Frump to Fabulous

I love getting new clothes. Not as much as my teenage daughter, but at least as much as most women. I especially love getting new clothes when I am pregnant. However, there's something about shopping in the maternity sections that just goes against my grain. Thirty bucks for a shirt I'll only fit for a couple of months--at those prices I can afford exactly two changes of clothing! So, by the end of the second week of alternating outfits every other day, they are stained and gross, and beginning to lose their shape from constant washing.

This is where second-hand stores, garage sales, and--my favorite--recently pregnant friends, come in extra handy. If I watch the resale shops close enough, I can occasionally get five items of clothing for five dollars. Now, that is something even my budget can deal with. Even better is when a friend who has just had a baby (or has decided to never have another one) cleans her closet. After delivery, the last thing on earth you want to wear is one of those outfits you've worn the yarn off during the past few months. However, when you're in the middle of the ordeal, one gal's trash is another's treasure.

For instance, I am currently cozily cuddled in a smoky grey creation that actually stretches farther than my stomach. It's a hand-me-down blessing from my girlfriend who recently delivered her little boy. It is also an even better gift than the chicken pot pie I took out to her house. I haven't been warm this entire pregnancy (except for the burned hands, of course) and the sweaters she sent home with me made me just giddy with anticipation. I have to work tomorrow, and for the first time in quite a while, I'm not dreading getting dressed in the morning. It'd be a hilarious statement, if it wasn't so true!

Now, if you must know, I'm off to have my own private little fashion show. I'm sure it wouldn't impress Nigel Barker or Tyra Banks (from America's Next Top Model), but with all my new little treasures I 'm going to upgrade my bump from frump to fabulous.

"And why are you anxious about clothing? Observe how the lilies of the field grow:

they do not toil nor do they spin, yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory did not clothe himself like one of these. But if God so arrays the grass of the field,

which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the furnace,

will He not much more do so for you, O men of little faith?"

--Matt 6:28-30

Howdy, Tex!

Today a good friend of mine got a great birthday present--her son! When they called to tell me the good news, I was overjoyed that things had gone well and he was healthy. I asked for his stats, of course, and was astonished that he weighed in at a hefty 8#11oz and was 20.5 inches--about the size of the state his name hails from! These happen to be the same exact measurements that my little guy was when we welcomed him to the world (although when I was holding him, it was impossible to imagine my son was ever that small). It was also over two pounds larger than her last baby. I got to thinking, if mine gets that much bigger than my last, I'm going to be in some serious trouble.

My now much bigger little guy spent an hour this afternoon coloring pictures for his friend's new baby brother. If you know my son, you realize this is an extremely long period of time for him to spend on just one task. Other than that, however, he hasn't taken the birth of Tex too well. He was jealous of his friend that she got her baby and he couldn't have his yet. This entire pregnancy has been an exercise in extreme patience for my busy preschooler, and this latest turn of events is almost too much for him to process. "I want my brother NOW!" sums up his opinion.

Truth be told, I'd love to be done with this pregnancy also, but not at the cost of my baby's health. (Not to mention that my husband and I are still months away from picking a name.) Still, I'm now looking even more forward to the day I get to hold my new son in my arms...

In the meantime, congrats once again to J&G&A, and welcome to the world Little Tex!

"Her children rise up and bless her; Her husband also, and he praises her..."

--Proverbs 31:28

Hot Mama

Today began another adventure at work. Once again, I was displaced out of my office due to the environmental issues. The conference room I have inherited was freezing cold, and since there was another meeting scheduled for the space, I had to move just three hours into my shift.

After relocating, the laptop which has become my portable office--sans printer, fax, and scale--wouldn't work properly. It is still digesting some command I apparently gave it before unplugging from the network to switch locations. The blasted thing won't let go of whatever is occupying its memory despite exiting and powering down.

So, I left it to chew on its mechanical mission and decided to walk downstairs to heat my lunch. A big drawback of borrowing space has been the uncertain access to bathroom and lunchroom facilities. I was glad to have brought a can of soup today, since the rooms I was sentenced to were so cold. I had to separate my serving into two small bowls to heat it up since I had forgotten to bring a large one from home. It was while removing the broth from the microwave that my day encountered its final dilemna.

As I was attempting to transfer the boiling broth into a safer format for carrying it back into exile with me, it spilled all over me. I was stunned--and burnt. It was all I could do to clean up the mess, and carry the empty container to a coworker before I lost it entirely and wound up in tears. Pregnancy hormones, perhaps. Or maybe just it was just the last straw before I broke under the stress.

I proceeded upstairs to visit occupational health for the second time in two weeks. I waited over an hour, filled out incident forms, had the doc look at my scalded hands, and then waited an hour more for them to treat and wrap up the damage. The whole while, my skin felt on fire and I was in some serious pain. Of course, they would't offer me any pain medicine since I am pregnant. Told me to take Tylenol when I got home (which I did, over 4 hours later).

So here I sit, after a much-needed nap, using the hunt-and-peck method to type since my bandaged and burnt hands aren't too useful tonight. I am not looking forward to returning to work tomorrow--they have to recheck the burn to see if it has blistered, but then I will have to stay at work until 10pm to teach a class. I am beginning to wonder which will get me first--this last pregnancy, or my job.

On the plus side, although in previous pregnancies I've found myself with a very high personal thermostat and always seemed too warm, this is the first time with the PBC that I could accurately be called a "hot mama." Too bad that upon reflection, it isn't the sexy title I'd always hoped to have. I'll gladly trade down to "plain Jane" if it means I don't have to hurt!

No Regrets

I attended the funeral of a mentor of mine today. She was the wife of the campus minister at the church I went to in college. The main memory that has been dwelling in my mind since I heard the news of her death is an odd one. I remember she came and picked me up from work one day at my campus job since I was having asthma trouble and they would not allow me to simply walk home to my dorm. I don't think she was too thrilled about it, either, but she was there when I called.

Thinking back on it, I wonder what she did with her kids. She was mom to 4 busy young ones all while trying to "mother"--on average--20 new college girls a year. She held special Bible studies, wrote cards, made phone calls. She cared. She actually gave me a compliment that I have treasured as one of the greatest in my life--she said I was "deep."

Today, at her funeral, her husband and 4 children spoke about their memories of her. I can only pray that when I'm done with them, my kids will speak about me as favorably as hers did. Not only that, but during a time of testimony from the others gathered, time and again people spoke about how she accepted them as part of the family, brought them into her home, fed them and encouraged them. Personally, I can barely find the time to do wash for 6 people, let alone do things like drive all over the city picking up short-of-breath students who need rescuing.

The main theme that was emphasized throughout the service was that she lived a life with "No Regrets"--apparently a phrase that was common for her to say in her last few weeks and months. I wonder, can I live without regrets? I make so many mistakes--I yell at the kids, I don't spend enough time with God, I get disgusted with bills and meals and dishes and blame my spouse.

I think perhaps what this woman of God saw that enabled her to say with confidence that she had "No Regrets" is that Jesus has paid for each and every sin--wiped away all those mistakes that she, like me, must've made. At the end of the day--at the end of our lives--we can have her same confidence. Not in ourselves, but in a Savior who will not let us wallow in our wasted opportunities. In Jesus, who will not spare us suffering, but will redeem it without regret.

I came away from the service feeling the need to say only two things. First, Thank-you, Sally. And second, Dear Lord--let me live a life that honors You like hers.

"The Lord God will help me,

therefore shall I not be confounded:

therefore have I set my face like a flint,

and I know that I shall not be ashamed."

--Isaiah 50:7

Spaghetti

Every once in while, I get a forward that I actually enjoy. This one really tweaked the wicked side of my sense of humor. Except for the part about the affair, I thought it was hilarious, and decided to share.

For 2 years a man was having an affair with an Italian woman.

One night, she confided in him that she was pregnant. Not wanting to ruin his reputation or his marriage, he paid her a large sum of money if she would go to Italy to secretly have the child.

If she stayed in Italy to raise the child, he would also provide child support until the child turned 18. She agreed, but asked how he would know when the baby was born. To keep it discreet, he told her to simply mail him a postcard, and write 'Spaghetti' on the back. He would then arrange for the child support payments to begin.

One day, about 9 months later, he came home to his confused wife. 'Honey!,' she said, 'you received a very strange postcard today.' 'Oh, just give it to me and I'll explain it later,' he said.

The wife obeyed and watched as her husband read the card, turned white, and fainted. On the card was written:

'Spaghetti, Spaghetti, Spaghetti,

Spaghetti, Spaghetti.

Three with meatballs, two without.

Send extra sauce.'

All in a Day's Work

Today was a work day for me. Not that I got much done. It all began when I opened the door to our suite and was assaulted by a very disturbing smell. We have had issues with mold and moisture. Think wet dog meets old gym socks. In that second, I knew it wasn't going to be a good day.

Within minutes, I realized that working in my office was going to require albuterol in large doses. Of course, my inhaler was at home. Thankfully, I had a meeting for most of the day which would take me away from the problem. After forty minutes of prep, and feeling like I was trying to breathe through a plastic bag the whole time, I escaped upstairs.

The second half of the meeting was mine to present. Unfortunately, my woes worsened when fully half the staff stiffed me. As a result, a project we've been working on for the past two months remains unfinished. The really bad news is that I'm not going to get a pass from the senior vice-president dude that my reports go to. This means that now I will pretty much have to complete the entire project on my own. Talk about frustration.

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. I am scheduled to teach a class for the last half of my shift, but in the meantime I'll have to make it through the first five hours of my day. This problem in the offices has been ongoing, and I'm not holding my breath (though it sort of feels similar!) that the next 24 hours will bring a miraculous resolution to the issue. My boss has actually had to relocate to another suite temporarily after being on medical leave for the past two weeks due to this very problem.

On top of it all is the knowledge that this can't be too good for the kid I carry. During my first pregnancy I had a lovely case of pneumonia and had to take breathing treatments for almost a month. I really don't want another long-term relationship with my nebulizer. Another part of me wants to throw in the towel and not bother getting up in the morning to go to work as it is--it is truly hard to stay motivated and focused with health troubles added onto the pregnancy fatigue.

Its a shame I don't have another way to contribute to the house payment. Somehow being obviously pregnant doesn't lend itself to being a hot ticket on the job market. Still, it feels good to get this all off my chest. Now if I could just remove the brick wall that lands there every time I walk in the door at work...

"Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise the Lord!"

--Psalm 150:6

D-Day

A good friend of mine saw her doctor today and was rewarded with her delivery date--in just two weeks her little man will join the world. I was thrilled for her and her family. And I was insanely jealous, too.

I saw my doc just yesterday, but didn't hear anything so wonderful or life-changing. Granted, it isn't really to be expected at my stage of the process. I simply heard his heartbeat, at a jaunty 141 beats per minute. I learned his weight was 330 grams a couple weeks ago at my ultrasound (any conversion junkies? what does that mean in english?). I got told that I'm measuring "right on" despite recent comments from complete strangers and feeling absolutley huge. I was reassured that the braxton-hicks contractions that have started up rather forcefully aren't leading to any changes that might mean a premature delivery. Then it was "see you in a month, we'll do your blood sugar test" and out I was out the door.

This stretch of pregnancy seems so long partly because there are fewer mini-milestones at this point. The Peanut Butter Cup has his major organs. He sucks his thumb, kicks his legs, and even swallows to practice breathing. Between the 21 and 28 week marks, my expanding stomach seems to be the only evidence that he's in there and growing. (I suppose that viability--which is generally considered to occur at 24 weeks--is my next hurdle. Still, this one is shaky for me, since a dear friend lost her son just less than a year after his 24-week birth.)

At this point, its a waiting game. Waiting for his lungs to mature. Waiting for him to pack on some fat (although, seriously, son--you don't need too much of that). Waiting to get to the point where I can saying something slightly less embarassing that "halfway" when people ask me how far along I am. Of course, if you asked my friend, she'd tell you it was a waiting game at her point, too. Waiting to pack the hospital bag into the car. Waiting to finish getting the baby clothes washed. Waiting to walk into L&D in two weeks and finally hold him.

What strange lessons God has planned for us. He, too, thinks each stage of life--pregnant or not--is a waiting game. I guess sometimes I just need to be sure I'm cooling my heels in the right line, so to speak.

"Yet those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength, They will mount up with wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not become weary."

--Isaiah 40:31

Adventures in Babysitting

I've been watching my 6-month old neice while my sister is out of town. It has been a very interesting experience to throw another baby into the mix around here. I see flashes of what is to come later this winter.

My kids adore the baby. That is to say, they won't leave her alone for a second. They try to hug her far more often than she'd like them to. They want to play with her toys, and--in the case of my youngest--try out her pacifier. They want their turn to hold her on the couch with an adult close by. They "help" her crawl, or stand, or sit--almost always with somewhat disatrous results. My son had a tantrum today when reminded that his little cousin doesn't live here, and that in a couple of days she will be going home with her mommy. He generously offered to let his Aunt live with us, too.

I am somewhat less enthusiastic. Not about my neice, of course, but about the thought that in a few months, another baby won't be a temporary addition. It is a little tougher to take three--count them!--babies grocery shopping. We walked the aisles of Walmart for over an hour this evening, and oh, the looks I got! To be fair, I'm sure I did make quite the picture. I drove one of those huge carts that holds two kids in buckles in an add-on to the cart. The third was in her carseat latched into the front of the cart. My diaper bag wound up draped on one side of the basket as it overflowed with purchases. Not to mention that I am obviously pregnant with another one. That probably shocked the onlookers most of all!

We've had a few other moments of drama, too. Above and beyond the sleepless nights, the fact that they won't all nap at the same time, and the usual feeding issues involved in picky eaters and bottle feeders. This evening, before I had a chance to recover from our Walmart wanderings, I had just my daughter and my neice while my husband ran an errand with the others. It was probably the worst 20 minutes of my night. My toddler was being very disobedient and threw a screaming fit while I was trying to coax an obviously hungry infant into taking her bottle. They were both loud as nails on a chalkboard. Unfortunately, this went on far longer. I sat there thinking "Thank goodness the next one is a boy" but I've been at this mommy thing a little too long to fool myself into thinking the difference in sex will really salvage my sanity.

To top it all off, I see how another person will throw off the dynamics of how life works at the moment. The real loser in this lesson has been my poor husband, whose birthday is today. He came home to a lonely--and far from spotless--house while I traipsed around the store and waited for the teenager to get done with her hair appointment. Then, he had to deliver said teenager to her Homecoming dance (argh, is she really that old already? Am I???) and go pick up his own dinner, since cooking anything by that point was out of the question. No balloons. No cake. His presents were about as creative as you can find in the checkout lane. And, as icing on the missing cake, after dinner he put the kids to bed while I slipped into a much-needed shower.

At the moment, all is peaceful. The little ones are sleeping, the teenager should be calling for a ride home any minute, and even the dog is content. The husband is working on something-or-other in the garage, and I am seriously contemplating a nap before the midnight feeding rolls around. Amazingly, fourth child or no, the moments a mommy lives for are still the same--and just as rare. Pardon me while I go and take advantage of this one.