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Smells like teen something

My teenaged son is learning what it means to be a man. Unfortunately, he thinks men should smell of whatever it is those body spray makers put into the can. It’s an unholy mix of something and something, mixed with horror.

RUN!

I wrote about it over at Mile High Mamas. Go say hello and commiserate, if you can. If you can’t identify with this problem yet, go to be warned.

Revisiting the first trimester

You missed my entire first trimester! Congratulations! Really, if there were a way to skip those fretful, stressful, urpy weeks, I would. Now I’m pretty established in the second trimester, so I’m reflecting on some of those moments I couldn’t share then.

~ When I was around 10 weeks pregnant, we went to a department store that is going out of business. I found some great deals in the kid’s clothing department. My husband and I had Ryley (13), Archie, and Teddy with us. My husband said he wanted to look for something in the electronics department, so he wheeled Teddy and the stroller away, leaving me with Archie and Ryley. Ryley was looking at graphic tees on a rack nearby and Archie was getting squirrelly. He was ready to leave. I was trying to hold my bag, the items I wanted to buy, and his hand. But he broke free and ran for the down escalator.

“Ryley! Go get Archie!” I shouted as everyone turned to watch. Ryley ran to the escalator and met the escapee down the stairs halfway. He picked up a screaming, angry Archie. I figured he’d ride it down and then ride the up escalator back. But no. He turned on the moving stairs and started running up. I think it took him 35 minutes to get to the top, but he did. Out of breath, he delivered his little brother to my side just as my husband returned from electronics.

The woman standing in line behind me looked at my belly and then looked at me. “Do you know what you’re having yet?”

I was stunned because I was only 10-ish weeks…but obviously showing. I said, “not yet.”

“Maybe it will be a girl?”

Lady who thinks I need more pink in my life: One of my two lovely girls

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I haven’t had classic morning sickness for several pregnancies. Instead, I seem to get very strong food aversions. This disrupts our entire family because I couldn’t handle even being inside a grocery store. It’s hard to feed people when mama comes home from the store with Clifford Crunch cereal and ranch dressing because, at that moment, everything else was the equivalent of raw sewage. My poor husband picked up the slack with shopping and cooking. The only foods I craved and could eat without shivering were avocados and cheddar cheese. Consequently, I must have eaten my weight and more in guacamole, avocado slices, and chunks of cheddar. Eventually, I was able to move on to taco salad. I think I ate more taco salad in the past 3 months than I ate in the past 3 years.

Thankfully, my terrible food aversions passed as the second trimester kicked into gear. Now, there are foods that don’t sound great but my family is eating normally.

~~~~~~~~~~

How did the kids react?

Aidan, our oldest, guessed. She gets home from high school before the other kids. My husband came home early on the day of my first appointment. She asked why he was there and I said I had to go to the doctor. She said, “It’s because you’re pregnant!” I said she was right. She surprised me by jumping up and down and clapping. She said she knew it for weeks. We told her to keep it a secret, and she did.

I told Teddy very early because I knew he wouldn’t spill the beans. I whispered it in his ear.

We told Archie one Saturday morning when he came into our room, newly awake. He climbed up and into our bed. Teddy was already there. He joined us a few hours earlier. For some reason, I was struck with wanting Archie to know, so I pointed to my belly and said there’s a new baby brother or sister in there. “Oh!” he said. And then he kissed my belly. I don’t know what he was picturing. I know I was struck with his sudden and unexpected gesture because he doesn’t remember the last time I had a baby in my tummy. That was Teddy. Archie was only 19 months when he was born.

A few days later, Archie stuck out his fist and raised his little thumb. “Good job on the new baby, mama!”

Beatrix was the next to know. We told her on another Saturday morning as we lounged in bed. This time, I knew the secret didn’t stand a chance so I didn’t bother telling her to be quiet. When Beatrix knows, the world knows. By the end of the day, the news tumbled around and into all our little ears, finding its way out of little mouths.

Everyone has been happy and excited. The person most reserved about the whole thing is our teenaged son, who seems to be a little mortified whenever it comes up. That isn’t surprising.

Baby, baby, number nine

When someone says they were “floored” by something, I know what they mean.

It’s being upright mentally and physically one moment. The next, you are a part of the cool ceramic tile on your bathroom floor, complete with the grids, the stray hair, the errant bandaid wrapper nobody bothered to pick up. I was floored when I saw two lines on the pregnancy test. I was also gobsmacked, blindsided, stunned.

And not happy.

Teddy was supposed to be our last baby. I had abdominal surgery in December. Two mesh panels were installed in my lower abdomen because of a ventral hernia related to my last c-section. I had just been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation. Being pregnant was the last thing I needed and the last thing I thought would happen. It never occured to me I was pregnant.

The only reason I tested was because my thighs were hurting the night before at the ballet. I noted, as dancers took the stage in the third act, the only time my thighs ached that way was when I am pregnant. I started doing math. Counting. Disbelieving. I pushed the possibility out of my mind until nearly 24 hours later when a short walk made me so miserably exhausted that I had to know the truth. Home, I went upstairs and dug a pregnancy test out of the back of the cupboard under the sink. I took it and became part grout, part ceramic, part shaggy IKEA bathroom rug.

I barely talked for the next four days. It had to be some sort of weird conspiracy: A faulty test joining forces with wonky middle-aged woman hormones. Where was the laugh track? My husband noticed. He asked what was wrong. I couldn’t talk to him, my best friend. I felt totally alone in my wait for everything to clear up. I took another test. Probably wonky too? What was with all these defective pregnancy tests, anyway? Quality control, people.

Finally, I had to tell my husband. It was a weekday. He came home for lunch and I couldn’t form my mouth into the proper shapes to make the words. I wanted him to read my mind, like countless foolish times before. He was clearly worried. We stood in the kitchen, both of us leaning on counters opposite each other. It was almost time for him to return to work and I sensed the time had come. I admitted, to more than just him, I was pregnant.

He was visibly relieved, laughing he thought it was something much worse, much more awful than a baby. A baby! He hugged me and told me it was going to be okay, we’d get through whatever was coming. I wept, ticking off my concerns and fears. Pregnancy loss! Hernia! Heart! Age! Nine kids! Never before had I started a pregnancy with so many strikes against me and our baby—if there was actually a baby.

It was February.

...photo chosen because I took it the day I found out...

As winter turned to spring, our little secret grew. Few people knew and we preferred it that way. There’s something about keeping a pregnancy hushed that I like. It’s good news, worthy of being shouted from rooftops. But it’s also something to treasure in a heart. My silence was motivated by fear and doubt in the beginning, but it changed into something different as time passed. I found the heartbeat. I saw our baby with churning arms and legs, seemingly clapping, moving so much the ultrasound tech had trouble chasing him or her down.

That busy babe was in the bathroom when my jaw was on the floor, when words caught in my throat, when I leaned on our kitchen counter. Baby was on board even when I wasn’t. Thanks, baby.