Not My Most Refined Post

Note: I did write this on Sunday morning, but Blogger refused to let me post it then. So, here’s my second attempt!

Okay. So here I am at 4:45 a.m. on Sunday morning. Wide awake.

For once, the baby is sleeping peacefully. He’s cozied up next to Brett in the bed – which seems to suit them both very much. I can hardly put Sam in his bassinet before Brett is reaching in to take him out for “snuggle time.”

I have to say I think I am the only one NOT surprised by Brett’s reaction to fatherhood. Anyone who knows Brett knows he is not a fan of kids. I always knew it would be different once it was his own.

I was right. He adores Sam with every fiber of his being. And God knows I’m glad he is so patient. It helps that one of us is.

Sam is very much his daddy’s boy, and I couldn’t be happier. I know he loves me, too, but there is something very moving about watching a father and son bond. Especially when I happen to be head over heels crazy in love with both of them.

Over the past month, I’ve really wanted to blog.

There have been many topics I find myself needing to write about, wanting to explore. So much to say and no time to say it in.

I “knew” about the sleeplessness. At least, I’d heard about it. I had no idea it could be relentlessly exhausting. I know I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again – how do single mothers do it? I am endlessly amazed and impressed with the caliber of these women!

I mean, I have live-in help! I’m on maternity leave, and Brett is unemployed. There are two of us right now with the singular purpose of taking care of a little ten pound human being. And still. There is no time to eat, sleep, organize, and (my life’s breath) WRITE!

I had no idea how much I would mourn the loss of my time. Not that I don’t cherish the time with Sam.

I just miss being able to eat three times a day when I was hungry, as opposed to now, where I have to jam in whatever is available when the baby gives me a break.

My life had changed, as I knew it would. I’m glad, but also still adjusting.

Everything is compounded, of course, by Brett’s unemployment, my looming and possible job loss, our recent move to the apartment, and our race to clean out the house pre-foreclosure notice.

Perhaps the biggest change (aside from the lack of sleep, as that is the ever-present elephant in the room – God knows if there is ever need of evidence that man has indeed “fallen,” the newborn parents’ lack of sleep is rock solid), has been my membership in the circle of moms.

I find myself needing advice, wanting advice, on subjects that would have sent me snoring only a few short months ago.

What’s strangest of all is that – when I ask for advice – I receive it, on a variety of subjects, from wonderful women the world over. I have never been so grateful for the advice of relative strangers. God bless the pea-pickin’ internet.

I am also most appreciative for my cousin Candice who serves as my toll-free number for absurd baby questions.

Case in point, last night I was trying to sort Sam’s clothes. I called Candice, mystified, as to whether “24 months” was the same as “2T.” And what does the “T” mean, anyway? As I rambled on, I found myself peppering my long-suffering cousin with questions about clothes size, babies, and bottles.

Eventually, I just flat-out asked her, “How did you do this?”

She laughed and told me that the key is taking it one day at a time and not giving in to fear. “Every baby is different. You’ll figure it out,” she promised me.

Thanks to her help, I just might.

Speaking of bottles, I have to say my vocabulary has completely changed. Never in my life have I said “nipples” as many times a day as I do now.

My nearly-40-year-old husband still has a 15-year-old reaction to the word. Which leaves me rolling my eyes and asking if and when men ever grow up.

I also use the word “poopy” much more than I ever thought I would. I am not proud of this fact, but I am nothing if not transparent on this blog, and so now you know.

I am no longer ashamed of my “poopy” word usage. There I said it. Do you believe me?

There are so many things I am uncovering about motherhood. Some are hard (constant crying – me and the baby, not knowing what’s wrong, exasperation, and exhaustion), but there are moments.

Like singing my father’s favorite hymns to Sam and watching the wonder and peace move across his face. Seeing Brett lift Sam up for a kiss. Being the only one the baby wants. The joy in my mother’s eyes when she sees “her Sammy.”

Suffice it to say, the one thing I am most aware of is that Sam’s very existence is proof of God. Proof, even, that God answered my specific prayer.

Sometimes it’s easier to remember this than others. When Sam’s crying, and I don’t know why, I find myself praying, “Okay, Lord, this is YOUR child…”

Other times, like when I sing hymns to Sam, the realization that I hold tangible evidence of God’s love for me is overwhelming. And humbling.

I hope to find more time to write and balance it with my new life – with our new life.

Not writing, not blogging, is just not an option. I mean, I have to write.

Anything else would just be…poopy.

Sam at One Month

On Being the Noisy Neighbors

Freedom!

That’s what I think when I sit in the living room of our new apartment.

I mean - screaming, flag-waving, kilt-wearing, blue-faced Mel Gibson charging his horse down a hill - FREEDOM!

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I love apartment living. I always have.

Far less space to clean. No more yard work. No more snow shoveling. No more home repairs.

I like both the social opportunities and delightful anonymity apartment living provides. I like knowing if Brett isn’t home, at least SOMEONE in the building is, and if some desperate robber/rapist (I say desperate because we don’t have any money, and I am about as far from a supermodel as one can get) breaks in, I can scream my lungs out and there’s a good chance someone will call 911 on my behalf.

I love hearing the bumps and thumps that come from living near other people. I love hearing a shower come on at 3:00 a.m. I like the thumping bass of our neighbor’s guitar. I like the sense of community. It makes me feel young, alive, and vital. In an apartment, I am urbane, engaged, and wired.

It also helps me not feel the least bit guilty when Sam screams his lungs off at 2:00 a.m., since we can barely hear him over the roar of hard rock emanating from the walls.

It’s funny how life comes full circle.

Back when we were first married and in an apartment, we lived above a couple of young guys who worked the night shift. They’d come home around 1:00 a.m. and turn on their game system full blast. Unfortunately for us, their game room was situated directly underneath our bedroom.

The incessant blare of gunfire, bombs, and witty dialogue present in Grand Theft Auto did not lull Brett to sleep. I, however, enjoyed the free massage thanks to the vibrations coming from the floor boards.

Over the course of a couple of weeks, Brett went downstairs several times and politely asked the “boys” to turn it down. They were polite right back with promises to turn it down. And, of course, they never did.

Brett (in the running to become the cranky old man who calls the cops on his neighbors) called the cops. But, in a strange twist, he was actually the one who got scolded.

I tried to talk him out of it. I did.

“It’s just not that big a deal,” I said. “They’re, like, 20 years old. Don’t you remember 20?” I said this from the perspective of actually BEING in my 20’s at the time.

He swore up and down that he had never been that obnoxious. I believed him. He’s actually a pretty polite guy (except in traffic. Oh, no. Not. In. Traffic.).

Now, you have to remember Brett grew up in the quaint, country town of Geneva. This was Geneva of 40-odd years ago, not the shopping and development metropolis it is today. I, on the other hand, grew up in crime-ridden, gritty Rockford, Illinois, where – while corruption may not be king; it is at least governor.

Don’t ask me when or how I knew this, but I KNEW that you ONLY call 911 in Rockford if someone is a.) dead, b.) dying, c.) bleeding profusely, or d.) actually on fire.

However, in Geneva, you call 911 if your cat is up a tree.

So, when Brett told me he was going to call the police and invoke the wrath of our downstairs neighbors, I ASSUMED he meant he was going to call the non-emergency number.

Ah-ha.

Instead, he called 911 where, when he explained the reason for his call, the dispatcher rightly reamed him for “wasting our valuable time.”

Brett was shaken, and I bit back the “told you so,” on my tongue.

When we moved to our house, Brett insisted a huge part of his happiness was due to leaving “those rude neighbors” behind.

During our first night in our new apartment, Sam got us up at 2:00 a.m. screaming his precious little lungs out. Brett’s eyes got as big as saucers as he frantically tried to shush our son.

I had to laugh, since Brett just kept saying an irritated, “Shhhh” louder and louder, as though that would have any effect on Sam. Meanwhile, I could see the thought coasting through his mind – “What will our neighbors think?”

We eventually got Sam calmed down and back to sleep. The next day Brett was freaking out about what the neighbors thought.

I told him I could give a rip because a.) we already know three people in the building have babies – they’ve been there, done that, b.) apartment living means making concessions to other people’s noise, and c.) what are we going to do? Move to a deserted island? Babies make noise, plain and simple. No matter where we live, Sam will have the volume cranked up to MAX occasionally.

Still, I could tell it really bothered Brett that we had become “those” neighbors.

Until last night. Blessed last night.

We arrived home late from moving some more house-to-apartment stuff. As we climbed the stairs, we reached our floor and were instantly surrounded by the pulsating rhythm of our neighbor’s stereo – a screaming lead vocalist accompanied by a raucous band of guitars, drums, and (I’m pretty sure) a cannon.

The noise continued well into the twilight and morning hours. Sam wasn’t the least affected by the noise, and we were both relieved our little boy would not be the annoyance we had feared.

As Brett expressed his gratefulness for our neighborly noisemakers, I made the observation that he might just owe an apology to those young kids from our early apartment years. He smiled, just a little ruefully. Oh, the lessons parenthood brings!

A few minutes later, he looked over at me. “You know, if they ever DO call the police on us, I hope they know not to call 911. If they do, they’ll really be in trouble!”

Oh, the lessons being a cranky old man brings.

P.S. - Have I mentioned how much I love my new apartment? Do you know how much I love it? I totally didn’t notice it doesn’t have a microwave! Oops. Don’t care. Still love it!

And Then There Were Three

The truth is…I didn’t want to be induced.

All my fantasies of pregnancy and childbirth had included the penultimate moment of my water breaking.

I had visualized the moment in my mind a hundred times. Where would it happen? At work? At church? In the middle of Panera? (which would have seemed more than appropriate given this pregnancy.)

But, I had resigned myself to induction. I had spoken with friends who had never had their water break naturally. And, despite all the horror stories about Pitocin, I trusted my OB to know what was best for me.

After all, the man and his staff have spent nine years supporting us in our infertility and nine precarious months caring for me and my high-risk baby. He could have told me to walk backwards on my hands over London Bridge, and I would have done it, no questions asked.

Saturday night found us at Mom and Gary’s enjoying a delicious meal and several rousing rounds of Sequence. We went over our plans for Sunday – go grocery shopping and get the fridge stocked, pack all the “last-minute” items in the going-to-hospital bag, and get a solid night’s sleep before our Monday appointment.

We left Mom and Gary’s and headed home. I fell asleep almost immediately, but Brett couldn’t sleep and went downstairs to watch a movie.

At 4:30 a.m., I had my usual going-to-the-bathroom pregnancy urge and rolled out of bed. About six steps away from the bed, I felt a sudden rush and looked down to see a strange water spot spreading ruthlessly over the carpet.

The realization hit me in the gut as I stood frozen over the spot, afraid if I moved the mini-Niagara would stop. Eventually, I hunch-walked to the bathroom where I accomplished my original goal. Then, I went back to the water spot and confirmed that the whole thing wasn’t just a dream.

Feeling exhilarated and breathless, I fled to the top of the stairs where I shouted joyously, “Brett! My water broke!”

Proving he is not a man prone to panic, my husband calmly paused his movie and called up, “It did? Okay, be right up.”

In a minute, he was beside me staring at the water spot. When I expressed doubt in my own perception and bladder, he proved he is the man I love by getting down on his hands and knees and sniffing the spot like a dog just to be sure.

“Odorless,” he proclaimed, CSI-like, remembering the C.O.A.T. clause from our prenatal class (you can tell amniotic fluid by it’s Color, Odor, Amount, and Timing).

With our assessment agreed upon, I called Mom.

“Mom! My water just broke,” I crowed into the phone, as though I had something to do with it.

“What time is it?” Mom said, groggily re-surfacing.

“It’s a quarter to five.”

“I thought it was 2:00 a.m.” said Mom, still focusing on the time, the other news just background noise for the moment.

A second later, she seemed to energize with the news. After a short discussion, we decided Mom and Gary would head to the hospital just in case the baby came quickly.

(And the heavens fell helpless with laughter.)

Brett drove silently to the hospital while I chattered on like a magpie. I was strangely triumphant about my water-breaking, as though some great and mysterious power had been granted to me.

The streets were deserted at 5:00 a.m., and we were at the emergency room entrance to Swedes before we knew it. We gathered our accoutrements, like Civil War soldiers preparing for battle, and barged into the entrance like Elvis at the Apollo.

Our excitement took a chill pill as we had to wait at least twenty minutes for a nurse from the maternity ward to wheel me up to maternity admitting.

Before I knew it, I was hustled into a hospital gown and told that my water had “indeed” broken, and so I was actually “in labor.”

At that point, I had only experienced some twitches in my abdomen and was feeling pretty good, buoyed by the realization that nine years of waiting was almost to an end.

The nurse brought me back to reality when she pointed out that if I wanted an epidural, I should decide now, since they would have to do a blood test and many things would have to be confirmed before I could actually RECEIVE the epidural.

I felt fine, and I almost decided to wait, until I had a flashback of my cousin Candice in flown-blown labor before her epidural. I remembered the writhing, the pain in her face, and her impassioned plea that “No one should do this. EVER!”

So, I decided to fly my pain-wuss flag bravely, and told them to “hook me up!”

Somewhere in all the excitement, Mom and Gary arrived, already in proud grandparent mode.

A wonderful woman arrived a few moments later, introduced herself as my anesthesiologist, and proceeded to do an amazing job of keeping me distracted while giving me the best baby gift ever – no pain.

She also had one of the best quotes I’ve ever heard. “I’m a lot of peoples’ best friend for about ten minutes.”

The day slowly began to slip by. I was in labor, but I felt great. Mom, Brett, and Gary passed through the room, sat with me, and relieved the others as they ate, drank, and slept. I updated my status on Facebook (the supportive comments buoyed me even further toward the stratosphere), read my book, and chatted long-distance on the phone with my sister-cousin, Charity.

Suddenly, in the afternoon, I began to have some back pain. I wasn’t alarmed at first, since the anesthesiologist had warned me the epidural doesn’t always block all back pain.

However, the pain began to intensify, and before I knew it I was reliving my Candice flash-back from earlier - writhing in pain as horrible demon beasts feasted on my internal organs. I was panting, squeezing Brett’s hand, and cursing the human body’s high threshold for pain before passing out.

The nurses came in and were mystified. Brett was confused at how fast I had gone from serene to shrieking, and Mom looked terrified. Finally, in a burst of anger, I said, “I don’t think I’m getting the epidural anymore!”

Mom was brave enough to investigate, and sure enough, she discovered my epidural had become unhooked.

Apologetic for the mistake, the nurses plugged the tube back in. I had twenty more minutes of “real” contractions before the meds kicked in.

As I lay breathless on the bed, relief flooding to every corner of my being, I wondered aloud at the audacity and freakish fortitude of women who deliver naturally. Hats off to each and every one of you.

Never. Again.

I repeat. Never. Again.

The rest of the day slipped by. The nurses went on and off shift; my OB checked in and gave me kindness and kudos (which I felt were well-deserved, considering my twenty minutes of hellish torment). Brett slept on the rollaway bed; Mom and Gary dozed. I counted the ceiling tiles (106).

At 7:45 p.m., my OB sat on the edge of my bed. He looked me straight in the eyes with the directness, professionalism, and insightful nature I have come to love him for. “Do you think you can do this?”

I was a little startled. I knew he wanted a vaginal birth, if at all possible, but he was giving me the chance to ask for a C-section (perhaps the nurses had disclosed my earlier wussitude during the epidural-less twenty minutes).

Instead of answering confidently one way or the other, my sniveling inner-child sough affirmation. “Do you think I can do it?” I asked, just a tad fearful of his answer.

He clapped my leg and said, “I absolutely think you can do it.”

“Okay, then,” I said, emboldened by his confidence in me. “I can do it.”

(At which point, the heavens collapsed into the giggles. Again.)

He gave orders to begin pushing at 8:00 p.m. Brett took up his position on the other side of the nurse in the Red Zone, while Mom and Candice happily took up residence by my head.

I barely remember the next two hours. What I do remember is pushing. I felt exhaustion, but not pain (God bless my anesthesiologist and the evolution of medical wonders that led to the epidural). I remember my husband – the man I get so frustrated with at times – counting patiently to ten each and every time, and giving me every encouraging comment he could think of.

I know, I know. It’s an absolute cliché. But when he told me I was doing a great job, it was exactly what I needed to hear. Every time he told me to breathe, it was a reminder I needed. He was there every second of the way, and I will forever love him for the precious gift of being my partner when I needed a partner the most.

After pushing to each agonizing set of three ten-counts, Mom would feed me ice chips. Candice kept the hand-held, battery-operated fan blowing on me the whole time (I think her hand may have fallen asleep, but she never faltered.).

I could tell we were getting near the end when I felt like an oddly-shaped barbell was sitting on my tailbone. Mom, Brett, and Candice were happily shouting that they “could see the head.” After what seemed like five pushes and still no other comment, I finally said I didn’t care if they could see the head. I wanted to see some EARS!

The nurse offered to go get me a “birth mirror,” to which I ardently protested. No thank you. I mean. Gross. I had enough going on, you know?

Finally, the very last couple of pushes (Brett said, “Her lips are blue!” Candice said, “Her face is purple!” – see, these are the things I remember. I’m so vain.), and the baby, our baby – Sam – was welcomed to the world.

A very slimy alien being was placed on my chest for a split second and then whisked away for cleaning.

I vaguely remember Brett standing in the whirl of activity and just saying, “Wow.” There you have it, all the pain and suffering of childbirth through the ages and only word we can come up with is “Wow.”

I had incurred a surgical tear during the birth, so my legs were kept hoisted in the air, my OB repairing the damage, as the nurses cared for my already-quiet baby. They offered the clean baby to Brett who happily cradled his tiny son in his arms.

He held on so tightly and was so enthralled that Mom told me later, “I didn’t think he’d let anybody else hold him!”

Eventually, Mom got the chance to hold her grandson. Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood, and tangible heritage of the first man she ever loved, my father, Robert Lawrence Trotter. His spirit and that of Brett’s mom, Jean, were the unspoken loved ones in remembrance on the night of Sam’s birth.

We were reminded how much we missed them, and saluted them the best we know how, by promising to tell Sam how much he would have been loved by his departed Grandmother and Grandfather. It is no replacement for flesh-and-blood arms, but they were amazing and godly people, and his heritage will be enriched as we honor their memories.

Candice happily hugged her new not-nephew. I will forever be grateful for my biggest fan – and fan-holding – cousin. I don’t know what I would have done without her.

Eventually, they let me put my legs down. Hallelujah.

Mom, Gary, and Candice headed home for a reprieve from the day’s excitement (Mom told me later she couldn’t sleep a wink!).

Brett and I feasted on bag lunches (I hadn’t eaten since 6:00 p.m. the previous day) while Sam was getting his first check-up.

We did have a scary moment when I passed out while trying to make it to the bathroom. But it was just a combination of blood loss and low-blood sugar, and after I recovered, we were wheeled down to the post-partum ward to wait for our son.

It didn’t take long, and about 3:00 a.m., Sam was wheeled into our room. I got to hold my son for the first time, really hold him, much nicer now that he actually looked human.

I looked down into those eyes and saw the promise delivered.

I witnessed answered prayer. Observed generations of Trotters, Rehfeldts, Newells, and Soderstroms. Spotted potential. Glimpsed the present, future, and past.

But most of all.

Perhaps the simplest of all.

Manifested in human form, I saw my heart. Forever and always, the whole of my heart.

Thank you, God, for the safe delivery of Sam.

He's Here!

Pack-n-(Com)Play(n)

It’s tough to watch your dreams, aspirations, and hopes dissipate. I think it’s also hard to watch it happen to someone else.

I’m talking, of course, about my husband. Home ownership was a much bigger deal to him than it ever was to me.

I’ve admitted to everyone that I’m more of an apartment dweller by nature. The less space I live in, the less I have to clean. And don’t even get me started on the joy that wells up in my soul when I think about having no yard work, snow removal, or fix-it-yourself repair jobs.

To me, an apartment feels like freedom. I’ve felt tied down to this monstrous house ever since we moved in. It’s been too much to clean. I hate yard work (or even being outside) with a passion, and as much as I liked our neighbors, there’s a certain amount of anonymity I crave.

While I appreciated the security of having our own home, I also still thought of it as “just four walls.” Losing it is hard – because of the timing and the situation, but it isn’t like we are being tossed on the street or heading to the rescue mission. We will still have the four walls and ceiling we need, you know?

I don’t know if it’s because he’s a man or because he was raised in a family where home ownership is looked upon as the Holy Grail of accomplishment, but Brett is taking this very hard. I find myself dealing with a grumpy 15 year old with each box packed, sent off to the Salvation Army, or shipped to Mom and Gary’s basement.

We’ve been having our struggles getting on the same page. For instance:

Me: Starting over! No debt! Great apartment!
Brett: Obvious failure. Losing everything. Throwing money away every month.

Of course, if you’ve been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know this reflects my Pollyanna nature, as well as Brett’s Eeyore nature.

There are other obstacles that have me feeling like I’m jumping hurdle after hurdle.

One is actually kind of funny. Brett has inherited his family’s tendency to pack-rat. Now, I love this man dearly, and it is that love that has prevented me from strangling him due to this proclivity.

I mean, we are talking about a man who saves empty medicine bottles to collect change. A man who will not throw away a scrap of old dishtowel, torn underwear, or ripped sock – but instead “collects” them to turn into rags. We currently have 8 (EIGHT!) industrial-size bags of saved “rags” sitting in our laundry room. He also saves slips of paper, advertisements, and out-of-date magazines, like they will someday turn to gold.

I, on the other hand, am ruthless with clutter. Sentimental items that are not going to be displayed are packed away lovingly. Decorative items go up. Everything else goes in the trash.

For nine years, we’ve been able to juggle this problem. He secretly saves his stash, while I mercilessly toss out every non-essential I can get my hands on. This is because we’ve had the space of the house to hide our Mr. Hyde sides.

Now, of course, as we pack and prepare to move, Brett’s addiction to clutter comes to light.

I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to throw away old dishtowels – OLD DISHTOWELS!!! I’ve taken a very hard line, no sympathy approach. I keep threatening him with, “Do you WANT our apartment to look like your parents’ basement?”

He doesn’t give in easily, and I get dirty glares with each empty medicine bottle I toss.

The other funny thing is that he also thinks we can “sell” our old junk.

Now, when I say “junk,” let me clarify. First of all, yes, we can sell some things – Mom has already collected a nice pile of house wares to take to the secondhand shop.

However, Brett thinks we can sell actual junk – like the Gift of Jesus 1982 coffee mug he got in – oh, 1982. I try (I really do) to tell him NICELY that the only people who will take that is the Salvation Army, and that’s only because they HAVE to.

He just doesn’t understand. He wants to sell our old VHS tapes. I explained VHS is already a twice-expired technology. I pointed out it would be like trying to sell old 8-track tapes. But he still won’t let me pitch the whole lot – or at least make them the Salvation Army’s problem.

I don’t know what it is that makes him want to hoard or profit off of the junk we’ve managed to accumulate. My guess is that “stuff” is very important to him while it’s (frankly) “just” stuff to me.

My viewpoint is A.) We don’t need it. B.) We don’t have the space to store it. C.) Maybe someone else would want it, and if we give it to SA, a very good cause is helped.

Oh bother.

We have this battle every time we start pack. Just ask Mom and Gary. If I didn’t act the part of callous, uncaring, hard-nosed shrew, we’d have packed exactly one box so far. But because I can be calculating and cunning when I have to be, most of the house is packed up.

No one loves me for it, but there you have it.

Today, I got a burst of energy to do some more packing. Call it nesting if you want, but I attribute it to the four hour afternoon nap.

Brett silently helped out as I packed, wrapped, and sing-songed about everything going on. Finally, I noticed he looked slightly disgruntled. I needled him about it, thinking it was just laziness or a bad attitude, but when I looked closer, I saw he was actually disturbed.

Finally, in the great tradition of wives everywhere, I accusatorily blurted out, “What is WRONG with you?”

“Nothing.”

Stony silence.

Finally, I waddled my pregnant self into the dining room (now our “staging” area) and eased myself down in the chair next to him.

This time I changed my tone of voice into something civil, and asked, “Seriously, what’s wrong? I can tell something is bothering you.”

At my changed tone, he seemed to relax a fraction. “It’s just that it’s becoming real to me now. I mean, we’re packing. It’s actually happening. We’re losing the house. It’s real. I worked so hard so we would have security and equity and be able to have our own home, and it’s gone. It’s really gone.”

He ducked his head down.

I felt bad. I really did. It was like watching a dream die.

I tried to reign in my Pollyanna who wanted to chirp out, “But we’re not dead yet!”

I wanted to say so many things. I wanted to point out we are having a baby and with that comes a joy to eclipse the loss of material items. I wanted to start counting out the blessings, name them one by one, as the song says. I wanted to inform him how we are fortunate in so many ways.

But I didn’t.

I’m not there often, but I have been down in the dumps occasionally. I may visit, but my Eeyore lives there. Still, I know nothing is more discouraging than a well-wisher thumping you on the back when all you need is a listening ear and a comforting smile.

And so I listened. And smiled. And encouraged him to pray about it. I’ve learned sometimes that’s all you can do for someone who’s not ready to let go.

Heaven knows, I’ve been there myself.

And so, with the induction scheduled for Monday, we start a new chapter in our lives. Hopefully, an uncluttered start to getting back on our feet. Think of us during this time, and pray for the contentment that only God can give.

And, if you really want to do something to help us, tell Brett you are willing to pay top dollar for the fabled rare edition of the 1982 Gift of Jesus coffee mug – if only you knew where to find it.

You’ll make his day.

The Trotter Traditions

Do you remember when you were growing up, and you thought every family did things just like your family?

For instance, when I was a little girl, I had very long hair. Every Saturday night, Mom would give me a bath and wash my hair. Then, she’d sit on a chair in our living room, put me on the ottoman, and comb out my wet hair.

She’d empty out my drawer of teeny-tiny socks. Then, she’d separate out sections of my hair, put a sock at the bottom, roll it up to the crown of my head, and tie it in a knot. I would sleep on the wet, knotty mess all night.

In the morning, Mom would un-sock my head, comb out the mass of curls, and hose me down with Aqua Net, before we’d head off to church. There we’d go - two well-dressed adults and a brunette version of Little Orphan Annie.

I’m sure it was adorable. But, I HATED sleeping on all those socks. My head felt like a dented soup can in the morning.

The sad thing is that I think I was about eight or nine years old before I realized that none of my friends had to go through this Saturday night ritual! At some point, Mom took mercy on me and stopped socking my hair.

The funny thing? To this DAY, I use hot rollers on a daily basis. Something just doesn’t feel right if my hair isn’t bouncy or curly or (at the very least) big, sexy hair. Flat, straight hair just seems like an anomaly to me.

Personally, I blame the socks.

That’s not to say all my family traditions are drenched in inflicting pain, of course.

Perhaps the most wonderful Trotter tradition was our nightly ritual of ice cream consumption.

I don’t know when it started. I just remember it always being thus.

Every night, Mom would scoop us each a nice, big bowl of ice cream. The flavors varied over the years. So did the portion size. When we were on Weight Watchers, we switched to frozen yogurt and had ½ cup portions carefully measured out. When we didn’t feel like being good, we had the full-fat, two-bordering-on-three scoopfuls.

The best was when Mom was out of town, and Dad would bring the entire gallon into the living room with two spoons. Ah, those were the days!

I was fully aware that ice cream was a “treat,” but for us it was a daily treat. When I was visiting at friends’ house, I often wondered how they could fall asleep without their daily dose of dairy!

As I grew up, I discovered other families had THEIR unique traditions, as well. When we visited my parent’s friends, the Waggoners, I was awed by their tradition of ordering takeout pizza EVERY FRIDAY NIGHT! Wow. We hardly ever ordered pizza.

Some traditions, though, were just plain weird to me. My friend Jenny’s parents used to wash their girls’ hair in the sink. I was surprised, since I knew that Jenny and her sister could easily use the shower (like I did). But their mom and dad made a big production out of the hair washing, and they seemed to enjoy the family time splashing around in the kitchen.

My friend Sarah’s family had a tradition of having breakfast and then each family member retreating to their room to do devotions for a HALF HOUR. Do you know how long a HALF HOUR is to a kid?

When Sarah dragged me to her room and set the timer for a half hour, I didn’t think anything of it. I figured we’d read books, or play, or talk, but Sarah was dead-set on us reading her devotional book, memorizing a verse, and praying together.

Oh, come on!

I was exasperated.

But, I loved Sarah dearly, so every time I visited her, I faithfully had devotions with her while I dreamed about running through the sprinkler in her back yard.

I suppose I didn’t adhere to structure well, since my parents allowed me a lot of space to grow into myself. I was used to freedom, asking questions, and discovering things for myself.

I obeyed rules, but I easily chafed under rules I felt were unfair or even ridiculous. Such as those imposed on my friends by their parents.

My parents had rules, of course, but I was always allowed to ask why the rule was in place. They were more than happy to explain it to me.

When I visited my friends, and asked their parents “Why?,” I was given a peevish look and told I was being impertinent. To me, if you couldn’t give me a reason, there was no reason why I should have to follow the rule.

The words “because I said so” were not spoken in our home. My parents respected my power of reasoning and understanding and thankfully did not treat me like a brain-dead robot.

To this day, the “why” aspect of my personality drives my husband nuts. He will tell me something, act like it’s the absolute truth, and then get defensive when I ask for back-up facts or reasons.

“Just believe me,” he’ll say.

“But I really need to know why,” I’ll respond.

He usually ends up shaking his head and muttering something under his breath – something I’m probably better off not hearing.

Back to traditions, we had plenty. From my tire swing concerts - to all three of us reading books at the breakfast table - to popcorn and Murder, She Wrote on Sunday nights.

I revel in the recollection of those warm and fuzzy family times - those unique Trotter traditions that make up so much of who I am and what is important and sentimental to me.

I can’t help but wonder what our Soderstrom family traditions will be. Nightly ice cream? Marathon Sequence games? Family devotions?

All I can say for sure is that I absolutely will NOT roll my son’s hair full of socks.

Maybe Baby

Hello, friends. I write to you this morning at the blisteringly early time of 3:00 a.m.

I am, not surprisingly, wide awake. Whether it is from the pregnancy hormones, or from the extremely large quantity of chocolate I consumed at Mom’s last night – we’ll never know. In any case, both Sam and I are awake and kicking.

We’ve had quite the roller coaster week. Okay, to be fair, if you’ve been reading my blog at all, you know it’s been a roller coaster kind of year.

First, some big news. Do you remember the two bedroom apartment we applied for in Roscoe? The one with the spacious layout, the glorious location (next to the library, bike path, and Dairy Queen), and the reasonable monthly rent?

Well, we GOT it! Hallelujah!

In spite of our horrible credit and past financial history (and because of the mighty prayers being offered up on our behalf), we sign the papers and hand over the security deposit this week for our bright, shiny new apartment.

Originally, we had hoped to move into the unit that was available August 1. However, another couple beat us to the punch. BUT, the property manager told us a unit would be available September 1, and we had been approved for that one if we were still interested.

Still interested?! We were practically salivating over the opportunity. The first of September should put us at 40 days (of the 90-100 days) that we still have in the house. Also, Lord willing, we will have the month of August with Sam. Hopefully, a month of getting used to new parenthood will help us be less nervous about moving with a newborn in tow.

Again, we were thinking August, but obviously God’s timing is September. It’s hard to doubt His wisdom, seeing He provided a place for us to live (as always in the nick of time)!

I was prepared to hear “no,” prepared to accept it, so when the “YES” came back, resoundingly clear, I was left with the impression of being a doubting Thomas, having to witness something by sight I should have taken by faith.

A mustard seed is so small. How come my faith never comes anywhere near its mass?

Our other big event? In case I forgot to mention it, we ALMOST had a baby Thursday night.

During my standard non-stress test, the OB nurse and my APN were worried Sam’s heartbeat had slowed to unacceptable levels. Now, up until this time, Sam’s non-stress test numbers have been great, nigh phenomenal, for a high-risk pregnancy.

Right off the bat, they explained there were several non-worrisome reasons for a substandard non-stress test. First, Sam might have just been in a long sleep cycle. Second, the time of day combined with my last meal may have made him sluggish.

They could easily confirm Sam’s health with a biophysical which can be done via ultrasound right in the OB’s office. Unfortunately, my OB is on vacation and since my appointment was late afternoon, there was no one able to operate the machine.

So, we were sent packing to the Labor and Delivery Ward at Swedes. Thanks to our prenatal class, at least we knew where it was and what procedure to follow (Thank you, Dr. Cuddy).

God sent comfort in the form of a friendly face. Amanda from church was working the L&D registration desk, and just seeing someone familiar eased the hundred clenched muscles in my stomach. Her sweet smile sent floods of joy through my heart, as I knew God places His people where they are supposed to be – and we were both supposed to be right there, at the right time, together.

Soon, we were settled in an L&D suite and what had seemed like a normal, routine test back at the OB’s office was starting to freak me out. I was so apprehensive I couldn’t even get into my hospital gown. I must have held it up at least twenty times in the bathroom. No matter what way I flipped it, there was only ONE arm hole.

Now, I am a reasonably intelligent person who had managed to dress herself for the better part of my 30 years. Yet here I was, reduced to tears, by an impossible, one-armed, stupid hospital gown.

Practically dry-heaving, I cajoled Brett into the bathroom. In face of my frantic, saucer-eyed appearance, he calmly buttoned up the other side of the gown (using snaps I SWEAR were not there before) and held out a two-armed garment which I meekly stepped into.

Settled back into bed, feeling foolish, I tried to talk myself down. I gave myself rational reassurances in spite of my hysterical brain screaming, “NOT TONIGHT! NOT TONIGHT!”

We had heard that a Dr. C was on call for the ward that night. Now, I should tell you that my OB, Dr. S, is a wonderful OB – his personality is calming and quite serious. Being a studious person myself, I have always appreciated his level of professionalism.

However, Dr. C was, well, to put it succinctly, a hoot.

From the moment he set foot in my room, he was joking and laughing and had Brett and I (and the nurse) in stitches within seconds. He even managed to joke me though that horrible, horrible exam where they have to root around and figure out how far you’re dilated.

Not that I didn’t feel it. But it was much less uncomfortable than it could have been were I not distracted.

After reviewing the second non-stress test, which we also failed, Dr. C presented us with our choices. He said they would do the biophysical via ultrasound. They would be looking for four things. Each thing was worth two points. A perfect score was eight points.

“You get eight points; you get to go home tonight. You get six points; you stay overnight, and we do the test again in the morning. You get four points or less; we deliver tonight.”

We sat shell-shocked. We had never considered immediate delivery as a possibility.

The starkness of what he said jabbed my stomach. I did not want to give birth right there, in a room where everything suddenly seemed dingy and scary. I know it was just common fear crowding my brain cells, as I nodded my understanding and tried valiantly to act cavalier about the whole thing.

We called Mom and Brett’s dad and gave them the scoop, telling them not to come just yet, since we didn’t have the test results. It all seemed so surreal, like an out-of-body experience.

A few minutes later, the ultrasound tech rolled a giant cart in my room and set about doing the exam. As she started to mark things down, I held a silent mind-meld conversation with my son.

“Sweetheart, Mommy doesn’t want to bully you, especially before you’ve seen the light of day or taken your first breath. I promise I won’t be one of those parents who pressure you to be competitive or scold you for not getting straight A’s. But, Momma would really appreciate it if you could just wake up long enough to score eight perfect points, so I can take you home tonight. We can come back when you’re ready.”

According to the tech, Sam scored a six almost immediately, which meant at the very least, a 12 hour reprieve. However, she kept me hooked up to the machine for another 20 minutes, and just as she was about to close – Sam’s wafer-thin diaphragm lifted four times in a perfect symphony of practice breathing motions.

“Eight points!” The tech exhaled with the breathlessness usually reserved for home team touchdowns. I joined her with an excited squeal (Brett’s sigh of relief was heard in several surrounding counties). My little boy had scored when it really mattered.

And, even though I know it was just a physical, I was strangely and staunchly proud of my little guy.

We called Mom and Brett’s dad and gave them the news. Unlike us, they were disappointed at having to wait a little longer to meet their grandson. But they took it in stride.

I don’t know what it was, but it was a certainty in my brain that I not supposed to have Sam on Thursday night. I don’t know when his time will be, but I think (after this experience) that I will know it.

So, as you can see it’s been a busy – emotional – couple of days.

This may be the last week before (or of) Sam’s arrival. It’s hard to believe 39 weeks have gone by. It seems like I was just announcing my pregnancy, and now I’m like a beached, sun-bathing walrus (who just couldn’t be happier…or more slow-moving).

It feels weird not knowing if this will be my last blog post before Sam. I keep thinking that way. This might be my last movie, my last book, my last load of laundry, my last everything – before my life changes forever.

I know it will never be the same. There is an element of apprehension, of suspended breathing, of watching everyone treat me like a ticking time bomb.

And yet.

I can’t help but think, “I prayed for this, and it’s actually happening.”

It’s like a 39 week miracle, and I’m getting to watch it in slow motion as it builds to the crescendo.

I don’t know if this will be my last pre-Sam blog post or not. But in any case, I want to thank you all for the prayers during infertility, the many, many encouraging comments after the BIG announcement, the advice, and your collective shoulders on which I frequently lean.

Technically, I know it just took Brett and me to make this baby. But in many ways, I can honestly say, I couldn’t have done it without you, my friends, my family, and my cohorts.

Could you please pray for the successful end of a healthy pregnancy, a safe delivery for Sam, and the comfort, strength, and blessing Brett and I are going to need?

We will appreciate it. And so will our perfect-eight-scoring son!

Trying Not to Be the Only One Offended

We all say offensive things.

I mean, I know I am a walking example.

When my movie buddy Angie wanted us to go to the (now defunct) $1 movie theater, I said, “Isn’t that in a sleazy part of town? I don’t really want to be there after dark.”

Then, she said, “Hey, I live down the street from that theater.”

Awkward.

Thankfully, she forgave me. Although, she still enjoys teasing me about my faux pas. Good friends are allowed to needle you about those things.

And when I try to think about all the times I’ve said something innocently and put my foot in my mouth, I have to give everyone else a wide berth before being offended.

I think sometimes it’s easy to say or do something offensive, simply out of ignorance. Now that doesn’t make it totally excusable, but I always hope someone will give me the benefit of the doubt and perhaps EXPLAIN why what I said or did may have been perceived as offensive.

As you might have guessed, I’m tippy-toeing my way to explaining why I took offense at something the other day. It, too, was said totally innocently and matter-of-factly.

In fact, it was the matter-of-fact tone that actually sent my blood to boiling - as though this particular sentiment was widely held by the vast majority of people.

I was asking someone about their second child, and they said, “Well, of course we wanted to have another one. We didn’t want *Jonah to be an only child or anything like that.”

Well, color me offended.

I know I’ve pulled out this old soapbox before, but let me just say that I was/am/always will be HAPPY to be an only child. I did not feel deprived, and if you follow this blog at all, you know my childhood was quite idyllic.

There is this widely held, blatantly false, assumption that ALL only children are spoiled, lonely, selfish, socially maladjusted miscreants.

I’m not saying that SOME of us aren’t. I’m saying not ALL of us are. You are NOT intentionally doing your child a disservice IN ANY WAY if he/she is an only child.

I’ve spoken to a wide variety of only children. There are some who resent their sibling-less childhoods. And yes, there are the lonely kids out there, too. But the overwhelming response I get from my “only” compatriots is that they were happy kids and feel quite blessed.

I mean, how would people like it if I pointed out that I’ve met more than one “mess” of a family due to sibling rivalry?

My husband has advocated strongly for Sam to be an only child because – while he, of course, loves his four siblings - he grew up withered in the shadows of their popularity and needs and feels the poorer off for it. He looks at my childhood and sees the ocean of possibilities I was offered, and he wants those same things for Sam.

I’m not saying that everyone should have/be an only child. I’m just hoping to revise the notion that being/having an only child is a FATE WORSE THAN DEATH.

Because, I can gratefully, happily, assure you it is not.

It can be a blissful, fulfilling, and rewarding experience, and it’s time it was recognized as such.

I’ve said this before, but my mother was one of 12 children. I can’t imagine not having a single one of my aunts or uncles, and the mirthful myriad of cousins who share my sphere. My closest cousins, the Boehm’s, number four, and I wouldn’t give one of them away for the world.

So, I’m not bad-mouthing a family’s decision to have multiple children. Of course not. Nor am I saying that I KNOW for sure Sam will BE an only child.

I’m just still stubbornly trying to de-bunk a stupid myth that has annoyed me since childhood.

I’m loud. I’m proud. And I’m (most joyfully) ONE.

Coming Home

You know how they say you don’t appreciate something until you lose it?

With us losing our house, I have found myself thinking more and more about my impression of “home.”

“Home” is such a beautifully fluid concept. I mean, we’ve all heard that “a house is not a home.” In spite of that, many of us do think of our house as our home. Home can simply be where you go after work is done – which is usually your house.

Then there are those warm and welcoming places where we say we feel “at home.” One of my favorite sayings is “Home is where your mother is.” Perhaps the most evocative feeling of home is the recollection of where we spent our childhood years.

My own first official memory happened at four years old. I remember wading through the green and yellow shag carpeting in our tiny house, climbing onto the 70’s-era blue-green couch, and demanding Dad read the comics to me.

What do I remember about that moment?

The shag carpeting? The paisley couch? The confines of our small house? Nope.

I remember my squeal of joy as Dad lifted me onto his lap, cracked open the newspaper, and did funny voices for Lucy and Charlie Brown which sent me into gales of laughter. That’s what I remember.

That is what “home” will always mean to me. Unconditional love and acceptance.

As Christians, we have another perception of “home,” being encouraged to look toward Heaven as our final place of residence.

When my Aunt Kathy lay dying in her hospital bed, her brother, my Uncle Scott, led us in singing Amazing Grace. Afterwards, he talked about Aunt Kathy gathering her skirts around her (Aunt Kathy loved wearing skirts. She once told Mom that wearing skirts made her feel closer to God.) and wading across the river before stepping onto Heaven’s shore.

It was a beautiful mind picture, and I could almost see Aunt Kathy’s face breaking into that unforgettable smile and hearing her tremendous belly laugh as those gates rolled back to reveal her new Home.

I suppose I remember more about how I felt during Aunt Kathy’s passing that I do Dad’s. Dad was taken from us so suddenly that most of my reflection is on what happened to Mom and I immediately following his death.

However, I have no doubt that he stepped on those same shores and was welcomed into his Savior’s embrace with the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Yesterday at church, we were singing an “old favorite.” I have sung this song as a child, and you probably have, too. However, this time, one of the secondary verses caught my eyes and touched my heart.

With all we are going through right now, not knowing where we are going to live, not knowing if we will have a tangible home to call our own, this simple stanza from Amazing Grace brought tears to my eyes -

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come.
T'was Grace that brought me safe thus far,
And Grace will lead me home.

I was reminded, again, that I can trust God’s grace to provide an earthly place for us to call home.

But, even better, I know, in the end, that same Grace will also lead me Home.

Worth It Wednesday

Sometime during my first trimester, I decided I wanted to do something special and unique for myself during this time of pregnancy – a time I NEVER thought I would have. I waffled between getting a manicure/pedicure or getting a pregnancy massage.

In the end, I figured I could give myself a manicure, and since I can’t see my feet, a pedicure would be a waste of time. So, I decided on the pregnancy massage. It was no cheapie treat, either. I had to save up for a couple of months to swing the $60 splurge!

My cousin’s wife, Cari, is also pregnant, so I asked if she’d like to go with me. After rescheduling our original date, we set ourselves up for pampering this past Wednesday.

When I set up the appointment, I had no idea of the chaotic and complex direction my life would be taking this month. So, presented with a day off for the massage, I also had to schedule two apartment viewings and my non-stress test. At the last minute, we also decided to have lunch with Mom, Aunt Louise (Cari’s mother-in-law), and Cari’s sweet little boy, Dawson, after the massage.

I was stressing out a little, thinking I had way over-scheduled myself on what was supposed to be a relaxing spa day.

In the morning, Brett and I checked out Apartment #2 (our Apartment #1 experience is here). We really liked the apartment’s spacious 2 bedroom layout, the monthly rent amount, and the convenient location. We decided to put in an application, knowing full well our credit, bankruptcy, and current housing situation could possibly weigh against us.

But, you have to start somewhere.

I’ve been praying God will “put us where He wants us.” So, if the answer comes back “no,” then we know it isn’t there, and if it comes back “yes,” we will be praising Him all the same.

It’s hard to wait - even harder to know the answer might very well be “no” - but trusting means trusting. And so, I’m trusting and trying very hard to be patient.

After the showing, I headed across town to the Tranquility Café inside SwedishAmerican Hospital. If you have never been to the café, I can highly recommend it! There is a wonderful gift shop (lots of supplies for new moms, too!), a coffee shop, and a massage therapist on hand.

I signed in for my (FIRST EVER) massage. Let me just say – WOW! – it was truly amazing! All that scrimping and saving was TOTALLY worth it. The massage therapist, Linda, spent over 45 minutes massaging me, helping me relax, and seemed to bring all my energy back to the surface.

I could have run a marathon after she was done!

The baby must have liked it, too, because he slept like a little lamb through the whole thing.

My cousin’s wife was next in line, and while she was getting her massage, I sat in the coffee bar and just let the relaxation seep in from my head to my toes.

Afterwards, we met Mom, Aunt Louise, and Dawson for lunch at Red Lobster.

With my extended family, I am often torn when it comes to what to disclose about our financial/living predicament. Being a Rehfeldt, I’d rather have it all out there in the open. However, Brett is much more private, and it understandably annoys him that my family tends to be frank and sometimes VERY judgmental about situations they have not experienced.

It’s remarkable how people like to judge you when they know next to nothing about your unique situation. (I’m sure we’re all familiar with that feeling.)

It’s not so hard on me, as I am mostly anesthetized to family rudeness and the smart comment or flippant remark tends to roll off my back.

And, as you know, I am more than able to give back what I get when it comes to smart-aleck-ry.

Anyway, as we sat down to lunch, I told Mom how much we liked Apartment #2. She started to tell Aunt Louise, and I jumped in quickly to remind everyone that we aren’t counting any chickens just yet. Neither Brett nor I want to get our hopes up, because we’ve had enough hopes dashed lately.

Before I knew it, I spilled out all the financial hurdles that stand in our way to renting a decent apartment. I’m not sure what I expected from my Aunt Louise, perhaps a comment about how we should have made better financial decisions in the past, etc.

Instead, she nodded her head in agreement. She began to tell me how hard it was for her when she was looking for an apartment – a single teenage mother who had been kicked out of my grandparent’s house, addicted to alcohol, and completely on her own.

I felt a hot prick of tears come to my eyes. It amazing how hearing someone else’s hard-knock story can make you appreciate what you have. In my case, a husband, a family support system, and no addictions that could put my child in harm’s way.

I know how far Aunt Louise has come. Thanks to AA, she is a recovering alcoholic, sober for many, many years. She raised an incredible daughter, my cousin Tammy, who is, herself, a caring and loving mother.

Aunt Louise is also a generous, kind, and supreme grandmother. Which was firmly evidenced by Dawson who spent the entire lunch hour trying to crawl into his grandmother’s arms.

My family can be bluntly candid, sometimes even offensive. They can be loud, opinionated, and I can guarantee they’ll rarely let you finish a sentence. But they are also beautifully honest and truthful when they need to be.

Aunt Louise’s non-judgmental story reminded me how much we learn from our family. When she smiled that sad smile in memory of her darker days, I found myself wanting to comfort her all these years later. I knew she was telling me her story to comfort me in the midst of my trial.

At that moment, I was never so proud and grateful for my extended family. God loves the whole dysfunctional lot of them (just the way they are), and so do I.

After lunch, I went to a (thankfully) non-eventful, non-stress test. My OB was very pleased with Sam’s heart reactivity. He went as far as to say Sam’s numbers were some of the best he’d ever seen in a high, double-risk pregnancy such as mine.

Somehow, even with all this stress, our little Sam is holding his own.

The last appointment of the day was viewing Apartment #3. It was a very nice one bedroom layout, small but not tiny. The rent was more than reasonable, and it’s very close to where we currently live. We took an application but are waiting to hear back from Apartment #2 before proceeding any further.

By the time I got home and settled, I definitely felt like I’d had a full day. However, looking at the apartments made me feel like at least I was going in SOME direction towards getting ready for Sam. And reflecting back on Aunt Louise’s story gave me back the joyful heart and thankful spirit I’d been lacking.

I was also happy the $60 I’d saved had been more than worth it for the pregnancy massage.

I would have thought all the appointments and driving all over town would have left me stressed out, but the truth is that I felt like I’d been given a reprieve. Spending time with family, spending time with Brett looking at apartments, getting good news at the OB’s – all made me feel relaxed (I’m sure the massage didn’t hurt either!).

It was a middle-of-the-week blessing, and I’m counting it among one of the nicest days in this (soon-to-be accomplished) pregnancy.

P.S. – If you don’t mind, can you please pray God will provide a place for us live – that He would put us where He wants us in His perfect time? We would REALLY appreciate your prayers!