Preparation for Labor

A dear friend loaned me a Lamaze video series when we first got pregnant after she found out I wanted to deliver naturally. I can’t explain this compulsion to needlessly endure pain. Perhaps it was fear of a giant needle being excruciatingly laced under the metalwork in my spine and through inches (which might as well be miles) of scar tissue. Perhaps I liked the idea of being able to lilt and skip about after pushing out what my doctor assured me was a “hunky” baby. The most likely reason (and this says far too much about the kind of person I am) is perhaps I just wanted everyone to gape at how tough I am, to be impressed. I wanted to win. There’s no medal in labor and delivery... But if there was it surely didn’t go to those women who got an epidural at a 3.

Yes, I may just be that stupid at times.

I learned many things from the video classes. I learned the about a high water break versus a gush. I learned the three breathing techniques, which accompanied each phase of labor. I learned about dilation, effacement, focus objects, forceps, C-sections, and a host of other concerning paraphernalia that they don't tell you about until after you're lugging around your precious bundle.

I'm now trying to recall these lessons because, although I am still 23 days away from Baby Hannah's due date, I go to bed each night hopeful that I will awaken in a pool of amniotic fluid (wow, that's quite the eww), and deliver my little 6 pound bundle (yeah right) an hour later. As you may imagine, mornings tend to hold a great deal of disappointment.

I don't remember that much. I remember the breathing patterns still... 'cause yeah, those really work. I remember that they APGAR your baby after birth... so we can be defined first in life by a number instead of a smiley face or frowny face. But mostly I realized that there is no knowing what will be at the hospital, when you first see your child, or for the next twenty-six years. So while prepping is good, the best defense against the insurmountable unknown is a laugh, a love, and an attitude problem.

Thirty Minutes

There is a great deal of whining, and fussing, and otherwise grumping about our house this week. The, for the moment, littlest Ririe is teething and has a nasty little cold. It's difficult to explain what the general unhappiness of a child does to his mother. It's exhausting, heart-breaking, frustrating, utterly grrrsome. Said mother being the size of a walrus with a glandular problem, doesn't help. The husband, realizing that my nerves were shot and my patience was thin, offered to take the Little Sicko, so I could have thirty minutes to myself. I just laughed.

What would I do with thirty selfish minutes? Take an uninterrupted shower? Make something sugary, delicious (and at this point nauseating)? Lay in bed trying to watch old episodes of "What Not to Wear", while my daughter does the marimba against my lungs? None of these seems like as good an option as reading The Monster at the End of this Book for the two hundredth time, or catching my wobbly walker and wiping his belligerent little nose. (FYI: he knows where his nose is now. It's all coming together.)

I worry about being a good mom. I wonder if I'm teaching him enough and the right things at the right times. I question my choice as I drive to work each day. I pray that I am patient enough, firm enough, fun enough. It's hard being imperfect (dreadfully imperfect) when you have another life in your hands.

But it's a little easier... everything is a little easier... when you have a wonderful Little Man.

Can't Help Falling

I was putting Noah down to bed, while Justin was doing homework. He listens to his playlist while working, a most strange conglomeration of heavy metal, punk, worship, and John Denver with a little of everything else sprinkled in. After a hardcore version of O Holy Night, on came Elvis "Can't Help Falling in Love with You." I heard my husband's voice softly singing along, "Like a river flows surely to the sea..."

I have never liked Elvis much. I know in some states this is a hanging offense. But if Justin keeps singing old Elvis songs, I may just move to Graceland and start eating peanut butter and banana.

With our daughter on the way and our son toddling all over the house, it delights me that I am still in love with my husband. Everyone told me the infatuation would wear off, and, no, we don't stay up until 2:00 just to be together anymore. But I still whistle whenever he takes off his shirt (a little harmless sexual harassment never hurt anyone, right?), and I still want to make him cookies every night, fresh out of the oven. Our love has matured, but with so many big-kid, adult decisions ahead, with so many life-changing actions and experiences in our lives, I revel that right now I am somewhat immaturely in love with Justin. I still think he's cute, funny, smart, sexy, strong, and handsome. Daily he reminds me that I am the luckiest girl alive.

In our church, with our family, among friends and colleagues, I feel I have to be so wise. It's nice to hear a voice that makes me shiver and grin remind me that:

"...Only fools rush in
But I can't help falling in love with you."