FIVE THINGS FRIDAY

Despite the debbie-downer tone of my last blog post, I haven't meant to take such an extended break from blogging. It has been a very refreshing and productive break, though, and if you're reading this I'm grateful you've stuck with me. What have I been up to? Well...

1. This month I've been helping to edit my brother's doctoral dissertation during my free time, which has been both enlightening and challenging. I like to edit perhaps more than I like to write, so am I allowed to say the process has even been a little bit fun? It's almost done, and I am relieved--but not as much as my bro is, considering how long he's been working toward this goal. He's been a college student for 18 straight years, nine of which he's also been a professor/instructor. It's time to wrap this up already, and I'm glad to be of help.

2. As of September 1, I've taken on an entirely new role at work, on top of my old one. Unfortunately it did not come with additional prestige or pay yet, but it did come with a new budget to manage, two domestic trips so far (along with an upcoming trip to London), and what feels like endless proverbial cat herding. I am basically winging it, but the older I get the more I realize I'm not alone in that. It's actually going slightly better than I expected, so WOOHOO!

3. This month we also got new gutters and downspouts on the house. It's taken a good two years for the gutter man to finally make good on his promise to come "next week," but if such things can be called beautiful, these really are. (Our gutter man is the same guy who did the custom steel roof on the kitchen bump-out.) This spring I hope we can finally get that last row of chinking done...

4. I'm also working on growing the newest member of our family, due next spring! I'm not completely through the first trimester just yet, but since I've already told both immediate family and work, I figured I'd let all of you know too. It hasn't been the most relaxing time to be nauseated 23 hours a day, but there's never a good time for that I guess. And if I've felt stretched and busy, our superhero Ez has been on overdrive -- working his normal long hours, commuting an eternity each way and coming home to take care of his tired, queasy wife hunched over a laptop and a trash can simultaneously, and a bored and hungry three-year-old. Johnnie is completely thrilled about the "baby in mommy's tummy" though, and so are we.

5. This weekend I turn 31, and I have barely thought about it. In fact, I keep thinking about weekend plans/To Dos and forgetting about it altogether. I'm thankful for another year of life of course, but I don't have any profound sadness or excitement about this particularly birthday. There are so many other important things on my mind!

So that's the update. It's been such a big month!

Is anyone still reading? How are you guys?

STANDARDS OF DOMESTICITY

I started writing this post two years ago and couldn't bring myself to finish or publish it, because I didn't want to push negativity out into the world. However, my feelings about this have only intensified over time, and in light of mega-blog Young House Love's announcement about "taking a break" today, I decided to finish this post in the hope it will resonate with someone else out there.

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Renovating with a six month old, 2012

A couple months ago there was a post on Apartment Therapy that bothered me so much I still think about it regularly. It opened like this:

I feel like I am late getting to the painting game with my 19-month old. She is still enthralled by crayons, but it seems I have recently seen a slew of blog posts talking about painting with kids under two. Tomorrow I am determined to make it happen. 

It's sad and telling that this person, despite admitting their kid was perfectly content with her experiences, allowed a "slew of blog posts" to guilt them into making an unnecessary mess happen tomorrow.

Oh boy.

"Lifestyle blogs" have exploded since I first started reading them several years ago (and then casually writing this one back in 2009). As a result, blogs have increasingly become a way to prove yourself as the crafty homemaker, the courageous DIYer, the bold tastemaker, the hands-on mommy, the urban homesteader, or whatever your aspiration may be. If you were to Google "DIY" + anything at all, you'd undoubtedly unearth tidy how-to instructions (and step-by-step watermarked photos) by a cheerful blogger on how you, too, can make it happen with your own two hands. Admittedly this has been helpful in our home renovation journey, but generally speaking I'm sort of over it.

There has been an evolution. Instead of merely reflecting our lives at home, blogs (and now Pinterest, which came onto the scene after I started writing this post) are shaping them. Babies have started celebrating their birthdays with more stylish and lavish parties, with sophisticated themes and all the details artistically photographed (and, of course, blogged.) When Johnnie turned one, a Pinterest-savvy coworker asked me what her party theme was going to be. I said, "balloons and cake?" She responded that it didn't sound very exciting. "It will be for Johnnie," I said. (And for the record, I was right! What a sweet day that was.)

After awhile, it was not enough to have a nicely decorated home; to get all the blogging cred, you had to sew your child's quilt yourself, with fabric you bought with a coupon you kept tucked away in your special hand-bound coupon organizer. The insides of kitchen cabinets have become photographed just as frequently as the outsides, showcasing how there are no skeletons of disarray hidden in any closets. Christmas trees are not just tastefully decorated; the ornaments are handmade and sold in bloggers' Etsy shops. People began decorating their dining tables for dinner parties they weren't having just so they could take photos for their blog. (That one really gets me.)

Somewhere along the line, the keepers of the blogosphere (mostly women, but some men too) have adopted a new form of domesticity. It's cheery and has a can-do attitude: We bake bread. We raise chickens. We celebrate every holiday with a craft. We paint and organize and sew, we decorate and re-decorate, and we carry a camera to document it all. But then, when we realize our 19-month-old has never held a paintbrush like all the other bloggers' kids, or we realize nobody likes Keep Calm posters (and now chevron) anymore, guilt and even shame creep in. There's a lot of superficiality and performance underlying this shiny new standard of domesticity, and when you inevitably fall short somewhere (who can keep up?) -- or when your aesthetic missteps are documented so publicly -- the oppressiveness of constantly striving for perfection or attention begins to feel a little overwhelming.

As George (my favorite character) says in You've Got Mail, "The internet is just another way of being rejected by women." As bloggers, if we don't measure up to the standard -- even if we're the only ones in our households who are holding us to it -- page views drop, comments wane and maybe GOMI points out our bad decisions. Even worse, rejection will also come from within ourselves, because we're the ones extolling this domestic virtue through carefully curated public promotion. And because (as bloggers) we are both the creators and consumers of blog fodder, we are never ever done fixing up our homes (or whatever your "passion" is) or grasping for page views to show them off. Such a vicious cycle.

As someone who has spent considerable time living in a house with no heat and cooking soup in a coffee pot, I had to start removing myself from the endless stream of blog inspiration, aspiration and self-promotion awhile ago. I still look at Pinterest for very specific things like recipes or room layouts, but I'm so tired of aspiring! Blogging has been a therapeutic activity for me, but being (even a small part) of the blogging community has also been somewhat poisonous at times. I mean, somewhere, some blogger is writing a post about how you can "get the look" of their newly renovated bathroom -- complete with tile and wallpaper they were given for free by manufacturers -- while I (and maybe you?) have been furiously googling for coupon codes and peeing in a bucket while my bathroom is out of commission. How am I supposed to paint with my toddler and make my own laundry soap in these conditions? How do I afford both the designer trash can and the organic hand towels? (Fingers crossed that I win them in a blog giveaway!) Why can't my kid just like wooden toys instead of plastic things that blink? How does the construction dust get inside the microwave? The domestic standard perpetuated on the internet has been and is still out of reach for me, considering my unique circumstances, talents (or lack thereof), resources, time constraints and interests. Though I'm drawn to beautiful things and the calming thought of a curated life, admitting to and accepting my limitations -- and cutting back on my blog and Pinterest consumption -- have helped to unload a lot of guilt from my apron pockets.

Whew!

In the meantime, I have seen numerous small-time bloggers work their way up to impressive success, somehow navigating what I consider to be a rather exploitative industry that asks you to sell your personal website and your persona to shill new product lines at Target or wherever. Yet because they are bloggers, and blogs have been touted to be more trustworthy and personal than mainstream media, it's packaged to seem like everything is genuine, and that this is real life. But usually it's not. Lifestyle blogging has, in some ways, become the reality TV of real domestic life. Instead of sharing our real lives, we're staging them and passing them off as genuine. And we're dragging our families along with us and curating their lives to the point of farce. And frankly, the idea of performing my life instead of living it is a little depressing.

All of this is to say: A lot of people are trying to sell us these idealistic standards -- along with all the products and accessories required to achieve them -- and we (especially women, and even more especially mothers) need more "shoulds" in our lives like we need napkin rings for every season. We all have context, baggage and extenuating circumstances. One size will never fit all, and the formula will never add up for everyone the same way. I think on some level we all want to be the best version of ourselves, but that looks so different for each of us. I guess, after all these words, my point is that there's a strong Martha Stewart-inspired "ideal" out there that just won't add up for everyone -- myself included. So if your Dream House Pinterest board makes you feel depressed, consider deleting it. If my eternal home renovation makes you jealous of my awesomeness, by all means stop reading this blog! Discontentment is not healthy, and you're probably already doing a great job of keeping your home and family from falling apart -- which, some days, is all you can realistically aspire to.

Now I'm not saying people shouldn't make money from blogging, or that all blogs are evil or anti-feminist or whatever, or that all bloggers are perpetuating this mythical standard. (I know some people who fully embody this domestic lifestyle in a genuine way, showoffs.) I'm just turned off by the frivolity and materialism that I'm seeing so much of; by the idea that my worth or success is tied up in my domestic/decorating/homekeeping skills; by endless staged and sponsored content; by the idea that nothing is ever good enough; by guilt when things aren't up to par.

Also, I do still read some blogs. These days I am drawn most often to the regular old personal blogs, the ones written by normal people doing normal-people-stuff: finding the perfect pair of shoes, having babies, eating good food, renovating houses, writing thoughtfully about whatever they're thinking. They aren't hoping for a book deal, a product line, free tile (does the Tile Shop actually sell any tile, or do they just give it all away to bloggers? serious question) or hundreds of adoring comments on every post. They aren't prescribing anything or presenting themselves as domestic role models, but reflecting on who and where they are, and sharing a real piece of themselves. And they aren't urging me to aspire to be like them, but to relate to them. The authenticity is refreshing.

And so I leave you with a song: "In My Mind" by Amanda Palmer, in which she comes to the conclusion that all her aspirations are silly because she doesn't actually want to be the person she has been aspiring to be. Take note, blog friends, and leave the guilt on the shelf at Home Goods with all those meaningless tchotchkes you don't really want to dust around. Then invite some friends over for a real dinner party -- and, unless you really and truly love to cook, don't feel guilty at all for ordering pizza and letting the Cards Against Humanity box be your centerpiece.

xo

OF LATE...

Very little has been happening at the house the past two weeks... We spent a few days with my family in Pennsylvania after my grandmother passed, and as soon as we got back home Ez's sister and family arrived from Chicago to spend the week swimming, picking crabs on the patio and hanging out. All last week we were home only when we were sleeping, going straight from work to my in-laws'. I wish every week could be packed with so much fun and so many lovable people, but we're all definitely a little baggy under the eyes and ready for a reboot on our regular schedule.

Ez did manage to get the shed floor painted and the lumber racks installed somewhere along the way. The rest of the stuff has just been shoved inside without much organization, since we wanted to ditch the storage pod ASAP/we didn't want everything to get rained on/we haven't been home. This is not exactly how I envisioned the process going, but I'm actually not bothered by it. That ugly pod is gone -- hallelujah! We desperately need to mow and do some other yard cleanup, and then I'll share some updated outdoor photos.

Speaking of the outdoors, my garden is still producing like mad (so many green beans!), and it's finally tomato season! (I'm writing this during my work lunch break and simultaneously enjoying a tomato sandwich. My summer dreams are coming true.) My window box is still looking glorious too, but it seems as though our magnolia tree is officially dead. We dug it up and replanted it after we determined it was root-bound, and I've babied it for weeks, but the last of the green leaves have finally dried up. This might be a controversial thing to do, but I'm contacting the nursery to see about an exchange. We followed planting and care directions to the tee, and I called them for advice as soon as it started looking sick, so I don't feel it's terribly entitled to ask what our options are.

It's ironic that we live in a log house and are having such bad luck with trees lately.

Or is it???

REMEMBERING GRAMMY

My grandma passed away last week. Still as beautiful at 86 as she was in that photo, she slipped away peacefully while reading the newspaper, and for that I am thankful. Though she was just a little waif of a person, she had more strength than anyone else I knew; she survived colon cancer and lived with a colostomy for 30-plus years, she survived a broken neck (complete with halo) after a fall down the stairs at age 83, and she endured a broken hip at 84 and a series of mini-strokes after that. After everything, I'm so glad her passing was peaceful and easy.

She was my last living grandparent, and that feels very significant. My parents have now become the elders, and there is no denying that I am, officially, one of the Adults. I spent a lot of time with all my grandparents growing up, so this is an idea that I am still getting used to.

I think I knew Grammy as well as anyone did. During my preschool years, I spent my days with her and my Pappap while my parents were at work, and our favorite games were School (a dirty trick of a game that successfully taught me to read at an early age) and "Guessing Cars" -- which involved sitting with Grammy on her porch swing and guessing what color car would drive past next. In high school, she made snacks for my friends and me before volleyball practice and woke us up from our various napping spots to ensure we got out the door in time. She was the one who, when I was 15, recognized that something real was wrong and rushed me to the hospital when my appendix was about to burst.

She was a very giving but also very private person, sharing very little about who she really was inside. She had endured a lot of pain and loss in her life and was emotionally fragile; as a result, she was very guarded and kept things close to the vest. Her love was demonstrated more by her servitude--by her sometimes oppressive way of fussing over and taking care of you--than by her affection. She'd cook you a feast when you only asked for a snack, and she'd force you to wear a wool hat when it was 50 degrees out, but hugs were rare. She'd want to know everything about you, but she wouldn't talk much about herself. It was challenging to truly bond with her. When she died, I was sad that there was a whole other part of her that I never really got to know.

The last time I saw her, earlier this summer, she told me about a recurring dream she had. In it, I am a toddler again, sleeping next to her in her bed. Still dreaming, she wakes up and discovers I'm no longer there. She frantically searches the sheets, worrying that I've smothered. Finally, after tearing the bed apart in a panic, she wakes for real and remembers that I'm all grown up and sleeping in my own bed. If you've been reading this blog for awhile, you might remember that this is pretty much the exact dream I frequently have about my daughter. The way she told it was almost word-for-word how I have experienced it since Johnnie was born. It was strange to hear her describing it while picturing it so familiarly in my mind.

Really, I don't think she could've said anything else that could have made me feel more bonded to her. I know she told me that dream so I would know how much she loved me, but I don't think she knew the significance it would have for me. I'm so glad that was my last conversation with her, the thing I was thinking about as I drove away and she waved out the window, and I'm so glad I get to tell Johnnie this story one day. She might not remember Grammy when she's older, but maybe that shared dream will help her understand a little about her, and about me too.

FIVE THINGS

Five quick updates on my lunch break:

1. I sometimes have dreams of moving to the city, but I think I'd miss my garden. It's doing well so far this season, and working in it and thinking about it generally makes me happy. Granted, it's not without its stresses... Last night I stayed up late researching why our new magnolia tree has started wilting a little the past couple days. I'm really hoping it just needs more water and doesn't have root problems.

2. We finally bought a claw foot tub for our master bathroom! Every now and then I check the Craigslist postings in my parents' region for items on my wish list, because everything is listed for a small fraction of what it would cost here in Baltimore. Yesterday I saw an old 5' tub in very good condition, listed for $125. I contacted my dad, and he happened to be running an errand two miles from the seller's house. (This was a miraculous coincidence, considering how wide their stomping grounds are way out there in the country.) He inspected the tub, gave it the Dad Seal of Approval -- a very valuable accolade -- and then sealed the deal for us. Now we have to go fetch it from my parents' barn, which is well worth the 2.5 hour drive considering we're saving at least $300 (probably more) on the deal.

3. The Terrible Two's have officially hit. Johnnie is such an awesome kid -- so smart, spunky and well-behaved. That said, she's been getting a little too bold and confident the past couple weeks. Like a tiny teenager, she thinks she knows everything and doesn't like to be corrected for any reason. If she doesn't want to comply with your request, she will disrespectfully decline. We love her determined nature, and I of course think she's destined to be Madame President one day, but first she needs to understand that she isn't the boss quite yet. I feel like the real parenting is just beginning. It's actually kind of fun, once you separate yourself from the initial frustration.

4. Winging it. I'm in the middle of (what I think will be) one of the most important projects of my career to date. I keep telling myself that once it's finished, I'll be less maniacal, more balanced, impeccably organized. Then I realize I've pushed other big things aside to work on this project, and by the time I get to those other things, the deadlines will be pressing down hard and fast. The reality of my work is that I will never be caught up. This isn't a complaint; it's just a circumstance I am somehow still learning to manage. This article rings so true to me. I really am winging it, all the time. And until last week, I only took 5 days off in the past year -- three to celebrate Christmas, and two to clean my house. LAME! Last week I finally took another 4 days off (lest they expire on June 30th per company policy) to go to the beach with my mom, and I still had to take three conference calls and respond to emails. (As a result, my intern just sent me this article.) And I'm just a minion, not a VIP by any means. I think I just need better time management skills, and maybe a daily shot of B-12.

5. A tiny thing. We have a new nephew on the way, and by that I mean sometime today. We can't wait to meet him, and of course neither can his overdue mama who was induced this morning. Johnnie has been running around with stuffed animals tucked under her shirt for months in anticipation, and Ez is ready to bolt out of the office and speed over to the hospital the moment he gets the word. There's something very special about the babies of one's siblings. While they don't belong to you, it feels like they are still wholly yours. I really hope I can concentrate the rest of this afternoon (see #4), but the excitement!

CHRISTMAS AND SUCH

I hope you've all had the most wonderful Christmas!

I don't quite know how to describe ours... Last week we welcomed the sweetest new niece into the world; this week we are mourning Ez's beloved Pop, the original Ez, who passed away on Monday after a few months of declining health. Pop was a happy-go-lucky sort of guy, and one thing I'll never forget is how he greeted everyone he loved with a kiss right on the mouth. (That took some getting used to, and only Pop could get away with it.) Planning a memorial service between Christmas parties and presents is a bit disorienting. This morning I was arranging a collage of photos for Pop's memorial service, and then a few minutes later I was cooing over my 10-day-old niece. I am reminded that without death, there'd be no room for new babies. Thank you, Jesus.

Despite everything, we're still in finish-the-house mode, and we're hoping for our appraisal on January 6th. In fact, after the Christmas morning festivities, Ez and I spent several hours working on the house while Johnnie napped and played with her cousins. We're tired, but we're doing okay. (And my girl's excitement on Christmas morning was such a spirit-lifter! A photo or two to come.)

I am loving -- LOVING -- how the kitchen stairs and pantry are turning out... My dad and Ez spent many hours figuring out how to make it all work before a single board was even cut, and I think Ez basically became a master carpenter as a result of this single corner of the house. I'm so proud of him and the amazing job he did. And that door (along with most of the stairs) is original to the house, which makes me happy. Staining the newel posts and handrails was my Christmas Day project.

Aside from gutters and brick outside (and I'm not sure when those will happen yet since we're hiring someone to do those), we mainly have small, easily manageable things left to do before the appraisal: Installing trim. Cleaning. Painting. Installing balusters for the stair railing. Installing bathroom sinks. All things we can handle. Again, thank you, Jesus.

In the meantime, Johnnie is stirring from her nap, and it's almost time to leave for Pop's viewing. And then there will be a dear little baby who will need her auntie to hold her for a little while... The house will get done, but not today.

FLOORING ACCOMPLISHED

Jack finally finished installing the flooring as of Monday afternoon. I managed to snap this quick iPhone photo while J was preoccupied with some kiwi in the kitchen ("I eat the whole big one, mama," she said). After she went to bed, I sat on the step in our future bedroom and just looked around for awhile. Though there's still a lot to do, the new flooring definitely took the homey feeling up a notch. I truly enjoyed that rare moment of quiet. I tried to envision some lighting options, I thought about paint -- kind of hard to do when everything has a sickly jaundiced hue thanks to the bare wood and yellow insulation -- and I measured how much space the bed will take up.

This isn't a huge room -- that wall with the window is only 11'6" long. That means we'll have, at most, about 4 feet between the foot of the bed and that brick chimney -- not what I would call expansive, but I'm not too concerned. Whenever I watch House Hunters and people inevitably comment on the smallness of the master bedrooms, I always ask (out loud and with some derision), "What on earth are they planning to do in there?" Let's face it -- if we have a "sitting area" in our bedroom, it will become a clothing discard pile.

So, with the flooring now in, theoretically the next step is drywall (and cement board for the bathroom shower area). However, there are a few small punch list items to check off before we can get the drywall guys to come. I will not bore you with this list, but hopefully each little task will be easier than the next. I'm ready for the next phase!

STUFF

My parents moved into their current home in 1989. I was 5 years old. Slowly but surely they renovated and restored that shabby old farmhouse into something truly exceptional. However, their attic holds a couple dark secrets unfit for the pages of Country Living Magazine -- a handful of boxes that followed us from our old brick house in town and were never fully unpacked. The stroller that my mom used to push around my 36-year-old brother and almost-30-year-old me. That last cluster of old stuff they didn't need in their new home and wouldn't miss if it disappeared. 

Currently, Ez and I occupy about 60% of our home's total square footage, and I'm proud to say the photo above captures all the extra "stuff" we still have packed away from our former lives, waiting for the remaining space to open up. It's about four boxes of miscellanea like board games and candlesticks, a vanity table, two dining chairs, an old computer that needs to be recycled and some old files destined for the shredder and the compost bin. (Some things bulking up this pile are building materials and supplies that will be used to finish this space. Woohoo!) Every time I revisit these boxes I end up donating or throwing away another armful. Give me two hours and that pile of stuff will be halved. This stuff, jammed into a corner of the master bathroom while the flooring gets installed, also occupies a corner of my mind that will feel much more at ease once it's unpacked, put away, tossed or otherwise gone.

My parents' old boxes are no big deal. Maybe one day they'll open them and discover a Renoir they forgot about. But our house doesn't have an attic. (We ripped it down so the 2nd floor ceilings could be higher than 6 feet!) Our basement has a dirt floor and snakes. Ours is a home fit for minimalists.

I'm happy with this. The less we have, the less I realize we need. Maybe I'm actually kind of addicted to getting rid of stuff. I've pared back my closet this year, keeping only what I actually wear, and it makes getting dressed in the morning a breeze. I feel like I have more clothes than ever, though I actually have less. One thing that's tough about this house is a lack of hidden space for seasonal things like Christmas decorations, which might be a deal breaker for some people. Fortunately, this is how I feel about elaborate seasonal decorating:

Granted, we'll have to make some purchases once these spaces are done. We'll need a new bed and a dining table. A proper filing cabinet. Toys and such for Johnnie, our resident stuff-magnet. But when it's time to let those things go, I hope I can just take 10 minutes and do it. I'm already trying hard to do that with the clothes and toys she outgrows -- packing away the favorite items we might use again one day, and giving away the rest. (Word to the wise: Buying used makes this whole process easier!)

Is anyone else out there addicted to getting rid of stuff? Or are you all savers and hoarders?

A STORY

Note: Sometimes I write stories, sometimes true, sometimes false, sometimes both or neither.

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Jess turned off the alarm and checked her email with one eye open. No new comments on her latest blog post.

She tried some basic math, calculating her return on investment. Hand stamping the placecards PLUS crafting the centerpiece PLUS ironing the tablecloth PLUS styling the table PLUS taking and editing the photos PLUS writing the blog post EQUALS.... eight hours. 

That's three more hours than comments.

Deflated and still waking up, she forgot to sidestep the squeaky floorboard in the hall as she crept into the bathroom. The baby coughed and murmured, and she hurried to jump into the shower before he fully awoke and began crying for her.

That was her rule: if she got into the shower before he started crying, she could feel only moderate guilt for leaving him to cry in his crib while she had a quick but semi-quiet shower. But if he started crying before she had a chance to close the curtain, well, then she had to go tend to him, change his diaper, set him up with toys on the bathroom floor, and then shower with the curtain half open so they could both keep an eye on one another. Despite that accompanying guilt, oh burden of motherhood, she strongly preferred to shower alone.

Later, while Jess blow-dried her hair -- nothing fancy, just drying it enough to avoid catching pneumonia while she buckled him into his car seat -- he cried because she wasn't holding him and then spilled eight dollars' worth of organic baby shampoo onto the bathroom floor. She tried, fruitlessly, to suction it up with a medicine dropper and return it to the bottle. He cried even harder as she blocked him from playing in the puddle, and she started sweating in her business casual cardigan while mopping up the soap suds with a monogrammed hand towel. I love you, she told him, but I'm not very happy that you made this mess. 

At daycare, he giggled at the sight of his buddies at play and toddled over to them before Jess could get his coat off. She smiled, happy that he was happy. As she was leaving, she called out, Goodbye! Mommy loves you! Can you say 'love you'?

Luvoo, he said, running back and reaching up for a hug. Her heart swelled, half with happiness, half with sadness, and she didn't notice that he'd wiped his nose on her shoulder until later that morning.

After over a year, she would write on her blog during her lunch break, I am finally figuring this mom thing out. You just have to lower your standards. 

Nobody would comment, but she felt she turned a corner.

*

Question: Do you like stories? Would you want to read more of them, sometimes?

CUSTOMER SERVICE (AND A TILE PURCHASE!)

Last weekend we went into town for breakfast and errands, and while we were out and about we decided to visit a local tile store to see what they had to offer for our master bathroom. After months and months (and months) of research, I happen to know the specifications of pretty much every tile that Lowe's, Home Depot and the Tile Shop sell, but I don't often have the opportunity to visit specialty stores in person. I was excited -- this was a treat, and we like to support local businesses whenever we can. When we walked in, we saw a really nice selection of slate that would've been perfect in our entryway. I had a good feeling.

And then we met the tile man.

I told him the tile I'd wanted for my bathroom was discontinued and asked if he knew of anything similar. He searched through his giant catalogs and found something pretty close. I got a little jumpy inside. But then he quoted a price that was more than double what the original tile would've cost. Same materials, same specs, same everything. When I regretfully told him that was outside our budget (and I was truly regretful), he instantly bristled.

Ez and I continued to look through the selection, talking through ideas. We found a porcelain hex tile that was somewhat convincingly glazed to look like marble. I asked the tile man more about it.

"That's going to be way out of your price range," he said. "It's $22 per square foot."

For porcelain? With grey streaks half-heartedly painted on it? "Wow, that much?" I asked, not actually believing him at this point. "That's surprising. You can get real marble for less than that." (Even good quality real marble, I wanted to point out but didn't.)

"Then go for it," he said coldly.

And that was pretty much how our specialty tile store visit went. High prices, low friendliness. I tried not to be rude when talking about prices, but the fact I didn't come in with an unlimited budget was really the nail in that coffin. We took some information about some overpriced slate and went home.

I placed my tile order at Home Depot that afternoon. Though they no longer carry the 2" hex I wanted, they did have the 1" in the same color -- it wasn't what I had really wanted, but I could be happy with it. (After four tough years of renovating this house, I've learned to be content with "good enough.") I stood in the master bathroom and stared at the sample for a good 15 minutes. I compared it, side-by-side, to this one from the Tile Shop. I made Ez come in and close his eyes and envision what he'd want the perfect, relaxing shower to look like (taking into consideration our bathroom has zero natural light coming in).

He gave his opinion, then I whipped out my credit card and placed the order. (Ez also wisely said I I should order it ASAP if it was my choice, so as not to risk another discontinuation.) Seven boxes of Merola 1" antique white unglazed porcelain hex tile -- priced at just $4.95 per square foot -- arrived on our doorstep the next day. (That's the one on the left in the photo above, though ours will not have any black tiles in it per Ez's preferences.)

I think when it's paired with a darker grout, a teak bench, and some other details we have planned, we'll be quite happy with it. Compromises and all that... After all, it's the tile I wanted, just on a smaller scale.

So I guess I have the rude tile man to thank for helping me finally make my decision! Bad customer service for the win! ☺

Recurring Dreams

Do you have recurring dreams? I have all sorts of dreams, usually every night. Many of them, good or bad, are completely nonsensical. People turn into other people, scenes shift, none of it makes any sense. People I forgot existed 10 years ago make cameo appearances. My dream life is kind of fun and trippy. Many other dreams serve to remind me that I am simply an anxious person by nature. And though I worry much less than I used to in my younger days, that pent up anxiety has to work itself out somehow. What I don't burn off through good old fashioned exercise seems to manifest in my dreams.

I was talking to some coworkers the other day, and neither of them dream much. I wonder what that's like, to wake up without trying to piece together what kind of bomb just went off in the junk drawer of your brain. One colleague did admit that he has a recurring dream that he has made a terrible financial decision, and he loses his house and can't provide for his family. Clearly that boring but stressful dream has a direct correlation to a real fear in his life. My recurring dreams seem to skirt my issues a bit, leaving me guessing what my mind is really trying to tell me. Maybe I need a therapist to help me unpack them.

Here are my most common recurring dreams. (Don't worry, they aren't too scary or disturbing!)

- I am sitting at a table, and suddenly one of my teeth feels kind of loose. I try to wiggle it a little with my tongue, and OMG it's VERY loose. Dangling by a thread, even. Surely if i leave it alone the roots will somehow firm back up. Then -- oh horror of horrors! -- the tooth next to it is loose too. My teeth! All loose! Thousands of dollars in orthodontics, for naught! One falls out with no warning or pain. I am spitting teeth. The dream ends when I am holding all my teeth in my hands. Toothless, not sure what to do. --> Recurring for about 10 years now. I've never had a cavity and don't really have any particular interest in teeth.

- I am in high school, taking a break from marching band practice. It's very hot. The impossibly shiny silver trumpet my parents got me when they realized I was pretty good is resting in its case, gleaming, safe, not flung onto the field like other kids' instruments. But, like I said, it's hot. Break over, I pick up my trumpet and I am alarmed that it is soft and pliable, drooping in my hands. I frantically, fruitlessly try to mold the wilted bell back into the shape of a trumpet. It was expensive. My parents are not going to believe me that I was very careful. --> Recurring since about 7th grade, based on genuine fear of denting my real-life silver trumpet. But why do I still have this dream as an adult? 

- I am running from something or someone, and it is very foggy. For whatever reason, I must get into the barn at my parents' house. It feels like I am running in jello. My legs will not move faster. All the miles I've clocked on my running shoes are useless to me. I always wake up before I find out what I'm running from, or why the barn holds such significance. --> Recurring since forever. No real context for this one. 

- I am nursing Johnnie in bed and doze off. I sink deep into dreamland and realize she's not there anymore. I search the sheets frantically, worrying I've dropped or smothered her. Then I wake myself up, my shirt wet because the dream felt so real my body thought I was actually nursing a baby. I realize she's safe in her bed since I have a strict policy of not falling asleep while nursing her or letting her sleep with us in our bed for that very reason. (Unless it's after her first morning feeding and I'm trying to snooze 10 extra minutes, not falling back into deep sleep.) --> Recurring since we brought Johnnie home from the hospital. This is the only dream I have (maybe the only one I've ever had?) that directly reflects a real anxiety in my life. 

So those are it. I don't know much about dreams, but I'm pretty sure these are telling me I need to chill out. Or maybe burn off more steam during the day. Or maybe stop eating sriracha sauce at dinner (which, no joke, always gives me nightmares). Regardless, clearly I'm just wound too tight.

But lest you think I'm one big bundle of weirdness, I want you to know that I do have "good" dreams too, which are of course are my favorite. I wonder, how does one go about having more good dreams?

What do you dream about?

Springing

You know how snakes and other cold-blooded animals' blood temperature changes with fluctuations in air temperature? If it's cold out, their body temperature is colder, and when it warms up, so do they.

Well, that's how I am too--except with my mood and the seasons. When it's cold and dark and dreary, so am I. Now that spring is here, I feel like a genuinely different person. Even though my skin is still so ghostly white.

Follow Your Nose

It's a special time of year here in rural Maryland. You can feel the warming sun on your cheeks, the burning in your eyes and the stinging in your nose.

It's that time of year when the farmers simultaneously fertilize all of the fields that surround our little slice of land.

Throughout the month of March the air smells at times like a pungent cheese, and at other times like rotting mushrooms. Last week on a long picturesque walk down our country lane, the baby asleep in her stroller, Ez quietly observed a faint undertone of fart in the air that just wouldn't go away. Some days it's not so subtle and the thick, warm blanket of cow manure winds oppressively around your face.

Having grown up in the country, I like to pretend I'm used to it, but I think it's only instinctual to roll up your windows and gag a little. On the one hand it reminds me of going to the Amish market as a kid and eating breakfast at the restaurant above the livestock auction barn. If I remember correctly, the restaurant was literally on the top floor of the actual barn whose floor boards had gaps through which you could see live farm animals down below. Granted, the food was impeccably fresh, but it was not that appetizing.

Yet at the same time something about this rank manure smell is kind of oddly exciting for me, because around here it is a major harbinger of spring. And nobody hates winter more than I do. It's funny to me how a smell can be so gross, yet make me a little happy too.

Smell is such a powerful thing, given how closely scents both good and bad are linked with memories and emotions. Scientifically speaking it makes total sense because the brain's olfactory bulb, where smells are processed, is located near the limbic region where memories and emotions are processed. (I got an A in the one neuroscience course I took in college, so I am a certified expert in this.)

But it also makes total sense anecdotally speaking. The sharp smell of witch hazel will forever remind me of the first days of Johnnie's life. Febreeze takes me back to my sophomore dorm room at Brown, when the peerless architectural design of the Grad Center allowed all of the weed smoke from our downstairs neighbors to waft up into our suite and into our clothes. Sawdust reminds me of my dad, and Gloria Vanderbilt perfume, which my mom used to wear when I was little, is one of several smells I associate with her.

Some of my favorite smells: Warm cinnamon bread from H&S Bakery as it wafts through the air in Fells Point, Baltimore. The Art of Shaving's Sandalwood essential oil cologne, Ez's signature scent. Autumn leaves. Butter as it browns in a hot skillet. Lemongrass. Crayons. I happened to dislike the smell of fresh cut grass (it makes me sneeze), but Ez loves it because it reminds him of suiting up for football practice (he played from childhood through college). I love when you catch a hint of something that takes you to a different place like that.

This time of year, I'd love to be taken to a different place whenever the manure spreaders take to the fields, but it's okay. Soon enough the smell will fade and we'll have a nice long stretch of warm weather as our reward for our longsuffering.

What are your favorite smells? What memories do they bring back for you?

Image from here.

I've created a monster

For three years, it seems all we've heard from friends and family is "How's the house coming?" It is infuriating mainly because they all know about this blog, which I created so my ears did not have to suffer those four words any more than necessary. My quest for fame and fortune aside, keeping people updated is the whole point of Thirtyeight20. Sadly, any given stranger is more likely to read the blog than the majority of my family members. (With a couple loyal and duly noted exceptions. Mom and dad. Jen. Airlia.) Truly, the vast majority of my readers are completely anonymous, which is both cool and creepy. Or maybe I know more of you than I'm aware of?

Anyway, I've gotten so tired of talking about the house that I have told more than one loved one so far that we finished the house a few months back, had a big party, and invited everyone we love best. (Sometimes my sense of humor does not play well with others.)

At any rate, this blog started as a commentary about our house and the things that happening to its walls and pipes and paint colors... In my general excitement to write about things of all sorts though, lately I think it's gotten too cluttered, or too watered down by other things. Baby things, mostly, but also all the other things I want to write about but hold back because I don't feel this is the right venue. It just feels... out of hand.

Here's what happened: S and I were talking the other day about how Maryland is our least favorite place we've lived since we got married, and we thought about why, and about how we can change that. Finishing the house was of course the biggest thing on the list of solutions, and separating ourselves from our house was another. Any time we take a Saturday to just relax (which has been often lately) we feel the guilt in the back of our minds... another workday wasted. When we go somewhere, "How's the house coming?" is the second question we hear. (The first, equally annoying, is "Is the baby sleeping through the night yet?") We don't feel that we've ever settled in, despite being closer to family, and made a niche for ourselves. Most of our closer friends live at least 45 minutes away in the city, and since we've both lived city lives for the past 10 years it's been harder than we expected to adjust to small town life and the different "culture" of the suburbs. Feeling so deeply interconnected with this house is really dragging us (mostly me) down. 

Thus, having our house be the focus of the blog has started to feel upside down. I feel kind of guilty when I don't have house updates to post, and that is obviously dumb. Pressuring myself to work on the house, then pressuring myself to write about it with a certain measure of frequency, was just too much pressure that I don't need. This house has become a monster that needs to be put in its place.

So I made a decision. I'm going to start a new blog.

Never fear: Thirtyeight20 will still be here to document our renovation, and I will update it as often as we have renovation news to share. I didn't want to ditch it altogether because it really has been great fun, and I've made lots of great friends through this adventure--and some of you are so kindly invested in this project that I'm not about to shut it down on you! But not everyone is interested in my ramblings on topics other than the renovation, so simply changing the focus of Thirtyeight20 didn't seem to be the right answer.

My new blog, however, will be about whatever I want it to be about. I will link to renovation updates so you don't have to swap back and forth, but there will be that separation I've been craving. Perhaps it's more of a symbolic separation, but that's okay. I need to live my life outside of the house, so to speak, and allow myself the freedom to write about other things. While two blogs may seem like twice the pressure of one, it feels liberating and energizing to me. I feel like I'd painted myself into a corner, and now I'm free to move about.

It may be a few weeks before I'm up and running, but I'll be sure to let you know when the newest chapter begins. Until then, thanks for reading, random strangers! (And the select family members listed above.) Thanks for all your support!

Confessions

1. I've stopped wearing deodorant. Now you've gone too far, you may say. But our "roughing it" lifestyle and fear of unnecessary chemicals aside, it's just too itchy. I've tried a million kinds, including the natural and fragrance free varieties (and with and without antiperspirant) but something about the concept just doesn't agree with my delicate armpit skin. I'll be perfectly honest: I'm a sweater. I sweat when I'm hot, when I'm cold, when I'm nervous, when I'm active and when I'm at rest, when it's Thursday, when I'm sleeping. Nixing deodorant was not a decision I took lightly. As it turns out, a combo of baby powder (not ideal but better than deodorant) and baking soda are working decently well for me. No one has complained yet, and I've asked my loved ones and coworkers to be completely honest about my odor situation, should one arise. I feel weird and subversive and I'm not totally smell-free, but it's really only perceptible if your nose is in the immediate vicinity of my armpit. But... three cheers for happy underarms!

2. We're coasting on house projects right now. I've done a couple things in Johnnie's room that I'll share eventually, but the focus has been on other things. Since we have a stove and room to work, we've been enjoying home cooked meals like crazy and choosing family time over renovation work. S did a little work on the wall oven structure, but it's far from being done. And that is okay. The down-time together has been so nice, and so needed. And the food has been so good! S is an awesome cook. We're eating things like quinoa, brussels sprouts, barley and spinach regularly instead of greasy takeout, so this work hiatus is making us healthier too.

3. I hit a rough patch in baby rearing this week. Now that Johnnie is 5 months old, almost 18 lbs. and very strong, it's long past the time to wean her off of nighttime swaddling. (Swaddling has been a necessity for her; even swaddled, she still wakes to eat at least once most nights.) We started swaddle-weaning last Friday night, and let's just say it was a problem.  They say you should wean by swaddling just one arm for a few nights, then wrapping just the torso but not the arms so they still feel snuggled. I tried this for a couple nights, but Johnnie's problem doesn't seem to be the feeling of security that a swaddle gives her, but that it prevents her arms from flapping all over. The thing is, my little chickadee flaps her arms like a wild endurance tambourinist all day long. It's her go-to move when she's excited, and she spends 90% of the time totally jazzed up about life. Leaving her unswaddled is like giving free reign to a hummingbird. On Monday night we only got about 2 hours of sleep. The past few days have been a huge challenge to my confidence as a mom, and clear thinking is not my strong suit when I haven't gotten sleep.

The thing is, we knew she'd sleep better if we put her on her belly. The prospect was terrifying for me, considering everything one hears about the SIDS risks of belly sleeping. But I talked to a lot of friends, and they all eased my mind about it (a little). The risk drops dramatically right about the age she is now, and she already does nap on her belly, so I decided to try it last night... but only after shedding a few tears over the difficulty of the decision and talking about it to everyone who would listen. Amazingly, most experienced moms agreed I should do it.

So last night we said a prayer, put her on her belly and tried the dreaded "cry it out" method, which I was also very hesitant about. She cried for 36 minutes, with me going in to pat her and sing to her every few minutes. Amazingly, she'd stop and smile during the singing but would start crying again as soon as I'd stop, which kind of made me laugh and realize that there was she was okay -- just a bit angry and confused about the change. After she finally gave in (which happened while I was patting her for the third time) she slept for 8.5 hours straight, only waking to let out a single little squawk and change positions 2 or 3 times before immediately falling back to sleep. That's a record night of sleep for her.

Now, I was a basket case. I kept looking at the AngelCare monitor handset to see that the little digital pendulum was still swinging, indicating that she was breathing. S's phone beeped and vibrated once when he received an email, and I snapped awake and rushed into her room thinking it was the monitor letting out the warning beep that it hadn't detected movement. But she was fine. She opened one eye, rolled it at me for being such a worrier, then went back to sleep.

When she woke up and let out her hungry cry at 5am, she was smiling and as happy as a clam when I went to get her. This leads me to believe that 36 minutes of crying didn't harm her as much as I feared, and it gave me hope that this is going to be okay and that I just need to trust God and my instincts as a parent. Tonight we'll try again, and hopefully -- if she has another good run, Lord willing -- I'll be able to relax and sleep a little more myself, and then a little more the night after that. This is definitely a test of faith and fortitude, but becoming a parent has shown me that I'm tougher than I thought.

Right Quick

Some things that are happening and/or have happened of late...

                                                       ...in bullet format because I'm completely frazzled:

• We have only had running water sporadically for the past 5 days. Flowing full force, however, is my desire to cry about it.
• During one of the attempts to fix the water problem, S and my father-in-law installed a water filtration system. No more brown water! Totally drinkable and awesome! (If only it would come out of the faucet and into my cup when I turn on the tap...)
• Fridge and baking table have been moved out of the living room and into the kitchen. Finally! The living room seems so much more inviting. Go figure. Pictures to come!
• Our normally easygoing baby has been CRAZY the past 5 days. There has been unprecedented random squawking, night waking, drooling, and clinginess going on. Little teeth moving around under the gums + 2 shots at the doctor's office = misery for the whole family. She does have cute little purple and yellow band-aids on her chubby thighs though, which are adorably sad.
• We got the go-ahead from the inspector to finish the dining room and entry, plus to insulate the master suite. Thank God! I couldn't care less about the dining room right now... but in order to be able to fully use the kitchen on a daily basis, the dang heat has to stop escaping out of the second floor! (So, while we have some things set up for cooking, that side of the house is still basically barricaded off to keep the heat in the finished areas. Until we insulate, that is.)
• After we insulate and use up the materials we have for finishing the dining room and entry, no more major purchases for awhile. Whew. I won't even buy a candy bar from an adorable little leaguer raising money for uniforms outside the grocery store. (Okay, I might... but only one.)
• I can't wait to read this. Aside from my trusty breastfeeding manual and the Very Hungry Caterpillar, I haven't read any books since our little screaming eaglet was born. I think this will be my first one. I was a dutiful English major who studied Derrida, Jane Austen and George Eliot and fell in love at cafés on College Hill! Also, I love Jeffrey Eugenides. This is a recipe for pleasurable reading, I do say.

OK. That's all I can muster for now. Happy Friday, one and all!

Back to the grind

With a few colleagues on April 5, observing the TOMS Shoes "Day Without Shoes."
I'm the 3rd one from the left, and was about 4 months pregnant! And cold. Very cold.

I wish I could live two lives -- one where I work full time and go to conferences and travel around Africa, and one where I stay at home and play with Johnnie and cook things that I grow in my (would-be) garden. I guess it's possible in theory to have it all, but in the past two weeks since returning to work I've discovered that, right now at least, all that's possible for me to have is small bits and pieces of it all.

My boss could not be more accommodating. I've started back just 3 days a week -- even in the midst of the hardcore fundraising season -- to help us get adjusted to this new routine. There is a quiet room set aside for me at work so I can pump twice a day so I can continue breastfeeding. I work close enough to my mother-in-law's house than I can feed Johnnie myself on my lunch break.

I'm busier, yet possibly more productive, than I've ever been. There is no time for procrastination in my life right now. I get up at 5:45am to feed Johnnie, then S whisks her off to his mother's house while I enjoy a few quiet minutes to shower and run out the door. My work day looks like this:

• 8:00am - Arrive at work
• 9:45am - Pump (30min)
• 12:00pm - Run over to my mother-in-law's to feed Johnnie (45min)
• 2:45pm - Pump (30min)
• 5:00pm - Leave work to pick up Johnnie

This schedule leaves little uninterrupted time for actual work during the day. I worry that my coworkers will judge me for taking so many breaks. (I'm sure formula feeding would be dramatically more convenient, but I firmly believe in the benefits of breastfeeding whenever possible.) Since it is the critical holiday fundraising season, this is the absolute busiest time of year and I have to pull my weight and then some. The day flies by.

When I get home, I feed Johnnie again and try to find something decent for dinner because I likely didn't have time to eat much throughout the day. I am still limited to what we can cook in a toaster oven, though I'm trying to get my act together enough to use the crock pot more often. My head hurts. In the evenings I wash bottles and pump parts, iron my clothes for the next day, feed Johnnie some more and throw some easy-to-eat snacks in my bag. Then I feed her again, trying to tank her up before bed so she'll sleep longer. We try to be in bed by 9:30 since Johnnie will wake us up at least once for about an hour around 2am so she can eat again. The past few nights she has woken up hungry twice, and I'm worried that we're regressing.


Rallying the troops at a work event in October. (Johnnie is in the stroller at left.)

It's not as hard to say goodbye to her in the mornings as I expected, which is good news since I've never been a morning person. The hard parts are lunchtime, when she smells me the moment I walk in the room and cries because she's hungry -- and as soon as she's done eating I have to hand her over and rush back to work. And it's hard when I pick her up in the evening, when she seems to have gotten even bigger since the morning and had a whole day of fun and activity that I wasn't a part of.

S and I try to find time to spend together, but usually one of us falls asleep or has to catch up on an email or switch the laundry when we have a free moment. Weekends are precious, though we have to use them to work on the house when the weather or other circumstances permit. I wonder if I'll ever find time to go for a run or, for that matter, lose the extra 11 pounds I'm still carrying.

If it sounds like I'm complaining, I guess I am. Fortunately, most days there's no time to dwell on it. But behind and beyond these words, written at the height of exhaustion, I am thankful to be employed, especially at a company I love, when the unemployment rate is so high. I am thankful that Johnnie spends her days with someone who loves her so much, and that I'm able to continue breastfeeding. I'm thankful--beyond thankful--for my incredibly understanding, patient and supportive husband. I am thankful for the sweet baby who is healthy and full of smiles for me every morning when we sing, "This is the day that the Lord has made."

There are many more positives than negatives in our life right now, and I'm sure things get easier with time, though I can't think far enough into the future to imagine it. I'm tired, and I miss S. But in the midst of it all, I am blessed.

This is the day that the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it!

It's amazing how much better the day goes when I start out singing that.

A baby story

I promised many of you that I'd give a full and detailed recap of our childbirth experience -- and here I am, six weeks later, finally getting around to writing it out. (In my defense, Johnniegirl has been keeping me pretty busy!) If you're not into this type of thing, sorry! Please just skip this post and check back later this week for a house update or two.

It was a crazy week leading up to Johnnie's arrival -- thanks to pneumonia S had a fever of 103 for over 5 days straight, and it finally broke about 24 hours before I went into labor. We had an earthquake the day before, and Hurricane Irene was headed toward us. It was fitting that our little girl should make a bold entrance into the world, and on her actual due date (according to the sonogram) no less. So without further ado, here's how it went down...

*

My first contraction woke me around 3:30am on August 24th. I’d been sleeping lightly, as my hips hurt at night throughout my pregnancy and my stomach was a little unsettled from the superhot buffalo wings I’d eaten for dinner, trying to induce labor. (Do I credit the wings for helping to start my contractions? I don’t really know, but I can’t say that I wouldn’t try it again the next time around!)

I woke S and told him I thought “it” might be happening. We both lay there in eager anticipation, waiting to see if what I had felt was in fact an actual contraction and whether I would feel it again. Twelve minutes later I felt the second one. We started getting excited. Five minutes after that I felt another. Then another came 3 minutes later. There was no pattern or consistency whatsoever so far, or so we thought.

I decided to take a shower (part of my as-natural-as-possible hypnobirthing plan) while S sat on the bathroom floor, timing every contraction to see if they’d develop into a regular pattern.

Another contraction came 3 minutes after that. And another just 3 minutes after that. And then another.

“Are you sure these are really contractions?” S asked me, surprised that they were so close together and becoming regular already. Our doctor, the nurse who taught our childbirth class and all the books we read said the beginning stages of labor could take hours and hours. I had packed magazines, DVDs and a pair of comfy slippers in my hospital bag to keep us occupied and relaxed throughout centimeters 1 to 8.

But I was definitely sure these were contractions, and they were already getting more and more intense. A few more came at 3 minute intervals. We were supposed to call the doctor when the contractions were 5 minutes apart, but it seemed we'd apparently skipped right over that part.

So around 4:30am, as I was getting out of the shower and starting to feel slightly alarmed, S called my doctor’s emergency cell number and explained the situation. He told us to head straight to the hospital, and to consider hurrying. The excitement was mounting. I had barely gotten my clothes on before I felt an intense, unmistakable downward pressure. Our baby girl was COMING, and soon!

“Okay, so, we really need to go NOW!” I shouted, kneeling on my hands and knees (the most comfortable position I could find) in the hallway. I'd been told countless timse that childbirth was nothing like the movies, but I felt like everything I was feeling and saying was coming straight from Father of the Bride II. I mean, we'd just had an earthquake, my husband was recovering from pneumonia and now I was barely going to make it to the hospital in time? It felt surreal as I fought the urge to push.

We made our way to the car in stages—from the top of the stairs to the couch, then from the couch to the driveway, and then finally into the car—as I had to stop and breathe through the mounting pressure of contractions that were suddenly almost on top of each other. We barely pulled out of the driveway when I started shaking all over. I remembered from our childbirth class that this was a sign of transitioning, but despite the pain/pressure/shaking I was hesitant to believe we were that far along already. I’d only been in labor for an hour and a half at most! Nevertheless, I told S that I thought it would be okay if he broke the speed limit a little. This baby was on a mission. He got that determined look in his eye that I know and trust so well.

We arrived at the hospital 15 minutes later. I made it through the first of the two sliding doors at the entrance to the birthing center, and that was all I could do – I could not go any further. (So much for walking the halls in my slippers!) A huge contraction hit, the biggest one yet, and I braced myself against the wall and stayed there. A nurse rushed toward us with a wheelchair and took me directly to a delivery room, skipping the normal triage and check-in process since I was clearly in full-blown labor. My doctor hadn’t arrived yet, so it was the on-call physician who confirmed that I was in fact 8 cm dilated and moving fast. Despite the growing intensity and pressure I was feeling, I was amazed -- if this was childbirth, I totally had this!

One of the principles of hypnobirthing is that childbirth doesn’t have to be painful and violent if you do the right breathing and visualizing, which you practice beforehand. Let it be noted that I read the book thoroughly and practiced for months. Maybe it’s because I didn’t have the benefit of attending actual hypnobirthing classes (they aren’t offered in our area), but all I can say is that the method worked for me for those first 8 easy centimeters; the rest of the experience was a whole other story. As soon as I put on the gown and got settled in the delivery room, the screaming started. 

It suddenly felt like I was giving birth to my own pelvis, or pooping a football, or maybe both at once. My birth plan was to have as natural a labor as possible -- no drugs or interventions unless absolutely medically necessary -- but to be perfectly honest I may have given into the epidural at that point if there had been time. As it was though, the nurses barely had time to get the fetal monitor and my IV hooked up. I kept apologizing for being so loud, but the medical staff seemed okay with it – they were all amazed that it was going so quickly, especially since this was my first baby, and telling me that I was lucky. The doctor even said she didn’t blame me for the screaming because my contractions were so intense that each one was doing the work of four. That made me feel better (at least emotionally).

In less than 45 minutes I was dilated to the full 10 centimeters. Though the transitional phase didn’t take long in actual minutes, it felt like the clock was aligned to some other world's orbit. I’m not even sure who was in the room during that time. All I remember is my husband’s voice telling me over and over that our little girl would be with us soon, praying to God for strength and a nurse (whose name and face I wouldn’t recognize if my life depended on it) holding my right hand and helping me breathe. The rest is just periods of out-of-body screaming with short phases of trance-like rest and breathing in between. Though the supposed gentleness of hypnobirthing eluded me, I did manage to maintain those periods of recovery between contractions -- thanks hypnobirthing!

And then my water broke. (Warning: This part is not for the squeamish.) When I say my water “broke,” I mean it shot out like a hot cannonball and exploded on the doctor’s lap in one shot. Everyone in the room gasped and burst out laughing. S shouted, “WOW! That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!” I felt that I maybe should be embarrassed, but I just felt instant relief from the intense pressure.

My actual doctor finally arrived just as it was time to push—the part of childbirth I had been most nervous about for all the years I'd known where babies come from. Hypnobirthing says you shouldn’t actually “push” but instead “breathe the baby down” with a special breathing technique that I practiced beforehand. This technique did not work in reality. However, pushing turned out to actually feel really satisfying, as I’d been feeling the urge almost since we arrived at the hospital. 

Her head was visible after the first push, and I ended up pushing for 10 minutes total before the doctor laid her on my chest at 6:24am -- less than 3 hours after I felt that first contraction! Yes, I realize how incredibly fortunate I am! Though my experience may have been a little more intense or concentrated than some women's, I cannot imagine how exhausting and difficult it would be to labor and push for hours on end as some women do. Though it did not go completely as planned, I really would not change how our delivery happened.

(Side note -- and possible oversharing moment -- I credit the ease and quickness of pushing to the fact that my doctor administered a local anesthetic down there in advance, in case there would be any tearing. The tearing was almost negligible, thankfully, but the anesthetic prevented me from feeling the “sting” of the crowning so I was able to push without fear or hesitation. Thank you, modern medicine! But I don't know if this is standard procedure or not.)

Anyway, my determined little missile was here, and she was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. S and I were both crying as much as she was. She didn’t look bruised, swollen or coneheaded since her descent down the birth canal was so quick, and she was so healthy and thriving that the nurses wanted to give her a perfect 10 Apgar score. Even her angry and confused crying face was irresistibly cute. Example (taken during her first bath): 

It sounds so cliche, but that moment was like a dream. It turned out to be true for me, what they say about how you home in on this new little squirming life and forget the pain immediately. I didn't feel like a million bucks, and the post-birth stuff wasn't exactly pleasant, but I didn't care either. We had done it! She was determined, I was tough, S was supportive, and we were finally all together and healthy. That's all that mattered. I no longer cared that I had embarrassed myself and frightened all the other patients in the ward with my banshee screams. It was the most amazing moment of my life, and despite the sleep deprivation and constant work of taking care of a newborn, the novelty of her presence still hasn't worn off yet.

After the doctor finished up and was leaving the room, he said, "You had the perfect pregnancy and birth. Same time next year?" HA HA HA, said my uterus. Then he added, "Just so you know, subsequent births usually go faster, so next time we will have to induce you a little early so you don't end up giving birth on the side of the road." 

I guess that would be a completely different adventure. I guess we'll see someday. (Maybe.)

Ramblings

I haven't been spending much time online lately, and you know what? I haven't really missed it much. Maybe there's a lesson there! But I miss you guys and I do want to keep you updated, so here are some little fun facts about what's happening around here.

- Contrary to the photo, Johnnie hates her adorable Jenny Lind bassinet. She'll only sleep for a few minutes in it, I think because it swings -- and even with the pin in place to prevent the swinging, it still jiggles a little bit which is probably not very relaxing. Good thing it was a totally free hand-me-down, because it would be so disappointing to spend a lot of money on a nice piece of baby furniture only to have to replace it with an ugly and surprisingly expensive Pack-n-Play (which we did). We also got this as a gift and she likes it pretty well. Not to heap even more "helpful" advice on all you pregnant ladies, but that's something to think about when preparing the nursery!

- We're going through the baby acne stage. I feel so bad that my crazy hormones are wreaking havoc on her beautiful skin, but apparently there's little you can do to prevent it. In trying to provide some relief for her, a silver lining was that we discovered California Baby Calendula Cream -- which does seem to be working very well, smells amazing (like just-brewed herbal tea) and is completely natural. I've started using it on my face too!

- Nothing very exciting or blog-worthy is happening at the house. We kind of took a project hiatus for the past 4 weeks. S has vowed to start going crazy on the kitchen again next week, but I don't blame him for just wanting to hang out with the baby in his free time. We need a kitchen though, so the show must go on.

- I've been collecting ideas. I spend about 8 hours a day feeding this sweet bottomless pit of a baby, so I have a lot of time to think. Most of my thoughts are the pure nonsense of a sleep-deprived lunatic, but some are passable. Our house is pretty much undecorated, since we've chosen to spend the bulk of our time, effort and money so far on getting the house functional/habitable. Understandably so. Sitting around staring at the empty walls for hours on end though has inspired some ideas that I hope to someday have some time to implement so we can make it a little homier around here. (Step 1 is to move the fridge out of the living room into the kitchen -- brilliant, no?)

Okay that's it for now. My brain power is expended, and this baby needs to be fed. Again. Already! Let's see what's waiting for me on the DVR...

Oh yes we did

Even though the comments about putting a metal roof on the kitchen bump-out generally were not very flattering or positive (even the ones that were in favor of it!), we did it anyway. Because it's our house, and no one can stop us! (Well, except God and the permit office.)

Because only a small handful of you comment, I really have no idea what the vast majority are thinking and what compels you to visit our little disaster every day. So generally I just throw posts out there and see what happens, because this is just a blog about an inconsequential house renovation. I'm not trying to make money, attract a certain number of readers, display my (imaginary) expertise or teach anyone anything. I'm just journaling what we're up to, and I think it's so fun that so many people have shown interest.

That said, I'm extremely grateful for everyone who reads along and especially for the loyal cheerleaders and friends I've made along the way, but on occasion I do wonder if I'd be better off if I didn't have this blog. I don't really care what strangers think when they drive by the house, and the same is generally true for the blog. However, I have caught myself a couple times wondering what the collective "you" would think if I made decision X vs. decision Y, and that felt extremely lame and immature -- not to mention limiting. In fact, I almost didn't post this update because I know some of you would quietly shake your heads in disapproval of our decision about the roof... which was a big, flashing warning light to me that this blog was enabling me to be stupid and shallow. Yuck!

Then I remembered that the reason I started this blog was to keep our families and friends updated on our progress since we're all a bit scattered, and I would hate to cut off that connection. I sometimes have thoughts of blogging about other things, random things -- more important things -- and just posting house updates along the way. More and more I think I'm leaning that direction. I guess we'll see.

The bottom line is that I appreciate you, and I appreciate your comments (both positive and negative, truly!) and I think blogging is fun. But I will never make a renovation decision or undertake a DIY project or scrounge up content just for the sake of having something to put on the blog. That's when the fun ends for me -- and heaven knows this house can be enough of a killjoy that I don't need self-induced blog angst to go with it. This blog is either going to be a fun outlet for me, or it's getting deleted!

So, with this renewed perspective, the blog lives another day!

And also we have a shiny metal roof to keep the rain from rotting our new kitchen. Victory!