even come close to describing it.

But despite multiple snafus, the world continued to turn, and we departed from our lovely East Coast city on a long journey to the West. The trip involved making a two-day stop smack in the middle of the country to drop off Child who was to spend eight days with Husband’s parents while Husband and I (we both work for the same company—and no, that’s not where we met) headed out to work in S.in C.ity. Don’t ask me why I did this, but of the four flights I booked, three departed roughly at 6 a.m. The only flight that didn’t depart before the sun was up actually left when the sun was going down—around 7:45 p.m. It was our first flight of the trip. And it was 3 and a half hours late departing. I went to the airport straight from work (read: uncomfortable clothes and even more uncomfortable shoes). Child was so excited to get on the airplane he woke up an hour early and refused to nap during the day (read: an overtired three-year-old who waited ALL DAY—and that is a LONG time for a three-year-old—just to get on the plane). And there we were, still waiting to board the plane at 11 p.m. When it became clear that we will be able to leave the city after all, I called the car rental company to tell them that we will be arriving to pick up the car around 12:30 a.m. (not 9 p.m., as we expected). To this, the national headquarters told me that all local desks close at midnight, so we will have to wait until 5 a.m. next morning to pick up the car. I negotiated, I pleaded, I begged. “No, ma’am, the desks close at midnight. Our employees need sleep, after all.” Let me just say that this mo-fo probably did not get a good night of sleep after hearing what came out of my mouth next. That’s all I am going to say about that. After hanging up on him, I called the local desk. “Oh, no, ma’am, we don’t close until all flights have landed. And by the way, we are all out of Che.vy Av.eo economy cars that you requested—would it be OK for you to take a Toyo.ta Highl.ander instead, at no extra charge?” There is a special place in heaven for people like Crystal from Omaha airport.

We finally arrived at Husband’s parents around 3 a.m. Exactly 48 hours later, Husband and I kissed our sweet sleeping boy good-bye and drove back to the airport for a 6 a.m. flight to Las Vegas. I got all my crying out of the way the night before, so I was able to say my quiet good-bye without any tears shed. Child handled the separation as well as I could have hoped for. He was lonesome for us, he asked about us, but he enjoyed his time with the grandparents, aunt, uncle and 18-month old cousin. Let me state for the record that everything you hear about grandparents spoiling their grandchildren rotten is true. 100% true. We are still dealing with the fallout from that, after being back for two weeks now.

So at this point, you say, “Oh well, Kate, delayed flight. Not that big of a deal.” And I say, wait, there is more.

We arrived in Vegas roughly as exhausted as we were in week 2 of Child’s life. And that’s before the Conference even began. (For the fear of making this post so ridiculously long that even I won’t have the patience to read through it to self-edit, I will share my thoughts on Vegas in another installment.) Eight days later, after getting three hours of sleep, we headed to the airport for our flight back to pick up Child. I was almost shaking with anticipation of seeing him. I literally teared up every time I thought about seeing his face. During our layover in Denver, we checked the information board and discovered that there was an earlier flight to Omaha, making our layover only 30 minutes instead of two hours. But the grumpy gate attendant told us we could not get on that flight because our bags were already checked on the later flight. We were a bit disappointed, but we patiently waited two hours for our scheduled flight. When we got to the gate to board, we discovered that our plane was downsized from a 130-passenger jet to a 60-passenger one. And all flights to Omaha for the remainder of the day were full (it was 10 a.m. at this point). Panic ensued. People were yelling. People were shoving. People were crying. Someone was going to miss a sister’s wedding. Someone was going to miss an important business meeting. Someone was going to be picked up by an elderly brother who lives four hours from the airport and there was no way to contact him to tell him to go back. It was madness.

We have seen the Amazing Race, so instead of joining the chaos, Husband pulled out the cell phone and called a travel agent. There were three seats on a flight to Omaha at 10 p.m. that night. “Hold them,” said Husband. And it was at this point that I realized that I was not going to see my boy that day. No matter what—whether we took the evening flight, drove 10 hours to get to Omaha or stayed in Denver overnight, I was not going to see him (at least not see him awake) on that day. And I lost it. I sat down in the corner and completely broke down. I tell you this because I don’t think I could ever understand this reaction if I saw someone else breaking down like this. I would have thought, “that seems like overreacting.” And maybe it was. Maybe it was the fatigue, the hormones, whatever, but I could not stop crying. So if you were at the Denver airport in late June and saw a pregnant woman in a purple shirt sitting in a corner and weeping, don’t think less of her. She just wanted to see her baby.

We spent another three hours at the airport: first one, trying to make sure our bags were staying in Denver, and the other two—in line at Customer Service to figure out what the airline will reimburse us for. By that time, it was too late to drive. We opted not to take the evening flight to Omaha because it would have made for a long day at the airport, another really late night and an inconvenience for Husband’s parents who would have had to drive 90 minutes to the airport in the middle of the night to pick us up. We decided to stay in Denver and take a 6:30 flight (yes, I am not kidding, another 6 o'clock flight) the next morning. The airline gave us vouchers for food and hotel. We grabbed lunch at a Mexican chain restaurant at the airport, where Husband ordered soft tacos. Instead, he got hard-shelled tacos. And that was the end of the rope for him. All he wanted was for SOMETHING to go right. At least something as simple as tacos. If he only knew what was to come next.

At the baggage claim our bags were not there, despite the fact that we spent an hour making sure and being completely assured that our bags did not go to Omaha on the original flight but instead stayed in Denver. So we were left to spend the night in Denver with only my purse, Husband’s laptop and “Build Your Own Monster” gift for Child. The hotel the airline put us in was 40 minutes away, and when we finally checked in and entered our room, ready to collapse from exhaustion and frustration, we discovered that someone already had that idea: there was a half-naked man sleeping on the bed in our room. At that point, there was nothing else to do but laugh. We exchanged the key in hopes of getting a room without existing occupants, and that’s when we got a call (…cue the angels singing…) from our lovely, amazing friend who lives north of Denver, telling us that he just got our message and is on his way to come rescue us from this place, treat us to as many drinks as necessary (oh, how I needed one!) and supply us with toothpaste, toothbrushes, a hot shower and a comfy bed in his gorgeous house in the mountains, not to mention a chance to catch up with his fabulous family and two adorable Golden Retrievers.

And that (...cue triumphant music...) was the end of our misfortune. Seeing Child’s smiling face and excited “Mommy, Daddy!” the next morning as soon as he spotted us standing at the curb at Omaha airport was the sweetest sight of all, and I could barely hold in the tears. And he didn't mind me hugging the heck out of him.

The moral of the story is… Who am I kidding, there is no moral. It is just a huge brain dump of complaining. I know that shit happens when you travel. But this shit doesn’t happen to me—hence the sub-title of this post. We travel a lot—for work and for pleasure. But in the 10+ years that Husband and I have been together, we’ve had fewer delayed/missed flights than I can count on two hands. The bad luck finally caught up with us on this one. I just hope that now we are delay-free for another 10 years.

Due Date

Dear baby not to be,

Today would have been your due date. 7-11. The OB at my first appointment joked that with this due date, I should get a free slurpy. It wasn’t funny then, and it isn’t now.

They were right, time does dull the pain. But I still think of you every day. I am still sad that I never got to meet you. I am still heartbroken that my body failed you. Other than a digital picture of the positive pregnancy test, there is no proof that you ever existed. And yet I miss you so much.

I wish I had you in my arms today. Instead, I wipe my tears and stare at the little angel figurine holding a child. I hope the angel is taking good care of you, my baby. I miss you.

In-Between Hiatus

...Or is it hiatuses? Does hiatus come in plural?

In any case, I can’t even begin to describe how hectic the last two months have been—mostly because of work. I admit, I blog during work. When else would I do it? Between a full-time job, attention-requiring three-year-old, preschool pick up and drop off, taking care of the house (oh, who am I kidding, the house is a mess, I am a complete failure as a housekeeper) and attempting to have a little bit of child-free time to catch up with Husband in the evenings—the only time I can write is when I am at work. Call me a bad employee. I call it therapy. I love blogging because it gives me time to think. It makes me feel better. Sometimes, it even helps me figure out why I feel the way I do. Work has been so incredibly busy for the last two months that I have not had a chance to take a break to think and write. But lying awake in the middle of the night, I found myself composing posts in my head—and while that didn’t quite have the therapeutic power of writing, it did help me sort a lot of thoughts out. Otherwise, I would be a basket case by now.

And I wish I could tell you that the reason I am writing today is because the insanity is finally over. Alas, it isn’t. This evening, I am leaving town for two weeks to attend the conference that I have been so busy preparing for. In route to the conference, we are dropping Child off at my in-laws in the Midwest (since Husband is working at the said conference as well). I am looking forward to visiting a city I have never been to. I can’t wait to catch up with old friends who decided to make a trip and meet up with us while we are at the conference. I am exhausted to even think about the crazy schedule ahead of me. I am concerned about finding the right balance between taking it easy on myself because I am pregnant—and not appearing incapable or in need of special treatment because I am pregnant. I am salivating already just thinking about amazing restaurants we’ll get to dine at on the company dollar.

Most of all, I am torn between these two: I am beyond thrilled to spend some child-free time with the man I love but I am almost in tears every time I think of leaving the Child without his parents for eight days. We did it once before, two years ago, when the conference was in California. He did well, but he was only 18 months old then. He is 3 ½ now—and so much more aware of the world. I know he will have a good time with his grandparents. He has been excited about this visit for weeks, asking nearly every day when we are going to grandma and grandpa’s house, and last night he was so excited he could not fall asleep until past 11 p.m. But I also know that he will be sad and he will miss us much more than he did two years ago. And it makes my heart ache.

…Breathe in, breathe out…

A lot has happened since I went on my blogging hiatus, but everything pales in comparison to last week’s level II scan. We have a perfectly growing baby with a beautiful profile, 10 fingers, 10 toes and very unmistakable boy parts. When I was pregnant with Child, everyone around me was sure that it would be a boy. So the ultrasound was no surprise. This time around, there wasn’t quite as much consensus, but a good 80% of people thought it would be a girl. So I went in with that expectation—and the surprise of it was absolutely amazing. I do not have enough words to describe just how excited I am to have a boy. Is it wrong to want more of what I already have? Two boys who may grow up to be as amazing as their dad? I can’t think of a better wish.

I have talked a lot about detachment and disconnect I have felt with this pregnancy. They are no more. While I know that a lot of things can still go wrong in the next 20 weeks, this pregnancy finally feels real and not consumed by fear. And having a boy is a big contributor to that. Don’t get me wrong, all I want is a healthy baby. I would be very, very excited about a girl, but I think I would have a bit more apprehensive about it, just because it is an unknown territory for me. With a boy, I know what to expect. And he could be—and probably is quite likely to be—completely different than Child, but at least I know what to expect at the beginning.

We are half way through this pregnancy, and I really hope that the second half is much more peaceful and relaxed than the first.

I am

Lovely Sarah tagged me (my first tag, yay) with the I Am meme. And the only thing I can write in relation to this is:

I AM BUSY.

So busy at work it is not even funny. The busiest I have ever been in the three+ years in this job. And the outlook is not good. I am pretty sure at least one of my projects is going to fall behind (no fault of mine—I got my stuff done way before the deadline), and I am going to get some serious beating for it (because that’s what you get when you are considered a project manager).

In about 10 days, it should get better, at least somewhat better. And I promise to write the meme then, as well as millions of other thoughts that have been swirling in my head.