The annual Lenten crash and burn

Well, well, well.

We all saw this one coming. At least I presume most of you fine people did, along with my husband and my entire extended family (we're close knit like that).

Bottom line: committing to a radical total-life overhaul is the number one recommended way to screw up New Years... and Lent. And to do it while pregnant? Even better! That way there's plenty of hormonal support for those lofty goals, fueled by prenatal appointments and late-night Pinterest binge sessions on Paleo meal planning and having "the best pregnancy ever."

I lack self knowledge. Let no one question that.

I also lack humility, apparently, and what better way to remedy that than to admit crushing defeat 9 days into 47?

So the Lenten Whole 40. Um, no. It's not going ... well. We're eating decent, low carb dinners and staying away from sugars and dessert, but other than that, I have utterly failed. First it was the occasional spoonful of crunchy peanut butter to supplement that morning banana. Then it was the occasional glass of whole milk "for the baby." And the only thing less impressive than no finishing this stupid endeavor would be to fail to cop to it here. So, my name's Jenny, and I failed my Lenten sacrifices.

At least, I failed at the ones I picked for myself.

Oh my gosh, it's so predictable and it's so stupid, but it's kind of the same way I feel when I go back to Confession time and time again for the same exact sins, the same exact issues.

I can't do it on my own. 

And when I fail to take His plans into account, I fail. Every time.

Oddly enough, the little penances He chose on my behalf, the sleepless nights with sick kids (again! Again with the ear infections! A pox on this winter!), the teeth-gritting Mommy and Me decade of the Rosary in the mornings, the endlessly pleasant soundtrack of an almost-three-year-old's chronic whining...well those sacrifices are going great.

Seriously, I haven't missed a day yet.

And yesterday I even had the opportunity to re-mop a delicately steam-cleaned kitchen floor when a sweet little somebody barfed up her antibiotics over the side of her high chair.

I'm so lucky.

I mean that. Because look, if I had been relying entirely on my great ideas and lofty goals for self improvement, this Lenten season would already be DOA. And it is. My Lent is dead in the water.

But the one He had in mind for me? It's in full swing.

More time spent in prayer, because I'm drowning and I need His grace to make it till bedtime.

Healthier meals and wiser choices in the grocery store. Because my sane and stable husband is doing marvelously well in his efforts to eat clean. And I'm in charge of the meal planning round here.

Growth in the virtue of patience. Because 4, 3, 1, and 16 weeks in utero. And all very needy. (Though all the small one wants is Cool Ranch Doritos, truth be told. Bad baby.)

Tons of opportunity to grow in humility. Literally, tons. Because my pants don't fit now that, once again, the beautiful soul-stretching work of bringing a new body into the world is destroying mine in the process.

Hello, Lent which was meant for me. It's nice to make your acquaintance. Sorry I'm a week and a half late, it's just that I haven't bothered to look up from my plans until now. But I'm chastened and deflated and feeling much more teachable.

And I promise I'm going to try really, really hard and take my own advice in future years and just accept the Lent that has been handily laid before me, custom crafted for my own particular vices and weaknesses, and not try to concoct one on my own that is so lofty, so fantastically challenging that I've literally no hope of seeing it through.

I'm listening now. And, yeah, I'm eating cheese.

Why I Don't Believe in Parenting Styles

Once upon a time I was newly married and freshly pregnant with our first little bundle of joy, and I had all kinds of plans and ideas for how we were going to raise him. For starters, I would be delivering him naturally because birth is exactly like a marathon and you just need to train for it, everybody knows that.

My little sister who'd flown across the country with her her 6-week old son to stand up in our wedding should have known that, but since she ended up getting an epidural, she obviously hadn't put in the work to train for it. (Somehow, she refrained from punching me in the face. Bless her.)

But I was going to do it differently. I was going to birth my baby naturally, with my husband-coach standing supportively at my side, and then I was going to exclusively breast feed because of course it was best for his little brain and it would handily assist me in losing all 55 lbs. of baby weight within 6 weeks of giving birth.

I remember vividly the first time we gave him a pacifier. He was about 3 weeks old, neither of us had slept in as many days, and one evening during an hours-long scream fest I furtively pleaded for my husband to run down to the car and dig around in the backseat where I thought I'd remembered throwing the free sample pacifier from the hospital.

"Nobody has to know, we'll just give it to him this once. He'll still nurse, right? Right?!" 

Sobbing, second-guessing, and then, wonder of wonders...a calmed and soothed baby. Who went on to breastfeed for 13 grueling and occasionally rewarding months. I remember being so proud that his first beverage other than breast milk was plain old dairy milk. No nasty formula for my little prince, I was mommy, hear me roar.

About a year and a half later I was standing in an Italian farmacia on a Roman street corner, anxiously scanning the shelves of baby supplies, trying to select a formula that might be good enough for my colicky 10 month old who'd never slept through the night and who had injured me so severely with his budding teeth that I had to supplement for a couple days. Let's just say I chose unwisely.

Boom.

By our third trip down L&D lane, I swung merrily into the nurses' station after 3 days of prodromal labor and announced that I'd like my epidural placed now-ish, and that I didn't want to feel anything other than joy for the next 12 hours.

The unifying theme to all of the above? Well, aside from the obvious you don't know parenting until you've done it with each particular child, the common thread is this: never say never.

Unless, of course, it's truly an issue of good versus evil.

I've learned to pick my battles in the ongoing drama that is the mommy wars, and there are only a handful of hills I'm willing to die on. They all have something in common though: they deal in objective moral reality.

Have a different style of discipline than we do? Great! We can still totally be friends. Super into co-sleeping and attachment style parenting? Okay, well that's cool if it works for your family. Feeding your children conventional dairy products and processed chicken nuggets? Hey, if the grocery budget balances, who am I to judge?

But seriously, none of those issues deal in moral objectives. There is no black and white when it comes to pacifiers vs. nursing on demand, sleeping at mommy's bedside vs. a room with a view down the hall, and appropriate spanking vs. love and logic.

The issues I will do battle over? Exposing our kids to evil via inappropriate television or movies. Vulgar or sexual language in front of them. Violence - true violence, not playground scuffles - against them or by them. Those are moral issues. Those are the times when parents must stand up and fight.

But for the love of all the loves, let's back the flip down when it comes to co-sleeping. Let's stop spamming up threads all over social media about immunization. Let's not pat ourselves on the back so hard we fall flat on our faces if we've been blessed with an unusually compliant toddler who doesn't need to be leashed near traffic, because we all know it's our immaculate parenting practices that are responsible for his angelic nature.

The truth of it is, kids are a crazy combination of genetics and gentrification, nature and nurture. And for the most part, every parent is doing their best with what they've been given. And please, please let this filter down deep inside your mommy brain: nobody is parenting at you.

If your sister posts a Dr. Sears article on her Facebook page, you don't need to feel affronted. If your best friend chooses not to vaccinate with morally-questionable (NOT illicit, mind you, but questionable, i.e. up for determination by the individual conscience) formulations, she is not trying to kill your newborn. And if your mother in law chides you for not giving that squalling 4 month old a hearty bottle of cow's milk, smile kindly and thank her for her suggestion. No need to whip out The Womanly Art and start quoting scripture to her.

You are not a hero for birthing a baby without drugs. You are not a criminal for putting your child in day care. You are not a negligent mother for working outside the home. And you are not a thoughtless breeder for having your children 15 months apart. You are an unique, unrepeatable individual and a highly-specialized expert in your field: your kids.

Nobody else has the right to raise them. God knows, because He's the one who gave them to you. 

So strap on that Ergo. Or don't! Toss that chubby baby in an exersaucer and hit the treadmill next to them. Hell, switch on that iPad and take a shower by yourself. And be confident enough in your decision that you don't waste precious time and energy defending your choices to strangers on the internet or your comrades in arms at play group.

Because whatever else you're choosing to do for your child, in your home, in your family...you surely don't have the time for that.

Sun's out, guns out

Not to taunt you East Coasters and Midwesterners too mercilessly, but we're kind of basking in the gentle glow of January in Denver right now.

So there's been lots of this

And this

And not much writing.

But I'm also fighting nasty nasty bronchitis which rears its wheezing head at approximately 10 pm till I don't even want to tell you every night, so I'm immensely grateful for climate change right now, and the opportunity to turn the ruffians into the yard for the entire afternoon so I can scrub the kitchen, pay bills, and hunch over an essential oil diffuser, huffing thieves oil and shooting lemon water and trying not to (TMI TMI) pee my pants.

Pregnancy is much less glam the fourth time around.

Any homeopathic remedies you want to throw my way, I can almost guarantee I'll try them. My doctor took enough pity to prescribe an inhaler, but not so much that he released any codeine into my clutches. Tiny, drug-seeking violin.

How's your longest month going? Any resolutions still kicking?

I'm still clean and sober, 27 days strong. My confused eldest son has started calling the grocery store "Target," so I think that tells you how ingrained his loyalty habits are from a young age.

Oh, I also joined the future and borrowed an ebook from the library. Technology. And I wait listed 19 best sellers that I will be awarded in approximately 14 months, give or take the line ahead of me. I guess that's why people buy books? But not having Amazon prime has been clutch for curbing my little dalliances with impulse spending.

On the relocation front, I'm going to be hanging out here, temporarily, on CNA. I'll still be cross posting everything on the blog until the technical stuff all wraps, but it seems like all systems are go for eventually being able to type in Mama Needs Coffee and still landing in my hood. The only potential snag I can see is that the feed itself will change, so if you read in Bloglovin or Feedly or some other reader, you may have to resubscribe. I'll figure out all the details for you though, fret not.

And finally, did you see Grace's news? I loved the graphic she found. I actually told a friend earlier today that he was off the hook for needing to offer congratulations since this is #4, and he could just say "of course you are." Which I infinitely prefer to "don't you know what causes that?"

Between her, Hallie, Blythe, Kendra, and me, we're going to singlehandedly repopulate the blogosphere. And then, the earth.

Oh, and speaking of world domination, I can't believe you guys voted me into the most undeserved category for the Sheenazing awards, but I'll take it. I couldn't believe it when Bonnie emailed me, especially given the company I was keeping in that nomination category. So thank you, truly.

Jesus doesn't care about your epidural

... At least not any more or any less than He cares about your harrowing trip to the dentist sans novocaine, your half marathon finished under 2 hours with a stress fracture in your tibia, or your heroic push through to bedtime while your better half is away on business and the natives are restless. And pooping in the bathtub.

I've observed an uncomfortable phenomenon in the Catholic blogosphere whereby some moms seem to be trying to out-suffer each other with gruesome labor tales, stories of timing contractions to correlate with each mystery of the full, 20-decade rosary and, my personal favorite, uniting the incredible pain of labor to the mystery of Christ's redemptive suffering on the Cross. Because holiness.

This is right and good. It is what we as Christians are called to do: unite temporal suffering to the salvific passion of Christ.

But, here's the thing. There are as many ways to suffer virtuously as there are human persons on this planet. And there is nothing uniquely efficacious about labor pains and the grueling achievement of birthing a fresh human being. Aside from the fact that in modern day 21st century America, it might be the closest many of us come to true physical anguish for the first time in our lives. And I totally get that. That is powerful.

But there is nothing about labor - particularly labor sans meds - which makes the suffering incurred more holy or more effective than any other cause of suffering. And there is nothing wrong with a woman choosing to forgo or mitigate some of that incredible physical pain with modern medicine. It doesn't make you less of a Christian. It doesn't make you less of a hero. And it definitely doesn't make you less of a mother.

Look, I'm all for a good birth story. God knows I've penned a few in my day. But let's cut the crap and stop trying to one up each other in the delivery room (or in the birthing pool, as it were.) It's not a competition. And you are not more holy than what's-her-name if you did it all without a needle stuck in your back or an incision across your bikini line.

We live in a time where medicine is available to mitigate the pain of labor. And God did not say "though shalt not numb thy nether regions for to give birth is to remove the stain of original sin."

That's actually what baptism is for (the stain removal, not the numbed nether regions. But I digress.)

I love that some women are prepared to enter into the birth experience with a clear mind and veins absent of any controlled substances. My two best friends have birthed 7 children between them using nothing stronger than castor oil. Good for them!

And if that is your story too, then good for you! May your child know of the real sacrifice you made, for whatever reason, to bring them into this world au natural.

But may you never presume that the months of sleepless nights with a newborn, the horrors of mastitis, the hell of postpartum depression, or the pain of recovering from a c-section are somehow lesser sufferings. We each carry our own crosses. And no two look the same.

There's no one way to have a baby. Thank God for that.

9 months on, 9 months off

I realized yesterday as I was bent upside down coaxing volume into my limp postpartum locks that on the morning of Evie's 9 month birthday, exactly 9 months to the day of her arrival ex utero, I felt like myself. And I was so grateful.

My eldest son punctuated my moment of epiphany by wandering into my bathroom, looking at my washed and styled hair, cocking his head to one side and announcing: "You don't look like my Mommy. Why did you do that to your hairs?" 

It's called a curling iron, son. And your future wife can thank me for setting that bar niiiiiice and low.


When Joey was a baby I obsessed over the concept of "nine months on, nine months off" and was fanatical about trying to coax the nearly 60 lbs I'd gained off my petite frame. I couldn't fathom a future where I walked around borderline obese, and I lamented the boxes and boxes of White Cheddar Cheezits I'd thoughtlessly tossed back while cooking my plump firstborn turkey. Jillian Michaels and I did hard time together most afternoons, and I tried my pre baby pants on once a week, crying in defeat when they wouldn't ascend any further than my hips.

When I finally arrived at the magical number (not even on the scale, but in the pants) I promptly got pregnant a second time and resigned myself to more of the same, only with 100% more gym dedication. I still gained 50 lbs, but I worked out 6 days a week and I was definitely a "fitter" second time preggo. And you know what? The weight came off a little easier, too. But both times I spent a good amount of my post partum "recovery" period doing anything but recovering. Mostly I vacillated between binging on tortilla chips and sticking to a strictly-regimented Weight Watcher's plan which imperiled my milk supply and left me feeling guilty and anxious. (Disclaimer: WW is probably a good fit for lots of people! But for me, with my history of eating disorder, it was a match made in body shaming hell.)

This time has been different. This time I've been more aware that yes, it's frustrating to be bigger and softer and slower than "normal," whatever exactly normal means anymore, but that it is, in fact, temporary. I've spent more time enjoying the baby and less time bemoaning the body. Do I still bitch about my love handles to my sister and cry on the phone to my best friend about my pants size? I mean, absolutely, but it's not the all-consuming focus that it once was.

I wanted to share with you guys some things that I think have helped this time around be my most pleasant postpartum period, mental illness aside.

First, I bought a new wardrobe. Not like a new, new wardrobe, but I went to a couple cheap stores and picked up a 2-sizes-too-big but fits just right right now pair of dark wash, high rise jeans and a plethora of flowy, forgiving tops. I also kept my Blanqi locked firmly in the torso position for the entire 4th trimester, and I was happy. And so were my sprung out hips.

There's nothing more depressing (too me, anyway) in the sartorial realm than shimmying into a big-ass pair of blown out maternity jeans while your 3 week old voms on the bed beside you. Nothing quite like it. Do yourself a favor and retire those belly banded beauties as soon as you check out of hotel hospital. (Unless you had a c-section, because I've heard they're easy on the scars. But otherwise I really can't fathom a reason to put yourself through that.) Old Navy and Walmart are pretty much everywhere, and you can score yourself a $15 pair of skinnies to get you through the dark times.

Second, set measurable, realistic fitness goals, not weight loss goals. My FitBit and the step-counter app I downloaded were invaluable tools that helped me hit my 10,000 step per day target starting back in the spring, and they helped me reacquaint my tired mommy body with physical activity not involving pushing or lifting. On the (many) days I didn't get any further than yoga pants, I at least had some hard evidence for the work I'd put it.

On the matter of physical fitness, it helped me tremendously to retrain my brain to see activity as directly correlated to overall wellness and success in mothering, not only as a means by which I might attain blue jean nirvana. Once I stopped seeing "working out" as some vaguely punitive means by which I might become hot one day and started realizing the real, tangible benefits of physical activity on my energy levels and domestic acumen, something clicked for me and I wanted to work out. Not just to have "worked out," but I craved the actual process instead of obsessing over the desirable end. Game changer, big time.

Finally, I embraced the stupid expression. At least internally. Sitting in Mass with a gassy newborn and catching sight of a skinny friend a few rows up, bouncing her 3-week-old on a slender hip? 9 months on, 9 months off.

Seeing on social media that your college roommate just ran her best ever half marathon time while her 3 month old watched from the sidelines? 9 months on, 9 months off.

Standing in the dressing room at H&M with a 7-month-old sausage strapped to your chest, trying to translate European sizes into US and feeling a stroke coming on when you realize your current size? 9 months on, 9 months off.

Tugging in vain at the zipper on your favorite cocktail dress while your 14-month old tugs at your suddenly shorter hemline, impeding your preparations for a long-awaited date night?

9 months on, 9 months off was just a number, after all.

You were never actually going to *get* your pre baby body back, anyway. Because that body was transformed and transfigured by new life. And no amount of low carbing or tread milling or denim shimmying can erase those effects.

But know this mama: there is a day in your future where you will see your altered and perhaps slightly haggard reflection in your bathroom mirror and you will feel like you again, promise. It might take a few months longer than you expect, and it might happen on a totally different timeline than you envisioned, but she's in there. You're in there. I promise.

And happiest 3/4's birthday to my petite principessa. You're certainly not the size your mama envisioned that you would be today, Genevieve, but you are utterly lovely to behold, and you're super easy on your mama's back.

Silver linings, right?

Won't *something* wreck our bodies eventually?

Ah, summertime...when a young (or old) mom's fancy turns to thoughts of swim suits. Or at least mine does. Now I'm a lifelong swimmer. 9 competitive seasons under my belt and countless stints on the lifeguard stand. I'm actually less traumatized in the fitting room by swimwear than by any pair of jeans I've tried in the last 4 years. I guess it's like a second skin for me, in a very real sense. And nobody's skin is perfect, you know?

But I know for lots of people, especially mom-shaped people, swimsuit shopping is thee worst. On par with dentistry and public speaking and unmedicated birthing and all manner of horrors (not judging any dentists, conference speakers or natural birthers here. Just identifying usual suspects of terror).

I'm sure everyone has read at least one piece this summer (see what I did there?) extolling the virtue of just putting on the damn suit and jumping in the water, and that's all true and good. Some writers reasoned it is for our children's sakes that we ought to suit up and get to splashing. Others insist that our bodies are made for more than just lookin' good (don't I know it) and that doing it for the kids indicates that there is some kind of aesthetic nose-holding going on and that we really need to be more comfortable with whatever shape we're in, and not endlessly consumed by some sisyphian quest to alter it. I can see both sides.

And then some of us - some of us just want to be left alone, both by the mirror and by the assessing eyes of the general public. Sure, it'd be nice to look toned and tanned in a two piece, and sure, it'd be great to have sand as the primary irritant of water play and not the arduous ascent of one's bottoms to one's waist once wet.

All this talk of spandex got me thinking. And now that I'm walking roughly 5 miles a day, I have a lot more time for thinking lately, even when I'm pushing and hauling child tonnage around the neighborhood. So I was wearing Evie, pushing the boys and sweating my literal ass off and smiling at the thought of that metaphor becoming sweet reality and it suddenly, startlingly occurred to me that no matter how great of shape the miles I'm logging gets me into, the inevitable ravages of time and work and (hopefully) future pregnancies and nursing are still going to destroy things, aesthetically speaking.

This has occurred to me before on some level. Earlier this year when I was still wearing workout clothes day and night and chugging aqua from my hospital-issued jug, my little sister helpfully (and fraternally, if a sister can speak in such a manner) pointed out that I wasn't getting any younger (and, presumably, any hotter) so I may as well get dressed and put on makeup, no matter how rough I felt, because there truly is no time aside from the present that we have to actually live in our bodies.

Now maybe you don't wear makeup. That's fine! I don't wear a ton, but I find that on the days I go further than my spf tinted moisturizer, blush/bronzer and eyebrow filling, I feel markedly better. Even with the same amount of sleep/coffee. There's something very life-giving for me about getting dressed, albeit in very simple, preppy clothes, and swiping on a bit of mascara. It helps me take my job more seriously as a mother, and it helps me present a more joyful persona to the general public.

All that is good, and it's helpful for me to be aware of the tone I set for our day with my level of self care. I also think it's a bit of a witness to not present to the outside world the shrewing, frantic mess I am on the inside, lest they feel confirmed in their suspicions that having children is a hell of a lot of work which daily sucks the marrow from your very bones.

But you know what else sucks the marrow from your bones? I mean, aside from being bone-marrow donor, which would be an excellent practical application of life-giving love.

Life. The ravages of time. Pulling all nighters for work (or for partying). Traveling the globe. Digging ditches. Landing contracts. Getting on and off of highway exits. Gravity. Gluten.

Whatever it is you're spending your time (your body's time, too, because you are your body) doing, it's undoing you. Piece by piece, wrinkle by wrinkle, cell by cell. It's all breaking down, even as we're busy building up a life for ourselves. And the only thing any of us are going to have to show for it, in the end, is a laundry list of accomplishments or failures. And I think relationships will be at the top of the laundry list.

It's comforting to me, not in a sadistic way but in a serene and pragmatic way, to think that no matter what, 50 years from now, if I'm still chilling in my mortal form, I'll look pretty much like old lady in the Denny's booth next to mine. Okay maybe I'll have a tad more sun damage, but at 81 years old, I don't think anyone will be counting my sunspots and wrinkling their already wrinkled nose over it.

So no matter what choices I make now, my body is going to look pretty much the same. I mean, maybe I will score some additional longevity if I eat well and stay active, but no amount of starvation dieting or pinning miracle smoothies or popping birth control pills to keep my waistline trim and my bank account plump is going to make me any better looking, in the end.

So while I feel very acutely that I am quite literally spending myself for the sake of my children, I struggle to identify another, worthier cause in which to invest.

Our culture is obsessed with becoming - and remaining - thin. With appearing more beautiful. With capturing and domesticating youth, both in appearance and in behavior. But it's all fleeting. And truly, there is nothing sadder than a 60-year-old man or woman dressing down by 3 or 4 decades, desperately striving to appear relevant. Desirable. Loved.

But what about the 60-year-old who is desired, deeply, by her husband? By his children? By her friends and co-workers?

What about the person who has invested deeply, not in himself (though there's nothing wrong with self investment, rightly-ordered) but in the relationships which are the very essence of life? How good will that feel, to be fading into antiquity as we all do, but to be very much unforgettable to the children you've raised, the spouse you've loved faithfully, the friends you've nurtured, the lives you've spent your own on?

There is no original thought here, just the arresting realization that it's all passing away, and that no matter how much I might want to look like another body, I'm in this one, and I'm the only one who can choose how I'll use it, how I'll spend myself.

Our culture tells us that to spend a life in service to another is a waste. To give up one's very body in bearing and nurturing life is obscene, is antithetical to real happiness.

I beg to differ. I look down at my soft, motherly midsection and I know that while it's hard to give up the body I once had, we're all asked, each of us, to surrender the goods eventually.

The only real question is, will you give it away, or will it be taken from you by force?

I choose life. I choose to give it away. It's a small cross, and it's marred by stretch marks and double digits in the denim department, but I won't be any more beautiful in 50 years for refusing it.

In fact, in embracing the cross of life, I might just guarantee beauty beyond all comprehension.

7QT: Weight loss after baby and 'the new normal'

Joining Jen et. al. for the weekly.

So I was aaaaaaall set to bang out a couple trite lines today about keeping your nose to the grindstone and sticking to a clean eating plan and letting those mommy pounds roll off your back(fat) but then, but then...I happened to clickity click over to Bonnie's place before I opened my blogger window and bam. Gut check. Reality check. Reminder of what really matters, aesthetically speaking.

So I'll still share my personal experiences with the body after baby...but maybe in a less ascorbic tone? Heck, I'm still working on getting dressed in the morning (this post was super inspiring in that regard) and making a teeny bit of time for daily prayer (mostly fail, but I'm trying.) so this is very, very much a work in progress. End disclaimer.

Lipstick, earring, huge sunglasses. No shower necessary.

My bag 'o tricks for getting back to normal:

1. Walking. Sounds a little disappointing, right? Wrong. I was an avid runner (think 5 half marathons) before I had kids and so far, until this post partum period, I would spend months trying to coax my stretched and taxed body back into something resembling race shape so I could proudly reclaim my identity of 'runner.' This time around, thanks to a healthy dose of reality (I have very little, very needy kids and even less energy and no apparent chunk of time in which I might even attempt to run) I've decided to embrace my inner grandma and ... walk it out.

Plus, while living in Rome during the first 2 trimesters of this most recent pregnancy, I gained almost zero weight until week 21, a feat which has never even come close to being repeated. I chalk it up to the daily grind of 3-4 miles of casual walking which was oh-so-conveniently integrated into daily life there. Plus 80+ pounds of stroller weight to muscle around.

Now obviously I'm not able to exactly replicate that whilst living in far-flung suburbia, but I've been trying to log miles either on the walking trail in the evening or at the gym, and on the days I can hit that magic 3 mile mark...I feel pretty good.

2. Arbonne protein shakes. I attempted their 28 day detox program but then was slightly distracted by a combination of a family-wide stomach flu epidemic and then an impromptu trip to Italy involving multiple days of pasta/gelato/pastries/wine/repeat ... but I've still managed to shed about 12 lbs since I started incorporating their protein shakes and a daily cup or two of their detox tea into my diet. Here's a fun fact: my best friend (that's not her on the splash page; she's hotter than that) is an executive vice president in their company, and she regularly hooks me up with steeply discounted product. Since I'm giving her a little shine here today, she graciously offered to host a giveaway for a bag of my fav: vegan, GF chocolate protein powder ($69 value) `which, when mixed with ice, water, and a banana, tastes about as close to ice cream as I'll let myself come most days. You can enter a couple different ways at the end of this post.

3. The Perfect Health Diet. Bought the book ala Jen's recommendation, devoured it in about a day and a half (it's very, very 'science' soooo...be warned.) and immediately began trying to implement the dietary recommendations. I've yet to get on the supplement train, but on the days when I do eat in the proportions recommended by the authors, I feel really good and my blood sugar is scary stable. (Basic framework: 1 lb of proteins, 1 lb of safe starches, 2 lbs of leafy green things per day)

4. Showering. I know, I know...the irony. But here's the thing: when I make the effort to put myself together for the day, even if it's only in my favorite sweat skirt (I feel dirty just typing that) I make better choices re: food and exercise. And I just feel better when I catch a glimpse of my clean momself in the mirror and don't see a greasy teenager staring back at me.

5. Positive self talk. I know, I know...the worst. But actually the best. And if you can change the narrative in your head about the way you see yourself, you'll start to actually see yourself. Like the way God sees you. And the way your husband sees you. And you'll start to make peace with yourself for looking exactly as you do right now, in this season, instead of longing for some you of yesteryear with a 28 inch waist and a closet full of size 6 jeans. And when you are kind to yourself, you'll actually make better choices concerning food and exercise. It's amazing.

6. Avoid the sugar. I know, I know, it's a bit of a reiteration of #3, but seriously...added sugar is what makes food hit my brain like crack. I've always fancied myself a salty gal, but when I started to really look at the labels of my salt-laden favorites, I realized they were actually loaded with sugar, and since I don't get the same 'buzz' from salted almonds, for example, as from salt and vinegar potato chips, it's probably not just the salt that's driving my fierce need to empty the whole bag.

7. Nine months on, nine months off (or longer, depending on how close together your kids are/how many pregnancies you've had). Horrifying? Perhaps a bit. Realistic? Yep.

Our bodies are doing some pretty heavy lifting (har har) during our childbearing years, and when you couple gestating with lactating, well...some things just aren't going back to 'normal' anytime soon. You have a new normal. No, this does not mean you will forever be 30 lbs overweight and looking perpetually 5 months pregnant, but, there are certain things that make a body hang onto lbs like there's a famine on the horizon, and for yours truly, that's breastfeeding. I'm resigned to the reality that as long as I'm lactating, I'm going to have a good 12-15 lbs of 'backup weight' my body just refuses to surrender. Okay baby, you win this round.

Hope these were moderately helpful and not boring as hell. Back to sipping my espresso and pulling my wild animals off each other's throats. Happy Friday!

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Oops, it happened again

Well, I didn't quite make my 7 in 7 goal…but it seems like a lot of us are in that camp.

C'est la life of a mommyblogger, eh?

Speaking of life, and of mommy blogging, how's this for some shit?

I have post partum depression. Again.

Thinking that I had sailed smoothly past the telltale signs and symptoms of this most dreadful of maternal foes, I somehow failed to connect the dots until this past weekend:

• anger, uncontrollable at times
• exhaustion, bone-deep, even after 8 + hours of sleep
• shortest temper ever (think tears and wailing over spilled milk, smeared poop, burnt toast)
• stalled weight loss/insatiable appetite (hmmm, those two might be more closely related to each other than to an outside impetus. I'll get back to you on that one.)
• weeping spells
• feelings of "I can't do this"/"This was a terrible mistake"
• the unshakeable certainty that I was certainly the most unfit mother in all the land
• numbness and the propensity to 'zone out' periodically throughout the day

etcetera, etcetera.

I thought it was worth putting it out there, embarrassing and humbling or no, simply because I've talked about it here before and gotten so much amazing feedback from my mom-rades in arms, and also because duh, this is a blog, and what good is a blogger without transparency?

So there it is. I have it, again. And maybe I'm the stupid one for saying "yes" to a new baby 3 times in 4 years, or maybe this is just the particular cross I've been handed to carry at this moment, but whatever the case may be, I don't see any benefit to avoiding it here on the 'ol blog. I'm not asking for commentary from the peanut gallery on how 'stupid' having kids is when you're mentally ill/prone to mental illness (aren't we all, as humans?) and believe me, I've had that kind of feedback in the past. But it won't keep me from speaking out because I know there are other moms out there who are dealing with this, who have dealt with this, and who will deal with this in the future. And it sucks. And you feel totally alone and alienated from reality and out of touch with your past/present/future self…but here's the thing: it's not you. 

I'll never forget something Dave said to me while we were dating, and I know I've mentioned it here before. After I confessed to him my struggle with depression and the embarrassment and sorrow I felt over my illness he wrote me a beautiful letter - in Adoration, no less - and in it he quoted Bl. John Paul II who adjures Christians to remember that "the person is not their illness, and is never to be confused with the condition from which they suffer" … or something to that effect.

"You are not your illness, Jenny" was the specific line that stands out in my memory of that letter from him. I believed it then, and I still believe it now, and that's why I feel confident in sharing this here. Because it's not me. It's something that is happening to me, yes, but it's not the sum of who I am as a person, or as a mother. I've been a good mother before. And I'll be a good mother again. And in fact, I'm a good mother even now, in the midst of the hard times, because I'm still doing it, dammit. Because adulthood. And responsibility. And faithfulness.

Anyway, I'm taking steps to get better. I had some progesterone injections today, courtesy of my fantastic Creighton-trained doctor. I'm in the process of scheduling some counseling sessions to talk it out. I'm working with my Creighton instructor (who happens to be a nurse and a nutrition junkie herself, conveniently enough) to plot a course using supplements and nutritional tweaks. I might even get rilly crazy and toy with the dose on my regular 'ol daily antidepressant (for my regular 'ol depression, not to be confused with PPD. Aren't I a lot of fun?)

At any rate, we'll see how things go. Already after just 2 progesterone shots today I feel as if there is air in the room again, if you know what I mean. Before I could breathe and breathe and still feel oxygen deprived. But now…it's all seeming a little lighter. A little more manageable. 

So that's where I'm at. I'm not looking for sympathy here, but I am asking for empathy, because I know there are enough of us out there who have gone through this, or who know somebody who is going through this. Pray for them. Offer to watch their kids so they can get to a doctor's/therapist's appointment. Don't say stupid stuff to them like "well, maybe you should stop getting pregnant if it makes you so sick." Hi, that's asinine, and it's equivalent to telling cops to quit showing up for their shifts if they don't want to keep getting shot. Occupational hazard and all. Rant over.

I hope this helps someone. Or I hope it helps you understand someone you love.

I do know one thing: she was more than worth it.

Genevieve Therese: a birth story (2 of 2)

(Part 1 here)

**As a disclaimer, I should really be sleeping right now. All three kids are napping simultaneously, and the house is awash in white noise via the washer, dryer, dishwasher, and sonic spa 'ocean waves' setting pumping out tropical vibes to the dormitory wing. Basically we're living high on the energy-consuming hog as we ring in day 2 of Christmas…God bless America.

I don't desperately need a nap, however, because my angel of a third born slept for seven! straight! hours! last night (Knocking frantically on wood as I type this) and I feel good. Reaaaaal good. Listen up readers, if any of you out there in blogland are on the fence about baby number three, go for it! I honestly and truly feel like God has patted my dear head and handed me a human/angel hybrid to raise, perhaps as a reward for the two sleepless wonders who proceeded this latest edition? Perhaps I've just hit the genetic lottery? Perhaps I'm too stupid to realize it's only day 11 of this honeymoon, and hard times are a 'comin?

Whatever the case may be, this baby is amazing, and I am completely and utterly obsessed with her. I would go so far as to say she has given me a greater capacity to love her two older brothers as well, but they have each woken up at least once per night since she arrived, so I won't give them any such shout out. (But it might just be true.) So third baby…do it! Just do it and don't look back, it's joyful chaos, I tell you. And I can already feel and see myself relaxing/lowering my standards/calming the eff down … this baby is all around good for my soul, good for my marriage, and good for our family. End PSA.

So the birth story, where were we? Oh yes, the anesthesiologist. She finally showed up, and wouldn't you know it, so did my 1 minute apart, 90-second long contractions. Do you know what my least favorite thing about labor is? Aside from the hideous expression 'second degree tear,' that is? It's that 3 minutes of hell on wheels where you are supposed to 'arch your back like a cat, that's a good girl, push your back toward my hand, now hoooooold still.' 

Oh, I'm sorry,

seismic tidal waves
are slamming through my body
tearing me apart (labor: a haiku)

And I should hold still for you? Maybe if you had arrived 2 hours ago when I had requested your presence, milady. So we did the epidural dance, she and I. A jab here, a shuddering jerk there, and a whole lot of writhing and sweating. At one point once she'd placed the initial line I felt a hideous electric shock travel down my left leg, which started involuntarily twitching, Riverdance style, and it was at this point I found the only true moment of terror in this labor experience.

Oh God, what's happening, this is that rare 'reaction' they warn you about on Babycenter.com, the epidural isn't going to work, I am going to feel everything, I just sustained major nerve damage on my left side, they can't cover up my pain, aaaaaaiaiiiiiiiiiii…..

Or something along those lines. Undeterred, the good drug doctor proclaimed my reaction 'weird,' before asking if I had any inflamed or injured discs in my back (I didn't until you just skewered one with your needle, lady) and then telling me she was going to 'back up' and 'try another point of entry.' One more cat curl, one more stick, this one not directly into some sensitive nerve junction in my spinal cord, aaaaaaaand sweet, cold relief. So sweet and so cold, in fact, that I shook for a good 15 minutes after she left, and I ended up feeling a bit on the numbish side from about the sternum down, soooooo, effective, but not my best anesthetic experience to date. (I was, however, able to hop out of bed 40 minutes after delivering and walk to the bathroom like nothing had happened, so it wore off quickly.)

So I'm drugged. I'm feeling the burn as the second round of my strep B + antibiotics course through my IV, I'm strapped into multiple monitors and I have a rolled up towel under one side to distribute the happy juice evenly…and I'm so, so calm. It certainly isn't the empowering warrior-princess birth I've read of countless times on crunchier websites and in Ina May volumes, but it is wonderful in its own right. I was just so, so grateful and aware of the blessings of every detail of this delivery, from being in America with a vehicle to take me to a hospital with real, certified doctors (and an effective, if somewhat inexpertly applied, epidural) and a private birthing room and room service and my good, holy doctor and I could have gone on and on (and I probably did, poor Dave) but let's just say that it was one hundred million times better than the Italian medical immersion experience we'd been planning on. To infinity and free cable and beyond.

Back to business. I was approaching 'complete' and the nurses started a little confusing argument about whether or not my water had broken. It has always been a fairly obvious event for me, so I was confused over there confusion, and they were confused over not being able to determine whether Evie was still living in her bubble world or not. When my doctor finally arrived (toting a gorgeous icon of Our Lady of Guadalupe, whom he positioned at the foot of my bed) he assessed the situation, looked quizzically at the nurses, told them he was going to break my water as it was very much still intact, and went ahead with that plastic knitting needle I've heard so much about. Both times before my water had broken on its own, so this was kind of a weird new sensation. Not unpleasant or painful, just odd. Afterwards everyone kind of set things up in the room and then turned to me expectantly.

Dr.: So, should we start pushing?

Jenny: Um, if you want me to?

Dr.: Do you feel like pushing?

Jenny: I mean I don't have a lot of feeling, but I could try to push if you want me to

Dr.: Would you like to have the baby now?

Jenny:…

It was as weird as it sounds. I laughed and decided that yes, now would be a fine time to have a baby, and, warning the entire room that I was a 'bad pusher,' we commenced.

I think, all in all, it was around 30 minutes, maybe less, but it was the strangest sensation. My babies tend to hang out super high until the very last minute, so it's only right as they're about to crown that I feel anything close to a real 'urge to push.' This time, however, I felt it much more acutely than with the boys' deliveries. I had instructed Dave to put Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" on a few minutes earlier, and now Dave Matthews was playing into the otherwise quiet delivery room. Really touching details, these, but they're ones that stick with me. All of a sudden my 'bad' pushing became quite effective, and in one contraction out came half a little dark head of hair. All the nurses oohed and aaahed over her luscious locks, and I determined that it would not be pleasant to wait 60 seconds for another contraction and went ahead and delivered the rest of her by sheer force of will, I think. My doctor laughed and said something like, 'Oh, she's going for it!' and then, oh that wondrous moment, she was here.

I couldn't believe it, even after 3 kids it's still the most shocking thing in the world when they put that squirmy, squishy baby on your chest (well, stomach, her cord was so short she couldn't even reach past my belly button!) and you realize that there was another human being inside of your body. And all you really did was cooperation with God's timing and His design plans. And okay, maybe upped your caloric intake and popped a few prenatals. And then boom. Baby. Perfect little slippery naked baby, not even crying, just looking around and grimacing and blinking her dark, dark eyes under the harsh fluorescent lighting and wondering what she'd gotten herself into.

She did eventually cry, and she also looked straight at her daddy as he whispered to her while they checked her stats.

Apgar of 8/9, weight at 6 lbs 6 oz (my smallest by more than 2 lbs!) and a petite 18.5 inches long. They brought her back to me and she nursed like a champ for more than an hour, hooting and squeaking in between sips like she'd been doing it for years, as if she hadn't just miraculously transitioned from living under water, breathing liquid, and receiving nutrition through a feeding tube in her belly button for goodness sakes…what a miraculous, intricate and immensely effective design. Who could have written this program?

Only Him. There's no other sufficient explanation for the miracle of new life, whether it transpire in a hemp-oil scented hot tub in London, a yurt in Siberia, or a LDR suite in North America. Miraculous, tiny Genevieve, we're so glad you're here. And mommy is so happy you came 10 days early and 2 lbs light. What a sweet, considerate little girl. I love you to the moon and back, and I'm so glad I get to be your mama. Remind me of all this in 12 or 13 years.

Xoxo.

Genevieve Therese: A birth story

My little daughter, my first ever newborn with a 'sleep' setting, is nestled into her rock n' play (infinitely superior to a pack n' play, thanks Holly) peacefully dreaming at my bedside, and I figured why not bang this birthing tome out before Advent comes to a close. I'm still kind of reeling from the pleasant surprise of having another early bebe (Joey came at 37w5d), and at one week post partum exactly, I feel surprisingly good. It might just be that Christmas time is the best time to have a baby, because the whole world is gearing up for a glorious party, and nobody has to be in swimsuit shape any time soon.

Not in swimsuit shape. Not a problem.

So last Friday night. 38 weeks, 3 days, and feeling every minute of it. I had spent the past week helping my sister move into and arrange her new house, and while I avoided heavy lifting etc like an obedient little lady, I still did way too much and worked way too hard for far too many hours, so I was feeling like a train wreck. Dave was away for the night at a Nugget's game, (with my blessing, I had a hunch it might be his last night of 'freedom' for a while), and my sister had agreed to repay my manual labor with a few hours' of free babysitting, so off I trotted to my favorite Asian masseuse for a little induction massage. I can't even call it anything else at this point, since I've now had 100% success of induction via foot massage.

I heaved my weary body into the chair and Ying looked me up and down appraisingly,

"You ready?"

"Yep."

"You go to hospital now?"

I cocked one eyebrow in mild alarm,

"Well, yeah, if labor starts."

"Okay then, you tell me if it too hard."

And we were off.

Now this isn't some kind of tortuous, violent pummeling we're talking about here. It's actually a fairly relaxing and somewhat gentle head/neck/shoulders/foot/leg/back massage. But the money is in the 15-20 minutes spent on the foot/ankle region. That seems to be what kicks my body into baby town, every time.

I was having mild feelings of conflicting guilt while she worked my feet, realizing that 7 pm on a Friday night with my husband all the way across town at a major sporting event was probably an inopportune time to start labor. But, I was so tired. And so sore. And I just didn't have the heart to stop her once she started on my swollen ankles. Once the massage was over and I was waddling out to my car I realized that I was already having mild contractions, but that overall my body felt good for the first time in weeks. I decided to go home, hit the warm bath, and see if anything came of it.

Dave rolled in around 11 pm, and the contractions were still coming at fairly regular intervals, but they were mild. I told him to try to sleep and I wandered the house, ping-ponging between the living room and the family room, trying to decide if the lumpy microfiber couch was more comfortable than the sweaty pleather number. Around 5 am I was convinced that we needed to head to the hospital, as my contractions had been 5 minutes apart for about 6 hours at this point. Never mind the fact that they still weren't terribly painful and that I insisted we hit up the Starbucks drive thru en route. (Note: if you are interested in coffee and/or sausage breakfast sandwiches, you're probably not in active labor.)

A couple snooty nurses, one very friendly and compassionate one, and 3 odd hours of monitoring and walking the halls later, our sweet nurse Katie sent us home with instructions to walk or rest up, and that she'd see us back later that night. Heads hung in shame, we shuffled out of the ER entrance at a paltry 3 cm and drove home to catch a quick nap before my baby shower. By the time my mom and sisters arrived to decorate and lay the spread for a very late-in-the-game celebration, I was having much more painful and regular contractions but I was determined to 1. eat that cake and 2. stay the hell away from the hospital until I had something to show for myself.

I mean, come on, who has a false start with baby #3?

Anywho, cake was consumed, presents were unwrapped, and friends were mildly amused/lightly traumatized when I paused to breath through particularly painful contractions during the party. The rest of the day is pretty hazy, but I did manage a nap at some point, and like 3 more baths. Damn I love baths. Around midnight that night, after a couple hours staring at a plastic image of Our Lady of Guadalupe and realizing I will never, ever attempt an unmedicated birth and that I most definitely would have died in childbirth had I belonged to any other century, I knew it was go time. For real, this time.

Back in the car, back to the hospital, back to the nurse's station with my head hung in shame…or was it in a painful contraction posture? It must have been the second, for they put me into a real LDR room and skipped right over triage, glory! And then, the moment of truth, the cervical exam. I mentally held my breath as my nurse winked and pronounced me a "conservative 6.5 cm" while assuring me that she had chubby fingers and I was probably further even than that. Weird. And awesome. Dave and I started high-fiveing each other because holy crap, 3.5 cm at home with relative 'ease' on my part, and I wasn't even screaming for my drugs yet.

Our sweet nurse inquired about my plans for pain relief and I told her they involved regulated substances and later, beer and ice cream. She told me now would be a wonderful time to get an epidural and I laughed with delight, because it didn't even hurt that much yet, and yes please, send that wonderfully overpaid doctor up right away. She mentioned something about sending my blood to the lab to check my platelet count and quoted us 30 minutes till party time. And then she left. 30 minutes later, no doctor or nurse in sight, I wondered if maybe I had misheard her. An hour later, with pain started to become kind of a teensy bit on the unmanageable side, I wondered if we maybe should call somebody. Nearly 2 hours later, I had Dave by the collar during a contraction and told him to go out into the hallway and yell her name, where in the hell are my drugs?

Apparently my wonderful doctor had fallen back asleep? Forgotten? To order my labs, and so while the contractions intensified and labor mounted, nary a platelet was counted. And to think I'd been worrying about whether I'd have the chance to offer anything up during this birth. As it turned out, yes. But I'll have to leave you hanging here because somebody is demanding a latte. To be continued…

(Part 2 here.)

Joy to the World

Best Gaudete Sunday ever.

I love Advent. And I love that Christmas came a little early for us this year - 10 days early, to be exact. And an impressively petite 6 lbs, 6 oz, and 18.5 inches. Quite a downgrade from the 8 lb masculine models I'm accustomed to. And quite an easier recovery, thus far.

We decided to take the one night option and stay at hotel hospital tonight, because the L & D floor is empty, people keep bringing me chocolate and taking away my dirty laundry, and I haven't been woken up once by a pesky vitals check. They have the uncanny ability of popping in just when I'm cuing up some e HGTV…

A few photos to tide you over until I can bust out the birth story. A cliffs notes version: Labor started around 11 pm on Friday night, we popped in on Saturday morning around 5 am to do the walk of shame up and down the halls at only 3 cm, I checked back out and attended my baby shower amidst semi-painful contractions and a healthy dose of perspiration, naps were had, baths were drawn, babes were fed, and at about midnight Sunday morning we headed back out into the dark to try our luck at checking in. Again. Of course my contractions slowed down on the ride over and I was so ashamed to be checked upon arrival but…glory, 6.5 centimeters!

They let us stay, they eventually jammed the needle into the right space between vertebrae, and at 7:01 on this beautiful 'pink Sunday' I met my little pink cheeked baby girl with Fleetwood Mac and Dave Matthews playing in the background. She is so very beautiful and so teeny, and we're just so in love. John Paul kissed her head when he arrived to meet and greet later in the day, and Joey basically ignored her and complimented the 'awesome couch' in our room. It's gonna be a great first Christmas as a party of five.

Enough crazy thick black (whaaaat?!) hair for bows and clips already.

Bow hat courtesy of our wonderful night nurse

Our amazing doctor.

Love this little face. 

Our hearts are full. Rejoice, He is coming.

Weighting Game

Still here, still pregnant, still trying to figure out why I thought it might be a good idea to slap a legit '.com' on the 'ol small time blog and then end up with 3 weeks of missed posts, dropped subscribers, and finally a really fun 2 days where both the old and new addresses disappeared completely. I may or may not have shed a tiny tear to the husband yesterday that I had ruined my beloved blog and therefore had no avenue through which to vomit my thoughts and feelings onto the internet. And at 38 weeks pregnant, believe me, I have a lot of feelings. I also cried because yesterday John Paul tracked snowy mud into the master bath which I had painstakingly scoured on all fours with a dish scrubber this past week, so go figure.

In short, I look amazing, my family is basking in the hormonal love-fest that is the late third trimester, and I'm locked in a deadly daily ritual of "consume most of an entire bag of Salsa Verde Doritos/swell up like a blowfish/deflate in a lavender epsom salt bath for 45 minutes to an hour. Repeat."

I think I've also pulled late nights the past 3 in a row trolling Grace's infamous birth story linkup, so I'm feeling simultaneously at peace and very, very disconcerted about giving birth a third time. Yesterday I casually mentioned a birth plan for this go-round to Dave, and offered him two slightly differing scripts to present at registration:

1. "Hi, I'm in labor. Please instruct the anesthesiologist to meet us in our room."

or the slightly more upbeat,

2. "Hello, this is my third delivery, and I don't want to feel anything but joy."

I think depending upon the date, we'll opt toward #2 for a holly jolly birthday but stick to the more direct #1 if she doesn't debut on Christmas proper.

Needless to say, I'm not planning on trying for anything close to approaching a 'natural' delivery this time around, unless by natural you mean the baby exiting the intended route rather than ala scalpel. So from that perspective, hell yeah, natural all the way. Just so long as the joy is undimmed by anything approaching back labor, persistent posterior presentation, or tearing/episiotomy slicing of any degree.

Our Advent has been so, so good this year so far. I am loving how much the boys - especially Joey - seem to be soaking in the different little ways we're observing the season, and I'm surprisingly really, really enjoying being "pregnant like Mama Mary was" during the most wonderful time of the year. Plus, it's been like 7 degrees here for a week straight, and I'm finally not sweating like a linebacker. I have gotten many a raised eyebrow whilst prancing about town in a sundress layered with a cardigan, sans tights, but I feel like I'm finally in a climate controlled body for the first time in months, so…winter babies for the win!

Fall babies are cute too, though. (Plus, look closely, he came with an owner's manual.)

This week is promising to be a flurry of fun, family reunions, moving days, girl's nights out, and various impromptu "only child(ren)"trips to Dairy Queen/Starbucks/whatever because 1. I feel like it and 2. The boys are just so cute right now, and I'm trying to soak up these last few weeks of the pair of them as a twosome, and big bertha mama with a baby on board and no cumbersome carseat on my arm.

To end on a technical low note, I'm hoping to have the IT issues resolved sometime this week, but in the meantime, the old address is the one that's functioning, and bloglovin' is unable to pull from my old or new rss feed, so you'll have to come visit the old fashioned way by typing in www.thismamaneedscoffee.blogspot.com. Vom. I hate technology and it hates me back.

Happy Second Sunday of Advent, and go Broncos!

5 Favorites: Hospital Bag

So I should proooooobably pack something to take for the dreaded overnight at hotel hospital for this little lady's imminent arrival, but I find myself at something of a loss.

Firstly, if I pack a bag that means I'm expecting to go into labor soon. At least in my mind, bag preparedness = imminent birth. I'm 'full term' at 37 weeks now, and indeed, Joey was born at 37w 4d, so it's not completely beyond the realm of possibility. But. But… John Paul debuted at 41 weeks and some change. So, yeah. If you're counting, that's around a month's difference in gestational time. They were both spontaneous labors, and Joey was actually 10 oz bigger than JP, so…who knows. And yes, we knew our dates were right, both times. Particularly with our almost-honeymoon baby Joey, ahem.

So that means I may be pregnant for like, another 2 days. Or else for another month. No big deal, right? Well, except for the extra 2-3 lbs I seem to be piling on every single week still. And the fact that I had to buy a new maternity shirt yesterday in this, my 9th month of pregnancy, when I'd really prefer to be saving my pennies for something not designed by Madame Lange and consisting of a 97/3 lycra poly blend. I don't know, maybe pants with a zipper? Something crazy.

But back to the bag. For our firstborn's delivery, I had a full size suitcase packed with aaaaaaaall the recommended Bradley business you can imagine, and then some. Tennis balls. Scented candles. Essential oils. A birthing ball. Literally made Dave stuff a 55 inch fully inflated birthing ball in the backseat of our Honda accord before driving my laboring, broken-watered self through rush hour traffic on a Wednesday evening to our hospital. Oh, and a Boppy. And a blow dryer. And 3 outfits for all three of us, I'm pretty sure. At any rate, 80% of it never made it up from the parking lot to the birthing suite, and I'm almost positive that I wore the same pair of his and his gym shorts and a ratty nursing tank for the entire 3 day stay. We may have even done a leave-behind on the birthing ball in the hospital parking lot when we discovered we couldn't get Joey's carseat strapped into the back seat due to it's massive girth…

I did a little better packing for JP's debut, but not a lot, and I distinctly remember looking around our teeny teeny teeny recovery room and freaking the freak out because there was clutter everywhere: clothes, balloons, half empty bottles of champagne, diapers, makeup…it was so not zen-like.

This time I would looooove to strike the perfect balance between prepared and spartan chic. I'm talking one bathrobe for mama, a handful of footie pajamas and onesies for baby girl, and maybe Dave's contact solution and toothbrush. Maybe. (I'd love to not have to stay a single night this time around, fingers crossed!)

So I throw the floor open to you, mamas. What are your go-to items/products for birth day? Here are mine:

1. Earth Mama Angel Baby new mama bottom spray. I can't/won't really go into further detail, but, yes. Essential. And much nicer smelling than lydocaine.

2. Bravado nurisng bra. Just picked this one up at Target to rave reviews from my 2-person try on panel in the family sized dressing room. Praying it lives up to the hype, and that they both wipe that memory clean from the delicate slate of their formative young souls…

3. Arbonne FC5 moisturizing day lotion. I use the formula for normal/dry skin, and I feel like a huge troll if I don't put it on morning and night, even though I'm probably not reaping the full SPF benefits in the midnight hours. It feels better than any lotion I've ever used, and I happily cough up the 30-something bucks every 6 months to reorder it.

You can buy some from my bff Elizabeth here.

4. My MacBook. Oh internet, the thought of sitting in a hospital recovery room without you by my side is too sad to bear. Plus, birth story writing. Maybe a little ambitious, we'll see.

5. Our San Damiano Crucifix. I bought it at the FUS bookstore before graduation and had it blessed by my old spiritual director, a wonderful T.O.R. with a rocking beard. Since then it has accompanied us into every delivery room, and I made sure to bring it to our last general audience with Papa Francesco before we departed Roma, so now it's layered with a thick layer of papal blessing, too. (Freaked out yet, non-Catholic readers?) My wonderful doctor also brings a beautiful icon of the Blessed Mother and props her up somewhere in my eyeshot, and I love begin able to look around our sterile and hideously-late-90's-oak-panelled delivery suite and see some actual beauty.

So tell me, what's in your bag? What am I missing? And head to Hallie's house on your way out.

Please Pray for a Miracle

My heart is so heavy y'all. As I sat up late trolling the internet tonight, I saw news of a friend and former co-worker from my Steubenville days whose sweet baby girl was delivered via emergency c-section earlier this week after a placental abruption.

She is so, so beautiful, and her parents just got the devastating news that she is most likely profoundly brain damaged from the oxygen deprivation she suffered at birth. Will you all join me in praying for a miracle for this family? This sweet baby is their fifth, and all of their children are completely adorable. Her mama was almost exactly as far along as I am now, and my heart aches for them in a way I cannot even begin to explain.

Her dad is blogging her progress and recovery here, and there is a page set up here to help cover their expenses as they commute hours to and from the NICU and care of their four other young children. Please pray, pray, pray for a miracle for Lillian Faustina Maria.

St. Lillian of Cordoba, pray for us!

St. Faustina, pray for us!

Our Lady of Loretto, pray for us!

St. Kateri, Lily of the Mohawks, pray for us!

Snapshots of a SAHM

This week. Oh, this week.

It's Wednesday, which is technically the halfway mark, but dammit, it's Thanksgiving eve and Dave got home from work early and I'm calling the game. Did you hear that, universe? I'M CALLING THE GAME.

So I'm nesting like a mother loving emperor penguin up in here, and every last thing that Target has to offer for under $10 is fair game. Fair game, I say. Get in my cart.

Some background information, before we go any further:

These are my exterior children, in race cars crafted from humidifier boxes. I was proud of myself on the day this occurred. (If you enlarge the picture to better glimpse my huge, pregnant upper arms, I wish you ill.)

 Before we go any further, this is what I look like right now. I feel like this excuses me from a whole host of  societal constraints and cultural norms. Like not photographing your nearly naked children in cardboard boxes and calling it a 'craft.'

Besides, we've been trying to eat well.

Heck, we even took a field trip to the aquarium after breakfast one morning. This fish may or may not be dead on my kitchen counter right now. My sister's fiancé abandoned him here to die before the holiday, so be it upon his head if Fire has passed into eternity.

But where was I? Oh yes, Target.

This, for the record, is what my local Target looked like at 5:45 pm this fine Thanksgiving eve:

That is a tent. With grown ass men camping inside of it, in anticipation of the EIGHT PM OPENING TOMORROW EVENING.

May God have mercy on us all.

Moving on.

Before hitting up Satan's giant red bullseye, I wandered into Home Goods where I snagged this pretty jute rug made in India for the reasonable song of $19.99:

How legit does my office look now? Practically business chic.

Target yielded these little golden beauties, confusingly titled "dimensional wall applications," which look kind of cool but make my husband a little nervous. For $9.99 I probably could have made them myself out of tissue paper, for that is their composite. But. But…I never would have. And thus ended every argument for buying crafty shit made in China and pre-assmebled at some big box store anywhere, ever.

And now, some gratuitous shots of my favorite places and spaces in the house right now:

My uncluttered and simple bathroom counter. Sparkling clean, thanks to the flip side of my nightly makeup cleansing cloth.

Our medicine cabinet, divested of all but the daily necessities. My mind feels cleansed just looking at it.

Relatively freshly manicured toes + this year's jingle jams from Costco + a new, fluffy bathmat that, as far as I know, has never been pooped on by a human being.

I hope that tomorrow finds all your turkeys trotting and all your Thanksgiving dreams coming true. And I hope that none of you are planning on doing a lick of shopping to mark the day. A pox on grey Thursday, and merry feasting to all.

(For whatever it's worth, I don't know what in the hell is up with the formatting of this post but I'm betting on all my shetland ponies that you people don't come here for graphics and/or design. C'est la computer illiteracy.)