The One Where I Bitch And Moan And Complain Incessantly

Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night because your husband (or wife or spouse or life-partner or date or whoever) is breathing really loud and you can't fall back to sleep because the breathing is just so loud and so annoying? I'm at that stage of pregnancy where that happens to me almost every night. Except it's my own breathing. And it's even more annoying because that horrible horrible noise is keeping me awake, and also I can't fucking breathe.

Really, I'm not one to complain much about pregnancy stuff. You won't hear me groaning about morning sickness, probably because I never tell anyone I'm pregnant until after the first trimester, but also because I'm pretty glad to have the morning sickness. In my mind: if I'm sick, I'm still pregnant. And I love a newly burgeoning belly, and finally looking pregnant, rather than just like I never lost the weight from the last kid. I would never dream of complaining about baby's kicks keeping me up at night. I anxiously await those first flutters for five long months and I cherish every single kick and stretch and roll and elbow or foot or fist in my ribs, and even my bladder. I don't even whine about the weight gain too much, as I'm usually glad to have an awesome excuse to pig out and eat whatever I want and to not have to suck in my gut in public for six months. Truly, I have spent enough time desperately wanting a baby, a pregnancy, that it usually bothers me to hear someone else complaining about theirs or saying how much pregnancy sucks. I think I know the alternative too well - not being pregnant when you want to be, not having a baby when you want one more than anything in the world - that I'm just too grateful to be pregnant to complain. And usually, I feel pretty good.

However.

I have reached that stage of pregnancy.

You know which one?

The one where I'm uncomfortable and emotional and irritable beyond all measure or comprehension.

The one where I can't fucking breathe. I get winded walking (if you can call it that) up the stairs. Or down the stairs. Or across the room. Or standing up or laying down, apparently.

The one where I can't eat. I have excruciating heartburn and indigestion. And it doesn't seem to matter what I eat or how much. Even a bowl of cereal will have me reaching for the Tums. Twice this past week, I've had to (try to) sleep sitting up because being horizontal made the contents of my stomach overflow into my esophagus and, almost, out of my face. Tums included. And I always feel full, uncomfortably, stuffed-to-the-gills full. Even when I'm hungry. It's really not fair. Especially because I still keep gaining weight, no matter how much I can't eat.

The one where people in public give me sympathetic looks and make remarks such as "Any day now?" because my belly is freakishly huge. So huge, it actually hangs down. Like, over my waistband. Like, when I'm lying in bed on my side, I have to prop it up with a pillow. Like, when I'm sitting in a chair, I have to spread my legs so my belly can hang between. HUGE. Sad when I'm actually looking forward to fitting into some of my maternity clothes again. After the baby's born, I mean. I only have a few shirts left that actually cover my whole belly, so I often have a pale and grotesque crescent of stretched skin exposed between the hem of my shirt (also stretched) and the waistband of my pants (again, very stretched). I'm down to one pair of maternity jeans that still fit, a couple pairs of pajama bottoms, and my lucky velour sweatpants. I call them lucky because you'd think I'd won the lottery when I found them recently in the bottom of my dresser drawer and I realized they still fit me (and that I could still breathe while wearing them!). A kind, older lady told me in a store the other day that I looked beautiful. I appreciate what she was trying to do, but I'm a realist. I know she just felt sorry for me. But I'll take her pity over disgust, I guess.

The one where my back and hips and pelvis feel like they're being held together by rubber bands, and maybe a couple popsicle sticks. When I walk or bend down or (try to) turn over in bed, I can actually feel - and sometimes hear! - my bones and joints grinding together. Every time I take a step it feels like the part where my leg is attached to my hip is slowly disintegrating. And sometimes I can actually feel the baby's head turning WAY DOWN THERE one way or the other and it feels like one of those rubber bands could just snap.

The one where I pee my pants on a daily basis. Coughing? Peeing my pants. Sneezing? Peeing my pants. Yelling at the kids? Peeing. Who I am kidding, this has been happening since the first trimester, and if you're lucky enough to be my friend on facebook, then you already knew this. (You're welcome.) And I'm up at least three times every night going. Which I don't understand, because I purposely don't have a drop to drink before bedtime, but there I am at 2 am in the bathroom. And 3 am. And 5. Where is it coming from?

The one where I can't sleep! Even though I'm exhausted! You know, because of the whole anxiety-and-indigestion-and-heartburn-and-constant-peeing-and-disintegrating-back-and-pelvis-and-not-breathing-and-hands-and-feet-going-numb thing!

The one where I'm crabby and anxious and irritated by everything and everyone and yelling (and peeing) about things that don't really matter and something so silly as a stubborn sewing machine or a 10-year-old's sass can reduce me to tears and I just want to be left alone and I'm just... so... tired... but I dread going to bed because I know I'll just be uncomfortable all night long, and probably sick to my stomach due to the reflux, and that I'll be even crabbier in the morning and I'm constantly preoccupied and freaked-out and thinking "What if, what if, what if...", so much that I can't even concentrate while I'm watching The Sawyer Show Lost, and I just can't wait for this to be over and aren't you just so glad you asked how I'm feeling?

If you're still reading, I'm impressed. I really am so excited and very happy. And I really do love the nesting and the anticipation and I could just cry looking at the tiny diapers and onesies that are just so cute I can't even stand it. I promise, this was the last time you will hear me complain. No more moaning and groaning. About being pregnant. On this blog. Today.

Say What?

Gavin, age 6, during a recent dinner when he was encouraged to eat fresh green beans (as opposed to the kind that he normally eats that come out of a can):

"Well, let me try some of these "delicious" green beans..."


Is it funnier when I tell you that he actually did the air quotes around the word "delicious"?

Curious

Do you ever find yourself sitting there folding laundry while your 9 and 6 year-olds bicker over a Wii remote (Who CARES who's Player One, you get the same amount of TURNS!) and you are wracking your brain thinking of something to make for dinner (Chicken nuggets again.) and you feel like your ears are going to bleed if you hear your 4 year-old whine "Mooooooomm" one more time for a snack ("No, it's almost dinnertime. No means no, not keep whining to try and get me to change my mind!") and you've had to pee for two hours but if you get up to go now, you will return only to find that every one of the laundry piles you've precariously perched on the coffee table and arms and back of the couch have been dismantled and destroyed by your 1 year-old and are now in crumpled - and probably sticky - heaps on the floor (Don't you have something to climb in another room?) and you can't get that Wow! Wow! Wubzzy! song out of your head and you're counting down the hours until bedtime and you're thinking: Holy shit, in a few weeks I'll be doing all of this with a newborn attached to my boob?
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No?

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Oh. Me, neither.

Low Resolutions 2010

The tree and the stockings and all the other Christmas paraphernalia are put away and I can't tell you how happy it makes me to have less clutter and less obligation before me everyday. I'm SO looking forward to my routine (and the school bus) and my schedule (and quieter afternoons) and my predictability (and earlier bedtimes) again. As much as I hate to admit it, and as hard as I've tried to change it, I am just not the kind of person/mom who thrives amidst chaos. There is bound to be some inevitable chaos in a household with four (or five!) young children, and I cope with it, but I realize that I am much happier (less-stressed, not yelling at the kids... as much) and more productive (keeping up with laundry, accomplishing projects, not wasting time on facebook... as much) when I'm controlling the chaos rather than trying to embrace it. And since Christmas-time means chaos to me, I'm ecstatic that the holidays are over and eager to reflect on the past year and welcome the new.
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I must say that last year's "Low Resolutions" were a success for me. Probably my best year yet, as far as keeping New Year's resolutions.
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2009 Low Resolution #1: Recognize even the smallest achievements as an absolute success. Success. I didn't put unrealistic expectations upon myself. I accepted that my house doesn't have to be perfectly decorated. Or spotless. I said "No" instead of stretching myself too thin. I didn't volunteer at the kids' school and I didn't throw elaborate (and stress-inducing) birthday parties. I didn't cook fancy meals. More often than not, my kids have eaten chicken nuggets or Spaghettio's or macaroni and cheese for dinner. And I don't feel bad about any of it. And when I've realized, after a day of running errands, that my shirt had a giant stain or that I'd forgotten the under-eye concealer that morning, I figured I was still pretty awesome for getting myself showered and 4 kids out the door and home again by nap time.
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2009 Low Resolution #2: Choose my battles. Success. I realized that the last thing I needed was to fight over things that just. don't. matter. I let go a lot of little things, and stood my ground on some very big things, that mattered a ton.
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2009 Low Resolution #3: Drink More Water. Semi-success. I'm still not drinking as much water as I should be, but probably still more than I did in 2008.
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2009 Low Resolution #4: Spend more time, and possibly money, on myself. Success. While, I never made it to the movies, and I only got my hair done once, I did, however, attend the therapy sessions religiously; expensive, but so worth it. What could only be described as an absolute failure as far as "marriage counseling" goes, resulted in a few important individual 'breakthroughs' for me: There are some problems that are just not mine to fix. I can't control or change or cure anyone else's issues. And trying to is not only futile, but makes me miserable. I'm incredibly strong and smart and reasonable and realistic. All things I already knew, but are awesome to have validated by a "professional".
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2009 Low Resolution #5: Watch more TV. Huge success.
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2009 Low Resolution #6: Accentuate the Positive. Still working on this one.
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And since I did a pretty terrific job of keeping them last year, I'm going to keep this year's Resolutions pretty Low in order to continue my successful streak.
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2010 Low Resolution #1: Watch even more TV. I'm already loving new episodes of Intervention and Hoarders on A&E (Really, is there a show that could make a woman feel better about her parenting and home-making abilities than these two?) and the new season of The Bachelor started just last night, Big Love starts Sunday, and LOST in just a few more weeks! With all the laying of my fat, exhausted ass on the couch I've been doing in the evenings lately, and all the hours and hours and hours and hours I will inevitably spend nursing a newborn soon, I'm not anticipating any problems with this resolution. At all.
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2010 Low Resolution #2: Be more organized about household and family chores. I mentioned that I'm not a fan of chaos. And I'm thinking I will have to minimize chaos at all costs, if I hope to keep my sanity and my household functional with a new baby this year. This one might seem High, but it's really not for me. I'm drawing up and printing out a cleaning schedule for myself and chore charts for the kids to keep everyone on task on a daily basis. If you're a stay-at-home-mom to lots of little ones (or even just a couple!) then you know how easy it is to fall behind and then become so overwhelmed by the laundry, dust, and shoes and sticky spots on the kitchen floor that have piled up that you don't know how to catch up again. I'm hoping to avoid that by keeping to my schedule and expecting the kids to do the same. Call me strict or rigid if you like, but I know from experience that this is what works for me. And my laundry's been caught up since New Year's Day!
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2010 Low Resolution #3: Practice more patience. So, this one's not so Low. This one might actually be hard for me. I'm not currently getting a lot of sleep, I'm a little anxious and extremely tired and uncomfortable most of the time, and the added stress of the holiday season has worn my patience very thin. I'm optimistic that getting into regular, predictable routines and getting this little one on the outside is bound to help with the patience. I hope.
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2010 Low Resolution #4: Eat more grapefruit. Already a success. I love grapefruit and I just got 18 pounds on sale for $4.99. (See how easy it is to keep your resolutions when you stay Low?)
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2010 Low Resolution #5: Blog better. Not more, necessarily, (although I wish I had the time and motivation and inspiration to blog more), just better. More openly and honestly and without fear of judgement or criticism.
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2009 was certainly an eventful year for me. I had a few not-so-great experiences, came to a couple huge realizations, and made some big changes. I'm glad it's over, but I'm coming into 2010 feeling optimistic and more resolved than ever. Happy New Year.

Obligatory Christmas Post

I have a confession. I don't enjoy the holidays. Well, I enjoy some holidays, I guess, just not ones that happen in December. Actually, that's not true. I kind of like New Year's Eve. So I guess it's just Christmas that I don't enjoy.
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Don't misunderstand, I go through the motions and try and make things festive and exciting for the kids' sake. I decorate (a little) and shop and bake (a little) and wrap gifts and take the kids to look at lights and even let them listen to the all-Christmas-music radio station in the van occasionally, but I've got a little calendar in my head counting down the days until December 26th. It's all too drawn-out (I saw Christmas displays at stores before Halloween this year!). It's too much much replacing dismantled ornaments. It's too much expense and too much obligation and too much clutter in my house and too much pressure and I like my routines and my schedule and my predictability too much for it to be enjoyable to me. I even feel pressure to blog about something Christmas-y or risk looking like a total Scrooge.
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So it makes perfect sense to blog about how Scroogey I am, right?
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In what was mostly an attempt to keep four small children from driving me insane xfrom killing each other entertained during the first cold week of winter break, I planned a few fun activities to bring some holiday cheer to our house.
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Which, coincidentally, all involve gestational-diabetes-inducing amounts of sugar.
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It may or may not have been the Norman Rockwell-esque experience I was hoping would bring me some Christmas spirit.
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Hmm. Not exactly what I had in mind when I pictured the adorable gingerbread house the kids and I would make together. There was more bickering over placement of embellishments and shoveling handfuls of candy into mouths than there was careful decorating.

Okay, definitely not how I envisioned our Christmas cookies turning out. But after I finished sweating and swearing over unnaturally sticky sheets of cookie dough (while constantly swatting away little hands, of course), the kids had a blast decorating these themselves. Those are trees and bells, in case you were wondering.

And these turned out pretty much the way I expected them to. Because at this point, I'd given up my picture-perfect ideas of how I wanted things to be for Christmas, and turn over the fun to the kids. They essentially made these treats completely on their own (I was merely on oven duty). Still delicious! (And one of my favorite "recipes" for holiday treats because their SO easy and fun for kids to make and super yummy!)

And when this fat and exhausted Santa collapsed into bed at 3 am on Christmas Eve, I couldn't help but be a little excited, remembering why I'm doing it all, and thinking that all the work and wrapping and buying and baking and scrubbing of frosting fingerprints is so worth it.

Merry Christmas!

Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy!

Do you know what this is?

Okay, in case you are blind or have no experience with pre-natal sonograms or context clues, I will tell you.

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It's a scrotum! And a penis!

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We're having a boy!

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I was beginning to think that it was impossible for me to conceive males, and that Gavin was some kind of fluke of medical science and/or possibly cloned from the genetic material of the fertility doctor who was treating me before his conception (so I watch a lot of Dateline and Law & Order) but it turns out that it's completely possible and I did!

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We're all so excited! Well, the kids seem kind of non-plussed, but I'm excited and I know Gavin will thank me someday.

Happy Birthday, Gavin!

Our boy GAVIN turned SIX years old this weekend! We celebrated his big day with cheeseburgers, a football cake, and a birthday interview*!

How do you feel about turning SIX years old?

Happy and excited!

What are you looking forward to the most about your birthday?

The birthday cake.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

An Army airplane driver.

How tall do you think you'll be one day?

As tall as Dad.

What makes you laugh?

Pooping.

(He then laughed hysterically.)

What is your favorite sport?

Football.

How about your favorite candy?

A big Hershey bar.

Favorite movie?

Night at the Museum.

TV Show?

Spongebob.

What's your favorite thing to do?

Puzzles.

How about your least favorite thing to do?

(He had to think about this for a minute...)

Playing Dad And Sister with Val.

(This game is my kids' version of "house".)

What bugs you more than anything?

Zack (our cat), because he's always meowing!

(I couldn't agree more!)

Who's your best friend and why?

Max, because he's funny!

What people bug you the most?

I don't have any people that bug me!

(Such a sweet boy!)

What was the best part about your birthday?

The cake and the presents!

(Of course!)

Happy 6th birthday, Gavin!

*Birthday Interview idea blatantly stolen from my good friend and awesome blogger, Sarah.

Adventures In Baby-Proofing

Anyone who's ever had a toddler knows just how important baby-proofing your home is. And I am no exception. The safety of my babies has always been top priority, and I personally oversee every potential health and safety hazard addressed in my home just as soon as a baby begins to roll over. I'll share just a few of the invaluable baby-proofing tools, tips and tricks that I couldn't do without.

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Have I mentioned that I'm incredibly cheap? And resourceful?

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"What kind of new-fangled kitchen-cabinet-locking device is that?", you ask? Why, it's the only kind of cabinet locks I've ever installed! Made from a state-of-the-art material called rubber, these bands can be looped over one cabinet handle and stretched across and over another. They prevent cabinet doors from being opened fully, so baby isn't able to remove, pour out, and otherwise destroy the cabinets' contents while a busy Mom prepares dinner. And not only are they practical, but colorful and fun for toddler, too! The bands stretch just enough to allow little hands to open and slam shut the cabinet doors repeatedly, much to the delight of Mom! Who doesn't enjoy a kitchen-cabinet drum solo while frantically scrounging up a meal from what's left in the fridge while simultaneously refereeing siblings and supervising homework?

And best of all, they're affordable. An especially resourceful shopper can often acquire these AT NO COST with the purchase of fresh broccoli from the produce section of a local supermarket!

Occasionally, during an especially enthusiastic drum solo, product may suddenly snap in two. A hair scrunchy will do as a temporary substitute, until Mom can make another trip to the supermarket.

I'm sure you're probably thinking "What a lovely piece of artwork!" or "I could never afford to decorate my home like that!" But, you're wrong.

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Believe it or not, I made this professional-looking sign, which reminds family members and guests alike that the basement steps, and the concrete floor 10 feet below, can be potentially very dangerous for a baby or toddler. I simply used materials that I already had in my home: the back of some homework paper or another, a few nearly-dried-out and lid-less Crayola washable markers, and a rolled-up sticker to adhere the sign to the basement door (since Scotch tape is an extremely rare commodity around here). Hard to believe I have almost no education or experience in the arts or interior design, isn't it?

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"What if certain people in my home can't even read?", you're wondering? Don't worry. I have that same problem, and I've found a simple solution: obsess constantly over the status of the basement door, checking to make sure it's actually closed 50 -100 times per day and maniacally demand "Is the basement door shut?" or "Who left this door open??" or "SHUT THE BASEMENT DOOR!" repeatedly during baby's waking hours.

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Now, if you have a two-story home, you know that the steps are often one of baby's favorite places to climb and conquer. I'm sure you also realize that even carpeted stairways can result in falls and injury to a baby or toddler just learning to crawl or walk. A baby gate is a must for blocking access to steps! But if your two-story home is like mine, you have a wrought-iron railing at the top and bottom of your staircase, which can make for tricky, time-consuming, and expensive gate installation!

I've found the perfect solution! Wedge one side of your (inexpensive, purchased at Target) baby gate through the wrought-iron banister at the top of your steps. Then lean the other side of the gate against the handrail, so that any baby who falls onto or near the gate won't tumble down the stairs to her doom. If your baby is particularly adroit, or hell-bent on self-destruction like mine, and can find a way to slide the gate aside and squeeze her nimble body through the narrow opening, then you'll need to take added precaution. I've found that looping a scarf through the gate's lattice and knotting it around the handrail prevents the gate from sliding and offers a simple, practical, fashionable, and above all, SAFE solution.

Note: The scarf doesn't have to be coral in color, but rhinestones are a nice touch.

Remember, the safety of your baby or toddler is ultimately your responsibility. Even the most high-tech baby-proofing devices are subject to human error and not a substitute for constant and diligent supervision.

"WHO DIDN'T PUT THE RUBBER BAND BACK ON THE CABINET?!?"

Say What?

"Come on, Val. Let's go upstairs and put your laundry away!"

"Hurry up, Mom, it's a race!" Valerie pushed past me on the stairs as I huffed and puffed, balancing the laundry basket on my hip with one arm.

"Val, I can't go that fast, Mom's too old and fat..." I replied.

My darling daughter, Eve, age 9, said from behind her bedroom door, at the top of the steps:

"Mom, you're not old."

No Regrets

I ran into an old friend while grocery shopping last week, an acquaintance, really. Her son went to pre-school with Eve and we had swapped play-dates two or three times. I hadn't seen her in several years (since Valerie was a tiny baby, actually) and she was delighted by how much Eve and Gavin and Valerie had grown and surprised to see little Sylvie sitting in the shopping cart and my bulging belly. She congratulated me, of course, on these new additions and as she told me how beautiful all the children were, I noticed tears in her eyes. She said to me: "I always wish I would have had more children..."
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I always knew I wanted to be a mommy. Even as a little girl, I never dreamed of having a successful career nor imagined a life without children. I changed my mind frequently about what I wanted to be when I grew up, and changed my college major even more frequently, but my plans for motherhood remained constant. I forgot a pill or two enough times during college to think that maybe it couldn't happen, anyway, so that when I did unexpectedly become pregnant in my early 20s, I was surprised, but not unhappily. I felt ready to 'settle down' and have a family. And so I did. I have never wished I'd chosen a different path or that I had a prestigious career. I don't feel unfulfilled or bored, the way that you sometimes hear stay-at-home mothers describe feeling. I long for a break occasionally, or a full 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep, or for a housekeeper, maybe, but never have I regretted motherhood. Not once.

That's not to say that motherhood hasn't had it's ups and downs. I've lost as many babies or pregnancies as I have healthy children. The emotional toll that's taken on me is something I never anticipated. It makes pregnancy an especially anxious time for me. There have been a few fleeting moments during one pregnancy or another that I did regret planning another baby, because the overwhelming anxiety during early pregnancy is nearly more than I can handle. But, regardless of the outcome, the love and pride and joy and gratefulness that each one of my babies have brought me have always made it worth the risk.

This current pregnancy of mine was not planned. In fact, it was prevented (albeit not very effectively, apparently) and came as a complete surprise. Although it seemed unbelievable to me, if not impossible, I began to suspect I could be pregnant this past summer and took a home test. The result was immediate and left no room for doubt. Positive. I was shocked and I stared in disbelief at those two pink lines and whispered more than a few expletives to myself in the privacy of my locked bathroom. And after a minute or two, I buried the box and the test deep in the garbage can, opened the bathroom door, and went about my day, distracted.

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I spent the next few weeks feeling exhausted and nauseated, my mind reeling: How can this be? This couldn't have happened at a worse time. What the fuck am I going to do? I'm not even sure that I'll still be married in nine months! I don't know how I'll take care of five children. Sylvie is barely a year old. I'll have to stop nursing. I can't have a one-year-old and a newborn baby! A newborn baby. I'll probably miscarry, anyway. I'll keep taking my vitamins, but I'll probably just miscarry. Don't tell anyone. It's good that I got rid of all my baby stuff, I'm sure I won't need it. I'll give it a couple more weeks. A newborn baby...

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Because I hadn't been planning or anticipating a pregnancy, I wasn't meticulously keeping track of timing, like I would have been otherwise, and a few weeks later, with my nerves in knots, I called my midwife and explained that I had only a very vague idea of how pregnant I could be. I arrived at her office for my appointment and the midwife rolled the portable (and VERY old, VERY inaccurate, but clear enough JUST to see a beating heart or fetal movement) ultrasound machine into my exam room. By my best guess, I was somewhere near 8 weeks pregnant, enough so that I knew a heartbeat, and possibly movement, should be visible on ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy was progressing as it should. Or not. The midwife and I looked together at the tiny, blurry monitor and saw a small... something. But no flickering speck to indicate a heartbeat, no movement of tiny arm or leg buds, nothing even remotely baby-shaped. "Well, I see fetal tissue, there", the midwife pointed, "so there's definitely a pregnancy, but it looks like it's too early to tell much else. I'd say by the looks and size, you're no more than 6 weeks pregnant." I knew that couldn't be right and I immediately felt something was wrong. I figured the baby stopped developing early on, and as I'd thought, I was still just waiting to miscarry. I didn't say that to her, though, and only asked if she could send an order to the ultrasound facility where I could get an accurate idea for dating the pregnancy. Because she's (all too) familiar with my pregnancy-related anxieties, she agreed, of course, and scheduled the official ultrasound for that same afternoon.

Over the next few hours, I steeled myself for the news I would receive. I played with my kids. I made lunch. I didn't cry. I decided that, if I were given the option, I'd wait to miscarry naturally, so I'd never have to tell anyone, and made plans for the lies I'd tell if I weren't. I told myself: This is for the best. I'm going to diet and exercise and get in really good shape and be super thin. I'll get new clothes. I've gone through this before. I know what to expect. This is fine. I am fine. I was resigned.

When I arrived for the ultrasound, I answered the obligatory questions about my obstetric history (Seriously, don't you have this information already? I've only been here, like, a hundred times before!) and lied down on the table. I held my breath and repeated over and over in my head: It's fine. It's better this way. I stared at the ceiling, not the (VERY accurate, VERY clear) picture on the monitor. I waited for the words. It's fine. It's better this way. "I'm just taking a few measurements" the technician told me, then she was quiet for a minute. It's fine. It's better this way. It's fine. "Here's your baby..." she said. We were both silent for a few seconds and I continued to stare at the ceiling. It's better this way. I exhaled just enough to ask: "Is there a heartbeat?" She pointed and said "Right here..." I turned my head and my eyes darted around the monitor's screen and then I saw it. The heartbeat. "And see the baby moving there?" she asked. And I saw that, too. I was shocked, again, and amazed. I burst into tears and I tried to explain between sobs: "I thought for sure there was no heartbeat."

I left feeling exhilarated. I couldn't believe that I thought I had convinced myself that I didn't want this baby, that I didn't already love him or her, that I had acquiesced to losing this pregnancy. I couldn't believe that I thought that my faltering marriage, or finances, or exhaustion, or bedroom arrangements could lead me to think that this baby was anything other than a wonderful gift. I knew better. And I couldn't believe how wrong I'd been.

I knew I'd face the same protests that I had originally thought myself, and I did. And more. But I was resolved. I knew with every minute part of my being, with every beat of that tiny flickering speck on the screen, that I would have this baby, and that the second I took this little one in my arms would bring me indescribable happiness, and that I loved this child as much as I loved any baby that I'd planned. And that I will do whatever I have to do to be the best (exhausted? out-of-shape? unfashionable? single?) mom I can be because it's what I was meant to do. And that I will not, ever, be teary-eyed in the grocery store, wishing I had no regrets.

Already, I want to smother this little face with kisses.