Unexpectedly Expecting

Reality TV is good for something after all

I have to make a confession.

You know that reality TV couple, Tristan and Ryan?

Well. I have to give them credit for making me finally.... actually.... excited to be pregnant.

Strange, I know. It happened a week or so ago when I was flipping channels. I wound up on some Bachelor reunion show despite the fact that I have never really been a fan of the Bachelor nor do I really care what has happened to any of those people since their 15 minutes ran out. (In full disclosure, I will admit I did watch the last four or five episodes of the last season, when the guy didn't pick either girl. Very annoying). Anyway, there was the happy couple talking about their fabulous lives since meeting on a TV show, getting married on another TV show and then having a child, thankfully behind closed doors. Their little son sat on Tristan's lap, and they cooed over him and talked about the "amazing journey" of being a parent. (Aren't people on reality TV always using the phrase "amazing journey?")

There was nothing about the moment that rose above the typical banal reality TV barometer. So I don't know what it was that got me. The cute baby? The sweet look in his father's eyes? Pregnancy hormones? The bond the three seemed to share? For whatever reason, 30 seconds after flipping to that channel, I felt my eyes welling up with tears. Kind of embarrassing, but true. I felt suddenly overwhelmed with the knowledge that soon enough, I'll have my own little guy to hold and stare at blissfully, that soon enough Jimmy and I will be more than just a couple, that we'll be a family. For the first time since I found out the unexpected news, I felt it -- true excitement. True anticipation and hopefulness.

I always knew I'd get here, and I knew it would take me some time. I think that's OK. Every new mother is different, and I believe that taking time to let real emotions run their course is a natural and important thing. My initial emotions were not the storybook kind everyone seems to expect a woman to feel, and answering questions like, "Are you excited?" over and over was so hard. The person asking typically posed the question in a squealing voice with an ear-to-ear grin and gleaming eyes, just waiting to share in my joy. And I have a very hard time faking it -- people almost always know exactly how I'm feeling. I wear it all out on my three-quarter length sleeves. So when I slapped on a fake smile and answered, "Sure!" I could always see their faces drop, their eyebrows curl and concern creep into their smiles. I'm glad those moments are behind me, but I'm also glad I was honest with myself and didn't sugarcoat my feelings.

And so. I admit it. I'm excited. I'm still worried, in the way way back of my head, about all sorts of things -- work, mostly, and money -- but I'm also so excited to see what this little guy looks like, to grow to know him, to study him, to hold him and to care for him. I can't wait to kiss his tiny forehead and see his itty-bitty little hands. I can't wait until years from now when he's storming around with all the other toddlers making mischief before church services. I can't wait to read him stories and answer his questions.

I see other babies now and think, 'Aw, I really want a baby." Then I look down at my expanding waist line -- yes, I finally look the part -- and think, well, isn't that handy? Suddenly, it feels right. I always trusted that it must be right, knowing who God is and all.  But I certainly didn't understand or feel it myself. This just seems to be another case of Him starting someone on a path they can't quite understand only to come to learn eventually that all along, He was there with their best interests at heart.

If I was on reality TV, this is where I would say what an "amazing journey" it has been. But I can't write that without wanting to punch myself in the face, so I'll just say this -- you can go ahead and ask me now if I'm excited. I promise when I say, "Sure," this time, I'll mean it.

A winner among winners

One night, when I was in some Marriott bed in some Marriott room in some Marriott hotel in some city -- they're all the same -- my husband and I hatched a wonderfully silly idea. We decided to have our families enter a baby name tournament modeled after the NCAA basketball tournament. We picked out 65 names, seeded them, built a bracket by hand on the very hip design program called "Paint," and disseminated it to our various family members. They were to vote for their favorites in each match-up, and we tallied the results to determine the winners who moved on to the round of 32 and so on.

What was the point, you ask? Well, there wasn't really one. We made it clear under no circumstances would we actually name the kid whatever name ended up winning the tournament -- unless, of course, they picked the name we wanted anyway. We just thought it would be a fun exercise to get our family involved, make them feel like their opinions matter and see what kind of names they would rally behind.

And it was fun -- and interesting. Of our top seeds, only one -- Michael -- made it to the Final Four. Two -- Charlie and Luke -- were knocked out after the Sweet Sixteen. And the other -- Aaron -- couldn't get past the Elite Eight. The championship game consisted of a No. 8 seed against a No. 11. Jake vs. Alexander. Jake took out No. 9 Kevin, No. 1 Luke, No. 12 Scott, No. 2 Mark and No. 2 Andrew to get to the championship game. Alexander, meanwhile, defeated two of my favorites -- No. 6 Ben and No. 3 Noah -- as well as No. 2 Jack and No. 1 Aaron.

I would have never guessed Alexander was a collective favorite. Perhaps it wasn't truly tested. We actually picked it as a fill-in name when we needed a few extra ones to fill up all the bottom seeds.

But it lost in the end to Jake. Another name we'd never actually pick. First of all, it's too similar to our last name. Secondly, it's too damn popular. How many Jake's are there in the world today? Too many. It's a very fine name -- makes me think of teenage soccer players and cute college guys and marketing professionals, all fine images -- but it's not for us. We want something a little less common, and according to my fine Google researching, Jake is, like, the most popular name, ever. Jacob (same diff, right?) was No. 1 in 2006 according to the trust Social Security Administration. Type "Jake" into MySpace and it hits the max number of search results -- 500. Type it into Google and it finds 59.3 million Web sites (compared with only 10 million for my own name). It's just too.... everywhere.

Anyway, the tournament was a fun diversion from actually thinking up a name for the child ourselves. Our parents and siblings and various aunts and cousins enjoyed it, and we enjoyed seeing their collective biases. They picked Thomas unanimously over Jamie. They like Christopher more than Jude. They pick Peter over Xavier. And they actually supported Mason more than Troy.

Now, it's our turn, and it's scary to think that whatever we pick is more or less permanent. It's fun to daydream up baby names when there isn't a real live being attached to them. Now that there is, I keep coming up completely blank.

I guess that's why they give us nine (and a half) months, eh?

Babies 'R Us -- it's a jungle out there

Last week, despite fighting a cold that slowly took its time spinning around my head devastating each different orifice on a different day, we registered. Where else? Babies 'R Us. I am sort of anti-Babies 'R Us, mainly because the closest one is a whopping 12 miles away, meaning we have to take two highways to get there. I can get to any other major retail chain store in about five minutes, so you can see how incredibly annoying this situation is. But we toughed out the 20 minute drive and after getting the registering lecture from the most monotone, unfriendly grandmotherly-type ever, we headed out into the big open store to begin.

An hour later, we still hadn't picked bedding. Well, we'd actually quickly picked one entire set only to then stand in front of its display on a crib and second guess ourselves. Was it too tacky? Is that what little babies like -- tackiness? But is it burning holes into our eyeballs with its tackiness, and if so, what kind of parents can we truly be with holed-out eyeballs? Eventually, after falling in and out of love with about five other sets, we decided on one that features happy looking crocodiles and giraffes and elephants. It's an African jungle look. I hope little babies like the African jungle.

From there, feeling like we accomplished the most major thing, we wandered to the various departments, mostly in utter confusion. Sometimes we knew we needed something, like say, a stroller. But do we need a deluxe travel system? Or a more simple stroller? Do we need an umbrella stroller? Do we need one of each? Would I ever use a jogging stroller? Does the brand name matter? If the stroller comes with a car seat, is that the only car seat we need? As new parents, we are clueless. I called my mother at one point to ask what the heck a "Pack 'N Play" was and to find out if I actually need one. If I do, does it have to have a changing table or can I get the cheaper looking one and still produce a happy childhood for my baby? What about wearable blankets? Does my little guy need a wearable blanket? Does he need multiple wearable blankets? If so, why does he also need six receiving blankets? And let's talk onesies. I know he needs 'em, but seriously, how many? I can wash them, right? Is five plenty? Or is that insanity and really I need 15?

By the end of three hours, we were exhausted, and we'd only registered for about half the stuff we really need. But we gave up and left and I came home and gave in to my vicious cold and camped out on the couch and made Jimmy go get me a cinnamon role donut from Tim Horton's for dinner. Then the next day, I added the rest of the stuff online, where I realized something. I realized there are these things called customer reviews, where they rate each item on a scale of one to five stars and write little pithy comments about whether it sucks or not. Very helpful indeed. Totally the kind of thing that can suck me into Internet land for hours on end. And so with the help of lots of opinions highlighted with random CAPITAL letters and! exclamation points, I finished off the list. I trust those anonymous women from around the world to tell me like it really is. I'm counting on them. I believed them when they said the mobile I picked was a piece of poo. I felt proud upon reading they liked my stroller choice.

And so, it's done. The baby has his stuff. Or his list of stuff anyway. I figure that should tide us over until he's ready for kindergarten. Right?

More than halfway home

It never fails -- I go on a long road trip, and I stop blogging. I can't seem to traverse the country and continue blogging at the same time. I think about it. I think about writing in general. I felt inspired in L.A. especially, where I spent three days working but also eating Nutella and banana crepes, driving up the coast a bit and visiting the Getty Center on a cold, rainy day. But somehow, I just don't commit to the writing time, and ideas float away, and the longer I go without, the less motivation and inspiration remain.

Let me play catch-up.

I'm at 21.5 weeks.

I'm still not "showing," as in, no one has just randomly noticed I'm pregnant. I can still wear my normal clothes, although pants are tight. But my belly alone, uncovered, looks pregnant. The evidence:

I am still a-waiting my first random question or advice from a stranger. I still can't get any help when I load my overly-packed carry-on into the overhead compartment. No one gave up their seat for me on the subway in NYC. Maybe I just need tighter clothes, because as a recent new-mom friend of mine joked recently, I haven't cashed in on all the good stuff yet.

In less shallow, more important news, we know what we're having. As a friend so eloquently put it in an e-mail, we saw a hot-dog, not a taco on the 19-weeks ultrasound.

I will admit I was disappointed. I wanted a girl. I'm not sure why I so strongly wanted a daughter. Mother-daughter relationships in my family, as in so many, are difficult. Complicated. Everyone says boys are easier to raise. True as that may be, I want a daughter one day. I never had sisters. Maybe that's it. I don't know, but maybe next time. As for this time, I'm having a boy, a son, and that will be OK. I am already getting used to the idea. The night I found out, I went out with a friend and perused the racks at the magical land that is Nordstrom Rack, searching for cute little boy outfits. It was hard not to gravitate to the oodles of adorable miniature dresses and jumpers in pinks and purples and yellows and blues and reds and oranges. Girl clothes are so bright and funky. It seems marketing folks have decided the only appropriate colors for boys are green, blue and brown. But I did find a couple of cute things, and it helps to picture a little boy all bundled up in them, sweet and small.

I hope he has Jimmy's green eyes and his dimples and his disposition. I hope he's really curious and asks me millions of questions that force me to Google things because I don't know the answers. I hope he likes sports and loves to play but mostly to have fun. I hope he reads. I hope he doesn't discover video games until he's 23.

When we found out the sex, we also learned that he has a Ventricular Septal Defect, a fancy way of saying a hole in the heart. The man who imparted this news on us is henceforth to be known as Dr. Doom and Gloom. He told us in a serious, quiet voice how deeply sorry he was as he handed me a box of Kleenex, even though I was composed. He failed to give us any perspective on the matter and then recommended that we "keep things in perspective." He did all that after explaining that sometimes VSDs are indicative of larger, chromosomal problems, for things like Down's Syndrome. He also told us that sometimes they close on their own. Then he told us again how sorry he was and left the room to give us a moment of privacy.

All this came the day after Erin's funeral. Emotionally, I was wiped out and exhausted. I had no idea what to think.

The next day, at a routine trip to the OB, we finally talked to a straight-shooter who gave us the much-needed perspective. We found out I'm at an incredible low-risk of having a Down's baby -- or any other chromosomal problem. We realized that most likely, the VSD not going to be a long-term problem. Either it will close up on its own in the first year, or the baby will need a minor procedure done to close it. Either way, he won't have any lasting issues. A week later, we had an echocardiogram done that showed no other malformations with the heart. And everything else on the ultrasounds have seemed normal.

His little hand...

And his little foot....

And his little head. That black blob in his belly is his heart... the one lower is his stomach.

He's been a little uncooperative in the ultrasound sessions, always in the wrong position for optimal heart viewing. But I think they've seen enough to know that he is mostly all OK. The hole is small, about two millimeters. He'll be all right, I believe.

There's more to say, but I'll save it for another post.