Here’s Charlie!!!

He’s a keeper!!

Charlie Campbell — 7 LBS, 15 Oz

Was Born 1:44 am, May 9th 2010.

Story to come.  But for now a few pictures.

Kenny and Cooper and I went out for dinner with my parents a few nights ago, and we settled on my favorite sushi place, even though my menu options are a bit limited, at least for the next 7 (!) or so days.  We were the first ones there, and it was one of those rare nights where both boys not only behaved perfectly, but ate everything that I put on their plates, from the edamame and sticky rice to the chicken katsu.

Halfway through dinner, Kenny started yelling, “Ahoy!” every time someone came in.  I laughed as soon as I realized that he was hearing the traditional shouts of “Irasshaimase!” and translating them into a word that he knew.    Cooper joined in not much after, and a fun time was had by all.

I ate as much wasabi as humanly possible, but the old, “Spicy foods trigger labor” hogwash didn’t work.  Waa.  Next on the list?  A massage.  And a little jumping rope…

Whoa.

Kind of funny to see that my pregnancy will expire before the milk and the meatloaf mix…

Not much new to report.  It’s all “hurry up and wait” for me at this point.  Most everything I needed to do is done.  I’m sure I’ll panic and think of 8 projects the day before my date that I need to do Right Now, but at the moment, most of my To Do list involves compulsively trying to keep the laundry at bay.  Boooooo-ring.

I’ve been talking to Cooper at night about the baby coming, and though he doesn’t make it obvious that he understands, I hope that some of it is sinking in.  He does comprehend much of the goings on around him, and I don’t want the baby coming home to be a complete shocker. 

He is so funny, too, with the things that sink in and make impressions on him.  Every night when I’m tucking him in, we play a little game where I tell him all the times I love him, and he will answer with, “more!”  “I love you when you’re silly; I love you when you’re running around; I love you when you’re spilling milk on the floor…”  But there is one that he always tells me before I can say it: “You love me when I cry.”  It’s so funny, that that is the one he reminds me of.  Then when the game is done and I’m about to leave, I always say, “Mommy is in Mommy’s room.  I can always hear you, and if you need me, you call me and I’ll come right in.”  Tonight he beat me to it: “You always hear me all times!”

I can hardly believe that in 9 days, he’ll be a big brother!

In the Historic district of the town where we now live, there is a tradition of hanging May Day flower baskets on your front door or porch, which are judged by the local gardening club.  Judging aside, it’s a gorgeous tradition – how fun to walk through the streets of town when every door is adorned with bright bouquets?

Kenny wanted to participate with me, so we each made baskets, and hung them on the front corner of our house:

Kenny’s basket was a beach pail, decorated with Lightening McQueen stickers and colored pipe cleaners (and the scraps of my ribbons) and filled with herbs and grass from our back yard.  Mine was about a half and half combination of flowers from our garden (azaleas, cockles, lilies, mint stalks and some random purple weeds that were really quite pretty) and some bought from the garden club’s flower sale (tulips and snap dragons). 

We were pretty proud of our artistic endeavors and even hid in the window to watch when the judges stopped by our house.  Kenny was beyond ecstatic that he received a ribbon.  (I didn’t tell him that it was “just for participating” because he was in the kid’s category… how could I think to take away from his exuberant joy??)  I got a little “thank you for your entry” postcard on mine, but no ribbon, and Kenny shared my disappointment with an unusual level of empathy for a little guy his age.  The best part of it all was that he and I went out to breakfast together, then spent a half hour walking hand in hand on the streets surrounding ours to look at the entries together, just the two of us.  It redeemed the strife of the day before.

Mayday!

The second half of the day was way too busy… Kenny had a t-ball game, then we all went over to our old house, which we are maintaining as a rental property, to do some work.  After three hours, we were all exhausted, the boys were feeling ignored and Casey’s incisions were aching.   We got home just in time to shower so that Casey and I could go out for a date night – something that we’ve not done nearly enough in the past few months.  The boys’ favorite sitter arrived and they barely noticed that we left, and Casey and I walked the town, “detoxing” from the tough afternoon, before settling at an outdoor cafe with live music.  We had a fantastic time – we were admittedly new people by the time, dinner was through – both of us recharged and relaxed.  We even waited 45 minutes in line for ice cream cones by the docks (silly, yes, but boy was it good!!) before walking back home and going to bed.

That’s were the fun ended.  I woke up at 1 am with contractions so strong I was clawing at the sheets and sweating like I was running.  I tried to walk around, but found myself every 7 minutes or so clinging to the wall, scratching and moaning in pain.  Casey woke up to the sound of my sobs and gasps for breath.  He was ready to go to the hospital, but I decided to take a shower first.  After 30 minutes under the hot water, the contractions dulled enough that I could breathe again.  I crawled weakly back to bed and fell into a fitful sleep, waking up every 15 minutes or so until morning.

I decided to go to the hospital and get checked this morning, even though the contractions had nearly subsided.  Casey took the kids to the park.  When I got there, they hooked me up to the monitors to check both the baby and the contractions, and when the doctor came in, she looked at the tape and said, “Well, you’re definitely having legitimate contractions.  Let’s see how far along you are.”

Bitter, bitter disappointment ensued.  “Wow.  You’re completely closed!  I can’t believe it, but you haven’t even really started labor…”  She was entirely sympathetic, but I burst into tears as soon as she left.  How can I endure this much pain and have NOTHING to show for it???  The nurses were sympathetic, too, and told me to “hang in there” and “don’t hesitate to come back if they get worse.”  I have been in a pout ever since.  Get worse?  I was trying to eat the plaster off the walls, I was hurting so bad last night.  I’ve been in labor before, and I tell you, nothing I felt when I was in labor with Kenny hurt worse than what I went through last night.  So not fair.  If I can’t trust my own body, what can I trust???

I got tickets to take the boys to “A Day Out With Thomas” at our local city railroad museum.  He was only in town for a few days, and I jumped at buying the tickets when they went on sale.  Kenny is starting to outgrow Thomas a little, but Cooper is a fanatic, and I thought that it would be the perfect Last Hurrah before baby #3 comes our way. 

We even started the day off great.  Casey stayed home for a bit this morning and we went for a walk to the corner coffee shop for croissants and bagels.  We sat by the docks and fed the ducks our crumbs, then headed home to get ready to meet Thomas.  But the crankiness set in even before we got in the car.  Cooper didn’t get enough sleep the night before and by our 10 am departure time, he was whining that he was hungry, and of course pooped on our way out the door.  At least, that’s what I thought I smelled.  After hurriedly changing his diaper as he stood in the doorway, I realized that it wasn’t his own poop I smelled, but the Dudley poop that was all over the bottoms, and tops, of his shoes.  Ugh.  I was not able to mask my disgust as I yanked them off and threw them out the back door.  He was a little mollified and his whining ceased, at least for a few minutes.

As we walked into the museum, we got an immediate glimpse of Thomas before he left with a string of coaches.  “Thomas!!” squealed Cooper, and a huge grin broke out on his face.  “Hey, that’s not Annie and Clarabel!” shouted Kenny, and indeed, he was right.  Instead of the sleek wooden coaches we expected, he was tugging, in fact, dingy old retired MARC commuter trains.  Hm.  I thought about the extra dough I’d shelled out to ensure a ride on the train…

We walked into chaos, crowds of preschoolers and toddlers vying for glimpses of displays and exhibits.  The lines were deep for the promised face painting and balloon animals.  We stood in line for nearly 20 minutes hoping for a character balloon, Cooper squirming and trying to get out of the stroller, when I gently asked Kenny if it was ok if we moved on to something else instead.  He was a great sport, as I know that he wanted some sort of souvenir from the day.  As we walked around it became apparent that though the event planners had organized activities both for Kenny and Cooper’s age groups, none of it was close to each other.  There were even moonbounces for both sizes of kids (and rigid signs and attendants to enforce them), but they were far enough apart that I couldn’t let Kenny get in one and go with Cooper to the other because I couldn’t see them both.  We settled for the concession stand and then sat in some seats to watch the end of a magic show for a few minutes before the train we were  booked on left. 

By the time we got on the train (even dingier inside than out), Cooper had had enough and was ready for a nap.  Kenny was excited, though and perked up and watched in rapture as we pulled out of the station.  The ride was 20 minutes.  10 minutes each way through a string of industrial buildings and housing projects.  I’m totally serious.  Kenny looked out the window and kept asking, “What are we passing?”   I wasn’t sure how to explain, but I couldn’t have anyway, because at that point Cooper started to wail.  Kenny and I tried to keep up a fun conversation, but it was tough.

When we pulled back into the station, I hesitantly told Kenny that we needed to leave soon.  He looked sorely disappointed, as was I.  I was mad at myself for not leaving Cooper with a babysitter.    Actually, Cooper would have had a great time if it was all about him; there were plently of things for his level that would have ensured a fum and memorable experience.  And Kenny would have had a fantastic time, if I’d been able to pay more attention to him and stand in lines with him and talk excitedly about all of it with him.  As it was, we were all frustrated as we walked back to the car.  Cooper fell asleep 9 seconds after being strapped in.  Kenny chatted with his gramma on my cell phone all the way home, talking about everything except Thomas.

Needless to say, the afternoon got rougher from there.  Kenny was tired and disappointed, Cooper was tired and needing to be entertained, and I was tired and in need of some rest.  For some reason, I was determined not to give into TV, though we would have been better off if I had.  Instead, Kenny asked if we could do an art project together, and I said yes, knowing that it would be hard to fend Cooper off the art supplies.  More frustration.  More tears.  From all of us.

Kenny had t-ball practice tonight after dinner and by the time he and Casey got home, he was a veritable puddle.  Casey was exhausted from a week of post-surgery travel.  I snuck downstairs and ate a giant piece of chocolate cake, standing in the kitchen, wishing for a glass of wine instead.  Oh, the agony of defeat.

So I decided to get the boys down to bed early and get all the necessities in order.  I did all the laundry, packed a hospital bag, washed my hair, shaved my legs and finally gave myself a manicure and pedicure.  Somewhere between the hot shower and the giant bowl of ice cream I ate while I painted my toenails, the contractions stopped.

Ok.  Good.  Hubby out of town, here alone, no more labor.  But  bad.  Nearly 11 hours of consistent pain, and you mean I’m not really having his baby?!?   How unfair is that?  I sulked through the end of my sundae and went to bed.  Only to wake up at 1 with another round of contractions that lasted until 3.  Great.  Thanks.  This is really fun.

Today I was fine – just a few normal Braxton Hicks to contend with.  I took the boys to the park, then later on a long walk to the library and to our favorite ice cream shop.  But sitting on the bench with our cones in hand, the awful contractions started again and I wondered how I was going to manage the two block walk home.  Then, miracle of miracles, Casey sent me a text saying that he was coming home tonight instead of tomorrow.  Whew.

So now I sit on my couch and the contractions haven’t stopped, nor have they gotten worse or closer together or anything text-booky like that.  Casey looked at me and said, “You know, if you’re going to have the baby tonight, that would really work out well for me.  I mean, don’t take it the wrong way, but you either need to have it tonight or wait until the end of next week, if you’re not going to make it to the 14th…”  Fortunately for him, I do understand and I’m not offended… (I love you, honey!)

Seriously, though, my thinking at the moment is more along the lines of, “Ok, if I’m going to spend hours and hours in this kind of pain, shouldn’t I have something to show for it?”  I just want justice, that’s all. 

When I was pregnant with Kenny, I went to the hospital twice in “false labor.”  Is there anything more humiliating than being sent home, still in pain, and told, “You’ll know when it’s really labor…”  Talk about feeling like a chump.  With Cooper, I never went in before my scheduled section (which was two days before my due date), but I did have a night where I paced the floor for 8 hours, timing contractions and pretty sure I was going to have a home birth before they stopped uneventfully at sunrise. 

Who are all these people I read about who simply go into labor, go to the hospital and have a baby?  Why is my body so hell-bent on playing tricks on me?

Tell me your story.  I want to hear some good labor (or even better, false labor) stories from you readers out there.  No, “my doctor stripped my membranes at 38 weeks because he was going to Cancun and wanted me to deliver early”  or “I requested to be induced early because I really wanted my baby to be a Capricorn.”  I want to hear some good gory and triumphant stories.  As for me, I’m going to get my affairs in order.

He’s had at least a dozen haircuts in his 22 months of life, and no matter the length, he always looks a little like he’s just stuck his pinkie into an electric socket.

Today Cooper and Kenny were wrestling… something that I, having no brothers, really don’t get, but Casey assures me that they will do this until one of them graduates high school and moves out.  At this stage, the wrestling usually ends with someone in tears – either Cooper has gotten squished or knocked into a piece of furniture, or Kenny has gotten a fist in the eyeball.  (Did I mention Cooper’s right hook?)  But today was one that I hope I don’t see again: Cooper had Kenny pinned to the ground (Kenny actually laid down and said, “Cooper, come get me!!”) and Kenny tried to throw him off by lifting his hips.  Instead of going to one side or the other, Cooper was pitched forward and his forehead came down with a sickening smack right against Kenny’s front teeth. 

I was literally on the floor next to them and the sound made me nauseous.  There was a moment of silence and then the pair of them starting wailing at full volume.  Ah… now here was the dilemma… which one do I pick up and hug first???  Fortunately, they fell on either side of me, and I scooped on in each arm and held them tight until they’d calmed down enough for me to inspect the damage.  Cooper stopped crying first, but his wound was the most visibly painful.  Kenny swore up and down that his teeth were swelling too much for him to close his mouth, but I couldn’t see a scratch on him. 

They soon moved on to other antics…

I’m still recovering.

… Now I just need to start taking some pictures!  We haven’t used the camera since January….