This is the story we tell every year on this day. The picture (yes! a Bear picture!) is from his 3rd day of life.

Once upon a time....

After 120 days of bedrest, we went in for a second Level 2 sonogram. 30 days earlier, we'd discovered you were a boy and that you were not thriving quite the way all those nice people in white coats would have liked.

The same technician again, measuring and computing. Finally, we asked "How is he?" She told us you were "Perfect. And very adorable." (well, of course!)

"How are his lungs and his weight?" I wanted to know. Your lungs were hard to measure, but your weight was about 1lb, 13 oz.

"Is that good?" we asked.

The technician smiled and told us that you were now in the 53rd percentile - 3% larger than the average fetus of your gestational age. She was telling us that you had come from behind to the middle of the pack.

She could have told us you also had won a special congressional medal of honor for kicking so good and we wouldn't have been happier.

At 128 days of bedrest, we were back in the emergency room. They triaged me pretty quickly - after all, we were frequent fliers - and did a fast sonogram. Your heart rate was fine.

I was the sick one.

I had a virus, and like everything else - moving, eating, filing my nails - it had set off a spike of high blood pressure and contractions.

Another visit to Labor and Delivery. We were really scared this time, because they started saying that it might be time to let you finish your great escape.

How would you ever survive?

Your dad and I sat in silence, and Bear - we prayed. We prayed so awfully hard.

And they dripped me full of stuff, and after a few days your dad sprung us - you still safe and sound in your mommy-shaped home.

By 236 days of bedrest, the nice people in the white coats decided that it was time, really time, for you to be born.

So we called everyone, packed up the car, and then dawdled at home for a long hour discussing the day ahead. It was our last moments as a family of two.

They induced at 5PM and from then on the Pitocin contractions never let up.

By 9PM, the gang was in place - your dad was excited, your nana arrived from Boston, your Aunt Dee was there, and even El. They were cheering, I was huffing through the pain and walking in circles, and you were tucked in for the long haul.

At 1AM, we took a long hot shower. It didn't help. But it was worth it to see your dad looking silly in wet clothes.

At 3AM, I was given a narcotic and it knocked me out. Your dad and Aunt Dee would giggle as I would wake up and shout "ow ow ow" with each contraction and then fall back asleep.

At 9AM I got an epidural. I turned human again just as it was time to push.

At 11AM, I was told I was pushing wrong.

At 11:15AM the doctor told us your head was turned the wrong way to be born and manually worked you around to the right position. Your dad was able to see the head the next time I pushed.

At 1PM the doctor said "great pushing but Bear hasn't turned all the way and was well and truly stuck."

2PM, and you were jammed in my pelvis. In case you've forgotten, let me remind you: Neither of us liked you there.

At 3PM, the emergency C-section began. It took 52 more minutes to free you. That epidural? Not so effective. I would slurringly announce things like "Gee that knife is sharp. Could you stop hurting my right side like that?"

That didn't make the doctors very happy. Didn't make my body happy either. My blood pressure was 220/160 despite the medication.

Almost simultaneously, you were born and they knocked me out.

As they took you out of my tummy by your feet, you stretched out into the world. The doctor turned you right side up and you surprised her by lifting your head. Then you reached out and grabbed her around the neck. (Yes, Bear, like a hug) She had your handprint there for hours.

Your dad cut your cord and they harvested your stem cells to be donated for someone who needed them - because you didn't anymore. (You see? From the very start, your birth was a blessing.)

The people in white coats rubbed you, measured you, and wrapped you cozy in a blanket. Then your dad grabbed you up. I was almost able to register your birth before falling into the black place. Your dad held you militantly at my side.

The hovering white coats, eager to finish their protocols, just had to wait until I was stable before your dad consented to leave my side. Because, he was never about to leave yours.

Hours later, when I woke up in Recovery, your dad brought you to me again.

Finally, we met.

I smelled you and touched you and memorized your face. It was primal, instinct, necessary. We imprinted on each other. For a long, long time the three of us rested on that bed together quietly, the way we still do so often, as a family.

It was the beginning.

Happy 4th Birthday, Bear more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 07:12 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1048 words, total size 8 kb.

Note: This is my entry for Jay Allen's cool Blogging for Books contest. The assigned topic: best or worst experience you've ever had working for someone else. I picked "all of the above". Jay has said that for this we should get our funny going. And I tried. But I have written, instead, what my husband is calling "A funeral hymn for a dream". I hope you forgive me.
**************************************

Late at night, I'm holding on for tomorrow.

My son woke up this morning, and came looking for me. I wasn't there. He asked my husband "Mommy not home yet?" Because he hadn't seen me in a day. Because I came home so late last night and left so early this morning. I told myself, when I heard this with a flinch at lunch, that I would make it up to him.

I left the customer's office at 3PM but it took 2 hours to get home. I found my son, wired from watching TV all day. His teeth still unbrushed. I found my husband, writhing with the flu and a fever and hanging on by a thread.

I meant to help. I meant to.

But I had to collapse for a few hours before I could even remember my name.

I've become the kind of parent that I can't look in the eye. I cringe to think how easily I sometimes unplug from my son's life.

This isn't how it was supposed to be.

Growing up, I knew my life's ambition was to be a mom. I played teacher. I played author. I played rock star. Inside I knew being a mother was the one true thing I wanted to do with my days and my nights. Knew it like some people know they want to be astronauts, or doctors.

I also knew that paying jobs and me, well, let's just say that we didn't get along so well.

My first job? Babysitter. 13 years old. Let the popcorn catch fire and their kitchen was never the same. Paint took care of the most of this discoloration but the smell lingered for about 5 years.

My second job? Grocery store. Cashier. I stank. The manager was a family friend and he would regularly key into a register with my code and work it, in order to bing up my all-important "Items Per Minute" average.

Then my uncle died and I took off some time for the funeral. Then I asked for some more time off to go to his funeral again. Naturally, they had to fire me.

I actually felt bad for them when my father went in and demanded they expunge my records. How could they know that the shipping company had temporarily lost my uncle, necessitating an actual second funeral.

Even I thought it sounded like I was making it up.

My third job? At a restaurant. On my first day, I succeeded in committing a series of errors that, cumulatively, was nothing short of felonious.

But even after using a paper cup on the shake machine (to save time) instead of the metal one and spraying an entire line of customers with chocolate shake. Even after dropping the cash register tray on the floor, causing a scramble for money all over the restaurant. Even after exploding the top of the iced tea dispenser. Even after spilling the oil from the fryer and causing a nice cook to head to the the hospital with a possible concussion...

...Even after all that, they made me keep coming back.

Like my own "Twilight Zone" meets "Groundhog Day". The manager was my English teacher. Clearly on some kind of a Yoda trip. I, however, am no kind of a Luke Skywalker.

My first job in college? Campus tour guide. Accidentally led a group of alumni into a wedding in progress at the campus chapel.

My first job out of college? File clerk at a factory. Walking around and around a table collating a handout. And around. In nylons. In summer. In a break room. In a factory. With, you know, beefy men around. Taking LOTS of breaks. And trying to pat me.

My next job? As a temp in a trucking company, as a receptionist. I was fired after 4 days and called into my Temp Manager's office. "Elizabeth," the woman said sternly. "Don't wear your skirts so tight. Or so... yellow. And only one button undone on your blouse."

"Can it be the bottom button or does it have to be the top?" I snarked. She fired me on the spot.

Eventually, I became a chaplain. The kind of warm fuzzy job that didn't include me being near money, electricity, food or food by-products, or hornball truckers.

I regularly worked projects with other charitable agencies. One time a group of us was making our way into one of the Projects here in Chicago, when a big guy tackled me to the ground. He covered me with his sweaty body and kept telling me to shut up.

I screamed and never noticed the rest of our little group huddled nearby.

"Quiet!" He ordered in my ear. "Stay still for God's sake. Can't you see we're being shot at?"

It wasn't for another 10 years that I finally "fit" somewhere. I intuitively understood MegaCorp. It was like all these bizarre half-skills that I'd acquired all my life suddenly knit together to make me really good at something.

Hard? Yes.

Crying in the bathroom, hoping no one notices me. That kind of hard.

Learning to swim with the corporate sharks, I had a few bites taken out of me. But I am good at this. I am better at this than anyone I know outside my corporate life. I want to sing the chorus from Handel's Messiah. I love this job! I LOVE this job!

And looking back, I would have done it for a decade, maybe a lifetime, happily; stuffing my first dream away.

Then Bear came along.

And in an instant, I remembered why I was put on this Earth. I was born to be his mother.

And I dropped Mega like a hot rock.

Once he was in my arms, I knew certainly what I had known as a dream growing up. Motherhood was the only job I want as a full-time occupation. Luckily for me I had 7 months. 7 months where our plans worked and my job description was two words: Bear's Mother.

There isn't a word for how my soul felt. Happy is the pastel wannabe of the word. Amazing is a dim cousin.

Then circumstances changed and I was suddenly scrambling to nail down a paycheck job. Thank God, Mega took me back. Thank God, I do well at Mega. Thank God, Mega pays me well in return and set me up to work from home.

But there are days when I have to leave before he wakes. Days I am still gone when he goes to sleep. And I don't get to pick the days. Sometimes those are the days when Bear really needs me. One time it was the day he took his first steps. This is not Mega's fault. These are my choices.

Even though it's the only job I ever wanted, it's not my only job.

That means after doing dozens of jobs really, really, really badly I find myself torn between 2 jobs I love.

Well, maybe "torn" is not the right word. "Torn" implies that I am tugged between knowing which one I should do. I know I should be with my son.

What has me "torn" is the work. Ripped up inside over increments of hours, when my ability to prioritize is hog-tied. When the almighty dollar comes first and I twist in agony waiting to get back to who is really important.

God help me, I have not turned out to be the mother I could have been or the mother I wanted to be.

I am trying, instead, to be the best mother I can be.

I'm making decisions in the creases and sometimes? Too often? I am getting it wrong. Those are the times, like right now - like at this very moment in the deep of the night -that I just pray and hold on.

Hold on for tomorrow and try again. more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:58 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1618 words, total size 9 kb.

Hey, this one's PG-13 for language. You've been warned.
**************************************

I'm a hybrid.

I was born to a McCain Republican and a Obama Democrat. Which is kind of like saying that my mom was an alligator but my dad was a crocodile. If that leaves you scratching your head and asking what the fuck's the difference? Yeah, I'm with you there.

I like McCain. I like Obama. I'm a pro-choice, pro-family independent Christian. I like you, even if you're the opposite of all those things. I like people trying to have smart ideas. I like people who take the high road. I like tolerance, respect, and good listening skills.

I like the conflict of arguments looking for the greater good. I'll go face to face with you screaming about the issues, and know all long that neither of us will budge. And it will be cool.

Conversely, I am a fierce clawed predator who puts the vego-matic to the crap spewed by the bastards who make it personal. Who take debate to its lowest common denominator.

So, Cathy Seipp.

One day she's at a grocery store, sees a stay at home dad's attention drift from his kid in the grocery cart, and turns it into a treatise on all stay at home dads.

She took her bully pulpit via the National Review Online, ranted at the use of the word "parent" versus the word "father", mixed in some examples from the TV show Everwood, and voila! came up with: stay at home dads are woosie suckwads who are incompetent at best.

Like women trying to parallel park. Her example, not mine.

Then she went on the radio to defend her position. Then she blogged about going on the radio. Then she quoted her friend blogging about her going on the radio. She called her article "making fun" and sheathed her claws while shouting "look at me!".

Wait.

Doesn't that sound like Nellie Olson on Little House?

Heh.

Seriously, as Rebel Dad said, you don't even want to sanctify this shit with a mention in your own world. On the other hand, well, the truth is that there aren't as many stay at home dads out there. I know and love some stay at home dads.

In fact, the ones I know are so cool. And when I paid attention, I realized with outrage that Cathy's argument has nothing to do with stay at home dads, really.

It has to do with propagating disgust with the non-traditional simply because it's non-traditional. So here's my say:

1. It takes two people to make a kid. 3, if you're counting the gestational surrogate. Maybe 5 if the child's going to be adopted. Do we count the doctors? Here's the point: NO ONE GETS TO BE THE ONLY "RIGHT" PARENT.

Right out of the chute, there are lots of people deeply invested in that child. Personally, I think introducing my 2 year old son to beef jerky was insane. But my husband thought it was fine. Welcome to reality. The differences from maybe the ideas we have in our head about stay at home parents? They're gender. They're cultural. They're personality. But they are just differences, not "wrongnesses".

Let's remember this students, there will be a quiz later in the form of a grown child. DIFFERENT does NOT equal WRONG.

2. Everyone gets to be an asshole, sometimes.

Cathy talks about a kid maybe almost falling out of a cart.

Hell, I was in a grocery store once and ran into a stay at home mom and we got to chatting. She cooed over mine, I wanted to coo over hers. Figured she'd been left at home.

Nope, she'd been left to chill, playing with her feet on top of a stack of frozen pizzas. She'd crawled out of her seat and fallen (not hurt) into one of those open-topped freezers and yes, her frazzled mother didn't notice until I asked about her a few moments later.

That's because ALL stay at home mothers are over-tired martyrs who can't parallel park. Right? RIGHT?

Here's something to have tattooed in backwards writing on your forehead. It will make the world a better place if you do: Never judge anyone by their worst day or moment.

Better yet, don't judge at all - unless you wear a swirly black overcoat and were elected to do so.

3. If we don't value men who nurture, we will continue to raise boys who value war.

'Nuf said.

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posted by Elizabeth at 10:42:00 AM
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10 Comments:

Jenny said...

Rave on, sister! (This is why I'm a huge fan of grocery delivery)
3:28 PM
Michele said...

Amen Sister!! You are my new best friend! And I also want to hang out with the mom who didn't notice her kid dumped it into the frozen pizza bin! We'll do lunch!
3:55 PM
Anonymous said...

Words to live by, Mom. This coming from a guy who's coming to realize he might rather be a stay at home dad than a trial attorney.

That was seriously well written.

RP
randompensees.mu.nu
3:39 AM
kalisah said...

I love when you rave. Especially when you're so RIGHT.
6:29 AM
Sexy Soccamom said...

Ah, I meant to comment yesterday. I loved your post! We must be kindred spirits.
3:59 PM
Philip said...

Thanks for bringing this article to my attenion. You've compelled me to write about this myself.
11:58 AM
Anonymous said...

Thank you! I'm a working mom married to a stay home dad and Seipp's column made my blood boil. Last time I checked, my daughter had two parents who participated equally in bringing her into the world (well, he didn't have the heartburn or the swollen ankles) and there's no reason in the world to think that he is not equally able and appropriate to take care of her. I'm not sure how one guy in a store and a fictional character are really a compelling indictment on stay home dads, but I can tell you that no one could take better care of my daughter than my husband. Oh, and for the record, I parallel park like a champ.
6:56 AM
Elizabeth Blair York said...

Dear Anon,

I identify with your story.

For 2.5 years, my husband was an At-Home Dad (thus his affiliation with the group a couple of posts upward) and it took a long time for him to figure out his own "style" - I was a SAHM when Bear was nursing and had set the schedule and the bar. Eventually, he established his own patterns and approach. We are different parents, imperfect - but equal in our investment in our child. Your husband is just as valid a parent as you.

It seems like Kramer Vs. Kramer was a very long time ago, and yet - we as a society is still struggling with that same issue.

In addition to Dave L.'s letter, - Philip at The Blue Sloth, Rebel Dad, and Jay at Zero Boss are 3 fathers who also took to their blogs against this article. All their links are in my blogroll.

Thanks for stopping by and commenting!
9:11 AM
Anonymous said...

"continue to raise boys who value war."

I think this kind of gender stereotyping is exactly what you are accusing Seipp of doing, isn't it? I mean if you really believe that men are intent on warring and violence, then you must believe that Seipp is correct that child rearing is best left to women, no?

"value men who nurture." I'm curious what does nurturing have to do with being a stay at home dad? Are you saying that all the mothers who are not stay at home moms are not nurturing?

Another question: do you think we value women who nurture? Since you seem to equate nurturing with staying at home, do you think we value stay at home moms? Clearly we do not. For the past 40 years we as a society have been ridiculing and belittling the idea that a stay at home mom has any importance or necessity, and instead we have extolled the idea of the career woman as the ideal. So if we believe in treating men and women equally, then since we don't value nurturing women, why should we value nurturing men? Again this is predicated on your apparent believe that nurturing equals staying at home. Or is that your belief only when it comes to men?

It seems to me that an article ridiculing and condemning men for staying at home with their children should not get any more criticism than all the gazillions of articles ridiculing and condeming women for staying at home, that we've seen since Betty Friedan's "The Feminine Mystique." But that's just how it seems to me.
7:02 AM

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:42 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 1486 words, total size 8 kb.

Talking on my speakerphone this afternoon:

J (My Vendor's Account Executive): Elizabeth, we can certainly have those reports for the meeting tomorrow. If you want the blah blah report, the data will be from Monday unless you want to wake up the guys in the UK to do another data dump for us...

A knock sounds at my office door, as it simultaneously opens. Bear leaps to my side, hugging me.

Bear: Hi! Hi! Phone!

J (Laughing): Hi!

Bear: Mommy you have beautiful breasties!!!

J: Pardon? Beasties? Are there beasties?

Me: Sorry, J - I'm just gonna mute this for a sec and...

Bear: NO! Breasties! Where she has baby milk! YUMYUM!

Posted by: Elizabeth at 12:23 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 128 words, total size 1 kb.

Until last week, my summer childcare consisted of a very flexible work schedule and a preschool day camp at the YMCA, overlapped with the services of the babysitter we've used to varying degrees since Bear was 8 months old.

So last Tuesday, Dee came over at lunch on a whim. Bear was at the camp, and she was looking to cheer me up because the day before we found out we weren't having another baby. Dee and I headed to the mall - got manicures and strolled around. Something I haven't done in... ack, I can't remember. Not this year.

We were heading home, feeling good, Dee asked if we could stop in and see Bear at his camp and say"Hi". She hadn't seen him in, like, a week. So we dropped in at the "Y" unannounced at about 1PM.

The preschooler camp room is at the front of "Y", attached to a little playground. We could see it was empty before we got there.

The "Preschool Camp Director" was sitting alone, in front of her computer. She didn't hear us approach and jumped when I called her name. "Hey, PCD, where's my son?" I asked. She told us that it was too hot for the kids to play outside so she'd sent them to let out some steam in the racquetball courts.

So Dee and I headed off to the racquetball courts at the back of the building. PCD quickly caught up with us, telling us that it was nice and cool in there yada yada yada.

We got to the racquetball court and peeked in the little window. The kids were not moving. They were quietly seated in little clusters in the corners. In the center of the room, a teen-aged boy was instructing one of the kids how to use a little toy basketball hoop.

Dee and I scanned the room. The were no adults. We watched for about 1 minute, watched my son yawn three times. The teen-aged "camp counselor" (He's maybe 15 or 16?) kept playing with the one kid. The other 21 kids, including Bear, sat. Drooped.

Sitting against the walls. Not allowed to talk with each other. With - did I mention this? - no ADULT in the soundproof, locked, racquetball court.

If ever there was a moment when I felt like all my standards as a parent had been failed, it was that one.

"Are you taking him home?" PCD asked me.

"YES" Dee and I answered in unison.

Dee was muttering under her breath "dumb dumb dumb dumb...."

When Bear saw us through the window, he came running. The teenager let him out of the room and Dee picked him up and we left.

I know what we saw wasn't torture. I'm not trying to make too much out of what was just a lapse in childcare standards and the care ratio.

But it could have been a disaster in one easy motion.

God forbid if something had happened - a fire, the counselor getting hurt, whatever. What would have happened to those kids? How would they be heard? How would they get out?

*grrr*

Mostly? I'm just pissed with myself - my gut told me long ago that Bear wasn't getting good care there, that PCD was lazy and untrained (constantly yelling across the classroom - "those are MY toys and I'm not going to let you play with them if you don't do as I say!") and I didn't do anything.

So I called and eventually had a meeting with the executive director of the Y.

I outlined my concerns and disappointment. He told me that all legal standards and insurance requirements were being met. I snorted, like a horse. He agreed the lack of supervision, if true, would have been a bad thing.

He was going to "look into it".

I'm pointed out that I was going to need a refund. To help pay the gap childcare I need to dig up.

Which is probably why PCD then called me to "sort this out" and beg Bear to return (oh yes, yes she did).

I told her; he's not coming back. You're just lucky that I KNOW I'm an overly sensitive mother.

Sure, it was a small careless unthinking moment. Send the big kid and the 21 little kids (some who really should still be in diapers) to go sit in the racquetball court with nothing really to do while the only real adult surfed the 'net in peace.

But my bottom line? She f*cked with my kid. And there is no measure to the level of fury a parent can unleash. *ahem*

So, anyway, that's why I suddenly don't have enough child care.

posted by Elizabeth at 8:52:56 AM

2 Comments: more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 09:34 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 875 words, total size 5 kb.

I was dreaming about you in 1988.

That's when you started to become real, when I knew in my heart that I would see you soon. You'd be the first of many; a loud, chaotic, affectionate bunch that I was in training to manage. Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians were singing "What I Am" on the radio as I made vanilla potpourri or some other homey craft and fantasized about non-alliterative family-friendly furniture that wasn't criminally ugly.

I was dreaming about you in 1991.

The cats and I moved into Chicago so I could go back to college. That summer, I was cleaning homes for cash and living in an empty, gusty apartment. I would sit on the fire escape with my dinner and watch the alley in the twilight.

I would sleep under the window: the bedroom always smelled like peaches and there was a little breeze. I had to get used to the occasional wail of sirens as I laid quietly, rubbing my belly and feeling you slipping farther away from being real.

I stopped dreaming about you in 1993.

Curled up in a bunk, clutching a plane ticket, and mourning. You already know that I don't cry pretty. My eyes turn red, my nose runs, and my face creases.

Oh, honey. It was like I couldn't wash that sweaty sad hospital scent off me. No one could help and it was such aloneness. Alone, as it slipped away. And then, I slipped away, too.

It was over a year before I exhaled and came home. It was a long time before you were dreamed of again.

I dreamed of you again in 1997.

Music by Goo Goo dolls and Savage Garden and Sugar Ray on the radio. A new job with Mega Corp. A new love, with your Dad. And suddenly, you were there again.

Clear in my dreams and my waking hours. You and your siblings, and a home for us all. I walked in sunshine, chewing peppermint gum and grinning like I had the secret of life.

You were real in 2000.

We'd joked about a millennium baby and then, suddenly, we had one.

Bright coppery tufts of hair and clear curious eyes. I was singing Joni Mitchell to you in my arms, feeling "The dizzy dancing way you feel, When every fairy tale comes real."

We whispered, the three of us deep in the night, about all our dreams.

There would be sandy summer days with relatives. Wind chimes and dragon tales and soccer balls. There would be homework and snowball fights and band-aids.

We designed tree forts, planned car trips, and imagined big Sunday dinners and holiday traditions that we would invent and carry into the future. I wanted you to be able to share all this - your childhood - with other children. Siblings to grow up with and against, challenge and enjoy, hate and love.

In my dreams of you, there were always more.

But it doesn't seem like it will be a blessing we'll have. And I'm sorry.

I've thought about this so much over the last few weeks and you should know, it isn't for lack of wanting or trying. I'm not normally a quitter. But the miracle of you took the dedication of an entire group of doctors, the bedrest of your stir-crazy mom, and the bedrock belief of your dad.

Somehow, now, I feel it in my bones. Lightning is only going to strike this particular spot once.

It is what it is.

For all the lonely times you may have in the years ahead, know we will be doing everything we can to saturate your life with the camaraderie of others.

For the times when there will only be your parents on the other side of the dinner table, know that we will do everything in our power to expand your view of your world.

No, this wasn't the original plan. But that doesn't mean that the reality will be any less amazing. If ever there was a child who was dreamed of, and then came true - it was you.

You are loved, you are enough, we are enough. We are a family. more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 10:41 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 868 words, total size 5 kb.

The afternoon plan was this:
1) pick up Bear and his babysitter
2) stop at Town Hall and get permission slip for garage sale on Saturday
3) arrive home
4) make self a tomato sandwich (lightly buttered toast, fresh tomato slices, salt, pepper, and maybe some herbs or cheese crumbles if handy) and sweet tea (half herbal iced tea, half lemonade) and
5)catch 30 minutes of my current guilty pleasure - Dawson's Creek reruns.
6)Then work myself silly for another 5 hours.

Instead:
1) picked up kidlet and babysitter
2) dropped them off at one of the town's water parks with $1 for an ice cream
3) raced to where I thought Town Hall was
4) looked around some more for Town Hall
5) called 411 and asked for directions for Town Hall
6) found Town Hall
7) circled Town Hall. and again. finally found parking.
begged for a garage sale permit, despite less than 7 days notice. Was chided. Complimented clerk on picture of baby granddaughter.
9)Got permit.
10) headed back to water park
11) Answered cell at intersection before water park

And here the wagon fell off its wheels. Thud.

Me: Mr. Vendor Rep! You were supposed to call me this morning

VR: I had to go out of town

Me: So you're probably going to miss our meeting in Chicago tomorrow?

VR: Yes

Me: So the project manager you were going to assign to assist me - will he be making the trip?

VR: Not so much - he's no longer with my company

Me: So update me; how are you going to make next week's milestone?

And out of the corner of my eye I see that Bear and babysitter - both wet - are approaching the van.

At the same time VR quickly conferences in "Vendor Rep 2" - a guy he thinks might be helpful to our cause.

Simultaneously I hear VR and VR2 come on the line I hear... "MOMMMMMMMMY! Where's my popsicle? I don't want to go home!!! I want to stay and play!!!!! MommmY!" and then PUSH the "mute" button.. yes...toooo flipping late.

VR: Elizabeth? Are you there?

VR2: I need to change phones, I'm hearing a lot of noise in the background...

Sometimes, I HATE being a work-at-home (or van) Mom.

Comments: more...

Posted by: Elizabeth at 07:41 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 447 words, total size 2 kb.

It was a good news/bad news situation.

What to do when holding a positive pregnancy test, in the knowledge that you'd gone through half a box of Stay-Free Lights the week before in what you'd thought was your period?

Well, what we did was get scared. Immediately. While still standing in the bathroom, before CD had even finished getting the shampoo from his hair.

In a surreal haze - when you KNOW it's all surreal but still manage to put one foot in front of the other - we got ourselves out of the house and off to work.

I called my friend M. on the cell phone during the morning commute. I told her what was going on and she urged me to call my doctor. So I did, but the the nurse on duty told me that my usual doctor was in the process of retiring (NOW?!?) and wasn't around. She would have to hunt down another doctor for me.

I got to work about an hour later (argh I was working in the far west suburbs!) and immediately as I sat down, the nurse called and told me she had found someone who could see me.

I stood back up and walked out the door.

An hour and a half later, CD and I met with Dr. S.; CD held my hand as Dr. S did an internal exam as well as ordering several others. (This was CD's first introduction to a speculum. Dr: "CD - this is the big shiny medeival device I am about to insert into your wife" CD: "Gah?")

We pretended everything was fine. Yes - we made small talk. Don't underestimate our ability to make small talk under the most extreme of conditions. If there was a contest for this, we'd be the undisputed champions.

Then Dr. S. sat us down and explained to us that although I was pregnant, I was also bleeding, my cervix wasn't fully closed, and combined with the cramping - he believed...

He believed my body was not supporting the pregnancy.

He gave us a handout entitled "Miscarriage". He said he would pray for us. He scheduled us for a follow-up sonogram. Said we would discuss "options" afterwards. He actually said "aprox. 1 out of 10 pregnancies end up in 'silent miscarriages'."

I knew the drill, but this was CD's first experience with the "it doesn't always go well" world. WE held hands tightly, as Dr. S. scheduled an Ultrasound for us for later in the week.

We went home with our "So, you've had a miscarriage" handout; angry, quiet, at turns telling each other it was fine. CD gently tucked me into the couch with my legs up. We didn't have a conversation. We just waited.

After two brutal days and nights of spotting and cramping and crying, we reported to the local hospital for the Ultrasound. The technician made CD wait outside while he searched for the fetus. (Something no one will ever, ever, ever do to us again. We are immeasurably stronger together than we are apart.)

The technician found it (A jellybean, really), and the nurse went to get CD in. We watched for agonizing moments as the technician tried to find heart movement or heart sounds.

And then. The miracle. We just hung on and listened to the beautiful noise and cried. We were still, amazingly, beautifully pregnant!

And for the first time, we were happy. Just for then. As we floated down the stairs and out the door and down the sidewalk. As we plucked the parking ticket off the windshield of the car.

Happy. Pregnant. Happy.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 07:19 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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The 5-year plan (and there was one) was to buy a home, upgrade the car, travel, and bank some money before embarking on parenthood.

Knowing we would want kids, I went to my doctor when we became engaged to get some preconception advice. He told us we couldn't start too early on the whole health kick thing. So I quit smoking (and gained 20 lbs doing it!), started intensive swimming 3 times a week and changed our diet.

CorporateDaddy (CD) was given some assignments as well, though of a more personal nature. But 15 months ahead of when we were going to START trying to conceive, I woke one morning from a surreal dream about us being pregnant.I shot into the bathroom and began digging around in the Bermuda Triangle of stuff under the sink, sure there was half of an old pregnancy kit in there from a "near miss" month.

CD was taking a shower, warning me that if I used the toilet I should under NO circumstances flush. I was a woman possessed. I found the wrapped stick and did what a person generally does to utilize it.Immediately, there were two pink lines. Two. CD was asking me what I was doing. I thrust the stick into the shower, inches from his big, nearsighted, brown eyes. The ones full of shampoo.

CD took the stick from me and held it close up. "What am I looking at?" he asked.

"How many lines are there?" I shot back.

He squinted for a long minute and handed the stick back to me. "Two." He confirmed.

"We're pregnant!" I shouted at him.

In my stunned state, I forgot his warning and turned to sit down. Flushing before I did so. CD didn't even notice.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:58 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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