I say to my husband, “You know, my friend is so depressed. I think I should take her out to dinner at Olive Garden. We still have that gift card with $18 on it.”

He says to me, “Great idea. Her husband is planning to watch the Miami game tonight, so tonight would be a perfect time.”

I say, “But they don’t have a television. How is he going to watch the game?”

He says, “I don’t know. I’ll call him.”

Before I know it, my husband has invited this couple and their two year old over to watch the game at 5:00 p.m. At 7:30 p.m., after I put Grace to bed, my friend and I are supposed to leave the guys with the kids and go to dinner.

Only, my friend calls at 1:20 p.m. and mentions that she’d really like to watch the whole game (she and her husband met at the University of Miami–she was his calculus tutor).

So, my innocent remark about going to dinner with my friend turned into a three hour sweaty frenzy of house-cleaning and frantic de-cluttering and even a little bit of ironing. Oh, and I still have kids to take care of in the midst of all that. I was vacuuming–actually pausing in my vacuuming–when my DaycareMom quietly entered the house (she usually comes through the house without knocking because we’re often in the backyard playing when she arrives) and I’m terrified that she overheard me muttering to myself about my husband’s brilliant plan in inviting people over to our home at 5:00 p.m. with practically no warning.

I said to her, “Oh hi!” And thought, Please someone, just shoot me now.

When she left, I continued my crazed cleaning spree. I scrubbed two bathrooms, top to bottom, vacuumed, picked up loads of stuff and relocated it to its proper location, did dishes (again!), swept and mopped, picked up toys, dusted the television and my computer, found batteries for the remote control, took out trash, put newspapers in the recycling bin. Fortunately, my husband picked up take-and-bake pizza, so I didn’t have to worry about dinner, but still. I was a glistening, stressed-out mess by 5:00 p.m.

I stood in front of our new oscillating fan in the bedroom to try to cool down, put on some make-up, calmed my bangs, changed into a clean shirt and greeted my guests. The evening went surprisingly well–sometimes Babygirl is less than friendly, but she and our friend’s almost-2-year-old had a blast, running–literally–in circles and screaming with laughter. My twins watched the game, mostly. TwinBoyA talks non-stop. He would be a great commentator. There would never be any dead air with this kid behind the microphone.

Before the game ended, I took Babygirl up to bed. She was outraged that I insisted she wear a diaper and pajamas to bed. She’s become devoted to being unclothed at all times. When I stood her up to zip up the jammies, with tears still wet on her cheeks, she said, “I am so sad.” I love how she can express her feelings verbally. She says “mad,” “sad,” “scared” and “happy.”

I thought I might go to Target when the game ended, but wouldn’t you know, it went into overtime and then Miami won! Our friends did a great deal of hollering, which my boys joined in on.

I decided it was too late to shop.

But it’s not too late to comment about a couple of names. Check out Craphonso. Now seriously. What mother names her child CRAPhonso? I understand it’s pronounced “Crafonzo”, but honestly, what’s next? A kid named Shitella (pronounced SHY-tella, of course)?

I thought of some other funny names, too. Remember awhile back when I posted about unfortunate names? Well, here is a perfect name: the janitor at my son’s primary school is named Mr. Broom. No kidding! Oh, and my husband once went to a chiropractor named Dr. Looney.

My sixth grade art teacher was named Mr. Wise, but he had a hair growing directly out of the tip of his nose. In his class, we had to create a clay sculpture of an animal. I made the ugliest penguin that has ever existed, primarly because I couldn’t figure out how to make an animal with actual legs, like a deer or a dog. My mother probably still has that wretched figurine somewhere. We also spent a great deal of time copying comic strips in that classroom. And that was the class in which I slapped Jeff H across the face for making a lewd comment about my assets, which were unfortunately clothed in a t-shirt featuring a large picture of two cherries.

After that, I wore my down coat during school, even though Jeff H never tortured me again.

My posts are out of order due to a glitch, so be sure to scroll down a tiny bit and see my blog about blogging.

Today is the third day that Babygirl protested her naptime. She was quiet for ten minutes, hollered my name for twenty minutes, screamed and cried for ten minutes, then became silent again. I hope she’s sleeping and not dead.

She talks all day now. I love how she says “fall off,” when she means “fall down” or even just “fall.” She adores her big brothers, especially when they push her really fast in the rocking chair or when they let her ride around on their backs as they crawl.

Yesterday, after I said I was going to read the newspaper, instead I had mercy on Babygirl and sent up one of my sons to get her out of her crib. She came walking into the kitchen, then, without a diaper or any clothing and when I said, “Did you have a good sleep?” she said, “Zes.”

Funny kid. She refused to get diapered or clothed the rest of the afternoon, though she did consent to wear a pair of Barney training pants when we went outside in the backyard for a bit.

The pool is closed now, so summer has officially ended as far as I’m concerned. In a way, I feel relieved because I don’t feel guilty that we aren’t taking the kids to the pool to swim every day. The last day at the pool my neice and nephew came, too, along with my sister and her husband. The kids all had a great time taking underwater pictures of each other with some waterproof disposable cameras I found on clearance at Target. I can’t wait to see the results.

Babygirl totally cracked me up when I realized she was calling my younger sister, “Big Old Mama,” and my brother-in-law “Big Daddy.” I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time. Perhaps I need to get out more.

Babygirl did not nap yesterday. You may recall that we had a Nap Drought last year at about this time. Babygirl skipped her nap approximately 120 days in a row, leading me to teeter perilously close to the edge of a nervous breakdown. I adore Babygirl. Really, I do. I just don’t want to adore her for twelve straight hours.

So I’m not getting the Mother of the Year award.

Today, with great hopes, I put her down at the usual time with her dollies (Dolly and Boy). I tried not to let her see my fear, because it’s well-known that babies can smell fear and will then take advantage of that weakness. She snuggled under her blankets and then ten minutes later, began calling out, “MOM!” Pause. “MOM!” Pause. “MOM!”

I’ve been ignoring her for twenty minutes now. She’s probably untaped her diaper and peed in her crib by now. She’s obsessed with taking off and putting on her diaper–mostly taking it off. And she’s newly in love with toenail polish. Just before her nap, I had to paint the toes of two of her dollies. (We painted Boy’s toenails the other night. He’s an old cabbage patch doll that’s been hanging around in the stuffed animal basket for many years now. Babygirl found him and christened him “Boy.”)

I just don’t want her to be awake now, mostly because I don’t want to share my Diet Vanilla Pepsi. And because I need a moment to be a solitary, isolated, individual person. I seriously had no idea how taxing it would be for me to be with people–even my own children–twenty-four hours a day.

I haven’t even read the newspaper yet today. But I think I will. Babygirl can wait.

Why did I start a blog? All thanks goes to Brandie, author of I Am Mom! Hear Me Roar! I met Brandie on-line on a message board for mothers of babies due in September 2002. One day last fall, Brandie suggested to the board members that it might be fun to start personal journals and share them with each other.

I thought, yeah, fun, but not for me! Once long, long ago, I started a diary on OpenDiary.com. I’d only posted a few entries when along came my first reader who commented, “Your diary sure is boring.” Or something to that effect.

I quit soon thereafter. Those first entries probably were boring and the fact that someone out there in the shadows was reading and judging my boring life scared me.

Yet, a few weeks after Brandie’s suggestion, I decided to go ahead and start a journal. My first journal was here. Then, in January, I moved to my present home here at Blogger.com, just in time for all the improvements unveiled by Blogger.

Most of the women from that board who started journals quit soon thereafter. But Brandie and I have continued our grand experiment in blogging, as have a few of my other board friends.

I’ve always kept a pen and paper journal, ever since I was in second grade. I hardly ever read those spiral notebooks, but I have them neatly stacked in my closet. I’ll have plenty of material to laugh and cry over when I am old woman.

During my early twenties, my journals were the support system I longed for in the real world. When I was 22 and a new bride, I moved across the country from Seattle to New Haven, Connecticut, where my husband attended Yale Divinity School. I left my circle of college friends for a job in a law office and oh, the loneliness of being in a new city with a new husband who was stressed out by his rigorous studies! I wrote and wrote and wrote, whined and complained and dreamed of having babies.

Then my husband finished grad school and we moved “home” to Seattle (his homeland is near Houston), just in time for my dad to be diagnosed with terminal cancer and die. My journals from those days are filled with anguish and blotches where tears fell. After he died, my journal entries grew even more morose and dark as we entered the overcast Land of Infertility and then trod the uncertain, windy paths of Adoption Attempts.

My husband could only stand so much of my dismal outlook on life–cruel life, how dare you pick on me! what did I ever do to deserve this!–and my fertile friends could not understand. So I wrote and wrote and cried and cried some more.

In the middle of all that agony, I thought, You know, this would make a great book. Then infertile women like me wouldn’t feel so alone. I typed it up all nice and pretty and waited until an end to my “story” appeared, wrote up a book proposal and sent it off.

I was rejected repeatedly and I could hear the hoots and howls of the editors all the way back at my childless home. You think infertility is depressing? Try having your book proposal about infertility rejected. That’s really depressing, along the lines of, God hates you and we hated hearing about it. Grow up you big baby!

Obviously, my idea was absolutely right on target, because lo and behold, along comes internet blogs and what do I come across? Amazing infertility blogs and a warm, gentle, understanding circle of supportive infertile women all reading and commenting and blogging and getting through those gloomy days together. My absolute favorite blog about infertility at the moment is by Getupgrrl who authors
Chez Miscarriage, a blog which makes me weep and snort with laughter and smile with recognition. What did those dumb editors know anyway? The truth is that people are interested in reading about other people’s lives, in viewing the interior of those lives, the mundane and the absurd and the heart-wrenching minutiae of daily life.

In another decade, I might have been the author of a college blog (“I’m so tired, I’m not sure I can make it through English Lit today and do you think that he will ask me out and what, oh what will I be when I grow up?”) or an infertility blog (“Everyone I know lives in a world of velvet toys and tiny fingers and strained carrots and I have no baby to call my own.”).

My blog reflects my thoughts and serves as a record of the monotonous and the silly and the boring, because these small things are the blocks that make up Life. These details add up to everything that matters and one day I will want to remember how Babygirl refused her nap and instead hollered down the stairs, “MOM!” while a man stood on my roof and power-washed it. I write to think, I write to remember, and I write to entertain myself. That other people find my writing entertaining or thought-provoking is a lovely bonus and reading comments is the frosting on my cake. Even those “anonymous” comments by people who do not appreciate my view of Michael Moore’s movie.

I have a blog-addiction now. Blogs give me a view into lives that probably would never intersect with my life, whether for geographical, philosophical, or practical reasons. I might never have crossed paths with Suzanne, the witty, warm and funny author of Suburban Lesbian. I woulnd’t think to seek out a blog for “suburban lesbians”, but when Suzanne first commented on my blog, I followed the links back to her hang-out and discovered we have a lot in common. For instance, we both value the snooze feature on our alarm clocks. She’s a great writer and I feel lucky to have a glimpse into her life.

One of my closest friends is MaryKay. We met back in 1985 when we worked at Heritage U.S.A., Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker’s extravaganza. She was a lifeguard and I was a children’s ministry intern. And we’ve been writing letters and email ever since. She started a blog recently called Much Ado About Nothing. Now, we can keep up with each other even though I’m near Seattle and she’s in North Carolina. MaryKay tells funny stories of working in a funeral home and raising her four kids. She’s terrific and creative and insightful.

Stacy is one of my board buddies who is a fabulous writer with a wry and humorous viewpoint. She authors Gray Matter. I can’t figure out when she writes because she is the mother of twin 2-year-old boys, a brilliant 9-year-old daughter, attends grad school, works full-time (at nights on the weekends) and is married to a man who travels. She also reads a lot and frankly, she’s amazing.

Then there is Jen, author of SissyFit, a beautifully written, often hilarious account of her life as the mother of three small children and wife of a police officer. And she’s tall, really tall, and beautiful, extremely witty and best of all, she sent my gnome-deprived, gnome-obsessed daughter her very own gnome. Jen is a Gnome Benefactor.

I include a few blogs that I randomly found. These girls make me laugh and sometimes make me wish I were young and single and living in Los Angeles or New York City, and sometimes make me thank God I’m not. A Girl Named Bob belongs to a career-girl in New York City. Wendy, author of Magic Short Bus, is an animator and good friend of Bob, as in the girl named Bob. Another young, single-with-boyfriend author is Deb of smitten. She makes finding a mouse in the house (okay, apartment) and frosting cupcakes amusing and even laugh-out-loud funny.

A new member of my blogroll is Michelle, writer of Demented Delusions of a Wannabe Writer. Take a stroll over there and see why I like her, aside from the fact that she’s a good writer. Also, it turns out she’s a Pastor’s Kid, so we have a little connection there.

Dooce is practically in a category by herself. She’s on almost more blogrolls than, well, than anyone–go ahead, check the official registers on Blogrolling.com and you’ll see I tell no lies. Read her tales of parenting her now-7-month-old baby, Leta, and giggle at her list of reasons she feels guilty. You can thank me later.

For pure inspiration and a kick in the pants, read my high-school friend, Tory’s blog. She’s a teacher, so obviously her site is called MsTeechur: From Flabulous to Fabulous. She is not only a fantastic teacher, but she also lost over 100 pounds doing Weight Watchers on-line and just recently, she ran a half-marathon and completed her first triathlon. She’s remarkable and a cheerful, bring-smiles-to-your-face writer.

So, there you have it. The reasons I blog and the reasons I list the blogs I do.

Now, it’s your turn. Why do you blog? How’d you get started? And while you’re at it, tell me I’m beautiful and that you definitely think I could win a Pulitzer Prize. Or just send cash. And a tiara.

I wrote about going to the movie Open Water last night before collapsing into bed, but when it was all said and done, my clever, witty post disappeared into thin air.

So let me just summarize.

Saturday night.
Movie with husband.
Choice: “Open Water” or “Bourne Supremacy.”
Check reviews, accidentally learn ending of “Open Water.”
Hate stupid people, especially unprofessional, amateur movie reviewers.
See “Open Water,” start time 9:30 p.m.
10:00 p.m.: Three generation Asian family walks in, chattering.
Small children do not belong in rated “R” movies. Ever.
Wonder at stupidity of people yet again.
10:30 p.m.: Hear amazing sound effects.
Realize sound is actually snoring man in back row, not sound effects.
Movie rating: Two thumbs up. Hooray for independent, low-budget film.

Now, moving on. My now 2-year old Babygirl has become clingy and skittish and Sunday morning, I actually had to leave church to bring her home due to her hysterics in the church nursery. I can never actually leave her in the nursery because she screams as if she’s being attacked by bees, but last Sunday, I left her for ten minutes anyway because I had to sing. This Sunday, she remembered that and freaked out in advance of possible abandonment.

Then, at 3 p.m., she attended her first birthday party for her little friend named Ruby who was born a week after Babygirl. Despite the promise of birthday cake, Babygirl took one look at the decorations, saw darling little Ruby, burst into tears and begged “Go home.” I attempted to distract, to calm, to bribe. Then I took her straight home.

I guess this week “off” from watching our DaycareKid has been unsettling for her . . . especially since I dragged her to the photographer and to the doctor. My poor girl needs routine, a quiet, sedate schedule. I can only imagine if I’d had her first. I would have assumed that children are gentle, fragile creatures who must be sheltered and protected and who cling to my knees when a strange adult enters the room. I’d have thought I had something to do with creating this timid personality, this creature of habit.

If I’d had her first before YoungestBoy who was so friendly as a two year old that he once decided to eat with the family one booth over at Burger King instead of us, I would have been shocked at the typical behavior of children. Babygirl is not the norm. She is ultra-sensitive and obedient, even at this age. I can gaze at her and she will change her mind and decide to comply with my wishes.

My boys don’t even notice if I’m looking their direction.

She mimimics me in the bathroom, brushes her teeth in the same order I do (brush, brush, brush, scrub tongue, rinse toothbrush, spit, rinse mouth with water cupped in hands), puts on eye shadow, showers, picks up dirty clothes, washes dirty spots on the kitchen floor, reads books, shadows me constantly.

So far, she has not purposely played in mud or used a stick as a sword.

So, I’m glad I had her last. I can enjoy this “easier” baby, even though I have to be on the look-out for bees at all times, lest she go completely berserk. Bees are bad, very bad, worse than the church nursery.

Isn’t it amazing that all the kids in one family can be so different? That’s clear if I look back at my own family of origin. I could not possibly be more different from my siblings. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.

Mt. Rainier 

A few weeks ago, I wrote about our trip to Mt. Rainier. Here is the picture I took at the end of the trail . . . right before Babygirl began her screaming descent.

Nice kitty.  

This is Babygirl on the Fourth of July, manhandling one of our three kittens. I don’t have anything witty or eloquent to say. This picture, I think, is worth a thousand words, or maybe six hundred, at least.

And here Babygirl is, blowing bubbles in the backyard. Same day, different fun:
Bubble-girl  

Gnome.  

Remember how I thwarted Babygirl’s plans to steal the neighborhood gnomes a few weeks ago?

Imagine my surprise and Babygirl’s delight when a package arrived in the mail just a few short days later. Inside, I found a gnome. Babygirl’s eyes lit up and she’s been taking gnome to bed with her each night.

Who is our gnome benefactor? That would be Jen, author of SissyFit.

Jen keeps a few gnomes around her house for just such an occasion. What a cool friend she is. Thanks, Jen!

Babygirl did her part today to make sure that I didn’t feel the swoosh of time whizzing by. She drove me crazy. All day, starting with her wake-up call at 7:15 a.m.

Babygirl has a new obsession: the shower. She wants to take two, sometimes three showers per day. She doesn’t stay in the shower, however, but comes running out, all shivery, with chattering teeth and I say, “Hey, are you all done?” and she says, “No, I shower!” and then she swings her arms as she runs back to the bathroom. Then, just as the shampoo container says, “rinse and repeat.” She does this over and over again until I finally outwit, outplay and outlast her by turning off the hot water. Who’s the survivor now, chickadee?

Babygirl was mostly weaned until this week and the trauma of seeing the photographer, being actually touched by the doctor and having a loosey-goosey schedule has flung her backwards in time and now she cries out at random times throughout the day–while I am washing dishes or struggling to undo the bolts on the iron railing in the living room that must come out now so I can paint–“Mama chair! Mama chair!”

Today, my neighbor stopped by with her little girl who is four. My neighbor is a lovely woman who takes my son to school and this year, we actually reciprocate by picking up her son along with our son. Last year, she picked up and dropped off every single day. We are losers. I know.

Anyway, I invited her and Malini in and Malini rushed past me into the living room where Babygirl was minding her own business, watching television and when she saw Malini before she saw me, all sorts of alarms and whistles went off in her head and she completely freaked out.

She cried and cried, while I attempted to soothe her and chat with my neighbor. Babygirl does not like surprises. She handled that particular surprise so poorly that I have to wonder if she’s getting sick or perhaps suffering from an inoperable brain tumor or developing paranoid schizophrenia.

My neighbor and her daughter stayed for an hour, maybe longer, and toward the end of the visit, Babygirl warmed up and stopped her hysterics. When they left at 11:00 a.m., I was worn out.

Here are the things Babygirl prefers that I refrain from doing in her presence:

1) Wash dishes.
2) Fold laundry.
3) Put away laundry.
4) Read the newspaper.
5) Read any book, other than “Moonbear.”
6) Prepare the living/dining room walls for paint.
7) Sit at the computer.
8) Cook dinner.
9) Talk on the phone. (When the phone rings, she drops everything and runs for the phone, yelling, “I got it! I got it!”)
10) Watch television, other than Sesame Street and the Wiggles.

Oh, and she doesn’t want me out of her sight, either. I thought I’d go to the small group Bible study at church tonight. I haven’t been for weeks, maybe months. I changed into something without baby smears on it, put on make-up while she dug her fingernails into my eyeshadow compact, fixed my unruly hair, brushed my teeth while she stood on the bathroom counter and finally, put on shoes and told my husband, “You can distract her by offering her a S-H-O-W-E-R.”

He scooped her off the bathroom counter and told her she could have a shower and she began to wail, “Mommy! Mommy! No shower! No shower!”

With an exasperated throw of my shoes, I said, “Fine. Let’s get your pajamas on.”

I felt like I stood myself up. I put her to bed at 7:30 p.m. and as my husband said, “You are all dressed with no place to go.” I said, “Yes, I am pathetic.”

So, I went to Marshall’s to shop the clearance rack and then to Dairy Queen for a “Blizzard.”

At least the world wasn’t on fast-forward today. Every moment meandered by with exquisite slowness. I told my husband tonight, “You forget because you’ve been to Portland and out to lunch and out of the house all week that some of us haven’t gone anywhere or done anything for weeks.”

He said, “Are you saying I’m a bad person?” which is our standard reply to each other when we are having a somewhat serious discussion.

And, if I hadn’t been so crabby, I would have remembered the correct answer, which is, “No. I’m saying you’re fat.”

Tomorrow, what to do, what to do. . . paint the living/dining room? Get out of the house without kids? Catch up on laundry? Pay bills? Take the kids swimming on the last Saturday the pool will be open this season? My husband is officiating at a wedding at 4:30 p.m., so he’ll be gone during the afternoon.

At this point, my main goal is to sleep in, as much as is humanly possible living with these four children who have no respect for the sanctity of sleep on Saturday mornings. It’s an outrage, really.

Happy Birthday, Babygirl.  

Two years ago . . .

I woke up on Labor Day and decided that I must catch up on the ironing. I was nine months pregnant and due in three days. My husband went to the office for a few hours to get caught up on work and planned to come home after lunch to take the boys to the swimming pool. I showered and got busy ironing and doing laundry.

When I finished the ironing, I decided to tidy up the main bathroom. Then I thought I should clean the toilets and sinks. I figured I may as well vacuum my room since the vacuum cleaner was upstairs. Then I noticed the dusty lampshades near by bed and vacuumed those, too. Then I dusted my entire room as well. Finally I realized it was close to lunchtime and went downstairs to put a frozen pizza in the oven. An enormously pregnant woman does not care if her already alive children must subsist on frozen pizza. She just does what she must to get by.

While I was in the kitchen (cleaning it while the pizza cooked), I noticed what seemed to be fairly regular cramps. I hesitated to call them “contractions” since I was still three days from my due date–my other baby hadn’t been born until 9 days past his due date–so I just worked right through them. They were about four minutes apart, though, which I noted on the kitchen clock. At 1 p.m., the pizza was ready and I fed the kids. I made a batch of chocolate “no-bake” cookies to take the the pool later on. Then I made myself a tuna sandwich and got on-line for a few minutes to catch up on email. The contractions continued on steadily every four or five minutes.

My husband came home. He planned to take the boys to the swimming pool since Labor Day was the final day it was opened. He’d leave at 2 p.m. and I intended to stay home and rest until 4 p.m. when we planned to have a little cook-out with our friends. At about 1:45 p.m., I told him I was having contractions but that I didn’t think they were really labor. He offered to stay home, but I said, “No, just go.” I really thought they would slow down if I took a bath and laid down. My other labor lasted 43 hours and came and went, lollygagged, really.

I called the midwife at 2 p.m. and told her that I was having these fairly regular contractions, but that I intended to rest and see if I could make them go away. We discussed that “real labor” would mean that the contractions would progress in some way–they’d get stronger, closer together, more intense. I told her I’d call her back if I couldn’t make them stop.

2 p.m.: Ran a warm bath, sat back, relaxed. Contractions continued.

2:30 p.m. With great effort, I lift my pregnant body out of the bath. I relax on my left side and watch the Labor Day episodes of “A Baby Story”. Just for hoots, I decide to time contractions. They are now two to three minutes apart, sometimes four and last a minute usually. I vaguely remember that the length of the contractions matters more than the space between them.

3:00 p.m.: After half an hour, I grab “The Birth Book” to find out what I can about the length of contractions. I still can’t decide whether to call the midwife, but contractions are starting to hurt. I’m breathing through them, sitting on my labor ball in the bathroom. The book says contractions closer than four minutes and longer than a minute mean it’s really labor.

3:30 p.m.: I decide to call the midwife, but now I’ve started crying during contractions. Just when I compose myself, another contraction starts. I page her. When she calls back, I answer, “Hello,” and then have to say, “Just a minute,” and put down the phone while I’m having a contraction. I tell her how close they are and that I don’t know why I’m sobbing during them. She says she’ll come and assess me.

I decide to go downstairs and wash the lunch dishes. But on the way, I see the disaster area in my boys’ bedroom. I stop and crawl around, picking up toys and clothes and cleaning. I stop every two minutes to have a contraction. I decided to stop crying and now I’m talking to myself through each one: “this is the last time I’ll have this contraction” and “it’s all right . . . it’s all right” and “I can do this” and “see, it’s over” . . . Since the vacuum is still upstairs, I vacuum and put clean sheets on their bed.

4:00 p.m.: When I take the vacuum downstairs, I see that the living room is a bit messy. So I tidy it up. I kick plastic army soldiers to one spot so I don’t have to bend over too many times. I put the couch cushions back into the couch and straighten the pillows. I kneel at the coffee table and hold on and moan during contractions. I sit in the chair and watch out the window and breathe. I figure the midwife will be here by 4:15 p.m. or 4:30 p.m. I can make it until she arrives.

The contractions don’t ease up, no matter what I position I try, and I try everything: I lay on the bed, I hold on to the wall, I kneel, I lay on the ground, I sit in a chair, I walk, I lay my head on the cool kitchen counter while I grip the edges of it. My dog, Greta, is crated and barks at me when I moan in the kitchen. I realize I can’t possibly stand at the sink to wash dishes and settle for filling a waterbottle with ice and water. I go upstairs.

4:30 p.m.: The midwife arrives and I hear the doorbell, but I’m in the middle of a contraction, so it takes me a minute to get downstairs. I tell her that if this is not actually labor, I’ve changed my mind and I no longer intend to have a baby.

We go upstairs and I have a few contractions before she actually checks me. I lay down and study her face and think “I’m probably not even dilated at all.” So, I’m shocked when she tells me I’m definitely in labor; I’m at 4 cm. She wants to leave her hand there and feel the strength of the contractions. At the end of the next contraction, she tells me I am now 5 cm and I’m going to have a baby!

5:00 p.m. We are trying to get the birth tub filled with water. She has to get the hose from outdoors where it’s stored (in a special box). I was not prepared at all to actually have a baby. The tub is set up, but the hoses are still outside. I am no help, because everytime I have a contractions, I fling myself to the ground and moan and writhe. This happens every two minutes.

She calls her assistant and her student midwife. I call my sister, who tells my mother and calls my other sister. I call my labor support people, but I can’t reach one and leave a message. The other lives 2 hours away and I tell her that she needn’t hurry, but that I am in labor. My husband calls from the pool and I tell him I am very definitely going to have a baby, but that he should keep the kids at the pool as long as possible. All of these phone calls are interrupted by hard contractions in which I throw myself to the ground or the bed and moan. I hear my midwife telling her assistant on the phone that I am having “whopper” contractions every two minutes apart.

5:30 p.m.: The student midwife has arrived. I am now moaning through my contractions. They call it “vocalizing,” in Birthing From Within, and that’s the chapter that I skimmed through, confident that I would handle this labor as I handled my previous labor: stoically, silently, with steady breathing and counting and hand-holding.

But these contractions are nothing like my prior experience. These are knock-me-down-without-warning contractions. These are roller-coaster-at-50-miles-an-hour contractions. These are prize-fighter-hit-me-in-the-gut contractions. I cannot find any relief, despite position changes. At last, the pool is full enough and I get in. The contractions do not ease up or slow down. I clutch the sides of the pool and moan. I ask my midwife how much closer the contractions will get. She tells me this is it! They won’t get closer. I am so relieved.

The labor is nothing like my first labor. Instead of easing into each contraction and breathing as it peaks, I enter each contraction full-force, no time to breathe, no time to visualize. I haven’t lit my candle, I haven’t turned on music. There is no time. I merely hang on to the pool, relax my body in the water and holler. I am impressed with the variety of screams and yells and hollers and moans and groans and whoops that I make. I sound very much as if I’m at an amusement park, on the scariest, upside-down ride going fast, really, really fast.

6 p.m.: My mom and sister arrive. I’m between contractions, so I look up at them calmly and say, “Hi. I’m having really hard contractions and I’m going to scream in a minute. Don’t be alarmed.” Then I float on my side and begin screaming, really screaming like Drew Barrymore in “Scream.” I am aware of them getting cameras set up and between contractions, I tell my sister it could still be awhile and not to take too many pictures of me just screaming.

6:15 p.m.: I hear the phone and realize it’s my husband, but I can’t stop screaming anyway. They tell me he’s on his way.

6:15 – 6:30 p.m.: I ask, “Do you think it’s going to be soon?” and the midwife offers to check me. I get out of the pool and she tells me I’m at 8 cm and will soon be pushing. When I get back in, the contractions have changed and now at the end of each one, I can feel pressure and I realize my body is pushing. My vocalizing changes with each push.

For about eight contractions, I know that the baby is coming. I reach down and can feel the bag of waters nearly bulging out. I tell the midwife I can feel it “and that means the baby is right there, too, right?” I ask with pitiful hope, but severe doubt. I’m pretty sure no baby will ever come. She assures me that it is. A few more contractions and I say, “Do you think I should change positions?” and the midwife says, “You can do whatever you want. You can get out if you want.” And I say, “No, I don’t want to get out. I don’t want to get out. I don’t want to get out.” I decide to get on my knees.

I position myself on my knees, with my arms and head leaning on my bed. When the contraction starts, I feel a pop, then I feel the baby move down and begin to crown. I yell, “The baby’s coming!” On the next contraction, I feel the head move out and the body begin to emerge. I yell, “GET THE BABY” several times because I am pretty sure that the baby will float out and no one will notice. The next contraction, the baby is out.

I flip over and the baby is in my arms. We’re all rubbing its back. It looks so little! Finally, someone says, “What kind of baby is it?” and I say, “I’m going to check!” and I turn it over on its back and see that it’s a girl! I yell, “IT’S a GIRL!” and my mom squeals and we all cheer and the baby cries.

Ten minutes later, my husband arrives.

And that’s the story of Babygirl’s arrival. She was born at 6:52 p.m., after less than 6 hours of active labor. She weighed 8 pounds, 8 ounces, was 21 inches long. She doesn’t have much hair, but she has long fingers and toes and is surely the most beautiful baby ever.

And now, I blinked and she is two years old. Happy Birthday, Babygirl!