Houston, We Have a Problem

It turns out Gabe has a jealous streak. A serious jealous streak. When I arrived at school on Friday afternoon to pick him up, he was cheerfully playing with a drum and could barely be bothered to look up and say hi to me. So I sat down on the grass beside him and watched the drumming, amused at my musical son. After I had been sitting for about, oh, eighteen seconds, three other children from his class came and sat down on my lap. One sat right in the middle, and the other two perched on each of my knees. It was absolutely charming and I loved it. Of course, I have known these children since they were only a few months old, and it amuses me to no end that they are now walking, talking little people.

After a minute or two Gabe looked up from his drum-playing to see his friends sitting on my lap, and he was not amused. Not one little bit. He stood up, threw the drum to the ground, and ran the whole distance between us (approximately five feet) in just a few seconds, shouting, "No! Mine! Move!" and then trying to push his tiny friends off of my lap. "No! Mine! Move!" he cried, getting more and more frustrated.

I scooped him up in my arms rather awkwardly, not wanting to dislodge his friends (who showed absolutely no signs of moving and looked utterly unperturbed by his protests), and managed to hold him sort of against the side of my body as I explained that yes, I was indeed his mommy but there was room for everyone to sit and it's nice to share and we don't push our friends ever no we do not push.

I would write this off as an isolated incident, but it wasn't and it's not. He doesn't like me to hold other babies or toddlers or kids. Ever ever ever. In the past week he has been angry about my holding: (i) his cousin P; (ii) our friends' two-month-old son; (iii) our friends' one-year-old daughter; and (iv) Gabe's friend L who is three and who we regularly see for playdates. His protests are always some version of the aforementioned "No! Mine! Move!" (He will sometimes mix it up by locking eyes with me, pointing towards the offending child in my arms, and declaring "All done! All done!")

I think poor Gabe is in for a very rude awakening come February 1. And I have no idea what to do about it. And as much as I am thrilled and excited for baby number two, I feel so terribly guilty about how it is going to affect Gabe. I hope he can learn to love his sibling. People do this all the time, right? Someone please reassure me that I am not actually ruining his life by giving him a sibling.

OK, enough of that whining. Please feast your eyes on Gabey the Pooh! (Halloween was excellent. Gabe tasted his first bite of chocolate and ate an entire roll of Smarties candy. It may have been the greatest day of his life.)

V-Day!

Happy V-Day to me and Version 2.0, Happy V-Day to me and Version 2.0!

That's viability day, in case you were curious. As of Thursday I am officially 24 weeks pregnant, which means that if the baby were born now, she would have a fighting chance at survival. Those odds are only about 50-50, so ideally we'd like to keep her in there a whole lot longer, but I find it reassuring to know she would at least have a shot if something unexpected happened and I went into labor now. Plus I wouldn't have to try and talk the nurses and doctors into trying to save her - they would automatically take measures to keep her alive.

Wow, I sound like I'm preparing for the worst, don't I? Really I am not. She kicks and kicks and kicks all the time, and as far as I know everything is healthy and growing right on schedule. But all the same I take comfort in knowing that my little girl is past that critical 24-week mark. (Although I will happily wait another 15 or so weeks to meet her.)

On another subject, I am beginning to feel as though "Version 2.0" is not a great nickname. If her due date were any later I might call her my little valentine. Suggestions, anyone?

Popularity

Gabe has become quite the ladies' man these days, at least as far as the preschool set is concerned. When I picked him up from school one day a couple of weeks ago, his teacher met me at the door. "I have a story for you," she said with a big smile on her face.

She told me about how she was playing outside with Gabe and some of the other children in his class when three of the preschool-aged girls from the Tigers class came by to say hello (as Gabe's teacher is their former teacher, and the big kids all seem to enjoy checking in on the little kids and their old classrooms). One of the preschool girls glanced at Gabe, then clasped her hands and declared, "Oh...he's mine." Then she gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Can I take him home?" she inquired politely.

"Oh, I don't know about that," replied the teacher. "I think we'll have to ask his mommy."

The little girl frowned. "I don't want to ask him mommy. I just want to take him home. He's mine now."

This went on for a while, with the teacher explaining she couldn't just take him, and the little girl insisting that she wanted to, and apparently the whole incident ended with all three of the little girls kissing Gabe goodbye and telling him they'd see him later.

And see him later they did. After coming by to check on him several more times in the following weeks, the ringleader brought her mommy by to meet Gabe last week. "Can we take him home?" she asked her mommy. "Please?"

I am told that when she was told no, Gabe had to go home with his own mommy and daddy who loved him very much, the little girl was quite put out. But she still frequently stops by to tell him hi and give him hugs and kisses.

Gabe, as you might imagine, eats this up. He will cheerfully sit in a circle of older women (well, four year olds, at least) and be petted and hugged and told how cute he is for twenty solid minutes, which is a long time when you're one and a half.

In fact, I have recently realized that he is happy to be admired (whether by family members, preschool girls, or complete strangers) no matter what the circumstances. This weekend we took him to a pumpkin patch to buy a pumpkin and test drive his Halloween costume, and he was very, very pleased by all the of the strangers who stopped to tell him how adorable he looked (and he really did look adorable in his dinosaur costume, make no mistake about that). He basically preened.

I have no witty conclusion to this story, other than to say he may be in for a rude awakening when the new baby arrives and he is forced to occasionally share the spotlight. Poor Gabe!

And on that note, I have to mention that the new baby had hiccups yesterday. It's the first time I've felt that odd, rhythmic movement during this pregnancy, and made me tear up a little bit. They were tears of joy and sudden remembrance. Until that moment I don't think I'd remembered just how miraculous those baby hiccups feel. And how could I have forgotten, when I was pregnant with Gabe so recently? What else have I forgotten, and what else might I forget? This most incredible time in my life is whizzing by much, much too quickly. So I sat in my desk chair with one hand on my tummy and thought to myself, "Remember this. Remember this. Remember this."

Oh, I hope I do. Maybe writing this will help freeze that feeling in my mind. I hope it does.

In which I am sick...

I have The Black Plague, I think. At least, I'm pretty sure that's what's wrong with me. Gabe continues to be remarkable and funny and probably a genius, and Version 2.0 kicks and kicks and kicks (and she is STILL a girl, according to the ultrasound I had last Friday, woo hoo!), so that is all good news even if I am suffering from The Black Plague.

Please distract yourselves with this recent concert video while I go moan and cough and generally feel sorry for myself. (I would post some of the ultrasound photos as an additional distraction and also to give equal love to both children, but the only shots we got last Friday are of the baby's terrifying skull face, and I will spare you those scary images.)

Halfway There!

20 weeks! 20 weeks! Oh my goodness, the time is flying by!

But before I get to that, I must tell you that Gabe is so awesome. This evening he was splashing around happily in his bathtub with a toy fish when he suddenly stood up and looked me straight in the eyes. (And that kid knows the rule that we only sit down on our bottom in the bathtub because it is dangerous to stand! Dangerous!) "You need to sit down, baby," I said.

"Hug!" he replied. "Hug!" And then he held out his arms and gave me a big, giant, wet bathtub hug. And then he cheerfully sat down and resumed playing with the toy fish. My heart practically cracked open with mushy toddler love.

About a half hour later it was bedtime, and as I laid him down in the corner of his crib where he likes it the best, he looked up at me and said, "Eye-of you," which of course means "I love you."

"I love you too, baby," I said, heart bursting all over again. "Good night."

"Night night," he replied, already half asleep.

Does it get any better than a toddler at sixteen months old? Don't even try to tell me that it does, because I don't believe you.

But back to our original subject...20 weeks! 20 weeks! I read that second pregnancies tend to go much more quickly, perhaps because most second-time mommies are too preoccupied with chasing around their already-born children to spend a whole lot of time stroking their pregnant bellies and contemplating the miracle of life within, etc.

But 20 weeks! Halfway! (And actually, I'm more than halfway if Dr. M wins our ongoing argument and convinces me to schedule the c-section for 39 weeks.) How did this happen? It seems like I just got that positive pregnancy test about five minutes ago, and yet somehow I am at the point where I feel the baby move every day. Plus they're starting to feel like real kicks rather than just tiny little taps and flutters. It's so great. (Although you know what's not great? Puking. Time to go away, morning sickness. No one wants you here, and you have seriously overstayed your welcome.)

I have my structural ultrasound with the perinatologist next Friday, and I am really looking forward to getting a peek at the little lamb chop. Although I still suspect she's really a boy. I'm actually glad we're getting a second opinion from this doctor, because as much as I love Susan, I still cannot bring myself to believe that we're having a girl. It's just too much, too exciting. Too much joy.

An Ode to Three (Four) Day Weekends

Oh, what a great weekend we had. It was the kind of delicious, leisurely weekend that makes it almost physically painful to return to routine on Tuesday morning.

Last week I had to go away on a business trip, which, frankly, was horrible. I mean, the trip itself was fine, but three whole days without this?? Torture! Deprivation!

So to celebrate my return home, I worked from home on Friday and after getting some contracts done I just played and played and played with my fantastic son. We went to the park, we read dozens of books, we played tickle torture until we laughed so hard we could barely breathe. And then the real fun began!

On Saturday we took him to the first home football game of the season! He loved tailgating with GrandBob, Uncle Ross and Auntie Katie, loved eating junk food, LOVED the marching band. Every time the band played - even for just ten seconds in between plays - he would turn his face up to me and cry, "More! More!" He made it through the entire first half without complaint, and we would have stayed even longer had it not been so hot. I think Gabe was actually a little sad to leave the stadium, he enjoyed the experience so much. The whole day made me happy.

And on Sunday things got even better still. My parents belong to a charitable organization that puts on a very elaborate equestrian competition each year, with all of the money benefiting Childrens Hospital. If Gabe loved the marching band on Saturday, then he had fits of ecstasy over the horses at the competition on Sunday. "Neigh! Neigh!" he shouted over and over again, his finger pointing, his head whipping right and left as quickly as possible to make sure he got a glimpse of every single horse. He even got to pet two beautiful horses (including one who was the great-grandson of Secretariat!) and he and GrandBob got to ride on a tractor. When you are sixteen months old, I am not sure life gets any better than this. He finally fell asleep in my arms in a heap of absolute exhaustion around 2:30 p.m., and we managed to get him into the car and all the way back home before he woke up from his nap. And when he did wake up, he was MAD. "Neigh! Gammy! Bob!" he demanded, angry to be at home and away from the horse show. "Neigh! Gammy! Bob!"

On Monday, we celebrated Labor Day with a barbecue at Matt's parents' house, and Gabe got to go swimming in the pool with Cousin Parker. He was also allowed to eat vast quantities of Earth's Best Vanilla Cookies (affectionately known in our house as "ELMO COOKIES YAY!") and Pirate's Booty, and I am sad to report that's pretty much all he ate all weekend. Apparently when we deviate from his routine with too many fun activities, he refuses to eat any food containing any semblance of nutritional value. This stresses me out to no end but so far does not seem to have an adverse affect on the child. Although I am debating taking him back to the baby store near us where they have a weigh station so that I can weigh him and make sure he hasn't actually dropped any pounds in the past couple of weeks. Wow, I have gotten paranoid in my old age.

So in sum, GREAT WEEKEND. I think this is best captured by Gabe's reaction when it was time to take him to daycare this morning (and he is loving the Toddler room, by the way). As we reached his classroom I opened the door and began waiving to all of his friends, saying good morning. I looked back and he was still standing in the doorway. He caught my eye, raised his eyebrows, and shook his head no. He was not interested in going to school. It took a blueberry muffin and two turns on the slide to warm him up to the idea.

So for all of you who had a rough day back at work, rest assured that even toddlers get the end-of-long-weekend blues.

XX

The new baby is a girl.

A girl!

A GIRL!

I could not have been more surprised if the ultrasound technician had told me I was having a unicorn.

As Matt and I headed into my appointment on Friday morning I was overcome with a sudden feeling of doubt and worry. "I don't want to go," I said to him.

"We don't have to," he replied.

I shrugged my shoulders, and in we went.

Our favorite technician, whose name is Susan, smiled to welcome us and tell us she was going to do the ultrasound, which immediately made me feel better. "How far along are you?" she asked as we walked into the exam room.

"A little over sixteen weeks," I replied.

"Big day! Are you ready to find out what you're having?"

A boy, I thought to myself. As if there's any doubt. For months now I have dreamed of myself as a mother to three boys. But I simply said, "Yes, we're ready," and hopped up onto the table.

She laughed and joked with us a bit during the beginning, as she rolled the transducer over my belly. She showed us the brains, the kidneys, the stomach with fluid in it (which she said was a good thing), and the four chambers of the heart. She turned on the volume and let us listen to the heartbeat, which I love so so much.

Then she laughed and said, "The baby's sleeping, and the legs are crossed. But don't worry, I don't give up easy." And she didn't. She spent the next several minutes poking the baby (and me) with the transducer and coaxing the baby to roll over and examining the little butt and legs from every angle she could manage. After a few minutes of silence she said, "I know what it is, but I want to look around a little more to be sure."

During this entire time I craned my neck and examined the swooshing images on the screen to look for the (I thought inevitable) penis. I kept thinking I could see glimpses of it, but Susan never managed a perfectly clear shot. Finally at one point I was sure I saw it. With a jolt of combined elation and the most minute bit of disappointment (I know, I know, I am a terrible person and should be thanking the Heavens for my good fortune at being pregnant with a second child, not selfishly wishing for a girl), I exhaled and said, "Oh, there it is! I know! It's a boy, right? I see the penis!"

Susan, flicked her eyes away from the screen for a brief second and said to me, "No, you don't." Matt started to laugh. "It's a girl," she declared. "You're having a girl."

That is when I started to cry, tears of happiness and utter disbelief streaming down my cheeks.

A girl. A little girl!!! I laughed and cried, Matt hugged and kissed me, Susan congratulated us both and continued to smile and joke while she took measurements of our gorgeous little baby girl. Who looks perfectly healthy, which is of course the most important thing of all. She is growing right on schedule and appears to have long legs and eventually she woke up long enough to move around a bit and show us her breathtakingly beautiful profile. (Well, beautiful for an ultrasound image, that is.) She weighs approximately six ounces and is the size of an avocado.

At the end of the exam I asked Susan, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she replied. "I know my girls," and then she typed "FETUS IS FEMALE" on the report for my doctor. "There," she said, "it's official."

I am shocked and thrilled and almost overcome with joy and gratitude. Gabe will be a big brother to his little sister. I cannot think of any way to say this that doesn't sound trite: we are so lucky and blessed.