Lincoln Thomas

In high school my friends and I watched a lot of TLC's A Dating Story and A Wedding Story episodes, especially during our senior year open campus lunch. What I could never get into, though, was A Baby Story; I could not handle watching the cameras follow a couple to the hospital to go through the whole birth process with them. I mention this only because now, as a grown mama, sharing birth stories is one of my favorite things to do. I've found that doing so is an instant way to bond with another mama, even one you just met. I love to hear the experiences of my friends and I love to share the stories of my babies' arrivals, which is what I'm doing here for Mr. Lincoln...

For someone who happens to be very, very theme-oriented, it did not occur to me until the evening of July 3rd that it would be pretty darn awesome if we had our next Presidentially named baby on July 4th. Chalk it up to mama brain or something, but it wasn't until I had semi-real contractions for three hours that night that I realized, fireworks angst aside, I would really like to have a Fourth of July baby. But then we went to bed and the contractions stopped, so I knew if an Independence Baby was coming, it wouldn't be in the wee early hours of the day. I had hope the next morning when I woke up that it could still happen, but then that had been my mindset pretty much every day starting from 36 1/2 weeks. You might think I'm crazy for having such expectations, but my first two babies came under such different circumstances (one out of the blue, one with several false starts) and at such different points in their gestation (one twelve days early, one five days late) that I really had no frame of reference for what No.3 might do. So why not the 4th, eh?

After a morning nap (for me, not Raeagn) and some festive cookies (boo for Elieen's being closed that day), Ben and the kids and I got ready to meet up with my MOPS group at 11:00 for the YWCA Kiddie Parade around Fisher Fountain that is just a handful of blocks from our house. We got on our red, white, and blue, loaded HD & RL in the sit-and-stand stroller, and took off. It was hot but not unbearable as we walked and part of me was hoping/thinking that maybe the exercise would get the previous night's contractions going again. And even though it took all through decorating, lining up for the route, and standing in the now hot sun to work, just as we started "marching", I had one heck of a contraction. One that felt more real than anything else thus far and caused me to comment to a friend that "Ooo! That one hurt!" But again, that was it.

We walked the parade route one and a half times and then walked straight home to get a very sleepy Raegan fed and down for a snooze. HD & I ate lunch together and just after 12:30 we plopped down on couches in the living room to chill for a bit. That's when I felt another contraction. It hurt enough to have me to tell Ben he might want to start timing them to see what was happening, so he started a list. The first hour was every 20 minutes. The second was every 15. And from there things got crazy. They went from 10 to 8 to 5 to 7 to 4 to 7 and all over the place, but they all hurt and so part of me started to think we might be in business. We started making calls to our parents saying they might want to think about heading this way and at 3:00 I hopped in the shower. By then I was pretty sure we were going to the hospital sooner than later and I did not want to go into labor a sweaty mess from the parade earlier (as if labor itself isn't a sweaty marathon of mess!).

Even though things were progressing quickly and the pain was pretty intense, I stayed fairly calm until about 3:30. At that point Ben's mom still hadn't left for her hour and a half drive to get here to be with the kids and my parents were still at their farm, too, over three and a half hours away, and I didn't think we had that much time before we need to go. What with the holiday and all, we were also having a hard time reaching any of our friends who had offered to be our back up should we need to hurry up and get to the hospital. Honestly, by 4:00, I was beginning to think that the kid might just fall out in our kitchen and we still didn't have a game plan of what to do with Harrison and Raegan! To add to the chaos, my little mimic, Raegan, started copying my "Oooohs" and deep exhalations that I had to use to get through the contractions, and while I knew she wasn't actually mocking me, it became pretty clear to me that I did NOT want to have the baby at our house!

Well, thank goodness for good neighbors! Our neighbors to the north were spending the day at home and they were more than happy to have the kids come over to hang out and have hot dogs with them, so that's what we did. We ditched the kids next door until Grandma Deb could get there to put them to bed and we hightailed the whopping five or six blocks that it takes to get to the hospital, checking in just after 4:30 when my contractions were about four or five minutes apart.

From there it took about an hour to get up to the room, checked, and through all of the questions, set up, etc. I was so relieved when the nurse said I was at 5 cm and used the words "The Real Deal" because all along I had been worried that they'd send me home like they did with Raegan the first time we went in. In fact, I was so relieved that my contractions slowed down again to 8-10 minutes; I think my body was just happy to know I wasn't going to have to deliver unassisted at home! In hindsight, I'm glad I had a little rest that hour because from there things got very intense very quickly.

Because of the holiday, my regular OB was not available. As in, out of town, no way of making it back in time for one of my uber fast deliveries, not available. That freaked me out a bit because she's always been so good about supporting my all natural approach, but then the on-call doc agreed to let me skip the IV and I thought, OK. This is going to be OK. Full Disclosure: I think a primary reason I go the natural route is because I absolutely hate the idea of having an IV stuck in my hand or an epidural stuck in my back. I would rather push a baby out and feel it than deal with those needles!

So anyway, after checking in and getting situated, they sent me walking the halls to get those contractions going again. At first the walking was easy but after a few laps, I had to slow way down and stop to just breathe through them. Each time I put one hand on the bottom of my belly and one on the wall and thought, Alright, one step closer to Baby. After 20 minutes of this, the nurse called to me that the doctor was there and I thought, Great! He's going to check me and see how I'm progressing. But before I could get another thought in or word out, she told me, "He's going to break your water."

Huh?! Just like that? I know I've had stubborn water breaking issues in the past, but without even checking me or asking me?!

Part of my heart sank, because I was worried that this intervention, small as it may be in the minds of some but the biggest I've ever had, might lead to other complications or interventions or whatever. I just didn't know what to think. And while I'm sure I could have protested or flat out said, "No", the other part of my heart really wanted to meet this baby and know that everything was in fact OK. So I went back to the labor and delivery room to have the on-call doctor check me (7 cm) and break my water.

That all happened at 6:00. In the 40 minutes following, I went from 7 to just under 10 and I wanted to push. Real bad. The doc gave me the go-ahead and with my amazing husband on one side and an amazing labor and delivery nurse (I always love my L&D nurses!) on the other, I got after it. Four minutes later, at 6:45, Lincoln Thomas Welsch was born. Yes, four minutes. I was in so much pain (worse than I remembered with the others) and so desperate to get that baby out, I just kept pushing and pushing, pausing maybe twice to catch my breath.

In no way do I mean to diminish Lincoln's arrival (I mean, look at him - he's perfect!) or my strengths as a mama, but it wasn't exactly my best - what? performance?? - in the delivery room. The word that comes to mind again and again is intense. That last hour was so intense on various levels that I think I rushed things a bit which might also explain why it was so very painful. I wasn't exactly calm and connecting my breath to my pushes. But so be it. It was hard but it was quick and when it was all said and done, I ended up with the most amazing little baby boy on my chest. I don't think he, or anyone else for that matter, is going to hold my rushing to meet him against me.

So, in seven hours from start to finish on the good old Fourth of July, we officially became a family of five. Talk about fireworks!

Denial

Fair Warning: discussing nursing and related bodily issues/parts here. Please skip it if you're not into hearing about such details.

I'll be honest. I've been worried about thrush pretty much since I found out I was pregnant with Baby No.3. It was awful with Harrison and somehow even worse with Raegan, so from the very beginning, I fully expected to get it again with this new kiddo.

I considered doing a sort-of cleanse at the end of my pregnancy to work out extra sugar from my diet, but Good God. You try being pregnant in summer in Hastings, Nebraska and avoiding things like ice cream and Eileen's Cookies. Impossible!

OK, so I kid a bit. I really did try to cut back on living on sugar like my tendencies and preferences like to lean, but I'm also a realist and know that following a full-on Candida Diet really isn't in the cards for me. Avoiding everything with sugar and yeast in it is SO hard. So I avoided a wee bit and crossed my fingers and flung up a prayer that maybe the third time really would be the charm and I'd avoid thrush.

Enter Lincoln, stage left, on the Fourth of July. I spent my time in the hospital working so patiently and so diligently to get his latch right. I kept telling myself that maybe if I could get him to latch really, really well, my nipples wouldn't break down and crack or blister because I was pretty darn sure that wouldn't help me with my No Thrush goal. And while we did manage to get into a pretty decent rhythm while we were at Mary Lanning, I knew it would be different when we got home and my milk came in.

I know mamas who have struggled with low milk supply issues and I know it is just as painful and heartbreaking as any other struggle a mama faces. For me, though, the challenge swings in the opposite direction with an overabundance of milk. That's just the way it has always been for me from about Day Three with Baby No.1, so much so that latching really has been a challenge in the beginning with each babe because there's not much to latch on to. And that happened again with Lincoln, especially because his little tummy would get full after nursing on just one side, leaving the other to wait for the next feeding. Somehow I managed to make it to Day Six before I had to pump to relieve some of the pressure, but in those four minutes I got seven ounces. If you've had low supply problems, please don't throw things at me. There are less-than-great outcomes of too much milk, too.

For instance, I have once again turned into a bit of a milky, leaky mess. I require two to three burp rags at a feeding to keep everybody dry and I have a heck of a time keeping myself aired out and dry after and between sessions. Hence, I believe, the prevalence of thrush in my newborns' lives.

I've been talking about it since Lincoln was born, with my nurses and my family and the local lactation consultants, and all of us have been hoping I could avoid it this time, but are you kidding me? It is July. In Nebraska. And the temps have been in the 90s and higher. And it is humid as hell. How could I possibly not get thrush after having it both times previously?!

For nine days I managed to tell myself that maybe I could do it. I could keep myself from getting all thrushy. I haven't had any coffee (OK, one decaf iced mocha), tea, or soda since Lincoln was born, in part to keep my blood sugar from spiking. I've been avoiding tons of fresh fruit, again because of the sugar, and drinking almond milk instead of cow's milk with my cereal each morning. I've changed my nursing pads religiously and been using Newman's cream and trying to air out after feedings and all that. I even started up again with a probiotic. But I haven't been perfect. I've very much enjoyed some sweets in the last nine days and granola bars have been my go-to middle-of-the-night-nursing-snack which I'm sure is a no-no; and I'll say it again, Hello, Eileen's which I know is a big no-no! So while I tried to pretend that the white stuff on Lincoln's mouth the last couple days was just milk like some breast feeding babies get, that changed today.

This afternoon, after I got out of the shower and took one look in the mirror, I knew something was wrong just by the color of my left nipple. Bright pink it should not be. Never mind the random throbbing pain I've been experiencing on that side all day, even when not nursing. *sigh* And so it begins.

While there are still plenty of home remedies and over-the-counter options, not to mention prescriptions for both myself and LT to try, my past experiences with this beast tell me that I just have to be patient. Nothing I've ever tried has worked. For me, thrush just has to run its course. Perhaps if I don't spend weeks trying to fight it, it will get bored and move on, or perhaps that's just another form of denial on my part.

What I'm not going to do is blame myself. In some reading that I came across while researching the Candida Diet for nursing moms, I learned that for some women, thrush is associated with hormones. If that is the case for me, then it is totally out of my control. It's just something my body does and I have to deal with it, which is exactly what I've always done. It sucks and it hurts and some days it really drags me down, but my past experiences also tell me that I can get through it. What can I say? Yeast and stinging nipples are no match for this stubborn mama (who will definitely be enjoying the giant cookie at her four-year-old's birthday party next week)!

Perspective of the Third

Well, this is a first. I am typing this with the computer propped up on the edge of the Boppy. Why? Because my sweet, new, and sleeping-oh-so-nicely-on-my-lap Lincoln is just too darn warm and cozy to move. But I want to write. Need to write. So write I shall, with his little sleep noises to keep my typing taps company....

It has been almost a week since Lincoln surprised us with his patriotic arrival and there are so many thoughts and observations that keep running through my head, I just want to record as many as I can for remembering's sake (is that a thing? it is now). I can't promise a narrative thread or any sort of moral of the story; these are just the little moments in the first part of a new life, in our new family life, that stand out to me.

* Somehow I forgot how much I love holding a snoozing newborn on my chest. I simply adore it and would place it in my Top Five of Motherhood Favorites. It is warm and smells good and feels even better. And I love that my baby(ies) seem to love it as much as I do. Lincoln is such a little snuggler. I plan to eat that up for as long as he will let me (and I hope it lasts forever).

* I am blessed with kiddos who love each other. I know this doesn't mean they will always get along or even like each other necessarily, but wow, it does a body good to see how much HD & RL have already opened up to and accepted their new little brother. Harrison's always been a good big brother (even if he's never quite understood how much bigger he actually is), so his affection for LT doesn't surprise me. And Raegan's always been a little love, so I can't really say her behavior surprises me either, but I am pleased that she wants to check on him, wave to him, kiss him as much as we let her.

* The fact that I have two boys has yet to sink in for me. Perhaps this is because Lincoln is still in sweet sleepy infant mode and won't really be a full action Boy until he's more mobile. I'm sure it won't take long for him to be ripping and tearing just like his big brother (and who am I kidding? his big sister, too), but for now I just look at him and marvel at how tiny, and how calm, he is.

* Thank God for summer babies. I knew I was going to be glad to have Ben home when the new baby arrived, but wow and wow. I am grateful from here to eternity that I'm not doing this on my own and won't be for several more weeks. Ben has been a wonderful help with the older two during the days and has even been helping me with diaper changes and swaddling for LT at night. I am one lucky Wifey and my kids have one amazing Daddy.

* I have not had coffee since the day I delivered Lincoln. Full disclosure: on that day, when I realized I was in labor, I sent Ben to get me a large vanilla iced coffee because I knew I was going to need an extra push (sorry, bad pun) to get through the day. Since then, though, I haven't had a drop of coffee, tea, or soda. I drank caffeinated beverages, in moderation and no more than my doc recommended - mind you, during my entire pregnancy so it's not like I'm up on some soapbox here, I'm just saying. Because I have Ben around and can catch some downtime/naps during the day, I'm making it. While I'm proud of that for the time being, I withhold the right to throw the notion out the window the first day Ben is back to school. If Mama then needs it, then Mama shall have it!

* Harrison loves to ask, "How's the baby doing? What's the baby doing? Does Lincoln like this?" and does so all day long. He also really likes all of the baby gadgets that have reappeared in our house and is constantly being reminded to not touch the swing/bouncer/etc. or turn them on by himself.  Also, he asked on LT's first night home if the baby could have a gorilla cheese (grilled cheese) sandwich. Ummmm - in about a year and a half, Buddy. :)

* Raegan is a bit fascinated with my nursing the baby. When she saw me do it for the first time, she walked over, pointed to my breast and called it a bottle. Ummmm - sure. I'm not about to tell her (or HD) the anatomically correct terms, so I just explained that that is where Lincoln gets his milk from Mama. Now every time she sees me nursing, she points to me and says, "Milk" (which sounds more like Mik coming from her, but you get the gist). I hear her say "Baby" and "Mik" a lot.

* Lincoln is a handsy little dude. I seem to remember having similar issues with my first son, but wow; I have such a hard time getting him latched to nurse because his hands are always flying up in his face. I know every mom wishes she had an extra set of hands but I seriously need them! It takes 5-10 minutes sometimes to get a feeding going because that's how long I have to try to keep his hands from getting in the way of his mouth. Little goof.

* Telling Raegan something about "her brother" now require clarification, which is still weird to me. I've already found myself referring to HD as Big Buddy and LT as Little Buddy. We'll see what sticks.

* Speaking of sticking...I'm afraid we might have a nickname for Lincoln that I was hoping to avoid. Not that there's really anything wrong with it, but I'm not a huge fan of calling him Link (Linc? See, I don't even know what to do with this!). His sister, however, has yet to master too many two syllable words ("Daddy" being an obvious exception), so she's already begun calling him "Baby Link" when she talks to or about him. Oh, well. I guess that can be her special name for him. I'll stick to LT.


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OK....that's good for now. I have other, more coherent stories to share, but for now this works. In fact, you might see more posts like this in the weeks or months to come, but we are very much in "whatever works" mode and I'm totally OK with that. And so far, whatever is working just fine!

Clingers

Maybe there's something in the water or in the air. Or maybe my kids just sense that something BIG is about to happen in our family (for my own sake, I keep hoping the BIG happens soon, but here we sit, waiting as patiently as we can for Baby No.3's natural, in her-or-his-own-good-time arrival but with no signs of anything happening soon). Whatever it is, there's been a fair amount of clinging going on lately in the Welsch household.

Raegan is going on, I'm pretty sure, two months strong of major Daddy attachment. Ben is still her No.1, go-to-guy person these days and her favorite place to be when she's not running around or climbing something is in her daddy's arms. She nestles in so nicely to his torso when he scoops her up and uses her left arm to latch herself securely to his sleeve as they tool about the house and the yard. Some days she seems to be a permanent fixture there. And seeing as I don't really have a defined waist these days, I don't really mind that she'd rather be riding around on him than me. My back and my hips probably prefer it, actually. What strikes me as most interesting, however, is just how much her brother has begun his own form of clinging.

As you know, we our children are early risers, so our days often start around 6 or before. We do our darnedest, however, to make the children wait until at least 6:30 before doing our Good Mornings routine. It's a simple idea we got from our sleep book about using a dramatic wake up. Even when the kids are clearly waking up too early, you still "decide" when the day starts by waiting until a designated time at which you start flipping on lights, throwing open curtains, and singing "GOOD MORNING!" like you mean it. Supposedly it signals to them that it is not their crying, wandering, etc. that has started the day - you have. Considering that most days my kids are still up well before I'd prefer, I'm not sure how helpful this charade has been, but it's part of our morning routine at this point, and so "Good Mornings!" we do.

Because I have been so sick and so not sleeping well this pregnancy, I pretty much let Ben take over the Good Morning thing some time ago. Then I would hide under the covers for another 5-10 minutes before dragging myself downstairs to start the day. Once summer hit and I finished teaching, I started staying in bed to try to go back to sleep while he and the noisemakers did breakfast and early morning play together. This is when I began to notice HD's own form of attachment.

At first he would just wish me a good sleep and go with Dad and Raegan. But then, on the occasional morning, he would come in, ask me how my sleep was and then ask me to come play with him or have breakfast with him. If I declined or told him Mama needed to rest some more, his little bottom lip would come out and his beautiful big eyes would take on that certain sad puppy quality (seeing as the phrase "whip a pout" exists in my own family, it is not hard to discern where he might have picked up this skill). Pouting aside, he would still go downstairs and be just fine. Then, in the last two weeks, when he would come in our room for his early morning bathroom break (that I often blame as the catalyst of our family's early waking routine), he suddenly started asking Ben if Mama would come and do Good Mornings for him.

I have no idea why the sudden change or preference for me to be the one to greet him for the day, but I've been hoisting my big belly up in the hazy, early morning darkness to do just that. And he loves it. He hears me coming because I poke my head in Raegan's nook first (she greets me, I kid you not, with questioning arms and a, "Where's Daddy????" every single day. I should also mention that, for some reason, she sounds mildly French when saying this. Why? I don't know.). I then open his door next at which point he rolls/flips out of his bed, yells "Mama!" and is ready to start the day. As for me? If it was a particularly rough night with too many bathroom breaks, bizarre dreams, and extended periods of Awake, I crawl back in bed, again causing my Little Man to pout. He much prefers the mornings when I join them downstairs for some playtime and breakfast before I sneak back up for a morning nap while they hang out with Dad (thank God for my teacher-by-trade husband and the fact that we are having a summer baby!).

Am I thrilled to be on call for musical joy and sunshine each morning? Quite honestly, I'd rather have some quiet time and coffee first, but when my sweet, sweet just-about-to-turn-four-years-old son is that delighted to have me get him up for the day (he still asks Ben almost every morning if Mama can do Good Mornings and then says, "OK. Thanks!" before heading back to his room to wait for me), I can't really say it's that bad of a gig. And since I know the BIG changes are in fact happening sooner than later, if there's anything I can do to help ground or comfort either of the older two, then I am happy to do so (dark circles and all).

Meltdown

Trials and tribulations aside, I'm not one to complain about pregnancy. Well, at least not in public. My husband hears me complain All The Time about my hot feet which is technically me complaining about pregnancy because it was my first pregnancy four and a half years ago that robbed me of my once lovely-because-they-were-slightly-icy-all-year-round feet. I read about other women having a similar pregnancy symptom, in part because of all the extra blood flow in the body, but I was really hoping it would go away after Baby arrived. It didn't. And now, with Baby No.3 just around the corner and it being the first day of summer/longest day of the year/whatever this day is, my feet are on FIRE.

Did I mention our air conditioning went out today? You may already know this because I took to Facebook this afternoon in my heat and frustration because our system had been running all afternoon but absolutely no cool air was coming out of a single vent in the house. Actually, no air was coming out whatsoever. And my dear husband, who had taken our dear son bowling for the afternoon and left me at the house with the whiney I-want-Daddy-ONLY toddler, had not taken his phone along with him. So what could I do? I wanted to call any and every service person in the fair city of Hastings but was stuck in a bit of a 1950s dilemma because I didn't know how dear husband would feel about that. You see, I've been trying to tell him, since at least yesterday and perhaps even earlier in the week (or before) that I thought our system wasn't running properly. He brushed my complaints off, perhaps because of the constant hot foot whining and the fact that we were still waiting for a routine maintenance check on our system which would tell us how things were or were not running.

After some nagging gentle encouragement from me, Ben called this morning to confirm a system check appointment for next Thursday. I was happy. Then, as temps this afternoon climbed into the mid-90s for the second day in a row and our unit kept going and going and going while the temp in the house kept climbing and climbing and climbing, I was not so happy. Especially because I was stuck in the sticky house and today's was apparently the longest bowling adventure in the history of kid bowling and I had absolutely no way of contacting the slow bowlers to tell them to get the flip home and make some flipping calls to fix our flip diddle air conditioner until they finally got home at 4:30. On a Friday. Great time to be asking for a service call, eh?

Well, two and a half hours later and our fan is up and running again. We can't turn the thermostat on just yet but will be able to do so later tonight and a full repair will be made next week when a part arrives. So I don't have to sleep in the basement or at a friend's house tonight and I can quit hoping that I go into labor, just so I can have access to air conditioning.

Moral of the story? Maybe, just maybe, even when she is REALLY pregnant and always talking about her REALLY hot feet, a wifey might have some intuition that something in the house needs a'fixin. Now, said wifey is going to take a cold shower, put her swelling feet on ice, and anxiously await the actual air's return.

Rough Road?

It seems like, in the last handful of months, I have heard some variation of the phrases "Boy, you guys have had it rough" and "This hasn't been an easy pregnancy" from a wide range of family, friends, and even my OB. I guess that last one should have been my tipping point to believing or at least at acknowledging the truth behind these comments, but for the most part, I've tried to "Oh, well, yeah, it's been interesting..." and Pollyanna my way through them. Not that I've been a total saint about handling the ups and downs. I did document most of our trials here which was borderline complaining at times, so if you've been following along during this pregnancy you know what our holidays were like and how much we wanted April's shenanigans to up and leave us. For some reason, though, I just couldn't bring myself to agree with the idea that this baby was causing me fits.

Maybe that's because that wasn't the intended message behind the comments. Of course the baby hasn't been trying to make life difficult; we've just had some difficult days of life while waiting for him/her to arrive. After all, doesn't that seem fair? No one can expect anything to go perfectly or smoothly - certainly not for 40 weeks, and certainly not when you already have Littles in your house who are more than ready to share their sweet sticky kisses (and sweet sticky germs) with you day and night. There will be hiccups. And bugs. And stomach bugs. And it was the latest round of stomach bugs that brought me to my acceptance of giving in - but mind you, not giving up - to the notion that this hasn't been the easiest of roads to Baby.

Long story short, because you've heard enough of our health blahs, we spent the last week cycling, every couple of days, through someone else in the house having the stomach flu. HD started it a week ago yesterday and yesterday I finished it. Well, at least I think/hope/pray/will-do-just-about-anything-to-insure-that we've finished it. And I have to say, obvious as it may seem, being 9 months pregnant and sick with the flu is worse than any other month pregnant and sick with the flu. My belly is too big and my energy is too low to handle extra exertion right now, so yesterday about did me in. TMI warning, but I spent most of last night praying that my cervix would just stay shut because I was terrified of going into labor when I was already feeling so down and out.

Well, thank goodness the baby and my body listened, because I got through the night, and today both my stomach and my faith that "I can do this" are regaining strength. That's good because I'm hoping for my third natural delivery and let's face it - any delivery takes some major will power and determination; not something you want to go into right after being sick. Seeing as tomorrow is only 37 weeks, I'm hoping we get plenty more rest and recovery time before this sweet little peanut makes her/his grand entrance. If I end up going overdue again, I'll regret these words, but really, Sweet Pea, there's no rush. You do what you need to do in there and we'll be here waiting for whenever you're ready to come. All those rough days and nights? They will just become part of your story, part of what makes you strong and a fighter, and part of what makes our family stronger, too.

So, has it been a rough road? At times, absolutely. Will it be worth it in the end? All the time, absolutely.

Bump

It's taken me four-and-a-half years and three pregnancies to get it, but now I understand full on why a pregnant mama's belly is called a bump. Or, at least I understand why this rather clumsy pregnant mama's belly is called a bump. It's not a noun. It's a verb.

My poor tummy. Lately it seems that everyone in the house is crashing and bashing against my, albeit beautiful, very much protruding baby bump. Last week Ben caught me with a cupboard door as I was trying to scoot around him in the kitchen. Harrison literally runs into and bounces off my belly at least once a week as he motors runs around, doing what almost-four-year-olds do. Raegan, when she graces me with her presence, usually does so by flopping in my lap with a book; she seems oblivious to the fact that my lap is all but gone these days and that what she is really doing is throwing her sweet little 20 lbs. right into her soon-to-be-here baby brother or baby sister (who, by the way, usually starts kicking and pushing back when knocked like this). And even I am not immune to the bumps of The Bump. Just the other day, while trying to prepare a meal, I turned quickly in the kitchen and scraped the front of my belly against the edge of a counter. Ow and ow is all I can say about that.

And while it may feel like just the opposite, thanks to all the Bumping, it turns out that I'm no bigger than I've been at this stage in the game with my first two bellies. I mean, I know this because one, my doctor's visits tell me that my measurements - weight, fundus (I really get a kick out of that word), etc. - are right on track for what my babies have done in the past. And two, well, the proof is in the pudding pictures:

Yes, Sir. That's me at 36 weeks with each baby. I know I've been posting Baby No. 3's photos on the weekend, just like I did with the first two, but we always take them on Wednesdays as that is my actual week marker, so here you have it - a sneak peak (and proof that I am typically pretty tired by the time I hit 9 months!). And while it feels like I'm as big as I've ever been and running into everything and everyone, I know that's not the case. Actually, the only difference I see here is that this baby is hanging out much lower than the first two. To quote my old farmer husband, Well, shoot. My bladder and I could have told you that before we hit the halfway point with this kiddo! 

Based on previous experience, we may have anywhere from two-and-a-half to four-and-a-half more weeks to go in Bump mode. Here's hoping that in that time span I don't have to resort to wrapping myself in pillows to protect my belly...it is far too hot out and my wardrobe is far too limited to accommodate such measures!