No really, every boy needs a tractor.

Yes, indeed, 2010 would not be complete without a nearly lifesize, or boysize, tractor. How the worm turns.

Happy New Year!

One Year.

One year. A year. Already. I was prepared to be overwhelmed by the love I would feel for my little Adam. I was unprepared for what fear would feel like. Stark, paralyzing, heart wrenching fear that something, anything could happen to my little boy. It scares the hell out of me, but I've never felt so alive. To love like this...to have such a wonderful, funny, smart (oh, she can go on and on and on) little boy. And to think, it almost wasn't.

One year. On Wed. One year ago. My little boy. My funny little bad boy who warns me before he does something he's not supposed to..."no, no, no" (pronounced "nyah, nyah, nyah") with a shaking of the head and a wagging of the finger. Whose little eyes squint like his Mommy's and whose skin color is ridiculously tan like his Daddy's. My little boy who walks like a little Frankenstein with arms extended and points to every person, in every picture as "Mama." My avocado loving and paper eating sweet boy.

Sigh.

One year.

hey Baby

Almost 11 months old. My little Adam is helmet free and if you look closely, you can see bumps and bruises and battle scars. He's walking and into everything. EVERYTHING. Behind him is a stack of newspapers; what you can't see are the weeks of newspapers on the floor. I'm getting better about not stressing about the constant mess, but years of OCD are difficult to shed. He's finally, finally consistently sleeping through the night.

Isn't he a cutie? Really, isn't he just a cutie!

My Big Boy

My boy is not so little anymore. Almost 10 months old. Crawling, standing, babbling, almost just about there trying so hard to walk. Sleeping through the night. Although 6:30am like clockwork feels pretty damn early. He has his own little personality and eight little chicklet teeth.

So, so, so worth it.

Go Speed Racer, Go

My little furry headed boy is now a helmet head. His torticollis and our slavish insistence that he sleep on his back (swaddled as tightly as a burrito) has resulted in a flat head. Parental guilt dictates that that be corrected, as well as the possibility that the bald is beautiful movement heats up in his later years. He has adjusted well; his parents? Not so well.

Our first experience with another little helmet head was at the plastic surgeon's office for Adam's consultation. I went over to talk to the mother (of said little helmet head) to find out how it was going and got a good look at her son. One eye was squinty, the other was as wide open as a cyclops. His skin around the helmet was red and scratchy and he looked, well, foul. She brought him over to see Adam, who eyeballed the boy and then looked up at me and said, "Ah Goo." "Ah Goo" is universal Adamese for, "what the hell are you getting me into." I assured him that he was too darn cute to get the permanent stink eye.

Take a look at the picture above. Yes, Ah Goo.

He's actually loving the helmet, though it's impeding some of his developmental milestones. For example, he's learned that crawling's more fun if he uses his helmet to propel himself forward rather than his hands. Look, Ma, no hands! I've caught him banging his head on the hardwood floors and deliberately rolling into furniture just to experience the inner helmet twanging sensation. The great thing is that he was helmeted during our viewing of the winter Olympics so he was able to bond with his own kind.

His sleeping sucks, truly sucks. I'm not sure if it's helmet related or teething related, but he's definitely regressed. Last night, he woke up every three hours. Crying, inconsolable. I can handle this much better now than when he was an infant and I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I still don't know what the hell I'm doing but I figure the child will sleep through the night at some point in his life. It now makes sense to me why people have children in their 20s and not their 40s; they're too young and dumb to have any expectations.

I hope all is well out there in blogland. More later.

What Happens When the Rents are at Work.

Usually Adam and Rodrigez (the Rat) cage fight in the pack-n-play. Many, many times, I've glimpsed over at my child and Rodrigez

has pinned the poor lad. I was happy to see that, while I was at work, Adam and Rodrigez learned to play well together. Look at the handholding and laughter. I was also impressed that they were able to set up the camera and get such a good shot of them playing nicely. And Adam's only six months old. Rodrigez, no idea when he was manufactured.

Well lookee there....

Two little toofers.

Imagine Whirled Peas

Milestones for this week:

1. Did not detest peas. In fact, ate them all. What???

2. The tips of two little bottom teeth made their appearance. Two tiny little nubbins.

3. Reached out for his mommy. Reached his little chubby arms out for his mommy. Me. Melt.

4. Slept 11 hours last night. Hear the chorus of angels?

I am so tempted to go on and on and on about this child. I truly have become one of those women. I gush and rave and pontificate about this boy, this magical child. No one could have prepared me for how I would feel. I'm waiting for the moment someone says to me, "um, would you shut about that child, people have been loving their children for centuries." But, until then...

Is it ethical to give codeine to a baby?

I KID, I KID. Really, the sleeping is getting better. In other words, the adult members of the household are getting more sleep, so functionality is definitely on an upswing. In the days of sleeping glory, we would put Adam down, swaddled, at around 10pm and he usually slept until 5am or so. Now, in our unswaddled world, we put him down around 8pm, he sleeps until 2am, and on a really, really fabulous night, he'll then sleep until 7:30am. Last night he was up at 1am and again at 5:30, but he slept until 8:30am. It's just strange how it's all changed.

But, then, he's changed. He's rolling over...and over...and over. Yesterday, he rolled all the way across the room. I asked him to roll to the fridge and get me a beverage, but that's sort of an advanced skill. Next week. He's fascinated with his hands, though he's chewing them until they're raw. He flexes his fingers and waves his hands in front of his face, simply mesmerized. You can hear his little baby brain thinking "wow, these are mine, look at the cool shapes they make." But the best, most delightful Adamism is the laughing out loud, "Dad, you're hysterical," stuff. Everything just delights him. And his mom and dad just stare, rapt.

On the non-Adam front, work is crazy and it's crazy cold here. I'm not a winter girl, I abhor being cold and it's damn cold. But, my little chunkopotamous takes the edge off...

To Sleep, perchance...

My boy has always been a good sleeper. (I note that "always" refers to his mere five months of life.) Except for the last week. The last looonnngg seven days. He's teething. He's congested. And, he can flip from his back to his front and back again, so the pediatrician said it isn't safe to swaddle him anymore. No swaddle = No sleep. No sleep = pyschopath mom. I'm stymied on this one.

night one with no swaddle -- Adam slept on his side for 4 hours then woke up screaming. He slept in fits of 2 hours the rest of the night.

night two with no swaddle -- The nanosecond I put his sound asleep body in the crib, he immediately flipped to his belly and started crying. After three pick ups and soothings, he went to sleep and repeated the pattern from night one.

night three -- ditto. mom cries. yells at dad. surely it's his fault.

And so on.

So I ask, what the hell? How can a baby who's used to sleeping 8+ hours a night revert to a newborn?

Oh Come Let Us Adore Me

My boy has had his share of love and affection these days. He's been passed from cousin to cousin to Auntie to grandmother to mother back to cousin. At first there was a bit of quivering of the bottom lip, which quickly turned into coos and smiles and displays of advanced babyness, you know, recitation of multiplication tables and the elements of various torts or tortes. He's a well rounded 18 week old. Truly.

A year ago I was pregnant. And today I have my happy, smiley, giggly boy.

Best Christmas ever.

What Kind of Mother Am I?

I've learned many things about myself in the last 14 weeks.

For example, I will put a furry reindeer hat on my child and take him out in public. Even though he looks like a Russian oligarch and in spite of the look you see at the right.

I will physically stop a stranger from touching my child. Hell, I'll even stop a nonstranger from touching my child if said nonstranger hasn't washed his/her hands and bathed in Purell.

Babies fascinate me. My own baby. Other people's babies. I had no idea babies were so interesting. I always liked older children...preferably at the age when they could do tricks. But babies have turned out to be fascinating. Who knew?

I could never be a stay at home mom. Too hard. Much harder than boardrooms and corporate intrigue and class actions. I am forever amazed and awed by the power and majesty of the stay at home mom.

On the other hand, I've never been so happy to get home from work and see my boy. That big gummy smile. Those chunky little legs (his, not mine). Those little squinty eyes so similar to my own. Boy oh boy, do I love this child.

It was almost a year ago that I began the IVF that brought us Adam. I went back and read through the posts and was struck through the heart of how immensely lucky we are. So, so very lucky. Lucky that the cycle worked, finally, and lucky that we were in a position to keep trying. And very cognisant that he almost wasn't.

We have much to be thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving.

A new woman

Two months.

Six hours.

A promise.

Two months.

Six glorious, splendiforous hours.

A promise kept.

Adam is two months old.

Last night he slept six hours straight. Merciful God. Six glorious, life affirming, eye bag reducing hours.

In exchange for those hours, I promised I would never again stuff him into a too small polo onesie, flip the collar and prop him up for a photo session.

He agreed.

I am a happy woman. Praise be.

Time Does Fly.

7 weeks tomorrow. I've started several posts...one about the birth, one about the first few weeks, one as recently as yesterday and, while time has flown, my words have fallen flat. I lack the talent to articulate how my smiling boy has changed my life. How his little self has sent my spirits and my heart soaring and at the same time brought me to my knees. Rejoice at the milestones, the first smile, the first coo (oh yes, "ma ma" will be the first word even if it isn't); frustration at his cries (all your needs are met little boy, what could possibly cause your tears?); worry for his well being which will surely plague me the rest of my days; and acute vulnerability...how is possible to feel so much so deeply? It's true, nothing could have prepared me for this. All of this. The love, yes, absolutely. Joy, wonder, awe. And at times the frustration, the dizzying inability to figure out his cries on top of crushing fatigue. (Trust me, you can have an army of help and you will still be tired.) But always, always, the pinch-me-it-can't-be-true, this child is mine.

It was all worth it. Every. Single. Step.

In the Beginning...Adam

August 18, 2009. 6 lbs, 12 ounces. 21 inches. Our Adam.

Sweet Time

I saw the ob on Monday. I get the distinct impression he's tired of pregnant women because he never wants to talk about, well, pregnancy. My pregnancy. He measures, he waves the doppler, he checks my cervix, all while talking about the state of health care in America today and his last 18 holes. Golf, people, golf. Then I interrupt and ask the pertinent questions, like my glucose levels, strep test, and, of particular concern to me, what's happening down there??!! Strangely, I really like the guy, he's funny as hell, he's purportedly the best perinatologist in the city, but, he's amazingly nonchalant. He fails to understand that Adam is not the result of a wild drunken romp, but the result of life altering good luck, plenty of science and the financial equivalent of a Porsche Cayenne.

All that to say, Adam's taking his sweet time. I'm not dilated, but my cervix has thinned since last week. I knew this anyway because my little Alien is playing hammer time with my bladder. My hands and feet are swollen and strangely, the bottoms of my feet hurt. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the four, 5 lb bags of potatoes I've added to my frame. My largeness is becoming painful, particularly as it affects my fashion sense. Tentwear is so passe. So, I feel relatively sure that I won't be giving birth anytime soon.

That's all I know for now. Other than it's 1000 degrees outside and if my feet don't go back down to a 7 1/2 after giving birth, I will be cutting off toes and expensing the Jimmy Choos I have yet to wear from Adam's college fund. I'm not kidding.

The Final Lap

I never believed I would be in this place. 37 weeks and 2 days pregnant. So very, very close to meeting my Adam. Like most people in a transition stage, I'm heart stoppingly excited to close this out and wrap this up, but also so very mindful of where I've come from, where I've been. The struggle, the heartbreak to get to this point has made me so very, very thankful for each day.

Many of the people I started out with got pregnant long before I did. Others lost babies. And others are still in the fight. There is no equitable treatment here it seems. Many times I have started to post and stopped because my joy must come across like sandpaper for many. I remember so clearly how difficult it was to celebrate and feel joy for others who succeeded while I stayed where I was, sometimes treading water, sometimes sinking under, but never making it to shore.

Who knows why or how this worked. For all the science, this is still mystery. We've learned a lot, but only a speck when you consider what we don't know. My greatest hope is that five, ten year from now, infertile couples will have more chances, more hope, and greater access. We were very fortunate to be in a place to afford the many treatments. Many can't, I know.

So I will say it. I have loved every minute of this pregnancy. Feeling him move, watching my belly undulate brought me tears and laughter and wonder and a secret kinship with my little Alien. I have been blown away by the wonder of all this and sucker punched with love, truly overwhelming love, toward a little human I haven't ever seen except in grainy ultrasound pictures. Could he really be mine? It has changed...everything. I am just awed. Awed.

I'm so very close. According to the doc, nothing's happening yet, which is good. I have an amazing amount to get done in a short period of time.

Almost there.

Failure and Redemption

About two weeks ago, I didn't just "not pass" my glucose screen, I failed it. FAILED IT. No equivocation, no borderline result, no "let's just prick your finger again, sweetie." My screen was a 183. Cut off is 135. Three hour test is Monday. Three hours. I was advised to eat less fruits, sweets, starches, carbs; in other words, enjoy to your heart's content everything you have grown to hate. Asparagus or dirt encrusted vegetable dipped in mud? Have at it! Carrots marinated in vinaigrette of cow pasture? Enjoy! I could weep. Oh, and the piece de resistance? You really should exercise more. Does walking to my car count?

The three hour test was fine until the third hour. I was lightheaded, nauseous, irritated, uncomfortable and borderline mean. I spent the last hour waiting for my blood draw in my car with the seat reclined and window cracked to get some air because the waiting room was atrocious. Small, uncomfortable and occupied by another 3 hour test dummy who went out for smokes after each blood draw. I. kid. you. not. A pregnant woman who went outside to smoke. Cigarettes. There's so much to say about that one that I'll pass. What I will say is that the after smell of the cigarettes tipped me over the edge. No exaggeration, the worst I have felt my entire pregnancy was during and after that third after.

The good news is that my results came back borderline. Of the four numbers, only one was too high. The last number was precipitously low, leading the nurse practitioner to comment "you must not have been feeling too well." On the nose, honey. So, I was instructed to cut out sweets (NOOOO), reduce fruits (NOOO), milk and yogurt, and eat only complex carbs. I asked if a time consuming recipe for pasta with cream sauce counted as a complex carb. Um, no. Oh and exercise. I get tired walking to my car.


Strangely, I continue to feel really well. Adam's room is done and I love it. Light blue, chocolate brown and cream. And the overstuffed rocker and ottoman -- chocolate brown with light blue polka dots--cute beyond cuteness.


Not long now. Not long at all.

Orthodontia

Meet my son. The son who removed his thumb from his mouth for exactly 20 seconds, which resulted in the above picture. The hand didn't move far from his face. I will be saving for his future orthodontial needs. My 30 minutes with him started with thumb firmly in mouth. His, not mine. Then fingers in mouth. Next, removal of hand and licking of arm. Then he spied his foot. I believe he thought for a few seconds about the possibility of foot in mouth, something of which his mother knows well. Finally, he smiled in the general direction of the ultrasound wand and his mother, father and grandmother melted. Thumb went back into mouth.

I now know why women are blind and dumb when it comes to their children. I think he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And the smartest. And funniest....

MIA and TKO

Forgive me Internet, for I have sinned. Not only has it been weeks and weeks since my last update, I have no justifiable and excusable excuse other than WORK IS KILLING ME. Last week, I flew to Oklahoma City for a meeting from Tuesday - Friday, then Friday morning to Chicago, then home Friday night. Emergency at work right after landing. Home late. Pizza ordered. Alas, no pleasures involved in these excursions. No massages, pedicures, shoe shopping. No leisurely dinners in fine dining establishments and side trips to areas of interest. Work, yes just work. The girl is tired. Stress levels still ok (how is that even remotely possible???), but physically tired. Drained. Ready to take that brass ring and shove it up...

The good news is that my Little A is a trooper. He's kicking and punching and hanging out like a little champ. At one of my more contentious meetings last week, I swear he was giving me the universal sign of peace and humming "Give peace a chance." Tie dye onesies coming up. I have an ultrasound on Thursday and I'm over the moon to see what's happening. Actually, I'm more anxious to check out his environs. I feel certain that he's hung up a disco ball, playing twister and throwing back amniotic martinis. I like this kid. And I feel really good. No swelling, no real uncomfortableness, sleeping great. My only complaint is a week or two ago I had some slicing pain in my neck and shoulders, but heat wraps and hot showers have taken care of it. I attribute it to tension.

E and I went on the "Expectant Parents Hospital Tour." Our nurse guide referred to the group as "mommies and daddies." She demonstrated the squat bar and explained--in detail--the births of her five children at this very hospital, can you believe it, this. very. hospital. Oh, and all natural births by the way. My observation that a natural birth was any exit of a baby from a womb absent lures of baby ferraris and counterfeit $100 bills met with silence. We left shortly thereafter, but we do know where to check in. I haven't taken any birthing classes, which I was ambivalent about to begin with. I feel certain I can swing it without having to sit through class every Thursday from 5:30 to 8pm. Famous last words probably.

I am just so excited to meet this kid. I attribute a lot, most, all (?) of my relative calm these days to him and keeping him safe and protected. And knowing that my responsibility is his well being. It's put the rest of my life in perspective, I think. Work may be stressful and busy and maddening at times, but it's not the most important gig I've got going these days. I've got my Little A.

Almost 30 weeks and counting.