i have seen the Wizard and he is wondrous

When I put in the order for Ro's birthday cake, and asked them to decorate it with a long view of The Emerald City, I was THIS CLOSE to having the inscription read:

"WE MADE IT, BITCHES."

Apologies to my cuss-sensitive readers, but I needed the emphasis. I went with "Happy 1st Birthday, Ro." The "we made it" sentiment will just have to roll down my face as I gaze upon her sitting in front of the cake in her grandma-made Dorothy costume with her plush Toto stuffed in a basket.

You know what we've been through, guys. This week will always be a bittersweet one. The first baby's due date was November 2, 2013. We laid her ashes to rest on October 29, 2013. And then we have our Rainbow Baby (this is an actual term for the one who lives after one who has been lost), Ro, who was born on her father's 37th birthday, a year ago tomorrow.

***

I took a week off of work to prep for this party, because this is MY PARTY, and I have come close to tears on multiple occasions, as is my RIGHT. Ro has no clue what's going on--she does refer to the dog as "Dodo," and will tolerate the ruby slipper slip-on shoecovers for a short time, but the cake, the balloons, the ridiculous mural painted on the side of an old refrigerator box; the pennant-style banner that I made with one-too-few letters and then had a mini freakout about? All that crap is for me. This is the pretend-Pinterest party that I had been thinking about all those months with her kicking inside of me, worrying that she may show up too early and not come home with us just like the first one.

No one else knows that terrifyingly disgusting feeling of water breaking too soon, the cerclage tied so tightly that what little walking I could do I did with a hobble, the horse-gauge needles stuck into my backside every seven days, and having to lie down and pray that the weekly ultrasound was going to say things were holding steady.

Medical people can conceptualize a pubic symphysis, but like my physical therapist, Kay, said (as she decided to treat me herself the first day she came to evaluate me and assign me to someone else) nobody can understand the agony of a separated pelvis like someone who's done it themselves (she did it running a marathon). Worse was the useless, helpless feeling you get when all you can do for your child is to sit in bed or a couch and desperately try to figure out nursing while your husband, mother-in-law and mom bring the baby to you and take her away to do all the diapering, bathing, walking around and other stuff you wish you could do. And it murders your hormonal heart when you go through all that to get the baby and she doesn't want much to do with you.

All that said, the scary pregnancy, the fiery hoops I had to somersault through, the horrible after-delivery recovery and post-partum rage (not officially diagnosed, but now that I'm far enough away from it, I'm pretty sure that's what I had)--ALL OF THAT was a cakewalk compared to how emotionally treacherous it was for me to go back to work and find I had to work twice as hard in two thirds of the time.

***

This is not to say that I think I had it any worse than any other parent. We all have our struggles. I have SO MUCH HELP, you guys. Seriously. My friends came to see me with food and love and support while I was on bedrest and when I was stuck at home. My mother-in-law came on the day after Ro was born and stayed to help for 12 days. My parents still come over every day. And my husband, he had to do much more than the average dad at the beginning. He does a lot more than the average guy today, too. Granted, he should be doing a lot for his own kid, but that doesn't mean it's not appreciated. I would never have dreamed to make it through nearly two years without all these people.

So we are having a party. I know I have bitten off more than I can chew. This week "off" was a lot harder than the usual working week. But I'm doing it for the 21-months-ago me, the 19-months-ago me, the 17-months-ago me, the 12-months-ago me, who didn't know if heartbreak was once again on the horizon, and especially the 3-6-months ago me, who didn't know if I could hold it together for another single minute, let alone months and years.

We made it, BITCHES.

great hope

Many years ago, my brother (a long-suffering Cubs devotee) called me to say his lottery number was picked to purchase season tickets to the loveable losers. He didn't exactly have the extra thousands in the bank, so I gave him some money. Every single year, he tries to sell some of the seats to offset the rather pricey (in my opinion) cost, but for most games of the season, he couldn't even give the these tickets away. Until this year.

The Cubs are in the playoffs. Tonight they even ousted the hated St. Louis Cardinals. And I was there to see it. My brother could have invited any number of close friends to be his Plus 1, but he asked me, because he "wouldn't even have these tickets if it weren't for" me. Awww. 

It was exciting. I took the opportunity to get myself a Kris Bryant shirt and an Anthony Rizzo one for the baby plus a teeny skull cap that she calls her " 'at." My brother bought me a hot dog and a beer. As far as I was concerned, no matter how the game turned out, I was satisfied. 

Being in the stadium on the night they clinched the quarterfinal was absolutely magical. Madelyn lives a few blocks away and she could hear the crowd. Being in it, you could feel the energy coursing through the stands like a slow, rolling hum. And after that final at-bat, it was as if an earthquake hit Wrigley Field; the place just exploded. 

We hung around for awhile to see the players on the field and met up with my brother's friends at the Draft Kings--formerly Captain Morgan (I can't believe that fantasy football is so lucrative)--Club and walked around a little before getting into a cab. Wrigleyville apparently partied until the birds woke up.

It wasn't to last. The Cubs were eliminated in a sweep by the New York Mets in the next series, but for an evening, maybe even a week, my brother was so incredibly happy and hopeful. I will treasure the experience for always.

vacation

I hadn't had a non-maternity-related time off of work in something like two years. We went to California for a week, and MAN was that nice. I was stressed about traveling with a 10-month-old, but she was a champion.

September 18, 2015. First time with her toes in the sand! Those swimming lessons paid off, in that she wasn't scared.

We spent some quality time with Jon's entire nuclear family enjoying cottages on the the most beautiful United States beach I have seen (Del Mar Resort within Camp Pendleton) in San Diego, then drove to Ventura (Jon's hometown) and met up with relatives and friends, and visited the resting place of our baby. 

Ro had a lot of firsts:

• First time on an airplane (a few very brief rough spots, but she did really well and took a 1.5-hour nap)
• First time eating In N Out Burger (only fast food she is allowed saved for the rare Portillo's treat)
• First time in a long car ride (took us FIVE hours to get from San Diego to Ventura, but we had to make a 45-min pit stop due to a meltdown. Ro glares at us at the mention of "carseat" now.)
• First time seeing the ocean
• First time frolicking in the ocean (assisted) with her cousin, D
• First time (helping Mommy) roast a marshmallow over a campfire for a s'more
• First time sitting in the sand with Aunt M and tasting it (the gross flavor and texture did not deter her from trying it again)
• First time climbing three (!) flights of steps at her Aunt A's house completely unassisted (and with great vigor)
• First time meeting her great-grandmother
• First time staying in the "Penguin Palace" room her Aunt Madelyn made at her grandparents' house
• First time eating sushi (she LOVED baked salmon and the seared tuna; the teriyaki chicken and rice were just ok)
• First time going to the church her daddy grew up attending
• First time eating guavas from the tree in someone's yard
• First time petting animals (a bunny and a cat), and learning to say "cat"
• First time going down a park slide (perhaps the daycare lady has taken her--but to me it was a first)
• First time actually waving with purpose (favorite person to wave at is her grandma).
• First baseball game at Dodger Stadium (next will be Wrigley)
• First hilltop sunset overlooking the ocean (and remembering her sister)

There were probably more, but she had a blast. It was a really great trip we will cherish forever.  

 The Dodgers lost, but it was still a fun time. September 21, 2015. Ro: almost 11 months

fruit and flowers

Jon, this anniversary (lounging on a beautiful beach) is going to be really tough to top. But even if the ones to come are full of laundry and homework, it'll be nice just to be together. I love you.

Photo by SecondPrint Productions

This was the best day of nonstop crying I have ever had. 

uncle

Long before I had any babies, long before I got married, long before I even met Jon, I told you that I will teach my children to address you with the Hindi honorific for mother's brother: Mama. It doesn't sound correct in the U.S., where a lot of kids call their mothers "Momma," but I am beholden to tradition, and you're not just some chump off the street that our people would call "Uncle." You hated that idea. Feet were virtually stomped. Voices were raised. There may have even been a threat to teach my children any number of foul words if I made good on my promise.

February 12, 2015. Ro: 3.5 months, Brother 32.5 years.

And what has happened? She is tangible now. You've been looking into her eyes for the last ten months. Today, she could call you "boogerface doodyhead" and you'd still try to get the moon for her. She tries to say your proper name, brother, even if she can only manage the first syllable right now. And while the photo she likes to kiss most is her own (as well as any mirror she encounters), she finds yours the second-most kissable. The rest of us--you know, the ones who wake up with her in the middle of the night, handle her excrement-filled diapers and sing 40-animal-verses of Old McDonald at a time in hopes she will sleep--are still waiting for our photos to be so blessed.

That she does. May 17, 2015. Ro: 6.5 months.

I used to tell people I had an idea what it was like to be a parent because of the way I have always loved you. And now I can confirm that I was mostly right--the only thing missing with you was the gripping terror that I might do something to screw you up (that was for mom and dad to worry about). The first time Ro looked at me, kissed my face and said "Mommy" was the most amazing thing I have ever experienced. But every time I look over and see you holding her, with so much love between the two of you, my heart threatens to burst. Sappy. So, so sappy. And sloppy. But real. 

Being a Mama looks good on you. My wish for you is to find the fulfillment that you so very much deserve in all parts of your life. Happy birthday, brother.

37

Good God, where does the time go? Someone told me about parenthood, "the days are long but the years are short." Holy mango lassi, Batman, is that true. Time is just blowing by SO DAMN FAST.

Some days I'm so overwhelmed by all that I should be doing better that I don't have time to enjoy beautiful little things, like my nine-month-old (!) looking at me and saying "Hey, baby." It's true, "baby" was her first word. "Hey" followed soon after. Then "ball" and "go" and today she started saying "oh boy." She is also crawling like a maniac and pulling herself up on furniture and feeding herself with only 30 percent of dinner falling on the floor. Progress.

Ro cries for us at 1 a.m. on the dot every single night. And she has since she turned four months old (she slept through the night from newborn until four months). As somebody who cherishes morning sleep more than your average night owl, saying I don't mind waking up with her earlier than 7 a.m. is truly saying something. Jon and I actually compete to be there when she opens her eyes, because morning smiles are worth whatever metal is more precious than platinum.

***

It's tough to work full time and feel like a good mom. GUILT. However, no matter how you slice the money, we would be homeless if one of us didn't work. GUILT. The daycare lady who watches her is amazing, and my mom picks her up at 2 p.m. every day so she has grandparents time before Jon and I come home. That makes me feel a little better, but also makes it easier for me to get stuck at work later.

Jon and I work at the same place now. He gave me a birthday card designed for a coworker. I liked it better than a treacly one designed for a wife.

I usually don't talk about work, but I can't talk about life right now without mentioning that my truly horrible, miserable moments have all revolved around fear and self-doubt surrounding work (not to say there haven't been some rough mommy moments, too; these are just worse). It's a career that does not come easily to me--I've mentioned before that it's like being in a neverending calculus class, and I purposely majored in something for which statistics was the only math requirement. That said, I like the job. I just wish I were doing something my brain was designed for (I had been, until that industry went kaput, and I had a mortgage to pay).

When I was on maternity leave, they hired someone to the team who rocks the job as if she were born to do it. Two weeks after I got back they said we were both up for the same promotion; me having been there for three years and she having been there for three months. I'm not going to lie: That stung a little. Then they said they could only promote one of us. So the pressure is tremendous to step up my game while taking breaks to pump, getting very little sleep and refusing to work 75 hours a week anymore. On top of it all, someone else quit and we're all in over our heads with workload. I do think I would be better suited for a leadership role than what I'm currently doing, but I'm not sure what they're looking for me to do to get there. Besides, it was very clear while I was gone that I am perfectly replaceable. This whole thing has been stressful, but helped me to see that you can love a job, but it won't love you back. A family, however, will love you back in spades. But you do need money to give your family all that they deserve...

***

I spend my time worrying about all this crap, and then I come home and watch my kid splash in the bath, try to say "ducky" after I say "ducky" and come crawling up and pull my pant leg as I am doing the dishes. And when I look into her eyes I see that I am necessary and useful. There is a good chance that even though I spent a lot of it paranoid and overwhelmed, I will look back upon this year as the best I've ever had.

well, heck

I have never in my life so badly blown NaBloPoMo. I am so sorry.

Looking at my posts, there is a LOT of whining. Again, sorry.

Truly, this is one of the best (if not THE best) periods of my life, but you would never know it because of all the whining.

But this has also been one of the worst periods of my life because I don't know what the heck I am doing, or how to manage it and I feel like I'm always disappointing someone, if not everyone. It's hella hard not to care about that. I don't know how mommy bloggers have time to post. Because I barely have time to wash my hair. And sometimes I worry that I'll leave without rinsing.

It seems unfair that the lovely fleeting moments of early parenthood can be so thoroughly tainted by a constant hovering of a nervous breakdown.

Inevitably, I will look back on this time and hate myself for caring so much that the ironing didn't get done or that I could no longer keep up with coworkers who put in 70 hours a week.

Thank goodness we have cameras.

She makes everything I have to whine about seem not so bad. 

bet your bottom dollar

#8: Finish your story, let go even if it's not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.

Today was the first day I didn't have enough milk for the baby. Learning to nurse was really painful and challenging for Ro and I, so I feel like I owe it to us both to see it through as long as we can possibly manage. And as hard as that was, accommodating times to pump during work has been even tougher in a place where no one on my team regularly breaks for lunch.

Yes, I realize how lucky I am even to get a drop out for my child. I am so very grateful for what I have. We all do the best that we can. Tomorrow is another day. We will try again.

no regrets

#7: Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.

What's that people say about how no one on his deathbed wishes he'd worked more? I'm having a very hard time getting my bearings back at work and still manage everything that needs to be done at home without dropping a ball or two. It's an impossible goal. There are only 24 hours in a day, and now more than ever, I need at least five of them for sleeping. So at any time of the day I feel like I am letting someone down.

And yet, my story finishes with me finding myself at the end of life with no regrets. Maybe I need to revise.

what i suck at is efficient balancing

#6: What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?



Ha. This is perfect.

I have always wanted to be a mom. I clearly remember thinking to myself in junior high: Self, it doesn't matter what you do for a career--you can't die without raising a baby. I'm genetically inclined toward the snuggling, the loving, the encouraging and the supporting that moms do. What I am not naturally equipped for is all the other required stuff that is often not advertised: The juggling, the organizing, the planning, the foreseeing the future, the preparedness. The TIME MANAGEMENT.

So the last five months have been exactly what Pixar Rule #6 is all about for me. Not being able to sit, stand, lie down flat or on my side, bend, kneel, shower without assistance, let alone walk without a walker for eight weeks was quite a curve ball. On top of having delivered a small human for whom we had to do everything but breathe. I'm dealing. I completed home physical therapy and managed to move again without equipment (though it felt like the hobbling was going to be permanent), but I would be dead on the bathroom floor without my A Team: Jon and my mother.

And just when I got a semblance of an idea about what needs to be done and how, I went back to work. That is another post, but let's say going back to working full time three months post baby to a job where you used to put in 50-80 hours a week has been challenging, indeed. I would be dead on the street without the A Team.

So the house isn't as picked up. Exactly zero personal projects get done, including decorating the baby's room and organizing her clothes before she's gotten too big for some of them. I get my news from Facebook now. And there is certainly no time for television. But we are getting by. Again, shout out to the A Team.

I try to keep in mind this paraphrased advice I got from a very wise lady ("The Wife" to whom Omar is "Mr. Wife"): As long as you have the same number of people at the end of the day as you had at the beginning, you're doing all right.
 

everybody needs an editor

It seems like in every line of work, when you get so invested in something you've created, it's hard to see the parts that could be bogging you down. No matter how perfect I think something is, if I come back to it later, it can always be improved--mostly by trimming it.

I am trying very hard to keep my work emails to three sentences or fewer. It's hard.

in a nutshell

Once upon a time there was a very bored twentysomething. Every day, she worked the evening shift and was awake when her friends and family were either at work or sleeping, so she watched one Netflix movie a day (before there was streaming), read books and knit, but she was lonely. One day, she discovered a web log with good writing, started her own and bumped into some random, cool people. Because of that, she became very close to a few of the bloggers, especially Jon. Because of that, they started emailing every single day, then talked on the phone for hours and hours. Until finally they decided they needed to meet: Three years later, he moved across the country to be with her; three years after that, they got married; and three years after that, they had a wonderful baby.

happy day

I need more crafts in my life.

cylon blanket

Handmade stuff has always had a very special place in my heart. Things that my nani or mom made for me are among my prized possessions. So it makes me sad that I haven't really made anything for my daughter (save for one knit dress I had started for my goddaughter four years ago and finally finished before Ro was born. She is already too big for it).

My mom goes to more baby showers than anyone else I know, so I liked to make blankets while I watched tv so she doesn't have to knit them all herself. She had been putting aside blankets for my kids since I turned 25 because "she might be blind/dead/unable to move her hands by the time I gave her any grandchildren."

This is one I made while Jon and and I bingewatched Battlestar Galactica in 2009. 

I had no idea she was also saving a few that I made for my kids. At my baby shower, she gave me two large wicker baskets: One full of new or beloved stuffed animals from my childhood, and the other bursting with eight rolled-up baby blankets. I had made three. It means so much that she thought far enough in advance to save things for my child from me, too.

February 10. Don't worry, she doesn't sleep with a blanket (or in this Rock 'n' Play) now that she discovered how to roll over.

It didn't even occur to me that our own child might one day be holding onto what I made while we were watching Starbuck and Boomer. 

missing the forest for that one broken twig on the ground

I took a few art classes in college, which were nearly impossible to get into. I had to petition, write an essay and go through two rounds of portfolio interviews because art was not my declared major and the administration didn't want "dabblers" tinkering around among the serious students who would go on to get their MFAs in oil painting or concrete sculpture. They begrudgingly let me in, though I had to win a lottery to get an actual spot. I absolutely loved those classes. But I did not change my major to art.

I tell people I didn't pursue an art and design career because my parents* ("Have you heard the term, 'starving artist'?") convinced me that I needed something stable, a field that I could rely on to pay a mortgage.** Professional art was much too unpredictable.

But the true reason I didn't consider art as a vocation is because I can't stand being around the pretentious segment of that population for more than a few minutes (does that make me pretentious?). Plus, I feared I would turn to drugs to help me come up with enough good work to compete with them (I got my best stuff by staying up so many hours in a row I was practically delirious).*

Even though I only got to take one class, the final for Life Drawing presented me with a huge life lesson. Too bad I didn't understand it for almost 15 years. The light bulb went off recently when I was trying to figure out why I can't get a handle on time management.

It's the details. The details are dragging me down.

I have always noticed things that few others do. Like spelling. And continuity. And what the extras in movies are wearing. And which television shows share the same sets. But sometimes I miss the big picture because I get hooked on the minutiae. And I'm often distracted by anything that floats by in my peripheral vision. It makes me great at Trivial Pursuit. But not awesome at effective productivity.

The final for Life Drawing was a still life set up in the middle of a circle of easels. We each took a seat and had three hours to draw what we saw. It was a bunch of stuff arranged on a table: some vases, dried flowers, I think a plate of fruit and some sort of brass instrument. I can't remember if it was a trumpet or French horn, but my eyes went directly to it.

I immediately started with the buttons on the horn. I drew each one of them painstakingly, erasing and redrawing until they were totally perfect before doing the same for the other parts of the horn. I must say those horn buttons and tubes looked almost like a photograph. I stood up, stepped back and was pretty happy. Until I looked at the clock and realized I was nearly out of time! So I started throwing down some of the other items in the arrangement. It became obvious I was going to run out of room—I had started the horn too far in the center—the composition of my piece as a whole looked terrible.

I think I got a C or D on that final. The teacher said my horn work was exquisite, but because I didn't have much else, she couldn't give me a better grade. She said I should have done a rough sketch of everything to get an idea of the entire composition (translation: MAKE A PLAN) before getting that horn nailed down so permanently. That was humbling. I knew she was right, but I had always done things this way; they had just happened to always work out in the end. I didn't win the lottery again the next semester, so that was that for art classes at university.

The other day, there was stuff lying around the living room, including several plastic bags. Instead of picking up all the random stuff to improve the overall look of the room, I decided I needed to addres the plastic bags in a big way. I pulled out the entire stash of plastic bags from under the kitchen sink and began sorting them into piles for recycle, keep and use for small garbage cans. I didn't finish that task because the baby got hungry, and left the living room with original clutter plus huge piles of plastic bags.

Why do I do this? Who knows. I've always squeaked through life using hard work and no sleep to get everything done to my specifications. But now that there is a small human who depends on us for everything, pulling an all-nighter affects more than just me.

So I have to train myself to map out the big picture before solidifying each, tiny, perfect piece and hope they all fit together. The first step to fixing a problem is admitting you have one, right?


*A semester or two before my graduation with a degree in a "stable field," my mother calls to say, "My friend at work told me about this degree—you should do it—it involves computers! What's it called? Oh yes, graphic design." When I explained that graphic design is ART, she just repeated that bit about computers.

**Three weeks into my first job out of college, the entire company was asked to take a 2.5 percent paycut to prevent layoffs. What I didn't realize was that first paycheck was the canary in the coal mine. And by coal mine, I meant sinking ship. And by sinking ship, I meant an industry where people suddenly didn't want to pay for the product anymore, so there was no money to pay people to make it anymore. It would take me another six jobs and four layoffs to realize that this career was not ever going to be steady enough to pay the mortgage.

we're hoping not to take any new members

This post isn't fun for the writer. And probably not the audience, either. Sorry. 

During my first pregnancy, I had a pregnancy buddy, who was just a few weeks behind me. We had planned all kinds of fun prenatal crave-binging, swim classes or yoga, and had done plenty of commiserating. Then my baby came at (what I know now was) 19 weeks and didn't make it. Sadly, a few weeks later, hers didn't either.

Everyone offers kindness and advice, but few people understand what it is like to lose a pregnancy that far along. We are bonded for life. She was so supportive during my difficult pregnancy with Ro, even though she was struggling terribly to conceive again. But they finally did. I was overjoyed for her and already planning on all the cute things I was going to get for her new baby.

But I got a message today that it happened again to them. Almost exactly the same scenario. It was like a roundhouse to the face that knocked me right back to May and June of 2013. I asked my mom to make a dish that this friend particularly enjoys and I left it on her doorstep with a note that essentially just said, "hugs." When I see her, that's all I can offer as consolation. Because, when you're in this horrible, terrible club, there are no words.

because I'm trying

This blog is really important to me. It helped me out of a very low time, it kept me sane when I was isolated (I cannot stand to be alone) and—most of all—it led me to Jon. And now, Ro.

She turned five months old yesterday.* Time has never gone by as quickly as the last five months has flown. 

So it's been killing me that I have only posted here once since the end of October. Beyond parenting, trying not to get lost in our house clutter and readjusting back to working full time, the main thing I do these days is look at Facebook. It's a serious habit that started when I was on bedrest because it is easy to do on my phone while lying down. Or holding a precariously sleeping child. Or while I'm pumping. Or waiting at a stoplight. Or unable to sleep. And now something horrible will befall humanity if I miss a single FB post/link/article/video/meme. I have probably read ten books' worth of linked articles in the last five months.

This blog has always been something I do for myself. Even when no one reads the posts, I like to have the record of what was going on in my life at any time (it has settled bets). The act of writing and the small community of commenters/other bloggers makes me happy. And while I want to be a great parent, in 18 years when my kid is off saving the rare spotted iguana, deejaying in Berlin or curing mesothelioma, I don't want to be sitting here wondering where "me" went.

Part of the reason I hadn't posted in so long is because I thought my first posts back needed to be about the "birth story." Some crazy stuff happened (spoiler alert: I separated my pelvis) and I put a lot of pressure on myself to carve out time to get it all down, in order. Because OCD.

"You don't have to do it perfect," Jon said. "You just have to do."

I ignored his advice for a few months and then decided that I wanted to make posting a priority. I am quitting FB for the month of April and putting that time into a good old-fashioned NaBloPoMo.

A few days ago, I saw a slideshow by Gavin McMahon at Make a Powerful Point. It was created from a set of 22 tweets originally tweeted in 2012(?) that has gotten a bit of notoriety recently. The "Rules to Phenomenal Storytelling"  were written by a former Pixar artist and director, Emma Coats. I'm going to use those rules as inspiration for this month's return of Cadiz.

Those of you who have been reading this blog for a long time have been through a lot with me. I went from a dream job (yes, the dungeon was actually pretty prestigious) to being laid off four times in five years and having to start at the bottom in a totally new career. Jon and I found each other in such a happenstance way and had to make it work for years from 2000+ miles away, get laid off within a day of one another and had to scrape together the monthly mortgage on a condo that wouldn't sell for more than two years. And then there's all the baby stuff. I have never known joy like I get from a single one of Ro's smiles. If we had given up after the bad times, we would have missed out on the very best thing in our lives. It was terrifying. And painful. But so very worth it. 

Don't tell my dad you've seen photos of Ro online or he'll try to ground me or something—he likely saw some horrific news story about predators and is adamant that she stays offline.

this really happened

When I got pregnant, I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When I was on bedrest, I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When I made it past, 12, 20, 24, 28, 32, 35, 37 and 40 weeks of gestation, I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When the doctor said to me, "I'm stripping your membranes, if you don't go into labor on your own, come in tomorrow and we'll induce you," I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When Jon was driving me to the hospital on Halloween (his birthday), I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When the contractions really started and I found myself yelling, "MOMMY! MOMMY!" in the delivery room, I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When they (sorry, TMI) put up a mirror so I could see what was going on, and I saw so much hair that did not belong to me, I thought, "Thank God she's not bald. But seriously, is this really happening?"

When they put her on my chest, and she didn't really even have any of the goo you see on TV newborns, and I saw her little face and felt her soft, soft skin, I looked among what seemed like 40 extra people rushing around in my room for my husband and my mother. I said, out loud to no one in particular as I looked down at our baby girl, "Is this REAL?"

Yep.

Meet Ro. As I had been saying all along, she stayed cooking for 40 weeks (and one day). Her father calculated it out, and she was born something like 36 years and 20 minutes after he was. 

I had been utterly deluded when making the long list of things I hoped to accomplish while on maternity leave--which included putting together my wedding album, knitting 14 sweaters and regularly posting on this blog. I apologize for leaving the two of you who still read it hanging all this time. I missed you!

 

For three months, all I did was cuddle this person. And occasionally eat and shower. But that's it.

Unfortunately, it's already been 12 weeks and I have to go back to work. Ro starts daycare in less than eight hours, which means I should be in bed so I can get everything ready for our big day (and try not to soak up the entire box of Kleenex I got for the occasion before we head out the door). Of course, that means I am here posting for the first time in three months instead of sleeping.

While it's unbelievable that some things actually really happen, it's just as unbelievable that other things never seem to change.