WHEN DID MY BABY GET SO DARN OLD?!

Also, really REALLY wish we had gotten his hair cut prior to the picture being taken. But, you know, life happens. And my little boy was rockin’ a surfer dude style for picture day.

Oh how he’s grown since last year’s pic:

He looks so much more… serious. And thoughtful. And mature. And while I definitely see that same devilish look from 2012 these days, there IS something more grown up about him.

We’ll be fighting about laser backgrounds for these pictures in no time.

A little sand and sun were just what the doctor ordered.

Owen hadn’t been back in the water since last summer, and although I knew how much he loved swimming back then, I was expecting to have to do at least a little bit of reacclimating once he saw the pool/ocean.

WRONG. He couldn’t have been more excited to get in the water. I think the kid is part fish. He jumped off the edge of the pool without a care in the world, and tried over and over again to convince us to let go of him because he can swim on his own. We dunked our heads underwater and splashed and kicked. Watch out, Michael Phelps… Owen just may be headed for an Olympic gold someday.

I also thought the vastness of the ocean would deter him from being so fearless. Not so. The child barreled towards the ocean and didn’t want to stop, even when the water was well over his head.

We fully enjoyed Florida’s steamy temps and even the unborn got in on the action.

To my surprise, I didn’t swell up in the heat (like last time I was pregnant in the summer, UGH SO GROSS) and my burgeoning belly didn’t hinder any of our fun in the sun. Perhaps more importantly, as someone who can pretty much get a blistering sunburn from walking around the block, I’m impressed that I came home pretty much the same pale color that I was when I left.

Owen loved doting on his playmate (our friends’ one year old daughter) and it made my heart swell to think about him playing with a sibling someday pretty soon.

He even surprised me with how well he slept — it was our first trip using a big boy bed outside of our house. I was half-expecting midnight visits from him and was constantly worried that he was going to leave his room and open up the front door to the condo (which had a handle, not a knob, and was not able to be deadbolted), but he did great and stayed in his bed when he was supposed to. Aside from a few little attitude-y outbursts (hey, he is 3 after all), Owen was a joy.

And now, back to reality… a billion emails in my inbox and more work than I can possibly finish in a 3 day work week. Sigh.

Well, the last vacay before the little guy arrives. Hopefully not our last one ever!

We headed for the airport Friday morning to enjoy a long weekend with friends and their one year old in a condo in Florida. For the first time, I wasn’t even nervous about traveling with Owen.

We planned our flights around naptimes so that we weren’t expecting him to nap on the plane (aka expecting the impossible), which proved to be an excellent strategy. He’s to the age now where he is easily entertained by TALKING no matter where he is, so even though he needs to run around, I knew we could keep him occupied in the “waiting” times pretty easily.

He’s also old enough to walk everywhere and get himself in and out of seats and security lines, so there was very little need to carry him, which was an added bonus.

The best part of all? We flew JetBlue, so he had unlimited access to a tv during the flight. I threw my normal screen-time limits out the window and everyone was happy

Since then we’ve spent our days away from computers and phones and enjoying time in the pool and the ocean.

Man, vacay feels good. Pics to come.

I learned a few lessons with Owen and his gross Lovey-sucking habits:

• Don’t get the kind that have big “feet” (fabric after the knot), which essentially makes a cloth pacifier
• Don’t get any with a looped tag that you will eventually want to cut and break your child’s heart
• Don’t get any that are white or partially white — they will not be white for very long
• Get 4 – we currently have 3, and sometimes have emergencies where the “laundry” one hasn’t been washed and the others are looking grody

With that in mind, I opted for the ubiquitous Angel Dear loveys. Everyone seems to have them and there must be a reason why. They come in a billion and one different designs, so if you choose a less-popular one, your kid hopefully won’t have to “share” at daycare (wouldn’t that be disconcerting, to see another kid cuddling YOUR Lovey?).

I have a few favorites (the spotted dog, zebra and raccoon, even though two of those three break my “no white” rule) but decided that this was a perfect job for the new big brother to feel like he was helping and picking something very special for his little bro. I gave Owen the choice between 3 different animals and he chose the gray raccoon. Without a doubt.

So the unborn is now the proud owner of 4 little gray raccoons, currently keeping his crib warm until he arrives.

On Mother’s Day Benjamin and I were putting together a new glider for the nursery and Owen was “helping”. I opened the Amazon box with the Loveys in it and Owen was immediately smitten. He quickly made them all kiss each other and then lifted up my shirt so they could kiss my belly/the baby. He talked in this sweet sing-songy voice and said, “These are your loveys, baby! I will give them to you when you cry!”. My eyes were welling up with tears as he gently, gently laid them down on the new ottoman, covered them with a blanket and shhhed us while he pretended to put them to sleep. He said he would do the same to the baby when he arrives.

I die.

That was worth every penny. I look forward to many more sweet moments with the new baby and his Lovey!

As I’ve mentioned before, Owen LOVES his lovey. Lovey stays in bed (my hard and fast rule to avoid dragging him around everywhere we go) and is only available at nap and bedtimes, but oh how he is loved. We have three identical Loveys that are rotated between laundry, home and school so that in the almost 3 years of his life, Owen has never had to sleep without one since they were introduced.

As I also may have mentioned, Owen has taken to sucking on Lovey’s foot (arm?) while putting himself to sleep. It’s kind of gross, as that particular foot (on all three Loveys) is brownish, despite a billion washings, and starts to stink a little after a few sleeps. Then it’s time for a bath. But hey, probably no worse than a pacifier or a thumb, and at least this one goes in the closet as soon as he wakes up. The sucking has been happening for a long time, but a more recent habit is hanging Lovey on his bottom teeth, dangling out of Owen’s mouth from his looped tag. I think this started when Owen’s little fingers got too big to fit inside the looped tag.

I HATE this habit. Even more than the sucking.

He tugs on Lovey while attached to his tooth just hard enough that I worry about his teeth growing in the wrong direction. Or one pulling all the way out. It’s probably unfounded, but for some reason this tag hanging thing just irks me. And frankly I just don’t like the way Lovey looks dangling out of Owen’s mouth.  I’ve asked him not to do it, but of course there’s no way to regulate since he does it in the privacy of his own room when he’s sleeping. So Benjamin and I had the brilliant horribly awful idea to snip the tag open so that he couldn’t hang it on his tooth anymore.

Last night we made the snip on the 1st Lovey. It took Owen about 1 second to find the atrocious offense before the tears began. I don’t WANT this Lovey. He’s broken! What happened to his tag? I can’t scratch it! I want to be able to scratch it. It doesn’t feel right. I want a different one. Granted, last night was a particularly tearful and easily-frustrated night for Owen, so maybe not the best timing. But is there really a right time to mutilate one’s best friend?

Benjamin and I tried to keep blank faces but we were both crying on the inside. What had we done? I very nearly jumped in to say that I would buy him new ones… but I restrained myself because I wanted to see how this played out.

We all read a book together and by the end Owen was sucking happily on his favorite Lovey foot, flicking the tag mindlessly just like he used to. Before I tucked him in I asked, “Are you ok?” “Yeah.” “Is Lovey ok?” “Yeah. I can just touch the tag like this. It’s good.”.

Phew. I think we’re all going to survive.

The moral of the story? I SO wish we had prepared him for the snip. Every time I try to “trick” Owen I end up feeling like it was the wrong decision. Maybe snipping it at all was the wrong decision, but it’s too late now. We’ve decided we’re going to snip the other 2 as they are introduced over the next few days (one is currently at school in his nap bag and I don’t want to “trick” him again and have him freak out at school), because I don’t think we can have one damaged and 2 intact. And I still don’t want him looping that tag around his tooth. And given that he got over the damaged goods pretty quickly, I think we’ll all move right past it.

Lovey seems to be my Achilles heel with Owen. I just can’t stand coming between them.

I’ll let him go to college with the darn thing if he wants. As long as he’s not pulling out his teeth with it.

We’re in a sweet, sweet spot right now. Owen is a doll.

Sure, we have our outbursts of “NO!” and tantrums and tears. But overall? Overall he is hilarious. And cooperative. And follows the rules. And eats and sleeps like a champ. He has opinions, but is beginning to understand compromise. He’s charming. And smart. The connections his little brain is making about the world surprise me every day. His voice melts me.

It was a sweet, sweet Mother’s Day. And the littlest one in my belly made it all the sweeter.

I know things are about to change a lot for our family. But I couldn’t be happier about the timing of the wee one joining our family and the little person Owen is turning out to be.

I am so thankful to be their mother.

We had our first “getting out of bed” experience the other night, 3 weeks after introducing the big boy bed (which also means that we won a bet with our friends, who said they’d take us all out for ice cream if Owen lasted 3 weeks without leaving his room — score!). I was wondering when that was going to happen! This was pretty much the best case scenario and I’m thrilled that Owen seems to have adjusted with very little changing in terms of our sleeping routine. So far, at least.

This was the conversation we had when he woke up yesterday morning.

Owen: Mommy, am I allowed to get out of bed?
Me: No, you should stay in bed until I come get you in the morning.
Owen: Is Lovey allowed to jump out of bed?
Me: Well, it’s better if he stays in bed, but… Why? did he fall out of bed last night?
Owen: Yes.
Me: That’s ok! What did you do?
Owen: Silence. I think he thought he was supposed to say he DIDN’T get out of bed, but doesn’t yet know how to lie.
Me: That’s ok if you got out just to get Lovey. Because I didn’t hear you cry for me. Did you cry for me?
Owen: No. I got out of bed (sheepish grin).
[Side note: Oh how I adore the "telling on myself constantly" phase!]
Me: That’s ok. As long as it was just to get Lovey. Did you get right back in bed?
Owen: I DID!
Me: That’s awesome, buddy. I’m so proud of you for getting Lovey yourself.
Owen: Mommy, I have one more question for you.
Me: Yes?
Owen: Am I allowed to fix my blankets myself?
Me: Yes. Definitely. Did you fix your blankets yourself when you got back in bed?
Owen: I DID!

So proud. As I’ve said before, we’ll see how long it lasts, but so far so good on the big boy bed front!

We had a little bit of excitement last Friday. Last week was a long, LONG week. Daddy was traveling and I was working days and nights and Owen was, well, being two years old. I was so ready to just put my feet up after I tucked Owen into his new(ish) big boy bed. But I couldn’t quite shake this feeling I was having. Like something wasn’t right.

I won’t go into too much detail about what I was experiencing, because when you get older you’ll read this letter and be all, “Eww, Mom. That’s so GROSS.”, but let’s just say I was worried that my amniotic fluid may have been, uhh, coming out before the right time. I called the doctor and she told me that the only way to diagnose such a thing was to have a test done, and although chances were low that that’s what was going on, I had to go immediately to the hospital to be sure. So, no time for putting my feet up. I had to call a babysitter (who thankfully lives across the street) and head to the hospital solo. Bottom line: It wasn’t that. After a couple hours of monitoring and a quick test, we were on our way back home. Phew.

Side note: After the nurse hooked you up to the monitor, she would come back every once in a while and marvel at just how active you were. I still can’t believe it’s possible, but you’re even stronger and more active than your brother was. You were kicking and flipping and totally showing off for her, forcing the monitor to make sounds like a whale underwater that were even louder than your heartbeat. She also showed me the spikes on the screen that showed your brain activity. Apparently you were showing signs of neural development a few weeks ahead of your age. Little smarty pants. Your movements are so forceful that I’ve been watching them from the outside for several weeks, and recently you’ve even jolted my whole body with your movements (especially in the middle of the night!). With Owen I remember a clear pattern of awake/sleeping times. With you, it seems you’re almost always awake and moving. I may very well have my hands full if you keep that up once you come out.

Our little excursion to the hospital may have been short and a false alarm, but do you know what it did for me? It completely changed the way I think about you.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been thinking about you for 30+ weeks already. But something changed when I realized that if I was having the issue I thought I was having, I would have had to come to terms with the idea of meeting you much sooner than I expected. As in, you are A PERSON. And you are coming, whether we’re ready or not.

On the way home from the hospital my brain went into overdrive. You’re coming. In 10 weeks (or only 8 weeks if you’re on your brother’s time schedule… or sooner if you really want to catch me off guard…). While on some level I’ve been procrastinating because I know that babies really need very little when they come home from the hospital (really just diapers… and they even send you home from the hospital with some of those), now it’s time to kick it into high gear.

I’m sorry to say it, but your nursery has looked more like a storage closet than a bedroom for the last 20 weeks. A place where I dumped clothes and toys that Owen didn’t need anymore, but I knew we’d need again someday soon. Even the crib and changing table were just pushed in and left there when we switched Owen into his big boy bed.

But now, it’s time. Yesterday I washed 4 loads of teeny tiny baby laundry that have been packed in boxes in our attic since we moved. I nearly got high off of the smell of the baby detergent, completely overwhelmed by the memories of Owen’s early days. I cleaned baby seats and swings and carriers. I folded swaddles and receiving blankets. I opened boxes labeled “Baby Bottles” and unzipped my breast pump bag (which I promptly zipped back up again and tucked in the back of the closet — PTSD from the nursing issues I had with Owen) and flipped through books filled with advice about how to survive the first days, weeks, months. And I did it all thinking of you, as a little person, who we’re going to meet really, really soon.

I couldn’t be more excited. But can you make me a deal? Stay in there for at LEAST 8 more weeks so I can get even more ready for you. I know you don’t need me to sew curtains or stick little decals on the wall of your room, but it certainly would help me feel more calm and prepared for when you arrive. You do, however, need a carseat, and that’s still buried in the basement somewhere.

We’re getting there.

I’m so excited to meet you. And I can’t wait to learn all of the ways you will continue to surprise me, like you did last Friday. In the meantime, think about taking a nap or two, mmmkay little guy? I’m exhausted just by feeling you bounce around in there all day long.

I love you. More than you may ever really know.
Mommy

Like, things that are nearly as tall as I am.

It started with jumping off of the couch. Then he graduated to jumping off of a stair or two. And recently, with the addition of his big boy bed, jumping off of his bed to see how far he can get (dangerously close to a little bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, we have found). These days, no matter who is nearby or where we are, I hear his little voice shouting, “Hey! Watch this, guys!” and turn around to see him teetering on the edge of some precipice about to jump off.

Yesterday at the playground it was the top of this little climber. One second he was on the ground next to me, and the next second he was literally on top of it, ready to stand without any hands there to steady him. At least he called my name because he wanted an audience!

Benjamin nearly killed me when I allowed him to jump.

But here’s what I’ve realized. He’s going to do it anyway. As with most things that us parents attempt to control, I guess. But especially on the playground. If I want him to “go play”, I can’t stand hovering and telling him what he can and can’t do. And, frankly, I’m a huge proponent of letting him get a few skinned knees (hopefully not very many broken bones) to let him learn his own lessons about what he’s capable of. I am constantly surprised by what he really CAN do if I let him try. So my answer when he looks at me with that expectant, “you’re so not going to let me do this” look is almost always, “Ok, show me!”.

Granted, the first time he tries a new stunt I’m usually there with a hand out or spotting him so he doesn’t go kersplat on the ground right in front of my face. But especially recognizing that come July I may not always be there to catch him when he falls, he’d better learn what he can do safely on his own and what is actually too high.

I’ll probably eat these words when I’m rushing him to the ER someday in the not-too-distant-future.

But for now, we’ve been working on some sweet new tricks on our swingset at home (monkey bar trapeze! Transferring from ramp to slide mid-climb! Sliding down the slide head first!). Benjamin does not approve. Which is ironic, really, because I can guarantee you (and I’m sure his parents can attest) that Owen got this “watch this!” gene from his father. He definitely didn’t get it from me.

If he continues at this rate, the kid will be skydiving by the time he’s 5.

Or maybe not. Is there an age where all of a sudden better judgement kicks in and the fearless kid gets not-so-fearless? Did/do you have a wild child when it comes to stunts/climbing/jumping? Do you try to stop them from doing the really dangerous stuff? How?

• Denial. No, I don’t have diabetes. So many of my blood glucose levels were LOW (even crazy low) during testing. Maybe the doctor just didn’t look at my whole medical history. This diagnosis just isn’t right.
• Anger. I have an incredibly healthy diet and I exercise more than most people I know (even the ones who aren’t pregnant). How can this be possible? Why me? Why now?
• Bargaining. Here’s what I’ll do — I’ll rock the first week of blood testing and then maybe the endocrinologist will take back the diagnosis when he sees how low my numbers are. If I just follow the doctor’s recommendations, I bet they’ll realize I don’t have diabetes after all.
• Depression. I’m sad about the diagnosis. I’m sad that I can’t just open up the refrigerator and have a snack without calculating carbohydrates and checking my food log to see what I’ve already eaten today. I’m a huge baby about needles and am SO sad I have to prick my fingers 4 times a day to check my blood glucose. I’m sad I actually HAVE to workout on a schedule instead of choosing to do so.
• Acceptance. You know what? It’s going to be ok. So many people deal with so much worse. Heck, I’ve dealt with so much worse (hello, infertility, miscarriage and celiac disease!). This is just an opportunity to make sure I stay as healthy as possible for the remainder of my pregnancy, and hey, maybe it will keep my overall weight gain low. Win, win.

I know, I know. I sound totally melodramatic… but I also think my reaction is very normal. Gestational diabetes can be scary, and can make you feel guilty (unnecessarily) and sad about not being able to just… eat like a normal person (particularly at a time when you want to be eating all the food, all the time). It sucks. But, it’s also totally manageable by diet, or a combination of diet and medication, and will be, hopefully, temporary. I keep reminding myself that plenty of people deal with a diabetes diagnosis for their entire lives, so surely I can get over myself for the next three months. Yes? Yes.

I met with a nutritionist yesterday to go over the dietary recommendations for gestational diabetes. To be completely honest, I was sort of annoyed by having to go to the nutritionist in general because I pride myself on being incredibly knowledgeable and proactive about my diet. Especially since Benjamin’s celiac diagnosis, I am hyper-aware of the foods I put in my body and make a Herculean effort to make the healthiest choices for me and my family. In short, I didn’t think I needed no stinkin’ nutritionist. (Bad attitude, I know).

I have been keeping a food log since last Friday and we spent a long time talking about how I generally eat. I was very proud when she said that I was probably the healthiest eater she will council all year. That said, I still had/have a lot to learn about the gestational diabetes diet! It’s not a weight-loss diet, or about eating more veggies or less meat or no bread, or even about reducing processed foods and eating more whole foods (which is the basis of my personal philosophy). It’s just about making sure I’m tracking carbohydrates so I don’t exceed certain levels, and defining the threshold of carbs that spikes my individual blood sugar in an unhealthy way. Thankfully it seems I really don’t have to adjust my diet much at all to adhere to the recommendations. Phew.

But I do have to prick my finger to get a blood sample 4 times a day.

Despite the fact that I have withstood countless blood draws and injections and uncomfortable procedures in the name of getting pregnant, and even pushed a 7+ pound child out of a tiny hole in my body, the thought of sticking myself with a needle makes me weak in the knees.

I am SUCH a baby about needles. (Remember when I had to get over that to try acupuncture?). As a kid (and, ok, a teenager… and a young adult…), I would, without fail, keel over when getting blood drawn at the doctor’s office. I learned to tell them I was a fainter up front so they could lay me back in the reclining chair before they ever got the needle out. Thankfully I’ve outgrown this, but I do still avert my eyes when they pull out the needle. Ew.

So on Tuesday I met with a nurse to learn how to use my glucose meter (aka finger pricker) and have been pricking my fingers 4 times a day since then. Though I’m getting a little bit more comfortable, it still gives me the heebie jeebies. Every time. Yes, the needle is tiny. And yes, it’s just a drop of blood. But OH it makes me cringe. The plan is to check levels for 2 weeks and track them with a detailed food log, and then meet with an endocrinologist to analyze the results at that point.

It’s a LOT of work (remembering to take my level first thing in the morning while I’m getting Owen up and ready for school, and then remembering to set the 1 hour timer on my phone after every meal, and then remembering to log everything I eat and when I ate it and how I felt?!). But it’s all for a good cause. Healthy baby, healthy mama.

And I haven’t passed out yet.