Welcome to the world, Little Bear!

I had been monitored for high blood pressure and possible pre-eclampsia for the last month, so when my results were unsatisfactory at my appointment Thursday, our son's birthday got moved up from June 10 to May 30. I was admitted to Swedish yesterday afternoon and given misoprostal to soften my cervix, and then was going to be given pitocin to stimulate labor, but I started contracting on my own, and was quite enamoured with the world after getting my epidural around 11 p.m.

I will write a longer birth story later when I have had more than three hours of sleep, but Chris and I are very proud to present Collin Jackson Chancellor, born May 30, 2009, at 9:51 a.m. He was 7 pounds, 13.4 ounces, and 19.5 inches long. He has dark blue eyes and curly brown hair. He has my lips and nose, and Chris' ears and head.

We are completely in love.


Being two weeks early, he ended up weighing less than predicted. The fact that he wasn't 10 pounds could very well be the best news I have ever gotten. (And look at me being a parent already and showing off embarrassing, naked photos of my child.)


Chris cutting the cord. He came out with it wrapped loosely around his neck.

Us with Dr. Daniel, who rescued me from hell by vacuuming Collin out. I was starting to worry he'd be going to college with his head between my legs.

Proud dad.

Proud mom, on 1.5 hours of sleep.

And yet Collin has no problems sleeping whatsoever.

The Catch-24

I have always been the kind of person that remembers arbitrary dates. I know when Chris and I went on our first date, when I graduated from high school and college, the birthdays of friends I haven't seen in a decade, and when I went on various vacations. Some of this can be attributed to my photographic memory, but some dates ... some dates, you just remember.

Today would have been my five-year anniversary at The Times.

Today also marks two years since I first went to Seattle OBGYN because I was having problems getting pregnant.

Today, I have no job, no prospects, and I'm so pregnant that I feel like I am about to tip over. (Seriously, Collin's head is so low that I keep expecting it to pop out and ask for a frappucino. Shock of shocks, my OB doesn't think I will make it to my due date.)

And for the first time in my adult life, I feel like I am truly flying without a safety net.

Type A people like control. They like routine. They like knowing what they're up against, and what they're striving for. And they're determined to succeed. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that most copy editors are Type A, myself included. I mean, think about it: We're paid to be totally anal-retentive, and get satisfaction from finding and fixing other people's mistakes.

And because there aren't a whole lot of AP Style errors to be found or headlines to be written while sitting on my couch, it also should come as no surprise that going on six months later, I still miss my job. Most people don't end up doing for a living what they proclaimed they were going to do at age 12. (If that were the case, the U.S. healthcare and legal systems would be in even worse trouble than they actually are.) I was immensely proud to work for The Times, and to get to be part of the ever-evolving business of gatekeeping.

Then the newspaper industry crumbled and killed my dream of being Lois Lane.

Fortunately, I have a new career, which currently involves frequent urination and insomnia, and will soon call for midnight feedings and Baby Bjorns. (Side note: We got one as a gift, and it still scares the hell out of me, so I have practiced walking with my Clark bear.) I have really enjoyed being able to prepare for Collin's arrival in a leisurely manner (and yes, that includes all the baking). It's been a surprise to both myself, and Chris, who didn't think I'd make it two weeks without having a nervous breakdown over being out of work.

I am completely terrified about childbirth, but I cannot wait to be Collin's mom. The prospect alone makes the impending pain worth it. (And we all know how I feel about pain.) It really hit me when Chris took me to the Space Needle a few weeks ago for dinner (hence the picture where I'm all dressed up, as opposed to my regular wardrobe of pajamas and slippers). It was a very sweet Mother's Day/thank you for having our baby present.

I got a Mother's Day present.

That means I am going to be someone's mother.

And that's what I mean about not having a safety net.

I knew how to be a journalist. For four and a half years, I woke up, put on high heels and pinstriped skirts, got in my car, drove to Seattle, walked into The Times and sat down at my desk to edit stories and write headlines. Motherhood isn't as cut-and-dry. I can't control what happens, and there's no guide to tell me the right answers for my child.

In short, Lois (or, for that matter, Superman) isn't going to help me here.

Fortunately, I have some great stand-ins. My own mom is pretty freaking fabulous (even if she refused to bring me a sprinkly donut yesterday; something about needing to eat healthy for the baby, hmph), and my sister-in-law is not only a great mom, but unfailingly answers my panicky questions about epidurals and baby sunblock.

And my work friends, once my mentors in writing A1 headlines and slotting, give me great advice and so much to look forward to (or not, in the case of Elouise, whose daughter will be of driving age soon). I am also lucky to have a cache of great girlfriends online, spread out across the globe, who are awesome as not only moms, but Disney-going aunts, too. I have learned so much from all of them, and I don't even have a child to apply it to yet.

Maybe I don't need a net.

And maybe, just maybe, I can figure out how to be a super mom, too.

35 weeks: Staying on the couch is safer

With a mere 34 days until Collin is scheduled to make his appearance, I have become a (very tired) moving target.

Everywhere I go, people ask when I am due, if I know what I am having, if it's my first child, and (my favorite) if I'm nervous. To recap: June 10, a boy on June 10, a boy on June 10 that will be our first child, and a boy on June 10 that will be our first child and is carrying on his father's family tradition of having a large head, so yes, as a matter of fact, I am nervous.

The irony, I have found, is that people seem to regard pregnant people with either interest (I choose to believe it's my sexy waddle that's so fascinating) or total disdain (probably because they can't waddle with such sexiness themselves). I hadn't really noticed this before because I don't go out much these days -- I spend most of my time trying to assemble baby gear, crying because I can't assemble the baby gear, and posing stuffed bears as test subjects in the baby gear after Chris comes home and rescues me from a meltdown and the baby gear from wherever I have attempted to hurl it. (I really hope Collin inherits his patience.)

Anyway, after spending most of the day napping and/or tidying up the house (more the former than the latter), I decided to run some errands this evening. I really wanted to stay home and watch "America's Next Top Model" on my couch (the only place I'm really comfortable, which is sad considering how much we spent on our next-generation, memory-foam blah blah blah mattress) but we were out of chocolate milk and grapes, so I had no choice but to leave the house. After all, it's for the good of the child.

And here's what I learned: Being extremely pregnant seems to give tacit permission for the general public to take notice of you (and your waddle). I can't just slink around anymore.

My first stop was Paper Zone to get more envelopes for my work shower thank-you notes. I stood at the cash register for about 10 years before a sales associate came strolling up, followed by a woman who had been asking her a question. The woman butted right in front of me and slapped her stack of (ugly yellow) paper down on the counter. Normally I wouldn't care that much, but I had been there forever and my back hurt (big shock), so I kind of half-turned and said, "I've been waiting." The woman looked me up and down (i.e. zoomed in on my pregnant form), sneered, and said, "So have I." Liar much? I was less than amused that not only did the associate ring her up first, but she continued to glower at me the entire time she was standing there.

From there, I headed off to Costco, where I cheered up a little upon being asked twice when I was due by very friendly (not glaring) employees, including one in produce who went out of his way to inquire as to whether my strawberries were fresh. However, I do have to admit that I feel pretty pathetic when I go to Bulkville these days -- since Chris is usually at work, I have to bring my mom (i.e. the same woman who has had a hip replacement and a double bypass) to lift anything over 10 pounds, which is pretty much everything except my beloved cans of pears and contact solution in a three-pack. And case in point, my entirely-too-nice mom came zooming down to meet me and assist in my loading of a case of vitamin water and 3 million baby wipes.

On the way home, I stopped at the Papa Murphy's by my house, which is not known for the most intelligent employees (most of them likely ate too much snowflake paste in kindergarten and now, in high school, have moved on to sniffing glue) and found out the special was a three-topping large for $10.99. It took me all of three seconds to remember that Chris wasn't home, so it would be just me and my pizza. Swoon. Anyway, I asked how much extra it would be to get a half-and-half option (what can I say; I'm pregnant and indecisive), and to my total surprise, the very nice kid making the pizzas said that while there is usually an extra charge, he could tell I was "a special person" (insert glance at my stomach) and he'd hook me up, and by the way, was I having a boy or a girl?

Now, several hours later, I'm full of fabulous pizza (and no, I did not eat it all; I shared with Chris when he got home) and a virgin margarita I made ... and promptly spilled a third of next to the couch, so in this case, a little irritation and a lot of pathetic goes a long way ... or at least in the direction of the kitchen.

Maybe I'll even miss it a little when my 34 days are up and I once more am walking like a normal human being.

:::looks down at lime juice seeping into the carpet:::

Or not.