Luck Be My Mother Tonight

My mom and dad are two of the most wholesome, decent, and down-to-earth people I know. It is these qualities that make their visits such a pleasure. They just left after a two-week visit where they met Baby A and doted on her and gave K and I some much-needed relief and support. My parents are also very "low-maintenance" guests--it really doesn't take much to entertain them. Cook a great meal, take a drive to the local DQ and spend the other 22 hours a day holding their new granddaughter and they are set. Well, at least that was the case for my dad. My mom, however, yearned for something more.

I live 20 minutes away from a casino, and my mom could smell it the moment she got off the plane. This facet of my mom's character comes as a bit of a surprise. You wouldn't expect my mom jean wearin' mom to have a lust for luck. This is, after all, a 63 year-old woman who just bought her first pair of black underwear six months ago on a "crazy" shopping impulse with her daughters. She showed me said underwear as she unpacked her suitcase, noting that she didn't wear them on the plane. God forbid something would happen and the emergency room staff would wonder what kind of whore-granny wears black underwear? This is also the same woman who had to be medicated to relax enough to drink out of the same glass as her kids because you never know what kind of infections her dirty little spawns carry around in their mouths. This is not a woman who leaves things to chance. And yet, she loves to play the slots. The penny slots, mind you, but a gambler all the same.

We were not 2 miles from the airport before my mom caught my eye in the rearview mirror and mouthed the words, "Are we going to the casino?" with a huge grin on her face. She had to mouth it because she knew she was taking a bigger risk than "put it all on black" by mentioning this pernicious activity in my dad's presence when they were supposed to be here to see their grandchild. My mom's love of gambling is a source of tension in their marriage. Not because she has ever bet the farm (she literally plays the penny slots), but because they have morally disparate views on games of chance. My dad's faith frowns on playing any games of chance--cards, gambling, the lottery--because of his church's doctrine on the value of work and the idea that you should not speculate on getting something for nothing. But, in the game of love that landed him married to a casino-loving Catholic, "Love thy wife" trumps their disagreement over gambling. So, on any trip where they are within an hour's drive of a casino, my dad follows my mom around the non-smoking slot machine area, standing just behind her like a Mafia heavy, counting the minutes until he can lure her to the buffet.

We made her wait a whole week before our first trip so she practically ran across the parking lot when we finally pulled up to the gaming resort. My dad rolled his eyes and settled in beside her for an afternoon of stoic loyalty. She took her $30 plus another $20 that she swindled from Dad and set to work milking the machines for all the pennies they were worth. Three hours later, she was up $40 after paying her bookie-husband back the $20 loan and had her fix for the moment. The next week was spent helping me spring clean, organize my kitchen cabinets washing baby clothes, and spending time with the baby. To the outside world she looked like an industrious grandma, puttering around and doing all the little things that would make life easier for her grad-student daughter. But I could sense her inner struggle. All the busy work was just like a smoker wearing the patch--it was helping her cope with her casino craving until the next trip.

It was mid-week before she began asking if it would be possible to go again, and I really wanted to make time to take her again because she had done an awful lot and really doesn't ask for much. As I looked at my calendar, however, it was hard to see where I would have time. She peered over my shoulder as I scanned my planner, thinking outloud,

"Let's see...I have class all morning Thursday, an all-day commitment Saturday....hmm...maybe Friday afternoon?"
(she was literally holding her breath at this point)
"No, darn it, Baby A's vaccinations are scheduled for that day."

And then it happened. I turned around and looked my mother in the eye. I knew what she was thinking. Her eyes were begging me to do what her mouth could not utter. I said, "Mom, you want me to reschedule my daughter's vaccinations from potentially life-threatining viruses so you can go to a casino?" She emphatically said, "No! No!" and then paused while we locked eyes for another second and I said, "I'll see what I can do but you know I already told Dad about the doctor's appointment." Fear registered in her eyes as she calculated the odds of looking like a bad granny. Calling upon my years of codependent behavior, I told her I would take care of it. I made a call and rescheduled the vaccination appointment for the following week, arranged a babysitter, and then casually mentioned to dad that I had rescheduled Baby A's shots for after they were gone so they wouldn't have to spend their last days with her being fussy and possibly sick.

That Friday, my mom and I hopped in the car, just the two of us, while K was at work and my dad stayed behind to do his laundry and begin packing for their departure two days later. I dropped her off at the slot machines and then settled in at the snack bar with my own addiction--a vente latte--to wait until she had another fix.

Ready or Not

I should have known the difference between wetting my bed and my water breaking, but I'm a first time mom, so bear with me on this one...

So, here I was, in the eighth month of my pregnancy, when I awoke with a start, feeling a gush of something hit the sheets. My first thought was, "Oh, great, now not only do I wet myself when I laugh or sneeze, but I am going to start wetting my bed?" Indeed, this little one inside of me had put such pressure on my bladder that I found myself answering with emphatic "YES" responses to the Flomax commercial on television just two days earlier:
"Do you urinate often?" Yes.
"Do you find yourself stopping and starting?" Yes.
"Does your need to urinate wake you up at night?" Yes!
I got excited, thinking that the pharmaceutical companies had finally come up with a magical cure for prenatal bladder pressure, when the voice over said, "...then you may be suffering from an enlarged prostate." Oh. So, back to my story...

I got up and made it to the toilet with what I thought was urine running down my leg. And then it hit me. This could be something else. I turned on the bathroom light, which woke up my husband and started the chain of events that would culminate in the birth of our daughter. But I was still in denial as K. said, "Are you ok?" Um...I think I wet the bed? K sat up in bed, asking frantically, "You wet the bed?" "Well, um...I'm not really sure..." to which he replied, "Oh, here we go..." I came back to bed, still wetting myself, when Kyle suggested that we call the hospital to find out what to do about this overactive bladder. I decided to go back to the bathroom while he scrambled for the phone number. The nurse listened to my story as I explained that I was 36 weeks pregnant and suffering from adult onset bed-wetting. She explained that this sounded like my water breaking and that I should come in. I scrambled to take a shower, wash my hair and shave my legs while K. packed a bag since we had not bothered to do that yet. He gathered a hodge-podge of mis-matched shirts and sweats, underwear, toothbrushes and the digital camera while I blow-styled my hair because you just never know who you might run into.

On the 15-minute drive to the hospital, K and I decided that we would take this "false alarm" to heart and really get serious about having a baby when we returned home. We would take stock of the nursery after my shower on the 1st and buy any remaining items we would need. We would pack our bag for real, with a focal point object, chap stick, soothing music...all the items the baby books suggested. And then, the doctor checked me and confirmed that this was not adult-onset bed wetting, but rather my water had broken and I needed to settle in. I responded the way any mother would when told that she was having a baby after just two hours of sleep and having eaten nothing more than popcorn for dinner the night before: I burst into tears.

Fortunately, I would have the next 25 hours to wrap my brain around the idea of motherhood and K. would embrace impending fatherhood by standing watch over his family with ice chips, popsicles, and juice, offering back rubs and encouragement in between catching a few moments of sleep. He was a trooper, only complaining once of his "aching back," from attempting to sleep on the hard sofa bed before I stopped him, pointing out that if you have a penis in a labor and delivery ward, you don't get to complain of an aching back.

As I mentioned before, we forgot to pack a focal point object, but it turned out that I obsessed over Kyle's mismatched outfit instead. Why was he wearing a powder blue tee shirt with paint stains and black sweatpants? Couldn't he call his mother to bring him a clean shirt? How about a white tee shirt? Why don't you go change your shirt before it's time to push? Wouldn't you be more comfortable in a matching shirt? And it worked! Nagging my husband about his shirt served to distract me for a good six hours before giving in and asking for an epidural.

Finally, as the clock struck midnight, the doctor informed me that it was finally time to push. A team of nurses, OB/GYNs, and pediatricians assembled to welcome little A into the world. The nurse asked me if I wanted a mirror to see the action but I politely declined, explaining how I fainted at the vet's office when my dog had to have his blood drawn, so I was not at all keen on seeing what I overheard a resident calling, "trauma to my bottom." And so I pushed blindly, holding K's hand and working harder than I ever thought possible to see that little face. And my Mormon-Catholic hybrid child-bearing roots did not fail me; it wasn't long before I pushed one last time, heard a shrill cry, and met my little girl. This was followed by a wave of nausea as I lost all those popsicles and jello at once.

K stayed with little A while the doctors worked on repairing the aforementioned trauma to my bottom. Seeing my daughter's face for the first time was beautiful, surreal, and exciting all at once. I will never forget the moment I added "mother" to my identity. Stay tuned for what it all means!

Jimmy Choo Never Had Edema

Current members of the "mom club" warned me these days--the third trimester--were coming, but I was in denial. For the first few months of my pregnancy, 24-hour nausea and a chronic case of narcolepsy reminded me that little A was swimming around in my womb. Then, the blissful second trimester honeymoon began. My nausea was replaced with a penchant for iceberg lettuce and fettucini, a bigger cup size, and a respectable little baby bump to justify my first maternity jeans--cute, boot-cut denim with an elastic band below my belly. At my 25 week check-up, I had gained just 16 pounds. Perfect. And then it happened: I entered the third trimester. Or, what I like to call the official kick-off of Mommy Martyrdom. Those cute under-the-belly elastic jeans fell down halfway to the bus stop as they no longer had anything resembling a hip to grab, and I began to walk like an old sway-back mare. And then came the ankles. Or, more accurate: There went my ankles. 

Mid-Blog Disclaimer: I know this is a silly thing in the grand scheme of things, and that I have been incredibly blessed in the fertility and pregnancy department, but shoes are important. They say something about a woman. Regularly polished and scuff-free,a pair of quality loafers or heels says, "I have my shit together." And, no matter what size we are, we can buy a new pair of heels and feel fabulous, put together, and just generally on it. 

New Year's Eve, I got dressed up in my most festive maternity digs, blow-styled my hair, lined my lips, and accessorized before putting on my shoes and heading out for our last New Year's Eve celebration sans children. As I stood at my closet, I felt like Coleridge's ancient sailor in "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," a sea of shiny leather boots, peep-toe pumps, kitten heels, and sequined slides surrounded me. I couldn't bend over to reach my black leather Franco Sarto ankle boots, much less fit them over my foot. But I wanted to try, so I called for reinforcements, aka my husband, who had just slipped into his cool Steve Maddens. 

He walked in, took one look at me and then my closet floor and knew that he had encountered what he likes to call a "blue wire/red wire" scenario. There would be no right answer to my question, "Honey, can you help me with my shoes?" So, he did what any good partner does for a third-trimester woman. He reached down and picked up the boots while I laid on the bed with my swollen ankles in the air. "Well, let's give it a try," he said, just before he placed the boot on my big toe. That's as far as it went. My big toe. He looked at me pleadingly as I began to cry and recited in a barely audible whisper, "Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink..." He slowly removed the hip pre-baby boot from my toe, reached for my clunky slip-on clogs, and said, "Tomorrow we'll go buy you new shoes to get you through and before you know it you'll be back in boots and  heels." He also threw in some compliments about my sparkly maternity wear and said I smelled fabulous. Crisis averted.

We had a great time on New Year's Eve, stayed up until 1:00 celebrating with friends and then came home and kicked off our shoes. And, true to his word, K took me shoe shopping the next day, detouring me from the bright and shiny, pointy heel shoe displays and saying all the right things, like, "those aren't so bad" as he laced up my new, size 9, fashion-athletic sneakers. I realized just how cramped my poor edema-ridden ankles had been in my vain attempt to keep wearing size 7. I felt like I could walk a mile! Or, at least to the parking lot.

Shopping List

A few nights ago I casually mentioned to K. that I was going to run to the grocery store to pick up a few essentials. Winter had arrived with a vengeance in Iowa City, with sub-zero wind chill, ice and snow. K. immediately objected to me going out in the snow and ice, fearing for the ever-growing cargo I am packing around in my 7-month womb. His offer was kind, even chivalrous, but sending K. to the grocery store unattended is like opening a box of chocolates a'la Forrest Gump--you never know what you're going to get.
I gave him my four-item list, stressing that this was just what we needed for the morning:
1 gal. milk
Orange juice
Fiber One Cereal
blueberries if less than $3; otherwise, a bunch of bananas

40 minutes and three-phone calls from the cereal aisle later, he arrived home with a face as proud as a cat who has just left a dead mouse on the doorstep. Look what I did! I shopped! The contents of the bag included:
1 gal. milk
1 pt. chocolate milk
Orange juice
Fiber One cereal
1 doz. Rhodes frozen orange cream cinnamon rolls
1 bag Totino's Pizza Rolls
Generic Fruit Loops

and...1 dozen roses. Needless to say, the pizza rolls were instantly forgiven.

On the spot

Now that I am in my third trimester, I have become the subject of public curiosity. Random people make comments about my new stature, mere acquaintances have opinions on how much is too much coffee for my unborn child to withstand, and sometimes, a particularly annoying person will say something at just the wrong time. This happened today, as I was waiting to use the bathroom at Starbucks (where I was consuming my 1 serving of doctor-approved caffeine for the day):

Random person with no social boundaries (referring to my mid-section): "Wow, looks like you've been busy!"
Me (pointing to my mid-section): "This? Oh, it took like ten minutes."

Inner monologue: "Sorry dude, this isn't an iVillage moment; it's finals week, I need coffee, and I have to pee."

Big Girls, Little Girls

Heather from Dooce, one of my favorite bloggers, wrote this to her daughter about their upcoming addition to the family and it made me think of my sisters. She writes,

"Mostly, I am excited that this baby will have you as an older sister...I can only hope that you will have with this one what I have with my own, a bond so strong that it doesn't even matter that we have nothing but our parents in common. They are lifelines, people who were there, who were witnesses to everything that made me who I am, and I am the same for them in return. Is the relationship perfect? No, but we all know that we would sacrifice anything for each other, and one of the many reasons we decided to have another child was to give you the possibility of that friendship."

I immediately thought of my three sisters. The four of us are dubbed "The Big Girls" and "The Little Girls" because of our range in age. We are all so different, yet I cannot imagine any other combination. Next week they will all be together in Oregon for Christmas. They will gather in the house where we grew up, where it will be loud and comfortable, with little cousins spilling over the arms of my dad's Lazy Boy recliner. I will be here in Iowa, nesting and setting up the nursery for Baby A. Even though I know I'll have my hands full with one baby, moments like this make me hope she gets to be a sister someday.

Poultry Porn

Last night, as my husband browsed the Internet for turkey preparation techniques, he came across this video on Epicurious (our favorite cooking website). So there we were, just your average couple watching an online cooking demonstration, when the woman began to slather soft butter along the inside thigh of a turkey. Now, call us sophomoric, but pay close attention when you get about 34 seconds in and tell me you don't feel just a little bit naughty and giggly. We looked at each other, and then looked behind us to make sure the shades were pulled, lest some unsuspecting neighbor peek in and see our poultry pornography. 

Needless to say, we've replayed it about 57 times, and dissolve into fits of tenth grade laughter every time as she caresses the inner drumstick. Gobble Gobble!