Before our real-life move, an internet move

I have had a lovely time pretending that this blog was about Isaac for nearly 1-1/2 years now. Any such ideas are out the window now that we also have a Jacob, so "Isaac's Blog" is moving to the more appropriately-titled "Those O'Neal Boys". We appreciate your continued readership as we venture into uncharted territory of wrestling with not just one, but two little men. That's why we have arms in pairs, though, yes?

Pictures at home

Grandma and Isaac brought Jacob and I home from the hospital Tuesday afternoon. Here we are in our first few moments at home, with me in the shirt I'd been wearing since the wee hours of Sunday morning:



There was a little drama the night before we were discharged because Jacob's bilirubin tested on the low side of him being jaundiced. They had to take a blood sample and send it to the hospital lab to get his exact bilirubin count, and then his pediatrician would make the decision about whether he should stay in the NICU for baby suntan therapy or if he would be sent home with a "bili-blanket" to treat his jaundice in a more comfortable setting. This all turned out to be a moot point because his blood test showed his bilirubin on the high side of normal and he passed his final inspection by the pediatrician with flying colors. Dr. Modi said his jaundice would get worse before it got better, and sure enough he looks a bit pumpkin-headed. This is what Jacob has to say about it all:



Isaac had fallen asleep on the ride home from the hospital, so Grandma got some unadulterated Jacob time. Here they are admiring each other:



We are already succumbing to the Second-Baby Photography Curse. For example: we have no good pictures of Dada and Jacob, including zero pictures of the two of them taken together at the hospital. Dada snapped a bunch of pictures right after Jacob was delivered and then left to pick up Isaac, taking my camera with him to distribute these pictures to the known universe. He never brought my camera back to the hospital, and Grandma forgot her camera in the car the two times she and Isaac visited us while we were there. I keep trying to encourage Daddy/Jacob-focused photography, but Dada has been working during the day, which means when we remember to take pictures it is way too dark in our living room to take cute portraits without them being blurry (like this one):


...or Dada is snacking and has not only Jacob but also crumbs on his shirt that we don't notice until we dump the picture onto the computer hours later:



We are also trying to capture the interactions of Big and Little Brothers O'Neal (more on that later), but because of the inherent limitations of photographing a moving toddler, we don't have too much to offer just yet. I will give you this one, featuring a popular living-room scenario where I have Jacob on my lap or attached to the boob and Isaac decides he needs to squeeze his big butt in the same chair, creating a massive snuggle-fest:

Somebody had to get mommy's nose

3-day-old Jacob looks at the lamp

How U.B. became Jacob

To all those ladies out there waiting impatiently to go into labor, I have a suggestion: go to toddler music class. I went with Isaac on Saturday morning, where I ran in circles, jumped up and down, galloped like a horsey, physically restrained my son when it wasn't his turn to play the gigantic drum, etc etc insert other high-exertion activities that I probably shouldn't have engaged in (but did) here. The contractions started when we got back in the car; the bloody show was already there when we got home.

Since this is the first time I've actually gone into labor on my own, I really had no idea what to expect with the contractions. All "the books" say that they will get closer and closer together, and that you should go to the hospital when they get closer than 5 minutes apart and you can't carry on a conversation through them. My contractions went on throughout the day, and did get much closer together over a twelve hour period, from 15-20 minutes apart to start down to 6-15 minutes apart. They also got more painful, but really weren't all that bad. That they had lasted so long gave me an inkling that this might be the real thing, but I battened down that hatches and prayed to the God of Convenience in Labor that I could last through the night so Dada could get some sleep and, more importantly, so we wouldn't have to ditch Isaac at our friends' house in the middle of the night.

Isaac, in rare form, slept through the night. I did not, having been awakened twice by some seriously killer contractions that strangely went away if I got up and farted around on the computer for an hour. When Isaac finally did wake up at 6:30, I started timing again and they were still a lousy 6-8 minutes apart, but I had to come up with some Claire-improvised labor breathing to make it through them (being the labor class flunkie that I am). I went to fix Isaac some breakfast, passing by Dada who was asleep on the couch. "GET UP!" says I, "HOSPITAL! DRUGS! NOW!" Being the sympathetic wife that I am and having no clue that these contraction-things could actually get worse, I agreed that Dada could take a shower first and that we should stop for Starbucks on the way to the hospital. We dumped off Isaac at our friends' house, where he spent the day playing with Sarah, Ella, and Ella's Grandma and Grandpa. I don't know how, but they even got him to take a nap.

Before you can be admitted to the hospital, you must first pass through triage so they can decide whether or not you are a faker with your labor; namely, the only test you have to pass is to have a doctor examine your baby-chute and decide that your cervix has done enough work that the rest of the job won't take too long. For the uninitiated, I have heard the rule of thumb is that once you're 3 or 4 cm dilated (of the requisite 10 cm), you're in. Of course I had no idea how dilated I was, but I was in some crazy-pain, now every 5-7 minutes. The triage nurse clucked her tongue at me in doubt, suggesting that my contractions weren't close enough together for me to be THAT dilated. On that reliable hunch, these turds made me wait for an HOUR AND A HALF before I was finally checked out by a doctor. This doctor hadn't been in the room for more than 5 minutes before she exclaimed in near-horror, "Oh my God, you are staying. How dilated do you think you are? Guess!" I wasn't exactly in the guessing mood, but a suggested, maybe, 5 cm? "You are a GOOD 7 cm. We need to get you upstairs right now."

This actually posed a huge problem, because at my first prenatal visit I tested positive for Group B Strep. While I as a carrier was asymptomatic, I can pass these bacteria on to the baby during delivery unless I am treated with a solid four-hour course of IV antibiotics. If I delivered the baby before the four hours was up, he could come down with some terrible form of bacterial sepsis, such as meningitis. We arrived at the hospital at 7; we were admitted at 8:30; I didn't get my IV antibiotics started until just before 9. I was given the task of crossing my legs and laying down to keep from having a baby until 1. My delightful labor nurse, Pam, said there was no way, with me being that dilated and a second-timer, that I would make it.

My first suggestion to help stop me from having a baby was to get an epidural, which came at around 10:00. The anesthesiologist was gave me the most perfect epidural in the history of the world. I could feel most of the contractions, but there was no pain or even discomfort with them. Even more importantly, the epidural blocked nothing when it came to the pushing stage...

I labored in relative peace and quiet until about 12:40, when I started feeling this unearthly urge to push. Unlike the epidural I had while laboring with Isaac, where I could feel absolutely nothing and had to be told when to push (which probably factors in to why it took me an excruciating three whole hours for the pushing phase alone), this again perfect epidural hid nothing from me about when I was supposed to do some work and hold up my end of the bargain. It was extremely weird and painful, but I did my best to breathe in my flunkie and distracting fashion to hold out another twenty minutes. At 12:55 they broke my water. Instead of screaming at them to let me push, suddenly rationality took over and I patiently (and breathlessly) waited another 8 minutes, at which time I asked the three doctors, nurse, and husband in the room for double confirmation that it was indeed after 1, that my antibiotics had run their course, and that my baby was given the all-clear to go. They all said yes.

It took me exactly 4 minutes to push Jacob out. Everyone keeps commenting on how lovely I look holding newborn Jacob; how I am "glowing". This is because I busted every capillary in my cheeks, chin, and shoulders from pushing, grunting, and screaming like an Amazon warrior. Dada said they hadn't even had time to wheel their equipment cart over before he was crowning (and I was screaming in pain and hyperventilating). He suggested I title this post "Claire's Baby Cannon," and takes great personal delight in telling his coworkers, much to the horror of my mom, how proud he is that my birth canal could be used to calibrate missile-ballistics.

Back to the L&D room... Suddenly somebody told me to look down and there he was, upside down at the end of the table, my gigantic baby boy, huge and purple and perfect, with this full head of brown curly hair. They laid him on me, all cheesed up. To my infinite surprise, after all the doubts and misgivings I had about my ability to mentally handle the concept of a second baby... the first thing I thought when they handed him to me was "This is going to be so cool." And I have been the happiest girl in the world ever since.

A Uterus Barnacle no more

Introducing...

Jacob Michael O'Neal


born February 19, 2006 at 1:07 p.m.

8 lbs 10 oz

21 inches long


10-minute-old Jacob with Mommy


5-minute-old Jacob holds Daddy's hand

Everybody is doing great and chilling at home now. Birth story to come soon!

A contraction-al update

It's just after 10 here, and we just put the Psycho-Fuss Munchie to bed. Isaac has been a cranky punk all day. He threw three temper tantrums this afternoon, which is completely unlike him. I don't even remember the last time he threw ONE, let alone three. I feel so bad for the guy. All week Dada and I have been on the phone almost nonstop with this house-buying beeswax, paying a fraction of the attention to Isaac that he usually gets. Perhaps this is good preparation for having an attention-hogging brother in the near future, but it makes me feel like a terrible parent. Yes, I know, blah blah we're doing what's best for him and his brother blah blah. I don't care. All I want to do is sit still, stop talking on the phone, and pway twains with my son.

It's been basically twelve hours now and the contractions are sloooooowwwwwwwllllyy getting closer together. Now I can expect one every 6 - 11 minutes. And they hurt. Not unbearably, but still. It's impossible to tell if they hurt more now because they're getting stronger, or because I've had so many contractions that my back muscles ache. Oh, and they are tantalizingly real: the kind that start as a tightening in my lower back and then wrap themselves quickly around my abdomen like a claustrophobic heating blanket.

I'm really hoping we can put off this whole baby-out-popping business at least until the morning. Grandma can't fly out until tomorrow morning when a new day of flights begins, and I would prefer Isaac to try to get a good night's rest in his own bed before sending him off for a day of romping with Ella. Though, U.B., if you'd like to wait until we've met with our local banker and secured a loan with him, that would actually be ideal for Mommy and Daddy, K?

Disproving my theory

I have this secret theory that I am incapable of going into labor by myself. With Isaac, I thought my water had broken and I was induced. My mom, from whom I presumably would inherit some laboring tendencies, was induced with me when her water broke, and was induced with my brother when he camped out there longer than he should have. The odds are not stacked in my favor, I think.

Yet here I am today and, not to get anyone's hopes up, but this afternoon I am having some regular contractions, at 15-20 minutes apart, coupled with some bloody show. What does this mean? We'll see.

What's better than free babysitting?

My friend Sarah, with the help of her daughter Ella, sat for Isaac when I went to my prenatal appointment on Thursday. She and I are in this groove where we swap babysitting for each other. Isaac adores her. He gives her unrequested hugs at all times and calls her "Mommy Ella". Sarah said he was a complete angel on Thursday; he even *willingly* shared Henry with Ella:



Most times the kids just hang out on the floor playing with Ella's toy-mountain:



But on Thursday Isaac decided that hanging out in Ella's crib was also cool. Note him playing with and staring intently at the Fisher-Price aquarium that never interested him as a crib-dweller:



So what could possibly be better than free babysitting? How about a free babysitter who takes pictures of your adorable boy in action?

Won't you take me to Funkytown?

Before I found out about our delicious termite issues today...

This morning I secured the services of a real estate lawyer, something apparently required in the state of Delaware. As far as I can tell, he serves no purpose other than as an expensive writer of large checks. In the acquisition of our property, we are naturally getting a big fat mortgage; that goes to him for safe-keeping. We are so lucky as to qualify for a really embarrassing amount of money from the City in grants and low-interest loans because of Dada's job and the address of the property we are buying; those all go to him for safe-keeping, too. Have you seen the movie SpaceBalls? Of course you have, you closet Mel Brooks fiend, you. Imagine with me, if you will, that our lawyer is MegaMaid. First he acts like a gigantic cash vaccuum ("Suck! Suck! Suck!"), and then he redistributes the cash to where it all needs to go ("It's Mega Maid! She's gone from 'suck' to 'blow'!").

We asked the City Planning guy, who's giving us all this grant/low-interest loan money, and a lender at our local bank who they would recommend, since we are not the type of people who regularly engage attorneys. You know you live in a relatively small town when both sources say, "Well, you could always use the mayor." I had to look online to see who our mayor is -- he's Vance A. Funk, III. He runs a law practice with his son...you guessed it...Vance A. Funk, IV. According to Wikipedia, Mayor Funk caused a minor stir when it was revealed that he, in a letter to his supporters, referred to Newark as "Funkytown."

I think that, in and of itself, was enough for me to want him as my lawyer.

Unclean! Unclean!

Today we had a termite inspection done on our prospective new dwelling, with results that were not cool. Turns out that, while the house has no evidence of active termite infestation or even termite damage, there are some "shelter tubes" in the garage on a wall shared with the house, meaning termites have made themselves cozy there at one point in time. And as the inspector-lady puts it, these aren't exactly the kind of creatures that leave on their own, but the kind that must be evicted by the Orkin man. These little shelter tubes will cost somebody $800 to clean up.

Luckily we stipulated that our agreement of sale was contingent upon a satisfactory termite inspection, meaning if the seller won't remediate, we can back out of buying the house. I say "luckily", but we are totally bummed because we really, really like this house. Not enough to buy it while it could be riddled with termites, but this house is too perfect for us to be true.

Add this set-back to my dealing with a charlatan loan officer who quoted me over $10,000 in closing costs to our dual-agent realtor who is THE DEVIL, and it seems like nothing is going right for us this week. It's just not fair that we should happen to find this adorable, reasonably-priced house in an excellent location, because I swear to you there are no more like it in this town.

U.B. goes to the doctor -- 39 weeks

I never have committed to a regular obstetrician/practitioner at the hospital practice I'm going to for U.B.'s prenatal care, opting instead for scheduling convenience to accomodate various babysitters for my firstborn. Sometimes this has its advantages, as I've gotten to see a range of practitioners, some of which have been really stellar, and gotten a wealth of information.

Today, not so much. Last week I the O.B. I saw was anxious to do an internal exam to find out if I had dilated any more; I declined because Isaac was there with me and I didn't want to be in a situation where I couldn't leap from the table and stop him from eating the biohazard waste if needs be. She suggested we should definitely take a look this week. But this week when I show up, I have a different doc. When I bring up the internal exam, for which I went out of my way to get our buddies Sarah and Ella to watch Isaac while I went for the appointment (thanks guys!), this doc says "Nah. Let's just do it next week if you're still pregnant, because then we'd have to schedule an induction anyway." So I have no idea what the cervix-monster is up to. I've had lots of painful cramps this week -- no contractions, but bad, bad cramps -- and I was so very curious to see if they were accomplishing anything. Pbblllft.

Interestingly, however, this O.B. palpated around my belly to get a feel of how big the baby is. She estimates that he is between 7-1/2 and 8 pounds NOW. This means, if she erred on the small side, that we are talking a near-9-pounder next week. Can you say yee-owch?

Oh, and my blood pressure was even lower this time, and U.B.'s heart rate was in the 140s. All is very good and very boring, which is lovely because now I have so much crap to do with our new home-buying project that I suddenly don't mind if U.B. wants to go overdue.

Doing our part to stick it to The Man in '06

I posted two days ago about our surprise side-project...well, now I can tell you what it is, what's been going on and literally been causing more drama for this mama than she probably needs or deserves. Oh, but it is such a good thing.

Here at the O'Neal household, we do our parts to be a slave to The Man. We shop at Wal-Mart; we eat at McDonald's; I buy inane top 40 songs on iTunes. This year we will have 2 of our requisite 2.2 children.

But perhaps most importantly, Dada and I have allowed The Man to keep us down in an obscene way for the longest time. You see, as starving and transient students, we were constantly under the thumb of The Man in the housing market. Not knowing where we would be in one, two, or even three years, we gave The Man all our money, wasted in rent. Over the five years of our cohabitation, this amounted to almost SIXTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS. And the worst of it was of course in Seattle, where the exorbitant rent was exceeded only by the exorbitant inflated housing market, leaving us no options. Now we live on the East Coast, and the home prices, though lower, are not incredibly affordable to Joe Six-Packs like us. It initially appeared that the O'Neals would continue to bleed money to the machine for all eternity.

And then something happened. An old lady died, as old ladies occasionally do. Her kids all live out of town and wanted to unload her house in an expeditious fashion. On Saturday, the O'Neals drove by this same house with a for-sale sign in the yard, and remarked how cute it is, how it is less than 1-1/2 miles from Dada's office, how it is 100 yards from where Isaac would go to elementary school, how it is in a neighborhood next to parks and populated entirely by young families and old people. The O'Neals looked at said house, fell in love with it, and made an offer, the first time they have ever made a real-estate transaction in their lives. Today we found out that the old lady's son accepted.

That's right, Mr. Man. We're buying a house. You can take your rent and shove it...into a bigger, fatter tax refund for us next year. Boo-yah!

Here she is, our new house. She's a tidy one, with three bedrooms, hardwood floors, a full basement, closets (what on earth are those?), and a nice-sized backyard. We will be eating our share of ramen noodles in her, but she will be OURS:

Today's scary nap

Though we think he's over his cold, Isaac still clings to the remnants of an awful cough from time to time. His cough only surfaces when he's asleep, i.e. when the phlegm has had at least an hour of him not being upright to travel down to his lungs. Being the geniuses we are after enduring over a month of this, we finally broke out the humidifier last night, and Isaac didn't wake up until 6:45.

Despite his long, restful night, he has seemed out of sorts all day. I don't think he's teething -- he actually let me spelunk around his mouth with my finger last night and there are no new molars in sight. He could be sensitive to the impending arrival of his little brother, like cats and dogs before an earthquake. But really, why he was this way today is anybody's guess. This morning we went over to Ella's house and he was cranky and pouty and not sharing anything, ever, but I know he enjoyed Ella's and Sarah's company, as always. They wore him out and he fell asleep in the car on the way home. An hour later as I was turning in for my own nap, he started crying "Maaaaaaaammmeeeeeeeee" in a most pitiful fashion from his room. This happens occasionally -- maybe he gets cold or conks his head on the bed or has a bad dream -- where he'll wake up mid-nap and need some help to go back to sleep. Unlike most times, this time his panic at waking up deepened upon my arrival. He buried his face in my hair and screamed "Mommy! Mommy!" even though I was obviously right there. And then the coughing started, the awful kind where he wouldn't breathe for a few really long seconds at a time, compounded by the fact that he was hysterically crying. After 15 freaky minutes of this where I seriously considered calling Dada to come home and help or even take us to the hospital, I gave Isaac some cough medicine, lay him in bed with me, turned on Thomas, and started rubbing his back. He was out like a light in less than 2 minutes, and slept for another THREE hours.

What caused this outbreak of scariness is completely unknown to me, but how powerless does something like this make you feel, that being right there for your kid is maybe not enough?

Still here, hopefully not for long

Not to get any hopes up, but there are some uterine rumblings tonight. She feels a little irritated -- perhaps from holding this huge baby boy for so stinkin' long? -- and is crampy with some sharp occasional cervical pain-like things. No contractions, though. We've had a really busy day here, to cap off a psychotically busy weekend, working on a side-project that came along as a sort of surprise on Saturday. Dada made me promise not to tell anyone what it was before it all comes together for some tricky work/life reasons, but hopefully we will be able to tell the world by the end of the week. If not tomorrow.

Going to bed now like a good girl. Blog you later.

Do they give me extra money for being early?

I just finished doing our federal taxes online, yippee! This is exciting because it marks the first time in the near-five years since we became the joint-filing O'Neals that we will 1) have filed before April -AND- 2) get a refund.

Go us! Go having a kid! I am exceptionally proud of myself on this one because I dug up all kinds of receipts and statements to have an itemized list of our hefty moving expenses so we could deduct, deduct, deduct. And now we get money, instead of having to pay hundreds of dollars. Whatever will we do with ourselves?

Now to navigate this brave new world of state income tax after having lived in income-tax-ignorant Washington state for 4.5 years...

Like Dada, like son

It's not easy having a kid who doesn't sleep well. A mommy can waste a lot of time worrying about how it's her fault that she's not trying the right things at the right times. Or that her kid is teething or sick or hungry or his bed's too hard or too soft or his jammies don't fit right or maybe the cat is laying on his face or or or...

But I am becoming increasingly convinced that Isaac's sleep problems are genetic. From me? Oh, no. I am an insomniac now only because my belly is far too gigantic to permit such enjoyable things as sleeping; when not pregnant, it is well-known that if there was an Olympic event for sleeping, I would totally medal. No, Isaac's problems are all from Dada. Dada has always had serious sleep issues, and should probably seek some chemical assistance at some point in time. Most nights he wakes repeatedly through the night. Most nights he falls asleep on the couch at 8 and then wakes up at 10 or 11, unable to get back to sleep for a few hours. Obviously, there are strong similarities between Dada and Isaac in this regard.

Perhaps the most important observation I have made linking their horrendous sleep patterns, though, occurred this past week. With few exceptions, Dada is incapable of falling asleep without the TV on. In fact, to get to sleep, he turns on a TiVoed episode of his favorite show, Futurama. This show does not bore him, but he is guaranteed to be snoring on the couch after only 5 to 7 minutes of an episode. Flash-forward to the next generation and this young person's love for Thomas. Putting Isaac down for a nap is always a chore, though once he gets there he sleeps like a champ. To try to calm him down for naptime, I brought Isaac into bed with me and put a Thomas DVD on for him to watch. 5 to 7 minutes into the DVD, he is snoring on the pillow next to me.

Look, internet! It's not my fault! It's nature vs. nuture, and nuture doesn't stand a chance.

Storm '06 hits our 'hood

The local news is saying we're supposed to get 8 to 12 inches of big, fluffy, life-interrupting snow in the next 24 hours. When Isaac woke up from his nap this afternoon I showed him the snow falling out our front window. "Outside, Mama?" he said. "Play snow! Where's boots? Where's hat?" How can you say no? And we got a chance to finally break in this uber-sexy snowsuit Mee-maw got him for Christmas. Here we are bundling up:



Unlike the last time, this snow wasn't so "yucky." Here's our intrepid explorer stomping around the backyard...



...admiring the snowfall...



...and getting ready to bean somebody in the knot with a gigantic snowball:

A KMart legacy

This past Monday I took the boy with me to KMart to pick out something practical for a friend's new baby. I knew going in there that there would be lots of perusing on my part, and Isaac is not known for his patience should the shopping cart stop moving. So, genius mother that I am, I took him at his morning snack time. Before we did anything else, we stopped at the snack bar for an Icee. I was certainly feening for one, as U.B., like his brother before him, will be composed in the liquid phase almost entirely of Slurpees. However, I also was acting on some fond memories from my childhood -- when my mom would take my brother and I errand-running at KMart, usually there was an Icee in it for us. I'm sure it's partly this behavior that has perpetuated my slushie-style-beverage addiction to this day. Incidentally, Isaac also chose a small bag of popcorn for us, and we left our popcorn/blue-raspberry trail all over the store. He was happy as a clam for the entire shopping adventure and fell asleep in the car on the 5-minute ride home from stuffing himself with snack-bar junk food.

Later that day I was boasting of my geniusness to Dada. With no prompting whatsoever, Dada volunteers that when his mom took him to KMart as a young'un, she would buy him Icees also. It's fate, then, that we should pass on this legacy to our children.

We're feeling better...so let's run a marathon!

After three days of antibiotic, Isaac is feeling tons better. He's coughing less, there's less snot, and he clearly has lost all symptoms of his ear infection. He even slept through the night last night, for the first time in almost a month. What a doll.

Perhaps assisted by his newfound health, I am also feeling much better. Less snot, less congestion, less earaches, more sleep. What's not to love? Given our mutual exuberance at this turn of events, we decided to run ourselves ragged together today. Let me recap:

We went to playgroup at 9:30, where he proceeded to literally run laps around the church gym and I enjoyed the company of what is turning into something I lovingly call my "professor's wives' club." The neatest part was that my friend from the PWC who had a baby 3 weeks ago showed up, new baby in hand, so she got to give me all the straight poop about the hospital and living with two young'uns (she also has a 2-1/2 year old) simultaneously.

Isaac and I left close to 11:30, and he fell asleep in the car. At 1:35 I woke him up so we could go together to my prenatal appointment at 2. In a moment of mommy-genius, I fixed him a lunch of cheese quesadilla and grapes, put them in a small compartmentalized tupperware container, placed him in his car seat, and set the container on his lap. He peacefully crunched away and ate the whole thing on our 15-minute ride to the doctor's.

Possibly the best part of our day was the visit to the doctor's. I have only taken Isaac to one other prenatal appointment before by myself, and that was a complete catastrophe. He also freaked out another time, when I took him with the help of Grandma Ross, upon seeing me laying down on the exam table. My hopes were not terribly high, but after the thrashing/wailing episode at his own doctor's earlier this week, I thought it might be good to show him that visiting the doctor ain't no thang. And wouldn't you know it but the guy was a complete angel. When it was time for me to lay down on the exam table, I sat him in a chair 3 feet away with four trains. He started to fuss, but then I whipped up my shirt for measuring, and when the doctor put her tape on my belly he got really excited: "Wow! Wow! Wow!" said Isaac. The Doppler was just as neat. "Can you hear [insert little bro's name here]'s heartbeat?" I said. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" said Isaac. Everyone, including me, was impressed with what a good guy he was.

After my appointment we went over to Ella's house to hang and had a great time as always, Isaac playing with Ella toys and usually trying to rip them out of her hands; me yapping my trap with Sarah. It was a jam-packed day, but definitely in a good way.

Start thinking "Godzilla-Baby"

U.B. and I had another prenatal appointment today, at 38 weeks 2 days. Here is a belly picture to give you the visual of how colossal my unborn child has become:

Don't you get back pains from just looking at that huge hump I have to carry around all day?

I actually asked Dada this morning if it was fashion-sensible of me to wear this shirt out of the house. This is a maternity shirt; these are maternity pants. Yet my belly is so gigantic it has a life of its own and can't help but peek out to see what's going on. I think this is kind of gross. Nevertheless, in the words of Dada: "Claire, you're 9 months pregnant. You can wear whatever you damn well please."

Here are the stats from my visit, for the number-freaks like myself. My blood pressure is still good, at 120-something/74. I didn't gain any weight from last week, despite the fact that I ate half a pint of Edy's an hour before I went in. U.B.'s heartbeat is great, at 145 bpm. And, here's the kicker: U.B.'s house measures 39 cm, up from 36 cm last week. Um...whoa. Isaac was 7 lbs 15 oz at birth. How big do you think this one could get?

Also, it would appear that at least two people are blog-stalking me for any hints that I am going in to labor. Let me tell these people, and others who might also be curious, that I promise to do my very best to post something every day I am able. Thus, if there is ever an awkward silence, well, you can assume the very best.

They don't charge extra for screaming!

Today in my frenzy of trying to bring everything in the house to order (can you say "nesting"?) I noticed that Isaac's hair in the back was getting impossibly thick and hippie-like, and that he had hideous little stray hairs dangling over his ears from where I butchered his hair cutting it myself over Christmas break. In the interest of saving some money, I tried my hand once again at Isaac-pruning, luring him with an episode of Sesame Street. When a half-hour passed, along with thirteen million TiVo pauses ("If you don't sit still, we're not watching it!"), I thought it might be worth the money to take Isaac for his first professional cut.

We went to one of those kiddie-friendly places with cool chairs, toys, a DVD player, and suckers. I thought he would totally be into anywhere where he could sit on a carousel-esque elephant and watch Thomas at the same time. Oh, how wrong I was. He screamed the whole time. He didn't want to sit on the fancy chairs. He didn't want to sit in the barber's chairs. He didn't even want to watch Thomas. He just didn't want to sit still, period, especially while that strange but well-meaning lady was approaching with the scissors. Eventually I held him in my lap on a barber's chair, restraining him in one way or another (which, with all the doctor's visits, seems to be the theme lately) while this extremely talented and patient lady snipped away at his beautiful golden overgrowth. Towards the end he had worked himself up into such a frenzy that his face was covered with snot and he was drooling, and it almost made me burst into tears. Until we were done, that is, and I let him down, and he skipped away towards the toys at the front of the store like nothing had ever happened. His hairstylist asked him if he wanted a sucker, and he even said "Thank you." Here he is with his trimmed-up new do, watching Thomas peacefully from their waiting area, enjoying his very first Dum Dum (grape, it was)


While the whole experience was completely unpleasant, entirely due to my kid's unreasonable reaction to anyone taking scissors to his hair, I must say I'm glad we kicked that hippie-lookin' kid out of my house. Oh, and next time? It's Dada's turn.

Color-coded for the month of love

Our big buddy Ella (with her mom Sarah's help) looked after Isaac this morning for two hours. Apparently he barely noticed I was gone, being too busy reading to Ella:


...or trying to play "ride the horsey" with his little friend:



I have been informed by Sarah that no Ellas were harmed in the taking of these pictures. I also promise the matching red shirts were not planned in the least. In fact, Isaac wore his shirt yesterday. You'll notice it's emblazoned with Thomas and buds. I happened to get off my enlarged butt and do laundry last night such that the shirt wound up in the clean laundry basket Isaac was "helping" me fold this morning, and you can guess what happened from there.

Interesting news, though -- I needed a babysitter because Dada and I met with a children's book publisher this morning. Long story short: we each have cute little assignments to write super-short, non-fiction books geared towards grade-schoolers. In addition to exploiting a fantastic opportunity to stretch my Play-Doh-atrophied brain in new and refreshing ways, upon finishing these assignments we get a modest check.

The publisher was really nice and excited about us, but Dada kind of went over the top. You see, he has this well-meaning little problem that surfaces on occasions such as these. He likes to brag on his wife's writing skills. During the meeting he went on and on at several points about how I'm the best writer he's ever met, never mind that I've never written children's books before, ever. Of course he doesn't notice me sinking deeper into the chair; of course the publisher nods politely along.

Oh, the shame! The jinxing! Does he not watch American Idol? Does he not see all those poor hapless souls whose moms are waiting outside the audition room door cooing about how their offspring, who sounds like a lost barnyard animal, has the best voice in the history of the universe?

**thanks to Sarah for the pictures!

Boo. I don't have an ear infection.

Please don't ask why I was so thrilled at the prospect of both my son and I being diagnosed with ear infections, but I was. Isaac has one, he takes medicine, he feels lots better. I want one so I can take medicine and feel lots better.

Instead, I go to my family practitioner today and she tells me that, while my eardrums are noticeably dysfunctional in the draining respect right now, they are not infected, and that their dysfunction is even to be expected given 1) the time of year, 2) the duration of my head cold, and even 3) an altered sinus morphology and behavior due to my pregnancy. Then she went on and on about blah blah she doesn't want to pump my unborn child full of chemicals and blah blah have you tried Sudafed? Um, yes, and it does NOTHING. Well, then, blah blah try Chlor-Trimeton. Thanks, ho-bag. At least she didn't tell me, like everyone else, to repeatedly souse my nostrils with saline spray. Because that really works.

I don't hate her terribly because of the short conversation we had as she walked me out. I have been pretty self-conscious about my weight gain during this pregnancy. Though I have gained 35 lbs total, no one has yet said to me "You look like you're ready to pop!" and more often than not I hear "Two weeks? I would have thought you have more like two months to go". This all makes me feel like people think I am some kind of negligent mom. Do I carry my baby in such a way as to make me look malnurished or something? But my doc today made me feel a little better.

Dr: So when are you due?
Me: Two weeks. Feb 21.
Dr: Wow, you look great! I would have thought you had lots more time to go.
Me: (a little dejected) Yeah, I get that a lot. I kind of feel bad because everyone thinks I'm too skinny. I probably should have put on more weight. I just hope the baby will be okay.
Dr: What? No, don't think that. I'm sure you're measuring fine, right?
Me: Well, yes, but...
Dr: Then that's all you need to worry about. I'm proud of you for keeping your weight in check. Not everybody takes care of themselves like that when they're pregnant.
Me: I guess I have to give credit to my toddler. He keeps me so busy...
Dr: Are you joking? I can't know how many times I've seen women in here who gained an extra 30 lbs with their first pregnancy, and then took their second pregnancy as an excuse to gain an extra 70 lbs, and are now griping at me about how they need to lose 100 lbs.
Me: Well, I guess I didn't do that.
Dr: Like I said, I'm proud of you.

Yay! My kid has an ear infection!

After a month of the two of us being sick, and Dada being sick of listening to us cough and whine, I took Isaac to the pediatrician today for his cold. For the second time. I think I rescind my PhD in biochemistry when I say this, but all I really wanted was some drugs for my kid. I don't care what he has going on in his seemingly malformed sinuses, I just want to go buy something, preferably from a registered pharmacist, that makes me feel proactive in the matter.

We saw a different doctor-lady who was as equally wonderful as his regular pediatrician. I knew I really loved her when she didn't even so much as look at my son before she whipped out her prescription pad and said "A month is too long. He obviously needs some help kicking this." Did I mention how much I love my pediatrician's office? And despite Isaac's best efforts to keep her from looking in his ears, she persevered and discovered that he does, in fact, have an infected left ear. Then, to make me want to leave my husband and bear her children instead, she promised me that his antibiotics will make him feel 50,000% better by tomorrow. Now we are all set with a 10-day course of amoxicillin that tastes like orange milkshake. He was seriously disappointed that he couldn't have more after I gave him his dose tonight.

But now I have prescription-drug envy. My ears hurt (LIKE A B...urrito) too. I want some yummy antibiotics too. I made an appointment for myself to see my own doctor tomorrow, so wish me luck that soon I will be on the medicinally-enhanced road to recovery as well.

Waiting is for losers

No baby. Still some nausea, and the back-cramps are getting worse, but nothing that would rate more than an "well, now, that's a little annoying". What is also getting worse is our collective head cold. Isaac is going to the pediatrician again this afternoon to make sure he doesn't have an ear infection, like I'm pretty sure I do. Do you think his pediatrician would be a sweetie and give us a two-fer on the ear-checks? Oh, the time that would save.

I asked Dr. Google about my symptoms last night and he/she says I am in "prelabor." What this means is that I could go into real labor in a few days...or in a month from now! Yay! Between this disgusting windy cold weather and the Head Cold that Would Not Die, Dada and I are hoping the other labor-shoe will drop sooner rather than later. We decided we are ready to have another baby because we are bored and need something else to do. Isn't that mature of us?

I should probably pack our bags sometime

I did not spontaneously go into labor with Isaac. I *thought* my membranes ruptured, I went to the hospital, and I was induced. Though I had lots of contractions with Isaac, they were all fakers (like him!): all low and in front. I don't know how many times in the last two months of my Isaac-bearing I called the L&D ward only to have them tell me to stay home and take a bath or drink 42 glasses of water to get my contractions to stop -- and they did.

The moral to the story is that I have no idea what the onset of real labor feels like. Maybe it feels something like this.

Since I ate the world's most sickeningly-sweet Papa John's last night, I have had an upset stomach. No throwing up, just nausea rivalling that of my worst morning sickness. But here we are, almost 24 hours later, and I still feel sick. I'm pretty sure it's not the pizza because both the boy and Dada ate tons of it with no ill effects. Now, after waking up from a nap, I am crampy both in my back and down low in front. No contractions or even pain, just noticeable and annoying uncomfortableness.

Is it labor or is it my continued snotty-nose-head-cold that's turning my stomach? Are they contractions or just my bladder which continually needs emptying? Who knows. I told Dada I thought I might (just maybe) be in labor. His response: "I have to teach on Wednesday!" You know, because it's up to me.

update, 9 hours later -- Tummy = still upset. Cramps in back = eh, very mild, very every-so-often. No baby just yet...but I'll keep you posted.

Poo-poo awareness

Two recent episodes highlight Isaac's increasing awareness that he does, in fact, poop, and that it may, in fact, be yucky in his diaper. The beginnings of an interest in potty-training? Perhaps...

*Last Saturday, Dada thought Isaac had his poop-face on and asked him if he had to go poop. Amazingly, the boy said yes. I ushered him in to the bathroom suggesting that he try to poop on the potty and took all his clothes off (as we were pre-bath anyway). He sat on his potty, lid down. Any and all attempts to get him to sit on the potty with the lid up were completely futile. But he did at least sit, and I sat on "the big-boy potty" next to him for a few minutes, encouraging him to do his thing. Nothing happened. I asked again if he had to poop, and this time he said no. Giving up, I left the room to acquire bathtime necessities. Not more than 10 seconds later I hear him screaming "Yucky! YUCKY!" from the bathroom. I run back to find him stepping on the edge of the most enormous poo-poo pile the earth has ever known, deposited neatly, not on or in the potty, but in the center of the bathroom rug. As I wipe off his feet and end the yuckiness, he becomes excitedly curious, asking "What's that? What's that?" over and over. I realize: the child has never seen his own poop before. I explain to him gently what it is, along with the obvious benefits of leaving it in the potty instead of on the floor. I thought the whole thing was unbelievably hilarious until I started cleaning up the mess and saw on the back of the rug those three little words that belong on no object in a house with a toddler: "Dry Clean Only."

*Tonight, Dada and Isaac were playing trains at his train table. Suddenly, Isaac breaks away from playing and runs to stand next to the front door, still facing Dada, but fussing and crying. Dada can see the poop-face going on, and asks Isaac if he is pooping. "Noooooooo," he wails miserably. Well, would you like to come back over and play trains? "Noooooo," he wails again. Turns out Isaac was passing a big boulder-poo, which probably didn't feel too great, and evidently didn't want to do it near his beloved trains.

He could still care less about peeing, and when I let him roam the house sans diaper he cares not whether he pees on the rug. But I think these new poo-poo happenings are quite promising for demonstrating a newfound potty-training potential in Isaac. Too bad they only seem to happen when Dada is around.

He's a faker

A goodly portion of my posts on this blog have been devoted to my son's apparent sleep disorder. The funny thing is, though we obviously have issues with consistent and uninterrupted nighttime slumbering, he has always been an excellent napper. The even funnier thing is that his napping cues are almost completely invisible to anyone but me, possibly because we share a lot of the same behaviorisms when we're tired. The two of us are a) the world's slowest at waking up from any kind of sleep, and b) able to run 90-to-nothing two seconds before collapsing in a sleep-heap. When we are around other people, inevitably this leads to discussions, or at least looks that say "uh-huh...sure...", from those who don't believe me regarding what's appropriate for him and his trips to the daytime Nod.

Exhibit A: Both sets of grandparents, upon seeing what a groggy, cranky horror he is when waking up in the morning, or even an hour after waking up, often suggest that he looks like he's ready to pass out and I should put him down for a nap. "He's a faker!" I say, and he will suddenly awaken from his illusion-of-sleep glazed-over look and start burning the toddler oil.

Exhibit B: Today we went on a playdate to the home of Isaac's friends Anthony (4) and Carlos (2-1/2), where there is an enormous collection of boy toys, trikes, and things to jump on. Oh my goodness, the delight and the fun of playing with slightly older boys and their toy-avalanches...at times I thought Isaac might keel over from a heart attack. After 2-1/2 hours of screaming with glee and hurling his body this way and that, Isaac was still able to put up the facade that his energy was boundless. Yeah, right. I felt so horrible trying to explain to his buddies' mom that he was ready for a nap as the toddler-monster pushes a trike around me in circles. "He's a faker," I told her. Oh, the horrible wailing as I dragged him away from his buddies (and their toys). But sure enough, 5 minutes into the car ride home he was snoring.

That mommy, sometimes she does know what she's talking about. Sometimes.

U.B.'s 37-week appointment

U.B. and I had yet another prenatal appointment today. This time we saw a real doctor, a lady, who actually possessed tact and compassion, unlike one of her nightmarish male compatriots. She was very sweet, especially since she gave me permission to take Sudafed for the Head Cold That Would Not Die, and she said I could also take Tylenol PM for my insomnia. Not sure if I feel comfortable doing both of these at the same time, but a little dab of pseudoephedrin made a world of difference this evening.

U.B.'s heart rate was 160 bpm, and his house grew by 1 cm (for a total of 36 cm, if you are keeping track). He is very active, a big squirmer. Whereas his older brother was more of a kicker, U.B. is a constant (and I mean CONSTANT) twister, like he can't get comfy in there. Poor guy. Like his brother before him, he also hiccups all the time. I was surprised when Isaac came along that he continued to hiccup almost constantly for a few months outside the womb; his pediatrician offered up that some babies are just prone to them.

I gained a pound since last week, and this time my blood pressure was actually down a bit, to 123/70, which was sweet. No internal exams this time, so I have no idea if Ms. Cervix is continuing her process of dilation and effacement. This particular visit, from my entrance to the waiting room until my exit from the office, was less than 30 minutes, leaving me with plenty of time on the clock to get a pre-dinner Slurpee. Let's hope for a repeatedly speedy performance next Thursday, eh? If we don't have a baby by then, that is.

The Play-Doh menagerie

In Isaac-world, playing with Play-Doh is the new coloring. We have played with Play-Doh every day for the past week. I can't even get near the kitchen table (our Play-Doh studio of choice) without pleadings of "Pway-oh? Pway-oh?"

At first, our Pway-oh sessions started innocently. It was fun to make balls and squish them unmercifully with fingers, noses, necks. But late last week, I helped to flip the switch. There are only so many times one can reshape balls without going insane, yes? So, conjuring my inner Grandma Jane (Mistress of the Play-Doh), I used all of my grade-school art class skillz to start making Play-Doh critters upon request. I try to encourage Isaac to make his own unique creations. He is still stuck in squishing mode, though when squishing takes the form of dismembering animals it is apparently infinitely more interesting. Thus, though my repertoire is growing rather large, none of my Play-Doh creations lasts for more than a minute without heads (or tails) being parted from their respective bodies. Some of our handiwork --

Isaac maiming a snail:



A mouse, only temporarily saved from Destructo-Hands (note the approach of the Blurry Monster in the upper left corner):



One of Isaac's most requested is a kitty with a kitty-bed and food dish. He actually allows this ensemble to exist for 5 - 10 minutes before the kitty's head must roll:



Here's a turtle:



The same turtle after the Isaac-treatment. Note the severed leg in the kitty's food dish:

Happy Birthday, Ella!

Today is Isaac's buddy Ella's first birthday. We were invited over to her house for a party this evening, replete with cake and ice cream. After a marathon nap this afternoon, Isaac was in rare form. Ella's mommy snapped this one of Isaac and Ella cruising the halls, presumably in search of more icing:


Happy Birthday, Ella!

Sleeping like a ...

The Precious Angel version of Isaac in the middle of one of his classic 3-hour afternoon naps: