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.

all quiet on the laboring front

I wish I had other news than that. I hadn't been feeling particularly antsy throughout this pregnant journey...until the last few days. I've employed quite a few of Ana's natural labor inducing tricks and am working up the courage to try the castor oil one. I think I just watched too many Shirley Temple flicks growing up and have a highly immature fear of the taste, as Shirley and all the other orphans forced to partake in this natural remedy do.

Friday morning found my sister Audrey and I observing Jordan in the throes of toddler indoor parkplay. We chased that premium rush with an aggressive mall jaunt, with hopes (on my part anyway) of getting some labor started. I had a gnarly contraction hit, in which I stopped to suck wind as Audrey's eyes bugged 10 centimeters instantaneously. She cautiously asked in hushed undertones "Jess, are you going to give birth in this Anthropologie?" For the splittingest of seconds, this sounded vastly appealing. There could be no more beautiful, soothing bedding options for the birthing process than those found in Anthro, and those exquisite pajama sets would be infinities better than a fugly hospital gown. But I feel like I could be blacklisted or something if I gave that a shot. And where would I go when I'm jonesing for imaginery home décor inspiration? Besides, it was a fluke contraction. Jordan and I proceeded to give Auds our 4 cents on some gawgeous skirts and dresses.

Sean, Jordan and I ambled down to the Starbucks around the corner from us on Saturday. Round trip it was probably 1 1/2 miles (#hardcore #wowdontoverdoitjess)...still to no avail. I really thought this trip would help too, considering the way back was all uphill. No dice. I even participated in Sean and Jordan's swim session - something I usually sit out since one of the prerequisites is swimming attire - and floated up and down the pool on my back with my belly a full 6 inches out of water. Jordan kept wondering if I was "seeping, mama?" which is actually a fairly genius idea, thanks girlfriend. I might sneak down there after hours and partake in my nightly not-rest in a state of complete weightlessness. Far more relaxing than a right-to-left flip-flop in 15 minute intervals, can I get an amen?

And then there was Sunday. My aunt gave Sean and I movie passes, and we took our opportunity for a last date before we're reconciled to hermitage for the next few weeks. We saw a matinee of

 

which rang true to all elements of a Pegg/Frost collab, and was really freaking funny. Sean and I laughed audibly throughout, which is pretty uncommon for us stodgies. (Awful language, some innuendo, no sex scenes, FYI. If you like Shaun of the Dead and/or Hot Fuzz - which I do - you're absolutely certain to like this one.)

 

Throughout our weekend peppered with light errands and lighter exercise, I received sporadic sock-to-the-gut contractions, and several very sweet texts from various friends and family members inquiring about progress and well-being. Gosh, I'm surrounded by the nicest people. Allll my concentration is on starting labor today, because I'm kinda running out of time. Oh, and because Sean told me yesterday that he was "very disappointed" in me for not having this baby yet, since he consequently had to go to work this morning. Well. There's that. After a "YOU'RE disappointed?! You're disappointed?!" or seven on my part, he assuaged the offense with a back and shoulder rub. Forgiven.

 

Unless this baby is planning a career in professional camping, I'd venture a guess this is my last post as a mother of one (one ex-utero, that is). Any spare prayer will be greatly appreciated, and let's all commence internal chant: VBAC, VBAC, VBAC. It's catchy.

 

Geronimo.



i need a bullseye and i suck at darts

you never realize how much toothpaste your toddler has splattered across your mirror until you take a selfie

Here's the skinny. (<--- irony is my favorite.) My due date is tomorrow and I had a doctor's appointment yesterday. In answer to her query, I'm feeling fine really, but with a healthy dose of pressure at the base of that prodigious belly. I've been interpreting this to mean the baby is dropping, but my doctor tells me I'm not at all dilated. Fine, okay.

...and then she tells me: she's going out of town beginning tonight and through Sunday. Wait, there's more. My parents are leaving for a cruise for their 30 year anniversary (30! Aren't they amazing?) starting a week from tomorrow. Hold on, I'm not done. My sister Mary departed for a wedding in France a couple of days ago and won't be back from her Tour de Europe until October. I've got a couple more kickers: Sister Right-Hand Audrey leaves for college a week from today,(what are the chances of my talking her out of pursuing higher education? It's for the birds, says I. I need her.) while Sister Left-Hand Anna will be dropping her off via road trip, accompanied by my brother Luke - the last remaining sibling eligible to take care of Jordan for extended periods of time. They'll be back Sunday the 2nd-ish. I'm pulling a Dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding right now:

Why you want to leeeave me??

This all wouldn't feel like such a big deal, were I not attempting a VBAC with this baby. That's [Birth via who-ha] After Cesarean. (I have an unhealthy fear of the clinical names for all parts private. My siblings and I have an extended list of euphemisms that honestly are probably much more disturbing than the true words but, comfort levels, friends.) Jordan was an emergency c-section, if you'll remember. And it took a good deal of research, switching of insurance plans, and pros v. cons weighing over the last seven, eightish months to find a doctor who was willing to let me even attempt a VBAC, (insurance and liability and hospital policies for those are a b, as I found out) let alone a doctor who I really really really like, and have put up with a terrible commute and office disorganization from hell to see and build a rapport with. If I go in to labor this weekend when she's not here I shall crumple into a heap of contractions and emotions. She assures me "our plan" will still be in place with the doctor on call, but I haven't met her and I'm not big on strangers all up in my lady regions.

So, don't come this weekend baby. But please come before Tuesday afternoonish, because I'll still have helping hands to take care of your sister during our hospital stay. Do you see the dilemma? I'm priming my uterus for labor commencement late Sunday evening, with a skip on over to the hospital perhaps in the wee hours of Monday morning, and a son in my arms by Monday afternoon, if you please. 

Snort, cackle, chortle. Anyone who's given birth knows that birth plans are basically useless. A curve ball will be thrown, that's a promise, and when you're toting a belly like the above you can't expect your dodgeball skills to be particularly Vince Vaughn-esque. 

I don't know. I haven't been particularly nervous up to this point. I leave all that to Sean. 

"So you're sure they'll have crash c-section team on site?" "Why don't you just let them slice & dice? Then you won't even have to labor!" "The hospital's 45 minutes away, what if we don't get there in time?" 

a) Yes. b) I am not recovering from a c-section again, if I can help it. It really sucks. And don't say slice & dice. c) Well, sometimes you just gotta get down with a car birth.

But now I'm weaving a timeline from some tenuous scheduling conflict threads and as my mind wanders to all the different scenarios I start to freak out a lotta bit when all I really want to do is lay on our uncomfortable couch and hug a pillow and browse Pinterest and wait for labor. But what if we have to bring Jordan with us and she witnesses the birth of her brother? That's scarring. Or what if the on-call doctor isn't really amenable to VBACs and forces the c-section issue? That's frustrating. Or we have Jordan in the hospital and she's being a nightmare and Sean is wrangling her in the waiting room and I give birth alone and he misses the birth of his son? That's... unlikely. What if A, B, C, X, Y, Z, gamma, epsilon, omega? The possibilities are boundless in the overactive imagination of a pregnant.

I guess what I'm saying is: if you have a moment to offer a very specific time-stamped prayer in the vein of my proposed timeline above, I'd be grateful. Thank you. I'm focusing all my chi on it, but I'm not quite sure what chi is so my efforts are likely fairly fruitless. Anyway, I'll be here (here being: papasan chair with narrow pillow wedged at the base of my back and cushy pillow behind my head and attractively swollen ankles parked on the ottoman) since I'm not mustering much more energy these days than to simply keep Jordan fed and watered and freshly-mmmm-maybe-semi-freshly diapered, so I'll just go ahead and keep you guys posted k?

this is 36

They say the gestational period is 40 weeks. Tell me they lie...

As this pregnancy comes to a slow, waddling close, I thought it'd be fun and helpful to share a few things that got me through it with....relative....ease. Or at least, made things easier. But my idea of fun these days is making it until 2 a.m. without a bathroom trip and my idea of helpful these days is if someone else stoops for the paperclip I just dropped or if someone tells me as delicately as possible that I've spilled avocado on my belly. So, like I said...relative.

1// I have basically lived in those two clothing items since month 5. A prudent pregnant woman buys and comfortable, jersey knit maxi dress and a comfortable, jersey knit stretchy skirt. Incidentally, I've had the black maxi from Target for well over 6 years, and it's meant to be a beach cover up (and is totally scando without a cami underneath or a sweater atop). What is so fantastic about it is that all I ever do with this dress is switch out various tops and tie them under the bust to give me a "different" outfit several times a week. Oh I know I'm not fooling anyone but it makes me feel like maybe I am. And that Old Navy maternity skirt has been in a bi- to tri-weekly rotation, not only for working garb, but anywhere I go at all. It is theeee most comfortable thing in theeee whole world and O.N. is still carrying it in assorted colors (just saw it there a couple days ago). Get the coveted look:

 the maxi at 24 weeks

the stretchy skirt at 29 weeks

(sorry for the re-'grams)

2// Somewhere around halfway through my second trimester, my sweet tooth became completely insatiable and voracious. Nestle's chocolate chip by the truckload, I tell you. What has helped - but certainly not cured, mind you - is finding something that semi-satisfies my aspirations to eat my way through the display case at Cheesecake Factory. For me, this has been watermelon. It's sweet enough to talk me down from the Dreyer's gallon challenge, but it's mostly water so it's very calorically friendly. 

Another indulgence I've permitted is chocolate milk - for calcium purposes, natch. When I make it, I go fairly light on chocolate syrup. The problem arises when Sean makes it for me (a common occurrence given my disinclination-verging-on-inability to rise from the couch). It looks the shade of Willy Wonka's chocolate river...a comparison I cringe at drawing because of my current uncanny resemblance in both behavior and appearance to Augustus Gloop.

3// Shoes. You must have a pair of shoes or two that can carry you through a pregnancy. Granted, almost anything else I could have chosen would have given me better foot support and maybe guarded my heels from the gruesome dry cracking that accompanies summer pregnancies, but these gold beauties* make me feel like I'm barefoot, which is the way a Jessie always wants to be. Despite having a desk job, I'm actually on my feet quite a bit, so comfy flips have been bread and buttah, toast and jam.

*I use the term loosely. More facetiously really.

4// Who knew when I registered for these mini throw duvet type thingies approximately three years ago that they would become so indispensable to my well-being? These guys have been LIFEsavers. Alright fine, they've been SLEEPsavers. Not that I'm sleeping all that much, but they certainly help the process along. I used a body pillow when I was pregnant with Jordan, and after using these instead, I shan't ever go back. I position one between my legs to keep my hips comfortably spaced, and I hug the other all night like it's the Leo to my Kate - I'll never let go. Body pillows are pricey. Find yo'self two little pillow buddies.

and 5// (not shown): Support System. I speak not of the Blanqi, although those help too. I mean: husband, sisters, family, friends. I have had so many good, good peeps helping me out with Jordan carpools, Jordan watching, Jordan entertaining, lending ears to my b*tching. Sean takes Jordan for long pool sessions so I can finish the kitchen; my sisters offer - offer! - to watch Jordan for the day to save me $$ on daycare and gas; my parents frequently fetch Jordan from daycare to save me from making a second hour-long drive; Kimmy listens to me every.day. at work while I recount blow for blow my latest insomnia episode; my friend Meg and I text novellas to each other about how our apartments are pits that are sucking our creative and would-be domestic souls. Everything looks better with a little solidarity, and no load feels as heavy when you have willing help. Procure a little of both, and 36 weeks won't feel so 36-weeksy.

And now to prepare this one for the upheaval that will be her life in a few short days. She looks ready to step up, yes? ....we'll just keep all the security items handy until she's 5.

I do what I want so I'm throwing these five over in at Hallie's a whole TWO days late. Yeah. Living dangerously at nearly full term.

both sweet and bitter

A week from today is my last day of work before maternity leave. 7 days. But with the way the last couple weeks have been going it's gonna feel more on par with 7 millennia. And I only exaggerate .0000000023% of the time so you can trust my similes absolutely.

It's not that I haven't been busy enough at work to solicit my rapt attention, or that my work is especially painful in any way. It's that - and I may be/probably will be eating these words in 8 days or so - I can't wait to have nothing to do but to spend the very last of the Jordan-only days with Jordan, only. (Ok fine, I also have to pick up and purify this pit of an apartment and do countless things in preparation for baby and set up a bedside nursery that will suffice as this kid's sleeping arrangement for the next few months and finish 763 started-and-neglected projects and pack a hospital bag and purge the last of unneeded and unwanted crap so there's room to breath around here but, potato potato.)

It's the end of an era. Never again will Jordan be the only. Which is so, so grand by the way. I'm thrilled to the core to see her become a big sister and to expand this little family. To see Sean become a dad all over again, and to have a newborn just melt into body in the way only snuggly and helpless newborns can. But I have this overly keen sense of nostalgia about pretty much all things, and to be so sharply aware that a pivotal period in my life is coming to an end gets me a little weepy. I wish I meant figuratively but, so it goes with the hormones and the mood swings and the pregnant not-sanity.

Just look

That's Sean accentuating the importance to "cheeewww" the saltwater taffy as Jordan piledrives hand over pudgy fist

I mean, what buds these guys are. And what a treat to add to their exclusive posse another little deviant that will jump on the bed while Mom is obliviously washing the dishes; hide behind doors and scare said unsuspecting, long-suffering Mom; splash about in the pool nightly; watch '80s music videos on YouTube. But these two years of just he and she: they will be treasured and preserved in my memory and in the massive photo folders as that time Sean and I learned about a whole new type of love and bond. It's crazy different from anything that came before it and it is a mother of a ride.

So yes, 300 months pregnant as I may look and feel, I have ambitious plans to make the last two, three-ish weeks before this buddy makes his entrance stage-birth canal the ultimate for the Jo. Zoo trips, cookie baking, marathon coloring sessions, playdates et al. I know she knows something's up, she senses change, and she's reacting accordingly.

But she can cling all she wants for now, because the concept of "share" that she's been struggling with is about to get a lllllot harder. Cling on, Captain. Cling on.

mythbusters

Today I'm here to debunk and to validate some long-standing, traditional myths. Some of these may seem more obvious than others, but people are gullible. I'm just here to help clear things up.

1//

It's a nice story, but I'm pretty sure the Loch Ness monster is the product of some Scottish guys stumbling out of a pub, glancing over to the Loch, and witnessing a peacock taking an evening dip. Maybe it was chomping savagely on a catfish. They agreed it had to be a prehistoric monster, rumor got around, and all the sudden anonymous tips and sightings were being wired in to the local paper. Classic snowball syndrome. The facts and evidence are shaky, but the fan base is hardcore and pretty much awesome. Plus, they've got Napoleon in their camp

2//

Honestly I think my dad and uncle may have started this legend when they went on their surfing trip around the world in the '70s. They grew out their beards and luscious 'fros, didn't apply sunscreen, looked positively wild, and were tramping through jungles and forests looking for undiscovered surf spots. They looked eerily similar to the above. Some poor Chilean probably spotted them and freaked out and BAM. Sasquatch is born.

3//

If Jordan can understand complex sentences like "As soon as you finish your carrots, you can have a popsicle." or "If you bring me your shoes, we can go see Aunt Anna." without any gesticulations or helpful indicators, she can certainly comprehend "Jordan, pick up your books." The whole cocking the head to the side in feigned confusion is not working.

4//

This is NO MYTH. I have hardcore pregnancy brain. A cop-out, you say? Then let me offer evidence:

a) I've been married nearly three years. The other day while filling out a form I signed my maiden name. I haven't done that since my second week of marriage.

b) I've been making smoothies for Jordan and I almost every morning. I wash and assemble the blender each evening for easy smoothie composition the next day. The other day I started the blender and lovely hues of blackberry-Greek yogurt-purples started spilling out the bottom. Because I didn't twist the parts together.

c) Sean reminded me to call my dad on his birthday. (I promise I would've remembered eventually, Dad.)

d) I couldn't remember if I'd paid Jordan's babysitter, started freaking out, and almost double paid them. Good thing they're honest.

e) I forgot my last doctor's appointment and had to reschedule. But seriously, what doctor's office doesn't call the day before to confirm the appointment? ESPECIALLY a pre-natal appointment? They have to know these women are losing it.

f) I walked up to the front of my office after having just hung up with my mom moments before. The receptionist, who is friendly with all of the staff's spouses and families since she often takes their calls, says "Jess, your mom was cracking me up when I was talking to her just now." and I said "Oh, you talked to my mom?" Uh yeah Jess, she transfers the calls. The receptionist's eyes bugged out of her head. We're talking this was two minutes after I got off the phone and I already forgot I talked to my mom.

g) My good friend had a baby yesterday morning. When I went to drop off something at my parents', I told my brother about it. I met my brother for lunch two hours later and asked, "Oh did you hear Katie had her baby?"

h) I'm operating on muscle memory at work. I go to deliver files to wherever, and find myself in the kitchen without having dropped anything off. Gives you a good idea as to how often I visit the kitchen.

SO. I think I've made my case. I mean, I really hope this is pregnancy brain. I'm done here in about a month, and would really like my sense of I-kinda-know-what-the-flip-I'm-doing back. Conversations are fuzzy and actions are forgotten within minutes and it's more than a little disconcerting. I rely on my work calendar for absolutely everything, because even if I were to put things in my phone, I'd just clear the alarm and forget about it 17 seconds later. At least with my work calendar I have to physically stare at a reminder all day.

Tell me this too shall pass? Please?

home stretch

I've been having a hard time getting myself to sit still long enough to write. Or write something of any substance anyway. Not that I really write substantial posts...I can't honestly say that the workings featured here are prone to the philosophical, can you?

It's this whole being pregnant thing. I'm not due until August 23, so I'm definitely not in the "waiting game" stage, but it's starting to feel like it. I'm restless and antsy and always want to do something without quite knowing what that something is. As far as blogging is concerned, it used to be something I set my alarm for a little earlier so that I could think in peace before Sean and Jordan arose. Now, due to nightly bathroom trips and the toss-toss-toss from side to side all night, I let my body wake me up when it's ready. Therefore, I'm currently holed up in the corner of the couch trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible (a feat of epic proportions) while Jordan is cozying up asking me to "rea" to her, and Sean coaxes her from the kitchen to help him make "eddies" (eggies) so Mom can finish her bloggy stuff. (I really need to pen an updated word list. Some of the things coming from Jordan's mouth these days are pretty awesome.)

Not much of a point to this post. I do have a couple sitting in my drafts that have something similar to a direction to them, but like I said with the antsy and restless, I can't sit down long enough to finish them. Or start them, really. Instead here's some just-woke-up, still-in-my-jams, haven't-bothered-with-the-make-up-things, please-ignore-the-toddler-handprints-to-the-bottom-left, if-I-make-this-black-and-white-will-it-pass-for-artistic?, I'm-the-worst-blogger/photographer-ever evidence of 33 weeks along.

Philosophical workings, indeed.

catching fire

Let's start with saying: Yes, I'm a wimp. But now can I commence complainfest? I covered my bases.

Let your visual aid for my physical state be this

but I also feel that my thighs are accurately portrayed here

so I could really just be all of the villains in Disney's Hercules including that dragon that, once you chop of it's head, three more grow in its place - if we let one head be equal to one complaint quelled, followed by three new complaints cropping up out of nowhere.

Alright, so my neck of the woods is no Death Valley, and I'm certainly no crazy local running in a Darth Vader costume in 129 degree heat in order to break the Guinness Book of World Records. But hot damn, if this heat wave we've been experiencing isn't just about to break me. Sean, of Sacramento/might-as-well-be-hottest-place-in-America origin, claims it's "not that bad." (For my reaction, please refer to picture #1.) We do, after all, have an AC unit in our living room. Which is helpful, you know, if you're willing to staunchly hold your post by the front door, which is the extent of the air flow trajectory. Circulation, thy name is not cheap apartment AC unit.

Pool time is usually Sean and Jordan's jam, and I just go about my business of cleaning the kitchen, concocting the tallest glasses of chocolate milk, trying to straighten that one kink out of my hair, and occasionally lurking on my precious' from my balcony perch

but the unbearability of it all has set me and the bump poolworthy. This found me, yesterday, deep in a conversation with a five-year-old from which it was hard to extricate myself . After taking stock of our impending arrival (via starestareandstaresomemore at the belly, then finally come out with "are you gonna have a baby?!") and inquiring after the sex, he insisted that we should name the boy Jordan, when he's born, and change the girl's name (with a nod in current Jordan's direction) to Kendra. I then asked him if he didn't think it would be confusing to [current] Jordan if we all of the sudden changed her name, and he insisted no: she looks like a Kendra because of her hair color. We're taking it under advisement.

Bedtime has been the real clincher though, because the fan that we haven't turned off since mid-May (really) is not cutting through the true heat of summer (read 92 degrees). I repurposed the freezable gel breastfeeding pads - that were included in that congrats!-you-had-a-baby! hospital bag of free samples and crap from a couple years ago - as frozen slippers, and have been sleeping with them atop my ember-toes. The problem is, they melt within a couple of hours, and my body has been making the unfortunate decision to wake up to pee circa 1:30 or so. It is then that I realize how sweaty I am; how Sean's idea of beating the heat is to be completely spread-eagle across the bed so that each limb pretty much reaches each corner and I'm kinda like under an armpit; how much this in utero lovebug adores a good sesh of early morning kickboxing; how I'm never never never going to get back to sleep. Hence: posting in the wee hours of 4 a.m. 'neath the protection of living room AC.

And here's where I implore your assistance. There's zero percent chance of my survival even one more week under such conditions. (What do you mean, melodramatic?) I welcome any and all recommendations for an affordable yet EFFECTIVE! box fax/window AC unit/rentable igloo/I-don't-care-just-please-help-me-to-stop-sweating. And thank you from the bottom of my sweltering soles. 

We're coming for you, Amazon Prime, and your 2-day shipping. Until then, I'm holing up at my parents' well-ventilated place while they're out of town on vacation. Like a grown-up.

a case for co-ed

Two very good friends of Sean's and mine are expecting their first in a little over a month. They're having a boy, like we are, which means they will obviously be best friends. Parents get to plan those things right?... Well something we can and did plan this past weekend was a co-ed baby shower for them. I'm not quite sure what gave me the idea to make it co-ed, but you know what happens when you bring boys to a shower? It just turns into a party. Which...I'm all for actually.

Our apartment is teeny tiny, so Sean and I agreed that this would best be made a pool party. As a pregnant myself, I know I appreciate a good buoyancy sesh. We had good peeps, good food, and good drink, so the lack of shower games was not missed (by me, anyway, and definitely not by any men), and I'm hoping no one minded the very casual nature of it all.

I got carried away in decorating and theming, as I am wont to do

BUT I forgot to take a pic of the lemonade stand, which I'm super bummed about. I went a little Crazy Martha on it and it really made me step back and consider: am I this much of a Type A? In any case, I'm going to give you the homemade lemonade recipe because, first of all it was ridiculously easy, and second of all it was ridiculously delicious. But wait for it, I have a couple more pics.

All the babes were invited. Hey if the boys get to come, the babies get to come. It's only fair. Jordan had an absolute ball being surrounded by her second cousins (my cousin's kids, that is. He has a 2 1/2 year old and 1 year old twins! the crazy life.)

Mine's in the watermelon suit with the chlorine saturated diaper. And would you look at those tight curls on the twins on the left? You pull them out and they spring back and I squeal with delight. On repeat. These four girls. I can't get over how excited I am that they get to grow up together. Besties.

Jordan doesn't have much respect for other people's space. Bubble invader.

*mental note: BUY swim diapers. Poor girl must've been walking around with 7 extra pounds of literal water weight.

I think it was a success. Sean bbq'd but was still a part of the party since our balcony overlooks the pool. We had a cooler full of cold ones for the boys, sangria and wine for the non-pregs, a lemonade stand and Italian soda for the pregs and under-agers, and good talks and laughter all around. It honestly didn't feel so much shower-y as summer bbq-y, but I don't think anyone minded.

So now I'll impart this lemonade recipe that seemed to be a smash. At least, there wasn't any left. I made the simple syrup the morning of, because it needs time to cool in the fridge. This is a step that could easily be done the night before you're serving. Be forewarned....there's a lot of sugar. I bet you could sub out some for like agave or honey, but I wasn't going to mess with 1,336 five-star reviews on my maiden voyage of making it. 

•  8 cups water
• 1 3/4 cups white sugar
• 1 1/2 cups lemon juice (I feel strongly about fresh squeezed. It realllllly kicks it up a notch. And maybe counterbalances the preposterous amount of sugar with all it's Vitamin A, B, C, E....W, X, Y what have you)

Just boil one cup of the water with the sugar to produce the simple syrup. Let it cool to room temp before putting it in the fridge to chill. When it's chilled, mix everything together. Seriously that easy. Serves 20.

I sliced up a few more lemons to float on top for aesthetics. Because I'm nuts. Then I set out a shallow dish of honey and another shallow dish of sugar so that people could do their own sugar rims. Then I put out Torani syrups in strawberry and raspberry flavors so that you could spike as you choose. Fresh strawberries and raspberries were out for garnish and why oh WHY didn't I take a picture of all this? 

***

The moral of this post is if you're looking for a more casual shower, or perhaps if the mom-to-be is not big on being the center of attention (which my friend is not), bring in the men. My brother was all semi-insulted that I was inviting him to a baby shower *gasp!* but he ended up staying latest. In fact don't even tell the guys it's a shower, because really it's just a party. A kick-back, one might say. With a pregnant lady or ladies.  Ain't no party like a pregnant tea party. (That's a Flight of the Conchords reference and if you got that then I love you, let's marry.)

lately

Things I've been feeling...

 * Thankfully, a little less emotional. I'm thinking it's because I've been concentrating my efforts on more productive things than fighting off meltdowns at the realization that it's becoming harder to shave my legs over my burgeoning belly, or at my disappointment in picking a bad cantaloupe. Both are tragic, but they don't warrant ugly-cry-face. Instead, I'm cleaning house. I've already dropped off a boatload of stuff at the Goodwill, and the patio earned itself three trips to the dumpster. This is all much to Sean's bewilderment. As I enumerated the things I needed him to help me with he muttered: "This nesting thing...it's just the strangest phenomenon. It's like: your body is much more tired, but you always need to be doing more."

* Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes being conducted from within the confines of my uterus. This kid is already rivaling Jordan on the energy levels. In fact, I don't remember her being this active as early as this one started (about a month and a half ago). A couple days ago Sean cautiously put one finger on my bouncing belly and BAM, bulls-eye. He got kicked or punched or headbutted from within. He recoiled like he had just witnessed the extra-terrestrial emergence scene in Alien, and shrieked "DUDE! Is that going on all the time?" Yep.

* Jordan contorting herself to my changing body. She has become quite the snuggle bug lately. And while she's still lavishly applying kisses to her sibling's ever-expanding home, I'm pretty sure she still doesn't know what's going on. (Despite "there's a baby in there!" "can you kiss your sibling?" on obnoxious repeat.) Whatever the reason, she has upped her affection and I happen to love it...right now. But since I'm, uh, heartier in certain areas now, Jordan has graciously amended her hugging configuration to include throwing her arms about my neck, head upon my shoulder, and knees tucked right between the prospering belly and - I guess I'll just say it - the healthy rack, while legs and feet are buoyed up by her sibling.

Things I've been hearing...

* Younger Sister: "Yeah Jess...um...what happened? All the sudden you just got huge."

* Older Brother: "You look good though Jess. You're all belly. With Jordan I feel like it would've been easier for you to roll places than to walk."

* Sweetest Asian coworker with heavy accent: "Oh my gah, it's just like a big baw! (ball.) You so big!"

* Another coworker: "Uh, Jessie...you're supposed to be growing for another 3 1/2 months?"

I don't know what they're talking about. I'm very petite.

Please don't be offended on my behalf. I have a certain rapport with all of those people, and the belly comments only served to make me laugh heartily. (Particularly my brother. That's just exactly how we talk with one another.)

Things I've discovered...

* We're having a boy :) :) :)

ps (I'd include the ultrasound pic, but the doctor caught a particularly inappropriate angle...)

french babymoon: pars deux de trois

I totally tricked you with the title of pars une. I went over my journal and decided that it warranted two additional posts instead of one, because it would've been much too long. This whole travel journal thing may well be very boring to you, so I don't want to make the installments these extended epics. That's also why I'm spacing them out. If it's super boring, apologies. It'll be over soon.

As before, "this is French 2011 me "and "this is regular 2013 me." Just to be clear.

Wednesday, April 6

Off to Nice – two days early! We have breakfast at the hotel and I steal about five of the mini jams because they’re cute. 

We go grab our luggage from the room and Sean makes fun of me for trying to open the door by pulling instead of pushing. I say something witty like he’s stupid while simultaneously missing the step out the door and stumbling against the railing. Good timing Jess.

Our taxi driver speaks little English but is nonetheless very friendly and tries as best he can to explain the sites on the way back to the train station: the very old Avignon bridge, half of which crumbled into the Rhone River some time ago; the Popes’ Palace and museum, which my French book tells me is where the Popes stayed during the Babylonian captivity. Unfortunately, this is as much as we saw of Avignon.

We arrive at Nice at 1:30 and at first glance the area seems a little suspect: graffiti, beat-up buildings and the like. But Nice’s reputation is in fact well-deserved. About three blocks south is the gorgeous Mediterranean, and our hotel, the Flots d’Azur is right on it. We even have a slight view from our little window. 

The room leaves much to be desired (there is very literally a water closet for a bathroom and a matchbox shower) but it certainly fits our [last minute!] bill. We stop in the room only long enough to change and immediately start out across the street to the “Promenade des Anglais” which is the main walkway following the coast.

The French certainly are exhibitionists and Sean has to avert his eyes from the beach for the better part of the walk. But we find a beach café about every 1/8 of a mile and, as we’ve just eaten, note the menu and prices for a later date. The weather is flawless: the clearest blue sky, the softest sea breeze, and about 68˚. Ahhh. We walk all day – and I mean, ALL DAY. We’re on the Promenade for a couple miles before cutting over to the “Vielle Ville” (Old Town), with “Marche des Fleurs” (rows upon rows of gorgeous flower shops and vendors), and more cafes and restaurants in one spot than I’ve ever seen in my life. Literally.

We stop for a cappuccino at “Nexus Caffe” to consult our handy-dandy Frommer’s guide for an activity and fairly easily decide on “Le Chateau” since it’s quite close. We must first arm ourselves with a picnic though, so we brave the narrow alleyways for a boulangerie in search of baguettes and fromage. We find baguettes for .90€ and Sean discovers Heineken for 1,70€ but cheese is quite pricey so we settle – that is after Sean and I cave to some delicious Bailey’s gelato.

super attractive baguette faces

Le Chateau is a park, situated quite high above sea level, which actually used to be a castle built in the 17^th century. It has been ruins for hundreds of years, but now serves as the most beautiful picnic grounds with panoramic view of Nice and the Mediterranean and the houses and building nestled in the hills. Kids are playing baseball in an open field, and there’s an elaborate jungle gym and playground teeming with little ones.

We’re too cheap to take the elevator so we tackle the hundreds of stairs to the top and find a bench with our name on it: right on the crest of the mountain and shaded by some friendly trees. Sean annihilates his two Heinekens while I savagely attack the baguette. Our picnic is followed by another ferocious Crazy 8’s session in which I bring the France record to 13-11. We explore the roving Chateau grounds before descending at about 6:30 to commence on the long walk back to the hotel.

panorama and Le Port

game face

I didn't even make him pose like this. What a tourist.

My very flat and inefficient sandals did not serve me well and I rather conspicuously begin to limp up the Promenade. It therefore takes us quite a while to get back and we rest our exhausted feetsies for a twenty minute power nap before dinner.

The beach cafes don’t stay open for dinner so we choose “Le Jardin de Capitole” across the Promenade that still has a sea view. We spend a good two hours over Marguerite pizza (Jessie) and roasted chicken and fries (Sean) followed by scrumptious “Le Grande Dame” which is essentially a huge sundae with a mountain of whipped cream.

Sean gives my tiny, ineffectual foot a good hard massage before bed, then does some push-ups to alleviate his sundae guilt. I just journal, which also burns calories. Quits at midnight.

Thursday, April 7

Today was chill-out-we-don’t-need-to-travel-or-worry-about-metros-or-trains-or-anything day. We woke up at 8:30, showered and got ready for our first full Nice day. The hotel served breakfast on their terrace in full view of the sea, and at 9 a.m. it was already a breathtakingly beautiful day of about 70˚. We munched on croissants (Sean) and baguette with apricot jam (Jessie) and then took off for a walk up the Promenade.

On this pleasant day at such an agreeable temp we decided to try one of these beach cafes we had seen previously for morning coffee. “Neptune Plage” was one of the first we came to, and with its woven wicker chairs and navy & white umbrellas and flowers at every table, I was all for it. The café is on the sand (although in Nice the beaches are more pebbles really), so needless to say we had a flawless view of the crystal clear Mediterranean. I got a cappuccino and Sean a café au lait and we started our day the French way: slow and relaxed. After staying an hour or more we dropped down to the shore to feel the water, which to me felt a comfortable 66˚ or 67˚.

really hope there's no topless chick in the background. this blog is PG, tops

fat fat preg feet with at least month old polish

We grabbed some brochures and info on scooter rentals, tour buses and day trips at the tourist office on the Promenade and perused a couple on a bench. We decided to look into renting a scooter but by the time we got there it was 12:15 and they were on their two hour lunch. But in the same neighborhood as the rental place were cobblestone streets lined with cool shops and restaurants and prime people-watching territory. Baby told Mama it was time to eat so Sean & I got the longest ham & cheese sandwiches - and I tried a “Pschitt!” (pronounced exactly like a curse word) which is sparkling lemonade…yum – and we tried to spot the Americans from the droves of people walking by. We usually qualified those clutching maps and looking distressed or those who were overweight as Americans – how sad.

I had the idea to grab some wine and play cards on the beach so we found a supermarché and got white wine, peanuts and water. I only had one cup cuz I have Baby but Daddy had many cups. Perhaps because of his diminished capacity I was able to bring the Crazy 8’s record to 19-15. Maybe I should feel bad for taking advantage. I don't.

We talked and talked til almost dusk. Suddenly of the miles and miles of empty beach in Nice, the two feet in front of us seemed the most prime spot to two French toddlers to dig a tunnel – puppy-dog style with the pebbles spewing out behind. This seemed as much a cue as any to take our leave and change for dinner.

It was between 7:45 and 8 when we struck out to find dinner. We’ve become so European, eating all late. However we headed up a street with virtually no restaurants and walked much too far on it before turning around and getting on the right track again. After twenty minutes or so we settled on the first thing we came to: a French burger joint! It was pretty much empty and the owner spoke pretty much no English but he was so friendly. He made a mean burger and fries, and he was over in the corner between cooking and taking orders to peel fresh potatoes! It’s like French In n’ Out.

We walk back at about 9:30. We’ve had a good relaxing Nice day. We move to our new Nice hotel tomorrow.

Friday, April 8

We had to check out of Flots d’Azur by 12, so after another sea-view breakfast on the terrace, showers, and haphazard packing, we hit the bricks (or, more appropriately, cobblestones) and start on our twenty minute walk to Hotel Regence. 

I’m pretty excited about this one because it’s smack in the middle of Place Massena and, as we’ve discovered on our previous meanderings through Nice, Place Massena is the place to be.

 Sean tried to be sly with this street shot but that chick totally knows she's in a stranger's pic.

We check into the Regence to a cute little room and venture right out again into the midst of bustling Massena. Lunch is in order so we explore the several dozen restaurants in about a ½ mile stretch and double back to split a pizza in a place that also offers endless mussels for one price. Too bad we both hate them.

We both have our books so we wind through the streets that we are now becoming familiar with to the Promenade and a beach café. We choose a table on the rocks near the water and I immediately kick off my shoes so as to feel the ridiculously smooth pebbles on my toes. It couldn’t possibly be a more gorgeous day. It is so blue – both sky and sea – and the temperature is pristine. We’re content to read and sunbathe for a couple hours.

We hit up Häagen-Dazs – which Sean was ecstatic upon spotting – before going back to change for din-din. We have our sights set on a bar/restaurant in Old Town called “Le Blast” which our tourist book reviewed as “the friendliest American bar in Nice.” We’re both curious to see what and “American bar” looks like in France. But we get hopelessly lost on the way to Old Town and actually end up at the Port, where the millionaires have their yachts and sailboats, and where cruise ships come to port. Though we do want to explore the Port at some point, this isn’t the time because we’re hungry and my foot kills, so we press on to Vielle Ville.

We eventually find Blast – and man is it crowded! It’s got a cool lounge-y feel and an outdoor bar and is blasting Tom Petty, but that’s the extent of the Americana. 

wicker chairs. so American.

Our waiter doesn’t seem to speak English very well, and the pancakes that were advertised as being served all day are apparently not served past 6. As its Friday in Lent and we can’t have meat, the cheeseburgers and sandwiches that monopolize the rest of the menu hold no appeal for us, so Sean pays for his beer and we move on.

We end up back at Nexus Caffe, where we’d had coffee at a couple days before. We get a bottle of white wine so I can have my taste and Sean can have his fill. I’m feeling adventurous, so I choose a fish from the menu that I’ve never heard of: a John Dory filet. Sean is feeling Sean so he chooses fettucine alfredo.

The family next to us, a mom and dad with two beautiful blond girls about 3 and 5, are volleying back and forth between English and French seamlessly. When my fish comes – head, eyeballs, tail, skeleton and all – the dad leans over and asks me if I’d gotten “the bream”, which is I guess what the French call it. This opens up an hour-long conversation we share with the parents. It turns out the dad is a native New Yorker, but we gather his wife is French from her accent. They packed up and left America with their kids, first to London, then to Nice, since his job is computer programming and therefore portable. We learned tons about the local scene and got recommendations from them. Sean and the dad talked computers; we juxtaposed American and French life; we even talked politics and current events! They were a very nice family and we spent most of our meal chatting with them. When they finally said they had to get their girls to bed (around ten, at this point) we closed out shortly thereafter and walked the streets a bit before heading back to the Regence.

I'm sure there's no one left reading all the way down here.... I am so wordy and it's embarrassing to admit that this is in fact an edited version of my original journal. As in, I've cut stuff out.

Sean and I leave for our Hawaiian babymoon on FRIDAY and I'm ever so excited. Except, I really really really feel guilty for leaving/am really really really going to miss Jordan. A lot. She's currently strewing a deck of cards across the living room and using the computer charger cord as a necklace, and I can't think of how I'm going to be without this type of entertainment for six days. I'm not even being sarcastic.

Only one more French babymoon installment, promise.You don't have to read them though. I understand.

au revoir.