Welcome to my pregnancy diary! I can't say I've ever had anything close to a blog, but I've never grown a human being before either so here's to new things! Actually, I thought it might be a good way to share all of the tantalizing details of my pregnancy experience with friends and family and those I don't get to pow-wow with very often. In addition to this, we're keeping a journal where Brandon and I write letters, notes and thoughts to the little one so I'll be adding in little tidbits from that as well. It's therapeutic and honest and I hope you all enjoy.

1.01.2011


01.01.11
Chapter One. Conceiving.

You all got a little excited there, huh. Unfortunately, I promised the husband that if I were to build an open repertoire of deep thoughts and detailed play by plays of our experiences thus far, I would keep my forthrightness and inappropriate sharing at a minimum. So no steamy romance novel descriptions here. For those of you who know me and my love for portraying and recapturing moments, you can empathize with his concern. But the beauty of it all is, we were so very lucky at how this all came to be. Baby Johnson needed to have a summer birthday and planners that we are (stop laughing mom)... well, having counted 9 fingers through the month song, we knew our space of time was closing. See, I have been ready to start a family with Brandon since day two of the honeymoon (taking into account travel time) so I thought it to be fair, romantic and perhaps make for a sweet retell if he were to be the one that made the ultimate decision on when to add to our two-person crew. And this past Fall, as luck would have it, (plus three beers at Applebees followed by seven persuasive comments) Brandon P. Johnson was ready for fatherhood. To be truthful, he did bring up the subject himself and I was speechless at the prospect of this all really happening for us. It's amazing what creeping up on thirty can do to a man. He flosses now too. So there we were. One box of pregnancy tests, three months of time and lots of wishful thinking. I know good authors aren't supposed to reveal the endings to their stories in chapter one, but spoiler alert: we're having a baby.

Chapter Two. Finding Out. 

In early November, I found myself to be exhausted beyond belief, constantly starving and eight days late. Because it was conference week, I made myself wait four whole days until Saturday morning to take the big test. This took a LOT of patience and waiting for big news or important results is not one of my specialties. But, I didn't want to have my hopes vanish if a test said negative on the morning of a student conference and have to explain to a parent why I began crying over my obvious infertility while discussing their 4th grader's reading comprehension concerns. So I waited. I'd like to think of this move as a delicate foreshadowing to the graceful and tranquil mothering that I will soon exhibit. Sweet Saturday FINALLY came and I woke up at 5am smiling and bouncing to the bathroom. To spare any unnecessary details (I'll highlight that sentence for Brandon's read), my happy, little positive popped up almost immediately. After minutes of quiet dancing and squealing (and a quick moment of, what did we just do??), I calmly opened the bathroom door and stared at the snoring father-to-be. I knew there was a crucial choice to be made here. My first as an official parent, in fact. I could wake up Brandon at 5:04am, yell the news, expect a mutual dance party to follow, be disappointed by his sleepy, "what.... oh, good honey. That's great," and begin what would inevitably be our first fight as expecting parents OR I could wait patiently (as I had just shown myself was possible) and have him wake up to the morning sunshine delicately hitting his handsome face and slowly sit up to see the dolled up woman of his dreams holding the answer to their prayers and a smile. Needless to say, I went with option two. Three agonizing hours later, Brandon was still passed out in bed and I was about to burst from the seams with my secret. I literally thought to myself, "I'm going to die of a self-inflicted stroke if I don't tell somebody and the only evidence of my life-changing news will be the used urine test laying next to my body on the floor." Suddenly and coincidentally, I dropped my heavy hair brush into the empty bathtub, causing quite a stir and low and behold, my prince charming softly awoke from his dreams. My moment had finally presented itself. I do need to leave some memories private, so I'll just say that it was a fabulous and unforgettable morning that I will remember forever. And a quick pat on the back for option two.

Chapter Three. Sharing.

Getting to tell our families the news and watching their different reactions has been by far the coolest part of this whole experience. Thanks to my mom, our baby's theme song is Bon Jovi's "You give love a bad name" and I'll never forget my dad's animated handshake to Brandon after our bubbly kitchen announcement. The joyous expressions, genuine excitement and sweet moments of happiness provided to us by our favorite people have made the beginning of this road quite wonderful. I must give an enormous thank you to the many of you who have sent across congratulatory words or celebrated in person the soon to be addition to our family. I do have to say, I think my favorite element of all this has to be Brandon's technique in telling. It's done in the same to-the-point manner that he does most things in life. "Hi, how are you. Good, good. So Ashleigh's pregnant." Whereas I like to dilly dally, build the anticipation and create a more memorable moment when sharing. It's exactly like the two of us going to Target together. I like to browse while he tries to get me into the checkout line and back to the car as quickly as possible. "What do we need to get? I'll find the aisle. Why are you going into the dollar section? Do you need all of those? It doesn't matter if they're all a dollar, buying twenty pieces of crap from there is the same thing as spending twenty dollars on one useless item." An hour later we leave with my red cart full and happy with Brandon feeling like he just lost 60 minutes of his life to trinkets, decor and the one greeting card we actually went in to buy. Completely different strategies for shopping as well as sharing our pregnancy with others. 

Chapter Four. I miss wine.

I'm finding myself in a whole new world these days and as incredible and monumental as it feels to know that I'm growing a little life in my now growing tummy, a lot of it.... well, isn't fun. For instance, I went to the bathroom 17 times yesterday. Seventeen times. It's fun to break the previous day's tally, but we're going through toilet paper like there's no tomorrow and my hourly interruptions are not subtle and definitely not convenient. I never knew water could run through someone so fast. If this were an essay of a student, I would tell them to insert a simile in for that last sentence. My back feels like someone secretly replaced it with that of a 92 year olds and my dreams are absolutely insane. As in, bona-fide-nut-house insane. It's almost like I don't really go to sleep at night, but instead watch creepy movies that feature me as the main character reliving inaccurate and exaggerated accounts of the day's happenings. For example, in last night's cinematic adventure, I met my girls for lunch downtown (really happened)... chatting, laughing, exchanging of gifts, only there was a dinosaur sitting at our table. Yep. Dino. Saur. He was friendly, I guess, but out of place nonetheless. I suspect watching Jurassic Park 3 that night didn't help feed my brain applicable options when casting the roles for these outlandish redos of my day, but I'm waking up each and every morning with a synopsis for Brandon that's constantly odder than the last. Another new and sometimes maddening symptom I'm dealing with is food cravings. I've never in my life had the inexplicable reasoning or dangerous creativeness of what I would do for a Jamba Juice Razzmatazz smoothie at any given moment. Last night at 11:00 it was a Foot by the Foot. Green flavor. Other times, it's rainbow goldfish. Why would the rainbow aspect matter you ask? Each cheddary fish-shaped cracker is made out of the exact same phony cheese ingredient regardless of color and regular me would absolutely agree with you. And with poor Brandon. But to crazy, pregnant me, it matters. Cheese-Its are not the same thing as Cheese Nips. I can probably write five chapters on that too. These cravings feel like uncontrollable and bossy requirements that my body decides on and doesn't budge until it gets it's fix. I feel like an out of control crack addict, except my drug of choice happens to be childhood snack foods. And unfortunately for my doting husband, he now knows where to find string cheese in under five minutes at each of our surrounding grocery locations. A useless skill of course unless your wife is 3 1/2 months pregnant. Oh, and as intoxicating and posh as Martinelli's Sparkling Apple Cider was back at 1994's New Year's Eve celebration, it has completely lost it's element of cool. Just because it bubbles does not make it champagne... it's still just apple juice, even if it's floating in a flute. I do have to admit though, the pomegranate apple flavor makes for a suitable and tasty substitute at parties. Another fun little tidbit I'm quickly learning that pregnancy brings about is the beautiful opportunity to go through puberty all over again. Only what Mother Nature decided not to bless me with upstairs during the first round (circa 1999), she's making up for now. And it's painful. And the bras are ugly. Other than that, I'm blissfully pinching myself each day that this miracle is happening. Seriously though, it's not that bad :)

Chapter Five. The Heartbeat.

So I know two paragraphs ago I said that the coolest part of having a baby was telling friends and family and yada yada, but that has been swiftly demoted to second place by what we got to experience at my last doctor's appointment. Now normally I won't be having Brandon accompany me to the many mundane and routine check ups coming down the road (especially after his paternity test question during our initial doctor consultation, to which he deemed hilarious) but I knew that we might be getting to hear the little one's heartbeat that day so he of course joined me. It's a funny thing to suddenly have this idea, this thrilling notion that something exciting is going to happen and to jump and cheer with close ones and think about and discuss and imagine the future with your partner and notice little changes, but to have it all come from a simple said so. I was "pregnant" all of this time because I had said so. Of course I had trusted my little plastic test and the things going on with my body, but that was all of the vindication we had so far to prove it's truth. And that short but important fact had been in the back of my mind for the past two months. So to have a true blue doctor (using what looked to be a bingo dauber) find the actual heartbeat of what was my little "said so" and turn it into our little baby was an indescribable moment. There was no arguing with the beautiful galloping we heard from inside my tummy and I couldn't have been prouder of what a good job my tiny someone was doing growing and developing. The doctor said that everything sounded strong, healthy and on track, which was music to my mothering ears. By the time we left the doctor's office, I was floating on air and had royally convinced myself that this is obviously a very advanced fetus. Negative six months old and I'm already a stage mom.
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01.16.11
Chapter 6. Should I stay or should I go.
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I happen to hate that song, but it makes for a perfect title for my working pregnant lady in distress chapter. To begin with, I am one hundred and ten percent passionate/addicted to my job. Have been since day one. I’m lucky enough to wake up each morning and go to a place where I get to watch light bulbs click, lessons stick, personalities develop, confidences grow, and little minds bloom. All of that, AND it’s really fun. I dance around my bright classroom teaching young people new things and it challenges me in new ways daily.  Even on my very worst day teaching, you could ask me to switch jobs with you and I would confidently say no thanks. The sticky fingers, whiny voices and frustrating bars to reach are effortlessly trumped by the learning that takes place in my quote-unquote office. It is not nor will it ever be a punch-the-clock-count-down-till-the-weekend type of occupation for me. Those gushy remarks being said, I’m having a child. A bebe. A little papoose. Naturally and ideally, the plan would be for me to stay home and enter mommyhood with full-fledged allegiance and spend my days taking care of the little dumpling. “Retire” from teaching after just four years. Easy come, easy go, right? I suppose. But as thrilled as I am with the prospect of being a full time mom, I’m going to miss dearly my short-lived career as an educator. As with most big decisions, I of course have options (none of which include a magical pause button that will assist me in successfully doing both jobs at the same time). I can choose to a.) take my maternity leave starting in September and return to school in January, b.) take an entire year off, c.) be done until each of my little ones skip off to kindergarten or d.) resign for good and maybe start taking some of those interior design classes I’ve had my eye on when my babes are growing up. I’ve never been strong at multiple choice. Plus, it’s a tough decision, a concept somewhat foreign to me. Unfriendly to my heavy-choice-making-skills, most everything thus far has presented itself to me with a certain obviousness. Where to go to college? Done. What to major in? Easy as pie. Job offer to accept? Check. Who to marry? Double check. Have a baby? Yes, please. So, I’m a little out of practice when it comes to approaching a life-changing decision. Brandon tells me to do whatever I think is best for me and Walter (that’s what we call the little fetus. “It” was getting too impersonal), and when I think of it in that perspective, staying home and being with the baby is really the best choice. So option b. Yes, option b it is. Or I guess c works too… and d is sounding pretty nice. Ugh.


Chapter Seven. Tears of joy, tears of sorrow, tears for taco sauce.
Crazy. Pregnant. Hormones. Those three words have caused my heart to over soften and my tear ducts to put in some serious overtime. I wouldn’t call myself an overly emotional person. I cry, just as most females do, at sad movies, terrible news, and touching stories. An Intel commercial however, falls under none of these acceptable categories. Yet there I am, tearing up on the couch over the fictional robot whose feelings get hurt by the employee boasting about some brilliant new product. I think his name was Jeffrey. So many things about that are unrealistic and non-sad. Robots don’t have feelings and probably never will. But just in case they ever do, I'm the chick to call if one is looking for a little sympathy after a bad day. Anything and everything can manage to make me cry these days. Movie previews, Oprah segments, thinking about the scary time Bob contracted an amoeba from a raccoon while camping (I really should journal our stories more) and God forbid an advertisement for the Biggest Loser Couples Edition comes on. I literally burst into tears last week because I knew there were animals sitting in the shelter of Olympia without homes. A sad fact yes, but does not constitute a reason to sob while stirring a pot of spaghetti. Brandon knows now to simply ask, “Do you want to talk about it?” and if I say no, it’s because I’m feeling nostalgic that my childhood went by so quickly or that I should have put a dollar into the red donation pot at Safeway, but didn't. Then there are other times that I do want to talk about it. That my world is over and anybody and everybody (i.e. Brando and Bob) needs to hear about it because the take out lady forgot my taco sauce. That simple, overlooked detail not only ruined my dinner (self-proclaimed), but caused me to continue my dramatic lifetime-movie-esque behavior until I cried myself to sleep five hours later. I remember thinking to myself, “I don’t understand. Did she not write it down? Is she just a forgetful person or did she WANT to ruin my night? I bet that’s it. She did seem nice on the phone though.” Crazy. Pregnant. Hormones. 


Chapter 8. The papa-to-be.

As much as my sweet, sweet partner has gotten poked fun of in my little autobiography here, it must be stated that I couldn’t be getting through any of this without him… I suppose I wouldn't have to be if it weren’t for him either, but nonetheless, want to share his wonderfulness. So I donated Chapter 8 to just that. It’s nothing new to me that Brandon is approaching this new role with careful thought and the utmost of seriousness, just as he does with any change he embraces. As the husband of a pregnant wife, he gladly makes food runs to the most random of places (apparently it can be a tad embarrassing to go into Costco at 10am for just a hot dog), massages my lower back before I go to sleep each night and is constantly supportive of my tired nature and semi-insanity. But it’s been the little moments that make me appreciate him the most. He called me in the middle of the day not too long ago on my classroom phone, completely out of the blue.
“Hello, this is Mrs. Johnson.”
“Ethan.”
“What? Brandon?”
“Ethan. What do you think of the name, Ethan?”
“Oh… it’s nice. It’s really nice. Why?”
“I was just driving and thought of it. Sorry, I was going to tell you at home but didn’t want to wait.”
“…. it’s a perfect name, honey. I‘m so glad you called.”
It’s things like that phone call that make me stop and say a quick thank you prayer that I get to experience life next to this man. He’s not the type of person that will sporadically do a heel click and chirp, “I’m SO glad we’re having A BAAAABY!!” That’s more along the lines of paragraph two in my personality resume. But sweet gestures and actions that he doesn’t even mean for me to notice remind me of just how fortunate this baby and I are to have him. The other day I saw him on babycenter.com researching what Walter looked like and the development happening during that particular week and I swear my heart skipped a beat. We read that I'm suppose to be drinking water like it's my oxygen these days and he'll make trips to the Brita downstairs for me late at night when my glass is empty. When he asks how I’m doing these days, he says, “you two.” When he talks about the future, his words are always reflective of the change that’s coming this summer. When he first heard the heartbeat, he smiled in amazement. When he hugs me goodbye or hello, his hand always makes it’s way to my tummy too. In any case, Brandon being ready both emotionally and mentally for a child is just one less thing that I have to worry about as an expectant mom. Has he ever seen a birth before? Nope. Ever changed a diaper? Na-uh. Knows what a onesie is? My bets say no. But none of that matters when I see the prominent dedication to our little family that he already exhibits. That, and Bob has got him wrapped around his little paw like curling ribbon on Christmas so you can imagine what it’s going to be like with a baby.


01.22.11
Chapter Nine. The Babymoon.

From the many how-to, what to expect, and "your best birth" books we've purchased or collected throughout the past few months, it's easy to feel overwhelmed by all of the different opinions and persuasions. While the abundance of advice in these is passed out like mini napkins at a cocktail party, we did happen to find and focus on a rather intriguing idea. Deep within the enticing chapters of Our Bodies, Ourselves, it was read aloud that a small getaway between expectant parents should be taken and enjoyed during the second trimester (sweetly coined a babymoon). It was at first quickly noted and smiled about as a "we should do that!" only to have the following silence add in a non-verbal "...but probably won't take the time to actually plan and execute it." You know the kind. But as he often does these days, Brandon surprised me. Now normally, whenever my classroom phone rings, it's because Sally's leaving early for a dentist appointment, Fred's forgotten lunch is in the office, or Joe punched someone at recess. So when it's my husband's voice on the other end, it usually takes me a second to register. As with the Ethan call, he had been brainstorming, only this time he requested that I get a guest teacher for the following day because he was taking me somewhere for the weekend. I was ecstatic. Who doesn't want a Thursday phone call that includes a trip and a day off, right? So I found myself a sub, threw together some Friday plans and scurried home to hear details. His idea: Las Vegas. Or as I so candidly referred to it in my opening argument: SIN CITY. I love, love, love that Brandon took the time to initiate a weekend together, but I'll put it this way: my version of Vegas is wearing a hot mini-dress while carelessly strolling down the strip with shopping bags and a foot long margarita strapped to my chest. It is not sporting a maternity top, comfortable flats, my bipolar pinched back nerve and a borderline waddle with an involuntary bedtime of precisely 9pm. That being said, he thoughtfully shared plan B. Bed and breakfasting along the coast. It was love at first syllable. A perfect way for us to stay local, yet still accomplish the "get away" portion of our book-following intentions. We happily booked a few scrumptious rooms, charged the GPS and packed some favorites with plans to leave in the morning. Call it absent-mindedness. Call it distract-ability. Call it collective foolishness... you can even call it the reason why we're so happily married, but we accidentally reserved our first room for the wrong night. When we arrived, we were quickly made aware of the mistake. "Mr. Johnson, I have you booked for last night but you never arrived." Ah. That would be because we were at home and online, reserving a room at the ocean before going to sleep for a couple hundred dollars in our normally free bed. "Are you telling me that we paid to sleep at home last night?" Long pause. "That's correct, sir. Would you like a room for tonight as well?" Without the courtesy of a refund, we picked our flustered egos up off of the lobby carpet and headed out to start "night two" at stop one. I wish I could say that the rest of our rendezvous went flawlessly, but we can instead cut to the scene of me driving in the wrong direction down a one-way street and Brando hitting the fire alarm in our elevator instead of the door open button (I'm told the red firefighter hat looks quite similar to two white triangles). We're rookies at just about everything in life and it's a big part of the reason why laughter is never far behind our choices. All in all though, our babymoon was a wonderful, much-needed outing. Relaxing in the lounge of our second stop on the Hood Canal, sipping on Shirley Temples (they were pretty generous with the cherries) and watching the waves come up onto the beach made us stop, unwind, and take a moment to savor the last five months we have sans child. I definitely recommend this type of calm mini-vacation to anyone in our position and will make a point of sharing this kind of a surprise with any daddy-to-be I come across from now on. That, and the oh-so-imperative push present.

Chapter Ten. The Bump.

As shocking as it shouldn't be at sixteen weeks pregnant, I've grown myself a whole new mid-section. It's inevitable and required to gain weight during pregnancy, but when it happens to you for the first time, I'm finding that it can take a little getting used to. I'm beyond elated to be going through such a remarkable experience and I know that the best is obviously yet to come, but added into all of the sacrifice of expecting comes the extra weight. No welcome mat put out, yet it arrives like window washing solicitors in the summertime. I've obviously got a few months until the can't-see-my-feet-feel-like-a-beluga stage, but already I've found my closet to provide slim pickins each morning as I sigh and grab another smock looking top I once fashionably paired with a tight skirt and instead drape it over the good ol' maternity jeans. I figured out the hard way last week that I can no longer wear regular people tights. That was a fun day. But as this physical change takes place, the biggest surprise hasn't been how fast my tummy has grown (the jury's still out til late February if it's twins) but how unbelievably confident and beautiful this bump has made me feel. And I think that God does that on purpose for us. A stunning and divine thing is taking place on the inside, so why shouldn't the outside feel radiant too? I love still putting on my little t-shirts and fitted tops and showing off what all of the glowing and smiling is about. Strangers now share happy looks, ask questions, give compliments and there was even a zinger from the bag boy at Safeway when the only thing my bump and I purchased was a gallon of cookies and cream. I catch my students staring at my eye-level stomach when they're talking with me as if they'll see something move or get a high five from the baby if they wait long enough. I think a big part of the reason behind my love for this stage has to do with finally looking pregnant instead of just feeling it. This wasn't so in the beginning. I truly think someone should create a universal button or belt buckle for woman to wear during that first trimester that quietly lets the world know, "I'm pregnant... not chubby." It feels quite frustrating when your body is thickening but you don't quite look expecting yet. I, for example, looked like I had gotten way too much enjoyment out of accepting thirds while attending holiday dinners when I returned to work with my secret after break. I couldn't wait to finally announce the reason behind my sweater bulge. It is polite that people don't flat out ask when they notice your waistline diminishing (probably more for their protection), but I remember sometimes wishing they would so I could either confirm their suspicions or give a little look like, "well, we're not announcing it quite yet, but..." Perhaps developing the widespread and worldly understood pregnancy button can be my first at home task next year. Also, because of my prenatal vitamins and jazzercising hormones, my hair and nails have never been better. I walk outside to hop in my car each morning and catch myself pretending to be in one of those old Herbal Essence commercials. My hair is thick, it's shiny, it's strong and I'm loving it. Basically, I've come to the encouraging conclusion that this pregnancy is suiting me quite well. I find myself excited to continue growing and can only hope that I'll be feeling this optimistic and peachy in late June. Although, if you don't see any postings after May or so, you'll know what to assume.


02.04.11
Chapter Eleven. Oops.

Thank goodness this wasn't my title for Chapter One. So I've heard my newest hallmark of pregnancy called many things. Pregnancy brain, mommy amnesia or my personal favorite, baby mind fog. But unlike the captivating nicknames, my forgetfulness isn't charming. In fact, it's put a real damper on my confidence in attempting simple tasks without reminder post-it notes near by. Grocery shopping for a half hour without remembering the one thing I went in for, being completely unreachable because my cell is busy spending it's day tucked away in the coat closet and walking upstairs for apparently the fun of it are all unamusing when you're just trying to get through the day with an eight pound ball accessorizing your mid-section. And unfortunately for me, it's not just the classic forgetfuls that I'm falling victim to. I'm not a specialist or anything, but I swear my IQ gets cut in half each time this baby reaches a new stage. I'm hesitant to even share some of the examples that prove this theory, but can easily make my point by sifting it all down to yesterday. It was a duesy of a Tuesday. As I mentioned above, it's always a toss up if I'm going to have my phone with me or not. On this particular day, it had a date in the pantry on a shelf amidst endless Bob cookies and soup cans and therefore was not able to be with me. After another school day of tripping over my own words and thoughts, I happily wrapped up and gathered my things. On my drive home, the gas light popped on in Mustang Sally and being the responsible car owner I tend to be (you only play chicken with the gas light once), I of course pulled into the nearest Texaco to fill'er up. I don't really know exactly what happened next. I was just minding my own business, humming along with the pop song that had just been playing in my car when the gas pump came to an abrupt stop soon after it had started. Disagreeing with its decision, I forced it to give a bit more. A moment later, it rejected my attempt. This might have been an ideal time to turn and check the numbers behind me but coping an attitude, I persevered. The next thing I knew, a small senior citizen in a green apron was emerging from the mini mart waving his hands in the air and yelling at me to stop just as my "pregnancy brain" began registering why my feet suddenly felt wet. Damnit. I gave a frazzled apology, briskly shoved my bright red cheeks back into the car and unhappily kicked myself for what most likely served up a hefty reinforcement for this old man's stereotype on 20-something blondes. Upon replaying the embarrassing scene through my head moments later, I remembered seeing that gasoline had been rivering down the side of my car, something I recalled an old boyfriend saying could thin the paint if left not taken care of. In an optimistic move to redeem my pride as a decade driver, I hustled over to a nearby car wash with prompt plans to order the mack daddy option for my loyal, 4-wheeled companion. I wouldn't necessarily call myself an expert when it comes to car wash protocol, but I rolled down my window halfway, asked for one "tidal wave" and paid the nice man. As my neutral-geared car began it's soapy ride into the dark tunnel, I do remember thinking that it was surprisingly loud. And as the forceful water collided with the side of my face, I was hastily reminded of my missing step when successfully utilizing a car wash: roll up window. Sigh. To make matters worse, I'm pretty sure I saw both attendants laughing in my rear view mirror. Chalk up two more for the yellow hair. Surrendering to the day and it's obvious aversion for any type of mercy, I drove directly home to throw out my shoes and begin the search and rescue attempt for my missing phone. In a much more advantageous point of view, Brandon lives for my oops stories. To be frank, I think the five solid minutes of laughter upon hearing them ups his level of satisfaction from medium-high to, "that seriously just made my day." I've read up on my new symptoms and learned that it's all based on hormones and my brain cell volume temporarily decreasing. So I suppose all that can be done is laugh. And hope that my brain plumps back up soon. And of course, journal it all.


04.18.11
Chapter 12. Party for one. In my belly. 

So we're officially halfway done with this illustrious escapade and I've been waiting forever and a half to feel Walter move. Upon reading that I should be able to welcome these tiny tickles at any moment, as with hearing from many that it is one of the most amazing feelings, I tried every trick in the book to get this little guy to jostle around just enough for me to feel a small kick or a little jab. From drinking cold beverages to slouching on the couch, we even went so far as to shine a flashlight to my tummy after reading that the baby will turn away from the light. And zilch. I'd felt little bubbles, butterflies and the soft "quickening" that comes in the second trimester, but hadn't yet gotten to experience the popcorn-like movements I'd been so patiently waiting to feel. So you can imagine my dismay when I awoke Sunday morning to Brandon's frantic announcement. "Ashleigh! Ashleigh! Oh my God! Did you just feel that?? I felt Walter! I was just laying here and when I put my hand on your stomach I felt the baby move! It was incredible - did you feel it!?" As I became coherent to his muffled hullabaloo, I immediately forced my sleepy mind to focus only on my stomach and what had supposedly just taken place inside of it. And felt nothing. I focused a little harder. Still nothing. Really, morning? I've carried and nourished this tiny being for the past twenty weeks, outgrown my clothes, become a social basket case, soldiered through tough days without my usual go-to combo of red wine and a hot bath and when it comes to feeling the first kick, I'm fast asleep. Brandon of course swears it's just the first example of many for our baby favoring him, but I sorely disagree. Once I got over the initial bitterness of our lopsided morning celebration, I piped back up to my normal energetic self and began my own barefooted rendition of "Seasons of Love" while making sandwiches in the kitchen. Just as I was heading into my compelling twirl move at the bridge, there it was. My little Walter. Whether he wasn't enjoying the afternoon broadway show (says Brandon) or decided to join in with my poorly choreographed dance moves, he felt obliged to give a little punch. Either way, I finally got to enjoy the incredibleness of it on my own and it was magical. And of course, I cried. And of course, they were absolutely right. There is nothing like it in the whole, wide world. Since then, he's become quite the little acrobat and I now live for nothing more than to feel his little hands and feet move down the inside of my tummy. Last night Brandon beat boxed techno music to the little dance moves we felt and it was hilarious. The baby was fist pumping and boogieing down to the beat (or so we imagined) and I think I laughed harder than the time Brandon came out of the Macy's dressing room wearing skinny jeans on accident (also funny). "They just feel really tight everywhere. But it says the right size. I don't think I've gained THAT much weight. No. These won't work. You can see everything I have to offer." Just like his daddy, this baby is already making me giggle and I simply cannot wait to meet it in person. I love picturing Brandon and I with the same hearty enthusiasm that arises from the private disco parties when a little version of us sits on the bed making faces or funny noises. Feeling the baby isn't just a fun little perk of being pregnant, but it also serves as a comforting and calming reinforcement that it's continuing to grow and learn all by itself. And as much as I cannot wait to have it in my arms, it's secretly an enormous joy that I can selfishly take him with me wherever I go and am now fully aware when he's fast asleep or awake and dancing in the kitchen. Just like his mama ;)


02.25.11
Chapter 13. To sleep or not to sleep. 
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It's ironic that I'm beginning this sorry chapter at 2:07 in the morning, but I figure my frustration will only serve to add ferocious spice to my word choice when describing the lethargic, comatose demeanor that embodies who I am these days. As I'm navigating through the choppy waters of pregnancy, I get to enjoy delightful pieces of my temporary role as a baby oven (i.e. eating through the universe while still looking cute, growing a cup size every month as my future milk factory develops, and feeling our baby cartwheel around inside, just to name a few). Yet as I've mentioned before (see chapters 4, 7, 10 and 11) my everlasting optimism and uncanny talent to accentuate the positive on even the dreariest of days has precious little to do with the not-so-pretties and when they decide to rear their ugly heads my way. I understand the hormonal mayhem, emotional whiplash and increased appetite for specifics, but what is really bedeviling this mommy-to-be is flat out quite simple. Sleep. And with this bullet point in my outline of complaints comes two separate dilemmas (a. and b. if you will). The first is a mountain many women have dealt with during pregnancy. No matter how much sleep is obtained the night prior, you can't seem to get an ounce of energy flowing through your body the following day. As most of you know, I'm a very animated person. Loud, enthusiastic, busy, I've even been called bouncy before (and not as a compliment). So for me to go from that synonymic list of happy adjectives to "Mrs. Johnson, why are you so sleepy?" has been a tough pill to swallow. It seems these days the only pills I'm actually allowed TO swallow are all metaphoric. Or prenatal. Anyway, I know that they say a single cup of coffee in the morning won't do the baby harm, but I remain so proud of the self discipline it took to flush all caffeine out of my system cold turkey when we started trying back in September and would love to keep my diet door closed to items on the "shouldn't have" list. So no dice there. The other obvious fix would be more sleep, right? While at times barely making it all the way to my punctual bedtime of 8:35 in the evening, I get a hefty average of nine hours a night. Not too shabby. But as my alarm blasts out the good morning song at 6:00am, it feels as though I just started knocking on REM's door five minutes beforehand. And the fatigue continues to follow me around like an annoying shadow on a sunny day. It reminds me of my time in college when sleep was simply an optioned accessory if you had time for it. So bright we were back then. Nevertheless, being a grown-up now and a professional one at that, using yawns as punctuation marks throughout my lessons is not acceptable. I read that the real tired comes and goes in the first trimester and then returns once it's uncomfortable to sleep in the third, but mine missed out on that "supposed to" memo and has stuck around from the get go. The second debacle regarding my precious slumber has been my inability to fall back asleep after each potty trip throughout the night. All four of them. Most nights I'm a-ok and seem to go through the motions of it all without even opening an eye. Never missing a beat when returning to my pillow and whatever preposterous dream I happen to be in the middle of. (Last night, Christina Applegate and I got our babies mixed up and I got really mad because I knew that the one she was taking was mine. I won in the end.) But other times, that all-too-familiar sensation will jolt me awake and awake I stay for hours. And unfortunately for Brandon, I get bored. One time he woke up to me trimming his eyebrows. In hindsight, I can see why he'd perhaps feel panicked waking up to his somewhat delirious wife leaning over his head holding a pair of cosmetic scissors. But in my defense, there was nothing for me to do at 3:27am, so I thought enhancing his masculine good looks while he unknowingly slept might be a nice favor. Still waiting on a thank you card for that one. As infuriating as it seems, I've found that it really doesn't matter the quality nor quantity of sleep that I actually get, I feel like I'm on a permanent Tylenol PM binge. I'm still able to stay cheerful and luckily the grumpiness that tends to accompany tired hasn't found it's way to me just yet. But I do feel like a sack of potatoes by the time I get home in the evenings and what used to be our six pack and a movie Saturday nights now look more like game night at a nursing home. Minus the game. I've heard that I should just get used to it seeing as sleep will be a foreign concept to me once our little bundle arrives, but until then, I refuse to give up on what silent nights I still have left. We did find this cushy belly pillow online that looks like a gigantic capital G that I might try out to add more comfort and hopefully a few more Zs to my beauty rest. I also researched and found out that it is okay for me to take a mild sleeping aid if need be. Either way though, the sandman and I have some major hashing out to do. 

P.S. The next time you see Brandon, compliment him on his shapely eyebrows for me.


Chapter 14. Food is love.

So I've quickly come to the realization that food makes a pregnant lady happy. Now happiness is not something I'm running short on, especially after seeming to be the lucky winner of a life lottery: incredible husband, supportive family, quirky dog, sweet baby on the way. But seeing as many of my other convivial vices are off limits at this time, it makes perfect sense that I would turn to the savory can-do of cuisine. I can't drink the better half of a merlot bottle, can't slink around in a little black dress... I can't even take medication for the common cold. So what do I do to get my jollies met instead? I eat. Tomatoes, potatoes, white bread, wheat bread, ice-cream, whipped cream, anything and everything. Except onions. While Brandon enjoys a cold one after work, I have a cookie. When he sips on a nice chardonnay while out to dinner, I help myself to a big bite of whatever looks best on his plate. When he puts on his sexiest dress, I... just kidding. While I don't overeat, I'm definitely eliminating the locked in rules for skinniness I used to religiously follow. And it's glorious. I think it's just plain ridiculous if you continue to count calories while pregnant and not use this time to enjoy yourself and your body. If people tell you that you don't look pregnant from the back, they're just being nice. Everyone adds pounds to each part of their body throughout pregnancy and I happen to find it liberating to have a solid 9 months to enjoy the foods I normally shy away from in order to fit into my jeans. Obviously, my little philosophy here can be taken too far, and I certainly don't intend on looking like the before photo from a Hydroxycut commercial by the time I give birth. I'm just saying that it's provided much merriment getting to really savor everything I chow down on these days. Instead of eating three regular meals a day, I've been enjoying a six small meal regimen which augments my daily variety and more importantly, keeps Walter happy. In order to keep myself from having a huge number for my "to lose" goal come August, I'm staying really active and keeping myself limber. Bob and I go for walks after school and I'm slowly but surely enjoying the benefits of pregnancy yoga. I'm extremely fortunate to have the job that I do in that I don't sit down until lunch at noon, and then again after I push my students out the door at 3:15. Lots and lots of kneeling and rising, or as I like to call them, work lunges. They keep me fit AND endorse student learning. Win, win. And while I've fallen tremendously in love with my new silhouette, the treats and sweets that accompany it aren't so bad either. In fact, I think I'll have a cupcake now.



Chapter 15. Nesting.

I knew this phase was coming. And just as I suspected, I'm about four months early too. As of last week, anything and everything in our household needs to be perfectly in place or I will literally convince myself that our home is about to spontaneously combust. Turns out, progesterone and I don’t get along very well. And although the baby's room is still a "work in progress" just to get it to a place that's even ready to decorate, I've settled my hormonally stimulated focus on the rest of the house. This will ALL change in three days when we find out the baby's gender of course. But until then, ironed towels are all perfectly folded with right angles in each guest bathroom, Bob's toys are getting carefully placed back into his basket at any given moment, and each small spoon is in the small spoon slot of the silverware drawer. For some reason unbeknownst to me, a dirty fork left on the counter is now considered "a mess." Basically our place looks like a home for show even if we're sitting on the couch relaxing with gelato. Well, Brandon's relaxing. I'm anticipating which slot I'll put our bowls on in the dishwasher as soon as he takes his last bite. Also a tad loony of me was when I came to the screaming realization one morning that our master bathroom didn't have much of a color scheme or design theme. So I immediately spent two days and the last of my paycheck on everything needed to make it flawlessly ready for an imaginary magazine feature. There is always a fresh bouquet of flowers in the kitchen window and the throw pillows in the family room now sit like army men during an inspection. Why the sudden craziness to make the house perfect? Normally, I'm too distracted with the business of life to notice that the mail bin on our entry way table is overflowing or that Brandon still doesn't know where the checkbook went. But I think I'm just feeling nervous that I don't know what to expect or how I'll do as a real-life mom, so in turn, I'm compensating with something that I do know how to control. Home decor and cleanliness. I've been spending my spare time doing mundane tasks such as organizing the gift wrap drawer, cataloging our movie selections, and establishing order under each sink in the house. These little jobs are not fun, nor do we conduct a life that requires this kind of anal conformity, but it does make me feel like I'm preparing somehow for the baby's arrival. The way I picture it, we'll be well read and ready to parent come July 17th and in turn, the house will be nothing less than a wonderfully put together home to introduce our child to. I guess in dewy-eyed terms, I just want everything to be in place and unreasonably immaculate by the time my stork comes to town. Good thing I still have 142 days left.
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03.05.11
Chapter 16. Hello, labia!

Well, ladies and gentlemen, the polls are in and we're having a baby girl. I am positively tickled pink. It's what I was secretly dreaming for and I am beyond thrilled to share with you the unforgettable fabulousness that was Monday for us. I couldn't fall asleep the night before with my imagination briskly taking over as soon as my head hit the pillow. I pictured us with a boy - toy trains and little sweater vests, t-ball games and camping trips. Then with a girl - pink socks and pigtails, ballet recitals and dress up. Each experience would be equally as precious and so wonderfully different. After imagining our little family beginning each way, I knew that we would feel happy and blessed with whichever our baby was growing to be. My heart beating like an overzealous metronome, I woke up at the cheery hour of 4am. Needless to say, it was an excruciatingly long day. My morning was painfully slow. My drive to school felt like I might as well have been mopeding it to work and my half day felt like six whole days shoved together. Slowly but surely, the clock gave into my silent torment and my guest teacher finally arrived. I (carefully) flew home to begin the next agonizing hour of waiting, only to find my sweet husband home early and ready to adopt a fellow pacing partner. I guess sitting at his desk at work was as torturous for him as it was for me. So we continued to count down in the slow motion that had engulfed our afternoon until it was time to hop in the car and head off to receive the biggest answer we'd ever been given. Sitting in the waiting room at the obstetrician's office with Brandon is always an adventure. If he's not elbowing me, pointing out expecting couples and whispering, "hey... hey, they totally did it" then he's nodding towards the pregnant teenage girl sitting with her mom and murmuring, "oops." I'd like to say that my maturity is at such a level that this would never strike me as funny, but the nerves already electric inside of me due to the magnitude of our next half hour had my face hidden in an old issue of Fit Pregnancy, collapsed in a bona fide giggling fit. Finally the nurse at the door butchered through my first name and I was thankfully saved from the imminent humiliation of being rightfully labeled by others as "not ready." We entered into a dark room that was lit only by one of those little candle lamps in the corner. The soft ambiance and peaceful atmosphere was not what I was expecting at all. Perhaps that was because of the chaotic roller coaster that had been erupting inside of me throughout the day thus far. Following directions, I climbed up into the dentist-like chair and exposed my now-mountainous belly. As soon as the doppler hit my stomach, we saw her. Our alienesque, fuzzy, black and white, little baby. Her hands began to move and my eyes instantly began to water. Watching our little one kick and nod and dance around was incredibly surreal. I kept switching my gaze from baby-on-screen to husband-in-awe and quietly realized that I loved my little family so much that it made it hard to breathe. After our ultrasound tech took all of the required measurements and such, she pointed out the labia. I saw Brandon's mind racing back to what I guessed was the glossary from his tenth grade sex ed textbook, before his "I was right" smile (yanked out of a month-long hiatus) spread across his fathering face. I sat there motionless, letting the news set in. A girl. We were having a little girl. All of the amazing scenarios that would come from this flooded my already sappy thoughts and I knew that if I was ever going to have one of those "pinch me" moments, this was it. We thanked the lady profusely, as though she had something to do with the outcome, then gleefully sailed through the doctors office and off into the world with our now-daughter in tow. Our conversation was beautifully decorated with an awaited abundance of "shes" and "hers" as we headed home with what felt like a whole new outlook on life. As of right then, Brandon, myself and Ultrasound Linda were the only three people who knew the gender of our baby. But that was all about to change. Two painstakingly long hours, eight pink mylar balloons, and one oblivious yet energetically handy Boston Terrier later, four exuberantly patient grandparents-to-be finally found out that they'd soon be welcoming a granddaughter. As Bob aggressively pushed through the front door to our family members, the balloons bouncing together like bumper cars above him, the shrieks and cheers sounded as though there was a sizable crowd of people in the hallway of the house, instead of the four that really were. What followed was an amazing evening of celebration, laughter, and stories reminiscing of when they were once in our shoes, expecting their baby Brandon Philip or Ashleigh Nicole. And maybe someday, if we're lucky, we'll be sitting in their spots, toasting with our grown up family and sharing the sweet story of meeting our first little baby, Lucy Isabelle.
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03.19.11
Chapter 17. The Nursery.
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So now that we know we’ll be blessed with a charming little lady come July, I can officially begin project Baby Girl Suite (blue prints were of course drawn up for both possible outcomes merely because I have the patience level of an aggravated baboon when it comes to decorating new rooms). And even though we had many handsome ideas for a boy nursery, I am just pleased as punch to be taking my fluffy, pink visions from a yellow wide ruled notebook of doodles to the 144 square feet of empty walls and potential that sits at the top of our staircase. It literally makes me giddy to the sight as each layer of daydreamed design slowly but surely graces the four sides of what will someday be our baby girl's bedroom. And so far (knock on wood), it’s all coming together perfectly. You see, my dad is one of those few people that is brilliantly talented at literally everything he tries (and my little brother annoyingly captured this trait as well). Photography, botany, construction, ornithology, machinery, cycling, engineering, and lucky for expecting me, nursery paint design and Wayne’s coating fall somewhere in that long list of abilities... I suspect among the “how to” category. When discussing our baby room plans, my dad optimistically told me, “you can do anything you dream of,” (Brandon told him that he wanted to be an astronaut) and my heart fluttered at the possibilities this blank room provided. This would be my Sistine Chapel. I instantly went to work bulldozing through paint samples and trim designs, hoping to come up with the combinations and exact look that had been floating through my mind ever since our baby’s tastefully nude photo session last month. My sensational father then donated a week of his precious retired time and spent it painting oversized pink stripes around the entire room, respectively named Blushing Bride and Cheek Kisses. They look fabulous. Brandon and I then spent a weekend daughter-shopping and after aggressively pulling Pottery Barn Kids out of the recession with one commanding swoop, we were ready to attempt what would turn into the scariest phrase a somewhat newly married couple can read. Assembly required. "Crib Night" began as any other fictionally exciting evening that I give a name and a theme to. Brandon with his beer secure in hand, me with my hopes, dreams, and final outcome secure in mind. We opened the first of three giant boxes that had prevented any one of our poor vehicles from enjoying a spoiled night in the garage, to find large pieces of mocha colored wood safely wrapped and tucked in order. Brandon began moving them upstairs (this non-lifting rule has been terrific. I don't have a solid sentence put together yet, but have every intention on figuring out a way to keep this intact even after our baby is born and grown) and soon we had all parts patiently awaiting the gigantic puzzle whose finish line promised us a beautiful crib. An hour later, I was in tears, Brandon was hastily cracking open another alcoholic beverage, and we were still looking for the instruction manual. THIS should by all intents and purposes be named step one. I say this with confidence because it was our biggest hurtle during the entire process. An enormous assumption is made by the crib making industry that their how-to book will just flutter to the floor like a helpful butterfly when unloading the pieces. This is mistakenly untrue. Ours was found stuffed in between two wrapped panels of wood 90 minutes after my cheery "Yay, it's Crib Night!" announcement, ruining both my mood and overall furniture-building spirit. I swear, Superman himself would be brought to his knees with these hormones if he had ovaries. Fortunately, the man I married knew what he was getting himself into on that fateful day last September when he so candidly suggested that we start a family (that, and he's reading a fantastic pregnancy partner book) and he zestfully calmed me down and refocused my attention on the task at hand rather than why the world hated me. And surprisingly, the crib assembly actually took no time at all. We had it complied together and looking like the store model in less than an hour. Who knew. With one successful item completed and our daughter now having a place to sleep if she were to show up early for some reason (not in the cards if she takes after me), we decided to quit while ahead and hit the hay. Being it midnight and the emotional tole the missing manual had on me, I slept like a baby and dreamt of happily putting my little Lucy to sleep each night in her questionably-built but love-filled new bed. She of course slept nine straight hours and never cried, but that's what sweet dreams are for.


04.07.11
Chapter 18. The Registry.
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Imagine being told that you're going to be given a pet toucan in a short period of time. It's your responsibility and personal duty to give the utmost of care to your new feathery companion and provide him with all of the toucany goodness that he needs to survive comfortably and happily. Adequate food, sufficient bedding, acceptable entertainment, appropriate shelter. I don't know about you, but other than Brandon's sugary breakfast cereal icon, he and I know nothing of toucans, nor their needs. This is about as prepared as we felt standing in aisle 18 of Babies R Us, thirty minutes after our arrival with not a single item scanned for our registry Tuesday evening. They actually gave us a binded book that included a scrupulous checklist to use as we Lewis and Clarked our way through the gigantic store, looking more like lost souls than expectant parents. What they should have handed us was a Webster's Dictionary and a hug. We began our field trip at the registry desk and were instantly greeted by a sweet older woman who gladly took our information and unintentionally made Brandon giggle when she used the word nipple. Wide-eyed and scanner equipped, we began browsing through a whole new world of baby paraphernalia and never before seen items with equally as baffling vocabulary to match them all with. These included sheet savors, swaddle blankets, breathable bumpers, mommy boppys and my personal favorite, a hooter hider. I suppose that last one is pretty self explanatory. As I mentioned above, I found myself indubitably pregnant, fearfully undereducated and overwhelmed beyond belief. So I did what any other hormonally overdosed mother-to-be would do. I teared up. And yet again, my knight in shining polo shirt pulled me back together and organized what soon became our make shift strategy to get out of the pastel nightmare of a store, marriage intact and with a somewhat successful registry. We simply began in aisle one and perused through until we found something that looked important. Around aisle four, we started to get the hang of it and somewhere in the middle of six, managed to gain back our parental self esteem. After the better part of two hours, three trips to the ladies room, and what felt like ninety red-vested employees asking if we needed help, the husband and I had a respectable list of must haves collected, ready to share with the world. We found Lucy a nice highchair that matched our kitchen furniture, a unisex diaper bag and a charming, little infant spa to name a few. As we left the mega-store, hand in hand and with a deserved sense of accomplishment, I couldn't help but reflect on just how utterly confusing and eye-opening registering for a first baby can be for an inexperienced couple. And I'm sure we probably added some unnecessaries in while overlooking a few essentials, but in the end, I think Brandon put it best when he melodiously said, "All you need is love." I'll be sure to sing a verse or two from the Beatles classic for him in July when Lucy's pooping up a storm and we don't have the right wipes.

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Chapter 19. Letters to Lucy.

11.16.10
To my darling baby-to-be,
Today was a good day. A fabulous one, actually. One I'll remember forever. A day that when I think back on it, I will inevitably smile. Today I made your dad laugh early in the morning. Today I watched your grandparents cheer and cry happy tears in their kitchen. Today I knew our lives would never, ever be the same. Today, I found out about you. Sweet, amazing, wonderful, miraculous, life-changing, little you.

04.07.11
Hi Lucy. This is your dad. Let me start off by saying that I am really excited to meet you. It’s been pretty fun watching you grow and turn my happy wife into a beautiful mom. One of the most amazing moments so far in my life was getting to hear your heartbeat and watch you on the ultrasound. I don't know if you know, but the past few weeks I’ve been chatting with you. We learned that you can hear my voice so hopefully I won’t be too much of a stranger when we first meet. I think a lot about what it's going to be like when you're really here. I imagine bringing you home and putting you in the crib we just built, taking you camping and teaching you how to play tennis. I picture you playing with Bob in our backyard and opening Christmas presents in our living room. I can’t wait to play games and take you on road trips to different places. Lots of happy things to look forward to. Your mom and I just spent the last couple days shopping at Target and Babies R Us for you. We found things like blankets, toys, bedding, diapers and everything else that we could think of. There are a lot of things and many of them I don't know what they are...but the good news is that we will be taking classes in the next couple months so I can learn what everything is and how to help with you. I’m both excited and nervous about being a dad and I promise to do a good job. I hope that you like my homemade macaroni and cheese because it’s my specialty. And when I say specialty I mean the only thing I know how to make. You'll see. You probably don't know this, but I was the first one to feel you kick. Now we get to feel you every day. I look forward to getting to know you and wonder a lot what you’re going to be like. I hope you get your mom’s pretty looks, her spontaneity and most of all her quirkiness. Thanks for being so nice with her so far. Just a head’s up, you won’t be dating until your 25. Well, I guess that's all for now. Enjoy what's left in there and we'll enjoy what's left of the quiet.
Sincerely, your dad

04.09.11
My sweet baby girl,
       I'm writing you today as an excited mommy-to-be who has always dreamed of having a family. Because of you, so many hopes and prayers are coming true. I simply cannot wait to meet you. Your dad and I often talk about which color your eyes will be and what type of personality you'll have (I say brown and quiet, he says blue and loud). We don't have much longer to find out since you'll be arriving in just a few months! I must say, so far, you're a pretty easy kid. I've felt fantastic every day and my favorite thing in the whole, wide world is feeling you kick and move around. I think you're going to really love carrots because ever since you've been with me, it's all I want to eat! We just found out that you are in fact a girl and decided on naming you Lucy Isabelle last month. We chose Lucy because it is simple, feminine and classic. It's always been a special name to me because when I was little, my grandma and I always watched a show together called I Love Lucy. And while I wait patiently for you, I spend some days watching my favorite episodes. It makes me smile to picture you and I snuggled up on the couch laughing and eating popcorn to them someday. We chose your middle name as Isabelle because it means beautiful. Lucy means light, so in a way, your name is beautiful light, which I haven't a doubt you'll be for us. I promise that you'll always have a warm and happy home, the kind I had growing up too. I think you'll like it here. We dance and sing just because and love to laugh out loud. We celebrate the good days and find strength in the bad ones. And most importantly, we appreciate everything we have, no matter how small. Our family isn't very big, but we take good care of each other. First of all, I'm quite excited to introduce you to Bob. He's not like most dogs, but that's why we like him so much. He has a big heart and a wonderful philosophy of living in the moment. He never walks, but jogs, never barks, but snores, never hugs, but kisses. I have a feeling that he'll be a fabulous little sidekick for you one day. And now onto your dad. He is, put simply, the best person I've ever met. I knew this the very day I met him. He's modest and responsible, while driven and impromptu at the same time. He'll always cheer you up and never let you down. He works hard, plays hard and laughs all of the time. He uses funny voices a lot too. You'll like that. When we got married, I knew that it would be forever not only because of how we felt about each other, but because of the dedication I feel from him. I can already tell that you have his heart too. Everyone in our family is just thrilled about you. Basically, I happily share that you have two parents, four grandparents, an uncle and a pet that will love you to the ends of the earth and back. I haven't even met you yet, but thank God every day that He decided to put you with us. We feel so unbelievably lucky that you're going to be a part of our family and I count down the days until we get to take you home and begin our new life together. Keep growing strong and I'll see you once our sweet, sweet summer arrives.

With excitement, nervous giggles and love,
Your Mommy

04.26.11
Chapter 20. Two-thirds down. Fifteen pounds up. 

It's a bit coincidental that we're in the middle of our fraction unit in the land of fourth grade, but I'm happy to report that I now have only one measly third of my pregnancy left before my little honeybun arrives. And as my nine year olds can confidently tell you, a third of nine months is not that long. So this trimester should go by quick and easy, right? Light at the end of the tunnel? Home stretch? Last ones the lightest? I'm pessimistically guessing no. Now that I'm at fifteen pounds weight gain, I'm noticing quite clearly that certain everyday tasks are getting tougher, if not impossible to manage. I'm carrying this girlfriend way out in front, so any activity that requires my bending of the waist has swiftly been cut from my resume of can-dos. Putting on socks, playing with Bob, picking up the floor, painting my toes... all memories of my past. I've tried problem solving a bit using my resources, but to little success. Take last week for example. Not wanting to look like a bear woman any longer, Brandon politely accepted my feeble bribe to help me shave my legs and have soft, smooth lady-like stems once again. So we laid an oversized towel out on the bathroom floor, gathered the necessary supplies, and he happily went from ankle to thigh with the gentleness of a calloused lumberjack. Three days of agonizing razor burn and two bottles of Lubriderm Advance Therapy lotion later, I've since decided that bears are quite sexy in their own way. It's not just the cumbersome annoyance of obstacle coursing through my everyday that is raining on my "pregnancy is magical" parade, but the tormenting effects of my body regrouping after it's figured out that I haven't just been binging on chocolate cake, but instead seemed to have swallowed a small, indigestible anvil. My back has been conveying its unsupportive take on it all with spastic spells of agony and my lady lumps are constantly yodeling in pain as they bloom into something more than just shirt fillers. Nobody told me pregnancy was all sunshine and roses and I have to admit, so far I haven't felt as uncomfortable as I thought I would, but I have a feeling my third trimester woes are just the beginning of something truly challenging and that the pregnancy gods will soon be evening out the playing field for the oblivious bubbly girl in Olympia, Washington skipping around, sharing how glorious and easy it is to bear a child (insert echoing cackle here). And they're starting with my ankles. Everyone has those friendly, little humps on either side of the foot... the talus bone, it's called. Well, reach down and give yours a loving touch. Acknowledge them. Appreciate them. Compliment them the next time you wear cute sandals and do not for any reason take them for granted because mine have officially left the building and I miss them like Madonna misses the 80s. I find myself constantly wondering what's next to go. Or worse yet, to come. Knee dimples? Stretch marks? Hemorrhoids?!? Now, I'm quite aware that moderate back pain jazzed up with emotional wordiness, chubby ankles, and the removal of simple tasks around the house is small potatoes compared to what I have waiting in store for me in 12 weeks. And I think about that day a lot more now than I ever did when we were anxiously waiting for a positive pregnancy test or laughing at my cute, stereotypical cravings in the beginning. But I know it's coming. It's creeping through my calendar like a sneaky weasel in a busy hen house. My D-day. My Armageddon. My Alamo. Brandon and I begin our birthing classes next week and I'm hoping it's not too presumptuous to assume that all of the information and know-how we'll need to deliver and raise this baby girl will be available in the syllabus handout and free online footnotes. However, something tells me this will be the toughest, scariest 101 course we've ever taken (cue malicious pregnancy god laughter).


05.11.11
Chapter 21. Hee hee whoooooo.

For those of you that don't know our mushy, little love story, Brandon and I met in 2003, standing in a crowded lecture hall in Bellingham, waiting for History 104 to begin. My 20-year-old confidence causally sauntered my saucy slingback wedges over to introduce myself to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed charmer and opened with a corny pun about his t-shirt. And I'll never forget feeling how flushed my normally undaunted cheeks were when I turned away to leave. I'll also never forget the way he wouldn't leave my thoughts alone for the next two days straight. That was our one and only class together (we've since shared a last name and a 30 week fetus so you can fill in the blanks as to how that all ended) until now. Northwest Childbirth's Tuesday evening course at St. Peter's Hospital has eagerly welcomed the two of us, pillows in hand and ready to learn for the past couple of weeks now. And as sappy as it sounds, Brandon P. Johnson is just as fun to sit next to as my husband in this class as he was eight years ago as my massive college crush in American History. We're officially halfway done with the series and it's been eye-opening in many aspects for the both of us. I still can't seem to get over how a seven pound living being is suppose to... well, you know. And Brandon.... well, Brandon's still shaking from the gigantic frontal scene of crowning head to crying baby they showed us in the first class. I wish I could go back in time and prepare him a little better for that two minutes he'll never completely shoo from his memory, but alas, I cannot. To be honest, I'd never even asked him if he'd ever seen an entire birth before. I, myself had only seen the infamous "Miracle of Life" in 11th grade and then a few scattered throughout my child development major at Western. So when the instructor began the dvd and an overweight, middle-aged, bursting at the seams female who resembled Mick Jagger came on the screen explaining her delivery plans, I thought nothing of it until my naive birth partner leaned over and nervously whispered, "I'm not going to see her honey pot, am I?" I swear to the moon and back, I've never needed to burst out laughing more than I did at that very moment. I literally would have handed a hundred dollars over then and there to have a random funny part interrupt the seriousness of the documentary we were all intently watching just to be the girl who cracked up way too hard at a mediocre moment. But instead, my uncorked lungs just kept filling up with hysterical air, Mrs. Jagger's stirruped legs just kept spreading further and further apart, and Brandon's obstetricially unprepared eyes were forced to experience 360 degrees of a stranger's natural childbirth in all it's glory. And let's just say, our unboundaried Mick was not camera shy. I happen to tear up and smile whenever I see a brand new baby placed into mom's arms after all of her hard work, but to each his own, I suppose. Moving right along from Brandon's worst Tuesday ever, our most recent class was focused on labor breathing and the coaching roles our partners will take on. We learned three different techniques and practiced them while holding ice cubes to simulate the pain of a contraction. I loved sitting knee-to-knee with Brandon and watching his little smile form as he counted down the time and lead me through the hee hee whooooos of our 55 seconds. Have you ever held a handful of ice for the better part of a minute? Not the greatest feeling in the world. But I have to say, the breathing really helped. That, and watching my sweet partner volunteer as "Gertrude, the labor suffering woman" who received a racquet ball massage from the instructor (who pointed out twice to the class where his uterus was contracting) convinced me that a combination of tools learned here and the man holding my hand through it all would get me through the pain of bringing little miss Lucy into the world. So here's to the fairy tale naiveness of a labor rookie... and her wonderfully dedicated birth partner.
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Chapter 22. Lucy's Papa and Oma.
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It has to be said that one of the most special bonds in life is that of a child to their parent. I'm pretty sure the feeling goes vice versa as well, but I've yet to experience that version myself. I thank my lucky stars every day that I was blessed into such a warm and happy place where love was most important and encouragement was always present. My brother and I grew up in an environment that was consistent, supportive and fun. It was an easy and wonderful childhood that was sprinkled with sacred holiday traditions, memorable summer vacations, and applauded talents throughout our entire growing up... many of which still dabble into our adulthood today. I grew up in a beautiful brown then blue then white house by the mailboxes, surrounded by my dad's season-changing gardens and homemade projects on the outside and my mom's warm presence and laughter on the inside. Ryan and I were taught to be giving, caring, responsible people who are accountable for each choice and action and it's because of this upbringing that we find ourselves happy, successful professionals who consistently attain personal goals. I know that both of us are forever grateful for the lessons learned and wisdom instilled and owe so much of our best moments as adults to the happenings inside of that brown then blue then white house by the mailboxes. And more importantly, the incredible mom and inimitable dad inside of it. So you can imagine my thrill and elation when I realized that my husband and I would be giving these two people brand new roles in life and would forever add to the list of people they love the most. After sharing with them the news (see Chapter 3), it's been nothing but help here, support there with anything and everything. Whether it's been down right physical labor creating the nursery or frantic research of RH negative blood with pregnancy or successful escapades to find the right chair fabric, my parents have been invaluable throughout it all for us. And as exciting as it is being pregnant and anxiously preparing and sharing stories and "Oh yeah. I felt that too"s with my mom, I simply cannot WAIT for the big day to come so we can all begin our new relationships with our new names with our new family member. And what a lucky, little girl she is to be the beginning of a new branch on such a strong, solid tree. 



06.06.11
Chapter 23. Bob.
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December 2nd, 2010. For Brandon Johnson, this day began and traveled by like any other. Work, lunch, work, home. Only he arrived at our house that evening to find that we were celebrating his December fifth birthday three days early. Not completely uncharacteristic for me since I hold in surprises with the firmness of a leaky balloon, but unplanned nonetheless. He was quickly seated on the couch and handed colorful gift after colorful gift. But rather than collared shirts and new shoes, he was opening boxes filled with dog toys and ceramic bowls. And then a leash, followed by a puppy bed. Now we'd talked many times about how much we wanted a dog, a Boston Terrier in particular, but when he opened up the framed photograph of a tiny puppy awkwardly sitting amongst stuffed animals that trumped him in size, Brandon was stunned. I fibbed and told him that we would be picking our new family member up the following weekend and asked him over and over again if he was surprised and happy at his gift. His reply was everything I had hoped for and came without breaking eye contact with the sweet face in the picture. With zero urgency, I then asked if he wanted a present I had absentmindedly forgotten about upstairs. "I have one more... it's nothing big, did you just want to open it now?" Satisfied with the unimportance I could hear dripping off of my nonchalant comment, I picked up the torn paper and disconnected bows, my body language wrapping up his birthday evening. A crooked, little smile spread across my face as my husband of four months predictably answered my scripted question and I fluttered upstairs to bring down our seven-week-old Bob, who was innocently snoozing in a bundle of warm towels upstairs, unbeknown that he was about to meet his equally as unsuspecting best friend. And that's when I, without meaning to, changed two lives forever. I'd like to say that I've had connections with animals before. I really, truly loved our little shih tzu growing up. Pokey was sweet, patient (may she rest in peace with happy and forgiving memories of the little girl who wrapped scrunchies around each furry extremity as leg warmers) and loyal. My parents have a golden retriever whose enthusiasm and welcoming canine smile brightens my mood and makes me laugh when I see her. However, none of these single sentence tributes to the dogs in my life come close to describing the relationship my husband has with his 27th birthday present. Bob Johnson. From minute one, it was kismet. And I can't even say that about our first meeting (see Chapter 21)... there were butterflies and fireworks, yes, but I have to say, the immediate connection I witnessed between man and dog that night had me winning trophies in my head for present of the century. Unfortunately, the celebrating of this miraculous animal hasn't ended there. It's been 551 days since that memorable evening and still Brandon will out of the blue turn to me and say, "He's so amazing." I sometimes catch him gazing at Bob with looks that resemble those shared between us on our wedding day. These two wrestle and play on the floor, high-five one another, snore in unison at night and hug. That's right. Hug. And it's because of this story book romance that our little Bob has yet to experience the life of anything other than royalty. Plush bed by the fireplace, 700 thread count sheets at night and a 35 square foot condo that he plays in during the day. And that list doesn't include the unbelievable amount of attention this pooch gets as soon as one of us walks through the door. And don't get me wrong, I'm just as guilty as my husband is for all of this. I'll be the first one to admit it: Bob is irresistibly charming. He spins in circles when he gets excited and cocks his head to the side when you say a word he knows. When I was home alone and having one of my delirious pregnancy breakdowns, he pushed open the bathroom door and laid down next to me on the floor, licking my hand to show his 14 pounds of support. He is, undoubtedly, the best dog I've ever met. You may think we're crazy and that's okay. You may think our dog should sleep outside and be spoiled simply because he gets fresh water everyday. And that's okay too. And perhaps in a way, you'd be right. Because now, after the consecutive days of unaltered attention and raining cookies "just because", Brandon and I have created a little monster. You see, our glorious Bob is well-mannered and quiet, but he is NOT a fan of change. He doesn't like for new things to arrive or for old things to move. He exhibits a ridiculous outburst each time the suitcase suddenly appears on the bedroom floor and had an utter conniption when Brandon moved the potted tomato plant further out onto the patio last summer. And I won't even get into his hate/hate relationship with the new air purifier. These laughable performances look like the choreographed brawl scene from West Side Story, only with more howls and fewer toe touches. If he were a child, I'd be frantically googling therapists and purchasing a kid-friendly version of Who Moved my Cheese, but you can imagine our somewhat curious nerves as to how this dog is going to react when we bring home a baby in a mere six weeks. I wish I had video of his reaction to the musical swing we set up for Lucy. He happily trotted downstairs after a nap and skidded to a stop, giving it a death stare for a good 30 seconds while deciding what his plan of action would be. He at first became vocal and was yelling at us, "What the hell is this? Who approved this? Why is it moving on its own?" and then managed to grab one of the little plush dancing birds and ran away growling. He's since gotten used to it and now includes it as part of his obstacle course when playfully running away from Brandon, so we're hopeful that our plan of getting all furniture and changes to the setting complete way before Lucy arrives is working. I've researched quite a bit knowing that many couples adopt a puppy before starting a family and have found numerous ideas to try in hopes of making this a smooth introduction and manageable reality check for this little dog as he's swiftly demoted down one head on the Johnson family totem pole. When friends have brought their new babies over recently, Bob has greeted them with gentle curiosity and seems much more interested in the cushy, squeaky toys that accompany their arrival rather than the whimpering bundle getting cooed at and passed around from lap to lap. In my happy daydreams, Bob falls in love with Lucy just as we already have and eventually includes her in the "perimeter of protection" he seems to keep Brandon and I in when he patrols the house for intruders each night. He will be her first, little friend and together they will grow up as sweet comrades... and the two main characters holding hands and saving the day in my first children's book. Hopefully the plot won't be completely fictional. In any case, it should be a loud, sleepless, confusing July for all four of us :)
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07.06.11
Chapter 24. Bring it on, babygirl! 

I know what you're thinking. Labor and delivery isn't something that most woman look forward to. But to that I answer, Pain Schmain. With ten days left until the due date, I'm confidently feeling ready for this little tenant to check out. When I picture labor, there's definitely a hefty helping of nerves and twinges of anxiety, but none of it compares to the part I'll actually look back on and remember with delight and wonderment. She'll take her first breath of air, make her first noises and her new skin will lie against mine for the very first time. When Brandon and I get to meet Lucy, I know that nothing we've ever felt or accomplished before will compare. And until then, my little superstar is definitely spending time rehearsing for her big debut. Hiccuping, nudging (if anything her elbows work just fine) and letting me know with certainty that she is quickly outgrowing her first home. One cursed and unappreciative sign are the many Braxton Hicks contractions I've experienced this past month. And as I'm gripping the kitchen counter in speechless pain, I've been forced to remind myself that each of these little treats serve as not only a preview for what's to come, but that every cluster of anguish gets me that much closer to official parenthood. Poor Brandon simply stares at me during these trecherous episodes, half of him yearning to scoop me up in a comforting hug (not a successful choice the first time one occurred), half of him wanting to grab the car keys and begin his strategically-planned, time-dependent route to the hospital. I love how husbands ask questions when you're in debilitating pain. I realize that "Are you okay?" and "Should we go?" are natural responses to what looks to be the beginning of childbirth, but I compare it to him getting a stealth kick to the croutons and then needing to answer a series of questions on his favorite vacation destination and why. And although these tedious moments are not at the top of my few favorite things list, I have to admit, for being nine months pregnant with eighty degree days dotting the forecast, I'm not as miserable as one might think. Sure my feet look like they belong to Paul Bunyan and I've no doubt reached the point of, "How can I possibly get any bigger?" but other than that, I really do feel wonderful. If labor and delivery goes half this well, you can sign me up for a couple more. Easy-Part Johnson (that's what I call him these days) might hesitate to agree with fear in his eyes, but even he has shared that this nine month ride has been much more mellow that he thought it'd be. I hear women say quite often that they hated being pregnant, but fortunately for me, I have turned out to be one of those annoying people who loves it and even worse, loves talking about it. Which segways me perfectly into a cervix update. As of last Friday, I was 75% effaced and just beginning to dilate, which from my understanding is a great sign that things are beginning to happen. My doctor says that most of the olympic-sized cramping are what help along this process to which I respond, "Well then bring it on." When the time does indeed come, one thing is for sure. We are ready. The hospital bag is packed and anxiously sitting by the door, a beautiful bassinet is built next to the bed, and the carefully chosen car seat is assembled and lodged into place in our new family vehicle. Essentially all this means is she now has something to wear, a ride home, and a place to sleep when we bring her back from the hospital. From then on, ready is not a word I'm planning on using ever again when describing our status as a three person unit. Whether it be getting ourselves to an appointment on time or sending her off to preschool on the first day, I suspect our answers will be honestly marked with more "we're getting there"s than "we're ready"s. And that's just fine with me. 


07.18.11
Chapter 25. July 18th... And still pregnant.

So I was all kinds of hopeful that the next bit of my journal would sound a little more something like this: Chapter 25 - Meeting our Daughter. I'd write all about her exciting arrival, tearful introductions, maybe have a nice family photo or two with the baby. But no. Instead chapter twenty-five will be packed full of nothing but empty details and specific non-eventfulness. And the only photo added will be of an overdue pumpkin-smuggling lady with clinched fists. July 17th, a date marked on each calendar with hopeful sharpie and favor-implying hearts came and went with the significance and notoriety of Flag Day. In all fairness to my little LucyBelle, most first time moms go over their due dates, even getting to the point of induction before they get to meet their little one, so I've half been expecting this to be our inevitable conclusion as well. And truth be told... it's okay. As thrilled as I am to bring home our first baby, get my body back to normal, and begin this adventure that we've been thoroughly looking forward to since mid-November, all good things are worth waiting for. And with me about to jiffy pop and effectively change everything we've ever known, Brandon has been sleeping in next to me and spending the majority of his work day at home with a careful eye and the realism that our quiet relaxing days together are dwindling. It's quite sweet, actually. Our original plan was for him to take a month or so to stay home once she arrived, help out here and there, then head back to the office on a more regular basis once the ladies of the house had somewhat of a routine to rely on. But about a week ago, I noticed him walking through the door earlier and earlier in the day just to say hello or bring home lunch. He then started waking up later and later in the morning before leaving. Pretty soon, his AMs and PMs seemed to run together and without saying anything, he suddenly began working from home to be near me "just in case". Many days I have to remind myself that it isn't the weekend, even though our Tuesdays resemble those of a carefree student on summer break. It's been wonderful to have him here, just the two of us and I don't doubt that I'll soon look back on this time with a deep appreciation and acute awareness of its importance. If our baby decides not to come this week, I'm scheduled to be induced on Monday morning and I've found myself quite comfortable with the idea of having seven more days added to the two-hundred and forty two already passed to let the idea marinate that we're having a child. Don't get me wrong, we're eager beavering though each and every hour that passes so if this chapter never gets posted because mid-sentence my water breaks or heavy contractions send us flying down the freeway to St. Pete's completely contravening the title up above, then by all means, HALLELUJAH. I'm anticipating all possible adventures at this point. Frankly, there's a certain charm and indescribable thrill that comes with knowing that at any minute our world will change forever. Although metaphors such as ticking time bomb and expired milk float through my mind periodically, in reality it is this non-stop exhilaration of "any moment now" - walking around on a regular Monday with happy little fireworks constantly erupting inside no matter how mundane the task I might be keeping myself busy with might be. It's like the feeling of knowing you'll be taking a tropical vacation soon... and leaving day is just around the corner. Mothers out there reading this are thinking, "Oh Lord. She's comparing bringing an infant home to a vacation. Chapters 27-35 should be well worth the read," but it's really the closest thing I can think of to analogize the level of impatient joy that has permanently taken over in our house. Only unlike an upcoming trip to Aruba, we do not have dated plane tickets on the counter. My paper chain countdown lost it's anticipatory magic (along with it's last strip of paper) yesterday and the timing of our journey's end/beginning is completely undefined. I'm clearly not an expert, nor do I even have a completed experience to rely on when speaking to having a baby, but I think all of this unknown is what makes it such a divine and godly thing to begin with. But just in case there is any predictability to be had, here's to Chapter 26... and the long awaited grand entrance of my sweet Lucy.


08.08.11
Chapter 26. Introducing Lucy Isabelle Johnson!
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For the first time in fourteen days I have a few quiet moments to myself and how better to spend them than share with you all the beauty that was July 25th for us. So as Frère Jacques plays on in the background for my sweet sleeping baby, I'll do my best to articulately portray Lucy's first day... that is until she decides to stop sign the little bit of me time she's unintentionally given. As previously predicted, little miss made us wait until the scheduled induction eight days after her due date. So Monday morning finally came around and after a total of two hours of scattered sleep, I woke up with electric nerves and growing excitement for the life changing appointment I had scheduled for 7:30am. I knew that one way or another, I'd be meeting my daughter very soon. We'd spent the night prior finishing up last minute tasks, making my morning to do list bear nothing but a shower and a sweatshirt. Brandon and I didn't say much on the way to the hospital, the loudest passenger being our obvious nerves, but I'll never forget the affectionate pep talk he so sweetly gave as I cried timid tears in the parking lot. I knew that the next time I'd be sitting in our family SUV, a baby would be accompanying us home and the in betweens of those two moments scared me like... well, like a lady about to give birth. So I mustered up what courage 7am would give me and waddled into the hospital with a nagging suspicion that I would be facing the trial of my life with nothing but a pitiful arsenal of lamaze breathing, a Norah Jones cd and my hapless mate. With my feet no longer in shouting distance of one another, I carefully maneuvered my cartoon-like proportions down the stairs and into the ambiently-lit Family Birthing Center where we were immediately welcomed by Dawn; aka my new best friend. Everyone always boasts about how incredible their labor nurses were, but in my case especially, it was true. Dawn lived up to everything her beautiful name represented: calm, gentle, reliable AND she surprised me with red popsicles when the going got tough. Once checked in, draped in a patterned hospital gown, tucked into the crisp sheets and hooked up to my first IV, I was ready to roll and let the pitocin take over. But because Mother Nature is nothing if not fun, I of course needed to use the bathroom a mere seconds after three people had collaboratively gotten me to into the equipped position I was in. Having to wheel the IV pole and all of my little fluid bags to and from the restroom was one thing, but listening to my husband snicker each time my airy gown provided a small peep show as I left only made me and my monkey tree of dangling tubes and wires more tangled up. It felt good to laugh with him and it forced me to remember the happy reason why I was a patient in a hospital that day. Before long, our parents arrived to wish me well and soon after, my contractions really began to kick in. Now my birth plan was basically a no-pressure, let's see how I feel, use-what-I-need kind of plan, but I was hopeful that I might be able to have our baby as naturally as possible. Seven hours later, I was death gripping the handle of my hospital bed, face-planted into my husband's shoulder blade and thinking, "this must be what it feels like to get stabbed to death." The pain would malevolently peak and eventually soften, giving me a moment to recover. Then two minutes later, I'd do it all over again with no end in sight. I soldiered through three hours of hardcore labor and feverishly reminded myself that there would be no award ceremony after my baby was born. No silver medals given for the women who had an epidural. No softer applause. No slightly smaller tiara. That there is no such thing as a second place birth. Cue the anesthesiologist. He entered with the character of a slug and dryly introduced himself as Mr. So and So, but I'll fondly remember him forever as my magic man. And I have absolutely no regrets about it. Don't get me wrong, I whole-heartedly commend the women who give birth without pain assistance... I'm just not one of them. Once my epidural kicked in, I went from a shaking, crying hysterical mess to a relaxed and rested mom-to-be who was able to conserve the energy needed to push come evening time. I fell asleep watching Alice in Wonderland and woke up 9cm dilated. Soon after, I began to feel the epidural wearing off and was thankful when my doctor came in around nine o'clock and announced that it was time to push. It's impossible to adequately describe what it feels like to have a baby. In my experience, adrenaline kicked in and muffled some of the pain in the beginning, but after two and a half hours of pushing, I was well aware that there was a person coming out of my body. Around 11:30, Brandon's collection of "you're doing great"s were suddenly replaced by a trembling parade of "Oh my God"s and I knew that all of my pain and exertion was about to turn into pure joy. In my dazzling memories, the room was completely silent as they handed me my new baby girl. She was wide awake and absolutely perfect. Brandon and I laughed and cried happy tears as she contently looked up at us, seeming as though she had been consciously waiting nine months to meet us as well. I jokingly told her that I normally looked better. We studied one another for a momentous ten minutes, holding hands, taking photos and becoming acquainted with the miracle that we'd been praying and planning for since last September. I just couldn't comprehend how unbelievably blessed we were that this precious little life was ours to share and be a part of. After awhile, Brandon took her to the front of the room for testing where she scored a nine on her APGAR and checked out beautifully with our pediatrician. I knew that without my incredible doctor, helpful nurses, devoted parents, supportive brother and enthusiastic husband/birth partner/rock, I couldn't have gotten through the day. Brandon was simply fabulous through the entire 16 hours and I felt so lucky to have someone so strong and companionable next to me. After the two of us delightedly welcomed our little third wheel together, Brandon scurried out to share the happy news and bring in our family. I was so proud to show off our beautiful daughter and will never forget handing her to my mom and dad for the first time. They were officially grandparents and my little brother would now be known in our world as Uncle Ryan. After many important introductions and a sweet toast of pink champagne, it was time for our family of three to say goodnight and merrily travel over to our new room. Neither one of us got much sleep that night. Partly because of the crying baby. Partly because of the adrenaline still running rapid through our veins. But mostly we were awake that night because each second was spent in incredible awe as we stared with affection and unconditional love at the newest best thing to ever happen to us.

Chapter 27. Life with Lucy.
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I've said it before and I'll say it again. There is nothing more bonding and romantic than having a baby with someone. I had always thought of my relationship with Brandon to be pretty pie-in-the-sky ideal, but nothing compares to the companionship I felt in Labor and Delivery Room One of St. Peters Hospital. He's the best decision I've ever made and having a daughter with him only made life that much sweeter. Bringing an infant into your home is a funny thing. It's really loud and sometimes smelly and often exhausting and always demanding, but most of all, it's magical. Yes, you read that right. Magical. I've never felt so in love before. In love with my daughter, in love with my husband, in love with the home we've created together - I could have gotten two hours of sleep the night before, but yet there I am, walking around with a delirious smile on my face because of what I now have in my life. Brandon is at home with Lucy and I these days and we've got a marvelous system developed when it comes to taking care of our new little bundle. We are so thankful to have Brandon's business and the flexibility it provides for him to spend time with us whenever he can. As for me, I thought I would have a really terrible time giving up my position at school and opting for the more traditional stay at home mom gig, but I must say, after having Lucy here for the past two weeks, I can't imagine going back to work. I've become cordially accustomed to doing things at my own pace. No alarm clock, no deadlines, nobody else's agenda but our own. We wake up to whatever the day brings us and the freedom that this entails is quite addicting. I look forward to being a part of Lucy's every day and watching her grow and learn with each new experience. As you're all good and nauseated from my domineering description of our overbearing bliss (and probably wanting in on whatever pain pills the doctor sent me home with), I'll now fill you in on the down and dirties of parenthood: week two. Lucy's healthy digestive system is something to be celebrated, yes, but what's really hard to appreciate are the swift lessons learned when your timing is all but seconds off and she finishes her last leg of number two-ing just as you're reaching for the new diaper. So close. This extends your task from the simple disposal of the old diaper to a laundry list that includes everything within arm's reach of the changing table. Going places takes an average of twice as long as it used to and for a couple who was already notorious for being late, this pushes us back a few pegs in the punctual department. Also an adjustment has been the screaming, which stems from the one method of communication that our peachy new roommate uses. Lucy cries when she's hungry. She cries when she's messy. And sometimes, Lucy cries for reasons unbeknownst to us. And at 3:20 in the morning, with blood-shot eyes and questionable sanity, that last one can be tough to smile and lullaby through. But we do it. Bob has adopted Lucy as part of his exclusive pack quicker than we thought he would, making the transition smoother for Brandon and I. He even hopped up next to me on the couch and shimmied his cuddling intentions over to my lap where Lucy slept and snuggled up to her. She ended up covering his little head in projectile vomit moments later, but it was touching to watch while it lasted. Also, we're having a bit of a wardrobe crisis that began at the hospital when I realized that both of the darling dresses I packed for Lucy's "coming home" outfit made her look like a tiny head peeking out of a sleeping bag. If you notice our first day home photos, she's wearing an eclectic mess of leopard print pants, a polka dot onesie and giant slipper socks (special thanks to my dad for retrieving the smallest items we owned so I didn't have to bring my new daughter home in a diaper and "I was born at St. Petes" t-shirt). All of the sweet newborn clothes we have washed and waiting for the little peanut remain untouched and hanging in her closet these days because she's still too small for them.  Brandon drove us to Target last week and the two of them waited in the car as I raced in to purchase any preemie outfits I could lay my hands on. I found three that would work and now rotate the tops and bottoms until the little lady sprouts some length! Lucy's sleeping schedule has thankfully begun to take shape and she currently snoozes three to four hours at a time. You would think we'd have a lot of extra time to accomplish anything our honey-do lists could possibly wrangle up, but you'd be irrefutably wrong. We spend most of it sleeping ourselves, desperately trying to catch up from the previous night's diaper-duty, bottle-preparing, nursery-rhyme-singing extravaganza. As far as my recovery goes, I really can't complain. I've lost twenty pounds since my last pregnancy weigh in (thanks to a charming combination of breast feeding and pure exhaustion) and I began feeling back to normal a few days after we brought Lucy home. It feels so nice to be in regular clothes and wear my favorite t-shirts without them looking like stretched out writing on party balloons. I'm also proud to report that Lucy's diet is almost all breast milk and that we're only needing to supplement two bottles a day of formula. One of the most exciting parts of this whirlwind has been introducing all of the well-wishing visitors that have come to meet our little girl. It's been quite the adventure so far and getting to share it with the ones we love most only makes it that much more enjoyable. So as I sit here in awe that the reason behind all of these words actually allowed me enough time to write them all, I'm enthusiastically taking what was once a nerve-filled, flustered pregnancy journal and converting it into more of a nerve-filled, just as flustered mommy diary :)