superhero

I bodycheck the hand-me-down couch - recently acquired from my parents - with all the force and disorientation of a tornado touching down. The couch is slightly sagged in the center from years of use, which serves to make it more restful, if less aesthetically pleasing. The down feathers pull my cheekbones, rib cage, hips and knee caps down, down, down into their comfort as if with magnetic force. I feel heavy all over; eyelids, body, brain - not from a glut of knowledge or anything, because thoughts don't bear physical weight anyway. But wouldn't it be great if they did? Karen Smith would be walking around with her head practically flying off her shoulders with its weightlessness

via

while Bill Gates and Ke$ha walk around with their heads bowed down near their ankles.

No, my brain is heavy not with cognitive power but with grog. The poor Weston child contracted a "viral infection" last week, the diagnosis of which could not possibly be more vague and all-encompassing. With it, he has seemingly lost the ability to sleep within the proper time confines as most of the general populace. 

Sean and I hit up urgent care a few nights ago after a battle to the death between Weston's vomit and the elephant print sheets (bile won), accompanied by a fairly high fever and complete listlessness. The poor little guy. He was so lethargic and lifeless, it hurt to see it. We stayed long enough for them to bring his fever down and were sent home with a prediction that the virus will stick around a few days.

The day after urgent care, I carefully planned our morning. I calculatedly timed meals and errands and cleaning around afternoon naps. At 12:30, both kids were freshly fed and diapered and pampered and loved, and firmly put in their respective prisons. I promptly proceeded with the formalities outlined in the first paragraph. But I had forgotten. I had forgotten Weston's superpower.

There is this fuzzy, nondescript place in my mind that directly follows consciousness but teeters on the precipice of full on sleep mode, wherein I know myself to still be connected to my time and place, yet things are a little nonsensical and bizarre. I think it's my brain trying to convince my body to let go and fall into total unconsciousness, but the two of them duke it out for a little while in the in-between. It is this Carroll-esque state that seems to eep from my cranium, traverse the 15 steps from living room to bedroom, wind up the legs of my baby's crib and set alarm bells off in Weston's head. Because - almost without exception - Wes has woken a-wailing at THE EXACT moment I pass into naphood. For ALL eight months of his life. Whether he has slept fifteen minutes or two and a half hours, he is acutely aware of any attempt on my part to take a day snooze. 

Sean frequently asks why I don't try more often to nap when the kids do. The truth is, I think I've had three successful endeavors. Weston's Spidey senses are finely tuned, and so I busy myself with other things during naps, be they restful or choreful. So long as I am deadly silent, of course - and believe me, I've mastered this. I mean, it's a gift.

And then over there, there's Jordan with her superhuman ability to volley from cutesy flirt to screaming banshee to polite debutante to violent ax murderer to overprotective sister to sobbing depression master to studious crayon wielder to backtalking teenager. Annnnd repeat, with all the volatility of a superball on a trampoline. 

Amusement park of emotions and all, this girl is a straight up character. Her comedic timing rivals Woody Allen's and she's about as introspective as a Wes Anderson flick. Her budding conversation skills quite often give me pause to wonder where in the H she picked that one up from. The other day, she and my brother were having a tea party and, as she poured herself a cupful, my brother requested one as well. She told him, "No, Unca Lukey, you can has your alkyhol." (oh, perfect.) The same brother asked Jordan's permission to pinch Weston's cheeks and, lioness of an older sister that she is, she reprimanded "NO! ONLY kisses." 

These kids and their heroics, I tell ya. I'd really love to hear what your babes are doing these days. Are they quirked kids like mine?

PS - Wes is doing just fine. He spent the weekend at the beach and couldn't have been happier about it. He even felt well enough to eat some sand.

totes recovered

case study

I was talking to one of my sisters recently, who is currently taking a child psychology class. I don't know why I never thought to take one back in my college hopping days. (I attended one..two..three colleges total. Not for extra degrees either. No doctorates here.) Psychology is fairly fascinating to me. Child psychology would be even more so, I think.

Anyway, my sister was telling me that personality formation generally takes place within the first three years of life. In other words, you can tell what kind of person a child will be - independent, generous, controlling, et cetera - by the time they're about three. Nurture notwithstanding, of course; traits can be attained through example and instruction and reinforcement, just as manners or reverence or whathaveyou can be learned and taught.

I had never heard of this three-year statistic, but danged if it doesn't make total sense. Jordan-girl, for instance: 100% who she is today as she was from hour one. She appeared physically fragile at birth

but it seemed as if she would never suffer an ounce of dependence in her life. She was alert, loud, willful and wonderful. Brown eyes that bored right to your soul, she had - and has.

Jordan of yesteryear has seemingly only changed physically. Oh I know, we've hit a lot of milestones since then. She converses, skips, hops, jumps and sleeps in a big girl bed. But she

is still she

And West-O. You want to know my first encounter with ex-utero Weston? They laid him atop me in Recovery after my c-section, and he LATCHED. Like, hard. He found what he wanted with no direction and just knew he was home.

6 months later, if he's not within a couple of feet of me, he's fretful. The boy is a sweet, good-natured, dependent lover of his mama.

But more fascinating to examine is the sibling dynamic. Would their relationship be so totally different if they were both boys or both girls? Or if Jordan had been a boy and Weston a girl? I look at Jordan, maternal and concerned, but SO in charge and sometimes controlling nearly to the point of bullying. Every morning Jordan asks if Weston can play with her in her room. She pulls out the kitchen set for him and sits next to him and flips through her books. But if he grabs something that "belongs" to her, watch out boyfriend. I've seen many a (minor) abuse delivered that Jordan has had to answer for. Meanwhile, Weston looks on adoringly and confusedly while Jordan plucks a hair from his head or pinches a fingerful of his fat. He loves unconditionally, as does she, but she is the Alpha in the relationship.

*Somehow Jordan has become hilariously honest. If I don't happen to see something mean that she's done, but I hear Wes whimper, I ask her pointblank and she answers with soulful browns: "I pinch him." or "I pull his hair." Even though she gets punished, she never fails to deliver the truth.*

Occasionally their relationship reminds me of one in my previous life....

Fortunately, my brother Luke is a happy exception to the "your personality at three is your personality forever" rule because he was a BEAST. And I was definitely a Weston. I just sat there smiling like a three month old idiot as he sat on me and watched my face turn red to purple in consternation. Ok Jordan's not quite like how Luke was, thankfully, but she does like to exercise power and authority, as he did. Mostly they're in love with each other and there's minimal refereeing involved but we'll see how it goes once Weston discovers how to use his significant weight to his advantage. Unless he just turns out to be a gentle giant, which is entirely likely considering his passive personality.

So tell me of your children's relationships with each other. Or your sibling relationships. I just think it's so funny the similarities and dissimilarities depending on age gap, sex, which sex came first, and all that. Am I the only one?

ferberize shmerberize

Really and truly, I meant to state my noble intentions and resolutions for 2014. Since one of them was stop procrastinating, I'll let you judge how things are progressing. Another was to eat healthier and whole, which is my explanation for the speed-eating of Christmas treats as efficiently as possible the last couple of weeks. The sooner I eat all the junk, the sooner I can begin a cleanse. My logic is sound.

I did make rather a cliché list of 2014 to-do's, but it really kind of annoys me to think about them because they're almost exactly last year's, which remain mostly unaccomplished. I'll go ahead and blame it on pregnancy and newborn and what have you, but honestly I just need to be a big girl and get shiz done. I'm not going to bore you with my resolutions of body improvement, home improvement, and potty training. They're old news and they're not going anywhere. I am, however, smack dab in a new addition to the list: sleep training. It's not going well, friends. It's not going well.

Jordan was something of a professional sleeper at 4 1/2 months, which is Weston's current age. It took less than a week of crying it out before she was rocking 10 hours a night, and thus my back was sporting a bright shade of pink from all the prideful self-pats. I set out to do the same for Weston a couple of weeks ago because, well, boy just don't sleep.


nor does his tongue know where it's proper home is

 

Here's the deal: we live in a small 2-bedroom apartment whose master bedroom shares walls with two neighboring master bedrooms. I've had no problem letting Wes cry out during his naptimes - which he does in ten minutes or so - because, hey, who else is home at 1 in the afternoon? At night though, the ungodly hours that Wes deigns meal hours (read: all the hours, beginning with elevensies in p.m.-sies, fat hobbit that he is) amplify the ferberizing such that 10-15 minutes feels more like 10-15 heart attacks. I know I would be quite displeased to be awoken 5 times a night by Not-Skinnie the Pooh entreating his mother to satiate his rumbly tumbly, and I'm not here to piss anyone off. On the other hand, Weston is becoming increasingly demanding and I increasingly tired and the whole nightly ordeal is just not working out.

 

I know the problem; I know the difference between Jordan and Weston. Jordan loved, idolized, craved a pacifier nearly from minute one. With Weston, you might as well have offered him his diaper to snack on, the way he reacts to the binky. He spits and chokes and looks mortally offended. I know the reason here too. He recognizes the binky for what it really is: a boob imposter. This boy won't even take a bottle brimming with mother's milk; he buys only the real deal. My sister calls him Oedipus Wes, such is his glaringly obvious adoration for me and my feeding powers. It's flattering!, his ready, half moon smile and bright, admiring eyes that light as soon as I enter his peripheral. But it is exhausting too and this new year will WILL bring me at least four hour stretches of sleep, lest my foggy days continue to go to hell in a handbasket woven of tears and caffeine capsules.

 

Tips? Advice? Routines? Witchcraft? Leave me what you have and I'll desperately employ your tactics.

 

***

 

Meanwhile, on the Jordan front

 



 

We are actively potty training and she is actively progressing even if only to summon all her energy and circulation for the equivalent of a cocoa pebble, that she might put a sticker on her potty chart.

 

We enjoy full conversations now and she has taken to telling me to "be caresul!" multiple times per car ride (not sure why since we've never been in an accident?), and advising me to "doh worry" as she pats my face (usually a defense mechanism should she sense she may be in trouble). If she encounters a locked bathroom door, she stands outside shouting "you POOPIN? you NAKED?" until the door be opened unto her.

 

She is only the best big sister I could've imagined, and is confident that Weston already possesses conversational skills as she sits next to him and inquires "you want toys Wesson? Yeah? Ok!" (sprints to her room for an armload.) She is - not altogether misguidedly - concerned that Weston will reach into his or her own dirty diaper (I usually change them together and side by side) and holds his frantically roving hands while chiding "you can't touch poopy, Wesson. No touching poopy, Wesson."

 

So yeah, 2014, I expect some changes from you. Expect some from me, as well. But don't change everything. There's some stuff I'd like to stay the same. For like, ever.





best weston

^^ When I was pregnant with Weston, this is what my sister called my uterus. You know, as in, "Best Western" hotel (motel?) She's the witty type. Now that he's ex-utero we just call him, the boy himself, Best Weston. (We don't know any other Westons anyway.)

About 3 weeks ago I started pre-writing this post in my head. Do you [bloggers] do that? I wanted to commemorate Weston and all of the things I've learned of him thus far. I needn't have bothered with my brain rough drafting, since so much/everything has changed since then. That's how it goes with the infants. Every two hours you're updating your view of them.

Three weeks ago, perhaps even less, Weston was just the unhappiest little man. Nearly inconsolable really, unless he was in mother's arms. Then things started changing, as they are wont to do with fresh babies such as himself. He didn't scream when I put set him in the papasan whilst I made his sister breakfast. He stopped whimpering from his bouncy seat perch while I dressed myself and Jordan. He just started being content to be, even when Jordan was up in his grill squealing "aAAaaAAww! Buddy! Hi Wesson! Hi Wesson! Hi Wesson!"

his gummy grill being all kinds of invaded

I knew this day would come! It always does, but it never seems like it will when you're in the throes of newborn turmoil. My mom claims there wasn't a colicky one among us, her eight children, and we were sleeping angels from the get-go (she says as I wrangle the terrible two-ing toddler and the caterwauling newb and I can do nothing but grimace at her great fortune) but that is just not my lot in motherhood. I birth tiny difficult humans...who eventually morph into perfectly lovely loving lovebugs...and apparently continue to morph into beings that are thuh sweetest and most affectionate quickly followed by crazy and should-we-exorcise-her? and back again in fifteen minute intervals. (Ok so far this is just Jordan. The nature of the Jordan, or the nature of the toddler? That is the question.)

Anywho, a couple stats on the jolly not-lean giant: at 15 lbs, 1 oz, my good-natured monster is in the 90th percentile for weight;

believe it

at 24 1/4 inches he is in the 80th percentile for height;

pose like you're strong, they said

and at I can't remember how many inches, his head size is in the 40th percentile;

fat guy with a little head

he hates, hates, from the bottom of his very soul, HATES the car. Suggestions here? I've tried music, mobiles and brightly colored blankets. He won't take a binky so we're out of luck there;

fml.

and finally, we have reason to believe that his happy-go-luckiness is inextricably linked to my presence. The other day I put him down for his nap - which he very nearly NEVER wakes up from for at least 2 1/2 hours - and ran out to grab lunch for the family while Sean watched the kids. Not five minutes after I left Weston woke up and screamed until I got home. As if his spirit sensed my spirit leaving the building. I mean, it's flattering and all, but it makes dates, or even solo errands, real hard. And I'm a sucker for solo errands. It's like when you've been on a treadmill for a long time (you know, like 12 minutes) and you step off and your walking feels as if you're gliding very quickly (outofthegym). Or when your backpack was incredibly overloaded in high school - as mine always was - and you take it off and you feel like you're flying. Such are errands sans children.

These last weeks have been a pleasure. I do love waking up to uncoordinated, over-compensating smiles. It's fun too, to watch Wes scare himself with his own gas since he hasn't pieced together that he's the one making the startlingly loud blurts. And the cooing. I'm 115% positive if we could but bottle infant cooing we'd have captured world peace concentrate. It's too precious to ignore.

One more for extra-indulgent measure:

Sean: "he looks like he's three."

**Sidebar: this post took me 2 days and 3 sessions to complete. Frequent mom bloggers - ??? I don't understand you. Or maybe I just have the neediest of children. How do you do it?**

milestones, or something

My inner monologue since my last post has been something along the lines of "the pillows lining my under-eyes have gotten so that if I smile they threaten to block out my pupils completely, but at least some pillows are being put to use around here." or "I recently discovered chocolate milk + Bailey's and it's changed my mornings delicate after-dinner drinking, but I need to be make sure I'm heavy-handed with the Bailey's rather than the milk because Weston doesn't like lactose."

And also, this morning I sported the baggiest sweatshirt I have with the comfiest sweats I own and my faux-fur lined slippers...to Target. For all intents and purposes, I was in my jam-jams. I supplemented this showstopping look with sopping shower hair run through with some gel that promised beachy waves, and nary a stroke of make-up on my face canvas. Public meltdowns (compliments of mainly the toddler but occasionally the infant) have accustomed me to stares from fellow shoppers, so it was actually a welcome change of pace to get side glances caused by my outfit rather than my young. Further, I answered the door in this getup and chatted up the magazine subscription solicitors for a good fifteen minutes. Social interaction much?

Anyway, I can't say that these, my recent happenings, have made for good blog fodder. But during my blogging sabbatical I missed a couple of milestones, so I'm here to impart them for posterity.

1// Blogaversary (blogiversary? blogoversary? not a real word so why do I care about correct spelling?)

October 26 marked my one year of blogging. Here's my first post, replete with tiny thumbnail pics of my tiny thumbnail Jordan. What a difference a year makes:

2// I didn't do a Halloween post to show you the costuming and gallivanting! Because lazy. Here's last year when Jo went as Little Red Riding Hood and Weston went as Not Even Conceived Yet. And below are this year when a theme is (hopefully) apparent:

 "tit-a-teating" (yes, I'm aware. totally inappropriate.)

 Toto is the basket's only occupant. Dorkthy already downed the first few houses' candies.

 "this is so not Kansas"

"If I only had a brain" and his heartless mother Tin Man

I feel I should also mention, because it's part of "recent," that this guy

he slays me. He can (and often does) cry for interminable periods; he can be the neediest, pansiest little mama's boy; he can request to be nursed for what seems like it must be hours and hours. Then he slips me his James Franco-esque squint-eye smile, like so

and all is forgiven. He is my 15 pound bucket of colic, with a side of the sweetest personality this side of the no-sleep zone. Oh you read that right. The fat, fat, fat child is clear through his wardrobe up to 6 months. He only wears 6-9 monthers or above, and it's increasingly hard to feed him on the papasan chair because he stretches from one side to the next. Jordan was so dainty until she was at least a year (when her stomach discovered its ability to rival Charles Laughton's), so raising Sasquatch is a little unnerving. And I love it.

Jordan in all of this? Smack dab in the middle, being a shockingly excellent sister. She constantly wants to "pay Wesson" (play with Weston), or "song on, dancey Wesson" - a form of entertainment involving many many uncoordinated toddler dance moves performed before the very very perplexed infant while he sits in his bouncy musical chair. She is also very savvy regarding my wits-end levels, as evidenced by her encouraging Wes to "knock i'off" in the car, where he is at his screamingest worst.

There's the mishmosh that is my brain. I'd say you asked for it, but you did not. Thanks for stopping along the way anyway. Now go and marvel that it is November - NOVEMBER. I'm still stuck in summer so I'm a little in awe that I can get peppermint mochas at Starbucks right now. (ooooo... peppermint mochas.)

the birth of sir weston james, esq. - part two

When I left you last, my contractions had petered to a halt. They kind of pulled a Lindsay Lohan, had a good run at the paparazzi headlines and dramatic breaking news, then... disappeared in a cloud of shame. I slept a nice little piece, woke up with fresh resolution, and went about the hot, hot, hot day. That was 2 pm-ish to 4 pm-ish, and by 5 my contractions were back with jazz hands.

Ok but this time they meant the business. They kind of snuck back in and took their time, all 20 minutes apart-like, but they started this new thing that I believe we call "back labor." Or "yiiiiiiiiiiiiikes, this hurts." Here is where my resolve started to crumple up and heave itself toward the wire wastebasket, so to speak. When we started out for the hospital, round #2, it was around 11 pm on Saturday night, just shy of 48 hours after my labor's inception. I had had it, Sean's right hand had had it, that handle thing that hangs above the passenger window of our Yaris had had it. The contractions had taken their toll on all of those things. And I was starting to narrate each one with some pretty foul language, which is not very zen for the whole birthing process. It's no wonder Weston was like, Are you my mother? I'm staying in here.

I was being far from brave. I was being a huge pansy at this point. My contractions were 7-8 minutes apart when we left this time, but I might have fudged on that time frame when I called Labor and Delivery to let them know of our impending arrival, because I didn't want them to tell me to wait longer. I think I may have said 5-6 minutes...I don't know...it's fuzzy. I wanted a flippin' epidural.

And here I would like to note the stark contrast of this hospital arrival to our arrival the night before: Sean all but carried me in; I feebly signed something from my fetal position in the waiting room chair while Sean took care of the rest of the paperwork; I pretty much dragged my body against the wall down to Labor and Delivery. Have you seen The Brave Little Toaster? (The answer better be yes. It is only the best cartoon of all time.) I was Blankie.

And Sean at this point I'm sure was internally grumbling like Kirby the vacuum: "ugggh, cry, cry, weep, wail and sob - it's disgusting!"

Song & dance, hospital gown, all the hookups to this machine and that one too, nurse checks me...THREE. As in, 1.5 centimeters in two full days. (I was already at 1.5 cm at my last doctor appointment.) The nurse called my doctor, she came on in around 12:30 or 1 a.m. Sunday morning, and basically to sum up: "We can give you an epidural and you can keep laboring if you want, but your body doesn't seem to want to dilate and the prolonged labor may be putting stress on the baby. I can call a c-section team in..."

You mention the safety of your baby to a pregnant woman, all bets are off. I was ready to cave anyway if they couldn't give me the drugs. Within half an hour, I was being wheeled down nostalgic C-Section Lane and Sean was suiting up in the funny sterile costume everyone wears in there. As it all was happening, and mingled with the anticipation and excitement about meeting my long awaited baby boy, I couldn't help but feeling pretty darn disappointed in my body. I know I shouldn't - it does really amazing things like foster and form beautiful, healthy humans over the course of nine months - but I look my broad frame and my unmistakable "child-bearing hips" and wonder, why couldn't you? Those are thoughts for another time, I guess. Digression finished.

So. My doctor was kindly giving me little tidbits about the progress of the surgery from over the curtain. When she laid eyes on Weston, she informed me, "This would have been a tough one Jessie. He's sunny side up and his shoulders are really broad!" God knew best, then. Ouch for all involved parties. Just about as she was telling me this, I heard a little gurgle followed by a hearty, healthy cry. And there he was! Sean rushed over to greet him but I was a little, er, tied down. I waited for them to wipe him up a bit, then a nurse nestled him next to my face for a few moments. I was pretty loopy at this point, but I think the very first thing I said to my son was "You have such squishy lips!" Oh, but they are. Kissable to the nth.

Sean got the more coveted end of the stick and followed Weston out of the room while I got all fixed up. Pretty sure I dozed off in there actually, and probably said something stupid too because my doctor and the nurses were talking to me. As soon as they wheeled me into recovery, Weston was plopped atop my chest and instructed to latch. Latch he did. Vaguely reminiscent of one of those vicious gators on the Discovery Channel snatching an unsuspecting antelope from the river's edge. Breastfeeding...I love you and I hate you too. You give my child the good stuff, but you're horrifically uncomfortable for that first little while.

We stayed in the hospital until Tuesday afternoon. We had a couple of great nurses, a handful of lovely friends and family stop in to visit, and an overall very successful recovery. I could compose the longest list of how this birth/c-section experience was lightyears better than Jordan's (initial health problems, NICU stays, no latching what.so.eva, inconsolable infant screams at alllll the hours, the stress! the stress!) but suffice it to say Weston was a happy, healthy, hungry, carefree guy from the get-go, and Jordan was not any of those things. My poor little girl had a rough go for a little while. But just look at her now:

(not the best shot of either of them but I just love it because 

Wes looks like a little snapturtle and Jordan looks like his proud pug mother.)

There it is. A birth story for all to see. Weston is growing beautifully and Jordan is doting dutifully. Here's a shot of us all for good measure. (Taken yesterday after a day at the beach so excuuuuse that insane hair and Jordan's lack of clothing. The girl is just never dressed.)

PS - thank you all SO much for all the congratulatory comments on Weston's birth announcement. I didn't get much of a chance to respond to any of them - sorry! - but I loved reading them and was so pleased to get each of them. You guys are the best :)

PPS - This installment is headed for Grace's too.

the birth of sir weston james, esq. - part one

Once upon a midnight, two weeks ago today, I went into labor. Ah, it's never that simple though, is it?

 Now the story of a huge pregnant woman who lost her cool.

And the one son who had no choice but to stay put in the womb and have a good laugh.

It's: Arrested Labor & Delivery.

So, I realized that I was finally finally starting to have contractions, a week after my due date, the very first thing Friday morning, August 30. They were pretty easy, little hiccups of contractions ranging from 8 minutes to 20 minutes apart. I knew I'd be a while yet so I never woke Sean up, but I was super excited so I never got back to sleep that night. In the morning I told Sean all about it and we were all stoked. We packed Jordan for my parents' (who had just gone out of town but we pieced together some care for her with the odd sibling here, obliging family friend there..) and got ready to party down, labor-style in an air conditioned, spacious two-story home.

Womp, womp. I kid you not, I went into labor on the kick-off of the hottest weekend in the summer. And my parents' air conditioning BROKE THAT DAY. No, it broke THAT day. No, it was nearly 100 outside and it was fully 85 or warmer inside until 10 that night. Or maybe later than 10 but I wouldn't know because...

Around 10 or 11 I decided we should be hospital bound. My contractions were about 6 minutes apart and we had a 40 minute drive before us. Here was the thing though: I had been timing my contractions all day; I had felt them grow stronger and come quicker. Yet, the pain was manageable. Now I had never had the opportunity to experience "real" labor with Jordan's birth, so I had nothing to compare any of this to, but I was thinking to myself: "hey Jess, you've got this. It kinda hurts, and you're uncomfortable, but it's not that bad!"

.........
*you're a huge idiot, you know that Jess?*
.........

We got to the hospital and got admitted. Here's where I'd like to note that I walked myself into the hospital without leaning on Sean, I signed in and filled paperwork out myself and only had to sit down briefly, and I walked down the hall to labor and delivery without needing to lean on a wall. Basically, I should have seen what was coming next.

The nurse checked me all out and informed me I was only dilated 2 cm. Disappointment reverberated throughout my humongous pregnant body. 2? 2! I'd been in labor for 24 hours at this point, which I was later to find out was merely "pre-labor" or some crap like that. The nurse caught my distress and suggested we stay the night. I told her I hadn't been to sleep the night before, and she mercifully administered a shot of morphine that I might be able to sleep through the contractions.

Well, I actually wasn't able to sleep through a one of those contractions, but it did take the edge off. I watched the contraction monitor and Weston's heartbeat monitor the whole night while Sean attempted some semblance of rest in one of those ridiculous fold-out hospital chair-bed things. He mused that the huge pole sticking up the middle of it must be there for "lumbar support."

The nurse checked me in the wee hours and said I had dilated another 1/2 centimeter. Ok, body. What the deal is. We were obviously dismissed from the premises - unless I'd like to take that c-section right now? No! I was committed to this VBAC. But I was also really frustrated with my body and left the hospital feeling hopelessly defeated. Witness:

I'm not happy Bob. NOT. HAPPY.

We drove back to my parents house and greeted our girl without her new sibling. The house was still hopelessly hot, and I took two ice cold baths that day. By my second bath in the early afternoon, my contractions had stopped. We're talking, maybe one every 45 minutes. I called my doctor to discuss the situation, and she laid out my options. Was I sick enough of laboring to come in and schedule a c-section? Well actually my given name is Jessica Marie Stubborn Idiot, so no. We're riding this pain train. So then if contractions had stopped, she said, I should take this opportunity for a nap and some good rest. Since I'll need it, she reminded me. That's what I did, and it was a good thing because that was the first sleep I'd had since it all started, and the last I'd have until it all ended.

Enough for today? More woeful dispositions and bemoaning and bemusing next time then. Aren't birth stories the rosiest? Spoiler: it ends in BABY so they really are pretty cheerful after you wade through all the lamentation.

Oh! I'm going to make this post whopping #206 over at Grace's birth story link-up. Dang, we ladies like to have the babies.

five faves - the newborn edition

This week has been nice and slow as we brought our new guy back home and introduced him around. Even with the leisurely pace of it all, I've been hard up to find time to sit down and write. To ease myself back into blogging I thought I'd jump in on Hallie's weekly roundup which, incidentally, is being hosted over at The Camp. I give you: the five favorites of having a wee newborn of the masculine persuasion.

1// Weston James

in his ultra masculine hand-me-down rocker

Let's start with the basics, may I? This boy is definitely a fave. A lanky, hefty, hungry, ginger-haired fave. He bleats like a tiny lamb when he's hungry, belches like a crude Dreamworks cartoon character when he's done, and cuddles so deep into my chest I feel like he's on the inside again. He gained 10 ounces and 3/4 an inch in four days so if he decides to pursue this rate of change I'll have an Andre the Giant for a 3 year old. No matter how tight the swaddle, he never fails to successfully free one of his managerial little hands and tries to orchestrate his every feeding. He hinders the process exponentially but his desire for involvement makes me laugh every time. This guy.

2// The Sibling Bond

I believe I could fill several journals and pen fourscore posts on how Jordan has been manifesting her discomfort over such a drastic change coming upon her home. But I take great solace in it's being taken out on Sean and I, rather than her new brother. She has been a handful x 12 with her drop-of-a-pin tantrums, blatant disobedience, and gleeful defiance, but oh my gosh, she loves her brother. She calls him "Wuh-shtee" or "Bud-Dee" (Sean and I have a habit of calling all male things "bud" or "buddy") and not 5 minutes goes by when she doesn't want to "hodey baby" (hold the baby). I'm in love with their relationship already.

3// aden & anais swaddle blankets

Switching gears to products really quick - these are THEE best swaddle blankets. My dear friend Meg got me the above 2-pack and the color scheme is my dream (aqua, pale gray and crimson) and the size and breathability of these suckers are spot-on. They are truly wonderful and Weston has been wrapped in one or the other of them since birth. 

4// Meals on Wheels or whatchamacallit

Friends and family alike have been stocking our fridge like it has never seen before. Sean and I aren't great at meal planning yet and it never looks like we have more food than a couple meals' worth - but this last week! Feasts and leftovers for days. Delicious savory pot roasts, gooey and positively evil chocolate chip cookies, tri-tips, fruit salads, and oh, the guacamole, soft cheeses and other ridiculous snacks that are lining our insulated shelves! I'm the luckiest.

5// My new fam

Sean's first day back at work was today - oh the prayers that I need - so we've had a week and a half to explore our new dynamic. Know what? It's fantastic.

Hasty sign-off due to one-handed typing due to starving, eager latcher. Grace has more!

labor weekend

Oh hey! There's someone I'd like you to meet.

 barrel chested

 ginger headed

 wide eyed

and wide thighed

Well hey there, welcome Mr. SlowBob ProcrastinatorPants. You're so right: 9 days late is the perfect amount of fashionable, and now you have a birth month independent from your sister's. Nevermind that you were starting to accrue multiple reputations as a mama's boy, the Buster to my Lucille, and a general pain in the bum from your uncle, your aunt and your mama, respectively. (It's rather embarrassing to admit I was calling my unborn a pain in the bum *edited* but I can't say that last weekend housed some of my prouder moments in the behavioral department.) I prefer the way your Aunt Meg described you: you shall be my slow and steady.

He's here, this strapping young man, and a chiller little guy there never was. A couple things I've learned of him in the last 60 hours or so: dude is an angry bird when his feet are exposed to the elements. He goes from golf channel snorefest to Mexican soap opera psycho with the kick-free of a swaddle. Message received, buddy. Socks and blankies all the day long. Also, in utero Weston is not an accurate reflection of ex utero Weston. The kicking and flipping and tai chi et al has ceased with the entrapment of the womb and we are left with a slumbering, ponderous Ghandi.

The VBAC attempt? Epic fail. And I mean that in the catch phrasey way of today's culture, yes, but mostly I mean, this birth story shall be an epic of Star Wars proportions spanning multiple titles, generations and perhaps even sparking a couple franchises. So much to tell, even after I edit out all the complainy, whiny crap that I mentally penned during my 48th hour of labor (no, really) and the litany of curse words that narrated my 899th through 917th contraction.

So, birth post(s) are forthcoming but I'm gonna go snack on Weston's cheeks for an indeterminate amount of minutes and emphasize soft touches to an eager Jordan a few more times first. 

after instinctively honing in on his soft spot and trying to rub antibacterial all over it