An Open Letter to a mom coming out of rehab:

Dear mama,

I’m writing to you because I know you exist. I see you. I’ve seen you there for a while, but I’ve never said anything in passing...until now.

I was there the day you decided suicide was the only way out. It had to be, you thought, because if you died young, you wouldn’t be around to fuck up your children even worse. Because things like active addiction, post-partum depression, and childbirth don’t exist in the real world, all jumbled together in this great big mess that you don’t even notice until you’re so deep in it you can’t dig yourself out.

I don’t have any tips to give you about re-entering the world. If I did, I would follow them, myself. There was no way for me to prepare to walk back into the crime scene, sick with withdrawls, feeling how beyond repair my life had become. I mostly sat on the couch and stared at the wall a lot while my babies bounced around me and the movie Frozen ran in a constant loop. I won’t lie, I even got a little emotional every time Elsa let it go.

When you’re in rehab, you are completely isolated from the real world. You get used to that, after a while. Your old life starts to feel like some kind of dream, one you can talk to for ten minutes over the phone at night, when nobody is crying on it. And when you get home, everything is just as you left it, in some ways. But mostly, it’s not. And I think that’s OK, because it reminds me a lot of when I brought my second child home from the hospital, a squinting newborn, and I had a similar feeling. Like, the terrain is familiar, but everything has changed somehow, and I knew it would never be the same again. And yet, I survived. There was a new normal.

I should also mention something else I wish I had been told: You will be a completely different person when you get out of rehab. Stop and re-read that sentence for a minute. Get it? You will be DIFFERENT and feel different and everything around you will be different. I think that’s OK. Usually, it’s a good thing. It means you’re changing for the better, waking up, coming to, looking around. There may or may not be a lot of rubble around. Just step over it as best you can, and maybe think about getting a broom.

Get used to humility, because there’s a lot of that coming. Also, get used to accepting help. But, I think the most important thing to remember is, to get used to not being alone anymore. Because you’re not. There are so many of us, all over the world, going through the same thing. That, I do know.

Best of luck,

Me.

An Open Letter to Chanel West Coast, from a mother with feminist inclinations.

I don't have cable, because hello, it's the 21st century. I have the internet. And also, I'm broke. That being said, it took a while for me to find out about a show on MTV called Rediculousness. Over at my neighbors house, it came on. I watched a few episodes.

Now, I can talk about this show all day. But I'm not here to talk about the show, itself. I'm here to talk to Chanel West Coast, the beautiful young woman dubbed the "Female Voice" of the show, who rarely does any actual talking.

Dear Chanel West Coast,

I saw you on TV the other day. You were the only female on stage, and you were asked to make some commentary on a video that had just been played. It seemed everyone expected you to say something dumb, because they all acted surprised when you said something intelligent. You were badass about it, and told them that you were actually pretty smart. I openly cheered when I heard you say this.

Look, you are young, and pretty. I get it. I used to be that way, too. I used to buy into the belief that my value as a person coincided with my physical appearance, namely, my sex appeal. I used to think my body was more important than my mind and opinions. I was raised that way, and you were raised that way, and we were all raised that way through marketing, through advertising, through our western culture and its value on the physical body. I used to torture and starve my body so that I could feel relief from the pressure to be 'ideal'. To be worthwhile. To matter.

Now, I have a daughter. Her name is Story, and she's ten months old. She's just a baby. I control her entire world at this time in her life, but one day, I won't. One day, she'll turn on a TV and find a show like Rediculousness, see the only female onstage portrayed as beautiful but nothing else, and feel like her place in life is first and foremost to be pretty. This is not any one person's fault. This is the fault of our culture. By the  very first time she turns on a show that stereotypes women, she will have already been exposed to thousands, probably millions, of versions of that same message: Pretty matters. I see these messages on every "Pink and pretty" piece of shit I come across in a toy store, and in the cartoons kids today are watching. In the clothes they are wearing. In the advertising they are saturated in from birth.

Story, and plenty of other little girls like her, will learn that how much her voice is listened to is related to how much skin she shows. She'll learn that the only way to make the world around her to her advantage is by being 'beautiful.' That beauty is the golden ticket.

We, as women, are the only ones who can put an end to this cycle. Not advertisers. Not MTV. Us. Women. It starts with women like you, Chanel West Coast. I know MTV is not paying you to do anything beyond fill the role of stage eye candy, and I understand and respect your desire to fill that role. but you've been given a platform. You can show that you are smart and that your opinions do matter. Instead of being another blow of the hammer to the nail that is the pretty female stereotype, you can be an inspiration to a young girl with a remote in her hand. By refusing to fill the role society and the entertainment business hands you, you can claim your own life. Be your own master. Show girls like Story that being smart and strong are essential to being beautiful.

Sincerely,

S.W.

Loving it. Hating it. Loving it.

Are you ready, world, for my big revelation? I now know what being a parent of two is about. The first year of babyhood, revisited, but still going by so fast. The sleepless nights, again, and the budding of a relationship between the two beings you created. And they have relationships with you, and with everyone in their lives, whether or not you control it. They are growing up. And you just hold on, as best you can.

What do our days look like lately? A lot of sweeping of the floors as Story makes her way around, completely by herself, looking for people. When she sees Collin, she cries "Bra Bra!" (which we assume means 'brother'). She does these adorably weird crawls, the crawl of a baby who has recently discovered independent movement, and would rather just be walking. She scoots on one leg, or sprints in a bear crawl. When she sees Husband, she absolutely must be held RIGHT NOW by him, and then she absolutely must be held RIGHT NOW by me, then back to him, and so on. We did this, and finally, she sat between us and just grinned her drooly grin, her chubby cheeks threatening to pop right off from sheer excertion, and she signs her first baby sign: "More."

 More? More of what? More of us? Does she really want more of us? Could it be?

Now that Story is nearing the end of her first year on Earth, I feel like I know her a little better. Story is becoming less the complacent baby she was, and showing us her new layers, as they develop. She loves to eat. I mean, that girl LOVES to eat, and how do i nurture her passion for food in a society that shames women who look like they love food? It starts with me. I am her mother: her first role model for what women think and do. It starts with me.

I have been so very busy lately becoming a completely different person: A mother of two, that I've failed quite miserably to blog about things. So, to make up for lost time, I will just list you some names of would-be blog titles from the past nine months:

Collin's Great Escape
The Poop Volcano
That Time I Thought I'd Accidentally Broken My Child's Arm
Eating Cheddar Bunnies on the Freeway
My House Is Decorated For Every Holiday Because Preschoolers Are Crazy
Getting Everything I've Ever Wanted
Hating Everything I've Ever Wanted
How Can A Baby's Butt Grow So Fast?
That Time I Woke Up With Anonymous  Boogers In My Hair and I Almost Re-thought Co-Sleeping
Collin's Brief Love Affair With Conventional Preschool
Our Brush With Scabies
Feeling Like I Might Be Finally Getting Somewhere
Feeling Like I have A Long Way To Go
Feeling Like Everything Is Crazy, But Everything Is Going To Be Okay.

Life, and then some.

I know its been a few minutes since I've blogged last, and I guess that's because I've had to get a few things sorted out. Namely, the big elephant in the room, my diagnosis of postpartum depression.

Yes, let's talk about that.

I was on fire, but I didn't know I was on fire, until my relatives came to town and put it out. Suddenly, there were enough hands to take care of everybody. The whole weekend they were here, I kept thinking about how they were going to leave, and I would have to light myself on fire again trying to take care of everybody. And I just couldn't do it. I didn't have the energy. I cried, when I was alone with the baby. Then, I got help.

I'm not alone. Postpartum depression is not rare. If you have experience with it, I would be glad to talk to you about it. I am so grateful to everyone who has come out of the woodwork to support me through this. And now, as Story nears four months old, I can say that I'm starting to feel better. I'm happy that I didn't wait to get help. I'm happy that I took care of myself before it affected my children. Through this experience, I am learning and growing.

One day at a time.

Happy birthday, Collin.

Dear Collin,

Holding you while you fall asleep is a gift I have never taken for granted. You made me a mother, you brought me to my place in this world.

I love when you dramatically sing songs from your favorite movies, and the way  you pronounce chocolate (sockwit) makes me want to give you every piece of my secret stash. One day, you will probably be a parent. You will know what it feels like to hold a brand new life in your arms and love so completely, it makes every wound in your soul heal, and you will understand what unconditional love really means. I hope you have a baby like you. I hope you have a child who snuggles like you do, with a sense of humor as sharp as yours, a light as bright as yours.

I love that you're the life of the party wherever we go. I love the way your heart is like a great big ocean, with room for everybody. I love that you came into this world knowing exactly who you are.

I can't wait to watch you grow up, but I hope you never change. I hope you always keep your spunky spirit. I hope you never lose your imagination, or your knack for making friends. You were born with the gift of bottomless joy, and you spread it around to everyone you meet.

Thank you for choosing me to be your mother. You are my first baby, my treasure. You are my loving, patient teacher. You are my forever friend.

Love,
Mommy.

We are mothers

Even if we aren't friends, even if you don't even know me outside of the internet, I hope, through my words, you feel like you know me. Because when I tell my story, I'm telling your story. If there's one thing I've learned from motherhood, it's that we're all the same, at heart. We're all overwhelmed and maxed out and exhausted, and we get out of bed in the morning and do it all over again because we love our children. We love our children, and until the day we die, we will never stop trying to do right by them. That is the common thread that weaves us together.

This blog is like my confessional. I bare my soul to you, my reader. Why? Because ever since I started blogging, friends have told me that I put words to what they feel. How, then, could I be anything but honest? How could I hold back? I feel inspired to write candidly because I know that if just one other mom can relate to me and feel less alone, I've done a great service.

  So, for Mothers Day, here is my love letter to you:

Dear Mama,

You are doing just fine. Every time you lose your s***  after the hundredth time of repeating yourself to your toddler- you're doing just fine. Every time you pretend not to smell the poopy diaper because you just don't have the energy to wrangle a diaper change- you're doing just fine. Every time you hand your kid your cell phone/ sit your kid in front of the TV so you can catch just FIVE MINUTES of peace- you're doing just fine.

Being a mom is the best, and also the hardest, thing you will ever do. At times, you will feel inept and overwhelmed and incapable- you're not. Nobody can do a better job of raising YOUR child than you. You were made for this.

If that doesn't help, my kid actually ate cookies for dinner the other night. So, chances are, you're probably doing better than me.

Happy Mothers Day.

Love,

Me.

The way things are.

Sometimes I think, as I haul my screaming toddler to the car with a baby strapped to my body, that people probably feel sorry for me. Maybe they even pity me. And you know what? That's ok. I would rather be pitied than judged. I would rather people recognize that I'm an insane person, just trying to control the chaos, than a bad mother with a bad child.

Because, boy, has my child been... we won't say "bad," because he's not. But he's been challenging. Like it should be when your whole world has dramatically changed.

Let me tell you how its been going since H went back to work:

The first week- it was fairly difficult, but I was filled like a balloon with false confidence. I had an activity planned for every day. I was active in Collin's homeschooling, and Upsherin planning. I felt like I had this motherhood thing DOWN.

The second week- I was flattened. Monday came around and I sort of went, "Wait, what? You mean I have to do this again? FOREVER??" I was exhausted. I was depressed. I passed out the minute the kids went to bed at night. I watched Frozen and A Bug's Life multiple times a day because it meant I could get away with sitting on the couch, and it guaranteed at least five minutes of quiet.

The third week- Sibling adjustment was in full swing. Collin went through his days with both guns drawn. It was war. He is feeling very angry right now, mostly at me, and I felt it all week. Every day was a count down until Daddy came home. But, strangely, it felt easier than the second week, and I think that has to do with me. I'm feeling a little more confident. Real confidence this time, the kind you only get from life experience. You have to fall on your face before you know what you're made of.

By the way, I'm still on my face. But, I feel like, six months from now, I'm going to be a completely different person.

I'm so humbled by the way motherhood changes you. And, I'm learning, you are changed completely the second time around, just as you were the first. You bend, you stretch, you grow. You go into your cocoon and come back again, something else. You draw strength from places you didn't know strength was hidden, so you can be strong enough for your children.

I once heard of second time motherhood described as a passage from one of my favorite children's books, The Velveteen Rabbit. It was the part that describes what "real" meant, as the Velveteen Rabbit was a toy who wanted to be real. Becoming a mother again was related to being "made real."

"Your eyes are loved until they fall out. Your fur is all loved off."

Something like that. It said that the first baby made you a mother, but the second baby made you Real. It's true. It's all true. And I feel very Real.

Don't mind the crying lady.

I've heard the funniest joke, I can't wait to tell it to you. Are you ready?

It's any time anyone tells me to  "Sleep when the baby sleeps."

HA HA HA. Hilarious, right?

I've hit a critical mass of sleep deprivation. Here's what my week has looked like so far (and it's only Tuesday. Who knows what awaits the rest of the week?):
*Story has only worn pajamas, day and night.
*I ate cereal for breakfast AND dinner yesterday.
*I randomly started crying at Collin's preschool and I had NO IDEA WHY. I was not sad. The tears just literally leaked out my eyes, almost on their own.

I'm really feeling it now, this life with two kids thing. I get it. It's real, and it's gritty, and it's hard. But you know what else? I'm so loving having two. Really, I mean it. This is my dream, having children, and I'm living it. At night, I look at them sleeping peacefully, and I'm overcome with love and gratitude. These are my children, both of them.

Now, I'm going to bed.

Feeling like a hippie, and other news.

Two days ago, I was watching Babe with Collin, and I saw the part in the beginning, where Babe is a tiny piglet with his piglet siblings and his big, fat mama. Then, the farmer comes and takes her away with a cattle prod, and Babe cries for her while his siblings are fed their piggy milk from a machine.

"I'm going to be a vegetarian." I blurted out.

Husband looked up at me, surprised, but not really. He's seen this coming. I had been talking about it, wrestling with it, for a little while now. I was vegan (and raw, thank you very much) when I became pregnant with Collin, and I stopped immediately when a midwife told me I had a better chance of my baby getting enough protein as a burger king mom then as a vegan mom. We left her office, and I ordered a turkey burger. And I'm glad for all my choices, but I've always wanted to go back to my old ways. I've always planned on it, really.

So, I'm vegetarian, on top of being already gluten free and low sugar. In my tarot deck, I pulled a card this morning that said I was entering a period of transformation, a season of giving and/or receiving, a time of refilling my cup. That all made a lot more sense at Story's doctor appointment today, as her pediatrician told me the source of her terrible gastro upset was probably not acid reflux, but likely a food allergy. She told me to cut out all dairy and soy for two weeks, and see if Story feels better. I had already cut out all dairy but cheese, because hello, cheese is amazing. But now, it seems, I am gluten free, vegan, soy free, and low sugar. I really do belong in Santa Cruz now. The funny part about all this, is how normal I felt at the natural foods grocery store as I spent about two hours reading every ingredient on the back of every package of food I hoped to eat.  Just another day, in Santa Cruz. I imagined how hard this diet would be, if I lived just about anywhere else. My new diet transformation has revived my gluten and sugar boycott, because let's face it, brownies saved my life postpartum. So, I'm reclaiming my health, and (hopefully) giving relief to my child.

In other news, Mike goes back to work next week, and I'm actually not hyperventilating into a paper bag. I'm  feeling boldly optimistic and just the tiniest bit excited. I feel ready. I think we're all ready. I feel readier than I did the last time Husband went back to work after we had a baby. How lucky we are that we had so much time to feel so ready. Collin has settled down SIGNIFICANTLY, which makes this feel doable. I feel like I have my son back, and it's a good feeling.

So yes, tarot deck, it is a time to start anew.

It's my party, and I'll rant if I want to.

I hate that moment when the baby finishes nursing and hangs in this half-asleep state until she has a poop explosion in her diaper and passes out for real.

Now what?

Do I wake her up to change her? It's getting smelly in here. She's getting a rash as I sit here on Facebook. Bad mommy, bad mommy, get up and change her.

....

I'm still sitting here. Why am I still sitting here? Why am I such a lazy mom? And for that matter, why does my house look like this? Do I think I live in the remains of a war zone? And why do I still wear the same maternity yoga pants every day? Actually, why did I wear the same exact outfit three days in a row?

...

I still haven't changed the baby.

Insane and wonderful.

Now it's Story's week four. She is still the sweet bundle of baby she was a week ago, only now she's much bigger. The clothes that fit her last week, fit her no more. She's got rolls and chins to spare, so different from my last baby, who was like a human noodle.

Speaking of said baby, he is calming down significantly. Or, he was, until he suddenly quit napping. It wasn't a slow process, like I thought it would be. His naps didn't gradually shorten and fade away into the sunset. No, one day he was napping, and the next day, he wasn't. And he hasn't since. And, yes, we're all going insane now. But, the good news is, he went to bed at 8 tonight. What? Has that ever happened before, in the history of Collin? No, my friends, it has not.

Something truly amazing to me about second time motherhood, is how much I love nursing this time around. I say that, even as I lay here feverish with mastitis (common nursing complication). Nursing was so hard to get used to with Collin, probably the hardest part of new motherhood. I have always been a marcher in the breast milk over-supply parade, which is a blessing, really, it is. But it's also spraying your baby in the face with milk and leaking all over everything you bump into. Story is having trouble keeping up with the supply, and ends up nursing like she's drinking from a firehouse. Needless to say, gas has been a big issue for my little nursling. I'm trying to take this in stride, as the pediatric nurse assures me over the phone that it's perfectly normal for a baby to turn red in the face and scream. Perfectly normal.

We're at a stage right now where she always wants to be upright because of the gas, and she has what  can only be described as "The evening fussies." I feel like the evening fussies are my equivalent of PMS: namely, large outpourings of emotion, mixed with a little rage, and totally beyond reason or consolation. Almost like complaining for the sake of complaining. Collin did the same thing at this age, so I'm not freaking out about it this time around. Score one for second time motherhood.

Nap deprivation aside, I really feel like Collin is starting to come back to earth. I see more glimpses of normal Collin every day, and we're having sweet moments together as a family. He's now starting to bond a little with the baby. She smiled at him in bed this morning, and it just about made his world, which just about made my world. He really wants to play with her, but she's still just a blob of tiny baby, so he improvises. He'll wiggle himself around on her hands or feet and say she's tickling him. He'll put his face in the way of her swiping infant arms and declare, "She got me!" It's all very cute, and I really can't wait until their relationship isn't so one-sided. Despite how hard it is initially to introduce a new sibling, I know the pay off is worth it. I'm still getting used to the fact that I have two kids. Two kids! Life is insane. And wonderful.

Up to my elbows in mustard colored baby poop, and still (mostly) smiling.

This time, these past couple weeks, have been the best, and the hardest, of my life.

There have been your usual  postpartum suspects (I'm looking at you, hemorrhoids). But, when I say this time has been hard, I'm mostly talking about Collin's (lack of) adjustment. He loves the baby, as I knew he would, but he has proven completely incapable of handling such an extreme disruption in routine. Can I blame him? No. We got a taste of how unsettled he gets at disruption of the norm when we visited my parents in Minnesota last October. Collin basically kicked and screamed his way through that trip, and that's pretty much what our lives look like right now, but possibly worse. The first week was the hardest. I was completely unable to handle his energy. When Collin is struggling internally, it all comes bursting out as this wild, uncontrollable mania. He tears through the house, hollering and destroying and ignoring your every word. It's like living with a Tasmanian devil. He's like a toddler sized tornado.

At this point, we've just pretty much assumed the role of zoo keepers, and our primary objectives are to keep him alive and reasonably safe, and to avoid as much collateral damage as possible. But, I must say, every day has been getting just a little bit better than the last. I'm starting to see more glimpses of the old Collin, and it fills me with hope that I will someday have that little guy back.

So, now that I've thoroughly frightened anyone considering having a second child, let me mention some of the things that have made this the best time:

Going for family adventures in nature, with Collin on Mike's shoulders and Story on me in the carrier. We took Story to the redwoods when she was nine days old, just like we did with Collin. She chose that time to have her first diaper blow out. Later, as we were walking amongst the majestic trees, she started belching loudly, and it made us all laugh. It was our first shared laugh since we'd taken her home, and the emotional release of it felt so good, we just kept laughing and laughing. We felt like a family again.

Co-sleeping. When Collin was finally in his own bed, I enjoyed being able to stretch and roll and claim my space in bed so much, I thought I'd never co-sleep again. We put a crib mattress next to our mattress, and I figured the baby would sleep there. Since Story's birth, I have completely rediscovered how much I LOVE co-sleeping.  I discovered it the night she was born, when we put her in the hospital bassinet, and I lay awake, listening to her kissing sounds until I finally couldn't stand it anymore, and brought her in bed with me. I didn't sleep at all that night, but I dozed from time to time, and every time I opened my eyes, I saw her little cabbage patch face sleeping peacefully beside me. I fell in love with her that night. "Isn't she beautiful?" I'd whisper to the nurses who crept in to check our vitals. They'd smile kindly at me, and nod their heads. Before she was born, I bemoaned the thought of being squished in bed next to a night nursing baby for another two years. Now, I am happier for it.

The love. All the love that fills every room, every nook and cranny of this house. There's so much of it, it keeps me afloat when times get hard. I love my husband more than ever. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love being a mother, and I'm frequently struck by the notion that I now have two children. The Universe has blessed me with two healthy, beautiful children. I feel so complete. I will never stop being grateful for the crazy wonderful people, big and little, that make up my family.

Getting there

Every day becomes a little more manageable.

Today is the first day I didn't long to be back at the hospital, where everything was quiet and peaceful and safe. Today, I didn't have an internal panic attack at the sheer magnitude of Collin's energy, as he spun around the house like a dreidel on the loose.

Today, I took Story to the doctor and found out she was thriving beyond what I possibly could have expected. Then, we all went to the grocery store, shopping at only six days post pardom. Today was a good day. Today was my best day all week.

Last time I had a baby, I didn't go outside until about nine days post pardom, and by the end of it, I was ready to die. Much different this time around, as I shushed the baby in one arm and dragged the full cart behind me with the other. Husband would have helped, but you see, he had an insane toddler perched on his shoulders who needed prompt removal from the store. Collin, God bless him, has been the biggest challenge since Story was born. Funny, he was the biggest challenge the last time we had an infant, too.

So, I'm going with the ebb and flow of post pardom, of life with two. I feel like everything is just a whole lot easier the second time around, but I say that as a woman who knows how good she has it. Husband has been running himself ragged, taking care of everyone. He is like the wheels of a wheel barrel, chugging and chugging away, doing all the dirty work. We would be lost without him.

"We like our Mike, and this is why: Mike does all the work when the hills get high."  -Dr. Seuss

And then we were four.

It's funny, the last minute things you think to do before you go to the hospital for an induction. Things like brushing the cat and flossing my teeth, things I knew I would never have time to do once the baby was here.

And, indeed, the cat and my teeth have hardly been remembered since we left for the hospital Monday morning.

Story Rose was born on Monday, February 24th, at 8:44 pm. Her labor and birth were completely different from Collin's in just about every way, and she's sticking to that theme. She's the most mellow presence in the house right now, calm and quiet. So long as she has a boob to nurse, Story is content. Is this a second baby thing? Because I remember feeling a lot more haggard and stressed when Collin was a newborn.

Ironically, all the things that were the hardest to get used to the first time I became a mom, i.e. the non-stop nursing, are the things I treasure most this time around. All I want to do is snuggle in bed and nurse the baby. It's unfortunately not as easy as that this time, as I feel I'm constantly having to shield her from her big brother's enthusiasm. Collin, as I figured he would, LOVES Story. He loves her so much, he wants to smush her and pounce her and slobber all over her. It's sweet and endearing, but a little bit  terrifying.

Collin, despite all his energetic craziness, does love his baby sister so very much. When he came to see her for the first time, I wanted everything to be perfect. Mike went and got him and brought him to the hospital. I kept Story occupied in the bassinet until they arrived because I wanted my arms to be free to hug Collin. Collin was so excited to see the baby that he clamored onto my bed to get a look at her, cooed over her in wide-eyed amazement, then said, "Where's Mommy?"

Um, right here? You're in my lap, Collin.

Everyone is in love with Story. She's kind of hard not to love. She's just a tiny bundle of newborn with deep, dark eyes and jet black hair. I can't figure out who she looks like. She came here looking like herself, I guess.

The hardest part of my post pardom period so far has been leaving the hospital. The reality of having an infant and a toddler hit me as we were walking out the door, and Story was crying in her car seat as Collin ran amuck, completely ignoring everything we said to him. It was pouring rain outside, and I stood there with all my stuff and watched blankly out the doors and cried. A kind orderly told me how hard it was so for her to take home her second baby. I cried the whole car ride home. "But we don't have any ice at home! I really like ice."

Husband went to the pharmacy and got my prescriptions, and two bags of ice. He hasn't sat down since. He has been cooking, cleaning, diapering, potty training, rocking, and wrangling. He has been doing it all, and insisting that I do nothing. I feel like I've won the husband lottery. When he goes back to work, my plan for survival is to find a hole to crawl into and hope for the best.

That will work, right?

'Twas the night before induction..

There's something hugely relieving and joyful about knowing there is a good chance tomorrow will be the day you meet your baby. I'm going to the hospital to try what I'm wording as, " A gentle induction."  We're going to try a medication that will (hopefully) induce labor. If it works, great. If it doesn't, I take it as a sign that she's not ready, and I go home to wait some more.

Though, honestly, at ten days late and almost three centimeters dilated, I'm finding it hard to believe she's not ready.

When I thought about induction, nothing positive came up for me. So it's really a surprise that I'm feeling totally stoked right now. Or, maybe it's not a surprise. I'm ready. Husband is ready. Collin is ready. Our family is ready to be complete. I want my daughter in my arms more than anything in the world. I want to labor alongside my husband and my doula, to feel that silent transformation that happens when you give birth. The bond that is created, and strengthened, when you birth with loving support by your side. I'm ready.

Didn't think you'd show your face around here, due date.

So, happy Valentine's Day. Today is my favorite holiday, and coincidentally, my due date. Considering how dead certain I was that this baby was going to be an early arrival, I had mixed feelings about this day. Truthfully, I kind of figured it was going to suck a little. I'm in that prenatal sinkhole right now, where you feel like birth is so imminent, and your phone is blowing up with people wanting cervical updates, and your husband is already on paternity leave as you watch his time off tick by. Your due date approaches, and you think, " I can't believe I'm still pregnant! Surely, I will go into labor within the next ten minutes." Then, you watch your due date come and go, smiling and waving as it skips away. Now, you're officially post date, and officially DONE being pregnant. The pressure is on, because if you don't go into labor naturally, they'll force it, and that ain't pretty.

So, back to today, Valentine's Day, my due date. I went to bed last night in a state of resigned gloom. Surely, I'm going to be pregnant forever. This baby is never coming out. I woke up that way, too, only then I remembered, "Hey! It's Valentine's Day!" And, suddenly, everything was ok.

We all snuggled in bed for a long time before getting up.
We ate chocolate oatmeal, our Valentine's breakfast.
We played together all day.
Collin actually went down for a nap peacefully.
In the evening, we took a long walk along the ocean and watched the full moon rise.
We gorged on Indian food and chocolate.
At one point, it occurred to me that this was the best Valentine's Day I've ever had, just me and my boys. So take that, due date.

Now, I'll be back soon, writing about what it's like to be pregnant and menopausal at the same time, because surely I'm going to be pregnant forever.

Hell Week

Welcome to Hell Week.

What is Hell Week? Glad you asked.

Hell Week is the final crunch before your husband goes on paternity leave, and he works late every day trying to get things done. You, meanwhile, are 38 weeks pregnant, with a head cold, and a toddler with cabin fever. It's becoming increasingly apparent to you that you cannot go ANYWHERE alone with your child unless he is strapped securely in a straight jacket  stroller. Seriously, nowhere. Not even, you learned today, on a walk down the street. Because, seriously, your belly grows gigantic proportions every night, and the giant maternity tunics that fit you last week just laugh at you now as you try to button them over your girth. What I'm saying through all of this, is that you can not keep up with your kid anymore. You just cannot. You try, but you cannot. When he bolts away from you in the store, all you can do is helplessly hold your breath and pray for no big crashes while you hurry after him in that ridiculously pregnant way, shifting your weight from one side to the other in this weird, frantic shuffle. When you take him outside for a walk and he tears off down the street to throw rocks and talk to strangers, you are acutely aware of how little control you actually have over the situation. And, by the way, I think your kid is aware of it, too.

I've been surviving through this week one day at a time, barely. I've had a lot of help from cocoa almond butter and frozen waffles, thank you, Trader Joe's. Frozen food has become my beacon of salvation. My level of cooking right now is pretty much: Remove from freezer. Place in oven. Wait twenty minutes. Serve to family and feel like I've really accomplished something.That's what it's like around here right now. I'm on a roll, people. Winning.

This evening, as I prepared frozen chicken with frozen risotto, I got to thinking: Tomorrow is the last day of Hell Week! That means, there's only one more really tough day, until...the rest of my life changes forever. That hit me like a stun gun. I mean, really, is there anything more game changing than a new baby? These past four years have been so transformative for me. I've shed my skin and become someone completely new again and again: A wife. A mother. A mother for the second time. who will I be when the baby comes? I'm at that breathless moment on top of the roller coaster, before you go careening down and all around. Will the ride be as hard the second time around? will it be harder? Will it be even happier? I guess I'll know soon.

This one and that one.

I always thought my pregnancies would be at least related to each other, but instead, they're like perfect strangers sitting across from each other on the bus, avoiding all eye contact. They have been so, so different. Mostly, it's the dramatic difference in my life that have made these pregnancies so unique. The first time around, all I thought about was baby. I was completely consumed by it. This time around,  I pretty much forgot I was pregnant until I was too big to forget anymore.

It's so different being a second-time mom. You have the whole, "Been there, done that" attitude,  and your life is such a crazy wonderful insane whirlwind of motherhood that, quite honestly, you don't have time to notice the little things like you did the first time around. And that's ok. You kind of float through your pregnancy, and you know this baby will be born, and you already know how much you are going to love and adore it, and that it's totally going to change your life. Only, this time, you're not scouring the baby books or deciding on your parenting philosophies. (Should we co-sleep? Cloth diaper? Baby wear? ). No, this time around, your only real plan is to throw open your arms and say, "Welcome to our chaos!" and love that new little baby with all your heart. Cherish every night-waking, diaper-exploding second of newborn, because this time, you know how fleeting and precious that time really is.

I guess things are different the second time around in more ways than just my lifestyle, if I had to be honest. Physically, it's been challenging. But also, less challenging. I'm a whopping twenty pounds lighter this time (yes, it's amazing what not eating Philly cheese steaks and fries every day will do for the scale), and in many ways,  I am so much more tremendously comfortable this time around. However, I've also been thrown a few curve balls. I've been dealing with chronic pain this pregnancy that is only getting worse as the baby gets bigger. I have the added challenge of entertaining a most rambunctious two-year-old, one who is not at all content to sit on the couch with me  all day, like I want to do.  I remember wondering last pregnancy how on earth I would manage to be pregnant and care for a toddler at the same time. Now I know. You kind of get through your days winging it, with some seriously slacker parenting. You let things slide. You don't go anywhere, really. Everyone gets cabin fever and goes a little crazy, but at the end of the day, if your kid has all four limbs in tact and has eaten anything other than cheese, it's a good day.

Collin, blessedly, has been toning down the crazy acting out we've been seeing around here lately. He's better during his waking hours, but I think that's mainly because he's channeling all his anxiety into bedtime. Let me tell you, it's been a bedtime s***storm over here, every night. We start the bedtime routine at 7:30, and so far he hasn't actually fallen asleep any earlier than 10:30. There are monsters, and clowns, and raccoons, and skunks that are just waiting for him to be left alone in bed. I can understand the monster and clown fears,  I even get the skunk fear, but the fear of raccoons is beyond me. So basically, he has an absolute PANIC attack if you leave him in bed alone and sobs and pleads with you to come back. It's pretty much the most heartbreaking sound you'll ever hear. I feel for the poor little guy,  I really do. I'm not comfortable with leaving him to cry himself to sleep, so things have been a little tricky around here lately.  I keep wondering how this is going to work out when the baby comes, but I have to remind myself that this is just a phase. This, too, shall pass (hopefully before the baby comes home). Everyone in our family has needs, and everyone deserves to have their needs met. That's what I tell myself. 

Aside from all the differences in my pregnancies, there are a few similarities.  I stomp around a lot in a hormonal, pregnant rage, just like last time. I crave cereal every night, just like last time. I think homicidal road rage thoughts every time I'm in the car, just like last time. See? It's not all different.

Now, we wait.

Today is the 14th, which means there is only one month between me and my due date. Only four weeks left. This baby has gone from being a million miles away, just a speck on my calendar's distant future, to being so in-my-face I can't escape it.

We're now in the "End Days." Those last gasps of pregnancy, where you're crossing all your T's and dotting all your I's, and scavenging leftover baby clothes from all your friends, and rearranging the whole house. I must say, it is SO much easier getting ready for baby the second time around, especially when we're not bringing baby home to a studio apartment. Sure, we don't have a dishwasher or laundry facilities where we're living right now, but at least we have SPACE. At least we're not dumping everything we own to make room for the baby. This time, we've only had to dump a few things.

I'm in that space again, that in-between space, emotionally. Where I feel my baby's arrival so impending, it disrupts my functioning. I walk around in a daze. I'm here, but not here. I don't sleep at night anymore. My baby is coming,  I know it,  I can feel it, and there is nothing else I can focus on. She's everywhere. The most surprising thing, for me, is how little fear I have this time around. I just want her here so badly, in my arms, against my heart. I miss her, and I've never met her. But there's no one else in the world I want to see more.  I long for her, my daughter.

Collin has been feeling the baby's arrival, too, though obviously not in the same way. This baby means something very different for him, and he is excited and asks every day if she's here yet ("Trust me, you'll know when she's here." Husband reassures him). But we're seeing the other side of sibling adjustment, the darker side. The anxiety, that presents itself as acting out and acting out and acting out. I know what he's really wanting is to know where he stands, do we still love him completely, even when he's behaving badly? Do we still cherish him as much as we did before the new baby came into our lives?

Yes, of course we do. We cherish you more than ever. But please, please stop throwing EVERYTHING. Please stop screaming and hitting and kicking.  I know you're confused and a little bit scared right now, and that's why we haven't sold you to the circus yet, but would a single interaction without having to grit my teeth be too much to ask?

Oh, Collin. He bounces so fast between "I'm a baby!" and "I'm a big kid!" that I'm sure he's having some sort of identity crisis.

Husband has put in his time-off request at work, we've arranged childcare for Collin during the birth, we've gathered (almost) everything we need for the baby. We've even washed all the tiny onesies and swaddles, and organized them neatly in their drawers. Now, all that's left is to wait. Wait for three to become four.

2014! And sometimes toddlers are crazy.

Collin has reached the age where inappropriate things sprout loudly from his mouth in public. Examples:

I'm browsing the produce section of Trader Joe's, when from my cart comes the excited squeak of Collin's little voice as he spots a man in a yarmulke (traditional Jewish head covering).
Collin: Mama! Is he a Chanukah guy??
Me: Um... (Oh my god, did he hear that?? Is he looking over here? Quick, steer the cart away! Steer away!)
Collin: Is it Chanukah time??
Me: Um, no honey, it's not. Hey, look, bananas!  (Que mama speed pushing the cart away in shame as I try to redirect the toddler)

I really wanted to say to the guy, "We're Jewish! It's cool!" But I was hoping he just didn't hear anything.

And the other day, standing in line at the Mexican bakery that was filled to the rafters with pinatas, I am foolish enough to point out the Batman.
Me: Look Collin, it's Batman! See him? He's the one in black.
Collin: IS HE BLACK??  (I swear, his voice shot up ten decibels for this one. This is the part where the entire bakery turns and looks at us.)
Me: Um, well, he's wearing black, if that's what you mean...
Collin: MAMA! IS HE BLAAAAAACK??

(For the record, he was talking about Batman's clothing choices).

Is this similar to what my mother felt when I screamed the "S" word in front of a little old lady when I was two?

Mostly, though, I'm flushed by Collin's  sheer cuteness versus his power of embarrassment. He is so engaging with everyone he meets (Perhaps a little too engaging? Like the time he bit an old lady with a dragon puppet in the Salvation Army?). He makes this mama kvell.

In other news, I'm so pregnant,  I can't see my feet anymore. I'm so pregnant,  I take showers every morning not because it's delightful and makes me feel like a real human, but because I'm too big to bend over the sink and wash up the lazy way. I'm tired all the time. All. The. Time. I live in a paradoxical universe of anxiety over the future, and excitement about it. I'm so excited to meet my daughter.  I love her so much already. But change is still change, and change is not easy.

It will be 2014 in two hours. I'm tired. But ready.