Legitimate conversations

"Mom ... When you and dad got married did he stay near the front while your dad walked you down an aisle?"

"Yes, Silas, that's pretty much how it went."

"Who was your caterer?"

"Tommy Carlucci. I don't think you've ever met him."

"And who made your cake?"

"Karen Casey ... she lives across the street from papa."

"Did it have bride and groom on top that looked like you and daddy?"

"No. We weren't that fancy. We had edible flowers ... pansies."

"When is your anniversary?"

"September 28."

"Wait ... you mean your anniversary comes AFTER I was born?"

"Well not the first few."

Cakes and onions have layers ... coincidence?

 

Most everyone puts their pants on one leg at a time.

Shoes go on one foot at a time, too.

Pants on top of pants ...

Shirts on top of shirts ...

That can happen as well, I suppose.

I just hope no one ever tells him about galoshes.

If they do, layers of shoes will be next.

When Harry Met Silas ...

"You're beard is @!7&S ...

"What?"

"Your beard is @!7&S ..."

"I may need a translation: You don't like my beard?"

"No. I wike your beard. It's AWFUL!"

The nickel tour

This tour, however, is roughly the equivalent of 38 cents ...



- Trail Map courtesy of Thing Two Tours

Roominating

It's been five days.

Had it not been for a helpful visit from Jed's mom and her Significant Other to help us during the move, not to mention a two-day business trip afterward, it would have been Day One that The Champ was not only introduced to his new room but forcibly installed there for normal sleeping hours.

Last night we helped the boy select a bunch of toys and brought them to his new room: A helicopter; a plastic farm; a double-decker parking garage; a veritable sales lot of tiny cars; scads of books, pilfered from his sister's room.

He made room for me on is bed and slid under the covers. A smile on his face that I knew expressed a delight at this new "game."

We read three books, he asked me to sing "Pirate Ships" and he sang along with me. His squinty-eyed smile and voice cracking at the parts he knew ... "Prirate shis. Prirate shis ... merr-an-booooold" ... even makes me think of Alfalfa from Our Gang.

He begins to protest our new bedtime routine the minute I tell him it's dad's turn to read.

From his sister's room, through his closed door and hers, all I hear is the low voice of my husband and ...

Tears. Tears. Tears. Screaming. Tears. Tears. Tears. Mama. Mama. Mama. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzz.

Breaks my heart. I have no need to break up the family bed.

To be fair, it breaks Jed's heart, too.

So when the boy awoke at two a.m., sitting up in his big boy bed crying in the dark, he arose and went off to console him. He soon returned with a sobbing child and tucked him into bed beside me.

In the morning Jed showered him with approval anyway ...

JED: "You slept in your own room last night! What a big boy!"

CHAMP: "NO! Sleep HERE!"

But he said it with a smile.

It's a start.
It's a start.

Half time

first food and 120-year-old spoon, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Silas,

Six months ago today you were born. Imagine that.

Six months ago today I was trying to rest up for the surgery. Trying not to think about all the things that had been heaped upon my shoulders in the last weeks of the pregnancy.

Six months ago today I was wondering what I was in for. What you were in for.

Some of those questions have been answered and some are still a mystery.

Thus far I've found you to be shy, and funny and sweet. You are quick with a smile, and eager to see the world. You are content to watch, and yet you reach out, too.

Your first bites of food were enthusiastic. You seemed ready to chew and eager to try more offerings from your great grandmother's spoon.

Watching you grow and change, giggle and laugh; watching you hide coyly in the folds of the sling, peeking out and smiling all the same, I've come to call you turtle. I hardly remember those days of worry about your wonky kidney. Only the doctors' appointments are the reminders that something about you is not the same as others.

And today, as we slogged through sloppy streets, parking on snowbanks and walking precariously through half-shoveled walkways into the hospital, I fully expected a stellar report.

You were brave as the ultrasound technician waved her wand over your right - perfectly formed - kidney. You batted your eyes and tried to help by grabbing the corded device.

I should have known by the way you were carrying on about being turned onto you right side so she could get pictures of your left kidney that all was not as well as it seemed.

... You decimated the paper sheet on the examining table at the urology office later that morning. You we silent and intent on crinkling every square inch.

But I was staring like a deer in headlights when the PA explained that while the hospital marked the pictures as "UNCHANGED" (The same determination of two months ago) she had conferred with the doctor and they concluded that if anything, the images looked slightly worse.

The next step, she said, was a lasiks renalgram (which I later learned is a LASIX RENOGRAM and only sounds like renalgram when they throw the terms at you fast).

This is a test in which they will insert and IV and inject radioactive isotopes into my baby boy and watch how the glowing dye gets pissed out.
This torture procedure will take three hours. He will be strapped onto a board, have a catheter and be in some radioactive room, similar in appearance to an MRI chamber, or so I'm told by some folks I know who's kids have been through the same test.

So as I stood there blinking and feeling as if I would do anything to switch places with my tiny, chortling son I sad nothing and accepted that this was the best thing to do ... that this is the next course of action ... that this is what is called for ...

And I made the appointment.

Then I realized, four hours later while I was at work and you were calmly lying in my lap watching the coworkers go by, that I don't really know what the rush is for something that is so slight one of two doctors thought was unchanged.

So I called to ask the questions I should have ask when I was busy being caught in the bright lights of fear and wishing away ...

What are our options? Can we wait a few months and do another ultrasound?

But they were busy, so I had to leave a message.
I may be slow on the uptake, little man, but I am learning at a turtle's pace.


Love,

Mama

Um ... wasn't he just, like, a BABY or something?

crawl, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

That's what I thought, too.

So while I had him in the sling and was busy ignoring him trying to keep the kid with the big mouth his big sister from peeling off her skin happy, the baby learned to really move. A little bit, anyway.

DRAT! YAY!
My evil plot has been foiled. Next stop, bouncy seat.

More folks should nap at work

take your baby to work day, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Sunday night I got a phone call from our sitter. Her son -- who's been suffering from strep throat, double ear infections, and, most recently, a nasty cold -- now has croup. The poor kid is up all night, barking like a seal.

She was calling to tell me that her son's doctor (and it turns out our doctor, too) recommends that while the big kid would likely fight it off, the little one was going to have to find an alternative to the fun-times normally had at her house.

Now, she might have been a little chagrined to tell me we'd have to find alternate childcare for the bebe (afterall, until starting preschool her son had been the picture of health) but I was grinning from ear to ear. This means I'm taking the boy to WORK! Woot. Woot.

Oh sure, there are some days when the kid is off his game. He cries and doesn't want to be held or put down or fed or played with; he just wants to scream and rant and rattle the big people to their core. But that's rare.

And as I expected, today was pretty slow in the complaint department. Well except for Annabel wondering why HE couldn't stay with HER. (Although, that complaint was shortlived when she found out his absense would mean she didn't have to be quiet during his naptime.)



Our commute was only delayed by only one farm vehicle so there was no screamfest in transit abd suitable extra time to stop and get coffee. *punches air*

While in the office, Champ's attention was held for long periods of time by the comings and goings of photographers and other members of the various departments. *nods head, and strokes chin*

Ate on schedule *check*

Napped on schedule *check*

Found new ways to amuse himself with sealed granola packages and reflective stickers. *check, check, and who knew my file cabinette held anything interesting?*

The boy smiling and chatting with the boss? BONUS!

I suppose that's one way of getting over a case of the Mondays.

But don't go thinking the whole day was perfect. Since I only got held up behind one farm vehicle, I wormed my way through the drive through of the local Dunkin' Donuts to get a large black coffee. And since you need an asbestos mouth to drink the thing while driving I held off until I was sitting at my desk. Suffice it to say I'm very glad my kid doesn't understand English just yet, because when I took a large gulp of cream and sugar that was thicker than syrup I sounded a LOT like the dad in A Christmas Story -- you know, when he was trying to fix the furnace or when the hounds ate the turkey? Yep. Just like that!

Silas Patrick, 6 pounds, 3 ounces

Birds flying high
You know how I feel
Sun in the sky
You know how I feel
Reeds driftin' on by
You know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good

Fish in the sea
You know how I feel
River running free
You know how I feel
Blossom in the tree
You know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good

Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don't you know
Butterflies all havin' fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when the day is done, that's what I mean
And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me
For me

Stars when you shine
You know how I feel
Scent of the pine
You know how I feel
Yeah freedom is mine
And I know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
It's a new life
For me

And I'm feeling good

-- Nina Simone

Drumming my fingers

These last few days have seemed like walking through waist-high water. It feels like I'm expending a lot of energy to get nowhere.

I've finally purchased some furniture for Thing 2's room, dragged a metric ton of clothes to the Goodwill donation station and procured a gift for the little miss from her new baby brother -- a Mickey and Minnie Mouse watch that plays "You Are My Sunshine."

She and I have finished making a "memory book" for her beloved babysitter, whose last week coincides with the baby's arrival. I've even cleaned the house (and re-cleaned the house) whenever anyone steps foot on the floor.

But since the scary, last-minute news of the potential for health problems, not to mention Down syndrome, I've been feeling as if things are in a state of Limbo. (Too bad Limbo's been scrubbed from dogma ... it's the perfect place for my mind to be floating about right now.)

The doctor I saw today -- my last visit -- couldn't offer any reassurance, either. Turns out the regular ultrasounds done in the office are just for shits and giggles or who knows, maybe just padding their bottom lines as they cover their bottoms. And the quadscreen tests, not terribly reliable. All he could offer was sad eyes and a low, concerned voice, "we'll know on Tuesday."

I don't know how to face the next seven days.

*Time seems to have stopped.
*Eating isn't a priority.
*Writing doesn't matter, and yet it must get done.

There isn't enough food for thought.

All the niceties I contemplated ... birth announcements, phone trees for notification purposes, and other to-dos are at a standstill. The excitement is gone. Again. I am back to feeling like a horrible mother.

How do I move forward until I know what we're dealing with? As I make doctors appointments -- for myself and the newbie -– I envision a new life of trips to medical professionals, fears of being bullied into decisions I don't want to make, having to fight every step of the way.

I am reminded of little essay that parents of special-needs kids get handed pretty routinely by well-meaning folk called "Welcome to Holland," about how having a special-needs child is like planning a special trip to Italy. You learned the language and the customs. You are all set to tour Venice and Florence and Milan, but instead your find yourself landing in Holland.

All I can think is that having a special needs kid is NOT at all like getting rerouted to Holland. It's more like planning a wonderful vacation only to find yourself being sent to a war zone. A place that is frightening, not filled with flowers. Every time a doctor tells you the worst-case scenario, you have only the worst-case scenario.

You have to cover your eyes and plug on as their cover their asses. Hope is something you have to find on your own.

Perhaps in time you'll be taking the pretty photographs, and writing down the tales of all the adventures with an eye towards the comical, but at the moment you're just trying to learn the language, keep your head down and wait.

Would someone like to hit me over the head or burn down my house? Because that would really be a perfect end to this day

... you know, I'd just like to be prepared and all. ...

We had the Level II ultrasound today, and both of Thing 2's kidneys are indeed dialated - the right one only slightly and the left is more than twice the size of normal.

Another office, another set of forms to fill out, another gentle technician probes around. Spending a lot of time on his face. She waits until he moves his hand away from his mouth so she can get a unobstructed view. He smiles a little as I watch her nudge him with the wand. I melt.

Another printout from the machine. "Here. Have a second copy for your husband," she says, and I thank her. She gathers a ribbon of printouts and leaves the room to get the doctor. I wait there, sitting up on the table, looking at his little, sleeping face in my hands.

Another smiling doctor. This one is more than happy to tell me not only is kidney dilation a marker for Down syndrome, but that while everything else has seemed OK up until now, she's seen LOTS of people come through her office with only one marker turn out to have Downs babies. "We'll only know for sure after he's born."

Really? Thanks for that.

I really, really, really, really hate the medical profession

"Hello? This is Tina from your OB-GYN office? Sorry to call you at work but I've got you an appointment for the Level II ultrasound and consult ... "

"Uhm ... someone already called me and told me it was set for Monday."

"Ah, no. There's nothing down for you on Monday. It's next Tuesday ... "

"Would that be before or after I give BIRTH to the baby you want to see in the ultrasound?"

"Let me call you back."

"Yeah. Why don't you do that."

Sorry, Charlie

Annabel was solidly onboard with the name we selected for Thing 2. She even sang it to me once in the sweetest dulcet tone, telling me between phrases it was the "greatest name ever."

Oh sure, we still joke about calling him Sidewalk or Mailbox or Sharkbreath or other low-brow monikers such as Poopyhead ... but she knows the difference between a nickname and a given name. And she told me every day how much she loved her little brother, and she loved his name.

I don't know how you'd feel, but I'll tell you, for me it's a little bit of electrified magic when your first born loves the name of her soon-to-be brother. It's like an equation someone with my intellect shouldn't have been able to have figured out so elegantly.

For weeks, months even, I was a rockstar. Walking on clouds. Ready, willing and able to tackle the toughest problems -- our faltering economy, war in the Middle East, why the recycling NEVER gets put out on Thursdays. Nothing could stop me.

Then, yesterday, she pulled out my power cord ...

"Mommy, I want to call my baby Charlie. I don't want to call him that other name," a name, I might add, she will no longer say aloud.

"Honey. We're not naming him Charlie. Sorry."

My answer does not compute.

"BUT I WANT TO CALL HIM CHARLIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."

Her sweet song has turned shrill.

"NO!"

"YES!"

"NO!"

"YES!"

"NO!"

"BUT I WANNA!"

"WELL, IT'S NOT YOU'RE DECISION TO MAKE!"

"WELL, I'M CALLING HIM CHARLIE."

I think through all available responses, and the elegance of my equation evaporates: Three-year-old + tantrum - tolerance / earplugs * the desire to drink copious amounts beer + bang own head against wall = an uncontrollable urge to rename HER Poopyhead.

All I'm left with is ...

"FINE. GO AHEAD. YOU DO THAT!"

The picture's not as clear now

Just another fuzzy picture: a face moving in and out, legs kicking, arms waving. Constant motion. My son. Our son.

At a 36-week (give or take) ultrasound they performed today to see if the baby's head was up or down (why this mattered, I have no idea as we are having a c-section anyway) the technician observed and noted the baby's left kidney was dilated.

The midwife, who closed her eyes tightly as she tried to explain what was lurking in my chart, smiling away with all the assurances of someone who'd seen it all before (a lot so don't worry) didn't end up being much reassurance.

She explained that generally when this kind of thing is "observed" they recommend the babies be seen by a neonatologist after the birth. They will perform a renal ultrasound, and perhaps other tests, to determine what should be done: surgery or wait and see if it resolves itself.

What resolves itself? What surgery? What is this?

I left the office not really knowing what I had just been told and, what's worse, the feeling of having no real ability to ask the questions that would get the answers I wanted.

The tape running through my head said "don't worry just yet" just like the midwife advised. ... However, I couldn't help but feel sorry for myself. This pregnancy hasn't been as trouble-free as the first. I haven't had the good, carefree feelings that marked my nine months with Annabel. I thought it was just the sadness of losing Lori, the uncertainty of moving to a new caretaker and the upheaval it means for Annabel.

I thought once the baby was born I could relax, and things would be better. My fears would prove unfounded and my anxiety would simmer down. I would be able to breath easily again. Foolishness.

That's what motherhood is all about, no?

Don't. Worry. Mom. Three words that when strung together really show the nature of the perfect oxymoronic sentiment.

I called Jed as soon as I left the doctors' office. Talking to him as I walked back to my own office down a back alley, trying to be diligent about looking out for traffic as I crossed streets.

"They don't know what the significance is yet, and they probably won't find out until after he's born," I said into the phone. "I really think some of the women in my internet group have dealt with this before. I'm going to ask them."

I could tell by his voice he was feeling like taking back all the negative things he'd ever said or thought about my "imaginary" friends.

As soon as I got to my desk, I did what everyone tells you to avoid: typed "fetal dilated kidney" into Dr. Google and got this.

I read it, and realized that it sounded similar to something that had come up at least once in the group. So I headed over there and started a thread. Within minutes there was not only an outpouring of support from those without answers but also a whole host of first-hand experience from moms and relatives of kids who'd been similarly diagnosed. I found the reassurance I needed there.

I find it so incredible that just three and a half years ago I was alone with my intuition and gobs of advice that was often at least three decades old. And now, just sitting in front of a computer screen, I've found out all about the kindness of strangers and the idea that nothing really is as bad as it seems.

To top it off, when I finally got home there was a box waiting for me. Weighing almost as much as Annabel and sent from a family I've only met in photographs, The Klapow Kids, the enormous package was filled with a bounty of wonderful clothes for Thing 2.

I can't really tell you how truly humbled and thankful I am to be living in a virtual world.

It's beginning to seem real

newborn, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Oh sure, for you folks it's been real all along. Some crazy, mommy-blabber writing ad nauseam about the joys and craptacular moments of a second pregnancy. (yyyyyyyyyyyawn).

But even though I talk about it, and even think about it to the point of obsession, the whole concept of another person in the house has eluded me.

It's not as if I'm delusional, really. It's not as if I don't know this thing twisting around in my belly is more than a silly parlor trick I use to amuse myself late at night when I can't sleep.

(Yes, son, I think it's hilarious that if I balance an envelope on the "fundus" eventually you move it around like a boat on the water. I call the simple little game 'Fundus for One of Us').

I know you're going to be here soon. I worry about all the things I haven't done. All the errands I've ignored. The organizing I've put off. I worry about how Annabel will feel once her planet is bumped from the center of the universe. I worry about whether I'll be able to leave the house at a reasonable hour ever again with an infant and a preschooler in tow. I wonder how I'll manage to do all the things I could barely manage to do with just one child grabbing on to my leg and yelling "PICK ME UP."

But I haven't given a single thought to what YOU will be like, Thing 2.
Will you be funny and sweet? Will you be stoic and wise? Will you walk early or late? I'm sure there's all kinds of comparisons we'll be making as we try to get to know the you that is separate from us.

I never stopped to think about whether there is enough love to go around, even though I know it's a normal qualm needing quelling. As a parent, so the cliche goes, you are so enamoured with your firstborn that you can't imagine anyone else fitting in between.

It's something that can't be easily explained. It has to be felt.

This morning, when Annabel woke me up with her usual greeting: "It's morning time. It's not night time anymore," and I opened my eyes to see her crooked smile and tousseled head inches from my nose, I knew there is love enough for two.

If one of these is joy two has got to be fairly close to nirvana.

If only he were blogging in utero

runny-nose boogie, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

She likes it loud.

She asks for the CD caddy, and I hand it over. I check the rear-view to find her fingering each disk with her sticky, doughnut smeared mitts.

"I like this green one," she says, waving the Dave Matthews CD at me.

I reach back and take it. Pop it into the player. Turn the dial up.

"I'm mixing up a bunch of magic stuff
A magic mushroom cloud of care
A potion that will rock the boat will rock
Make a bomb of love and blow it up

I did it
Do you think I've gone too far
I did it
Guilty as charged
I did it
It was me right or wrong
I did it
Yeah

I never did a single thing that did a single thing to
Change the ugly ways of the world
I didn't know it felt so right inside
I didn't know it at all
Open up the curtains I heard sirens there the lights flash and crawl
I did it justice I just did it for the buzz

It's a nickel or a dime for what I've done
The truth is that I don't really care
For such a lovely crime I'll do the time
You better lock me up I'll do it again

I did it
Do you think I've gone too far
I did it
Guilty as charged
I did it
It was me right or wrong
I did it
Yeah

I never did a single thing that did a single thing to
Change the ugly ways of the world
I didn't know it felt so right inside
I didn't know it at all
Open up the curtains I heard sirens there the lights flash and crawl
I did it justice I just did it for us all

All you people are the skewers of our dreams
Like the cat collared me
Oh what I gotta say to you got love don't
Turn it down
Turn it loud
Let it build
We got a long way to go
But you gotta start somewhere
Go door to door spread the love you got
You got the love
You get what you want
Does it matter where you get it from
I for one
Don't turn my cheek for anyone
Unturn your cheek to give your love
Love to grow"

As we tool along, she's nodding her head, weaving it back and forth on her neck to the beat. Closing her eyes. When the track ends, she begs to hear it again.

I hit the back arrow and the song repeats.

Inside, Thing 2 thumps along wildly. WILDLY.

But it makes me wonder: Does he like it or was he trying to get us to turn it down?

Gritting my teeth

Word of advice? It is NEVER a good idea to refer to a pregnant woman as "fatty."

The emphasis in that last statement was "NEVER" in case you missed it.

It's really for your own good that I suggest this, because if you think such comments are funny and cute, there's an exceptionally high probability that you make people's skin crawl.

Even Ittybit knows calling someone "fat" isn't advisable. And had she been awake to hear the aformentioned comment, she would most definitely have come to my defense.

"She's not fat, she's holding my brother."

Same insanity, different day

I swear, you can't walk into a Target store and swing a cat without hitting a pregnant woman.

The red and white bullseye, I suppose, just reels 'em in.

Of course this thought has occurred to me before. During the 15-month pregnancy drought that finally ended in September, I'd tried to steer clear of the Midwest-mecca of multi-department merchandising for just that reason. All those burgeoning bellies just made me feel down in the dumps.

Whatever incidental hunk of junk I sought could probably be found on the Internet, I told myself. "Shipping schmipping, at least I'd never have to bump into a baby bump again."

So it is with a small degree of horror, now a mere month away from actually meeting Thing 2 in the flesh, that I find myself avoiding the store again for the same reason: the pregnant pause.

This time, I find myself staring down a procreational deadline and feeling as if I'm not ready: I've made no progress on the baby's room. I haven't solidified a new daycare situation for either child, and I've only just called the pediatrician to let them know they should prepare to visit me in the hospital come June. I've merely wrung my hands at the idea of acquiring additional storage for baby clothes or making other plans for organization. I'm not even mentally ready to commit to the purchase of a new car seat, even though my lazy self doesn’t want to disassemble and wash the old infant carrier Ittybit managed to decimate.

I figure it can’t hurt to look and see if I can't find a new car seat that's design would help me avoid a repeat of the great tennis elbow of ’04.

Yet, staring at the boxes in the carseat aisle of Target, I heave an enormous sigh of frustration. "I just don't feel like wrestling THAT into the car today," I whine to myself.

It doesn't help that I am surrounded by other women staking claim to the aisle's precious real estate, happily stocking up for their own impeding arrivals.

All I see is more stuff. ... More stuff to add to the stuff I already have and can't manage. More stuff to be unpackaged, stored, repackaged and recycled.

I also know it probably hasn't helped matters that until now -- eight months along -- I haven't looked as pregnant as pudgy. This baby's been stealth. And I'm not the only one who's missed it. I recently had to tell two doctors (an eye doctor and a dentist) that I was expecting so they'd cancel plans for prohibited proceedures.

Every part of me is comparing this pregnancy with its predecessor; a losing proposition if ever there was one.

I haven't witnessed the "knowing" smiles of absolute strangers; the giddy gazes of solidarity.

The bulky sweaters have hidden what little evidence existed. And now, a six weeks away from it all being over, it seems to have just rushed past -- an afterthought.

Checking in (wigging out)

I had a obstetrics appointment today - the 31st week of a pregnancy that is zooming by so fast I'm beginning to feel the panic (not to mention a distinct pain in my a** where a sciatic nerve has decided to commence tormenting me).

It's official, the date for the c-section will be June 19.

JUNE. 19th. A date that drags back Thing 2's zodiac sign from Cancer to Gemini. A date that is six months and one day off from his big sister's. Seven weeks. Just 49 days away.

Although I didn't fail the glucose test (surprise), I am considerably low on iron (no surprise there). So I've been given a prescription and instructions to take it lest I need a transfusion during the birth.

It wasn't until she asked me "How's the depression?" though, that I really got to thinking how I've not really been letting myself even THINK about depression.

That's not to say that all of a sudden I feel the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders, or that I feel the familiar pangs of anxiety and depression, but I can't say that I'm unencumbered, either. In a month and a half we will have a full house and a new way of life.

Annabel will have a whole new existence. Everything she's known, from her parents' undivided attentions to her daycare situation, will be shifting. Lori will be taking another child to replace her (that idea alone for some reason hurts my heart), and Ittybit won't likely be able to attend her preschool in the fall as I had hoped.

I cannot begin to predict her reactions to all of this, but I've been worried. I feel guilty that so much in her life will change all at once. Isn't it enough to get a new baby?

There's still much procrastination on my part. I haven't finished the new daycare's paperwork, or called the pediatrician, or bought a new dresser, or decided on whether to buy a new infant carseat, or whether to get a new baby tub, or whether to use cloth diapers while I'm home on maternity leave or cleared out space in Annabel's closet, or taken more things we don't need to Goodwill.

I've been stalling. Or tredding water. Or wishing I could always keep Thing 2 with me inside, where I can feel him kick and squirm. I felt the same way about Annabel. I knew how quickly I'd forget the sensation (even then) and I was right. I forgot how it felt almost as soon as I stopped feeling it.

I suppose it didn't help much when the doctor pressed the doppler against my belly - now another pound bigger - and pronounced. "He's happy in there."

Taking matters into her own hands

Inspector Ittybit, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Every Wednesday I stand on top of a decades-old footstool in our tiny, badly-in-need-of-renovation bathroom and snap a picture of the belly.

It's weird, really. I have about four pregnancy photographs of me with Annabel in ought 3: two my parents took in their living room whilst I was visiting and two I took myself in the buff, no less, (for posterity) during week 37.

This time there's been no fancy setup, no stragic lighting, just quick snaps, once a week, in front of a waterstained, reclaimed mirror. They are throwaway photos that lack style and technical merit. All they are is consistent: the barn wood of the mirror's frame giving the appearance of a peep hole, and my left-side profile against the light of a bare light bulb late at night.

I'm not sure why I take a picture on the day the pregancy ticks up to another week, but I'm sure it has been out of compulsive or compensatory need rather than celebratory desire. It's practically the only thing that has been "done" to mark Thing 2's progress to date.

With more experience and the constant noise of another little person who speaks and has needs (such as Ice Cream, please) there's not a lot of time to sit around and marvel at the miracle of this new, unexamined life.

But it is new and marvelous and wonderful to HER. And that's a detail I might have overlooked completely had she not pushed open the bathroom door and climbed up on the footstool next to me, to give her brother a "zerbert."

Pulling at the waist of the pants my belly is trying to burst, she noticed the deep impression the button had made on my skin.

"WHAT IS THAT?" she said with the Oh-my-gawd-this-is-so-cool voice she picked up from the pre-teens in her life.

"OH. GIVE ME YOUR CAMERA. I HAFTA TO TAKE A PICTURE. YOU HAFTA SEE THIS."

I had to hand it over and let her snap away. How could I resist?

Excitement was finally in the air.