Season of Love ...

It's been a long, emotional, wonderful day. It's hard to believe that it has been a year since Collin Jackson came into this world, forever changing our lives. I will write about his party in a day or two -- when I have had more sleep, and my sink isn't full of every piece of bakeware I own -- but I will say that it is the greatest honor of my life to be this child's mother. I have loved every minute of watching him learn and grow in his first year, and look forward to what his second year brings.

Here's a look back at Collin's first year, month by month.

Birth day

0 months

1 month
2 months
3 months

4 months

5 months

6 months

7 months

8 months

9 months

10 months

11 months

12 months

The circle of (social) life …

These days, I barely recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Sure, it’s the same old me, albeit with a recent haircut and a few more stretch marks, but I’m not the same person I once was. And I don’t just mean the fact that I’m no longer a journalist. My life is different, and I have been thinking a lot about its evolution lately. And while it isn’t always easy to admit these self-truths, there’s no point in telling it like it is if you aren’t willing to tell yourself.

In short, this is one of those posts that I am writing primarily to get my feelings out on paper. Even if I am so far behind on blogging that it's still Fall 2009. I am hoping to be caught up by the end of the month ... or the decade.

While I was in Hawaii, I read an awesome book published last year (“Look Again,” by Lisa Scottoline) which had a subplot dealing with newspaper layoffs. (Ironically, one of their displaced reporters found a job at The Times. As in the family-owned newspaper since 1896 that screwed me over in 2008. I seriously laughed out loud.) Among other things, the author really hit the nail on the head about post-mortem friendships.

See, here’s the thing: In my four and a half years at The Times, my social circle largely revolved around my job. Sure, I had other friends, but they were spread out all over the country. The closest was several hours away in Eastern Washington. So when it came to celebrating birthdays or going out for lunch or a drink, I didn’t have to look any farther than the other side of the aisle.

But, as the book so aptly surmises, once someone leaves, especially in a tense layoff situation, there are promises of how you’ll stay in touch, how you’ll meet for lunch, how you’ll still be great friends … and then reality sets in. That first time you get together with your work friends, it’s awkward for them since you no longer work there, and it’s awkward for you since that universe no longer includes you.

Bottom line: They’re writing the news and you’re reading it.

So, slowly, you start to drift apart. No one is to blame – it’s just the way things are. You don’t call them; they don’t call you. You send a Christmas card and don’t receive one in return. In some cases you shrug it off or chalk it up to busy schedules and lifestyle changes; in others, you’re stung that what you thought was a close friendship was really just based around work, and once the work was gone, so was the friendship. And that very well could evolve into being pretty pissed that you helped someone move and worked Christmas for them so they could be with THEIR child, and they never even bothered to come see yours after he was born.

After all, you have other (non-work) friends who don’t seem to have a shred of interest in your life, either. Maybe I have some sense of entitlement, but I don’t think it’s so hard to send a card – or at least respond to an E-mail – when someone that you are allegedly close to/have a shared history with tells you that they had a baby. Or maybe I’m just TOO NICE – considering I just laid there and took it when someone I considered a close friend told me she doesn’t “prefer” pregnant people or those with children – because of her own issues – and stopped speaking to me. Way to make everything about you; don’t let the screen door (or should that be shower door?) hit you on the way out.

It’s easier to leave the past in the past. Or is it?

Sometimes, you can’t help but let things fester.

But then you realize that you have a new life – and the ability to make new friends.

Don't get me wrong - I have some wonderful, loyal friends, and I am not discounting them whatsoever. But you can't grab a quick bite to eat with someone in Florida, or hit the Nordstrom sale with someone in California. I'd have a whole lot more frequent-flier miles - and a whole lot more debt - if I did that.

I have talked before about how it has been so nice to meet other moms through The Bump, but it has evolved into so much more than just having a sounding board of women with children in Collin’s age group to discuss teething and birthday smash cakes.

And here is a big way I am not like Lois Lane: I am capable of being friends with other women. I don’t see everyone with ovaries as competition.

Except maybe when it comes to Happy Hour. And I lose every time. It’s highly likely that on any occasion, I am still sipping on drink No. 1 while other people who shall not be named are knocking back their second … third … fourth.

But back to my point.

When my journalism career went down in flames, it took other elements of my life with it. So I am eternally grateful to the women who invited me to playdates and lunches, and made me feel so welcome. Being a stay-at-home mom can be lonely at times – and I am already at the disadvantage of living so far south I may as well be in Oregon. If only we’d bought that Lake Stevens house … we’d be living in a cardboard box on the side of the road. But hey, at least we’d have people to bring us dinner in our box.

Still, I am the resident couponing goddess of the group – even if they do just want me for my truffles. ;)

It’s nice to have some new friends – and things to look forward to.

To have a reason to go up to Seattle that doesn’t involve doctor’s offices or arbitration.

To have a sense of belonging.

Oh yeah, and the trips to Bellevue Square don’t hurt, either.

There was a time in my life when I thought all I needed was my career. Turns out I was wrong.

Good friends – and good cheesecake – are necessary to stay sane.

And that’s the truth.

The end of the innocence ...

"Toward the end of eighth grade, students from the high school came to talk to us about the electives and classes we could take. When I raised my hand and asked about the school paper, the most popular guy in the eighth grade -- and anyone who remembers junior high knows that those guys think they're SO funny -- turned around and said, 'Oh, does Jennifer want to be Lois Lane?' I looked him dead in the eye and replied, "No. I'm GOING to be Lois Lane." -- Dec. 11, 2008

It has been 388 days since I called myself an employee of The Seattle Times. And no, I am not keeping track -- I used an online calculator. Ironically, the Jenn that walked out the door on that cold December night would have known exactly how long it had been since she left what at the time seemed like paradise -- down to the hour.

But that woman doesn't exist anymore.

And while in some ways, it seems like yesterday that I told that story about junior high in my speech at our company farewell ceremony, I stopped counting long ago.

One thing hasn't changed, though: I still love journalism.

Truthfully, I still miss my job. Every single day. After all, it's what I spent my life working toward.

It's why I'll cover swim meets on three hours of sleep after arriving home from Florida two hours earlier and it's why I jump at the chance to do editing projects for friends and family.

The thing is, though, I don't miss driving home from Seattle in the middle of the night, I don't miss the office politics (i.e. co-workers who stole food, chomped rather than chewed, and rode The Bitter Bus), and I certainly don't miss the constant fear of the newspaper industry crumbling. I've experienced it firsthand -- and I survived.

My days are now filled with teething and attempts at crawling, baking and folding, playdates and shopping trips that usually result in me frantically trying to find a missing sock somewhere in the maze of racks. My job is now being a mom -- and that won't change once I go back to work, whenever and wherever that may be.

Sure, I have moments where I miss the thrill of the chase and being part of the ever-evolving industry. There was no shortage of news in the last few months of the year, and for the first time in my adult life, I was nothing more than an observer. I watched the news and read the paper, and took some solace in the fact that my beloved Newsline would have been knocked off the front page, anyway, in the face of breaking news.

My attitude had shifted -- and then came December 15.

At 6:30 a.m., a time of day I have not been on good terms with since high school, I found myself all dressed up and navigating the icy freeway to Seattle.

This was the day I had both looked forward to and totally dreaded, the day when I would face my former employers in a legal setting. When I gave my consent for the Pacific Northwest Newspaper Guild to file a grievance on my behalf for being laid off out of seniority order, things were different. Very different. I was pregnant, facing the loss of a large chunk of our household income and medical insurance, and in shock that I had basically sold my soul to The Seattle Times for four and a half years -- and was cast aside without a second thought.

To make it clear, I don't regret opting to go to arbitration -- not one bit. I wanted, and still want my job back. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn't rattled at the thought of facing my mentor on the other side of the table. Even after everything, part of me worried that it would seem like I was saying "thanks for hiring me right out of college for my dream job; see you in court." Still, the reality was that I had been groomed to be a desk editor, and received nothing but good reviews, and I was going to have to hear that I was, in fact, not an asset to The Seattle Times -- past, present or future.

It would have been the equivalent of Perry White borrowing one of The Daily Planet's cars, running Lois Lane over, and then backing up and doing it again and again, until she was so bloody and battered that she was better off dead. I couldn't imagine what would be left of my journalism career by the end of the day. And what if I started to believe what they were saying?

It's safe to say that my queasiness far outweighed my optimism. I was so flustered even seeing The Times' contingent that morning that I knocked my water bottle into my purse, destroying my digital camera. And by the time their first witness, the paper's executive editor, started speaking about the state of the industry, I was concentrating on keeping my latte down.

So I was 100 percent willing to listen to my lawyer's proposed deal when he called for a break and pulled me into the hallway of the fabulously swanky -- and scary as hell -- offices of Davis Wright Tremaine. Would I be willing to settle for an extended recall? Absolutely. After all, I didn't do this for money -- I did it for love. I loved my job, I loved working for The Seattle Times, and I loved journalism. Like I said, some things never change.

There is no guarantee that I will get my job back, but as per the terms of my settlement, for the next six months, if a fillable desk-editor position opens, I get it, no questions asked.

I have been asked by several people why on earth I would even WANT to go back if the option becomes available, but to me, the answer is plain and simple. It's not about vindication, or money, or because I have yet to find another job.

I'm not done being Lois Lane.

Cheesecake in paradise ...

I often reference a favorite quote of mine -- the one that talks about how once you choose a road, you can't go back, so there's no sense in regretting. And while there are some things I most definitely regret about my involvement with the Lois & Clark fandom (see: Schramm, Sue; Tang; Williams, Holly; #lanekent; Burbank Holiday Inn), one thing I have never regretted is my initial foray into IRC one rainy night back in April 2007.

In the middle of all of that crazy, I met some of my closest friends. And while they live in all corners of the Earth -- from exotic Hong Kong to, uh, exotic Kansas, these women have become my sounding board, my entertainment and at times, my conscience.

And I credit that night back in 2007 for what, more than two years later, birthed the great idea to pack up my 4-month-old and take him to Florida this fall. Collin had never been on a plane, so why not take him as far away as we could possibly go without leaving the country -- and alone, no less? I am pretty sure that my entire family and anyone who has ever flown with a child thought I was suffering from some form of postpartum insanity, but I was going on vacation, come hell or swamp water.

Known to everyone else as Lauren, my dear (hanging) Chad, was one of the first people I ever talked to on IRC. She says I was talking about making quesadillas for a work party on her first night in there, which sounds about right. (She probably remembers this because they are one of the few things she will eat without complaint.) The things we had in common -- being two Republican women of the same age who looooved L&C -- far outweighed our differences -- i.e. her love of Anne of Green Gables and pirates and my passion for exotic foods and nfic -- made us fast friends.

Lauren is the first person I told when Collin was born. She's THAT important, and she'll tell you as much. ;) So I really, really wanted my son to meet his Auntie Chad. And uh, yeah, the fact that she lives in a warm climate didn't hurt, either.

So, on Oct. 4, away we went on our 6-day vacation. (See how far behind I am!?) The last thing Chris said to me as I rolled my stroller down the jetway with Collin strapped into the Baby Bjorn was a highly amused, "Good luck!" And as I settled into my seat, I asked myself: Am I crazy?!? Not to be going to see Lauren, since we had already met twice (in L.A. in July 2008 and when she came for my baby shower in March 2009) but because I was about to embark upon a cross-country flight with a baby and NO ONE to help me.

Well, I shouldn't have worried, because Collin was a total rockstar. He made friends with all of our seatmates, as well as the entire flight crew on my first flight, from Seattle to Houston, and only cried briefly on the last leg, from Houston to Fort Myers, because he decided to expel two days worth of poo during takeoff. He slept and nursed like a champ. And once we arrived, it was like summer had come back.

October in Seattle isn't cold, per se, but it isn't warm, either. But October in Southwest Florida ... well, it averaged about 101 degrees while I was there -- and there were no complaints from either of us.

Lauren and her family were wonderful hosts and I felt so welcome in their home. They didn't bat an eyelash at my little Whambulance (given how late I go to bed, the time change didn't bug him so much as not having Daddy to sleep against, but he adapted relatively well) and her mom makes the best stuffed grape leaves ever. It was so nice to be able to relax and let someone else be in charge of the vacation, and just kind of float around.

During my six days there, we toured adorable, tiny Matlacha, visited the pier in Naples, where Collin and I stuck our feet in the Gulf of Mexico, ate everything from Mahi Mahi in a macadamia nut cream sauce to key lime ice cream (well, I did; he stuck with formula and breastmilk) and went shopping. I got to hear Lauren sing at church, which I admit made me cry, and meet the nieces and nephew I had heard so much about. It was a real treat to see the everyday life of one of my closest friends, just as she, Kate and Stephanie did when they visited me. (And speaking of, I have still yet to reupholster the dining-room chairs.)

And even more special was that I got to share this journey with Collin. I got to see our trip through his eyes -- the amazement of feeling the sand under his feet and the excitement of going in a pool for the first time. Considering he's somewhat lukewarm about bathtime, I had no idea he would be such a water baby, and it absolutely thrilled me, both as a mother and as a former swimmer. I don't think I had ever seen such genuine thrill.

I am sure that there will be many vacations to come, but this one will always be special.

It was, by far, one of the highlights of my year, and as I sit here writing about it on a cold January night, wearing flannel pajamas and wrapped up in a big fleece blanket, I can't help but wish Superman was real so he could fly me back there.

I'd even settle for something in the low 70s right about now.

A new year has come ...

So it's now the fifth day of January and I have (technically) already broken one of my resolutions. However, upon further consideration, I decided it is not feasible to blog every. single. day. Therefore, I am amending my resolution to blog every day for the rest of this week, and then at least once a week for the rest of the year. There. Done. It's in writing.

I have SO much to catch up on that it's pathetic -- well, beyond pathetic, really, when you consider that I have yet to get past the month of September. :::glares at Christy for suggesting it be renamed The Monthly Pinky::: So I am going to spend the rest of this week playing catch-up, if only so I have the memories down on "paper" to go back and read later. Ironically, I have so much more to write about now, and yet no time to actually do it.

Being a parent is time-consuming. Go figure.

I am not usually one to make resolutions. Actually, that's not true. I always resolve to go on a diet, and then by January 2, I have discovered we have leftover fudge/cookies/truffles and poof, resolution gone and waistline expanding. Last year, I used pregnancy as an excuse to not make my annual weight-loss resolution (especially when you consider that I was still throwing up every day at that point and would have vastly preferred to gain weight.)

But this year, I am taking a different approach. I am not looking at resolutions so much as keep-or-break, but more as helping me stay on track. I always figured if I was a stay-at-home mom/housewife, I would have tons of time to get things done, and bake muffins and iron Chris' shirts. Well ... I do bake, but it's usually at very random times of the day. (I maintain there is something to be said for going to bed in a house that smells like banana bread or scones.) And as for the ironing, let's be realistic -- it's called permanent press in the dryer, or, if I am feeling really fancy, the dry cleaner. And said dryer is usually going around 2 a.m. (like now.)

Bottom line: Most of the time, there aren't enough hours in the day to get everything done. And while I have come to accept this, it doesn't particularly thrill me, and I usually end up annoyed that I didn't finish some task. (You can take the girl out of the newsroom, but you can't take the deadline-or-death newsroom attitude out of the girl.) So I am treating my new year's resolutions as a general rule for what I need to get done, whether it be in a day, a month or over the course of the year.

My first resolution is to do something household oriented every day -- and I don't mean the laundry and the dishes, which I consider everyday tasks. I am talking about running errands (i.e. taking those aforementioned shirts to the dry cleaner or mailing packages), grocery shopping, or doing some form of organization. It took us more than four years to finish unpacking our house (before we had to make space for the nursery, our (now) guest room/home office was stacks of boxes and old clothes hidden away by a closed door) and there is still plenty to be done since we focused on getting the rooms cleared out rather than organizing the stuff we moved.

Therefore, by the time spring rolls around, I would like every closet and cabinet in this house to be organized, and I have kicked off my project in our bedroom. The last two nights have been spent cleaning out our closet and dresser. I am not even finished and have already filled an entire garbage bag. Becoming a mom was the wake-up call that I needed that no matter how much I spent on them, I am never again going to wear that purple glitter halter top or those pink cargo pants. Goodbye, college clothes. Goodbye, anything from Abercrombie & Fitch and American Eagle. And goodbye, at least a third of Chris' sock collection. Seriously, when the drawer is too full to close, you don't need any more socks. Ever.

My second resolution is to get some form of exercise every day, even if it just involves dancing around while I fold the laundry. I am going to get a Wii Fit, and am hoping to go swim at my old high school during adult swim on occasional evenings. I figure this is more feasible than just saying I am going on a diet and then feeling guilty if I have a cookie. I enjoy cooking and baking far too much to restrict myself to celery and brown rice.

If I eat healthy all day, I don't have to put in as much effort, but if I want to eat something bad (i.e. carbs, carbs and more carbs), I have to work for it. I have a feeling it will make me think long and hard before I bite into a cookie if it's 10 p.m. and I have no inclination to go turn on the treadmill. Attitude is everything.

And my last resolution -- this is more of a family resolution -- is to evict Collin from our room. Once upon a time, I said my child would never sleep in my bedroom. And yet, somehow, that turned into six weeks ... and six months ... and now we're heading toward eight months. I need sleep. We all do. And when you combine two adults who snore and talk in their sleep (see, Chris, I am admitting I snore. Aren't you proud?!) and a restless infant who moves around a ton and wakes up at random times to talk to himself, well, the only ones getting a good night's sleep are the cats.

So as soon as we do some paint touch-ups, Collin will be moving next door. He has a gorgeous room with a very comfortable crib mattress and plenty of stuffed bears to keep him company. He is more than welcome to tell them how poorly his mommy is doing on her diet. I admit moving him is somewhat bittersweet as I feel so much better knowing he's close by and that I can check on him throughout the night, but at the same time, that has become a bad habit.

It won't be easy, though. I can already tell I'm going to need some form of pie, and according to my calculations, I only have to run about 300 miles to make up for it.

And they say resolutions aren't doable.

Apparently I’m not the only one who is losing their hair …

This just may be the most important thing I have taken away from meeting other moms.

Seriously, I am starting to worry that I will be bald by my 30th birthday. I have always shed a fair amount of hair all over the bathroom sink as a result of my flatironing regime, but since having Collin, it’s everywhere.

But it wasn’t until I was at a Halloween-themed playdate that I found out that I am not alone.

One thing about being a stay-at-home mom is that it can be somewhat isolating. Let’s be realistic – a conversation is only going to go so far when the other person can only say “ah goo” and “ah gee” – and spits up on you while you’re talking. (Collin is a fabulous shopping buddy, though; he never questions my spending or tells me I look fat when I try clothes on.)

I do have some mom friends, but most of them are in other states – or other countries, in one case – so while I can talk to them on the phone or online, playdates are kind of out of the question. And, truthfully, I don’t have a lot of people to hang out with around here, anyway. I spent four and a half years working five nights a week, including Saturdays – and seem to have lost all of my friends along with my job. Journalism, it turns out, isn’t exactly conducive to having a social life.

But I wasn’t willing to become a desperate housewife. Not just yet, anyway.

I have considered joining a moms group, such as MOPS, but the closest one is at my childhood church, and if I were to go to one at a church, I’d like it to be the one we (theoretically) attend now, and there isn’t a chapter there. Besides, anyone who knows me is fully aware that I am not a morning person, and if I have to be somewhere before 10 a.m., I am either going to be late or half-awake (or more likely late from stopping at Starbucks because I was half-awake).

And honestly, I don’t know if I am the structured-group type. For being outgoing, I consider myself a fairly introverted person, and I would rather be social on my own terms and time. And that’s where the good ol' Internet comes in.

Back in 2004, when I was planning my wedding, I spent hours and hours on The Knot’s message boards conversing with other women having destination weddings. We dissected everything from save-the-dates (very cool) to tears-of-joy packets (very not). I loved having a social outlet while I was stuck in the newsroom all day (only on breaks, people; I do have some semblance of a work ethic when it comes to something other than cleaning up all the hair in my bathroom). After all, who better to incessantly discuss wedding planning with than other brides?

Shortly before I got married, The Nest was launched, and once I returned from my honeymoon, I moved over with several other newlyweds. But here’s the thing – once you no longer have the common ground of planning a wedding, things can become a whole lot more awkward. The A-listers on Hawaii board had already been married for a couple of years, and several of them were now embarking on motherhood.

Faster than a speeding Baby Bjorn, I, too, was looking at nursery bedding and strollers – but I wasn’t pregnant. And my enthusiasm wasn’t exactly welcome given that, unbeknownst to me, several of the women on the board were dealing with fertility problems. I went from being an alpha bride on The Knot to the girl no one wanted to sit with at lunch. A few Nesties were kind to me (and I still keep up with them on Facebook), but others were downright nasty, to the point that they gave me an “I told you so” after my miscarriage.

It was a huge reality check. Why was I spending time getting upset about what strangers – people I would never meet – thought?

And with that thought in mind, I was gone.

Still, I would occasionally look at infertility boards, so once I was pregnant again, I moved over to The Bump, and cautiously began posting on the trimester boards – usually questions pertaining to morning sickness or baby gear.

And finally, about 100 years after I should have, I found the Seattle board. In retrospect, I should have moved over to that board to begin with, because it would have been so nice to go through pregnancy with other women due around the same time and delivering at the same hospital. Fortunately, I “knew” a few women from doing a story on destination weddings for The Times back in 2005, and from asking an occasional question on The Knot, but other than that, I was worried I would be ostracized like I was on the Hawaii Nest.

Fortunately, I didn’t have anything to worry about. The women on the Seattle board were wonderful, and once I got my bearings and started posting more, I felt welcomed by the group. Sure, there are a few prickly people, but the majority of the posters are bright, funny, interesting women. And just as it was on The Knot, it was sooooo nice to be able to talk to other women dealing with similar issues. But instead of hunting for bridesmaids dresses and debating shower ettiquite, it’s stroller shopping and discussing cold remedies for breastfeeding moms. (Sadly, Nyquil, which I used to chug by the gallon, is not on the list. Neither is tequila.)

Since I have started “bumping,” I have gotten to know some great women. Katie has my dream job – she does editing from home – and Justine and Keren are amazing photographers. Jen makes the cutest blinged-out pacifier clips (Collin has a Cougar one, of course) and Keren makes fabulous nursing covers like the one my dear child spent the flight to Florida trying to eat. (Seriously, if you need professional photos, bling or to keep your boobs under cover, check out their sites, hyperlinked for your convenience.)

In the last few months, I have stepped out of my little pink box – and been on playdates, out to eat, to shop … and it has been absolutely wonderful. It makes being at home that much easier – and Collin gets to interact with/stare at/drool on other kids in his age group.

And, if for nothing else, I get reassurance that I’m not the only one going bald.

Caped crusaders need not apply …

I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Being a mom is hard.

Sure, people say breastfeeding is hard. Or getting your child to sleep through the night is hard. Or going back to work is hard.

But when it comes to the little everyday things … Well, it’s a lot easier to focus on the cute baby in a cute outfit doing cute things and not even realize that an hour ago, that same baby refused to take a nap, spit up and pooped all over his first outfit on the way out the door, and currently has hold of Mommy’s favorite Tiffany necklace – while it’s around her neck – and is trying to choke her to death.

Being a mom is a full-time job. And I love that job. (I mean seriously, look at how cute my kid is!) But children are unpredictable, and you have to roll with the punches, or, in Collin’s case, the scratches. (He is into “petting” me when he nurses, and considering he uses his nails to do it, I am not such a fan.) So, as hard as it is for a perfectionist like myself to admit, I now see that there is no such thing as a supermom.

Sure, there are super moms, but there is no caped superhero out there fighting for truth, justice and two-hour naps – and prevailing.

Take nursing for example. As I have mentioned previously, to call it a challenge would be an understatement – but I have a whole new set of problems now. When I started taking Fenugreek to boost my milk supply, I was skeptical that it would actually work. I figured I’d take it for a few weeks, get tired of smelling like maple syrup, and go back to sighing heavily as I tried to pump more than two ounces at a time. Imagine my surprise when my supply did go up. It’s still not the most copious, nor do I think it ever will be, but it’s enough that I was able to feed Collin satisfactorily – until he went on a huge growth spurt and started needing about 20 ounces of formula on top of what I was giving him.

At times, I have felt like a huge failure for not being able to produce enough milk to feed my child, but the rational part of me commends myself for even trying.

After all, I don’t even like syrup that much. I'm weird and put PB&J on my pancakes.

One thing about Fenugreek is that you have to keep up on feeding and/or pumping. I’m not usually away from Collin for more than an hour or two, and I have a nice pump, so no big deal, right?

Well, I didn’t count on my batteries dying after about two seconds when we were at the WSU-Hawaii game at Qwest Field last month – and Collin was 40 miles away at my mom’s house. I diligently packed and dragged my pump up there, popped my second daily dose of Fenugreek around halftime, and went off to pump at the beginning of the fourth quarter.

Oh. My. God. I have not been in that much pain since giving birth. I was engorged, and the Fenugreek wasn’t helping matters whatsoever. Oh, the irony -- I was now in agony because I was actually producing milk. I inquired about batteries at the first aid booth – nothing like hearing the word “engorged” blare over police walkie-talkies and knowing they’re referring to you for a little dose of humility – but there wasn’t a double-A to be found in the vicinity.

I ended up having to hand-express some of the milk in the first-aid room’s bathroom, and it was about as horrible as it sounds. It didn’t get the job done, and me and my funbags had to ride the train back to Tukwila and then drive home – all the while listening to Chris and my father-in-law recap every pathetic moment of the game.

Lesson learned: Never leave the house again. At least not until I buy some Energizer stock.

Another area where we have dealt with challenges is sleep. In Collin’s
3-month update, I mentioned that he was steadfastly refusing to vacate our bed. Well, about a week later, he decided he’d rather be in his pack-and-play, and has been sleeping there ever since. My personal theory is that he got tired of Chris snoring in his ear. Everyone has been sleeping so much better since the number of inhabitants in our bed was reduced to two.

And then comes 7 a.m.

The basic gist is that he wakes up, decides he wants company, and cries until he is returned to the memory-foam palace, where he promptly goes back to sleep.

Now, I realize that most normal people are up at 7
a.m. But for those of us who go to bed at 2 or 3, I don’t want to see anyone, and I mean anyone, at that time of day. Dean Cain (circa 1996) could be standing there in a tux, holding a dozen roses and a Pulitzer with my name on it, and I’d still ask him to come back in a couple of hours.

Granted, with the exception of those few minutes, Collin sleeps from about 2 a.m. until 10 or 10:30 a.m., but as with most of his battles (including napping ever since he hit the 4-month wakeful period), he refuses to go down without a fight. We are willing to enable him for now, but I do worry about what will happen when we move him into his own room once he turns six months.

It could be a long winter.

And speaking of sleep … during my pregnancy, I spent hours and hours doing research on safety ratings and looking for an infant car seat that would match his fabulous crimson-and-gray stroller. Around 25 weeks, I finally picked out a nice, expensive model that would hold up to 35 pounds. All it took was a credit card and a mouse, and I had peace of mind. But not for long.

Around 9 pounds, Collin decided he hated being strapped into it (see photo – does that look like a happy guy?) and made no secret of his feelings – and I mean in the scream-all-the-way-from-Federal-Way-to-Lakewood kind of way. That’s about 20 miles for you statisticians. He is really good about sleeping in the car, but his lack of willingness to be in the (alleged) torture device during wakeful periods was making me think long and hard before going anywhere outside Tacoma city limits. And given that we’ve been going on playdates all over the place, a solution was needed before I went deaf.

Fortunately for my ears, I solved the problem at the end of last month by buying a convertible car seat. Yep, after all of that, I willingly forfeited more than 20 extra pounds of use in my prized SafeSeat. It just wasn’t worth it. Collin still gets annoyed if the car stops for a long period of time, but otherwise, he seems to enjoy having the freedom to look around and not be as constrained. At the very least, he doesn’t cry when he’s being put into it. And since he’ll be sitting in it until he’s 50 pounds, I am immensely relieved.

But at the same time, I am terrified. Hitting the 50-pound mark doesn’t seem that far away.

Amid the achievements, the joy -- and the challenges, my baby is growing up.

The Prayer …

I pray you'll be our eyes, and watch us where we go.
And help us to be wise in times when we don't know.
Let this be our prayer, when we lose our way.
Lead us to the place, guide us with your grace.
To a place where we'll be safe. –- Celine Dion & Andrea Bocelli

I grew up as a good little Episcopal girl who attended church every Sunday. I was baptized and confirmed. I attended and later helped teach Sunday School. I was the head acolyte and an active participant in Youth Group … and then I went to college and became a regular parishioner in the Church of Sleep.

And for nearly nine years, I maintained that if God wanted me to go to church, there would be a service at 2 p.m. (I still maintain that the Catholics were onto something when they started the whole evening Mass concept.)

And over time, church – and, really, religion in general – became somewhat an afterthought. It was just so easy to sleep in on Sunday morning after getting home from work at midnight. The holiday season was already hectic enough without factoring in Advent. And it really didn’t help that my mom changed churches while I was in Pullman so I no longer actually belonged to one. I still went to church on Easter, but it was more for a sense of obligation. It wasn’t that I stopped believing, more that I had become apathetic.

So what changed?

I am going to be completely honest and admit that after my miscarriage, I was angry at God. I didn’t understand how He could have let this happen. I was a good person, and I had loved and wanted my baby. What had I done to deserve such a horrible fate?

Slowly, in time, my heart healed, but I still found myself unable to broach the topic with Him. I could have prayed to become pregnant again, but I didn’t, save for a few isolated moments at times when my period was late.

And then, a year ago this Saturday, the stick turned blue.

Talk about a religious experience.

So, for 38 weeks and 2 days, every night without fail, Chris and I would pray together. On nights when he fell asleep before me (pregnancy insomnia), I would wake him up when I came to bed. I was convinced that God would keep Truffle safe if we asked Him.

We prayed for our baby to continue to grow and thrive, and for Him to watch over our loved ones. And occasionally, there were some unique additions – praying for the Cougars to win (He didn’t always listen) or, during the December snow, for all the animals out there to have someplace warm to sleep.

Through prayer, I felt my relationship with God becoming stronger.

And then came May 30, 2009.

On that day, I knew that He clearly granted miracles.

I knew that our faith had played a major role in our son being born healthy and strong. I had battled everything from bleeding to high blood pressure, and yet here he was.

It was time for a change.

Seeing my husband and son baptized together on Sunday was an incredible experience. I had always said that I wanted to baptize and raise my children in a good Christian household where they knew the words to “This Little Light of Mine” and where Christmas and Easter meant more than presents under a tree and hunting for Cadbury eggs. And I most certainly didn’t want them learning about Noah’s Ark from Larry Smiley. But really, talk is cheap. Unless I was practicing what I was preaching, my words were ringing pretty hollow.

So when we had our baptism prep at my mom’s church, Father Paul asked how I would feel about renewing my baptismal vows at the same time Chris and Collin took theirs. I loved the idea, not only because it made it the process feel so much more familial, but also because it meant something to me to be giving my word to God, rather than have others speaking on my behalf, as when I was baptized as an infant.

It was a great experience to be able to renew my relationship with Christ, and to see Chris and Collin welcomed into the Christian faith. The baptism itself was beautiful, and to my great surprise, Collin didn’t scream when they poured water over his head. (Bath time can be touch-and-go in our household.) And having our family there made it even more memorable. Scott and Christy were here from California and stood up with us as Collin’s godparents. And Lill added a godson to her cache of goddaughters by being Chris’ sponsor.

It means so much to us to have people in our lives who love and support us – and not just those present on Sunday. I have some wonderful friends who have provided a sounding board and encouraged me as I have worked through my issues (religious and otherwise) in the last year. And I want to do the same, not just for them, but for my family, too.

I admit I am not always the best Christian, but honestly, who hasn’t broken a commandment or two? I do want to make a bigger effort, though, and I should probably get a Bible that isn’t produced by Precious Moments. I’m not saying I will make it to church every Sunday – Collin pretty much guarantees that won’t happen – but I didn’t renew my baptismal vows for show. I renewed them to be a better mother, a better wife and a better Christian.

After all, as I watch my son sleep, I’d say I owe Him one.

The write kind of wrong …

Today marks Collin’s 100th day of being alive. (Technically I am finishing this on day 101, but I started it on day 100, so the post date stays as is. I kind of fell asleep. Whatever.) Realistically, 100 days isn’t a long time, but in a lot of ways, it feels like forever that we’ve had him. Faster than I ever thought was possible, he is growing into this great little person with a great big personality.

In the last week, he has been making really good eye contact, and then smiling (yay), rolling over to both the left and the right (yay -- for now), and has taken up sucking his thumb (not so yay) and pulling Mommy’s hair (really not so yay). He also appears to be starting to teethe, which I suspect means some loud nights ahead.

Considering that I got pregnant in mid-September of last year and found out at the beginning of October, Collin has technically been with us for almost a year. And he’s definitely had an effect on other aspects of my life during that time period.

But I can’t say that my writing -- or lack thereof -- can be solely attributed to my son.

I started “Inside Out” in April 2007 and finished it in June 2007. I began writing “This Ain’t a Love Song” later that month, and kicked off my highly acclaimed holiday fics series in October. In April 2008, I won two Kerth Awards, and kept myself busy with stories throughout the spring and into the summer. In September, I wrote what is to date my last story. And it isn’t even mine.

But more on that later.

More importantly, a month later, I got the answer to my prayers. My first child would be born the following summer.

And while I didn’t realize it at the time, I let go.

I started writing as an outlet for my frustration over my fertility problems. I couldn’t get pregnant, and then I couldn’t stay pregnant. But I could write. And writing made me happy. If I couldn’t be successful in one area, I certainly could be in another. And even better, I had all the control.

But once I actually was pregnant, my focus shifted to picking out strollers and talking to pediatricians and, for 18 weeks, peeling myself off the bathroom floor every morning. And while I have several works-in-progress sitting on my hard drive, and several ideas in my head, today marks exactly one year since I wrote anything (postable).

Every time I opened a blank Word document, I’d sit and stare at it. The words weren’t coming. The characters I once knew so well had become virtual strangers.

It made me wonder: Had I been writing for pleasure -- or as an escape?

It’s not exactly a surprise, given that I hadn’t even watched “Lois and Clark” since December. The idea watching my hero … doing what I had wanted to do since I was 12 … and knowing my journalism career was over … it was just too hard. But after a while, the pain turned into apathy. My priorities had changed. I was going to be a mother. And when it came time to pack my hospital bag, it was my second-favorite show, “Friends,” that I chose to watch during labor.

But it wasn’t just because of my job situation.

A fellow fan has said finding out about Teri and Dean’s affair has ruined the show for her in some ways.

For me, it was my friends.

Everything that went down in 2008 -- being stalked online; finding out that the person responsible for the damage was someone I considered a close friend; realizing that I had been talking with a total sociopath who lied about having children and god knows what else; going to LAFF and the ensuing drama …

Talk about galactically stupid. I should have walked away then, but we all have moments of irrationality -- and assignments to complete.

But the straw that broke the (pink) camel’s back was the fallout of Sept. 7, 2008. A friend of mine was having a hard time in general and an even harder time writing the story she had been assigned for a ficathon. She felt horrible about it -- especially since we had met the person she was writing for in L.A. -- so I stepped in and did something I never thought I’d do. I wrote the story and allowed her to post it under her name -- with some minor tweaks so it would sound more like her.

Talk about a grand gesture for friendship.

Talk about a stab in the back once she found out I was pregnant -- and stopped speaking to me.

Talk about setting off a downward spiral.

On the heels of that treachery, it took me all of two seconds to realize that the last thing I wanted to write was a miscarriage storyline, which is where I had left off in my G&L story. And it didn’t help when I was shut out of the 2009 Kerths, even though what I consider my proudest piece of work had garnered multiple nominations. How could I go from Best New Author to … nothing?

Yesterday’s news, indeed.

And then, in July, a little miracle showed up via E-mail. I was asked to beta read for one of my favorite authors. She hadn’t written any L&C in years, and what she sent over blew me away. Hmm. If she could do it, maybe I could, too.

Shortly after came the nKerths -- and my total and complete shock over having 15 nominations (a feat equaled only one other time in fandom history) -- and not one, but SIX wins, including Best Overall for “Inside Out,” the story that started it all. The little story that started with no plot and turned into a 35-chapter labor of love.

The little story that got me thinking again.

Slowly, I opened Word.

The streak officially ended this weekend. It was raining, I was bored, and I decided to introduce Collin to Lois Lane and Clark Kent. I told him that the show played a large role in Mommy and Daddy meeting, and that no, people couldn’t really fly. I’m not sure how impressed he was, given that he spent most of “We Have A Lot to Talk About” chewing on his fingers, but still, I was doing something that at times I never thought I’d be doing -- watching L&C, the show with which I have so much history, with my son. And, shockingly, I had an idea for a story.

Given that I am even busier now than I was last winter, I was surprised by my ardent fervor to put my idea down on paper (file?).

So what had changed?

For one, I bid the drama farewell back in 2008. And for another, the words aren’t acting as a curtain to hide my pain.

Maybe the time to write is finally right.

The sweetest days …

Dear Collin,

It’s hard to believe you’re already three months old.

It’s less hard to believe that it took your mommy three days to finish writing and posting this. (Never mind that my grand plan was to post every month.) You tend to keep me pretty busy. Sometimes I think you have a radar for when I think you’re sleeping and sit down at the computer.

Not that I’m complaining, though.

The last three months have been the best days of our lives. You continually amaze your daddy and I, and we consider you our greatest accomplishment. He can’t wait to get home from work to see his bear, and I cherish the fact that I am able to be with you all day. It’s getting harder to remember life without you.

I'm with you all the time, but ironically, it was Daddy, not me, who saw you roll over for the first time, when you were 12 weeks old. And Grammy saw you smile for the first time, when you were three weeks old. I clearly need to stop leaving the room.

You have a very sunny disposition and grace us with many smiles and laughs. You hate having shirts put over your head and being lifted out of the bath (and here I thought you’d hate being in it), but your tears generally turn to smiles if we sing to you. “Collin the Bear,” sung to the tune of “Winnie the Pooh,” always gets those dimples flashing.

You like to talk -- “Ah-goo” is your word of choice –- and are becoming chattier by the day. The stuffed bears over your changing table are your best pals, and you talk and smile when you see them. You get excited when you see the baby in pictures on my computer, and you also like to look in the mirror. You love being outside, and will someday be very grateful to Daddy, since my idea of nature is an outdoor outlet mall.

You generally only cry when you’re tired or hungry, the two areas in which we have faced the most challenges.

From Day One, you had no interest in sleeping alone, and while we started out on the couch, it didn’t take you long to claim our bed as your own. I am starting to think that you believe that we went out and bought a $5,000 memory-foam mattress FOR YOU. And while your pediatrician would prefer that you sleep in your own bed, you clearly feel differently, and will go ballistic if you are moved away from Daddy. He very kindly donates the crook of his arm to you, night after night, even though you pat (and pull) his chest hair as you drift off to sleep, resulting in sweet dreams for you and a rash for him.

At least the cats are getting use out of the pack and play.

You started sleeping through the night around two months, and after your last feeding of the night (around 2 a.m.; you’re a night owl like your parents), we generally don’t hear from you until at least 8:30 a.m., and on most mornings, closer to 10. Contrary to what Grammy thinks, we will eventually evict you, but for now, we can’t exactly complain about getting a full night’s sleep.

Breastfeeding has been the other area where things haven’t exactly gone as planned. I never wanted to give you formula, but when you wouldn’t eat the first night we were home from the hospital, I caved quickly. It turns out you have a short tongue – like Daddy – and I have short nipples, which is something I am sure you never desired to know about your mother. In short, it’s a bad combination. However, with the help of a lactation consultant up at Swedish (and a silicone breast shield, the greatest thing ever invented), things have come along to the point where you are nursing up to eight times a day.

It wasn’t easy, and on some days it’s still painful, but it gives me such a sense of pride to be able to feed you, even though I am afraid I am going to smell like maple syrup until you leave for college, thanks to the herb I am taking to boost my supply. Once you got the hang of it, you realized you were all about the milk, and some days, I can barely keep up.

When you’re not eating or dozing in your nice queen-sized bed, you’re a very social guy. We go out most days, whether it be to Costco, out to dinner, or to visit friends. Fortunately, you don’t mind other people holding you (yet) and you don’t mind your carseat (yet). You have ridden the new light rail to Seattle twice, been on a ferry, met most of your extended family, attended your Aunt Krissy’s wedding, and shopped at the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale, where you “bought” me a very nice jacket for my birthday.

You clearly have good fashion sense.

Not surprisingly, you’re well-dressed to the point that Daddy has subtly suggested more than once that maybe you have enough clothes. (And yet he insisted you needed an Adidas tracksuit.) It’s so much fun to dress you in the clothes I envisioned you wearing before you were born. Soon you’ll be wearing shoes, which provides all kinds of new reasons for Daddy to glare at me. You have to understand that when he and I started dating, he only owned five shirts, so you’re off to a far better start.

But like him, you don’t need much to be content. As long as you’re fed and changed on a regular basis, a pacifier is clipped to your clothes and there are new batteries in your swing (and something to watch on TV while you’re in it, much to my chagrin), your life is pretty good.

And with you, Collin Jackson, our life is more than pretty good.

You are the love of our lives.

You are the answer to our prayers.

You are our Little Bear.

All my love,
Mommy

The late (20s), great me ...

If 30 is the new 20, I guess that makes me the new 17.

Today, I am officially in my late 20s.

Considering I had a minor panic attack over turning 25, I always figured that the word "late" would not go over too well. And yet, as the clock struck midnight (even though I wasn't born until 3:31 a.m., as decided at age 13 when I realized I didn't have a time of birth), thus ending my mid-20s, I poured myself a bowl of cereal and went back to watching "America's Next Top Model" on the DVR while Collin slept in his swing. All in all, a big shrug.

Being a peace with myself definitely helps.

Earlier tonight, I read my post from a year ago, when I talked about turning 26, and while I didn't come right out and say it, my one and only goal for the year was to have a baby. (OK, I did say something about working out, but since moving the treadmill from one bedroom to another doesn't technically count as using it, I am going to pretend I never made that goal.) Little did I know that I would spend the majority of the year being pregnant. I got pregnant about three weeks after I turned 26, and gave birth a little less than three months before turning 27.

When I turned 25, I had just lost out on being a mother.

When I turned 26, I was starting to wonder if I'd ever be a mother.

As I turn 27, I am a mother.

And even after 90 days, sometimes it's still a total aberration to look at Collin and realize that he is MY child. He is a dream come true, the realization of every wish on every birthday candle, on every shooting star, on every coin tossed a fountain. He is the greatest birthday gift of all. (That being said, I wouldn't exactly complain about a Gene Juarez massage or a trifle bowl.)

I achieved my goal for age 26 -- and that brings me back to why 27 must be the new 17.

In a way, I feel 17 again, back when I was starting my senior year of high school, deciding where I would be going to college and preparing to embark upon a new journey. These days, I am doing the same, as I figure out what I am going to do professionally and look for ways to resurrect my journalism career. I'm not ready to let go just yet, even if I'm not working right now.

So, for age 27, my goal is to figure out and set out on a new path, whether it be in newspapers, or something else. I also will try to update my blog more often (blame it on Collin, who will be the star of Sunday's entry on his 3-month birthday) and work on making some new friends -- it sure would be nice to meet some other moms.

And oh yeah, there's that whole treadmill thing.

Darkness and light

You are the poem I dreamed of writing.
The masterpiece I longed to paint.
You are the shining star reached for
in my ever-hopeful quest for life fulfilled.
You are my child.
Now, with all things, I am blessed.
-- Unknown

Granted, a shopping trip can evoke various emotions (usually elation, irritation, or a combination of the two), but I don't think I have been brought to tears in the middle of a mall. Not even when I got my first designer purse at the Coach store in New Orleans, or found my beloved $225 Laundry by Shelli Segal pants on sale for $49.95 at the Nordstrom Rack. So why was I getting teary in some random store in Westlake Center called Fireworks where Collin's stroller kept crashing into awkwardly positioned racks?

It wasn't the heat, or too much caffeine, or relief that the last of the relatives had gone home, signaling the end of the wedding festivities and the beginning of the return to normalcy.

It was that poem.

The words jumped out at me from a large (and extremely overpriced) frame hanging on the wall when I was in Seattle earlier this week, and I looked for the poem online last night. The type wasn't overtly bold or large, so there had to be a reason why it grabbed my attention -- and tugged at my heartstrings.

And I think those words were meant to symbolize what this week signifies.

Two years ago this afternoon, I went to Seattle and came home with a broken heart. Our baby was gone, and I didn't know how I would get through the pain.

A year ago tonight, I cried as I wondered if I would ever get another chance to be someone's mother. To shape a life. To be whole.

And early this morning, I tiptoed down the hall after checking on my son as he slept in my husband's arms, as he has done most every night since coming into this world two months (and one day) ago.

Today, I am at peace.

I never truly knew how much I wanted this baby until I didn't think I could have him. I had always loved children, but not until my dream was shattered did I realize just how badly I wanted to be a mother.

On the eve of the two-year anniversary of my miscarriage, and not for the first time, Chris and I pondered the one question to which we will never have an answer: Would Lentil have been Collin? Or was he/she a different child altogether?

Either way, we agreed: This was God's plan. While Lentil will always be in our hearts, we were meant to be this child's parents, and he was meant to be our son. The pain, the uncertainty, the hopelessness ... it was all for a reason. And he was worth the wait.

Two years ago, there was darkness.

Today, there is light.

And it comes from Collin, our shining star.

The (high) road less taken

"I don’t believe in regrets because every moment in our lives we make choices about everything. Once you pick a road, you’re down it, and you can’t go back, so there’s no sense in regretting."
-- Teri Hatcher, 1999

I know I need to do an update on what I have been up to, and post some new pictures of Collin, but there's an issue that needs to be addressed first. Check back Friday for a more interesting post.

It seems most people are surprised by what I did over the weekend.

Hell, I'm surprised myself.

Some people already know what led up to this auspicious occasion, but since I don't want to rehash Weddingpartygate here, this is all the background that I am going to give:

1. Prior to two days before her wedding, my sister had yet to meet her nephew.

2. Prior to the night before her wedding, I was not planning to see my sister get married.

What most people don't know is what changed.

Here's the thing: I agree with that quote. It's actually one of my favorites. Everything we do, every choice we make, we have to live with the result -- and the consequences. There is no point in regretting our decisions because there's no way to undo the past.

I will openly admit that I don't regret any of the choices I have made in recent months. I wasn't such a fan of the fallout, though -- or the questions that it raised.

And after some intense soul-searching (and some counseling by my wise friends), the conclusion I came to was that I didn't want to regret not going to my sister's wedding. If I opted to go, and it ended up being a bad experience, I could just forget about it. Out of sight, out of mind -- you know, in theory. But if I didn't go, I couldn't wake up six months or a year from now and say hey, I changed my mind; save me a seat in the church. It would be over. The cake would be cut. The photos would be developed. And I wouldn't have been there for the biggest day of her life.

We may have issues, but she's still my sister.

Now, a few days later, I am glad that I took the high road, which, incidentally, led to the church -- just as I am glad that I invited her to meet Collin when the opportunity presented itself two days earlier. Things were awkward at first, but after a while, I knew I had made the right decision. The wedding itself was beautiful, and it was great to see extended family and old friends and introduce them to my son. (We even danced. Go figure.)

And I have to admit that being escorted down the aisle of the church and right to the front pew (where Chris and I were asked to sit, with my mom, aunt and uncle) was a fabulous, unspoken F you to all of the people who had been painting me as the bad guy for two months.

Ha. I win.

But largely, this isn't about winning and losing. It's about family, and about being there for the important moments.

No regrets here.

Mr. Photogenic ...

Some outtakes from Collin's birth announcement photos. He clearly has inherited his mother's lack of willingness to cooperate in front of a camera. (Seriously, I remember getting yelled at for not smiling during more than one family photo session. What can I say? I just don't believe in smiling on command.)

A New Day Has Come ...

Where it was dark, now there's light. Where there was pain, now there's joy. Where there was weakness, I found my strength, all in the eyes of a boy. -- Celine Dion


I can hardly believe it has been two weeks since Collin came into our lives – especially when you consider that he wasn’t actually supposed to arrive until June 10. Not that I particularly aspire for my son to end up 26 and unemployed, but his ability to not only make deadline, but be early, shows he just may have journalism in his blood.

And speaking of blood, it continues to be surreal to me that I now have a blood relative. Technically, there are probably people out there who have some sort of genetic ties to me, but there is definitely a part of me that feels like Superman –the sole member of my planet, sent to Earth (or Tacoma) in a spaceship. Most people can look at their relatives and see shared features, like a sibling with the same color eyes, or a parent with a similar birthmark. And then there’s me – and this child, who has my lips and my nose. I can’t stop staring at him, and I don’t know that I ever will. He’ll probably be in kindergarten and still asking why I’m looking at him.

I don’t want to forget a thing about these moments, and for that reason, I wanted to chronicle Collin’s birth story. (Viewer discretion advised for those who don’t want to think about my cervix.)

At my 30-week ultrasound, Collin was already measuring two weeks ahead, so when he was born at 38 weeks, he was a full-term baby (regardless of what my mother-in-law thinks). I had wondered if I would end up induced because of his size (i.e. Chancellor-sized head), but that actually wasn’t what did me in.

My blood pressure had been elevated toward the end of the first trimester (due to my job situation), but it decreased to normal levels once I was able to start relaxing and resting. (Who knew unemployment had an upside?) But lo and behold, it started creeping up again in the third trimester, and while I would like to blame the rugs not being steam cleaned at the time, it is apparently fairly common – to a point.

I had spent the last month being monitored for possible preeclampsia, and was told by my OBGYN that if my levels spiked, I would have to be induced. But three weeks in a row of perfect no-stress tests and bloodwork had me thinking I was in the clear.

And then my dear (jealous, bitter) sister kicked me out of her wedding.

At my weekly appointment on May 28, I wasn’t surprised whatsoever that my blood pressure had gone up. On top of my family drama, I was starting to panic about giving birth.

Most people know I have a lifelong phobia of hospitals. My mom says it goes back to my open-heart surgery when I was 11 months old – for years afterward, I’d freak out if I saw anyone in a white coat, thinking it was a doctor – and got worse over time as my beloved Grammy’s health declined and we spent most of my sixth-grade year at her bedside. I will clarify, however, that I have dealt with hospitals on more than one occasion since then (i.e. my mom’s double bypass six weeks before my wedding), but I still panic if I have to set foot inside one. So even though I knew I would be there for a happy occasion, I knew I was going to panic once I was put into a hospital gown and hooked up to an IV.

On the evening of May 28, Dr. Martin called and said that my bloodwork from that afternoon had come back abnormal, so I was going to be admitted the next day to have my cervix softened and then induced with pitocin. In short, Collin was coming 11 days early, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Panic time.

Not only was I terrified about being induced (ironic, considering I was so uncomfortable that I had been moaning that I wanted to be induced not 24 hours earlier), but I wasn’t ready. The realization that the wooden stars my mom and I were decorating for his wall border weren’t going to be done sent me into a total meltdown. (My rockstar mom actually finished them IN my hospital room.)

We spent most of the night scrambling around (Chris, the greatest husband ever, cleaned the living-room rug out of the goodness of his heart) and packing enough stuff that you’d think we were going on vacation for a week (my justification was that you never know what will happen or how long you will be there, and no, I did not bring a rolling pin). I was woken up the next morning by Dr. Martin’s nurse calling to say that I needed to be at Swedish as soon as possible so they could start softening my cervix, so we quickly got ready, picked up Starbucks (everyone deserves a last latte) and my mom and headed for Seattle.

And yes, I did wear my sparkly purple shoes. (See photo.)

Because I wasn’t in labor yet (and not even scheduled for pitocin until Saturday morning), I was admitted to an antipartum room around 12:30 p.m. Being allowed to wear my own pajamas and use my own pillows made me feel a lot more comfortable. I wasn’t thrilled about having an IV started in my right arm, but since it wasn’t hooked to anything – and didn’t impede my ability to type or text – I generally ignored it while I watched “Friends,” played on my laptop and talked to my mom and Chris.

I was hooked to a monitor that measured both of our heart rates and my contractions, but it wasn’t until after 4 p.m. that I actually started having any – to the surprise of pretty much everyone. I am no stranger to Misoprostal – it was used during my miscarriage – but this was a much lower dose, and the nurse told me that it often takes more than one tablet (inserted orally) to get the cervix soft enough to start dilating. Part of the problem was that while Collin was at zero station, it was hard to tell if I actually was dilated because his (Chancellor-sized) head was in the way. My last two internal exams had been extremely painful because Dr. Martin had to go up and around to even reach the opening of my cervix.

But by dinnertime (side note: a la carte dining very well could be the greatest thing ever) I was starting to get uncomfortable, and the numbers were climbing. Forties … fifties … sixties … talk about a distraction when you’re trying to focus on your macaroni and cheese. About an hour later, I thought my water was starting to break, but it was coming out as an extremely slow leak, so I wasn’t sure.

Around 9 p.m., I got a glimpse of hell. In order to see if the Misoprostal had worked, the nurse gave me an internal exam that had me screaming and sobbing to the point that Chris was in tears, too. I have never felt such pain in my life. I remember begging her to stop, but she couldn’t.

The conclusion was startling: My water had broken and I was dilated four centimeters. I was headed off to Labor and Delivery – as soon as I put on one of those godforsaken hospital gowns.

I was a little out of it at that point, but I remember two blonde nurses, Tiffany and Marlow, showing up with a wheelchair, and heading off to a very nice, spacious birthing suite with my mom, Chris and my godmother, Lill, who had stopped by to visit, trailing behind with my bags.

Once I was in the birthing suite, I took my contacts out, was hooked up to various IVs and monitors, and asked the most daunting question of all: Should they call for an epidural?

Given that I have been known to cry over flu shots, I had always proclaimed that I would be having an epidural (or ten), but knowing that someone would be inserting a needle into my spine scared me to death. And what if it didn’t work?

Then again, the contractions were now in the nineties, so I swallowed my nerves and agreed.

The numbing shot was the only thing that really hurt, but I couldn’t stop crying and shaking as the anesthesiologist inserted the catheter into my spine and then my very kind nurses rolled me onto my side and promised that the pain would soon subside.

And it did.

By 11 p.m., I was pain-free, calm (well, as calm as someone can be when they’re in labor) and chatting with the nurses. I didn’t even kill Chris, my mom and Lill for drinking milkshakes in front of me while I was limited to a little cup of ice chips. I was dead tired, but there was no way I was going to sleep, even when the three of them decided to nap around 1 a.m.

(Side note: I am so, so glad that I asked my mom to be in the room. She was a very calming influence and stayed up most of the night in a very hard rocking chair, trying to keep me relaxed. I also am glad that we asked Lill to stay because she not only took photos of Collin, but she has been there for all the big moments in my life, so it just seemed appropriate. Chris felt the same way.)

Throughout the night, the nurses checked my progress, tried to get me to sleep (with the warning that pushing is a tiring experience) and eventually inserted an internal monitor to see how strong my contractions were. Fortunately, I didn’t feel anything except pressure, and I can honestly say that I think I would have preferred death to natural childbirth after getting a taste of it. I was surprised, though, that I could still feel my legs despite being numb. I had thought the epidural was like a spinal block (and was afraid I would end up paralyzed), so this was a lot better for my (somewhat tenuous) state of mind.

I actually fell asleep for about an hour and a half, and would have stayed in my nice state of Zen had the doctor on duty from my OBGYN group, Dr. McKeever, not come in around 5 a.m. and pronounced me as dilated six centimeters. I figured, woo, six of ten … go me! Well, it was a little slower than they would have liked (ironic, considering I wasn’t even supposed to be in labor yet) so she gave me pitocin to speed things up.

That was the end of sleep.

And it was truly surreal to see the sun coming up outside and knowing that I was about to meet my son.

Now I should explain something here. One of my big hang-ups about being induced was that I knew Dr. Martin wouldn’t be delivering me. She only works Mondays and Thursdays, and for weeks I had been saying silent prayers that I would give birth when she was on call. After all, when you’ve been going to the same doctor for two years – and dealt with infertility AND a miscarriage – you get somewhat attached. I had seen Dr. McKeever for my first no-stress test and liked her, but she was going to be off duty at 8:30 a.m.

And Dr. Daniel was taking her place.

This is the same doctor who scared the hell out of me when I experienced some bleeding when I was first pregnant with Collin and called after hours on a Friday. She basically said I probably was having an ectopic pregnancy and needed to be seen Monday morning, otherwise, I could, you know, die.

Comforting, huh?

I was determined to evict Collin before Dr. McKeever left, but that didn’t work out so well. I started pushing at 7:30 a.m., and at first, it wasn’t that bad. Chris held one leg and my wonderful morning nurse, Siggy, held the other. The worst part was having my bad hip (I have tendonitis) held at an awkward angle. But as time went by, it got harder and more painful. I eventually had to have my mom come stand in front of me so I could have something to focus on as I bore down. Never before had ten seconds been so long, or so arduous, but even so, I stayed pretty silent as I pushed. In retrospect, I think I was in shock – especially when Dr. Daniel walked in.

By 9 a.m., I was begging Chris to make the pain stop.

By 9:30, I was sobbing and telling Dr. Daniel that I’d do anything if she just got him out.

Seriously, I would have built her a monument if she'd asked. I still may.

It turned out that Collin, the child who never would face the right way during ultrasounds, that punched my internal organs for sport, that kept me up every night with the hiccups, was stubborn to the end, and refused to budge from beneath my pubic bone.

Her solution? A vacuum.

I had signed a consent for extraordinary measures to be taken several weeks earlier, but I never thought I’d actually anything except determination and someone to scream at. But there was Dr. Daniel, instructing me to draw my legs all the way up to my shoulders and push as hard as I possibly could.

The first try didn’t work – and I was in worse pain, if that was even possible.

Well, clearly Dr. Daniel didn’t go to Harvard for nothing, because she’s one determined woman. She told me that she was going to try one more time, but if it didn’t work, I would be on the way to the operating room for a C-section.

Now THAT is motivation.

I didn’t care if I died at that moment as long as I got my child out.

I pushed as hard as I could, and after a moment, there was the most intense pressure (as his head came free, resulting in a second-degree tear for which the stitches are just now dissolving), followed by this feeling of a weight being pulled out of me, and then there was the most beautiful cry I’ve ever heard.

And at 9:51 a.m. on May 30, 2009, Collin Jackson Chancellor entered the world.

His umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, so Dr. Daniel cut that portion, and then they took him to the examining table, where Chris was able to cut the cord. I am so glad he was the first person to hold our son – after all, I carried him for (almost) nine months, and he deserved to experience something truly unique and special, too. He was an amazing labor coach, and the look of pure joy on his face when Collin was born is something I will never forget.

And I never truly realized how fast you can fall in love until I looked into my son’s eyes.

The stress, the fatigue, the pain … none of it mattered.

He was here.

In the still of the night ...

Who would have thought that peace could be found in the middle of the night, when you're so tired you can barely see straight and it hurts to sit on your stitches for prolonged periods of time? It turns out that around 4 a.m., the darkness has broken, and dawn is slowly rising, but the day hasn't actually begun. It's very tranquil.

The irony is, I have spent pretty much my entire adult life staying up late and sleeping in. I developed the habit in college, when I'd be up doing homework (OK, fine, or watching "Family Ties" at 4 a.m. on cable), and kept at it when I got a job that required me to be in Seattle until past midnight five days a week. After driving home, the last thing I could do was go right to sleep, so I'd cook, do chores, watch TV ...

I just never looked out the window.

Until Collin, that is.

Like his mother, our little bear has no qualms about being up at all hours of the night. He is not, however, content to sit on the couch, talk to Auntie Christy and all of his other global aunties on Google Talk, and watch infomercials. His schedule is more along the lines of scream, eat, nap, drop pacifier, scream, nap, scream about being changed, eat, nap.

And while I am extremely tired, and I do wish I could have more than three hours of sleep at a time (and that's only because my super husband takes him out to nap on the couch for part of the night), when I am sitting there in my rocking chair, holding my son and watching the sun start to come up between the trees, I know that these are the most precious moments of my life.

In that case, I'm almost glad I'm not getting any sleep.

I don't want to miss a thing.

Here are a few more pics from Collin's first four days of life:

Chris dressing Collin in the blue bear ensemble he picked out as his going-home outfit many months ago. I think it's the most excited I have ever seen him about clothes.

In the hospital lobby, about to be released into the real world.


Collin seemed more confident about going home than we did.

Apparently, at some point in time, I have slept. The crook of my arm is a favored spot for naps.

I about cried when I woke up to this yesterday, and not just because of sleep deprivation.

Sports blankie and orange binky = Necessary to survive first visit to the pediatrician.