Starting and A Special Friend

My little love.

Sometimes you come across something that is SO BIG you can't find the words for it--at least I do. In my case here, it would be my son. He's so incredibly amazing, I don't know how to describe that without feeling like my words are slighting him. I think it might take some time to accurately mommy-post. I can guarantee though, that my post will inevitably involve the words: eat, sleep, and poop. Newborns are pretty complex : )

What I did manage to write about turned out pretty cool. In reading Lockport's local paper (yeah, I read EVERYTHING that comes my way), I came across a columnist that asked for Lockport residents to submit life stories. I sent the story about my friend, Stephanie, and I his way.  Our story will make the paper (hopefully soon!) along with a picture of us and the babies (thank you to Kelli Anthony for the great picture---she managed to find one where neither baby was actively crying!). Below is my submission:

My story has its roots a bit outside of Lockport. I moved around quite a bit as a child, but attended school in the Lincoln Way School District for the longest stint. There I made many friends, but only actively worked to keep a few as I traveled through college, graduate school, career starts, and marriage. One of these friends, Stephanie Sunzere, is also a Lockport resident. While ours was a friendship tested, we proved to be the type of friends who could easily “pick up where we left off.” We were there for each other at the pivotal times of each others’ lives: break ups, new love interests, job starts and lay off, as bridesmaids, and now, as we enter the newest chapter of our lives, as mothers. This latest adventure is one that we truly traveled along together. Stephanie and I would often meet up for dinner and conversation, and would discuss our desires to become mothers. While we may have both had suspicions, neither one of us knew that the other was ready to embark upon the adventure until a phone call placed in early February. We, unknowingly, called each other with the same good news, that we were each pregnant. Stephanie was the first to share this development, and quickly remarked, “I thought you’d be the one calling me to say you were pregnant.” Not being able to keep my news in much longer, I began laughing and told her that I was calling to tell her that I believed I was also expecting. Doctor appointments later confirmed that we were both due on precisely the same day in October. We shared doctors and many jokes that if the babies came on the same day, our doctors would be run ragged moving back and forth between our hospital rooms sharing news of how the other was doing.

Actually, we shared a lot more than just jokes throughout this exciting and terrifying time in our lives. Many, many texts and phone calls were placed asking questions that you can only ask a friend, offering encouragement during trying times (see: morning sickness), and congratulating each other every Saturday for the accomplishment of carrying another week. We found the perfect friend to go maternity clothes shopping with, or float in the pool alongside. Many were the day that the two of us could be seen “waddling” down the streets of our subdivision trying to get in exercise as our bellies grew. We became each others’ “belly buddy,” or, the one of the few people who understood what each one of us was going through. When I received the news that I was to be induced almost a month early as an emergency procedure, it was Stephanie who I text continually as I lay in my hospital bed waiting for the unknown. Stephanie came to see my healthy baby boy in the hospital and visited us at home when I needed the company. I was happy to return the favor three weeks after my delivery. I received her text messages and went to welcome her healthy baby girl. Now, we plot play dates with our little ones and log marathon phone calls that revolve mostly around dirty diapers and other newborn wonders.

Me, Stephanie, and our little ones!

Sweet Summer Days

I've got the remainder of the week to live out my last summer desires. Unfortunately, I really do waddle when I walk, so my activities list is somewhat limited. I'm still most irked at my inability to launch myself down water slides--or maybe my inability to bend at the waist. Its a pretty close toss up.
While I  do sadistically enjoy my pregnancy (you've never seen someone so excited to watch her own belly. I might as well bring in popcorn for the show!), I won't miss the limitations that it brings. I'm a spring chicken. I've got to *go* and *do* in life. I can only *go* and *do* for so long before I need a nap. I can't carry heavy objects (especially when there are witnesses around--some are keeping my secrets...), I can't fully stretch to reach things, and it is only a matter of time until various body parts become totally foreign to me. I know the pay off is great, but the process is a bitch.
That being said, I'm trying to figure out where I'm going to wrangle up the energy to teach for two months. I think that going back to work will make time go really quickly, but my brain still can't seem to wrap itself around HOW all of this is going to work. At least I know I won't have to worry much about discipline problemos- middle schoolers are terrified of pregnant women. Past experiences with pregnant mamas, aunts, other teachers, etc. has likened "us" to the status of fire-breathing dragon. They simply don't mess with anyone growing a human being---out of complete fear. If intimidation weren't enough, they certainly don't want to go down as the kid who made their teacher go into labor, because, well, its just gross (I know I joke that my school is a cross between a Kayne West video and the Animal Planet. There is no need to go adding the Discovery Channel in there).
Off I go to plan vocabulary units and dream of riding a raft down a twisting slide...

Mama Yogurt ...

or Mamaste yoga. I mistakenly called it mama yogurt, because, apparently I developed a speech impediment during my pregnancy. This sort of makes sense; nothing else is quite what it used to be. Why should my ability to speak the English language go unscathed?
Anyway, Mamste yoga was a wonderful recommendation from a yogi friend of mine. I wanted to join a prenatal yoga class in my first trimester, but was busy working, moving, complaining, milking my ability to get out of household chores, etc. I became very preoccupied lounging on my couch and managed to not sign up for a class during my second trimester. By the time I waddled into my third, I finally found the strength to pick up my laptop and look for a class. While there is no lack of pregos in my area, there is a lack of pregos who wish to contort themselves into pretzels.
Frustrated, I ruined a perfectly good lunch with a friend by complaining about my needs. She responded by suggesting a free podcast on I-tunes called Mamaste yoga. Its a quick 20 minute routine led by a zen, but somewhat too skinny broad (like I really believe she's birthed anything). It shows a *real* pregnant lady working out the poses. I now take ridiculous delight in stretching and breathing, though I still have a hard time relaxing (today I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted to clean the vent I was looking at. Done and done). They "say" this is all going to help me during delivery. I'll be sure to have my husband, Derek, tell you how many cleansing breaths and pelvic tilts I manage to squeeze in between threatening his life, throwing whatever is closest to me, and spitting out pea soup while my head revolves 360 degrees.
I know there are some other great videos and books out there, but I can't seem to commit. My recommendation goes to mama yogurt!

Velma...my sleepless friend.

Everyone *says* that the lack of sleep afforded to pregnant women is in preparation for the upcoming big arrival. While this might secretly be one of the more genius operations of my body, I sort of doubt it. I mean, there are lots of unfortunate things my body doesn't practice for, such as:
1. Falling down the stairs. I'm a natural; I can do this without any preparation.
2. Having a headache. I don't go and seek one out, usually one just comes to me.
3. Rupturing my spleen. I haven't done it yet, but I bet I can do it without practicing.

So, why does my body insist on waking me in the middle of the night and leaving me to my own devices? I think my body is simply trying to up my productivity level. My summer schedule doesn’t leave near enough time for me to catch up on celebrity news, color code my book collection, learn to crochet granny squares, stalk babycenter, post on facebook, and watch Project Runway Reruns. Wait, yes it does.

She's just that happy...

Fine, my body is just a jerk-a jerk who takes pleasure in stealing my last fleeting days of gloriously uninterrupted sleep.
I believe my cat, Velma, would also agree. She begrudgingly accompanies me from my bed to the couch and curls up to sleep (almost as a sort of demonstration. “Look, lady. See how easy this is? Put down the remote and sleep!”).
Muhahaha, we’ll see how peaceful Velma’s sleep is with a crying baby. What she doesn’t know is that my husband and I have elected her to complete late night feedings.

Here and Now

I thought about starting off with a grand introduction, a sort of who's who of pen and chatter. There's the absent-minded professor husband, growin' bump, polar opposite parents, foreign in-laws, and a smattering of people crazy enough to continue to want to listen to my chatter and call themselves friend. These could all make great posts, but I've got a more imminent problem. A here and now concern.

I'm stuck in the couch.

Not like a "I've- lost- the- will- to- get- up -and -move- off -my- couch- and- haven't- showered- in- 15- days" type of thing. Its more of a literal "my- butt- has- sunk -in- betwixt- two -cushions- and -I -don't- have the- strength- to- extract- it" type of thing. I've been waiting for this type of occurrence as a sort of inevitable since the onset of my pregnancy. I've been inundated with images of smiling women sporting nothing less than soccer balls in their mid -regions since my first log in on a baby website. The images have followed me through weekly updates, registry lists, and the daunting task of purchasing new undergarments. The jig is up- I've now become one of these women, hopelessly beached on my own living room furniture unable to relocate myself.

Completely unmotivated to try to advance my situation (I've already tried rocking back and forth much like a turtle caught on its back), instead I've opted to fantasize about starting my own couch country where I will serve as the ultimate dictator.

First order of business, force the townspeople to bring me dessert...and a bedpan.