Birthing Beautiful Ideas

As of this year, our little family of four had exactly (and only) four family pictures of us.

I’m not talking about professional family pictures.  I’m talking about “snapshots-taken-in-the-last-two-years-(since A’s birth)-in-which-all-four-of-us-were-present.”

And there were only four.

So we strove to rectify this problem this summer.  For the grandparents.  And the annual holiday card.  And the scrapbooks.  And the picture frames.

For our family.

But now that I look back on the three family-of-four photos we took this summer, I’m not so sure that any of them are quite what we were looking for when we set out to add to our family photo collection.

In fact, they might reinforce just why we had a dearth of family photos in the first place.

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oops

Oh yes.  We’ll get an action shot.  One while we push the kids on the swings!  How idyllic!  And sweet!  And…

OH MY GOD, THERE GOES A!

Even better?  Not the looks on M or Tim or poor A’s faces but the look on my face.

Good lord, there goes my two-year-old, flying off the swing, and it looks like I’m laughing at him.

Happy Holidays!  My you swing through the New Year with lots of fun surprises!

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through the looking glass

A mirror.  That’s what we need.  We don’t even need to solicit the help of another photographer.

Nope, we don’t need anyone else to help us capture our children’s faces as they scream and thrash in this supposedly-haunted restaurant.  (Seriously.)  (And thanks for telling my kids about that ghost, well-meaning waitress.)

It’s all under control, people.

Happy Holidays!  Hope you don’t cry too hard when the ghost of Christmas presents visits you!

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just...weird

Whatever.  It’s a family self-portrait.  Wherein you can only see the back of M’s head and approximately 35% of A.

But at least you can see Tim and my faces.  Because really.  Why would you want to miss those faces?

You know: the faces of the grown woman grinning like a fool and her crazed husband mugging like a leprechaun in the background.

Happy Holidays!  When winter gets you down, just remind yourself that your family isn’t as weird as ours is!

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Out of curiosity, which one would you include on the family holiday card?  I’m not too proud to send out a bizarre/inappropriate/wtf picture to all my friends and family…

A (2) has been lighting up our lives with a rather marvelous fashion parade lately.

It all started with an unexpected obsession with snow boots.

Snow boots that he must–MUST–wear around the house at all times.  ALL TIMES.

Which, you know, is pretty awesome.  Especially when he insists on wearing the boots (which of course light up whenever he walks) on a summer outing to Trader Joe’s.  And then becomes the most popular kid in the whole store.  THE WHOLE STORE.

And I’ve done nothing but support A’s inner fashionista.  In fact, I’m almost in awe of his sense of style.

I mean, I would never have thought to pair the Spider Man boots with the witch’s hat and the solo striped glove. Never!

Way to be fierce, A-man!

(And yes, sisters of mine, I know what you’re thinking: “Kristen, A’s fashion sense shouldn’t surprise you at all.  You were the one who showed up to high school one day wearing a pair of your best friend’s dad’s old jeans upon which you had scrawled your favorite song lyrics in neon highlighter!“  To which I reply, touche’.)

In any case, I think that a few of his looks are simply too bizarro-cute not to share with you all.  They are a tribute to his independence, his humor, and his fierce fashion sense, all of which deserve to be celebrated.

Just make sure to give credit where credit’s due if you decide to try out some of these “trends” for yourself.

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It’s 90  degrees outside.  Where are my mittens?

ready for school. and an august blizzard.

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Safety first.  Even if the helmet is on backwards.

always practice safe tracks.

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All in.

why would anyone stop with just snow boots and a backpack? the knight's helmet (with a green feather taped on top!), the shield, and the blanket sash are essential components of this outfit.

Dear Dad,

Here you are.  Alive.

Alive.

Living.  Breathing.   With a beating heart.  Blood pumping through your veins.

Last week, we were all worried that you wouldn’t be here with us today–alive, living, breathing, with heart beating.

It all started when, after concealing your symptoms from us (Mom included) for months, you finally scheduled an appointment with your cardiologist once you found yourself unable to walk up the steps to your front porch without having to stop and rest halfway there.

You are an otherwise healthy 60-year-old man, so this was more than a big deal.

(As all five of your children heard over and over again this past week, you’re also a “hot”–or rather, HAWT–60-year-old man.  In Mom’s words, that is.  She even went on and on to the PA about how “sexy” your legs were and that he “better be CAREFUL with them” when he harvested your veins for your bypass surgery.  And then one of your daughters–I won’t name names–almost passed out when she heard the words “harvest” and “veins” uttered in the same sentence.  And then we all laughed at her.)

In any case, during the stress test at your appointment, you went into V-tach after only two minutes on the treadmill.

And then you learned that one of your arteries was 100% occluded and that angioplasty was not even an option for you.  You would need triple bypass surgery.

We were all terrified.  Absolutely terrified.

And you–obviously, unquestionably–were also terrified.  You, the physician who knew how grave your situation was.  You, who was viewing bypass surgery through both a patient’s and a doctor’s eyes.  You, who had lost your mother, your sister, and your brother to massive heart attacks all before they turned 60.

Terrified.

And our terrified family–our wild, crazy, ridiculous family–came together like never before to support you and Mom.

And the day before your surgery, we gathered around your hospital bed, and we laughed and we shared stories and we cried and we prayed.

(One of us said a really spectacular prayer–one of the best I’ve ever heard, in fact.  But this came after a rather decrepit looking minister came into the room and prayed with all of us.  His prayer was so sweet and earnest, but you know how it goes: the more Oganowski children in a room during a prayer, the more likely it is that one of us is gonna start laughing.  And, surprise of all surprises, it was me who started laughing.  You know, the same person who started laughing during that one Easter prayer years back and who tried to cough…or sneeze…or cough…or sneeze in order to cover up the laughter but just ended up sounding like a moose farting into a trombone with the fake-sneeze-cough.  Good times.)

The day of your surgery, all of us–Mom, Kas, Kate, Kellie, Kinsey, and me–gathered around your bed one more time to wish you well, to support one another, and to be the family that we are.  And at one point, you asked Mom to leave, and you lay there with your five children surrounding you, and you gave us a pre-op pep talk.

There were no delusions, there was no candy-coating of the situation.  There was honesty, and support, and even a reverence for the seriousness of what was about to happen.

Once you were wheeled down to the pre-op area, each of us, two or three at a time, went back to give you one last kiss before your surgery.

(In pre-op, Kate, Kellie and I found it oh-so-fitting to talk with you about how AWESOME our family would be on a reality show.  Not because we want to be famous.  Not because we think we’re all that glamorous.  But because we think that everyone deserves to see our wildly inappropriate humor in action.  You even came up with a more-than-fitting title for the series: “Train Wreck.”  I came up with the alternate title, “O My God”–’O’ for ‘Oganowski,’ because I’m clever like that.)

While making plans to contact E! regarding our surefire hit series, one of the nurses came to the foot of your bed and asked how you were feeling.

Your monitors were alarming, but she told you that sometimes that happens when a person accidentally hits the monitors with his or her hands.

But then another nurse came to the bed.  And when she asked you whether you were feeling any pain, you said, “I wouldn’t exactly call it pain.”  And then you became quiet.  And then she asked us to leave.

You were crashing.  This thing was starting to kill you.  Right in front of our eyes.

After a few excruciating minutes, Mom rushed back to the waiting room to tell us that you were “throwing PVCs and were bradycardic” and that they might be able to start your bypass surgery if they could get you stabilized.  (Mom was in nurse mode and thus was speaking nurse-speak–I had to call your office to get one of the doctors to translate “throwing PVCs” to me.  And, just so you know, this prompted everyone at work to gather in your office and pray for you.  Everyone.  That’s a pretty astounding testament to just how much you’re loved, and just how much you have to live for.)

Once you were stable, each one of us was able to return to your bedside, one at a time, to give you a quick kiss and “I love you” before surgery.

(I know it’s not entirely appropriate to describe the following events as hilarious because they were some of the most emotionally frightening moments of my life.  In retrospect, however, they were pretty darn funny.  First, one of us–again, I won’t name names–actually passed out on the way back to your bed.  And I couldn’t stop laughing about it, even through my tears and concern for her and cries that “OH MY GOD, this is so inappropriate but I CAN’T STOP LAUGHING!”  Then you were so drugged up by the time we got to you that your “last words” to us became more and more outrageous.  Case in point?  Your words to me–spoken in a southern accent, no less–were, “Now I don’ wanna wake up tomorra’ mornin’ and read about what youuu’ve done in the newspapers!”  Sure, Dad.)

Once you were finally stable (though only somewhat–you continued to have issues throughout the next few days) and finally in surgery, we began the waiting game.  And we all knew–we were all instructed by Mom–that the scariest part of the surgery was not the harvesting of the veins (cue fainting) or the bypassing of the occluded arteries themselves but the moment when they took you off of bypass and tried to get your heart and lungs to work on their own.

In other words, the scariest part of the surgery was the end of the surgery.

When your heart had to start beating on its own again.

And so we did what any normal family would do with such a terrifying prospect at hand.

We prayed, we cried, and we played Scattergories, ate french fries and brownies, and joked about a person we had just met whose name was Dick Wiener (I kid you not).

And then you were done.  You and your medical team were triumphant.  And we were exultant.  And we gathered in your recovery room and held your hand and held each others’ hands and just loved you.

(And damn Dad, you looked GOOD!  Everyone kept preparing us for how shocking it is to see a patient after bypass surgery, but hell, you looked better than most of the people on the “What You Need to Know about Bypass Surgery” video–including some of those folks who were just the FAMILY MEMBERS of the people who needed bypass!)

Now.  I don’t want you to go and get the idea that it’s fine and dandy to ignore your symptoms and blow off your cardiologist and act out the “doctors-as-the-worst-patients” stereotype again.  No one (yourself most of all, I presume) wants you to endure what you’ve endured any time in the near (or even distant) future.

But this awfulness?  This stress?  This agony of watching and waiting and wondering and holding our breaths and loving you more fiercely than we’ve ever loved you?

It’s brought your family closer together than we’ve ever been.  Ever.

It has illuminated the best in all of us–in Mom, in Kas, in Kate, in Kellie, in Kinsey, and (I hope) in me.

It has brought together friends new and old, co-workers and former colleagues, and just about everyone who has ever loved you–and there are many.

So many, in fact, that I have to believe that this love is what has sustained you through the past week-and-a-half.

You had so much love that day–you have so much love surrounding you–that there must have been at least four-hundred hearts beating for you even when yours wasn’t.

And there are six hearts in particular that will continue to beat steadily and strongly and fiercely for you.

We love you, Dad.

-Kristen

Here I sit in a bedroom  at my parents’ house while my two young children fight sleep more than I’ve ever seen them fight it before.  They are wild and wired and feasting off of the stress swirling around them–the stress that I can’t seem to hide.

My dad is currently in the ICU at a local hospital.  He’s having triple bypass surgery on Thursday.  One of his arteries is 100% occluded.  My mom is with him.

My grandmother is here at the house with me–she and my grandfather live with my parents–and is recovering from gallbladder surgery.  I slept on an air mattress at the foot of her bed last night and got up with her every 45 minutes to make sure that she could get to the bathroom without any trouble.  I was up at 7 to take care of the boys.

Tim is at our house, over an hour away.  He’ll be able to take a day off on Thursday so that he can care for the kids during my dad’s surgery.

All four of my siblings are arriving here at my parents’ house tomorrow.  I have yet to wash the sheets, or do the dishes, or run to the grocery.

In the meantime, I need to make sure that both of my grandparents are fed, that all of the right people get the right messages about my father’s health, and that I stay strong enough for my mother whenever I speak to her.

This summer has already been difficult.  But now it has reached crisis status.

And I am hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

So I prayed a lot today.

Most of the time, I’m ambivalent about the receiver of my prayers.  I fall somewhere in between believing in an invisible bearded man-in-the-sky and rejecting the remotest possibility of a great power altogether.

In other words, I’m not sure whom or what I’m praying to when I pray.

And I’m alright with that.  I like prayer more for its abilities to force me to surrender to the unknown, to re-frame my perspective on the world, and to bring the loving thoughts of a bunch of desperately flawed human beings together.

One of the many, many things I prayed for today was a ray of light.  Just something to give me some levity.

Something to let me be selfish and vulnerable and ephemerally free tonight.

And that great answerer-of-prayers followed through in the form of a Google Alert on c-section.

Folks, I give to you what may just be the funniest translation of a news article (original here) that I’ve ever, ever seen.

(And no, I don’t care that I’m copying and pasting the whole thing here.  The highlights are…well, highlighted.  A few select commentary are in parentheses.  But I didn’t want to include too many.  Thought they would take away from the translation’s glory.)

NEW YORK (Reuters Health) – The super a meaningful blackamoor (somebody’s Google translator has a nasty racist streak!) is when she checks in on conveying day, the greater her venture of having a caesarian section, suggests a super infant study.

Nearly digit of every threesome births (kinky!) in the U.S. is today delivered by cesarean, a surgery that has been linked to complications for both mom and female much as infection, injury and hysterectomy. This evaluate is most 50 proportionality higher than it was in the mid-1990s, according to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

“As clinicians, we are visaged with so some issues when attractive tending of patients with higher BMI, and digit of them is a greater venture for cesarean,” advance scientist Dr. Michelle Kominiarek of Indiana University told Reuters Health.

She additional that patch preceding studies had already linked caesarian conveying and embody accumulation finger (BMI) — a manoeuvre of coefficient that takes into statement peak — hour had been super or careful sufficiency to watch how another factors strength edit that risk, much as preceding births or caesarian sections.

To intend a fireman countenance at the issue, Kominiarek and her colleagues composed accumulation on nearly 125,000 women from the National Institutes of Health’s Consortium on Safe Labor who gave relationship between 2002 and 2008. Then they analyzed the circumstances close apiece birth, as substantially as the conveying route.

A amount of 14 proportionality of the women unnatural underwent cesareans, inform the researchers in the dweller Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology.

They institute that for every organisation process in BMI, as rhythmic on achievement for delivery, a woman’s venture of caesarian conveying chromatic by 4 percent.

The aggroup also unconcealed that this venture multifarious depending on whether or not a blackamoor had presented relationship before or had previously undergone a caesarian section. A one-unit process in BMI upraised the venture of caesarian 5 proportionality for a blackamoor delivering her prototypal child, 2 proportionality for women with children and preceding cesarean, and 5 proportionality for women with children but without a preceding cesarean

These personalty remained after business for factors much as motherlike age, vie and cervical enlargement at infirmary admission.

Overall, those who had a preceding caesarian had most threefold the venture of having another: more than 50 proportionality of busy women with a BMI over 40, which is thoughtful morbidly obese.

Part of the need for move cesareans is anxiety over a vaginal relationship violent scars mitt over from the preceding surgery. However, a removed think fresh institute that these uterine ruptures are not as ordinary as previously thought, occurring in inferior than digit proportionality of vaginal births after cesarean. (See Reuters Health report, July 21, 2010.)

Other factors related with the venture of caesarian in the underway think included an geezerhood of 35 or older, black or dweller race (is this another racist thing, or are they talking about people from middle earth?) , and diabetes.

“The process in the caesarian evaluate in this land is a varied issue,” Dr. Hugh author of The river State University, who was not participating in the study, told Reuters Health. “Obesity is sure a momentous tooth in that wheel.”

Ehrenberg also spinous to a some weaknesses of the study, including the demand of accumulation on infant filler and the contradictoriness of caesarian rates crossways the think centers — ranging from digit in quaternary to digit in 10 women.

The latter could equal differences in bourgeois attitudes as a termination of varied levels of experience. “If you’re not sight a aggregation of fat women at delivery, you haw more pronto revilement somebody because you’re uneasy and not because they’ve unsuccessful in labor,” said Ehrenberg. “Being rattling bounteous doesn’t needs stingy you shouldn’t be allowed to labor.”

Exactly how blubber contributes to caesarian venture ease has not been substantially addressed, (wise words, my friend) additional Kominiarek. “What is finally the safest conveying line for someone with a broad BMI? Is it prizewinning to hit an nonappointive c-section, or is it meet as innocuous to fag and then hit a c-section? (and they’re homophobes too!)  It module order more investigate to respond much questions.” (my question exactly!)

SOURCE: http://link.reuters.com/fyc74n dweller Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology, online August 5, 2010.

If this is how the good lord/lordess answers prayers, then count me in as a bona fide believer.

YOU HAW MORE PRONTO REVILEMENT!

(And if you’re in the praying mode, please send a few my dad’s way.  His heart–and my heart–could use ‘em.)

Earlier this year, I set out a list of 29 goals that I wanted to accomplish before turning thirty next January.

One of those goals was that I would “teach myself and my children how to garden.”  And I think all four of us (Tim included) have done a marvelous job at reaching this goal.

We played in the dirt.

mt. top soil

We raked and hoed and dug and wheel-barrowed.

our littlest gardener

We planted.

tomatoes, eggplant, cauliflower, herbs, and more!

We harvested.

summer's bounty

And we enjoyed.

grilled eggplant sandwiches, roasted zucchini and grape tomatoes, and fried green tomatoes

And I, for one, have learned that there is very little so satisfying as toiling through a weekend with Tim to transform our backyard from a weedy disaster into a garden haven, or getting dirty fingernails with my four-year-old as we grow jalapenos from seed, or or harvesting basil as my two-year-old sneaks grape tomatoes off the vine, or sharing a bowl full of herbs and veggies with friends and family.

And there’s very little so satisfying as knowing that you’ve created a meal that’s come almost entirely from your own backyard!

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Grilled eggplant sandwiches with red onion and aioli

The recipe can be found on CookingLight.com.

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Roasted zucchini and grape tomatoes

1 or 2 zucchinis

1/2 to 1 cup grape tomatoes

1 tbsp. olive oil

1/4 tsp. salt

1/4 tsp. pepper

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Line casserole dish or jelly roll pan with parchment paper.  Thinly slice zucchini and lay out on parchment paper.  Drizzle with olive oil, and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Bake in oven for 10 minutes.

While zucchini bakes, slice tomatoes in half.  Add to the zucchini after the 10-minute mark, and stir.  Bake for another 7-10 minutes, or until zucchini has “softened” to your liking.

(We eat this as a side dish at least twice a week!)

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Fried green tomatoes

2-3 large green tomatoes

1 or 2 eggs (depending on how many tomatoes you use), lightly beaten

1/2 cup panko

1/4 cup flour

1 1/2 tsp. garlic pepper

1/2 tsp. salt

2 tbsp. canola oil

Slice tomatoes 1/2 inch thick.

Lightly beat egg in a shallow dish.  In a separate dish, mix panko, flour, salt, and garlic pepper together.

Coat each tomato slice with egg, and then dredge in panko mixture.

Add oil to pan and heat over medium-high.  Once oil is hot, fry tomato slices until each side is golden brown.

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What are some of your favorite garden-fresh recipes?  I’d love to try them out!

Dear Alec,

Lately, I’ve been writing about our mother/child adventures as if they were battle scenes from World War Two-year-old.

I’ve compared your antics to “mashing my brain matter” as if it were a ripe banana.

I’ve compared you to a rabid howler monkey.

And I’ve documented just how much I’m drowning in (among other things) the trials and tribulations of parenting you and your brother.

And I won’t deny any of it.  It’s been hard.  It’s been so. hard.

But.

But.

I don’t want you to ever feel as if I have resented parenting you, or as if I have dreaded spending time with you, or as if I haven’t respected your astounding curiosity and ingenious resourcefulness.

And I don’t want you to think that I’m forgetting just how hard it is for you to be my child, or just to be two.

I know that it can be so. hard.

For instance, I know that you don’t yet appreciate the importance of a good night’s sleep.  You’re too young for that–”appreciating the importance of” is not even in your cognitive horizon right now.  And what you have in its place is this magical exuberance that tells you that climbing over your crib is what your little legs and arms were built to do and that the nighttime holds the promise of yet-unseen adventures and that sleep itself means missing out on all the mysteries that occur under the moon and stars and in our quiet house.

And I want you to know that in these still and silent moments–in the few minutes I have to sit and reflect–I appreciate the importance of that magical exuberance.  I want you to sleep, oh how I want you to sleep.  Both for selfish reasons (oh! how I need these still and silent moments) and for reasons of love and care and concern (oh! how you need this sleep to keep growing, to keep that smile on your face, my darling boy).

But I know, I do know, and I do love that you yearn to know what’s just beyond your little world, what lurks underneath the moon and stars and nighttime sky.  I’m secretly proud of your adventurousness, that frightening twinkle in your eyes.  You’ll scale mountains, both literal and figurative, some day.

But just remember (perhaps with my voice ringing in your ears) that you always need a good night’s sleep before you start climbing.

I know too that it’s frustrating to hear the word “no” over and over again.  And I know that I’m not always the best at choosing redirection or affirmation or patience over the word “no.”

But I also know that, no, you shouldn’t play with scissors, and no, the buttons on the oven are not for touching, and no, you shouldn’t spit on your brother when he makes you mad.  I’m just trying to keep you safe.  I’m trying to keep you healthy.  I’m trying to teach you respect and thoughtfulness and self-restraint.

Maybe, just maybe, I won’t have failed completely with all of my “nos,” and some day you’ll hear my “no” in the back of your mind when you decide not to join your friends in taunting that kid on the playground, or when you don’t pick up that cigarette, or when you don’t do that thing that’s unsafe or unhealthy or unkind.

And maybe, please maybe, you’ll hear my “yes” and “great job” and “wow” and “you’re amazing” too.

You’ll take all of that curiosity and find a way to supply everyone on the planet with clean water, or you’ll take that ingenious resourcefulness and build bridges or schools or sculptures, or you’ll fix leaks or cars or broken hearts.

Maybe you’ll take that frightening adventurousness and fight fires or crime or injustice, or maybe you’ll just take that magical exuberance and be the best damn person that you can be.

And I’ll be right there, right there, shouting “Hell yeah!  That’s my kid!  That’s my kid!!!  The one with the curiosity and the resourcefulness and the adventure and the exuberance!  He’s my boy!“

And I hope you’re able to appreciate the importance of my appreciation then.  Because it will be enormous, and it will be immense.

And it will always have been here, right here, all along.

the climber of cribs (and mountains) and his mother

Love,

Mom

in a little more-or-less than a year, this will be me.

At some unspecified time between now and January, Tim and I will be trying for our third and final child.

Yes, we will be adding to our brood.  Trying to conceive.  “TTC-ing.”  Having marvelously unprotected sex.

(Oh, pull your fingers out of your ears, family members.  You know where our other babies came from, right?)

And perhaps not like other parents planning to add to their family, I’m excited and nervous and prematurely nostalgic for this next chapter in our parenting adventures.

The excitement has really been building ever since I got that subtle intuition, that deep-seated feeling that we were ready to try to add another person to our family–that there was a space for another person in our family.  And I love dwelling on the mystery of it all: will we have a boy or a girl?  Will s/he be due to arrive in winter, spring, summer, or fall?  Will my pregnancy be difficult?  Will I breeze right through it?  What will my baby’s birth be like?  What will s/he be like?  How will s/he be different from or similar to his/her brothers?  How strange is it that I don’t even know this person who will some day hold one of the dearest and deepest places in my heart?

But Tim and I both have raging nerves about our decision too: Are we really ready for another baby?  Can we really afford another child (and potentially another college education)?  Do we have enough energy for one?  Good lord, will I ever finish my dissertation?  Can we make it through that first year again?  Are we trying too soon?  Will I have a healthy pregnancy and birth?  Where and with whom will I give birth?  Will our baby be healthy?  Will we have more than one baby?  (Twins run in my family!)

Despite these nervous wonderings and second guesses, I still feel that the time is right, and that we are ready.  And knowing that this will likely be my last adventure through pregnancy, birth, babyhood, and breastfeeding makes me nostalgic for all of the “last times” that Tim and I are about to experience: the last time I feel a baby kick for the first time.  The last time that Tim and I get to feel those baby kicks together.  The last time that I birth a baby, and the last time that I nourish a baby just with my own body.  The last time that I smell my new baby’s smells, and see my baby smile for the first time, and listen as my baby coos, oohs, ahhs, and slowly builds those first words.  The last time for sleepless nights and tiny onesies and little feet and first steps.

It’s all thrills and nerves and hellos and goodbyes and final chapters and new beginnings all wrapped into one, giant, transforming experience.

For what it’s worth, I’m not sure how much of our TTC journey I’ll actually share here on the blog.  I’m all for publishing the ins and outs of my birth stories, and I’m going to blog the hell out of my pregnancy (for the free therapy and commiseration and cheering squad), but I feel strangely protective of those moments (weeks? months?) that precede pregnancy and birth.

On the one hand, I’m just not sure I have the stamina to go through months and months of TTC-ing in public.  On the other hand, I’m also not sure I want to rub an easy-peasy “pregnancy on the first try” in other people’s faces–especially those who have been trying for months and/or are struggling with infertility.

Nonetheless, we will be trying at some “secret” time within the next six months.  And the moment I spot those pink lines, I’ll make sure to start documenting the whole journey here.

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Did you or do you have the same feelings about trying to conceive a(nother) child?  How did you know when the time was right to “TTC”?  Did you or would you document your TTC journey, your pregnancy, and/or your birth on your blog?  Or did you/would you feel protective about one or more of those experiences?

six years of marriage, six years of laughter

Dear Tim,

Six years ago today, you stood next to me as we affirmed to our family and friends that we would be journeying through the rest of our lives together–officially, legally, and blissfully together.

Six years ago today, I had no doubts, no worries, no fears.  We held hands and uttered words like “forever” and “home” and “husband” and “wife,” and I felt at peace because I knew that my forever and home and husband would be you.

Six years ago today, we held the promise of our sweet Miles and Alec.  We didn’t know them, but we knew we wanted them.  We weren’t ready for them, but we knew we would be ready for them some day.  And we certainly didn’t know how much they’d expand our hearts and transform our love for one another.

Six years ago, we were in flux: between our single life and our married life, between Chicago and Syracuse, between youth and adulthood, between our known past and our unknown future.

Six years ago today, we were silly: we danced and sang and ate and drank and laughed, and you even had the bright idea to shove chocolate cake so far up my nose that it was stuck in my nostrils for weeks–an act for which I forgave you minutes later, once I was able to breathe again.

Six years ago today, we were humbled: to have friends and family who loved us to much, to have a celebration that expressed our love for them and that mirrored our love for one another.

Six years ago today, we had fights and fun and sex and life-changing moments to anticipate.

And six years ago, we were as we are today: best friends, admiring, adoring, and in love.

I love you ever more, six years later.

*

Yours,

Kristen

Father’s Day is long gone, and I’m not obligated to write sappy, heartfelt letters when I write about Tim anymore.

Right?

Right.

(I kid, I kid.  I meant absolutely everything I said in that letter, and I wrote it under no sense of obligation.)

Nevertheless, when I wrote that letter, I did feel some sort of obligation not to mention anything that I’m about to mention in this post.  And soon, you’ll see why.

Oh yes.  You’ll see why.

Just…just take a look at this.

not fit for human consumption

This…thing…this…monstrosity is what greeted me in the kitchen one morning last week.

There it sat on the counter, looking like one of those encapsulated fetal pigs and sapping any appetite I had for breakfast that morning.  It was so grotesque, so organ-like in it’s shape and general squickiness.  Yes, it was in a glass, a receptacle generally used for consuming beverages, but this thing looked nothing like a consumable beverage.

And then I realized that it was whispering something to me–something audible only to me, in a voice that was sinister and mocking and little bit like Gollum’s:

“You knooooowwww that Tim is going to drink this, don’t you…?”

As soon as this realization hit me, I immediately began begging Tim–beseeching him in the name of all that was good, holy, and pure–not to drink the last crusted dregs of his Metamucil jar, dregs that were now so crusted over that they refused to dissolve in water like they were supposed to, dregs that had fallen in their entirety into his glass of water and were now offering up far more Metamucil than any one human being should ever consume in one sitting.

Nothing good could come of him consuming those dregs.  Nothing.

My supplications became frantic as I urged Tim to “please, please, PLEASE at least scrape out part of that…that thing so that you don’t drink all of it!!!  DO NOT.  DRINK.  ALL OF IT.  I’m begging you!!!”

But did my fair husband heed my distress cries?  Did he submit to my voice of love and reason?

No.  No, he did not.

People, I admire those who abide by the “waste not, want not” credo.  But sometimes–not all of the time, but every once in a while–it is a foolish, foolish credo by which to abide.

Tim drank/gnawed on the entire thing.

Fool that he is.

And two days later, the man whom I lovingly refer to as “the pooper in the woods” went into early labor.

Seriously, people.  I kid you not.  My brilliant-yet-obstinate husband began having radiating pains in his abdomen every five to ten minutes for an entire day.

As he described it, the sensation started in the middle of his gut and then intensifed outward toward his belly button.  And the pain, oh the pain!

The man had to stop in the middle of his “contractions” to focus on breathing through the intensity!

At first, we had forgotten about the Metamucil-fetal-pig-of-doom debacle.  (One often tries to block such unfortunate instances from one’s memory.)  In fact, we were this close to taking Tim to the hospital to make sure that he didn’t have appendicitis.  Or diverticulitis.  Or a surprise uterus in the throes of labor.

(Rest assured that we did consult a doctor just to confirm that Tim’s condition didn’t yet warrant a trip to the emergency room.)

But then we remembered–Tim drank all of that Metamucil!  That crusted over, undissolved Metamucil!  These pains are probably…OH MY GOD, THESE PAINS ARE BEING CAUSED BY A GIANT HUNK OF BERRY-FLAVORED FIBER CLOGGING HIS INTESTINES!!!”

But funny thing, that fiber.  It doesn’t clog for long.  Whooooo boy, it doesn’t clog for long.

And I don’t think I have to spell it out for you to know what that means.

Dear Tim,

I remember so clearly the diner table and chairs, the plates of falafel and hummus and gyros, and your face as I told you that we were going to be parents.  It was all shock and sweetness and love, and we giggled in disbelief and wonder for days.

in love

And you were the perfect expectant father right from the beginning.  The treks to gather late-night cravings (oh that glorious cheeseburger over which I shed tears of joy), the endless foot and back rubs, the preternatural patience.

The tenderness you showed me during my unexpected cesarean section.

The way you looked at our newborn son, like you had just laid eyes upon the world for the first time and it had shown you all and only that was good and warm and lovely.

You told me that I was doing “such an great job” breastfeeding, even as Miles and I fumbled to get that first, and second, and third latch.  You changed so many diapers, even (and especially) those ones in the middle of the night so that I could sleep until Miles was ready to nurse.

You held our baby skin-to-skin when nothing else would help him sleep.  You played and cooed and laughed with him.  You shared that marvelous and tiring adventure with me–we were a family.

And soon, it was hard to remember a time when you weren’t a father.

You were just so good at it.

father and son

Good enough to be a father of one more.

our strength and vulnerability

And you–you who could have been frightened or annoyed by all of those plans and preparations I made for our second child’s birth–you were my quiet and strong solace.

Always.  You’ve always been that for me.

And oh, how you didn’t disappoint when Alec was born.

You knelt beside us and lay your hand on our new baby’s back and cried with us both, and the world showed you that it had even more goodness, even more warmth, even more love than you ever thought possible.

And you took to fatherhood-of-two with nothing but grace.  Grace and humor and so much love for your baby boys, these beings we’ve grown with nothing but ourselves.

You are and always have been just so good at it.

father and son, take two

This thing we’ve done, this strange and exhausting and magical parenting journey we’ve taken together–it’s been all shock and sweetness and love and disbelief and wonder from the beginning.  And I’m so grateful that I get to keep doing it all with you.

I’m so grateful that our children get to keep doing it all with you.

my blessings

Happy Father’s Day.

Love,

Kristen