I've Come a Long Way, Baby

Good news, people: I made it through the labor and delivery tour at Harrisburg Hospital a few nights ago without passing out, or even coming close.

Some of you might remember this is a vast improvement from LAST TIME, when I nearly blacked out at the mere sight of the delivery room.

And Chris wasn’t even with me this time! (They don’t allow little ones on the tour, so he had to stay behind and watch Kostyn.) That’s right, I remained upright all on my own. I breezed through the NICU like it ain’t no big thang. Was the first brave soul to flip on the lights in the labor room’s bathroom and check out the Jacuzzi tub (let me tell you, they use that term very loosely) that some women opt to labor in. Practically rolled my eyes at the nurse leading the tour when she said she was going to bring us into a small waiting room for a minute so we could all sit down and rest. (Sit? Pfft. Hell, let’s give the delivery suite another drive-by....)

We all know I’m talking a big game here. Without a doubt, I will be shaking with nerves as they approach me with a neatly folded hospital gown and my very own personalized plastic bracelet. I’ll beg for someone to find a way to cover the IV line once it’s inserted, so I can’t see it. I’ll eventually puke, just like last time.

But for now, I’m more confident this go-round. It’s a whole new experience. (And not just because this maternity ward is on the eighth and ninth floors of the hospital, as opposed to the hospital where I delivered Kostyn, which is in a rural county that doesn’t even allow buildings to be taller than three stories.) The difference is that last time I understood that the whole thing was a means to an end, but this time I truly KNOW the end. I feel it. I live it every day.

So, ya know, uh ... bring it on!
/Said with a wince...and a wee bit of trepidation.
//OK, a huge dose of trepidation.
///But only a little dread.

Pain in the ...

The current bane of my existence is a little pleasure of pregnancy called round ligament pain. Apparently there are ligaments around the uterus that are forced to stretch as the uterus grows during pregnancy. This stretching can cause sharp, stabbing pains in the abdomen and groin when you move a certain way or, sometimes, for no apparent reason at all. It’s a joy.

For those who have never experienced round ligament pain, I can best describe it this way: It’s like having some invisible asshole with steel-toed boots follow you around all day, repeatedly kicking you in the groin. Every time you lift one leg to put on a pair of pants or take off a shoe — *SLAM!!* Kick to the crotch. When you get in your car or stand up from the couch — *POW!!* Punch in the pelvis. When you roll from one side to the other in bed — *BAM!!* Knee to the groin. The stabbing pain lasts for just a few seconds, but it’s followed by this stinging ache that can last a lot longer.

I’m making light of it (because, let’s face it, what else can I do? I’ve only got — God willing — 12 days left...), but seriously, it hurts. I was in tears last night, and I don’t cry easily over physical pain.

I will never again laugh at the part in the movie where the doofus of a comedian finds his ex-girlfriend’s bony knee shoved into his groin (unless he really, really deserved it). Nor will I chuckle at “America’s Funniest Home Videos” clips, of which 50 percent are of some poor fella taking a softball to the nuts.

One MD summed up round ligament pain on a pregnancy Web site with these kind words: “I'm afraid that round ligament pain is one of the phenomena of trying to cram two people into the space of one.” Obviously this doctor is male, and probably spent his childhood getting kicked in the crotch by his little sister. I like her.

Cake AND Ice Cream. Ohhhh yeah.

A few weeks ago I started to panic about Kostyn not being ready for a little brother. I decided he needed to learn how to sleep better, and fall asleep faster, and walk to the car instead of being carried, and a handful of other “It’s time to grow up right now because soon I won’t be able to spend as much time doing these things with you” tasks.

Poor kid didn’t know what hit him.

I set about trying to “train” him on certain things, and the results, of course, were mixed. This led me to second-guess myself on all the things I’ve been doing with him and for him right along, and made me further doubt my ability to juggle two when the time comes. Because how can I sit next to Kostyn’s bed for 10-15 minutes until he falls asleep for a nap every day if Evan is crying and needs to nurse? And how can I hold Kostyn’s hand and let him walk to the car while juggling a baby in a very heavy car seat, a diaper bag and my keys....if Kostyn throws a fit every time we make it to the car because he wants to walk down the street instead of get in the car? (Walking is his favorite pastime these days. Or as he says it, “Gawk?” while holding up his hand to me. He loves walking. We walk up and down the street, we walk around and around the dining room table at least 50 times a day, we walk through every mall in town. Loves. To. Walk.)

Anyway, the panic mode lasted a good two weeks, until I entered another phase in this schizophrenic final trimester. This phase is the “I can’t believe in just a few weeks Kostyn and I won’t have the kind of time and bond and relationship that we share now, because somebody ELSE will be here needing me, taking time away from all the blocks-building and Play-Doh playing and books reading we currently do.”

Poor Evan. The kid gets a bad rap in my f’ed-up head sometimes.

It’s not that I’m not excited to meet Evan. On the contrary, I’m eager for him to join our family — complete our family — and I cannot wait to see the two boys interacting. I know it will melt my heart over and over. But right now all I know is Kostyn, and it’s hard sometimes to just KNOW that not only will Evan fit perfectly into our lives, but that Kostyn will be just fine as well.

So I stopped all training, and just started enjoying every beautiful, drawn-out “We can take as long as you want to put on your shoes today Kostyn because nobody else needs me” moment. Admittedly, the freedom to do pretty much whatever Kostyn and I want to do at any given moment has been really nice.....and that, in turn, has made me even sadder about how our lives will change very, very soon. (I know, I know, I’m a nightmare.)


I was reiterating these feelings to Chris the other night, telling him how part of me is feeling melancholy because all this one-on-one time with Kostyn is going to end. And Chris looked at me and said, “I think it’s like cake and ice cream.”

I cocked one eyebrow and waited for more.

“Say you have your favorite kind of cake, and that’s all you know, and it’s fine because it’s freakin’ cake, right? You love it," he said. "And then someone tells you they’re going to give you another kind of dessert, to go with the cake, and you’re excited because, ya know, two desserts! But the more you think about it the more uncertain you are, because you love the cake so much. I mean, what could be better? You don’t want to spoil your appetite for the cake....”

“Until the day your plate has both cake AND ice cream on it, for the first time. And it’s just this perfect combination of two equally awesome things, and you never believed one plate of food could be even better than it was, until it was. And it’s not like you love one more than the other, they’re just both great. And suddenly you can’t imagine how you went so long having cake without ice cream.”

I smiled at him and he smiled at me and I said, “That’s. .... really smart. And I love that you put it into terms I can totally understand.” He has a way with words, doesn’t he?

Also, is anyone else hungry?

You Gotta Be Kiddin' Me

Tonight I burned my stomach on the stove.

Let me rephrase: Tonight while making dinner I neglected to realize (until it was too late) that my ever-expanding belly is so ... expanded ... that it protrudes over the kitchen counter and onto the hot stove, where I had three burners cooking very hot food.

Funny that I've been psyched to make it through two pregnancies with no stretch marks, and now I'll have a bizarre burn scar instead. Let's see if I can escape the next three weeks without my own body becoming a fire hazard...

Hope when I get old I don't sit around thinking about it...

So here’s an embarrassing little tidbit I realized recently. When I listen to the song “Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen (no, that’s not the embarrassing part), not only do I sing the lyrics (still not the embarrassing part) but I also wink at nobody in particular when he sings “....in the wink of a young girl’s eye....”. I noticed I was doing that the other day as I was singing along with the Boss while changing Kostyn’s diaper. I suspect I’ve probably been doing it since the song came out, way back when I actually WAS a young girl. And now it’s just instinctive.

Kostyn got a kick out of the way his mama’s eye kept twitching, but I was thinking to myself what a fraud I was for acting out such a line at my age. Just a few days shy of 36. Wearing sweatpants and wrestling with a poopy diaper at the time, it dawned on me that instead of the winking young girl, I could now pass for the middle-aged divorcée in the song, the one who sits around her kitchen table after the kids are in bed, talkin’ ‘bout the old times.

Yikes.

Honestly though, I’m not really troubled about turning 36. I mean, ask me again in four years when I’m teetering on the precipice of 40, but for now I find being on the “wise” side of 35 to be no big deal. The cool thing about having Kostyn (and soon his little brother, Evan) is that even though it seems like he’s aging me at lightning speed because of how much energy I spend chasing him around and worrying about him, he actually gives me this magical “timeless” effect, in a way, by the way he looks at me.

To him, at least right now, there is no age attached to me, and there won’t be for years. I’m old enough to kiss his boo-boos and young enough to dance around the living room with him, and I’m willing to bet that’s the perfect age in his eyes.

I think about the fact that my mom was 28 when she had me, and my dad was 31. Today, to me, that seems so young! But I suspect at the time there were days they felt old, caring for a 3-year-old and a new baby, with my younger sister not far behind in the mix.

Yet I never considered them old or young — or, really, anything other than “Mom” and “Dad” — until sometime in my teenage years. (That’s when they suddenly became 800 years old and completely out of touch. Sorry Mom and Dad, it happens to all parents -- it’ll happen to me, I’m sure -- and it luckily fades with time, especially when your kid has kids of her own.)

I guess my point here is that while I may stress about the alarming number of wrinkles showing up on my face, and how these “freckles” on my hands are seriously beginning to resemble AGE SPOTS, for now I’m choosing to focus on the way Kostyn looks at me when he bounds into the room and exclaims, “Hi Mama!!”

Makes me feel young. ;)

A little look-see

Thought I'd catch up on posting some video clips to show those who haven't seen -- or heard -- Kostyn in awhile...

This one, of him practicing some of the words he's learned, was taken about a month ago.


The next two are from a science center we went to Sunday in downtown Harrisburg. Kostyn loved the little kids' area.



His favorite thing at the science center...


This one was taken tonight, about 30 seconds too late. When Kostyn heard Sinatra on the stereo he ran over to me with his stool, climbed up on it and grabbed my hands to dance. And he was really cuttin' a rug, too, swaying those little hips in time to Frank's "I Thought About You." It was adorable. So naturally, once Chris grabbed the camera the song was almost over and so was Kostyn's dancing mood. I'm posting this one anyway since many haven't seen how big my belly is these days. This will probably be your only glimpse. Just a few weeks to go!

34 dumb days to go

I seem to have lost my mind. No, seriously, if you see it anywhere, slap some postage on it (at this point it’ll probably only need one stamp) and send it back to me. Please. I could really use it. I’m sure my son is sick of me staring blankly into the refrigerator, trying to think of what to feed him. (“Fruit? That’s fruit on the shelf. I bought that for him. He likes fruit. Should I give him fruit? Wait, didn’t he just have some fruit a half-hour ago? What time is it? Oh, he just ate! It’s me who’s hungry....”)

I remember getting fuzzy during my last pregnancy, but I attributed it to having my head in the clouds over becoming a mom, not to mention the stress of trying to get all things lined up for my assistant editor to take over the features desk for what I thought was going to be a three-month maternity leave.

But this time, I just can’t concentrate anymore. Focus. Finish a thought. It’s just...I mean...it’s like....but still....and I....so hard. Ya know?

It just took me four days and about 400 tries to write a lede on a story I would have pounded out in no time if I wasn’t pregnant. Only a writer can imagine how absolutely aggravating that was.

And then I went to the grocery store for about 15 items and wandered aimlessly, backtracking aisle after frustrating aisle, for well over an hour, incapable of remembering what I needed...despite the fact that I had a grocery list in my hand.

Honestly, this baby (God bless him...) has robbed me of my figure, sapped my energy, destroyed my natural hormonal balance, and now he’s depleting my brain cells.

I think I had a point here, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was.