The truth...

hurts.

I imagine this post is going to take a long time to write, and that I will probably revisit it and revise it even after I have published it.

Because it is the post I have wanted to write, needed to write, but have tried not to write. Because it hurts too much.

On January 4, 2010, I went in for my 12 week OB appointment. I was expecting it to be a normal appointment, and I had even told Brandon to not worry about going with me since it was scheduled for 2:50, too early for him to leave from work. No worries I said.

So I went in by myself.

After talking to the nurse about the medicines I could take for the cold that had been nagging me for a week, I went in to my room and waited for the doctor. It was not my regular OB but one of the other doctors in the practice (which is normal procedure, but strangely enough, the first time I had not had my regular doctor--I guess up till then I had just been lucky getting her all the time). This new doctor took the fetal doppler out to hear the heartbeat (you're supposed to hear it at 12 weeks), and when she didn't hear it, she told me not to be worried.

But I already was.

She moved the doppler around and around on my stomach, trying to hear the heartbeat, and couldn't find it.

No worries, she told me. Sometimes it is still too early to hear.

So she brought in the ultrasound. She tried the ultrasound on the stomach, moving it about and about just like the doppler, searching in vain for a heartbeat. Still no heartbeat.

No worries, she continued. Sometimes the baby is so low and hidden in the pelvis that you can't hear it from the stomach ultrasound.

By now I was secretly freaking out. Alone.

So she brought out the vaginal ultrasound.

And I could see it in her face. I don't even know if I was really even looking at the ultrasound screen at this point, because the doctor's face said everything.

Which was nothing.

I don't know how long she continued to pretend to look for a heartbeat, but when she did finally look at me and say, "There's not a heartbeat," all those worries that she had told me not to worry about just exploded.

"Can we get a second opinion?" I asked.

Of course, that's normal procedure, she informed me.

Minutes later, my normal OB came in. This is the doctor that has been with me through the entire roller coaster of this past pregnancy, and I could tell immediately that her heart hurt for me. And just like the doctor that had tried before her, my OB looked and looked in vain for a heartbeat, but it had stopped beating weeks ago.

I burst into tears.

***

My doctor asked if my husband was with me, and I told her "no." She then asked if I wanted to call him so that he could be there (she knew he worked in the area), and I said that I would.

"Brandon, I just need you to come here."

That's all I said.

I'm assuming he ran all the way from work to the hospital (we've never really talked about it), but he made it there in record time, and I told him. I probably didn't have to tell him anything, though, because my eyes say everything.

The doctor returned shortly after Brandon arrived and reassured me that I hadn't done anything wrong, that it was likely just some random problem (as are most miscarriages), and would be unlikely to happen in the future. She gave me 3 options: a D&C, waiting for a natural miscarriage, or drugs to induce the miscarriage.

I chose the drugs. I was scared of the D&C and all of its risks, and I didn't like the idea of waiting for the miscarriage to come on its own because you never know how long that would be (and my baby had apparently been gone for about 3.5 weeks and I hadn't had any symptoms save one excrutiating cramp on Christmas day that I just attributed to fatigue or food). And to be honest, I just didn't like the idea of something being dead inside me.

***

I took the drugs at 9:30 on the morning of Thursday, January 7. It was a snow day (school was cancelled), and I had already called in for the next day as well (but I got "lucky" in the sense that school was cancelled Friday, too).

I inserted 4 Misoprostol vaginally. The doctor said to take them this way since it helps make the process work a little better as opposed to taking them orally. For the first couple of hours, I didn't feel anything and honestly wondered if maybe the pills had fallen out. But three hours into it or so, I started feeling a little bit of cramping. By 1:30 (4 hours into it), I was experiencing full-out contractions and didn't think the pain medicine I had been prescribed was working very well, but wouldn't be able to take more for another couple of hours, so I just laid on the couch and tried my best to deal with the contractions. I started bleeding around 4 pm, and by 5, the blood had increased tremendously.

I'm sorry if this is too much information for some, but it's just something I need to get out, write, and remember.

For that next 45 minutes or so after 5 pm, I was experiencing uncontrolled bleeding, almost like clots passing through. I would be lying on the couch and feel that pressure of something getting ready to go through (like blood getting ready to gush), and I would head to the bathroom.

At 6:00, almost on the dot, I hurriedly ran to the bathroom again for what I thought was one of those gushes of blood.

But as soon as it happened, I knew exactly what it was.

It felt like an egg falling from me and splashing into the toilet. I will always remember that feeling and that noise, and as soon as I heard it and felt it, I freaked out. There's no other way to describe it--I freaked out.

Still sitting on the toilet, I cried for Brandon to come in.

"I can't look. I just can't look."

So he did, and I cried.

I'm not sure exactly what happened for the next half hour or so because I was so hysterical that it's hard to remember, but I do know that Brandon verified that it was tissue.

And then he flushed our baby down the toilet.

We had both had every intention of salvaging the tissue, of somehow saving it and burying it somewhere. But in my hysteria, I couldn't even look, and Brandon in his coolheadedness, was just practical.

It was at the bottom of the toilet. There was snow outside and the ground was frozen solid. We have a toddler and 3 dogs and nowhere to store human remains until the snow melts.

He flushed our baby down the toilet.

****
Tomorrow marks three weeks since the miscarriage, and while I would like to say I am doing well, I do have my moments of pure fragility. There are certain things that just make me cry--seeing a pregnant 16 year old student (or any pregnant woman, for that matter), having one of my pregnant 18 year olds invite me to her baby shower, trying to exercise those 12 pounds off that I gained for a failed pregnancy to no avail and yet not losing a single pound (I'm starting to think it's the hormones).

Seeing sisters and brothers play together.

I had a follow-up with my doctor on January 11, and she verified via ultrasound that everything was gone. I've had bleeding and cramping since then, but it has tapered off tremendously.

I'm not sure everything will ever be gone, though. I don't want it to be.

Pain is inevitable...

suffering is optional.

I came across this Buddhist proverb in a book I was reading the other day. The book is by a writer who likes to write about running, and he was answering the question that many people ask runners--how can you run for so long when it just hurts?

His answer: Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

This is easily my favorite quote right now, and perhaps one of my favorites of all time.

I know I have experienced pain--who hasn't?--and I know that there is much more pain in store for me in the future. I cannot deny this.

But I will not allow myself to suffer anymore during my current time of pain or the inevitable future pain. I will not choose to suffer--because suffering is a choice. I will feel the pain, but I will not dwell on it or allow it to consume me.

When it rains, it pours

I have barely had time to grieve over the loss of our baby (but the gaining of an angel), and already my heart is crying again with the news that my dad's cancer has spread even more in just the few short months since his last surgery.

I hurt. And I know my mom, dad, and sisters hurt.

And yet despite all of this pain, I find myself glad that I have always believed in the genuine goodness of mankind. I have always believed that people are good at heart--and if that's what you believe, you will find that people will be good to you.

It was just a little thing, and I know he probably didn't think it would give me the first smile of the day, but I stopped by the McDonald's on the way to school this morning. Prior to my pregnancy, I used to drink a cup of coffee at home, and then I would pull through the Mickey D's drive-thru on the way and get a second cup to sip on during the first period of the day. Haven't been there since November, and today was my first visit.

"Hey, long time, no see!" he said as he collected my $1.08.

It wasn't necessarily what he said, but the happiness with which he said it--the genuine happiness to see me--that made me happy.

Cup of coffee in hand, I entered the teacher workroom to check my mailbox. And there in my mailbox was a card from the secretary, sending sympathies to me for the hard time I am going through right now.

This coming from the secretary that 95 percent of the faculty are afraid of (she's one of "those" sorts of secretaries, if you catch what I'm saying). I've heard words such as "impersonal," "scary," "mean," "bitch," and "unapproachable" used to describe her, and yet I have never had anything but a positive experience with her. She's always been there to give me a hug when I need one most--she just knows. She always asks about my dad to see how he's doing every single time I see her (which is more than I can say for people who should be asking about him).

I continue to my classroom, and my groupies start to arrive. There's about 6 kids or so that hang out in my room every morning before classes begin. They're not all the greatest students in the world, but they have good hearts and have always treated me with kindness and respect.

I hadn't told very many students about the miscarriage--not quite sure how to do it--but I did tell my Latin 5 students (and that in the form of writing because I just couldn't "talk" to them about it) simply because I have known them for 5 years and think of them as my little brothers/sisters/children. But I'm not stupid and I know kids talk.

One of these kids that apparently heard the rumor walked up to me this morning and handed me a card. I don't remember everything it said, but it was to the effect that no one understands why bad things happen to good people.

The fact that a 15 year old boy that I am constantly telling to shut up in class had the heart to get me a card just makes me happy (perhaps because it came from the kid I least expect such a card to come from). I don't want sympathy, but for whatever reason, it just made me feel a little better.

And he is right. Bad things happen to good people all the time, not just to me, not just to my family. There are thousands (millions?) of women that have had miscarriages, too. There are millions of people whose lives are affected by cancer. Every single second something bad happens to someone good, but I think the pain and suffering caused by all of these bad things is lightened to an extent if you believe that people themselves are good.

Believing in good just feels good.

It's interesting to me to watch people in times like this. How does someone act when they themselves are in a time of crisis? What do they do for others when they are experiencing suffering? True character is revealed, and often that character is not what you would expect. An ill-behaved 15 year old boy shows that he has a bigger heart than the brother of a man who has lost his child. An "unapproachable" and "mean" secretary shows that she cares more than she lets the rest of the world think. A fast food worker hands over so much more than a cup of coffee. An atheist does more soul-searching than most Christians in order to let her sister know just how sorry she is. For everything.

I started off this post with the title "When it rains, it pours." Obviously I was originally referencing the fact that not only did I experience the loss of a child but also the news of my dad's further metastases within days of each other.

But now I also think I mean that when it rains goodness, it pours it, too. I wasn't expecting to receive all of the goodness that I did today, but I sure am glad it rained.

Her name would have been Hope.

It was an easy choice for us, for obvious reasons.

And if our angel were a boy, he would have been Jude. I was particular to Jude because of the clock. My parents have a clock that plays a classical version of "Hey, Jude" every hour, and every time we visit my parents and that clock goes off, Max gets excited and runs to his Papa to pick him up and dance to the music. Seeing my Dad and Max dance to "Hey, Jude" makes me smile every time I see it and think about it. No one, not even me or Brandon, I think, makes Max happier than his crazy Papa, and I wanted to think about that true love and happiness every time I said "Jude."

Angel

I am sure this will be the first in a series of many blog posts about the loss of our baby. I tried writing in the journal I kept for the baby last week and just found it too difficult. Writing this right now is still very hard--the pain is still too raw and too new--and so I will have to keep this brief.

I am an emotional wreck. Once I miscarried, it seems like the tears have not stopped. They come and go as they please, and I find it hard to concentrate without dwelling on our loss. I think I slept all of two hours last night. I just can't stop thinking about what might have been. Like most mothers who miscarry, I have a sense of guilt (and anyone who knows me knows that I tend to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders), and even though I know in my heart that I couldn't have done anything differently to ensure a different outcome, I still feel guilty, but that's a whole other entry in itself.

I wanted this first post about our loss to be about what we've gained.

Today was my first day back at work since the miscarriage. I guess the teacher (my department head) that I had told about the miscarriage (because of all the days I was missing) had told at least one other teacher. This other teacher (a Spanish teacher) came to me this morning during my planning period.

"Oh, bebe, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. But now you have an angel watching over you."

And I hadn't thought about it in that way at all. I had been so focused on thinking about the child I would not have, about the brother or sister that Max would not play with, about the grandchild my parents would not get to see, that it hadn't even occurred to me that I might be gaining something from this horrible experience after all.

An angel.

And what's ironic is that I recently started to collect angels. My mother began collecting them shortly after my father's diagnosis ("we need as many angels as we can get now," she said), and I decided over Christmas to start, too. I even received my first one from my parents, and I had also had Max paint several angels to give to family members as Christmas gifts.

But now I have the real thing.

Yes, if I could choose to have the child I had in my belly for three months grow to a full term baby and a healthy child and kind and loving adult, I would certainly choose that over the angel I have watching me right now.

But like my mom said, we need angels now and my family needs more than most. To a certain extent, I can understand the plan and why this happened to me--even though I may not like it. My dad is back in the hospital again, and maybe this angel is for both of us. Maybe God knows that despite the fact that I put on a strong face and have so for the past year that I really, really just need someone to watch over me, and felt that now was the time for that to happen.

I don't know. I just feel a little better today--even though I am still hurting very, very much and will for the rest of my life--but I will always appreciate that Spanish teacher's one sentence for making me look at things a bit differently.

Baby 2

will arrive in July. I found out at 4 in the morning the second week in November, but had actually "known" I was pregnant on November 1 (I'm one of those freaks who is ridiculously in touch with my body). I had been terrified of taking a pregnancy test because I didn't want another negative, and so the night before I told a friend that I would be testing the next morning. The next morning I woke up at 4 am and peed on a stick. I watched it as it looked to me like a negative sign (my heart broke) and then as it grew into a positive sign (my heart smiled). I stared at it and then woke Brandon up and asked him to verify that it was indeed a positive. And it was. Just to be sure, I tested again after school that same day and got another positive. Brandon and I were on top of the world. We made a video announcing the pregnancy and were planning on telling family at Thanksgiving.

But then on November 22, I fainted. Not once, but twice. Total loss of consciousness and blacked out, falling onto the floor. We sat there debating about calling someone and then gave in. I was taken to the hospital and hours after my initial arrival I was told that I did not have a viable pregnancy (it was either ectopic or a blighted ovum) because they could not see anything beyond the gestational sac. The ER doc said I would be admitted to the hospital and would likely have a D &C later that week.

I was heartbroken.

After I was discharged from the hospital, I followed up with my regular OB (the woman who delivered Max) and she still couldn't see anything. She took my blood and saw that my numbers were still rising, so suggested I come back in another week for another ultrasound.

That week of not knowing and thinking I had a failed pregnancy was very hard, but I think a part of me was certain my pregnancy was healthy and normal, and so was reassured. Remember--I'm the freak who is ridiculously in touch with her body, and I just felt pregnant.

On Monday, November 30, we saw the little bean--heartbeat and everything and the doctor declared everything healthy. From blighted ovum to a heartbeat in a week. This pregnancy was meant to be.

We have decided not to find out the sex of this little one. I really want to experience the surprise of waiting to find out on the day of delivery. I want that joy and surprise at least once. We will not be sharing names, but we have already decided on them. And to a certain extent I already feel like I know what sex this baby will be and what the name will be because one day a few weeks ago, I lifted a book from the bookshelf and the book literally fell open to a page (not by my doing) and in big, bold letters was the name Brandon and I had decided on if it were this particular sex. Coincidence? We shall see.

New blog name?

With the impending arrival of Baby 2 (AKA Shithead or Shitface, depending on the sex, which will be determined on the day of birth and not earlier), it has occurred to me that I should change this blog title to something else. Any suggestions?

Language development

I know I haven't written in a loooooooooooooooong time about words Max says--and well, that's because starting around his two year birthday, Max has been ridiculously verbal. So much, in fact, that there really isn't a word that Max hasn't said (that he's been exposed to). If you ask him to say something, he will repeat it, and usually very accurately, too.

There are, however, two words that Max will not correct his pronunciation of. Momo and cuckoo. I have no idea how Momo became Max-speak for "monkey" and how "cuckoo" became Max-speak for "cookie," but so be it.

He definitely goes through days where he likes to say one thing over the other. Right now it is still "not yet." (See my post from a few days ago.) Things I enjoy hearing him say because it cracks me up:
--wait a second
--work day? (When I pick him up from Lindsey's he asks me if I was at work today. He phrases it like a question, too, and tilts his little head when he asks it.)
--check it out (He points to something and wants me to look at it.)
--cool INSERT NOUN HERE. I especially like it when the cool NOUN is something completely uncool, like a beat-up Dodge Neon.
--Stop it, Momma/Dada! Stop it NOW!!!!! Go to bed now! Stop it! Night! (We must sound really mean when we put him to bed because when he pretends to put us to bed, that's what he tells us to do. And he uses his "mean voice, too.")

On a related note, Max has shown some skill with using proper pronouns. Seriously. I thought kids weren't supposed to know pronouns till later, but Max already has a good grasp of them. He can accurately use "I" and "you" and properly inserts Max as a subject or someone/thing else as a subject as well. He is using 3-5 word sentences at this point (usually 3-4 words per sentence). He uses the adverbs "too" and "really" properly and he uses them A LOT. Nothing is ever just big, but instead it is "really big." He can ask questions and respond when asked a quesition, and he has been doing all this since he turned two (although then it was 2-3 word sentences).

Other milestones: He can count to 10, knows his colors, knows the shapes (triangle, circle, square), can say all the sounds of the alphabet and identify them all (he has been doing this for a few months know) but cannot recite the song (but neither can Brandon). He knows directions and recognizes places really well--he remembers how to get home and tells me to TURN NOW and he remembered where Brandon got his hair cut (even though he got it cut there forever ago).

In short, I think he's a pretty smart lil dude.

One year and round two

I've been thinking a lot lately about a lot of different things, one of which is something I am sure most of us in my family has been thinking about but no one has really spoken aloud.

It's almost been one year. One year ago this month my parents came to visit and I noticed how skinny my dad had gotten and I just knew that something was wrong. I urged him to see a doctor and after a month of doctor's tests and other procedures, the diagnosis I had been fearing--and yet somehow knew was going to happen--was made. My dad had cancer.

Anyone who knows me knows that the first few months after that diagnosis were excrutiatingly painful. The drive back to St. Louis from Lebanon after I got the news (I was by myself) was the worst 3 hours of my life, the loneliest hours I've ever experienced. Afterwards, I drove to work every morning for the first few weeks just crying. I considered seeing a therapist or doctor about my own depression, and there was a time I just didn't feel like myself because I had so much sadness in me.

And yet somehow we've all made it. It's been almost a year and wounds heal, everything gets better with a kiss and a hug.

I love you both. And Dad, be proud of yourself for kicking cancer's ass. I am.

***

We've been trying for Round Two (translation: Baby Brother/Sister) for four months now. Because Round One was ridiculously easy and ended in immediate results, I find myself getting frustrated, as I am sure anyone who is trying to conceive does.

What is the hardest for me right now is that I know what I am getting into. I hope Max doesn't resent me for saying this, but in all honesty, I am not sure either of us knew what we were getting into when we decided to get pregnant. I suppose we both just assumed it was the natural progression of things--that we had reached the point in our relationship and our marriage where perhaps a baby would fit. I know I am not speaking for myself when I say that I had absolutely no idea how wonderful having a child could be and how much love you could have for someone else.

And that's exactly what we want. Another one to love, someone else to fit into our family. We know what we're getting into this time and we accept it with open arms. I would love nothing more than to see Max as a big brother--he'll be so proud of himself, I just know it. I feel readier for a baby this time around and more excited (not that I wasn't excited for Round 1, Max--it's just that I didn't really know what I was excited for with Round 1).

Strangely enough, the woman who thought that one kid would be her limit desperately wants one, but more likely two more. I love being a mom more than anything and I try very hard to be a good mom, although there are certainly times where I feel like a terrible one.

Max is the one person on this earth who is guaranteed to get a smile out of me (I think it might be the cheeks), and I'd kinda like a back-up smile-maker around the house.

Silly Max

(before going to bed this evening)

Mom/Jennifer: I love you, Max. Do you love Mommy?

Max: Not yet.

True Confessions

(of Jennifer, not Max)
1. I smuggled a margarita to the pool today and drank it while I read in the lounging chair.
2. I hit Shelley with a can of biscuits this morning. Complete accident, though. I was trying to get the sucker opened and it slipped out of my hands, landing on Shelley's head.
3. I sat Max in front of the tv today for over an hour so that I could clean the house and Brandon could mow the yard.
4. I watched a squirrel bounce around my screened in porch. At last I know who/what has been eating the bird food I keep stored there! That damn squirrel has been using his opposable thumbs or something to get into the porch and eat the bird food. Not really a confession, but it cracked me up and thought I would share.
5. I bribed my kid with two new toy cars so that he would sit in the shopping cart while we did our grocery shopping this morning. And when he wanted a snack, I just opened the rice chips and gave it to him to munch on while we shopped around. We paid for everything, of course.
6. I watched Max grunt and strain and get red in the face (which usually means he's pooping), and waited the five minutes till Brandon got back to acknowledge that he pooped. I have, in fact, done this a few times since Max has been born, and I wouldn't be surprised if Brandon has done the same.
7. I washed and folded 3 loads of laundry today--everything but the socks. I hate folding socks, so I just throw them in the laundry basket, and when you need socks, you just go fishing in the basket for them. Works well.
8. Max brought a tiara (don't ask me why he has one) with him on our dog walk this afternoon. He kept dropping it and then crying for it, and I threatened to not give it to him the next time he dropped it, but I gave it to him anyway.
9. I don't think I put deodorant on today. And I walked 5.5 miles. In 90 degree heat. "Gross!" as Max would say.
10. I taught Max how to say "bite me."

A boy and his papas

I've always wanted Max to have a special relationship with his grandparents, especially his grandfathers. I never really had a grandpa--my maternal grandfather passed away when I was very young and my paternal grandfather just wasn't the grandfatherly type (and I am pretty sure no one will deny that). I guess over the years I was always a little jealous of people who had a grandparent they could go to because really all I had (and still have) is my Grandma Vivian who lives thousands of miles away and I only see once a year (and get to see this weekend). To an extent, I guess I feel I missed out on a lot because of the absence of a grandpa(although I am sure others will say differently).

Max and I this past week spent some time alone with my parents while Brandon stayed in St. Louis to work and watch the house. I figured since I had the time off and nothing better to do, I might as well take Max to spend some extended time with his grandparents.

And it was the time of his life. Not to demean the time he has spent with Brandon and myself or other relatives, I do have to say that I have never seen Max happier. He was in a constant state of excitement and happiness and it made me smile just to watch him.

Because I know that Max is only 2 years old and will never remember this week, I wanted to write about it. Hopefully, however, we will get to do it again, and he will remember it on his own then.

Max's single favorite person in the world, without a doubt, is definitely my father, whom he has always called Papa. He knows when it is time for me to call my parents (I call them at 3:30 every day) and has been known to pick up the phone, hand it to me, and say "Papa." Watching Max interact with my dad this past week was hilarious and bittersweet at the same time.

Every day, Max and Papa did the same things. It's not like they did anything particularly exciting, but it was all excitement and fun in Max's eyes. As soon as Max woke up every morning, Papa would go to the cupboard, pull out the wafer cookies and hand 3 to Max and Max would smile and eat them (instead of a real and healthy breakfast--thanks, Dad). Every morning while Max was still in his jammies, he took my dad's hand and walked outside in the still dewy grass to go feed the birds and the squirrels in the backyard. Every hour upon the hour, Max and Papa ran around the house while each of the gazillion cuckoo clocks went off (Max knows when each one goes off and would point to the next one and say "next" so that they could run there). Every day when we went out and about, we took my car because it has the booster seat, and my dad (or sometimes my mom) would sit in the backseat with Max and do all sorts of obnoxious things, including tooting like a train for 15 minutes straight. Every dad Max and Papa would go hunting for cats and every day Max would journey to the beanie room and stand in bewilderment looking at all the babies. Every day they went to the garden and Max helped Papa get the ripe tomatoes and squash and Max loved carrying the vegetables inside for Papa.

He really did have fun. And not just with his papa, but his other papa, too (my mom--he calls her papa as well). He knows Grandma is the fish lady and loved feeding the fish every day. He loved hunting for cats with her, too--and she usually captured one of them so that Max could pet it (I desperately want to get a picture of this but have been unsuccessful thus far). He loved playing hide-n-seek with her, hiding his flashlight or some other toy and then finding it with Papa (who is really Grandma). He loved going to Waffle House and making ice and salt and pepper soup (in an ash tray).

We both had a nice time, and I'm glad Max had this time with his papas. We love you.

Max's special pooping spot

I honestly can't remember the last time we took Max to our local Barnes and Noble and Max DIDN'T poop. We go about once a week, mainly just to browse the books and let Max play with the train they there. But for whatever reason, every time we go there, Max ends up pooping. He only makes one poop a day and he is sort of irregular about when it happens, so that's why it is fascinating to me that no matter what time of day we go to the bookstore, he ends up pooping.

The vitals

Max's two year appointment was today, and let's just say it did NOT go well. He's never been particulary bad at the doctor's (nor has he been particularly good), but today he was just awful.

And yet it started out so well. I had taught him the word "doctor" and it was fun to watch him call anyone who came out of the office a "doctor." The people sitting in the waiting area were giggling at him. It was just too cute.

But then when the doctor did come (actually the nurse) and tried to weigh Max, all hell broke loose. I don't know how a 2 year old boy can possibly realize that hopping on the scale is a painful experience (at least it is for me and many other women), but Max knew. He just knew. And he refused to get on that scale. The nurse and I tried every gimmick in the book to no avail, and so as a last resort, we weighed Max and myself together and then myself and subtracted to see the difference (and boy, do those doctor's scales lie! I swear I was 5 pounds heavier there than I am at home!). The result: Max weighs 29 pounds, which is exactly average. We went through the same experience to get his height--he just refused--and at one point the nurse said, "you push the knees against the wall and I'll get the head." The result: Max is 33 inches, just a little shorter than average.

We then had to take his blood pressure, and that did not work at all. The poor nurse just quit. It was impossible to get an accurate reading with Max wailing the way he was.

When we met with the actual doctor, Max was still very frightened, but did a little better. The doctor seemed impressed with Max's language development (the kid knows probably 300 or more words and is speaking in 2-3 word sentences including, "try it," "bye/hi _____," "there/here it is," etc.), but wants us to get Max on a vitamin since he is so inconsistent with his eating, and since he is taking to vegetarianism like his mom (and I don't try to make him be vegetarian--I offer him meat, but he just doesn't eat it).

He did ok with the shots and I got him to stop crying by getting him to examine his band-aid.

****

In other news, Max knows his books. I just finished reading stories to him, and he is officially starting to fill in the parts he can say. He's known his books for a while in the sense that he knows what actions to anticipate (and he does them), but the past week or so he has been saying things right before I say them. I think that's sorta smart!

Happy 2nd Birthday, Max!

We love you!
Love, Mommy and Daddy

Summer time, Bad Mother, Good Father, and other thoughts

So I've been out of school for almost 2 weeks now, and it has been a blast. Each and every day is different with Max, and I try very hard to do something fun with him every day. Today, for example, we fingerpainted and got paint all over ourselves and the house. We also went to Barnes and Noble and played with the train set they have there (don't tell Max we got him a train set for his birthday). Afterwards we went to the park and played in the mud. Literally. I am really enjoying all of this time I get with him, and I am grateful that one of the perks of being a teacher is this time off (although I am writing curriculum during his naps every day, so it's not like I am 100 percent off from school).

Anyway, today when we were at the bookstore, I made a point to look through a book that just came out last week called Bad Mother. It is written by the same lady who a few years ago wrote a very controversial column for the New York Times in which she stated that she loved her husband more than her children. Obviously there was a lot of backlash over that but she has continued writing since then. Although I don't agree with everything the author writes, I do like reading her work because it makes me think, and this new book is no exception. In her new book, she writes that when a person is asked what constitutes a good father, usually the answer is along the same lines as "a dad who's there" (referring to the absence of the father from the American family), but when one is asked what constitutes a good mother, the answer is the opposite extreme--that is, there is so much that a good mother is expected to do and the good mothers often feel this pressure to do all this and then some in order to be the best mother for their children. And when these mothers feel they aren't doing everything for their children, they get a huge case of mother's guilt.

I asked Brandon today if he ever has father's guilt and he just asked me what that was.

I, on the other hand, have a case of mother's guilt at least once a day, every day, and during the school year, a large part of my guilt lies in the fact that I work outside the home and Max goes to another person to be cared for while I work.

I realize how fortunate I am to have Brandon as my husband and father to my child, especially considering that the average person thinks a good father is simply a present one. Brandon is that and so much more. I would say that he and I have a pretty equal distribution of labor in the house and we both try very hard to spend as much quality time with Max as possible. It is no secret that Brandon and I would both love to add another child to our family, and I can honestly say I wouldn't even consider expanding our family if Brandon weren't the wonderful father that he is.

Thoughts on turning 30.

I turned 30 yesterday.

This morning Brandon asked if I feel 30 and if I feel any different. Of course this is the sort of question that people ask everyone on their birthday, no matter how old they turn. But for some reason, I think most people consider the 30th birthday a "special" one, an "important" one, and a birthday that is just different from other birthdays.

While I don't feel 30 (I am not sure exactly what 30 feels like), I can say that I feel "different," not in the physical sense, but in the spiritual/emotional/mental sense. I feel like I see the world differently now, like I am some wise spiritual guru who just knows more. Because that's how it feels now--like I just know more (and not in the book sense).

Perhaps the single most important thing that I know now that I didn't 2 years ago, is that I love being a mom. I love everything there is about being Max's mom, even the temper tantrums when we have to leave the park. Sure, there are days where I get a little stressed out and need some time to myself, but more often than not, I can't think of a place I would rather be than chilling with Max. Obviously I am only 2 years into this gig, so it's a little early to judge, but I think I am pretty good at this mother thing. More importantly, though, I love it and can't see myself doing anything else.

New words, 23 months

At this point, Max is saying around 150 words at least. Here are a few of the new ones:

siren, sorry, blue, big (and he loves the combination of blue truck, big truck, and big blue truck), Cheerios, nut (short for Peanut, Lindsey's kid), bike (and he often combines this with "cool"), there you are, there it is, Lucy, Shell-Shell, sleep, nap, sad, dinner, help, get up, knock, roll up (as in a Fruit Roll Up), sneeze, salad, park, squirrel, poof (as in cheesey poof), and chimes.

In other news, last night Max had my make-up on his cheeks and was rolling his popper in mud puddles (yes, we were outside) over and over again.

Words Max can say at 21-22 months

At this point, Max can say nearly 100 words. Or at least, he says something very close to it, and we can understand what he's trying to say. So, in no particular order, here are all the words Max says:

hi, hello, bye, Mom, Dad, dog, Pippi, bear, giraffe, chair, banana, hair, eye, ear, toes, juice, cheese, chip, baby, milk, tit, berry, applesauce, egg, cat, monkey (mo-mo), bird, frog, duck, bug, yeah, yum, ball, star, fish, pig, car, truck, bus, light, up, off, on, book, hat, shirt, shoes, socks, bag, coat, thank you, bless you, uh-oh, shit, pee, poop, blues clues (boo-clu), notebook, clock, see, this, keys, water (wa-wa), no, excuse me, sit, choo-choo, hot, cool, Derick, trash, shut up, bad, boo-boo, door, tree, ick, house, tractor, night-night, back, bubble, bite, block, cuckoo, sink, grandpa, meow, tissue, cheeck, outside, hide, stick, rock, bench, owie, bowl, moon, turtle and deoxyribonucleic acid.

Pretty impressive, huh?

Luck and love

I went shopping today to get Max some Easter presents, and I spent too much. As always when it comes to Max, I go overboard, trying very hard to give him everything he could possibly want or need.

And as cliche as it sounds, all he really needs, and wants for that matter, is love. And I'm really good at giving him that. I don't know if it is because I love him more and more every day or just that he's more and more fun every day (or a combination of both), but I just love spending my time with Max. He makes me smile, he makes me laugh, and I sincerely feel like he is making me a better person because now I feel like I have a true purpose, a true something-to-live-for. I hope that Max knows how much I love him and how important his happiness is to me.

At the risk of using yet another cliche in this post (I know, how annoying!), I am learning as I "grow up" just how important family is. That is not to say I did not understand the importance of it prior to the birth of Max or my dad's cancer diagnosis, but I suppose I can just feel the importance of it more, not just "know" its importance.

To be honest, knowing and feeling just how much I love Max, Brandon, my parents, sisters, etc., actually makes me scared shitless. The fact that I love more and more every day scares me, especially with the reality of cancer smacking me in the face.

This just should not be happening to our family.

I have felt like one of the luckiest people in the world until recently. I have the most perfect son in the world and my love for him has made me feel more love than ever before in my entire life, and yet now I feel as if luck ain't nuffin, honey.