Just think - she's only 3 years old.

This past weekend, at Helen's request, I made her a peanut butter & jelly sandwich for lunch.  I cut off the crusts (she doesn't like the "crunchy" part) and made 4 little triangles for her to enjoy.  She ate one of them, but then she told me she was done.  

Brian had bought a candy bar at the store earlier and she was promised part of it for after lunch.  Since she was "done" with her lunch, she asked me for the candy bar.  I told her no, she had to eat the rest of her sandwich, and then she could have the candy bar.  She put up a minimal protest but I held my ground.  She could be done with her sandwich now, and no candy bar, or she could finish it and enjoy the chocolatey goodness.

At that point Alice tuned up with her own request for lunch, so I went to sit on the sofa in the living room and nursed her.  Occasionally I would see Helen at the kitchen door and reminded her to finish her sandwich.  Helen would head back to her seat at the table and I had assumed she was eating the sandwich, slowly but surely.

Eventually Helen told me she was done.  I asked her if she had eaten all of her sandwich, and she said yes.  I asked her if I came in there, would I see any more sandwich on her plate?  She said no.  I got up, and walked into the kitchen.  On the counter next to the sink was her empty plate, and Helen was standing in front of the trash can with the biggest smile on her face.  

At that point, Dear Readers, I couldn't help but laugh.  I asked her if she threw her sandwich in the trash can, and she said no.  I made a move toward the trash can and she yelled, "Nooo!"  I finally moved her out of the way and opened the lid.  Sure enough, there were all 3 sandwich triangles, sitting in the trash can.

I told Brian what happened, and he started laughing, too.  I mean, our child flat out lied, but being a 3-year old, she couldn't even try to be sneaky about it.  Seeing her in front of that trash can was pretty funny.  So it must have really confused her when I took her into the living room, explained to her that she had not told me the truth, and put her in timeout.  And it must have been really hard for her to sit in timeout while both of us chuckled.

Something tells me it won't be so funny the next time.

Haunt me? No, thank you.

Maternity leave has been an eye-opening experience.  For example, did you know that daytime television sucks?  Yeah, I thought we had it rough with prime-time TV.  Trust me - it's like watching Shakespeare compared to the crap they shove out between 10 am and 5 pm.

Anyway, that should help explain why Brian came home late yesterday afternoon to put together an order for work, and discovered I was watching John Edwards on "Crossing Over."  This show, for those of you who aren't familiar with it, is sort of like a televised seance.  He has a studio audience, and he spends the hour "reading" ghosts who want to connect with audience members.  It could be family, or it could be friends, and he manages to come up with some spooky connections (i.e., nicknames, weird family secrets, occupations, how they died, etc.) to validate their identities.

I'm not a true believer, but sometimes this show is just enough to make me wonder.  (Plus, have I mentioned that there's really not much to watch on TV?)  Brian, however, scoffed out loud.  

(To understand the following conversation, please keep in mind that we joke about the payoff on our life insurance policies, like, A LOT.)

Brian:  You're watching THAT?

Jennie: What?  Really, sometimes it's interesting.

Brian:  You better not go to one of those shows if I die, because I will mess with him.  (imitating John Edwards) "I don't know if this means anything to you, but I'm seeing rat poison."

Jennie:  (laughing)  Yeah, you'd be all, "Why you'd spend all the insurance money so fast?"

Brian:  And you'd be sitting there in the audience, laughing.  It wouldn't look so good on TV.

The thought of Brian reaching out from beyond the grave, just to mess with the life insurance proceeds - well, if you don't know him very well, it sounds EXACTLY like something he'd do.

My Nursing Degree

So the first latch after the birth went smoothly.  The next half dozen, not so good.  I actually checked Alice for teeth.  I could have sworn she was nibbling on my nipples with her molars!  By the time the lactation consultant arrived at the hospital room to give me some guidance, the baby had already done some pretty significant damage.

I realize I don't talk about my nipples very often on this blog (okay - never) but it's such an important part of the experience of having a baby.  And I have to say that my increasing disappointment with the experience thus far was crushing.  Helen's first 6 weeks were a disaster.  Every time I fed her, I cringed from the pain.  Often it would take my breath away.  Pumping was no better.  I was so tense and worked up over trying to feed her through the agony, I cried at the slightest thing.  I finally weaned her when I went back to work, and it was the best decision I ever made.  I could actually relax and be happy with giving her a bottle.  

This time, I really wanted to nurse for two reasons:  formula is expensive, and breastmilk is best for the baby.  I know that every baby is different, and I wanted to see if this time might be better.  Last time, I was too proud to call the hospital for help.  This time, I was more than willing to make sure I had every resource to make it work.

Plus, it really blows Helen's mind, that the baby gets her milk from me.  So, an added bonus there.

I got home from the hospital on Friday around lunchtime, and spent the weekend trying not to cry every time Alice nursed.  I had a product called Soothies that I wore between feedings, and I cannot recommend these things highly enough.  They'll be in every single baby shower gift from now on.

But despite all of this protection and care and continual checking that Alice had the right latch (she did), I had a scab across each nipple from significant cracking from those early feedings.  Once the engorgement hit on Sunday, it became even more difficult to get her to latch (imagine trying to nurse on a large boulder) and created more damage.  One side was significantly worse than the other.  And nursing on that scab 10-12 times a day didn't do much to heal it quickly.   In fact, it just made it worse.  So on Tuesday, I broke down and called the lactation consultant back.

Best thing I ever did. I sobbed on the phone with a complete stranger for about 20 minutes, and she had some great tips.  She suggested that I pump for about a day on the one side that was in worse shape, and then try again with Alice.  That first week of breastfeeding is crucial for establishing milk supply, and my pump wasn't strong enough to make that happen.  She said it's fine for maintaining supply only.  If I didn't get better in a day, I would have to rent a hospital-grade pump to help establish the milk supply.

So after a day of trying to find time to both nurse and pump, I cautiously entered the fray again.  To my great delight, it worked.  I spent the next two days nursing her from that breast first, in order to create more demand and get the supply going again.  I have to say, that last bit was my own instinct (not the lactation consultant's advice) and it worked like a charm.

A week later, we are rolling along at full speed.  Many times I have to wake her up to feed her, because she has a tendency to sleep about 4 hours.  Now that I'm over the engorgement period, it's much easier, but I still need to establish a good schedule with her.  Other times she will go for more cluster feedings, which can be frustrating if she wants to eat continually, and I need to cook dinner.  But if the only thing I'm dreading these days about breastfeeding is timing, then we are definitely doing well.

Parenthood 2.0

Meet Alice Suzanne, who weighs 8 lbs, 2 ounces, and measures 20.5 inches long.

The induction went very smoothly.  I'll roll out the birth story after I get home and get a chance to compose it, but for now I'll tell you she's an amazing sleeper and her big sister couldn't be happier to have her here, finally.

Play through the pain

Do they give you a medal for going to work on your due date? It feels like this is the modern equivalent of women who used to give birth in the fields - only now we're sitting behind desks in air-conditioned offices.  Okay, so not exactly the same thing.  But anyway.

Yes, I am STILL here, as apparently everyone I see has to emphasize. If every person who asked me, "You're STILL here?" or "You haven't had that baby YET?" had to give me a dollar, I could have paid for Helen's college tuition by now.  From the daycare to the bus to work and back home to the grocery store, I hear it a LOT.

Like I have anything to do with the process of making this happen. It's all up to the baby. But you wouldn't know it from the advice I keep getting. The old wives' tales are pouring out of the woodwork at this point.

"Try salsa." Oooh, the heartburn - it burns! No, thanks.

"Try sex." That gem came from a neighbor. Ha. Try, indeed! Yes, at this point I'm too sexy for this website.

"Try walking." This is by far the most popular advice. I'll just go ahead and mention that it is by no means comfortable to walk any distance at 40 weeks pregnant. Also, it was approximately 105 degrees with the heat index last week. YOU try walking around the block with an extra 30 pounds wrapped around your waist and report back to me. Be sure to indicate at what point in the first 100 feet you had to call 911.

Believe it or not, all 3 are urban legends. Apparently if you tried one of the three, or all three, or something other than these three, and then you went into labor, it was just a coincidence. The leading scientific theory is that the baby's adrenal gland releases a hormone that says, "I'm ready" and the contractions begin. So you can bet my lazy butt is on the sofa. And I will continue to enjoy the air-conditioned comfort while I wait out the last remaining hours of pregnancy.

Update from the Waiting Room

For those who are checking relentlessly - still no baby.  Induction is scheduled for August 6, so the light is shining brightly at the end of the tunnel.  After having some relentless contractions start up for a few hours on Thursday morning, I learned at my doctor appointment that I'm no further along than last week (still 3cm, 70%).  Now, even the fake labor pains have gone away, and I think this means baby is getting as much rest as she can before taking over our lives.

The good news is that if all goes according to schedule, I'll be home in time to see the Opening Ceremonies for the Olympics.  That's how I plan to spend some of my hard-earned maternity leave - watching people race for the medals while sports announcers tug at my heartstrings.  One article I read recently said that NBC is broadcasting 3600 hours of coverage, and depending on how things go with the baby, I should be awake for about 1-2% of that.  Go USA!

Movies and Moving

Monday night I sent Brian out to see a movie. I told him to leave the phone on vibrate in case I needed him, but to enjoy it because it may be the last movie he'll see for a while. Of course, he went to see Batman: The Dark Knight.

So, with Brian gone and Helen asleep, I went to bed early. I spent the night trying not to toss and turn too much - which is actually really difficult to do at this stage. I can't lie on my back for more than about a minute without getting lightheaded, so I switch sides to lie on. Waking up after a few hours of lying on one side, my ear hurts, my hip hurts, and sometimes I'm having a little contraction to boot. I gather up the energy to move to the other side, which is a pretty big endeavor. It takes a lot of preparation to haul that much weight on your belly over to the other side without causing giant painful cramps around the hips (those poor ligaments are already stretched to the max), so I slowly make my way over to the other hip and ear, crushing those for a few more hours. Sometimes I mix it up and throw in a bathroom break.

A few times in the past month I have slept in the guest room since the heavy manuvering tends to wake up Brian. I shove a bunch of pillows all around me and it seems to be comfortable. I wake up about the same number of times, but I don't feel as bad about how much I'm moving around. I really like sleeping in my own bed better, but there's not as much room for a bunch of pillows, Brian, me *and* my belly. So it's a tradeoff.

The whole thing is getting a little tiring, and I wake up more and more sore each day. I'm actually looking forward to taking a snooze in that adjustable hospital bed, propped up on about 4 pillows, sleeping ON MY BACK.

(For the worried, I went to see Batman last night, enduring nearly 3 hours in a movie theater seat without a bathroom break - and it was totally worth it.)

Second Verse, Same as the First

This weekend Brian & I watched an episode of Scrubs where the main character describes the act of childbirth as performing all of your personal bodily functions while a group of strangers are all staring intently at you, DOWN THERE. And while a first-time pregnant person may think about what that means, nothing prepares you for the actual experience. Absolutely nothing. I've had annual doctor visits DOWN THERE and even minor surgical procedures DOWN THERE, and I was not prepared for it.

Neither was Brian, for that matter. He's still trying to champion the return of fathers to the waiting room.

There is an overwhelming loss of privacy that comes with motherhood. No one tells you about it except to perhaps mention that you'll never go to the bathroom again by yourself, and while you may think about what that means, none of that makes an impression on you until it actually happens to you.

But I've learned it's not just the delivery room, or even in the bathroom where these intrusions happen. During pregnancy, random strangers ask me when I'm due, what I'm having, how many kids I already have, if Helen's excited about the baby, what kind of foods I'm craving, which doctor I'm using, what hospital I'm going to, and so on. They tell me that I must be having a boy because I'm carrying high. Or that I'm having a girl because I'm pregnant "all over." (yeah, that was a new one for me, too.) AND THEY TOUCH MY BELLY. You know, I never thought of my body as a conversation piece, but okay. It's happened. I can deal with it.

Then the baby comes, and you end up sharing even more of your private moments with the world. Breastfeeding and diaper changing in public are just the beginning. Everyone wants to know how they sleep, how they eat, how much they weigh, if they cry a lot, or if they're happy. Sometimes they want to know how you're doing.  Sometimes your child chooses the exact wrong moment to pass a little gas, or spit up on you, or god forbid, turn 3 and have a gigantic meltdown. If you're at the grocery store, or church, or a family reunion, you're dealing with all of these issues on a stage, where you're keenly aware of others watching your every move. You're hopeful that they sympathize, but deep down, as you try every trick in the book to avoid possible disaster, you can hear them all saying to themselves, "I would have done it differently." Add in the sleep deprivation and nagging self-doubt as you encounter everything about your baby for the first time, and you can see why first-time parents are nervous.

I'm a little less nervous this time around, but it's still a challenge to think about doing all of this again, because I'm well aware that every baby is different. I have told Brian from the beginning that based on my wealth of babysitting experience, Helen was very easy. Despite her early arrival, nothing held her back in terms of development. Her pediatrician was horrified to see us on her Day 2 checkup, after hearing that she was 5 weeks early. She couldn't believe her partner released Helen from the hospital, and then she examined her and realized we had a winner. During that first 2 months, we had mainly 3 issues: the breastfeeding was miserable; she was a tummy sleeper (and still is); and she really wanted to spend the first month being held. Once we fixed those issues, we made out like bandits. She was an awesome baby, even though we were chained to that pacifier, and I don't think any of the issues we had with her in her first year were unusual. In other words, without any personal parenting experience, we handled it all pretty well.

So I can't help but worry that we might be pushing our luck with this next one. Number Two has been hosting a karate class in my womb since the moment we figured out she was in there, and it's a little disturbing to think of what that might mean once she's out. Will this one have colic? More allergies? Will breastfeeding work for us this time? How will she sleep? What if there's something wrong? What if we can't figure out what she needs?

Maybe that's why random strangers ask so many questions. They could be looking for some validation that they made the right choices with their own kids. And I understand that, really I do. I like to think that Helen was easy to take care of because I knew what I was doing. The second baby may just blow that little theory out of the water.

Forward Progress

So here's the update: at the OB's office this morning, we learned I'm dilated to 3cm, and I'm 70% effaced. For those who don't know what that means, I'll just say that my cervix did spend the past week getting thinner.

That's the first thing that's gotten thinner on me in a long, long time.

The doctor and I were both pretty excited about this progress. She said she would not be surprised to hear that I'm ready to go in the next few days. Woo hoo!

Hopefully baby & I can hold out until the weekend, when I have a little bit of time to clean my house AGAIN. And do laundry AGAIN. And go shopping AGAIN.

After spending last weekend doing the same thing, it's exhausting to consider, but I'm so thrilled to hear that the pain & discomfort was moving everything along, that I don't really mind a bit.

The Vows Never Mentioned THAT

Brian & I were on the phone today, discussing a friend whose mother-in-law fell down the stairs and broke both arms. Her husband has to do everything for her, including dressing her, feeding her - even wiping her after she uses the bathroom.

Jennie: I'm gonna go ahead and tell you up front that if you broke both of your arms, I would not be able to wipe you, because there's nothing about you in a bathroom that I want to go near.

Brian: (imitates Helen, who these days is unable or unwilling to wipe herself, and instead calls to me from the potty as needed) I need help wiping!

Jennie: Yeah, that's not gonna happen. We'll have to hire someone.

Brian: Can she be young and hot?

Jennie: No, but *he* will be.

Brian: Nice.

3, 2, 1 ...

I've had a problem with my contact lens that just won't go away. For those who wear them, it's a giant protein blob that no amount of cleansing and soaking will get rid of. Normally, it's not a problem - just throw away the contact and replace it with a fresh one - but this is my last contact for this eye. 

I can't go get more contacts because my prescription ran out during the pregnancy, and getting a new prescription now guarantees that I won't see straight after the baby's born. In fact, my eye doctor won't even let me set an appointment. Blame hormones, blame blood sugar, blame fate, but something funny goes on with the vision of a pregnant woman. Mine has gotten progressively worse over the past 3 months, and I still have to wait about 2-3 months after the birth for things to go back to normal.

By the way, I HATE my glasses.

So, I'm in the grocery store searching for the nuclear options in contact lens solutions, and Helen asked me what we were looking for. Absently, I replied, "something for my contacts." Right after I said that, I realized Helen has no idea what contacts are. I sleep in mine (yes, I know darn well that would explain the protein blob), so she hasn't seen me take them out & clean them before. So I told her I had something in my eyes to help me see better, and they were a little dirty so I was looking for something to clean them.

Miracle of all miracles, she didn't ask any more questions after that.

Cut to the next day when I picked up Helen from daycare, and I told her we are headed to the grocery store to get some food for dinner. Helen asked, "Mommy, is it your tongue kiss?" Umm .... WHAT?

I couldn't figure out for the life of me what she was talking about. It took about another half-mile of her chattering and asking about shopping for "tongue kiss" before it clicked. She was trying to say "contacts" but it was coming out "toncass." Which sounded like "tongue kiss." Which I think we can all agree is a pretty disturbing thing for a 3-year old to say. I've worked with her on correct pronunciation, but she still says "toncass."

The doctor told us at her 3-year old checkup that she talks so clearly, and was very impressed with her vocabulary. Thank GOD the word "contacts" wasn't part of the testing.

I Scream, You Scream - no, wait, my turn again.

So, I spent this weekend having Braxton-Hicks contractions, or as they're known around these parts, "getting your hopes up, only to taunt you and run away laughing at your misery." Basically anywhere from every two to five minutes, my stomach would tighten, or start cramping, and sometimes a tiny bit of pain would radiate down into my legs.

(Someone asked me - how do you know it's not the real thing? With my eyes closed, I could tell you that question came from someone who has not had children. Basically, if you can sleep through the contractions when they're two minutes apart, instead of tearing your sleeping spouse's arms off, it's not the real thing.)

All of this ramped up on Friday night after I got home from work. So I spent the evening making my mental checklist of things that had to get done before I spent 48 hours in a hospital. I kept trying to do laundry, thinking that clean underwear would be Brian's priority in the event of an early delivery. I prepacked the hospital bag with a few things. I also called our Amazing Babysitter to make sure she wasn't out of town - she is our backup plan for taking care of Helen when we rush to the hospital. There isn't anything about Mommy in a delivery room that a 3-year old needs to see.

So, basically, I worked my way through this entire weekend. Altogether I did 6 loads of laundry, cooked, cleaned, mopped, vacuumed, dusted, and polished. I even did some grocery shopping and stocked up on diapers. The contractions never stopped, but my water didn't break and nothing got more serious than that.

So there's still no baby. Now my house is clean, I'm exhausted, and still having these stupid fake contractions. I did some research online and it turns out this might be Mother Nature's way of thinning the cervix in preparation for the real thing. Since I skipped all of this fun the first time around, it looks like this child has chosen the slow-pokey way out.

Late Sunday night, I surrendered. Realizing that a full day at work on Monday was in my immediate future, I went out & bought the biggest cup of ice cream that Marble Slab sells, and ate the entire thing. It made me feel a little better. Then I got to work today and someone said, "Hey, I thought you'd have the baby by now" and I burst into tears. For two hours, I couldn't stop crying. Freakin' pregnancy hormones have kicked into full gear after leaving me alone for most of the pregnancy.

Clearly, the situation calls for more ice cream - STAT.

Counting Down

37 weeks today, and I had an ultrasound to make sure all looked good.  Placenta's fine, plenty of amniotic fluid, nice heart rate, good cord blood flow, and the baby is gorgeous.  

In fact, it all looks so good, they're estimating the baby weighs 7.5 pounds.

I still have 3 weeks to go.   I remember what it was like to give birth to Helen, who weighed a pound less.   Now I'm trying to picture giving birth to a baby that could weigh anywhere from 2-4 pounds more than Helen, and the prospect is a bit terrifying.

And no change - I'm still barely 1cm dilated.  I think I'm in for a long wait on this one.

Timing

This week I was 36 weeks pregnant.  As a bit of perspective, Helen arrived 5 weeks early.   (For the math-challenged, full-term is 40 weeks.)

So this baby?  CAN'T. GET. HERE. SOON. ENOUGH.  My ribs hurt, my pelvis aches, and I have heartburn about 20 hours a day.  To top it off, I cannot possibly eat enough ice cream. 

At 30 weeks I had an ultrasound of my heart that I talked about here.  Since the tech was 16 weeks pregnant, she indulged me in quick peek at the baby, where I was surprised to learn the baby was already in the head-down position.  Remembering when Helen turned down at 34 weeks during an agonizing sleepless night, I thought this one might be preparing to come early, too.

But no.  My weekly appointments this month have proved that I'm barely dilated to 1 cm.   About once a day, I have a tiny contraction - nothing terribly painful, but a quick reminder that I haven't forgotten what they feel like.

Then this morning, while I tried to get some more shut-eye on the couch at 5:30 a.m., I looked down to see my stomach all lopsided on the right.  Something has been jammed up in my ribcage all afternoon, and I look much wider now, rather than up & down pregnant.

I think this little girl got a front row seat at the week we just had with her big sister, changed her mind, and headed back up.   

I don't blame her one bit.

Toddler Mayhem

This week has been a little crazy.  Helen had some incredible tantrums and power struggles with me and Brian, most of which ended with her in timeout.  Then I learned that the teachers were having a tough time with her, too.  Turns out she wasn't listening, or if they asked her to do something, she'd just smirk at them instead.    

This sounds like *no one* I already know.

So, it been a rough week where we haven't really been getting along and playing well with others.  So Brian and I would talk with her and fuss at her and after way too much crying and screaming and yelling, she'd promise to be good the next day.  And then we'd pick her up at daycare, and learn that she'd been in timeout again for not listening to her teachers.  It was getting really frustrating, and given the normal behavior of a 3-year old, I'm not sure things will be fixed any time soon.

Now that you have our week set firmly in your head, I'll back up a bit.  Right after Helen was born, I signed her up for a children's group that sends a new book to her each month. One of Helen's favorite books she's received is Llama Llama Red Pajama.  It's the story of a little llama who goes to bed and whines for his mama, who's downstairs doing dishes.  The llama's patience wears thin waiting on her, and he ends up screaming the house down to get her attention.  Mama Llama gets upstairs to remind him that "Mama Llama's always near, even if she's not right here," and she gives her baby llama kisses and says goodnight.  All ends well.

Fast forward to yesterday, when Brian arrived home to discover the sequel in our mailbox.

A Sampling

Things I have heard multiple times in the past two weeks:

"Girl, you have blown up."

"How much farther do you have to go?"  (I'm 35 weeks.)  "Hmmm.  Yeah ... you might not make it."

"Wow, your belly is like, OUT THERE."

My usual response is, "Come over here a little closer so I can SMACK YOU."

Today I wore a black top and pants to work, with some silver sandals and silver jewelry.  This evening Brian said, "That outfit is very slimming."  I almost cried.  It's the best thing anyone has said about my enormous baby bulge in months.

And then he tried to eat my ice cream.  What nerve!

Fireworks

We're headed back to the farm this weekend (yes, the one with all the cows) for a family reunion.  This evening, I wondered aloud at the spectacle Brian and his brother might create with fireworks.

Brian:  It's nothing compared to my uncle.  One year he had driven home long-distance for a 4th of July party, stopping at every fireworks stand along the way.  He picked the biggest and best at every shop.  By the end of the trip, he had a huge garbage bag of fireworks.

Jennie:  What happened?

Brian:  Everything was great until the second one took a bad hop and landed in the garbage bag.

Jennie:  (laughs)

Brian:  He set the lawn on fire.

Jennie:  (still laughing)  Oh god, please stop.  I've peed my pants!  (the 3rd trimester sucks, y'all.)

My own family has a very long tradition of setting various patches of grass on fire on the 4th of July.  Some collateral damage includes hearing loss, heart palpitations, burned fingers, and a large orange glow in the far woods of a nearby house, where the garden hose couldn't possibly reach.  But I'll never forget the year we let a 5-year old boy hold a 5-ball Roman Candle, and after the first one we all made the obligatory "ooooh" noises, whereupon the 5-year old turned to us, proud of his handiwork, with a giant grin on his face and the Roman Candle aimed at us.  

You've never seen a bunch of ladies hit the deck that fast.  

This year we've been told that fireworks on the farm are allowed, within very reasonable limits on after-show cleanup.  That basically leaves giant cannon shots that can be seen for miles.  

This should be a very interesting holiday.

But with all the commotion, the cows will probably stay far away, and I won't get to take lots of pictures of them.  And that, Dear Reader, will be a win-win for you.

Heart Warming

When I was 4 months pregnant with Helen, Brian & I began the house-hunting in earnest.  There was a tight market in our area, and we learned quickly after some trial and error offers that we had to leap on a house as soon as it was available and cross our fingers.

At the time, we were living in an apartment on the 3rd floor.  Day by day, I was getting more and more winded going up the stairs to our place.  Sometimes I would be carrying groceries, and I'd get to the top landing with my heart racing a mile a minute.  Other times I wouldn't be carrying anything, and I'd still have to rest for a minute when I got inside.  

Now I know I'm not in shape, but it felt a little ridiculous to be unable to handle that little walk upstairs.  And I could just picture how it would go carting a baby, too.  Which suddenly was a very good reason to move out of that apartment.

My lease wasn't up until a few months after my due date.  I had a chat with the manager, and they would be able to let me out of my lease early with a note from the doctor.  So at my next visit to the OB, I explained my heart issues and 3rd floor issues and wondered aloud if she could possibly write me a letter to expedite the whole lease-breaking thing.

Instead, she sent me to a cardiologist.

Apparently I'd focused a little too much on the heart problem and not enough on the "I need a letter" problem.  But I was far enough along in my pregnancy to realize things might not be normal.   Or, at the very least, it was worth mentioning to a doctor.  Typically in the 2nd trimester, you notice a faster heart rate because your blood volume increases by 30%.  The heart has to work that much harder, and so it's not uncommon to feel exhausted by a little bit of effort.   But just to make sure, she recommended the appointment with the specialist.

So I went.  And walking into the waiting room, I thought it might be a huge exercise in futility to spend my hard-earned co-payment in that place.  I was half the age of everyone in that waiting room, and noticeably pregnant.  I got more than a few long glances in my direction, and I'm sure even the nurses were wondering why a young pregnant person was going to see a heart doctor.

The doctor was extremely thorough.  I got an EKG and an echocardiogram, and both of them came back normal.  He also listened to my heart but didn't detect anything unusual.  He got a complete history and explained everything to me about what they would do next.

I went home that day with a monitor that I had to wear for a month, and whenever I felt that unusually high pulse racing, I had to push a button to record it.  Any strange or fluttering episodes were duly noted as well.  My chief complaint at this point was, dang, I have another month to wait to get a letter.  At this point, I was feeling pretty stupid for having pursued this route.

At the end of the month, I was back at the doctor's office and they reported on the findings of all my careful monitoring - nothing unusual.  In fact, I believe they used the words "stone-cold normal."  Um.  Crap.  So they did an ultrasound of my heart, and that's when the doctor finally hit paydirt.

It turns out I have a leaky valve in my left ventricle, a condition called mitral valve prolapse.  Normally as the heart pumps blood through the 4 chambers, the valves close off behind the blood, keeping everything where it should be.  But one of mine doesn't shut all the way, leaving some blood to flow back into the chamber it came from, and this can cause a variety of problems.  Depending on how bad the leaking is, I have heart racing, chest pain, shortness of breath and a risk of a few other things.  The doctor told me that the pregnancy wouldn't pose a problem, in spite of the increased blood flow, but during the delivery I would need IV antibiotics to make sure I didn't get an infection in my heart.

I asked him if this would be a problem for walking up & down 3 flights of stairs, as I continued in the pregnancy.  He said I could look for another place to live, but that I should be fine and able to lead a very normal life.  Decades from now, I might need medicine or surgery, but for now I was fine.

Not the answer I was looking for, obviously.

Back at the OB's office, I learned that the two doctors had chatted, and my OB was willing to write the letter based on his findings.  A month later, we had our house and a move-in date, and everything seemed to be smooth sailing until Helen showed up 10 days before the closing.  The rest is history.

That is, until pregnancy #2, when I was instructed by my OB to make sure everything was in order with the cardiologist.  At that appointment, I learned that the leaking has gotten worse, to the point that once I'm through with breast-feeding, I will need to start medication.  I've also got an enlarged left ventricle from the pressure build-up of the blood flowing back into that chamber.  For now it's just above the normal limits, and it's possibly due to the pregnancy.  But my doctor can hear the abnormal heart rhythm on his stethoscope now.  

This last visit to the cardiologist, I learned that heart disease is the #1 cause of death for women.  That's startling.  Both my grandmother and great-grandmother died of sudden heart attacks.  There is a strong family history of mitral valve prolapse as well.  I didn't know about that until I was diagnosed and shared the news with my mother.   So there's a small cause to be concerned and watch for developments and do whatever I can to fix this.

Honestly, I wouldn't even know about this condition if I didn't have an OB looking out for her malpractice insurance and a cardiologist who methodical tested me every single way possible.  All I wanted was to get out of my apartment!  

It makes me feel a little less ridiculous.  And I'd encourage you all to pay attention to your own little heart racing, chest pain, shortness of breath issues that could mean the difference between ridiculous and medication.  

To read more about mitral valve prolapse, click here.  

Computer Issues, Part Duh

This weekend the laptop died a spectacular death. We got a black screen that many Apple users will never see in a lifetime. I took the poor dear to a specialist who sadly informed us that all communications with the hard drive were lost, and did we have good backups?

Sigh ...

Fortunately we have a new hard drive to install, and fingers crossed, that may be all that's wrong with it. In the meantime, the search will go on to find the data on the old one, which will involve specialists and money - necessary evils when a year's worth of digital photos are involved.

By the way, a very special thanks to the 4 people who emailed me yesterday to say, "HOLY COW, GUESS WHO POSTED A COMMENT ON YOUR RENOIR ENTRY!!!!!" Trust me - I passed right out.

Master Artist

Yesterday Helen and I spent the morning at the art museum in the presence of a famous artist.

It didn't hurt that the artist's great-grandfather was slightly more famous than him.



In the picture above, in case you couldn't tell, it's the tall guy with the beret that's the artist. He is the great-grandson of Renoir.  Alexandre has been studied art and painted since a very young age, and he brought a giant collection of his own work to display in the museum, in addition to some lithographs of his great-grandfather's. One of his which, he later pointed out to us, was a drawing of his grandpa.

I cannot imagine growing up in the giant shadow of Renoir, but this guy is about the most friendly and down-to-earth person you'd ever hope to meet. We were at the museum for a children's art workshop, where he was "teaching" kids to paint in the impressionist style. Open to all ages - so of course, I dragged Helen straight away for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Did I mention it was free? Yeah, at no cost whatsoever.

Now, anyone who has read this blog for a few days realizes Helen couldn't possibly be shy.  She's loud, proud and ready to go to the head of the class at every opportunity.  Even when we go somewhere new, she gets into the zone after a few minutes.  So when I told her on Friday night that we were going somewhere special to paint the next day, she was standing at my bedside at 5:45 the next morning.  "Mommy," she whispered, "are we going to paint today?"

I made it a special time for us.  We stopped to get a donut for breakfast, and then we rode the bus downtown.  There's a big music festival in town this weekend, and I didn't want to deal with the hassle of parking downtown.  The bus dropped us off right in front of the museum, so it couldn't have been easier. 

They gave every kid a paint can lid.  Alexandre had sketched a flower, and signed his name on the back. The kids were instructed to paint the flowers with the acrylic paint at the tables, and they could do anything they wanted. Alexandre's plan was to walk around and visit with everyone, offer any tips they might need, and just comment in general.


We happened to be standing at the end of a long table, near the front of the room. So once the workshop started, Helen was the first kid he came over to talk to. This guy is extremely tall, and wearing a hat she'd never seen before, and even though I tried to tell her on the bus what to expect, as soon as he came over to our table and talked to her, she buried her head in my thigh. At the one moment I would have loved to have my chatty, friendly toddler in the room, Helen was completely shy.  I couldn't get her to even look at the man, let alone speak to him.  He picked up her paint can lid and asked what color she wanted to use, but it was a no-go from the get-go. Eventually he took some green paint and put a few strokes on the stems. She didn't budge. I couldn't grab my camera to get the moment, either.



But as soon as he moved on to another child, she went to town on the lid. Painting various colors everywhere, she was ready to be the impressionist artist. Heck, she could have been Jackson Pollock if I let her. And later, when she piled a frosting-thick coating of pink paint onto a plain white sheet of paper, I realized she really loved this stuff.



At the end of the workshop, many of the parents were getting pictures of Alexandre with their children and the lids. I decided to try it as well. Maybe after 30 minutes of painting, she'd loosen up, righ? As soon as I approached him, he was friendly and smiling. He complimented Helen on her painting, while Helen proceeded to bury her face in my neck. Then he shared with me that seeing Helen made him miss his own young son. He pulled out his cell phone to show me a little blonde boy with startling blue eyes. I told him that those eyes were gorgeous, and he said as soon as he saw Helen, those eyes reminded him of his son.

A museum photographer came up to get a picture of the 3 of us. I gave him my camera as well and we got another shot. This is the closest we could get to having Helen look up in his presence.

On the way home, I thought of a million questions to ask him. Of course, it was too late by then! But I was so thrilled to have had the chance to be there, and to see some beautiful art. Clearly he's inherited some talent, and his love for the children was evident in that workshop. I don't know how many artists of his great-grandfather's era would have been tempted to do the same thing, but it was truly a great experience for all those kids.