Run Fast For Your Mother

There are three things you learn very quickly about me if you are my friend. I am a mom. I am a runner. I am a lawyer. Reason being 85% of my life is dedicated to these three things. The remaining bits of me focus on cooking, husband, cocktails, and family.

Running and motherhood. Dang. Such blurred lines. So much similarities in these endeavors. So many similar feelings experienced day in and day out as I log my miles and go through my daily rituals with my kids. As a lifelong learner...I have found that running has made me a healthier mom and motherhood has made me a stronger runner.

Part 1: 9 Things Motherhood Has Taught Me About Running

(1) We Live to Fight Another Day: The days are long, the years are fast. And in motherhood, sometimes, the days are just so very long. I remember being so tired a little less than a year ago that I cried for basically weeks on end. I was in love with my newborn but he didn't sleep and his tummy issues kept us from really enjoying each other. I remember thinking it will never get better. I will never figure this baby out. Then those times when you snap at your toddler. Yuck. You lose your cool, you say something you don't mean and you hurt your kid's feelings. I have not been prepared for the complexity and the way that my four year old expresses hurt and anxiety and frustration. He will look at me through tears and say "when you tell me to hurry when I'm doing my best I get scared and hurt feelings because I am trying." Dagger. In. Heart.

When those days happen, I focus on the fact that kids are very quick to forgive. By the next morning, we reset, we try again. And usually as a parent, I have learned an important lesson. And so you must  learn and grow. You must be content in the reality that you get to start over tomorrow.

No matter what baggage you bring to running, you get a do-over button anytime you need one. I really appreciated that button this summer. I have not trained well for my next marathon. I've missed more runs that I could count. And yet...I make peace. 8 years ago (when I started doing marathons), I mentally degraded myself when I squandered a race. I would lose it if I didn't meet a running goal on any given day. It took the fun right out of running.  Since becoming a mama, I am far more forgiving of myself with my running. I know if I want to be faster and better I need to change up my plan and just do what it takes. If I don't do what it takes? There is always tomorrow. I have a day job and running is not it. As a result, I have to make peace when I let myself down. And many times I wake up again, with the beautiful and wonderful realization that I get to try again tomorrow.

(2) Coffee is Always the Answer: pretty simple. Motherhood = sleep deprivation. Running requires the same. Most of runners have day jobs. We have lives beyond running.

But if you love something, you give it your all. And sometimes that means staying up all night with a sick kid. Or getting up every two hours to soothe and feed a newborn. And for that? God made coffee.

If you want to run, you run at all odd hours. You get up at 4am and run 10 miles on abandoned streets while the world sleeps. Then you go to work with wet hair and you sit at your day job and recognize that familiar exhaustion. And for that? God made coffee. Warm, soothing, creamy, delicious coffee.

(3) Consistency is Key: When I was growing up my mom did in home day care. She said to me, for as long as I can remember, babies and children need routines and consistency. Consistency is absolutely vital to having a well balanced, well behaved, "good" kid. Oh mama you are SO RIGHT. My babies thrived on routine. And when it comes to discipline, you better never, ever let something slide that you aren't okay with all the time. A no no is always a no no. ALWAYS.

If you want to succeed as a runner you have to be consistent. You cannot imagine the results you will see if you are just consistent. Add nothing else to your training except consistency and you will make enormous progress. My husband (an incredibly accomplished runner) has a running streak of 4 or more miles each day for something crazy like 6 years. While it is completely crazy, it helps his body endure all the training. His body knows the routine, his legs can always carry him. And it's because he has never allowed himself to just take a month off for no reason or slack off on the holidays. Tragically, where I am right now...I could not be less consistent if I tried. Luckily I know lesson Number 1. And I plan to try again tomorrow. And maybe the day after that.

(4) The More Determined You Are the More Results You Get: When I was a brand new mom, in 2009, I knew I was going to have a really short maternity leave. And I knew in order to do what I needed to do to survive as a mommy lawyer, I needed my baby to be a good sleeper. Some say kids are just "born" sleepers. While I believe some are easier than others to coach, I will say this. I was determined Eliot would sleep through the night early and he did. Due to my obsession with this benchmark, I read every book, I had a strict routine, I made every decision during the day those first few months based on what I needed to do to ensure he slept that night. And sleep he did. And so did I. And we all lived happily ever after. Fast forward to his little brother. I was a slacker with the sleeping ritual thing. I was not determined and did not follow strict routines and guess what? Turkey did not sleep until the husband looked at me when Turkey was 8 months old and said "It's time. We all have to get some sleep." The next week, we focused. We were determined and guess what? In a week's time he was trained and is now almost the sleeper his brother was!

You can set any goal you want in running. But unless you are fully committed, unless you are truly "all in", you will not see the results you want. You cannot finish a marathon without some level of commitment, some sacrifice and frankly just some stubbornness. The bigger the goal, the more determination required. Anybody can run but if you want results (and who doesn't?) you have to do your homework, be strict with yourself on the hard days and remind yourself it is all worth it!

(5) Nothing is Sweeter Than Bedtime: Ask any mother. She will tell you watching her children sleep is one of the best moments you get. They are peaceful, they make little sucking motions with their mouths (O.M.G.), they are warm. Often they are soft and smell like heaven from a bath. Oh bedtime, it turns any hellion into an angel. I regularly sneak in and look at my sleeping kids and just break into prayers of thanks.

Ask any runner. Maybe you used to stay out until 2am drinking with friends on the weekend. Now, you cannot wait to get to bed at 9 so you can get up at 5 and run for 3 hours! Sound crazy? Perhaps. But most runners I know value sleep and sleep better than the average person. So many in our society place no value on a good nights sleep despite every study and doctor telling you how important it is. Runners call it recovery. I call it vital to my mental health. And that feeling, the one of falling into bed the night of a marathon or after a long hard run? Of surrendering your body to sleep, knowing that it just did something amazing? Yea, it's pretty sweet.

(6) You Can Handle Far More Pain Than You Could Ever Imagine Possible: So for months now, you've gone to prenatal appointments. You worked with your doctor. You read your books and developed a birthing plan. You've prepared for D-Day in the hospital. You are as ready as you can be. But truth be told, nothing in this world can really prepare you for labor and delivery.

There is no pain that compares to the overwhelming contractions of early to mid labor. Nothing in this world will just completely take away your ability to breath, to cry, to speak, like labor and delivery. Literally, pieces of you are split into pieces, torn, ripped, cut. You bleed. You weep. You scream (sometimes). Sometimes a doctor fillets your belly open like a trout. Sometimes you have a needle the size of a rolling pin shoved INTO YOUR SPINE. You ask yourself how are you possibly going to get through this. And then you do.

You survived. You made it. You are strong. So very very strong. Your body is a miracle. Baby's body is a miracle. And you reached your finish line. Your body just created another human being. You survived the most painful (natural) process we humans go through. It wasn't pretty but you are stronger than you ever imagined.

Now, go race a half marathon or a 5K. You hurt. You sweat. You might even cry. But you know, deep down inside, the pain truly is not going to kill you. It's just a sign that maybe, just maybe, a miracle is about to happen.

(7) Pain Is Temporary and Not Worth Remembering: Along with all of the blood and tears and agony of childbirth, the brain does this very funny thing. It forgets it. As soon as the baby is laid on your chest, the pain begins to subside. And over the next few weeks, as you heal, the body begins to forget the pain. The mind dulls the memory of it.

I learned through childbirth that the pain was worth it. And most importantly I could process through its necessity. If I wanted a baby, I had to go through it. Once they were here, I could not have cared less, for one second, about the pain. I let it go. There was no resentment for the pain they caused because it was temporary. As all consuming as pain might be while you are experiencing it, once it is past you can let it go.

And why hold on to it? I don't. It isn't worth the memory. My favorite memory of Eliot being born is how alert and beautiful he was looking at me and Scott the first hour. My favorite memory of Nicholas is how much he snuggled us both. Sure, childbirth hurt. But who cares? The pain of childbirth is now relegated to my past and is over.

I gained so much more by just accepting that you can't truly avoid pain. It's part of life. And equally, running includes pain. If you want to run a marathon, it will hurt. You can make it hurt worse by running it faster, but there is a very strong possibility that if you run, you will experience pain. Remember, it's okay. Yes, get the nagging chronic pain looked at by a doctor. Follow medical advice. But just remember, pain is temporary. You want to set a new record for yourself? You want to run farther than you've ever run? You want to climb a mountain in a trail run? Be prepared for pain. I've learned how to coach myself through the pain and recognize that it is okay. And that after the fact, it really is not worth dwelling on.

(8) One Size Does Not Fit All:  If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. In parenting, you have the ability try literally unlimited possibilities. Do you want to breast feed or bottle feed? Do you want to home school or private school or public school? Do you want to focus on faith at an early age or let your little person find it themselves?

No matter what challenge you face as a parent, I have learned that I just need to keep the faith.  Every challenge as a parent can derail you. Your kid won't eat and you try one strategy to set that problem straight. Maybe strategies 1-9 don't work but strategy 10? Perfect. Your kid is a complicated human being who is not you and does not necessarily react like you think they will. One size does not fit all.

With running, you have a goal. Maybe you reach your goal, maybe not. But don't give up! Just because speed work on a track, doing 400 repeats did not garner the results you expected does not mean you cannot ever improve your 5K time. Maybe what you need is just some tempo runs. There are 110 solutions to every running problem. Keep the faith that one size does not fit all. And that is okay.

Just to keep trying. Eventually you'll get it right.

(8) Singing the Same Song on Repeat is Soothing: both of my boys love being sung to. Even Eliot at age 4 1/2 wants to know every night whether there is time for a song.  And so we sing through our stock lullabies. Twinkle Twinkle, followed by Amazing Grace and rounding it out with You Are My Sunshine. The routine closes the day and every night we smile to each other. Sometimes Eliot sings along, sometimes he cuddles, sometimes he just stares and listens. But we soothe each other with these moments. Nicholas is similarly in love with song. I sing and he nestles into my hair and quietly listens.

Music and singing can, in fact, create the strongest moments and memories. Sometimes when I hear songs, I am immediately transported back to where I was on which course at which mile. Katie Holmes said when she ran the New York Marathon she just played and replayed "Stronger" by Kanye West until she crossed the finish line. While I mostly run without headphones, especially in races (I think it's cheating but that's another discussion for another day), sometimes, I start singing inside. During miles 18-24 when you think you want to give up, pick a song, any song, and start hearing it in your head. Guess what? Magic. Miles tick off, you will be soothed by beats and the rhythm in your brain.

Of course all things can go too far. One of my favorite stories of running is my husbands 2nd or 3rd 100 mile ultra. He (being terrible with music lyrics) vaguely knows of the Katy Perry classic, "I Kissed a Girl." (and yes, I just said Katy Perry and classic in the same sentence and I didn't even bat an eyelash.) For whatever reason (maybe the song played on the radio on the drive to the race?) he started singing that song. About mile 2. And for the next 98 miles, in his head, Scott heard "I kissed a girl and I liked it. *something something something* cherry chapstick." Over. And over. And over. We nearly had to hospitalize him for Perry-overdose.

(9) Blood Sugar Must be Consistent or Meltdowns Follow: give a kid a cookie? Better hope you have an apple within arms reach an hour later. Trust.

Plan on running a marathon with no nutrition and no plan for how to get nutrition in your body? I look forward to seeing you at mile 16, crying like a 2 year old, walking in a daze and talking about walls.

I kinda already knew this lesson before motherhood but let's just say motherhood solidified what I already knew.

There will be a part 2. What running taught me about motherhood. But as I sit where I am right now, ready to run my 18th marathon in 9 days (!!!!), it certainly is fun to look back and think about all these lessons. And they just keep rolling in.

Snow Day(s)

Last year we had an incredibly mild winter. In the midst of it being incredibly dry, it was mostly warm. I remember distinctly having one painfully cold run on a Saturday (I literally thought I was going to die). But other than that run, it was cool, sometimes cold, but never sustained cold and bitter. One day it snowed. I picked Eliot up for school and we rushed home, changed into snow playclothes. We ran outside and scraped together all of the snow we could and we created:

The wimpiest, saddest, tiniest little snowman EVER. Eliot was thrilled because he had low expectations apparently. We threw some snow at each other, went inside and the next day, wee snowman melted into oblivion.

This year mother nature had other plans. After a mostly mild winter to date (it was 65 on a Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago). After the groundhog told us winter was over. After thinking Santa's gift of red rainboots was perhaps a bit foolish, snow came. By the TRUCKLOAD. And holy cow, it was fun.

Wednesday: drove to town about an hour away for court hearing. By the time I drove back at 10:00 a.m., roads were getting a bit nasty. Wednesday, the snow got serious.

Wednesday night: THUNDERSNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and a foot of the white stuff. For the record, thundersnow happened, I heard it, and it blew my ever-loving mind.

Thursday: family wide snow day. Courts closed. Schools closed. We spent the day shoveling the driveway, playing outside, watching movies and changing out wet cold clothes for dry fuzzy ones.

Friday: Roads were passable. Took Nicholas to work with me and spent the day hanging with baby and attempting to be a lawyer. Scott stayed home with Eliot. Schools were still closed.

Saturday: more clearing of driveway as we were hosting big cocktail party. Weather held off perfectly.

Sunday: more snow. Husband went to grocery store where madness had taken hold of my entire town. As residents prepared for THE END OF THE WORLD, grocery stores sold out of milk and bread. And according to one of my buds, Target sold out of...ladies underwear. Because you just never know.

Monday: schools closed. Boys to my parents. Scott and I worked until 1:00 p.m. when blizzard #2 hit.

Tuesday: the final snow day of them all. I stayed home with both boys and tried to soak in playing hooky for just one last day. Eliot had completely lost his mind and was going stir crazy. I solved this problem by a nearly 2 hour play session in the snow. We played "Empire Strikes Back". We tackled each other and shrieked and laughed until our sides hurt. We jumped off piles of snow. We did not make a snowman. Not for my lack of trying. Kiddo refused to allow any of my work to stand. Each time a snow man started to take shape, he was either ninja kicked, tackled or eviscerated by a light saber. I eventually gave up.

King of Snow Mountain

And I'm FREE. Free fallin.

Gratuituous Hunter Boots Photo Op
to show how deep the snow is.
What? I have wanted these for 10+ years
and finally asked for them. I <3 Santa.

I'm so proud of this shot. I'm not good at visual things like photography...but I'm working on it.

Final cuddles with the kids before life resumes:



This little piece of pudgy perfection grabs my shirt while he's nursing as if to say "hey lady, you're the best and I love and all, but don't you dare think about going anywhere." It slays me everytime.



Brother cuddles whilst watching the super
educational...Spongebob.

 

Yea, they basically own me.



Wednesday: Hot yoga and return to work/ preschool/ day care. SIGH.

I needed a return to routine. I do not function well without a schedule. But this was an unplanned and unanticipated vacation from reality that was just a blast. While in the midst of this we hosted a full on fancy schmancy fun party, I think we had a really lovely break. We made cozy food and watched movies. We let Eliot hang out in his jammies all day. We languished. We read books. We spoiled Nicholas and held him far too much and just kissed all over him.

Due to the fact we don't have a winter like this too often, our local government is completely incapable of getting rid of all the snow and ice when it hits so severely. And I kind of dig that. Every 2 or 4 years, we get buried. We pretend we live somewhere that has a "real" winter. And we hole up. There is something sort of glorious about HAVING to be out of commission.

Start. Stop. Start. Stop.

That would describe my fitness attempts these last few weeks. And my attempts at anything. Every time I gain a hair of momentum, every time I gather up some stubbornness and insistence to get back on the horse, every opportunity I have to get back to it...I have come up short.

I have had one heck of a month or six weeks or six months. I had a tough pregnancy. I had a baby. I had a tough newborn. Husband got sick. Husband got really sick. Husband got pneumonia. I got sick. I got really sick. I stayed sick. I was sick to my stomach off and on for five weeks. Eliot got sick. Eliot got really sick. Eliot was sick off and on for two weeks. And then the crowning glory of it all. Nicholas got sick. Then Nicholas got really sick. And when your three month old is really sick and can't breathe? Your world stops spinning. I was 5 minutes away from taking him to the ER when his horrible cough settled down, he slept in my arms and Scott talked a tearful, panicking me into waiting until 8:00 a.m. to call the pediatrician. I called, he got loaded up on meds and got better in lightening speed. And since February 1, we have all been the mend. We are all trending towards...WELL. And HOLY CRAP am I ever thankful to have a healthy family and a healthy me. *knocking on wood*

And so my last few weeks workouts sort of look like this:

Monday: Tend to puking 4 year old
Tuesday: run 3.8 miles and do hot yoga, go to work and spend entire day stressing about whether 4 year old is keeping his ramen noodles down even though he's home with husband and doing fine. (Does stress constitute a workout?)
Wednesday: sleep until 8:15, attempt to work, sleep at desk.
Thursday: wake to nurse sick baby at 3am and 5am and 7am, cry to my parents that I don't know why we don't have a cure for colds because we can land a man on the moon but can't kill a VIRUS??? Think about going for a run.
Friday: sleep through alarm set to go to yoga. text girlfriend "I can't do it. I'm sorry"
Saturday: yoga. Think "I really should have come to yoga yesterday."
Sunday: church and cook meals for the week. Attempt to clean house.

During the healthy times, I made a GLORIOUS chocolate and vanilla layered cake with semi-sweet chocolate icing and a mocha ganache. And I wanted to blog that baby. I made a remarkably beautiful chocolate peanut butter cheesecake and thought about taking pictures. I hosted my family's annual tamale day and churned out 441 pork tamales with homemade chili ancho sauce. And I still didn't get out the blog. Oooof. Frustration.

I am dying to blog. I am dying to run. I am dying to yoga. I am dying to actually accomplish projects at work instead of stress about what is not getting done. So help me...in February, I am going to bill 180 hours and I am going to run 50 miles and I am going to not spend obscene amounts of money at Walgreens, on tylenol for little people and immodium and 7up.

My January/early February, in pictures:



My maiden name was Lopez, my family gets together once a year and makes hundreds of tamales,
 and it is an all day process of cooking, catching up, eating and laughing. We had so much fun this year.
And my goodness, homemade fresh tamales just WIN. Every time.

Nicholas. The world's longest eyelashes. The world's softest skin.

Just hanging out in the morning in mom and dad's
 room before a work day.  Loving on each other.

Sick baby boy, thankfully still has a Sumo belly.



Sick baby boy. Cuddled with blankie.

Sick baby boy getting breathing treatment that
literally turned him around in 24 hours.

Sick big boy, cuddling his monkey.








Mine. I messed up two things but
I can assure you it tasted RIDICULOUS.
I will make it again.

Food Network's Cake. Scott
challenged me to make it.








Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheesecake.  Or as my friend Gaye said,
"you know how every time you eat a Reeces Peanut Butter Cup you think
'gee if only this were more rich?' This cake solves that problem."

One of my running bff's ran her first FIFTY MILER (you read that right) the first of February. This girl LOVES her some Gosling (and who doesn't?). And I found out you can DIY a Gosling poster for yourself here http://memegenerator.net/Ryan-Gosling-Hey-Girl So obviously, she got a personalized Gosling. As have multiple facebook friends now that I have discovered this amazing website.

Sadly, just about each of these pictures deserves its own blog post. Carry on. Up next in my life...solid foods for the baby, Valentines for my big boy and a Vodka themed cocktail party hosted by me and my Mister.

FLU!!!!!!!!

We have been in the trenches. Of the dreaded flu virus. We all got shots or the spray. But here we are. Cloroxing, changing sheets, washing our hands while singing "Happy Birthday to You" and cloroxing again. While we have taken turns being sick since basically November, it appears that the flu vaccine has helped us not fall complete victim. We are sick, better 24 hours later (which is wonderful compared to some who are sick for 7-10 days.) But we cannot seem to completely shake the basic symptoms of the various viruses out there.  Alternatively, we are ridding ourselves of one virus in time to become infected with another.

We are healthy healthy people. We take vitamins. We eat well. We keep a (mostly) clean house. We exercise quite a bit which I believe there is evidence that our immune systems are bolstered by this. We get our seasonal shots and drink lots of water. Despite this we still fall victim to the communicable diseases floating around out there. All the more reason to stay home when we can during the season of fireplaces and cozy sweaters.

While at home Monday, I did some reading and research on this year's epic flu season. Experts are predicting up to 40,000 people will die this season from flu. FORTY. THOUSAND. I feel like it is everywhere. Every family I know has people getting sick, half of my office has missed work. I'm trying to keep a level head and not just freak out. I guess we can consider it a lesson in control. And reliquinshing it. I cannot control the flu or its impact on my family. I cannot control whether my preschooler will bring home something we cannot seem to shake. I can't control whether the 3 month old shares some drool with another baby and infects us all.

I control what I can. I keep pumping us full of healthy food and water. I keep trying to get us to bed at a reasonable hour. I keep exercising. I keep trying to remember my vitamins, though I seem to do a very mediocre job of that. And I wipe every surface in sight with some sort of disinfectant.

And we wait. We wait out the virus. And we hold our babies when they cry. And we clean up the messes that come with being sick. And we wait. It will be over in a few weeks. The virus will have moved on. How frightening is it to consider the fragility of life? And our precious routines? Everything can fall victim from something you can't see or smell or hear or feel.

It is completely miserable to watch your child be sick. They cling to you, hoping and finding some small comfort in being in your arms. Their eyes glass over and they do not want to play or even eat. I hate it. Scott and I have taken turns staying home with the various little ones when they are sick. And we have taken turns being sick ourselves. I try to take what I can from our together time though. Yesterday I held Eliot while he watched a couple of tv shows. I dozed off while he just languished being in my arms. I tried to cherish that feeling because that sort of phsycial connection seems more magnified and warm when sick. It is very rare that he sits still long enough for me to hold him, especially for 30 minutes.

When I think back in ten years on being a mama to two small little guys, I probably won't remember the sick days. But in their own weird way, sick days come with a wonderful role to play, the role of nurse and supreme comforter. You HAVE to stay home, you HAVE to cuddle, you HAVE to eat warm soup. And while it is awful to be sick, it is wonderful to have someone to share the inevitable  with.

Eliot Michael, a birth story

In honor of my first born's 4th birthday last week, I started to write his story about his birth. Here's what I remember, 4 years later:

I remember so much about my pregnancy with Eliot. I remember distinctly knowing I was pregnant before any test could tell me. After running the hilly Austin marathon in February, 2008, we signed up for a FLAT marathon in May, 2008--Lincoln, Nebraska.  I had noticed a very distinct difference in my body while running in the weeks leading up to Lincoln. I didn't feel bad or fat or bloated. I just felt...different. I knew I was pregnant. The night before the marathon, Scott and I ate pasta at a local restaurant and I declined to drink wine, something I normally loved the night before a big race. Scott said "why do you think you're pregnant?" I responded, "I don't know, I just know that I am." And so I skipped the wine. And 10 days later we confirmed what my heart already knew, a baby was on the way.

At my insistence, we did not find out if Eliot was a boy or girl. It killed Scott not to know. But I loved it.  As an adult I feel that good surprises are just too rare. How often are you truly shocked by something and it turns out it's a good thing? Typically grown up suprises are "surprise! You have cancer." or "Surprise! You are part of the reduction in force." And so...I cherish those moments where life hands me something unexpected and wonderful. And so no matter what we had, a boy or girl, it would be a wonderful surprise. And so I insisted. We were NOT finding out what we were having.

Around five months pregnant I had a dream. I was holding my beautiful baby and rocking it. In my dream the baby was probably 4 months old, laying in my arms and smiling at me. And it was a girl. There really was not much more to the dream but it was clear and distinct. It was a girl. And from that moment on, I was convinced. This baby was a girl. Scott dreamed too. He dreamt we picked our baby up at a big box store along with other expectant parents. And in his dream we were given a boy. And so he was convinced all along we were having a boy.

I gained 45 pounds. And while I certainly packed on the weight, the baby did not seem particularly large (my butt on the other hand...). Even my OB thought it would be a medium or average sized baby. And when she felt around and listened to the heartbeat and looked at how I carried the baby, she said "Yup, a small girl."

Scott and I picked the name Eliot years before we even tried for a baby. Regardless of the sex, the baby would be named Eliot. "Marie" for the girl's middle name. "Michael" for the boy's. We went shopping and purchased two beautiful, soft coming home outfits. One pink, one blue. We decorated the nursery in a deep gold and chocolate brown. We received lots of gender neutral gifts, green jammies and yellow afghans. And we decided on the spelling of Eliot for T.S. Eliot, one of my favorite poets.

Heading into the final weeks of pregnancy I was just insanely busy.  I desperately wanted to finish my appeal brief and I needed probably another 3-4 solid days of work on it. On Sunday, January 11, the Golden Globes were on. I watched the celebrities on the red carpet and I started to labor. I had contractions for hours. I kept looking to Scott. We double checked our bags were ready and we got excited. He got out the video camera to tape me having contractions (brat). And eventually they fizzled. Nothing. I was disappointed but grateful to have another day to work on my brief.

I don't remember much of the next day or night but nothing remarkable happened. My due date was Tuesday the 13th. We woke up Tuesday morning around 6 or 6:15. I got up to go to the bathroom first thing and it happened. My water broke. I couldn't believe it as I did not think it broke first very often (it doesn't). I had zero discomfort. Nothing even resembling a contraction.  And it wasn't the massive gushing you hear about, it was a slight trickle. Regardless, I looked at Scott and said "Well you had better go for your run, I think we are having a baby today!" And he did. He got up, took Pavlov for a run and came home ready to go to the hospital. I was not ready. I showered and straightened my new cut bob. I didn't wear any makeup to the hospital, but dangit, I was going to have perfect hair.

I sat on the couch for a couple of hours procratinating. I worked on the appeal brief! I ate bland food because I knew once I got to the hospital they were not going to let me eat and well, food is important.  I emailed with my paralegal and finally, begrudingly, I called my doctor's office. I said "I think my water broke. I have no contractions though. What should I do?" I was scolded a bit by the nurse who told me I had to go to the hospital immediately. Babies have to be born within 24 hours of the water breaking or risk serious infection. Well, that meant this baby had to be born by 6:00 a.m. on the 14th or I'd be getting a C-section. I desperately wanted to avoid a C-section. That was my number one goal. Other goals for labor and delivery--no pitocin, no intervention, no drugs if at all possible.

Around 8:30 a.m. we headed to the hospital. I told the nurses what had happened and they decided to test to make sure it really was ambiotic fluid (it was). They checked to see if I was dilated. I was a 2.  The same as I had been for the last month. My doctor stopped by and said "well it's time to get labor started. we need to get you going or I'm going to have to start pitocin."  She told me start walking and she would be back in a few hours to "strip my membranes." And so walk I did. I remember strapping on my running shoes and walking, jogging, stretching, jumping around, anything I could think of. The nurses laughed at me as I asked if there was a treadmill available. I remember hearing a woman screaming her head off in another hallway as she labored through natural childbirth. And I remember my confidence taking a huge hit. This was real and maybe I was not quite strong enough to do this?  But I shook it off and kept walking. And perhaps the faintest, lightest of contractions. Nothing of any consequence at all. I knew I had a long day ahead. But after a couple hours of walking, I was a 3. I was thrilled that I had made some solid progress.

My doctor came back and broke my water the rest of the way. And then, oh wow. They started. A very very long day of contractions. I tried many things to try to get comfortable. I got on all fours. I sat on an exercise ball. I stood. I laid on my side. Bottom line--I was miserable. And for hours, I struggled. For several hours, I was sick to my stomach. Every 5 minutes, overwhelming nausea hit me and I'd take off for the bathroom. Nothing could take my mind off of labor, not even movies or card games. The nurse offered me a lighter anethesia in my IV. I accepted. And I hated it. I would have preferred the pain many many times over to the woozy, fuzzy, nauseating feeling of those pain meds. I was exhausted.

After literally hours and hours and hours of laboring and at least 5 million contractions, the nurses checked. I was a 4. All of the blood, sweat and tears and I was nowhere near progressing. At 8:00 p.m. I broke.  I tearfully accepted that I was never going to have the baby and that I was going to end up with a C-section at 6:00 a.m. the next day. I thought "well I might as well have an epidural now and save myself the pain of the next ten hours." I asked for the epidural. Every thing I had ever read said that epidurals slow down labor, often stop the process in its tracks. So I felt pretty depressed at that point. Everything was moving so slow and here I was giving up, slowing it down even more.

But what choice did I have? I hated the less invasive drugs and I could not labor on for hours with no end in sight and no progress being made. My epidural CRNA was wonderful. She came in and comforted me. My nurse, Jennifer, was so supportive. And Scott was so grateful. He was exhausted from watching me in pain with nothing he could do to help. Around 9:00 p.m. I got my block.

The epidural worked and slowly I felt the contractions get less and less intense, until I felt nothing at all. I fell asleep. And I mean I crashed. Exhausted from an entire day of laboring with barely any progress, I just passed out. When I woke up about an hour later, the nurse had wondeful news. I was an 8. Unlike the vast majority of patients, my body had the opposite reaction to the epidural. It sped up the process! The contractions came faster and faster and lasted longer. After about another hour, I was a 10.

Funny things and tidbits I remember throughout the day. My resident doctor's name was Jennifer Hill  and she was also pregnant! My nurse's name was Jennifer.  My OB/GYN had just stepped off the plane from running the Walt Disney Marathon in Orlando the day before the baby came. She was exhausted that day and spent a good chunk of the evening sleeping on the couch in our delivery suite. Scott fetched her coffee and snacks to help her recover before she brought our baby into the world. Scott got to eat that day and I was begrudgingly okay with it until dinner. At dinner time, when they brought him chicken fingers that smelled like heaven, I made him go in the other room to eat. I was starving. STARVING. All I got was some chicken broth to sip on. I probably sent Scott for more chicken broth 10 times that day.  I hated, absolutely hated being stuck in the bed after I got my epidural. After spending the entire day walking and moving and adjusting myself to be comfortable, it was torture to be trapped in bed. But that was the price I paid for not feeling the last hours of all this stuff. 

Around 11:00 p.m., Jennifer (the nurse) coached me through pushing. She said I needed to work with the contractions to help get the baby on its way. I remember thinking "well after laboring for so long, this part will probably go very quickly!" I was so excited to meet my dainty little girl. And poor Scott. He had hoped to have more of a buffer between himself and, well, all the blood and gore. Turns out, there was no curtain blocking him from the reality of childbirth. To the contrary, he held my right leg while I pushed and was a part of the whole process.

And so I pushed. And pushed. And pushed. The hours started ticking by. Several times my doctor would look, try to adjust me or the baby but baby was just stuck. The baby moved its head in the birth canal from side to side. The resident said, the baby was trying to help. Nothing. Finally talk started about how to "speed things up". And this whole time, I'm looking at the clock, knowing it's only a matter of time before real intervention gets started and maybe even a c-section. I pushed with everything I had but I was so numb I could not tell if I was making any progress at all or even using the right muscles.

Almost three hours later, everything changed. Suddenly, there were six or seven nurses. The doctors put on surgical gowns. The lights went dim except for what appeared to be spotlights on my nether regions. Scott assured me we were really close. I pushed and out came the head. I remember my nurse saying "You've got this. Just one more big push Jennifer."  Suddenly, there he was. He looked huge in my doctor's hands. And, no question, it was a boy. I remember just feeling shock. A boy? A big huge boy? There must be some mistake.

No mistake about it. Around 2:00 a.m., I had my 8 1/2 pound boy. He was beautiful. He had a conehead and a fat pink belly. He barely cried.  After he was born, they cleaned him and wrapped him and started to hand him to Scott. He insisted that I hold him first. The doctors had quite a bit of work left on me. Scott went to the waiting room and told our parents it was a boy, named Eliot Michael and he was healthy and so was mom. My OB laughed about her guess that baby was a small girl.

And he lay in my arms, wide awake. He stared at Scott and I forever. Silent. Peaceful. Beautiful. Just stared at us. We took pictures. We stared back. And it was completely surreal. I remember thinking "I don't even know you! I thought you were going to be a little girl!" I remember feeling like I had a lot of catching up to do.

Eventually our parents came in. He stayed awake. He silently stared at them too. For a very long time. He just stared and let himself be passed around. He was just beautiful. Such perfect skin. Such round cheeks. I could not believe it. A BOY. Eventually, the parents went home and the night settled down. And he slept. I slept. Scott slept. The next day he was just perfect. No crying, just cuddling. He was big. He was incredibly strong. He shocked me by lifting his head off my chest to look me straight in the eye. We came home from the hospital and I remember touching the pink outfit as Scott left to go return it. I got misty--no dance recitals or baby doll slumber parties, no pink ruffly Easter dresses. That dream was over. But a new one had started. I had a strong beautiful baby boy who needed me and loved me with a bond I could not believe felt so strong. I had new dreams to create.

He was laid back and easy going early on. He slept through the night at 8 weeks. He ate with reckless abandon and gained weight very quickly. He played with us very soon after he was born and I swear he kissed me back when he was only a few days old.

And now, here we are, 4 years later. I have on my hands, the most eloquent, hilarious kid I have ever known. He is opinionated and bossy. He is demanding and giving. He is affectionate and a rough housing all boy Star Wars fan. He's an amazing big brother and an obstinant picky eater (until he actually tries stuff and then he is usually a huge fan). Currently our game is to express our love through random number assignments or distances. "Mommy I love you 47." "Yea well Eliot, I love you 236." "Whoa, that's a lot." "I love you to Jupiter and back." "I love you all the way to the sun." Something I never expected was to love every stage of baby and childhood just so much. He was the most beautiful docile newborn. He was an easy happy baby. A fun toddler. A hilarious little boy. And lately so creative and imaginative and inquisitive, it hurts sometimes my brain. Happy 4th birthday Eliot!  You were a lot of work to bring into this world but I would do it again a million times over.  

Blow. Out.

The following post is not for the faint of heart. Or for anyone eating lunch. Or soon to be moms and dads. In fact, this post is only for those of you with depraved senses of humor or experienced parents and child caretakers who are prepared to nod their head in agreement and frankly, just laugh at me.

The following is the WORLD'S MOST EPIC BLOWOUT STORY IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. Yes, the title is redundant. Because it is that epic.

There comes a time, in every breastfed babies' life, where they test the capacity of diaper technology. I emphasize breastfed baby because for many months after birth breastfed babies' poops are different. They are not solid. Google it, and you'll see what I mean as this blog is not intended to teach you about the different consisitencies of baby poo. I digress.

So, by testing the capacity and strength and endurance of today's diaper technology, babies have, what we mum's affectionately call blow outs. They crap clear through their diaper. They crap all over their outfit and they typically require immediate bathing. It isn't every time. But it often happens in spurts--they will have no blow outs for weeks and then suddenly 3 in a day. As a baby, Eliot had a handful of epic blowouts. [Perhaps my favorite memory being the time he poo'ed all over me, on a plane, during landing.  Nowhere to go, just sitting and feeling the warmth of my child's extrement spread all over my leg while cringing. I remember looking at my own choice of pants (tan linen) I knew terrible terrible things awaited me once I stood after landing.] In his desire to one-up his brother, however, Nicholas decided pooping on mommy while traveling and causing her to change her outfit was child's play. He could do much better.

And so it was one very cold and rainy day in early December, we found ourselves on the way home from our first family roadtrip. Many factors contributed to this story and so a little background.

Our family had gone to Dallas for a lovely weekend of friendship and running. Scott ran in the Dallas Whiterock half marathon (albeit with pneumonia because he is both a fool and a badass) and I baby wrangled and hung out with friends. We laid pretty low but I did take the boys out on the course to cheer on our friends running their first marathon. We even made inappropriate signs. It was a blast.

The one major hiccup in the trip was we promised Eliot lots of quality swimming time in the hotel pool. Only to find the that big beautiful fancy downtown Dallas Hyatt's pool? Under construction. Many big fat crocodile tears were spilt as a result of the pool's poorly timed construction and so we promised Eliot we'd make it up to him. How do you make up something so enormous and upsetting to a three year old? You take them to McDonalds, you let them play in the disease ridden playplace playground and you let them eat a happy meal. This is a huge treat for our kid and we were happy to oblige.

And so in Denton, Texas we stopped and ate lunch. After ordering our food, I recognized that I needed to change baby's diaper having been on the road for a bit. And so I set off to find a restroom. The primary restroom was closed for cleaning. So I proceeded to find the small "family" one-staller in the playplace area.

Nicholas had been experiencing a blow out here and there in the last week. In addition, in true little boy fashion, he had a couple of times let it fly when I took his diaper off and the cold air hit his boy parts. Therefore, I was cautious when changed him.

He was sleepy and waking up when I entered the restroom. And gassy. Kiddo passes gas like a trucker after an all you can eat chinese buffet. I mean GAS.EE. I shivered a bit as I pulled the Koala changing table down and saw at least 29 communicable diseases on the plastic petri dish. I carefully laid a receiving blanket on the nasty changing table and then laid my bundle of joy on the blanket. Step 1. Lay baby on changing table.

I carefully laid out my tools to accomplish a quick and mostly sterile diaper change. Two wet wipes. Check. New diaper. Check. Unfold new diaper to cover boy parts while changing so he doesn't urinate on me. Check. Step 2. Assembly of diaper changing tools complete.

I recognized he was gassy and that he probably would require a second diaper change after I fed him but he was soaked and needed changed now. I proceeded along to make him comfy while he ate and stretched out on our break. Step 3. Remove the soiled diaper and tossed in the trash.

I looked down and to my horror, with every little toot, baby was pooing, just a bit. Never having actually witnessed this before, I hesitated. I stuttered. A fatal, fatal mistake.  WHAT DO I DO???? Old diaper was thrown away. New diaper didn't need to get all poopy immediately. WHAT DO I DO???? Step 4. Place wet wipes between babies' cheeks to hopefully absorb all the current poo so he can still have clean pants.

And now, my years of being an aunt. My years of being a little girl who played with dolls and "changed baby's diaper".  My years of growing up in a house where my mother ran an in-home day care. My experience as a mother to a 3 year old. They all failed. It was all for naught. Years of child rearing. Useless.

In my hesitation and poor judgment, I reached down to the diaper bag to get additional wet wipes. I then planned to "take a peek" to make sure his business was complete. Ewww. Gross. Step 5. Removal of soiled wet wipes from the baby buns.

And then it happened. The blow out. But unlike a typical blow out, there was no shield. No diaper. No onesie. With one giant push, Nicholas sprayed the entire McDonald's bathroom with bright yellow poo. And it was everywhere. The floor, the sink, the mirror, the toilet, the walls, my hands, my pants, his blanket, his clothes, his socks. I mean everywhere. In one fateful second he shot the contents of his intestines up to three feet across the room.

I froze. How could I not? I had never seen anything so disgusting. So hilarious. And frankly, so impressive.  As I stood there, trying to imagine my next move, he added the icing to the cake and began to urinate, at least a foot in the air, on any remaining surface not already covered by his excrement. I grabbed the new diaper to try to shield him but it was too late, he had already done his damage.  I remained frozen. I mean, honestly, what do you do? Where do you start? And for god's sake, would any of us ever be clean again???

At that moment, Scott and Eliot knocked on the door. "Hey Jenn, Eliot needs to go potty." I snapped back to action. "Uh, just gimma a second." I turned to the sink and first things first. I washed my hands. For the first of four times. They were literally covered in crap. Then I grabbed several paper towels and wiped the top of the toilet off. I opened the door and Scott's eye's widened. "Oh my god, are you okay?" I squeaked out, "I have no idea. But I'm going to have to lift Eliot over to the toilet." And so Eliot came in and immediately said "mommy that is gross!!!" I lifted my big boy over the puddles of grossness and got him set up on the toilet.

And then I got to work. I used probably hundreds of paper towels. I wet them down and just started wiping. I wiped the sink and the changing table. I wiped the mirror and the walls. I wiped off my yoga pants. I have no idea how but it did not hit my shirt. Eliot wrinkled his nose and asked me questions I did not have the answer to "Mommy, why didn't Nicholas poop in his diaper? How did it get on the wall? Mommy, how are you going to clean all this?  This is yucky isn't it mommy? What happened to his socks?"  And then we ran out of bathroom paper towels. And I just started laughing. I could laugh or I could cry so I chose to laugh.

As I assessed the damage to Nicholas, I quickly surmised the onesie and pants were salvagable as he really hadn't been wearing them. The socks, however, were trash. The receiving blanket, trash. The "new" diaper, trash. Once the paper towels were gone I only had a few things left to use to clean. So I got another diaper for Nicholas, put him in it. Put a clean outfit on him. As Eliot wrapped up his business, I got baby cleaned up. I opened the door and handed Scott the baby and Eliot and said, "I'll be out in a minute."

And then I cleaned up what was left, mostly the floor. Somehow Nicholas had created 3 sizable puddles of excrement, on the floor. All I had was a receiving blanket. And so I cleaned everything I could find with the receiving blanket and promptly left it behind in Denton, Texas. Everything in that entire room needed hosed off with Clorox. I was helpless to clean anymore.

I came out and must have look battle weary. Scott asks timidly "What happened in there?" I responded "I'm not ready to talk about it. Let's eat lunch." But I just kept laughing. And shaking my head. And then I told the story to Scott. Who laughed. Who shook his head. And we just looked at little Nicholas. He nursed heartily. Happily played in his car seat. He clearly felt fabulous. I mean wouldn't you? The unspeakable horror of what my darling newborn had inflicted on that already gross bathroom just made me laugh. And cringe. Welcome to motherhood for the 8,935th time. Baptism by fire? No. Baptism by blow out.

My sweet babies about 6 hours prior to the "incident". Now, imagine the horror that could have occurred if it had happened on this fluffy white bed at the Downtown Dallas Hyatt.

Unplugged

Baby came and I took a break...from everything. Work, socializing, running, sleeping (not by my choice *looking disdainfully at little Nicholas who grins in return*), cooking, blogging, and eventually the last two months, I broke from Facebook, working remotely from home, house chores and doing everything except preparing for the holidays and being a mom.  Basically in the month of December, I bought and wrapped gifts, made cookies, nursed my baby, played Star Wars with my big boy and laid around in my pajamas.  New Years Eve was supposed to be spent with friends in lipstick and high heels. Instead due to an unfortunate shift in plans, I was doing yoga at 9pm in my bedroom and gazing with bewilderment at my sleeping kiddos.  And while I missed my friends, I loved having a quiet night at home.

It is rare, so very very rare, that I ever break from anything. That I ever say "no" to anything. As a person who thrives on a busy schedule and parties and friends and running and career, I don't know any other speed than full throttle. But somehow for a short period of time, I utterly and totally unplugged. And it was glorious.

While on maternity leave, I sensed something, a growing feeling inside me. Time is precious, the years fly by. Cherish the special uniqueness of being home. Rather than fight it and obsess about my to do's that were not getting done, I flowed. I cherished. I savored. I looked deep into both of my son's eyes every hour and said "I love you."

Ask any parent and they will tell you that the short time your children spend in your nest is fleeting and you blink and they are gone. My big brother had five kids within 7 years. And those kids are now almost through high school. Some have moved out and most have moved on. And while I know there were times my brother struggled with being a parent to five small kids, he has repeatedly said he honestly cannot believe how close he is to seeing them move out. He is wistful and sad and shocked by how fast it has gone and is going.

The first time around, with Eliot, I was obsessed with (1) getting him to sleep through the night; (2) keeping him and myself on a strict schedule; (3) returning to running; (4) maintaining contact with the office and clients and work; (5) acting as president of two legal organizations and maintaining my work in both of them. And it probably served me well to worry and obsess. I had a baby that slept through the night at 8 weeks. I maintained a clean home. I ran a half marathon when he was 3 months old. I had Eliot in January and became a partner in my firm that December.  Those sacrifices paid off and proved to me when I set my mind to something...I can do it. I can do anything.

This time I did not have anything to prove. Instead, I allowed myself complete leniency. I did not run until Nicholas was 10 weeks old (last Sunday). Like not a step. I have not pressured Nicholas to stretch his feeding schedule or let him cry it out. So while he's 10 weeks old, he sleeps for, at best, 4-5 hours at a time. I lost touch with clients and work a bit and will need to scramble to get it back in order. I let my house get pretty messy, on more than one occasion...much to my Type A husband's chagrin. And I lived in yoga pants. And yet, I find none of these decisions to be bad. I do not mind one little bit that I can't run 5 miles. I know I will again. And I know that if I wanted to, I could have made myself do it. While at times, I struggle with my sleep deprivation, I honestly don't really mind getting up at 2am and nuzzling with my little fuzzy headed angel. I know that work will always be there. And my house has cleaned up pretty well despite all my, uhm, "projects."

My friends, at least the ones that count, have hardly protested my absence. They tell me they miss me. They drop by for coffee. They host me at their house for fun and bonding time. But they are not insisting I socialize on their terms. They are thrilled to see me when I stick my head out of my cocoon but aren't pressuring me to change out of yoga pants and into skinny jeans.

I ceremoniously swore off facebook. In the wake of the horrific Sandy Hook shooting I was very disturbed and angered by multiple facebook posts turning the tragedy into a platform. I am glad I gave it up. Why on earth should I spend time cursing someone else's opinions when I had Christmas cookies to bake and kids to love? I honored the Sandy Hook victims by praying for them. Reading their stories from actual news sources. I read about the Adam Lanza, the killer, and prayed for his family too. I read and listened to oped's from intelligent commentators to help me decide what to think about mental health care and gun laws and the other issues. And, several times, I read the full list of the names of the victims to myself, out loud and cried a little. Like everyone else I asked "why" and questioned God for answers.

Then, yesterday, I returned to work. I was hit with a landslide of work "stuff." I have read lots of emails about friend stuff. I worked some on my running "to do" list of projects. I am blogging. I checked facebook. I went to yoga and tonight I'm going for a run. And so I'm back. I am being forced out of my cocoon. And it's so hard. So very very hard. When I look in my baby's chocolatey eyes and we flirt and coo at each other, that's all the matters in the world. But cooing doesn't pay the bills. And he won't be tiny forever. He needs social skills. I need grown up contact.

I wrapped myself fully, for weeks, in my nest. I insulated myself fully from everything out there. I was just truly present in my home and my kids got me, 100% of me, for weeks. I don't know that I will ever be able to do that again. If I think about that, I will undoubtedly suffer heartbreak. But I also know that I am not good as a stay at home mom. That the passion I have for homemaking and baby bonding would not be sustained. As the house continued and remained messy, it would cause stress for everyone.  I frankly just lack the skill set to be a successful homemaker. I did not accomplish much of anything other than being mom and if I actually "stayed home" I sadly doubt that would change.

So I instead concentrate on 5:00 p.m. And the magical hour of picking up my kids and finding out about their days. I am throwing myself head first into life again and it hurts. Unplugging is not ultimately sustainable for me and perhaps that is why it is so sweet. And so precious and so desireable. As I dip my toe into the blogging water, it turns out the temperature is just right. And it feels good. And as much as I miss my boys and long to see them and hold them, it feels good to write. And slowly the rest will start to feel good again as well.

Ultimately, as I reflect on it, what a wonderful time I had on maternity leave. I am so blessed that I was able to take 10 weeks to truly connect and bond with Nicholas. I am so thankful that in the 5 weeks Eliot spent at home with me, we deepened our love by playing hard and laughing and caring for our new baby together. I am so excited for 2013. I feel like a lot of momentum was building in 2012 for good things in my life. And I think that momentum will blossom this year. Here's to a new start and getting back to everything. In the meantime, I will blink away my tears and watch videos of my babies on my iphone at my desk. What a wonderful gift I gave myself by pulling the plug.

Nicholas Robert, a birth story

So both my husband and I thrive on being busy. Like really stupidly, over the top busy. We both just seem to perform the best, in every possible capacity, when we have a lot on our plates. And despite knowing since Valentines Day that we were supposed to have a baby October 25, we went ahead and booked up a very busy October. People told us we were crazy for trying to do so much so close to our due date, but we just don't seem to know any other way.  We received invitations for three different gatherings on Saturday, October 20:

Party #1: Eliot's friend from preschool and one of our running buddies planned a family friendly pumpkin carving party. I had concerns about whether we would get pumpkins carved if we were tending to a newborn or in the hospital, so I definitely wanted to take our little guy to this gathering. 

Party #2: One of our favorite couples was scheduling a birthday dinner for the Mister. Aaron and Joni are old friends and ones we don't see nearly often enough. October is usually a busy time for us and we'd missed several of his birthday parties in the past because of the timing. Scott and I discussed the party and said "we really need to go to his birthday dinner this year, no excuses."

Party #3: Renee (aka Ray Ray) was also turning fabulous on Saturday, October 20. And our running family was organizing a fun little surprise party for her at our absolute favorite bar, the Anchor. So one of our favorite people + one of our favorite places + our awesome friends = have to go to this party too.

The week leading up to this night was...interesting. Monday I was in labor for literally 6 hours. I had low back pain and nausea, all day. When I got home that night I couldn't eat. And I thought, wow, this is it. Around 6pm the contractions started. Scott kept checking--is this it? Do we need to pack the car? Call your dad? There was zero pattern to the contractions and rather than speed up, or form a pattern, they just sort of would hit, make me feel awful and then go away. At midnight, suddenly I felt wonderful. I felt hungry. I ate some cereal. All contractions stopped and with a heavy sigh...I went to bed.

Tuesday, I woke up and felt amazing. Naturally. After feeling so crummy the day before, I was great on Tuesday. That evening I attended my Inns of Court meeting, I presented to a group of fellow lawyers some thoughts on Bryan Stevenson, a truly inspiring guy, and came home. Nothing of consequence to report.

Wednesday. Felt great again. This is my bestie's birthday and it was quite evident little man was no showing for this date as well.

Thursday. Busy busy day. Doctor appointment (dilated to a 2 and based on everything, I appeared to be stalled. And I would be pregnant for the REST OF MY LIFE), phone conference with client. Lunch meeting. Court hearing. Partners meeting.

(Spoiler Alert) 39 Weeks Mirror Picture: My Last One!

And then...joggers and lagers. Running, then drinking, with friends. My friend Shelley and I walked two very slow, very tough miles--she is just two weeks behind me in pregnancy but she and our other walking friends were moving along just fine. The walking was really truly hard for me, not going to lie. I was very uncomfortable and baby was just giving me a heck of a time. But I followed up my two mile walk with frito chili pie, the dinner of champions.

Friday. Pumpkin patch! I really wanted to seize the moment and grab a solid beautiful fall family photo. Due to a freezing Kansas wind and below normal temperatures, we got one shot, in a sheltered spot behind trees.  I had dressed us in matching clothes, done my hair and makeup and was so excited for this amazing picture. That didn't happen.



Preparing for pumpkin patch, hair still intact.

Spoiler Alert: Last Picture as a Family of 3.

Don't let this picture fool you. It was bitterly cold out there.

Friday night--my cousin's wedding! We had a blast, let Eliot stay up 2-3 hours past his bed time so he could dance with me and eat wedding cake. He loved it, I loved it and he looked super handsome in his big boy dress up clothes.

My handsome wedding date!

Saturday. Cleaned house. All day. Eliot was a champ and helped me clean and we just scrubbed and dusted and vaccumed and mopped and scrubbed from 8am until about 4pm. And at the end, we had a sparkling house!

Saturday night was finally here and it was time to party. I donned a purple sweater, a jean skirt and some black boots.

Party 1: 6:00 p.m. Courtney and Edgar's beautiful pumpkin carving party. Their home, straight from a magazine, had been completely dressed up for fall. The giant pumpkin carving station in their driveway, allowed Scott to carve a pumpkin, complete with pipe cleaner mustache and glasses. Eliot painted a pumpkin. I ate...everything in sight while my pumpkin sat neglected nearby. Dips, crackers, veggies, hummus. I was starving! We had a wonderful time and afterwards took Eliot to my parents home for a little slumber party. We wanted the option of staying out late and not worrying about getting home to a sitter.  This turned out to be the single best decision we have ever made. (blatant foreshadowing)

Party 2: 8:05 p.m. Birthday dinner at a fun seafood restaurant and steakhouse. Since I had stuffed myself at Party 1, I opted for a appetizer of beef satay and loads of water. I was suddenly incredibly thirsty. And uncomfortable. I went to the bathroom and the funniest thing happened. I felt like I had to go, and couldn't. But I felt so much pressure, like the baby was just right there? I returned to my chair and noticed, I really did not feel so hot. But I wasn't going to let a little discomfort ruin my grown up night out. My friends who know me crack up at this story. Yes, I am dedicated to partying...as it turns out. I am so dedicated to partying that I will ignore multiple early signs of labor to keep it rolling.

Party 3: 10:00 p.m. Birthday party at our favorite bar. With no less than 10 optional Octoberfest beers to choose from. We pulled in to the final stop. Again I was chugging water and asking the waiter to please for the LOVE...keep it coming. Scott was enjoying the beer selections and suddenly I was nauceous. And in pain. But not intense pain. Dull aching pain, in my gut.  The pain came and went but since I was engaged in witty banter with beautiful people, I was not paying enough attention to notice any pattern. But, I realized that perhaps just maybe, I would be having a baby in the next day or so. And so, at about 10:45, I looked at my husband and said, "I think it's time to go." But before we left, we took loads of pictures, with the birthday girl, with friends, posing looking silly, and just in general. Because clearly, pictures were in order.



Me and my littlest friend, Ray Ray!!! Happy Birthday Love!!!

The ladies...

Yes, Kristen on the right is a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. In case you're wondering.

The gents...

Spoiler Alert: So we are about to parents. Again. Like really really soon.

10:45 p.m. We get in the car. I drive because Scott has had multiple beers throughout the evening! I mean, these were parties after all.  We leave the last establishment and I turn to him and say, I think I might be in labor? He laughs and then looks at me, "seriously?" "Seriously."

"Are you having contractions right now?"

"Well not like right now but I think it's contractions? I don't know, let's go home and time them."

I drive the rest of the way and each time the pain would hit, I would squeeze the steering wheel very tightly until it passed. But I never felt overwhelmed by the pain.

11:00 p.m. Home. I race for the bathroom where I proceed to get sick from everything I ate all evening. WHAT??? And I remember, this happened with Eliot. Very sick to my stomach. Oh dear. This really is happening. I briefly smile and think "October 21, 2012, what a lovely birthday." I head upstairs to take my high heeled boots off. I take out my contacts. I brush my teeth. Tell Scott to get ready for bed because we weren't going to head to the hospital any time soon but to be prepared.

11:05 p.m. Scott gets out the iPhone to start timing the contractions. First set, 2:15 seconds apart. WHAT???? Next set, 2:14 seconds apart. I think "This phone must be broken." I sit on the edge of the bed, while Scott brushes his teeth and prepares for bed. "Do you want to just go in to the hospital?" I respond, "No, let's wait 15 minutes and see if they slow down."

11:10 p.m. *silence as I try to breath through contraction* Holy crap. This just got real. I blink away tears, look at Scott "It's time. I don't think we can wait. Get dressed."

11:12 p.m. Scott jumps out of bed. Gets dressed. I'm in jammies I want to wear to the hospital.

11:22 p.m. Car is packed. Scott grabs me a towel to sit on in case my water breaks over my protest. "Oh my god, we aren't that close to this happening. I don't need a towel." I probably roll my eyes.

11:25 p.m. The drive begins. The contractions are real. I start the low quiet moaning thing each time. It's so weird and I can't control it. But every two minutes on the drive, I'm closing my eyes, breathing as deep as I can, sometimes grabbing Scott's hand, and softly moaning, unable to speak. In between contractions, I'm lamenting how the traffic lights are conspiring against me and how I can't believe this is really happening. I mean honestly, I was just at a bar.

11:40 p.m. Arrive at the hospital. Scott asks if he needs to drop me off at the door. I shoot him a look that garners the nervous laughing response of "yea, okay so I will drop you off at the door then? I'll park and be right there."

11:41 p.m. I check in to the front desk. "Hello, how can we help you tonight?"
"I think I'm in labor, my contractions are two minutes apart and they are pretty intense."
"Your name? Date of birth? Can you fill out this form? Proof of insurance?"
"I can start working on the form. I really think I need to get to a room please."
Takes another look at me. "No problem. Let's call you a nurse. You work on that form when you can."

11:45 p.m. Nurse arrives. "Can you walk to a room? Do you need a wheelchair?"
"I can walk. But let's just go fast and in between contractions."

11:49 p.m. In room, breathing heavy from the walk.
"Here's your gown. And a cup for your urine sample. Do you want an epidural?"
"Yes let's order up some drugs please."
Husband walks me to the bathroom as at this point, the contractions are causing me to be woozy.
Bathroom...get sick. Really really sick. SIGH.
I get my gown on. Seriously, why must one's backside be on display again?

11:55 p.m. Nurse returns. "Well, we should probably check you. See how dilated you are." *pause for embarrassing medical reality*
"You're almost to a 4. How are those contractions?"
"Intense."
"Okay, your nurse anesthetist is on her way."
"Thank God."
*pop*
And there it is. This is happening.
Nurse looks at my face and smiles. "Did your water just break?"
"Yes, it did."
"Well you just bought yourself a ticket to stay. We will call your doctor. And, so you know, your contractions are going to get much more intense."
Scott laughs and says "So about the towel you didn't need." He's gloating. While I'm in labor. Rude.

Midnight. Scott holds my hand. These contractions are overwhelming. Each time I lay on my side, grab the hand rails of the bed and Scott's hand and just moan. I don't even know where this sound is coming from, but everything is getting more and more dream like. The world is going fuzzy. I stop hearing sounds. I feel nothing except the deep and intense ache that fills my body. And during the contraction, I am aware of nothing else.

And now, the timeline is gone. I have no idea when anything happens.

Nurses arrive, a bunch of them. They start my IV. They ask me my name and why I am at the hospital. Scott leaves to bring our stuff in, most importantly, my contacts. I put contacts in.

Nurse anesthetist arrives. Consent is given for the epidural. I start shaking. I'm suddenly terrified and second guessing. I don't think I want the epidural. But I'm not mentally prepared for the pain I'm in. And I flash back to Eliot. I labored for 16 hours with no epidural and was stuck at a 4 for HOURS. I am at a 4 now. I cannot do this again. I cannot labor with no end in sight again. Consent is given. I look at Scott "I'm so scared." I'm shaking. He sits in front of me and says "You are great. You are going to be fine. This is scary but you will feel so much better, just look at me." I get local anethetic. I feel huge amounts of pressure but she nails it. First time and the epidural is in perfectly.

Nurse lays me on my right side. Montiors are beeping. She says "Let's roll you to your left. I need to check you. How far were you dilated when you came in?" I respond "4, the first nurse said I was a 4." The nurse eyes get big and she looks across the table at her co-worker "Uhm, she's a 9. Page the doctors." I look at Scott. It's maybe been a half hour since I was a 4. I'm a 9???? He starts laughing. I start laughing. This could not be any more different than labor and delivery with Eliot.  And...if they had checked me immediately before getting my epidural, I would not have gotten it.

Resident comes in and introduces herself. I remember her round soft face and wispy blond hair. But not her name. She is kind and professional. And then, she's there. My OB, Dawne. Scrubs, KU headband, crazy curly mane of brunette hair and a big smile. "So we're having this baby tonight huh?" Dawne is a personal friend, a fellow runner and basically the best OB/GYN in the world. I cannot say how much I love her. "Is your block working? Are you comfortable?"

I laughed and said "Actually, it hasn't kicked in at all. I'm still feeling every thing."

"It will work soon. I'm going to scrub up. I'll be back."

At some point one of the nurses informs me that there's muconium in my urine, which means the baby has pooed...inside me. A neonatalogist shows up and introduces himself. He explains that if the baby has ingested or breathed in the stool, he will have to suction out his lungs upon birth. He also indicates that "So long as he is vigorous and active and crying, though, we'll leave him alone and just monitor him." Scott and I both feel a little worried but the contractions are still slamming my body and wrecking my ability to process any information. I know I'm scared that he's okay but I also feel much more at ease after the doctor has explained that usually there are not any problems with a baby that has done this.

Nurse points out that I have a button to push to administer more anethesia. Uhm. Yes please!!! She said, "dont worry, it's controlled so we won't let you overdose." So I proceed to push the button several times and say "I just need to make sure it works."

Short time later the doctor comes back and checks me "Let's get dressed. It's time for a baby."

And then, the room goes dark except for the spotlights, on my nether regions. I'd forgotten about this quiet, dark environment. It was quiet, it was peaceful, despite the 8+ people standing around me, looking squarely at my lady bits. Everyone put on gowns and gloves. And suddenly, I'm partially numb and the pain subsides. I stop feeling so blurry. My epidural is working...so at the very least, I will not feel the pain of pushing.

My primary nurse is named Cinnamon. She is a flaming redhead like myself. She said "Let's do a practice round of pushing. Are you ready?" We practice. 3 pushes. Counting to 8 on each push. I can do this. She asks if I'm okay with baby laying on my stomach immediately after birth. "Of course."

Someone tells me, it's just past 1:00 a.m. Scott and the nurses take bets on babies's birth time. Scott guesses 1:28. I pushed for 3 hours with Eliot. I think he's lost his mind.

I push for four sets. Scott's eyes get big on the last set. And I realize, he's here. 1:26 a.m. Dawne holds him. He's huge. And blue. And has a full head of black hair. He's beautiful. And...he's screaming his lungs out. In about 10 seconds he's bright red and the neonatologist smiles. "He's quite vigorous. We won't interfere."

They lay him on me. He starts peeing and then pooping all over me. GEESH. This kid! The nurse cleans us both up and diapers my little defecator.

I notice several things immediately. His head is perfectly round. His mouth opens so wide as he screams. He has hair all over him! Dark soft feathery hair. His skin is just perfect and unbelievably soft. I'm at a loss. He's wiped off but not clean and I don't care. I just touch him over and over. Hello Nicholas. You are perfect. I love you I love you I love you. Scott touches his head. We are just both in shock. He's here. Weren't we just at a party?

Nicholas calms down and starts listening to us and staring at us. He alternates looking at Scott and I and the nurses leave him there for close to an hour.

The doctors finish work on me. And they are done in very short order. Dawne hugs Scott, admires the baby and slips off to return to her bed. There is noise in the room again as everyone shuffles around. But somehow the cocoon of newness and love just sort of swallow the three of us. We both feel relief with his safe arrival. We both can't believe how fast he's gotten here. We both just can't believe. We're here. Parents again.

Scott leaves to make phone calls to our parents. A couple pictures are snapped and then it's just the four of us. Scott, me, Nicholas and Cinnamon, our wonderful nurse. She weighs him. He's 8lb, 3 oz, 19.75 inches. She bathes him. Holy cow...babies just smell like heaven I think. She measures his head and chest and takes his footprints. And after an hour, he acts ready to nurse, rooting around on any skin he can find. And she helps me nurse him. He's big and strong and cuddly. From moment one. Nicholas just cuddles in. He looks at me curiously. He responds to our voices. He looks intently.

Pink and precious and perfect.

And both of us speak to him. He's so fully himself. He's tired and hungry but more than anything, he wants to be held and be touched.

After being awake for about 90 minutes he falls into a deep deep sleep. He proceeds to sleep the rest of the early morning hours. Scott's parents arrive at 6:30, shortly after I shower and from there...it's all family all the time. The quiet moments give way to happy loud chaos.  The most exciting memory I have of this entire experience is 9:00 a.m. when my first born arrives to meet his little brother. He's so adoring, so thrilled and just so loving with his brother from moment one. It's positively overwhelming to be around him and watch him love little Nicholas.

Eliot's first look at Nicholas. Very clearly, it's love at first sight.

I know someday they will fight. But I will always think of them like this I think.

And then Monday, we're home. Nicholas is a perfect little baby for the first 36 hours.  And now here we are. He's two weeks old and he's just becoming more and more his own little man.








This kid...so much a lover already. He's happiest with his head squarely at the base of our necks, nuzzled in, looking around curiously. He loves it when I sing to him (our current favorite is "Natural Woman" by Aretha Franklin). He smiles in his sleep all the time and even laughed heartily the other day at 4am. He has a temper. He hates being naked or having his diaper changed. He's learning how to squirm and his awake time is increasing more and more during day time hours. He looks almost exactly like a darker version of his brother.

 

He came out like a freight train. An hour and forty minutes from when we got to the hospital. It was a miracle, a race and a beautiful evening. My recovery was quick. My husband again stepped up and took amazing care of me while I recovered. And now, we are falling back into a routine. But this time there are two beautiful boys to kiss good night. We know we are lucky and frankly, each time I look at Nicholas or Eliot with Nicholas, I just feel the presence of God in my life. I have been so infinitely blessed.

First picture ever of my new family of 4