Stop and Smell the People

The Baby Diaries: Our Big Day!

The Baby Diaries: Our Big Day!

[You know the routine: Anna writes these hilarious Baby Diaries and I add my unfunny 2 cents in bold and brackets. Enjoy.]

The Baby Diaries: Our Big Day!

I’d been writing to Crowley for months now in his “Book of Letters” but this entry would be the best.

“Dear Crowley…” I scribble furiously, so excited I can barely draw the letters… “The hospital just called. It’s 5:51 a.m. We are on our way to have you! It looks like it’s your birthday. I get to meet you face-to-face today.”

Our bags were already packed and waiting at the door. As we drive to the hospital, I keep saying it over and over again… “I can’t believe we are going to have a baby today.” Mike takes my hand and holds on tightly. This is the day that will change our lives forever.

7:00 AM

Mike drops me off at the special mommy-to-be entrance and up to the ninth floor I went, silly smile on my face.

“Hi. My name is Anna. I am here to have my baby!”

The nurse took me right into my room. I was in my gown, hooked up to a Pitocin drip (to kick start contractions) and under the covers when Mike walked in with our bags. I barely turned my head, fixated on the sweet sound of the baby’s heartbeat beacon pounding out from the monitor.

“Hey Babe,” I say. “Um, in my bag, could you find?.. there is a container of Lysol wipes. Could you find them?”

Mike rummages through the bag, holds up the plastic can and asks, “Where do you want them?”

“I need you to open them up and clean the bathroom.” He looks stunned as he peers into a spotless bathroom. I add, “Make sure you do a really good job with the bathtub.”

He wipes floors, walls and every object while the contractions slowly get stronger. [I didn’t even debate it. It’s official. The beat down is complete.]

8:30 AM

Doctor M. makes his rounds. It’s our big day. I can’t stop smiling. The plan is to see how I progress on the Pitocin and check

back in at noon. Funny… the words “check back” seem so non-invasive considering what getting checked really means….

9:00 AM

I call my dad, “guess what?” I say it with so much excitement; it’s almost a song! [And by song she means annoying.] “What?” he asks. “I am at the hospital!!! It’s Crowley’s birthday!” Soon he joined Michael at my bedside entertaining me!

So far, so good. Contractions are manageable. Only bummer is… no solid food. I knock back as much bright red Jell-O as a Preggo can stand. Which is at least a dozen cups!

11:00 AM

It’s funny. We talked so much about the pregnancy with Trevor, my stepson. And at some point, rather late in the pregnancy, both he and Mike mention how Mike passed out when Trevor was born. [It’s true. I hit the floor like a rock. I can handle seeing my blood. Anyone else’s? Not so much.] Sure most people laugh when they hear that sort of story. Not me. I started coming up with a back up plan for a birth coach. I mean I couldn’t deliver the baby alone! The choice was easy, my cousin Tyler. Make no mistake… Tyler is a female! A funny, funny female who is the kind of person that you want in your corner when the chips are down, when you need support and the love of a strong friend. She’s that kind of person. (Though she’s a little sensitive about people calling her Taylor so be sure to refer to her as Taylor if you make a comment on this blog!)

So at 11:00 AM, Tyler calls. “How are your contractions?”

“I just slept through a bunch of them, but they are getting stronger.”

“What can I bring you?”

“I need some trashy magazines. The trashier the better.”

“Done! I am on my way.”

12:00 Noon

Tyler, Dad and Michael in the room. Things quickly went from all of us having a blast and making inappropriate jokes… to the three of them having a blast and I was across the room breathing through contractions. I need more bright red Jell-O. The more the better. I am so hungry! (I edited out the modifier for hungry but it was a very bad word.)

Dr. M. arrives to “check” me. I look at Dad. “Ummm. Dr. M. is about to check my cervix with his whole hand. You might want to wait in the hallway.”

“Anna!” Mike says in a way that conveys his disdain/amusement in my knack for lovingly torturing my sweet father.

I look up and it was like my dad beamed himself out of the room. He was gone in a flash, justice league style.

“So?” I ask. “Are we close?”

“You are about two centimeters.”

I fall into the depths of despair. Two centimeters? That’s it? After all morning! Two little ole centimeters!? We have 8 more to go! Underachievement is hard for a type-A to swallow on a good day… intolerable for a crazy Preggo arriving at the crescendo with no… well, no crescendo.

We come up with a strategy… more Pitocin and our good Doc will break the water after lunch, which should kick the contractions into high gear… awesome! Come on baby!

1:00 PM

“Here’s what’s going to happen…” Doctor M is back and explaining what comes next. “Dr. Affelfafffell..” STOP right there. I swear he just said the anesthesiologist’s is named Dr. Affelfafffell.

“What is his name?” I ask.

“Well they have a nick name for him because his name is hard to pronounce,” he explains. I start to giggle.

Mike says, “So, the bottom line is Dr. Affelfaffellaffelfaffellaffelfaffell…” he kind of chokes and chortles when he says it which makes both Preggo and Doctor start to laugh. “He’s going to give Anna an epiwhatever and then you’ll break her water?”

I am still laughing and with the kind of timing that usually comes scripted on a sitcom… a tall serious man strides into the room to my bedside, sticks out his hand and says what sounds like, “Hi! I’m Dr. Affelfaffell.”

Mike turns to him and says, “Soooo… Affelfaffell… is that German?” Continue reading ‘The Baby Diaries: Our Big Day!’

More Birthday Pics!

One year old today! About this time last year… I still had 12 long hours to go!!!! Look for that edition of The Baby Diaries tomorrow. In the meantime, I wanted to share Crowley’s birthday with you!

Nobody rocks the birthday cake like Charlotte baker Haines Barksdale, owner of of For Goodness Cakes! The cake looked awesome… and tasted even better!

Aunt Rebecca sent the table runner for Crowley which added such a festive and thoughtful touch! Here’s a pic of the Birthday Boy!

The only two people who enjoyed the Birthday song more than Crowley…Mom and Dad!!

Many of you have been right along with us for most of last year! Thank you for celebrating this day and all the ones before!

Last pic… what happens when Mommy isn’t watching…

Baby Diaries: Preggo decorates for the holidays!

Welcome to a long overdue installment of Anna’s “Baby Diaries.” Here’s how these work: Anna writes them and I get to add my 2-cents wherever I like. My thoughts will be in [brackets and bold]. Enjoy…

Baby Diaries: Preggo decorates for the holidays!

You don’t often realize you are a lunatic in the moment, especially when you are six months pregnant. Just ask my friend Liz. Last year she was pregnant too. Not only did she address all of 2008’s Christmas cards, but she also addressed 2009’s! (Because, duh! Obviously she would be too busy with a baby and everything that had to be done before the baby was born!) [Welcome to my world.] As for me, this time last year, I could only think about one thing and one thing only! It wasn’t Christmas cards. [Again? Sweetie, a man my age has to pace himself. This is how we got pregnant in the first place!]

But, the thought antagonized me every time I went up and down the stairs… [She just can't resist me.] It’s the banister. It’s so bare. [Oh.] It needs a garland. [Crap. This is not going to be the night I was hoping for.] Not just any garland, but a magnolia garland. And not just any magnolia garland but a home made magnolia garland.

Only problem? We don’t have any magnolia trees in our yard.

I use the word ‘problem’ loosely because for Preggos, there are no problems…. I mean seriously, these are just things to add to Mike’s ‘To Do’ list! [Wait. Here’s where I say, “Welcome to my world.”]

“Hon?” Surely he knows what’s coming. This is how all of my requests begin with one word ‘Hon.’ [Requests? The question mark at the end of her sentences is merely formality.]

“Yes?” he replies. I don’t even know why he answers. He should really just run for his life! [Thanks for the tip.]

“Um… well… I want to make a magnolia garland for the staircase banister.”

“That sounds beautiful.” He wouldn’t say that if he knew where this was headed. [I knew. I was lying.]… Continue reading ‘Baby Diaries: Preggo decorates for the holidays!’

The Baby Diaries: Curiosity (and burning booties) killed the cat…

[For those of you new to StopandSmellthePeople, Welcome! This is our latest installment of the Baby Diaries. My wife, Anna, has written her take on going through pregnancy with me (plot spoiler alert – it was awesome – she loved it). Once she’s done writing, I put my spin on things with italicized bolded black letters in brackets. Enjoy!]

The Baby Diaries: Curiosity (and burning booties) killed the cat…

Mike and I had a lot of questions during our pregnancy. A lot of questions. An eternal fountain of questions. Each seemed as urgent as the next. As they popped up in our neurotic heads and our every worry-driven conversation, we dutifully typed them into our iPhone notepad, building a long list of curious absurdity that we regurgitated at each doctor’s visit.

I would like to say that all you people out there only egged us on. You know who you are. The ones that ask questions like this, “Anna… you’re about 5’2,” right? You are so teeny!!!! Do you think will you be able to deliver the baby naturally?”  It’s their nice way of saying you are so small… are you small everywhere? You can see the wheels a spinnin’. They look at your big belly. Must be a big baby in there. How exactly is this going to work? [Well, you see, it all starts with a couple glasses of wine and some Barry White music…]

And so our next doctor’s visit would go something like this, “Doctor, so people have suggested I won’t be able to deliver the baby naturally because I have a petite frame. Is this a dumb question? I mean will I have to have a C-section?”

And really you have to give it to the man. How on earth does he keep a straight face through these visits? One couple after another all scared to the point that their brains are no longer involved in the process.

Mike and I were sitting in his office, iPhones out. The doctor said, “Some women have what’s called contracted pelvic bones. That can affect their ability to deliver naturally. But the fact that you are petite has nothing to do with whether you have contracted pelvic bones.”

And that’s when I heard it. The inhale. Crap! Mike is going to say something. He just took in a breath to fuel whatever is about to come out of his mouth.

I looked over. His right eyebrow shot up into an arch. He furrowed his brow like a Las Vegas heartthrob-has-been, and said in a voice to fit the part, “Soooo, Doc…” Pause. Pause. He moves his head from side to side like a used car salesman, “you’ve seen her pelvic bones…. Continue reading ‘The Baby Diaries: Curiosity (and burning booties) killed the cat…’

Baby Diaries: Road Trip!

I always have to say this up front for your SASTP newbies: My wife, Anna, writes “The Baby Diaries.” When she’s done she turns me loose to make my comments in [brackets and bold]. Heeeeeeere’s Anna…

For starters you need to know I am sitting in the “massage chair” as I write this – Mike loved this birthday present so much, he sat in it too long and bruised his back. So I am keeping the chair warm. Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?

Okay, on with the latest installment of “The Baby Diaries.”

Some women cry when they are pregnant. [Um, when they’re pregnant?] I mean they open up the floodgates, sound the tsunami alarm and ride the wave of endless heaving sobs. Not me. No, my raging hormones turned this preggo into a laughing hyena. Just about ANYTHING could set off my giggling fits which were uncontrollable bouts of laughter that contort your face until you look your absolute ugliest… and you can’t stop laughing. And since you are pregnant… laughing this hard, well, it means you are probably going to release a toot of flatulence… and pee just a little, too. [Charming.] Although you would normally be horrified, you find this funny too and the cycle keeps spinning. Bottom line, you had better find a bathroom quickly.

But when I sat in my Dr.’s office a little before Christmas, it was no laughing matter. We were talking about whether I should make the trip to see Mike’s family in Ohio the day after Christmas (also my birthday). It would take some TEN hours in the car to get there. Well, it’s ten hours for normal people. But when you are six months pregnant and you stop every ten minutes to go to the bathroom, it could take a lot longer.

“Dr., are you sure I should make the trip to Ohio. That’s a long time in the car. Perhaps it’s not good for the baby?” I asked, very concerned (and hoping for a certain outcome.)

“You’ll be fine. Just stop every couple of hours and walk around,” he said. [He saw right through her.]

“Dammit!” I thought to myself. Mike was in the room so I had to hide my displeasure. [THAT was trying to hide it?]

“Anna, have you been there before?” The doctor asked. (Looking back, I think it was planned. I think he and Mike worked it out before hand. I walked into a trap.) [So you're paranoid too? Lovely.]

“No,” I said. That’s right. World’s worst daughter-in-law because in the nearly three years of marriage, I had somehow never visited Mike’s hometown.  It’s a strange thing in my family. We love to be together. The married-ins complain all the time that we Crowleys are one sided in our affinity for all things family because…we never visit theirs. I write this with a scrunched up nose and squinted eyes and that say, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t help it…sort of.’ [So pathetic.] But it got to the point, that even my own aunts took me aside and said, “Anna. Marriage is about sharing. You need to go to Ohio. I am sure they are talking about you behind your back: ‘Mike got married and his wife has never come to visit.’ You don’t want to be thought of as a Southern you know what!” [NEVER!]

And please don’t get me wrong. Mike’s family could not be nicer, more welcoming or kind. [Here’s a tissue to wipe that brown stuff off your nose.] I just have issues. And those issues were compounded by the fact that during my pregnancy, if I could have become a shut-in, I would have. I hated leaving the house. HATED IT! My protective instincts were in over drive. So a ten-hour, multi state trip seemed like a life-risking event. Ahhh pregnancy.

The morning of the 26^th, Mike and his son Trevor and I piled into the car and headed north. I volunteered to drive the first leg. Think less martyr, more control freak. [Think TOTAL control freak.] And I don’t know, but somewhere around West Virginia, my mood lightened up and a simple highway sign triggered a laughing fit. We were approaching Gassaway, West Virginia. Gas-away. Call me a 12-year-old, but the earthquake started. [I’d like to apologize to all 12 year olds for this sweeping insult.] I unleashed a belly laugh so hearty that it was hard to keep the steering wheel steady. Trevor and Mike looked over at me with horror. What happened to the prim and proper, rules oriented, type “A” Anna? Who was this? Toot! Toot! Pee Pee! I just kept laughing. [I just kept chanting under my breath, 'Please don't kill us, please don't kill us, please don't kill us.']

“Help me!” I managed to squeak out. “It hurts.” More laughter. More swerving. Mike and Trevor now look scared which only made me laugh harder.

“Anna! Get off at the next exit!” Michael shouted. [I wouldn't call it a shout as much as a last gasp cry for life.]

The next exit was Gassaway! This sent my laughing fit to the next level. My stretched out abdominal muscles ached. I gasped for air. And I kept laughing as we rolled into a gas station. The belly laughs gave way to giggles and finally deep breaths in and out. It was over.

And so the drive went. Drive. Stop, walk, bathroom. Drive. Laughing fit. Repeat. For Trevor, it became a game to good to resist. What could set me off? Could he set me off? And he did.

Morning gave way to afternoon and we began driving through darkness Somewhere around Pittsburgh. My maternal instincts returned. As heavy rain started to fall, I couldn’t help but feel a great deal of anxiety. And when a low fog clung to the miles of highway in front of us, I was sent over the edge. Danger. It’s a terrible feeling when you are pregnant. Instinct + hormones + emotion + fear = one crazy preggo in the passenger seat. It’s best not to talk to us in this condition. There were even tears, but finally we pulled into the driveway of my sister-in-law’s and walked through the door.

My first stop was the bathroom where I cried for five minutes straight. [Good times.] Over what, I have no idea. But I cried, wiped my face and came out to greet everyone. And no sooner did I finish my hellos that Mike’s sister whipped out a fully engulfed birthday cake that she made just for me.

It was my first clue that I am a self-absorbed jerk. Mike’s family is selfless and so considerate. I felt completely enveloped by love and support. It was amazing.

The fait accompli was when Mike’ sister showed me to my room and I slipped into softest flannel sheets I’ve ever touched in my life. I snuggled in as the electric blanket kicked on and thought, “I am in heaven. I will stay here and have my baby.” [Fait accompli? Who are you trying to kid?]

We had four wonderful days with Mike’s family that included a raucous family dinner, a beautiful tea/baby shower, and long talks around a fireplace. In fact that’s where Mike and I were sitting, when I had a just taken a too large a bite of cake. He whispered, “Get enough cake there?” Instant laughing fit. I thought I would choke. Mike’s sister asked, “Is Anna okay?”

“Yes,” he said, “but I should probably help her off the couch so she can get to the bathroom.” I made it in time. Mostly.

[I swear if they would simply bring an actual pregnant woman into high school classes and have her laugh uncontrollably until she farts and pees herself, teen pregnancy would come to an end.

This concludes yet another classic real-life diary from our pregnancy. Thankfully, today the baby and I are the only ones who toot and pee unexpectedly. And, I'm thrilled to have the baby to blame it on.

If you’d like to read all of Anna’s “Baby Diaries” just click that phrase in the Word Pile in the right column.

Peace… MR]

Baby Diaries: The Mother-in-Law Edition

Anna’s latest installment. For you newbies, She writes these and my thoughts appear in [brackets and bold.]

I should have seen it coming… even when we were dating. Mike told me he’d spend hours upon hours writing for his TV series. That he would slave away at the keyboard morning, noon, and night. In these fits of writing, he only eats Cheerios.

“Well I am making a lasagna for a friend,” I said, “why don’t I make a second for you. I’ll drop it off and you’ll have some real food to eat.”

“Oh, no,” he told me, horrified, “I am sorry. Your offer is as sweet as pie, but the only lasagna that will touch these lips is that made by the hands of my Italian mother Giovanna Santa-Maria…” the long list of her names kept going as I sat there in the kind of shock that arrives when you realize you’ve fallen in love with a mama’s boy. It wasn’t pretty. [If you’ve had my mom’s lasagna, none of this would seem odd.]

Oh, yes, I should have known. [HellOOOOOO! I am the baby of the family! And so adorable! Just ask my sisters.]

A scant three and half years later, we were sitting in the doctor’s office, looking at our baby’s heart pounding away on the screen.

It was the tiny bright light in the corner of what looked like a dark rock. There’s our baby!!!! I fell ever more in love with that pea-sized munchkin with every flicker. After the ultrasound, we met with the doctor.

“How are you feeling? What symptoms are you having?” he asked. [Great, Doc, and you? What? Oh… my bad.]

“I feel great. A little tired and out of breath, but I don’t feel sick at all,” I answered. And I said it with pride. Type-A’s can be so obnoxious. I can say this because I am one. And it’s like we never learn that we can’t be perfect and we can’t control everything. [Um… I can vouch for her.] We just keep trying like nervous little hamsters. Having just hit the retirement button on a successful but power driven neurotic career, I believed my pregnancy and mommyhood would be executed with the same level of perfection… by sheer force of will of course! (Those of you in recovery at Perfectionists Anonymous try not to laugh.) That’s right… week 6 of pregnancy: no sickness, the perfect amount of weight gain, healthy eating, moderate exercise… I wanted to be the poster child of pregnancy. In other words, I was setting myself up for a long, hard, and hilarious fall! [I don't remember the hilarious part.]

Surely my doctor had seen it a hundred times. “Well, as far as morning sickness is concerned. You’re not out of the woods just yet. You might have some bad days ahead of you,” he said.

Oh, he says that to all the Preggos. I am different. He will see.

On the way home, a hunger tsunami washed over me. I looked over at my sweet husband, “I am starving!”

“Where would you like to stop?” I know he’s thinking restaurant, but I am thinking grocery store. I must eat many things. We parked the car and decided it was best to divide and conquer. I needed, in such a desperate way, a little bit of everything… I made my way around the store, feeling so very excited about my perfect pregnancy. My thoughts turned toward the nursery. As I walked by the piping hot ready-to-eat soup station, I thought, “I am going to start on that nursery tonight and the first thing….”

It hit me like a brick wall at 100 mph, an invisible, odoriferous fog of soup steam. I was swimming in it… drowning. The nausea ran through my every vein. “ Holy crap, I am going to puke right here in aisle three!”

There it was. That doctor jinxed me. I wasn’t just sick in the morning. I was sick all day. Eating healthy? Gone. I ate whatever I could keep down. Chicken soup. Ginger brew. Bojangles (the chicken leg kids meal with two packets of honey, please). Moderate exercise? Gone. I was too sick. No, I sat on the couch and watch soap operas while feeling each little bubble of fat collect on my thighs… one by one… till I couldn’t count that high. Laundry? It was in a pile. Housecleaning? Mike’s new job. [New?]

And you know what happens when you put a Type-A on the couch with no energy and major nausea… we turn on ourselves and those close to us. [Ahhhhh the joy.] We are dangerous when we are bored and useless. [No comment.] But eventually I was too sick to even be a danger to others… or as my husband found out… to even know that others existed at all.

“Hon, I think I have a sinus infection,” he said. His voice was weak and nasally. “My head is pounding,” he started to list off the symptoms. And I know it’s terrible, but all I could think was, “Please get away from me and my baby!”

I stifled the urge to come right out and say it. Instead, I offered up a half-hearted, “Do you think you should sleep in the guest room? So I won’t wake you up during one of the 40 times I get up to go to the bathroom?”

He gave me a dead pan ‘I see right through you’ look, grabbed his pillow and got out.  I must have fallen asleep watching Lifetime television [again…] but when I woke up at 6 AM, the Preggo Puke-A-Palooza was in full swing. It was without question my sickest morning. And Mike was incapacitated in the other room. Who would help me? Ginger brew? Chicken soup? I think we are out and he can’t even go to the store. A crisis was brewing. There was only one man who could help me now. Dad. I pulled my face out of the toilet, dialed him up and gave him instructions. Help was on its way. [You called your daddy? Do you need help with your homework, too?]

I climbed back into bed, propped myself up on a soft mountain of pillows, and zeroed in on a 1990’s Lifetime movie. I am going to be okay. My phone rang. Oh, it’s Mike’s mom. I am about to get a load of sympathy.

“Hello.” I delivered my line with a subtlety that says, “ I am about to die.”

“Anna, It’s Mama Giovanna. Dear, how are you?” Her voice was like a warm hug wrapping itself around me, wiping the sweat from my brow. I had Dad on the way with reinforcements and Mama Giovanna on the phone about to praise for me for my motherly sacrifice for her perfect unborn grandchild.

“I am so sick. I have been throwing up all morning,” I say it like I am five years old and helpless. [Like?] Any second she is going to pour on the sympathy.”

“Is Michael taking good care of you?” she asks. I can tell she would pounce on him if the answer were to be ‘no.’

“Well,” I say, “ I haven’t even talked to him this morning.” I pause, another wave of nausea, “I had him sleep in the guest room. He is sick, too. I don’t think it’s good for him to sleep near me and the baby. I think he may even have a sinus infection. He says he’s never felt so bad in his whole life.”

“Well, Honey,” she says with such a motherly sweetness. I can tell she is about to set free the praise-a-Preggo worship sermon. Especially when you take into account, that my dad is having to take care of me. “What you need to do,” she says. I am listening so closely. “What you need to do is go to the grocery store and get him some grapefruit seed extract.” [Love that woman.]

What?!?!?!!? Him!?!?!?! You mean Michael? Did you hear me? I am over here puking my guts out to bring his baby into this world. He’ll be fine. He doesn’t need a thing. [Chop, chop woman! I have needs!]

“Honey? Did you hear me? Grapefruit seed extract. Now that’s not grape extract but grapefruit seed extract. You don’t want to get those confused. It’s grapefruit seed extract.”

“Okay,” I say, dumbfounded, “I’ll be sure to get right on that.” Somehow I got off the phone, calmed my disappointed self down and napped. Clearly I was not going to the store.

Suddenly the bedroom door opened with a very sick Mike. He had a smile on his face. “My mom just called. She wanted to check and make sure you got me that grapefruit seed extract!” My mouth dropped wide open, making room for the enormous breath I would need to take in order to say “how could she? How dare she? Can you believe?” As I inhaled, he burst out laughing! And so did I! And then I marched downstairs to collect the soup and ginger brew my sweet dad dropped off!

[Okay enough from daddy’s little girl ranting about the mama's boy!]

PS. Now that my little man is five and half months old… I know that when the day comes that he should want to move out of our house… after I uncurl myself from the fetal position in which I’ll be crying, if he should so much as sniffle, I will be on his front door to address his every need… and I mean this in the sweetest way, God help the woman that stands in my way : ) Just sayin… [Have him try the grapefruit seed extract…]

[Tune in next week when Anna says, "I look huge in every dress I have!" And I lovingly respond, "Fat's a loaded word. I'd say you look chubby. Or large and in..." Uh-oh.  MR]

Want to check out the rest of our baby diaries? Click here to read Part one: My wife’s take of 9 pregnant months with yours truly… and Part 2: She drags me toBreastfeeding class and Part 3: Infant CPR meets disco!… and Part 4 – finding out the sex of our baby. Enjoy!

Baby Diaries Part 4

Here is Anna’s fourth installment of our baby experience. As you know, my thoughts are in [bold and brackets.] Want to check out the rest of our baby diaries? Click here to read Part one: My wife’s take of 9 pregnant months with yours truly… and Part 2: She drags me to Breastfeeding class and Part 3: Infant CPR meets disco!

~~~~~~~~~~~

When you are pregnant it’s like your belly (and your most personal health details) become Central Park.

You are a gathering place for strangers. [I would like to point out that all of these strangers are women.] They touch you. They touch your belly. They want to know all kinds of personal information about you: is it your first? When are you due? Are you sleeping? Are you sick? Heartburn? Increased sexual appetite? Once you pass the verbal part of the exam, they give you a good “going over” with their eyeballs. They are looking for a swollen face, pimples, clear skin, an expanding backside, big bosoms, a high belly, low belly, cravings and what type of food you are holding in your hand. And all of this leads to one thing… an unsolicited, unwanted-but-coming-anyway prediction on whether you are having a boy or a girl. [Someone explain to me why women who have been pregnant do this to women who are pregnant? Did you forget how annoying that is?]

The process is a fertile ground for faux pas like, “Honey, you look so sick… girl babies make you sick.” “When you are pregnant with a girl, you are pregnant all over, even in your butt. I think you are having a girl! Believe me. I am never wrong.” “Your hair is as dull as dishwater. You are having a boy.” [Can you people just shut your yaps!]

And on and on it goes. At first you think these people are crazy and you ask them not to touch you. Then at some point, in the passing weeks, they break you down. Suddenly you are keeping a tally of girl predictions vs. boy predictions. And then your final step into Crazyland, you start to believe these people might be on to something. And sadly I made that final step. [She jumped in headfirst.]

Everyone thought I was pregnant with a girl. And, naturally, so did I. There was but one dissenter: Cousin Tyler. Oh, Tyler has 100% accuracy rate for sex prediction. [Um, you might want to rework that sentence.] She says it’s a feeling that comes over her. She just knows. And she knew I was having a boy. Kinda hard to argue with that except she’d been outvoted. And if you are wondering who was right and who was wrong and is there something to Cousin Tyler’s feeling… then they’ve gotten to you.

When our find-out-the-sex ultrasound appointment rolled around, I could barely stand it. I knew one thing; we were stopping by Bo Jangles on the way for a tall Coca Cola to get that baby hopping. There would be no “hiding” during my appointment! (You may wonder if Bo Jangles is paying for these little mentions in our blog! No! It’s just that the chicken leg kid’s meal was an integral part of my pregnancy…like a crispy fried birthing partner.)

So with the baby rocking and rolling in my belly, we walked into the doctor’s office with my dad in tow. The three of us would find out together that we were having a girl and the very serious argument over her name could begin! [We’re still arguing over a girl name.]

Before my ultrasounds the same thing happened every time. 48 hours before, two feelings would completely take over: excitement to see how this little miraculous creature was growing and anxiety that something would be wrong. When this ultrasound started my nerves were on agitate.

So there we were, the three of us and the ultrasound nurse. I hoisted myself onto the table, exposed the belly and waited as the lights dimmed and the show would begin. Would I cry? [Duh.] Would Dad? Would Mike? [Duh.] Little girls are special. They need to be protected. How would the two most important men in my life respond? And wouldn’t Trevor be the best big brother to a little girl?

“There’s the baby’s brain. Everything, looks good, Mom.”
“Okay, I see the four chambers of the heart,” she said. Wow. It never occurred to me until then that I was responsible for the baby’s brain, heart, etc. Holy crap! [Let’s go lady. Get to the genitals and put us out of our misery.]

“The baby has long legs and arms,” she said, moving around my belly, checking out every part of our little girl.

“Oh, dad, what’s that? Can you see it?” [What the?]

And my husband, in his special wordsmithy way, stumbled upon the most beautiful and sentimental words to describe what he saw… to tell me that we were having a girl: “It’s a bat and balls!” He screamed. “It’s a boy! I need to sit down.”

We all cried because for the first time, we were looking at Crowley! He was just a little peanut, just months away from becoming the sweetest, cuddliest mama’s boy on the planet! [He is totally and pathetically in love with mommy.] Finding out the sex was an epiphany… if only slightly tainted by this realization: all of those people who told me I was pregnant with a girl were just trying to tell me I was fat!

[Okay. That wraps up this report from Crazyland. Good times. Good times. MR]

Baby Diaries Part 3

I think you know the rules by now. Anna writes these diaries and I make my comments in [brackets and bold].

Off we go…

My maternal instincts/hormones kicked in at about six weeks pregnant, which is why I woke up in the middle of the night crying.

I poked my husband in the ribs and shouted, “Wake up! Get a pad and pen. We’ve got to make a list right now!”

Mike – “Are you serious?” I know what he really meant, “Are you crazy?” [What I really meant was, “I can’t believe we got pregnant on the first try. Talk about bad karma.”]

Anna – “Am I serious? I am six weeks pregnant. Do you realize what that means?”

Mike – “I know this one! We are going to have a baby?” [I seldom know the answer to these questions.]

Anna – “It means we only have 8 months to get ready (insert heaving sobs here) and at the rate we’re going, it will never get done! We have to pack up your office, move the guest room into your office, transform the guest room into the nursery of my dreams. I have to make the bedding, but I can’t do that until we choose a wall color….” And on and on and on I went. He was so sweet (or just terrified as he inched ever closer to a Preggosaurus-induced heart attack) that he made the list and I rolled over and went back to sleep.

So, if that was my hormonal mommy state at six weeks, you can imagine how I felt by the time 31 weeks rolled around! Needless to say, out of all of our pre-natal classes, [Felt like 500 of them.] infant CPR was the Holy Grail, the pinnacle, the climax of baby preparations.  After all, we were going to learn how to save our baby’s life! [Even I'm on board for this one.] I mean is there anything more important than that? Truly, I wanted to sign up every person who was going to have contact with our bundle-of-joy-to-be!

When Team Redding arrived at the hospital, we walked into the lecture hall and saw rows of conference tables with little lifelike baby dolls lying on top. Whoa. I rubbed my belly to comfort the baby, to comfort me. We signed in and took our seats. [They were not lifelike at all. They looked liked giant pieces of chewed pink bubblegum.]

The instructor walked to the front of the room. Betty (of course, I changed her name. I tried to pick a name as perky as she was.) Betty looked to be in her mid-60s. Short hair. Boxy frame. [Picture Janet Reno standing on her knees.] She had a warm, grandmotherly smile that conveyed a gentle wisdom about babies.

“Welcome to Infant CPR,” Betty said, laughing out the last three syllables of that sentence.

“Tonight,” she said, rising up onto her toes, “We are going to learn how to save your babies life!” Again she heartily chuckled out those last few syllables then rocked back to her heels.

Mike took my hand in his and I gave him a loving glance. [I know that look. She wants me.] It was the very same feeling of relief I had every time we arrived at our OBGYN’s office. “Everything is going to be okay. Baby is okay. He’s kicking. All is good.” And even better, I would now have a skill that could help my precious infant should he get into trouble. Ahhhh. Relief. Relief. Relief. Yes, Preggosaurus was in her kennel. Mom-o-mush was the main personality in attendance now.

“I want to talk to you about ways to keep your baby safe,” Betty went on, “Do not put baby to sleep in your bed. Because you could roll over and,” she laughs out this last part “your baby could die!” [Um, (cough) Miss Betty? That's not funny.]

It’s not that Betty thought this was funny. It’s just that she’s the type of person who laughs out the end of every statement. It’s kind of like a nervous tick. She laughs and rolls from her heels to her toes, her voice rising several octaves along the way. In fact, Betty is 100 percent passionate about CPR. She’s in love with saving lives. She is like the chirpiest, cheeriest, peppiest cheerleader you’ve ever seen. And so there was Betty, talking about the 100 ways a baby could expire with all the team spirit a cheerleader could muster.

“And remember,” she said, “put baby to sleep on his back. If you put your baby to sleep on his tummy,” (I think you know what happens next) her voice starts to rise, the chortles start to spill out of her happy face and…wait for it… “Your baby could die of SIDS!”

I looked at Mike in utter amazement. His eyes were so big. [I’m a little creeped out now.] “Now let’s dim the lights and watch a little video about how to (cue the laughter) save your baby’s life.”

The light’s dim and my heart attack begins. I pay close attention. Grandma and Grandpa are babysitting. ‘Oh, Baby sure is sleeping quietly,’ they say to each other. [Hmm, what could possibly go wrong?] Grandma goes into nursery. Baby is not breathing. I could feel the stress slithering though my veins, wrapping itself around my heart and squeezing so hard, I felt like I was going to cry, throw up, pass out or pee. [I wish I could say this was somehow unusual.]

Right after Grandma saves Baby’s life, the lights come up and we are ready to practice CPR on the little dolls in front of us.

Betty is getting excited! You can tell as she dances up the aisles, her favorite part is coming! “Okay,” she cheers in her happy drill team captain way, “30 chest compressions and 2 breaths!”

“Fingers in position. Ready! Set!” We are just about to begin when she shouts, “WAIT!”  She rushes over to a CD Player and pushes play, “compress your baby’s chest to the beat of this song!.. and you’ll have perfect timing to keep that little heart beating,” She laughs.

All of a sudden, blaring from the corner of the room… “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees! [Dear Lord. Take me now.]

“Ah. Ha. Ha. Ha. Stayin’ Alive! Stayin’ Alive!”

We burst out laughing. I couldn’t stop giggling as I pressed down the doll’s rubbery chest to the beat of the music…

“Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,”

And as we compressed, Betty busted out some of her (not seen since the 70’s) John Travolta dance moves, She pointed up in the air and back down again. This woman could barely contain her happy happy joy joy!

“I’m a woman’s man: no time to talk.

Music loud and women warm,

I’ve been kicked around since I was born.”

“How are we doing?” she sent that question forth with a belly laugh. It’s like we were guests at her very own Studio 54. We were all following her instructions and she was the happy disco queen throwing the party. [Seriously. Can’t the rapture happen right now?]

“And now it’s all right. It’s ok.

And you may look the other way.”

And her mood was so infectious that we there we were, little Mike and Anna, practicing CPR to the beat of ‘Stayin’ Alive.’ And that’s when it hit me… a laughing fit so intense; I thought I was going to need CPR. I mean I laughed so hard, I lost control of my face muscles and fell into the “ugly” laugh. The worried look on Mike’s face only made me laugh harder. [I wish I could say this was somehow unusual.]

Mike – “Are you okay?”

Anna – Laughing. “Oh!” Laughing. “Oh!” Laughing. “I can’t breathe!”

Betty made her way round to every couple to check their progress. She checked ours. “Now push baby’s chest harder. Yes! Yes!” She gleefully pronounces with chuckles galore, “push that chest down a third of the way! That’s it! That’s it! Ah! Ha! Ha! Ha! Stayin’ Alive!” She sings aloud as she moves around the room.

And the funny thing is that while initially disturbing to hear someone laugh so much as she talks about all the horrible things that can happen to your child (and frankly, some of which I witnessed as a news reporter)[Career dropper.], Betty’s lesson is indelibly marked on my brain. [More like seared.] And heaven forbid we ever have to use what we learned, my little man end up in therapy, talking about how I sang some old Bee Gees’ song while his life hung in the balance! [Okay, I admit it. I learned a lot. It was a little weird but worth every second. Thanks, Betty.]

[Missed the first two installments of The Baby Diaries? Click here to read Part 1, the birth of our “He said/She said” baby bonanza and here for Part 2, “Mike and the giant booby wall!”

And one more thing, we really appreciate all the feedback and encouraging comments on the site! You fuel me to keep writing… even if I am covered in spit-up!

Thanks! Mike & Anna]

The Baby Diaries, Pt. 2

Back by popular demand, the second installment of our “Baby Diaries.”  As with the first chapter, my wife and I write these stories together.  And by together I mean I drifted to sleep as Anna typed away.  When she was done I added my thoughts in [brackets and bold.]

Mike – “Why exactly do I have to go with you?” [I won’t lie. I was annoyed.]

Anna – “Because when I called to schedule the class, they said you have to bring your partner. And you are my partner.”

Mike – “Can’t one of your girl cousins go with you?” [This is all Oprah's fault!]

Anna – “Nope.” That last statement was final because it was the last word to make it’s way out of my mouth as I shoveled cereal into it from a bowl perched atop of my very pregnant belly. Everybody knows you don’t argue with a Preggo mid-feed.  [Pitbulls are sweet by comparison.]

And so, on one perfectly good Saturday morning, Mike and I loaded me into the car and headed out together for a half-day breastfeeding class. [I’m in hell.] We arrived just in time to take our seats amidst 75 other expecting couples.  [Suckers… all.] The instructor tapped her laptop for the power point to begin and boy did it! Flashing onto the screen the image of three 6-foot nipples side by side. No kidding. Three boobs from floor to ceiling. [These were not the boobs a man thinks about in his free time. It looked like a crack-whore line-up at the police station... "That's the one Officer! The one with the rash!"] And there we were, little ole Mike and Anna staring up at the giant bosoms. [I was wrong earlier. Now I’m in hell.]

I could feel it coming… the rumblings of a laughing fit. After all I wasn’t sitting next to just any husband, but my very own Mike Redding and you know how he can be. [Um... predictable?] I stiffened my posture, trying to steel myself against so much as a breath from his direction.

“So what kind of nipples do you have? Large?  Small? Inverted?” Pat asked the class. [Gee, no one’s ever asked me that before, Pat. Can I think about it for a minute?] You could tell Pat was excited about breastfeeding. She could talk nipples all day long. [My kind of woman.] She’d long since lost any inhibitions on the topic of boobs, including her own.  She excitedly paced the room, up and down the aisles… back and forth across the front. Even as Pat explained, “You put baby on the right side for twenty minutes, then twenty minutes on the left,” she squeezed her own boobs just in case we didn’t understand the words ‘left’ and ‘right.’ [At this point I’m trying to decide if I should fake an illness.]

Some women were taking copious notes in the margins of the extremely detailed handouts we were given. [Seriously. Booby, baby, suck. Any questions?] It was like they were worshipping at the temple of ta-ta. And God bless them, because I was so distracted by the spectacle of it all, all I could focus on was this little mantra in my head, “You are not 12 years old. You do not have to laugh. You are not 12. You do not have to laugh…” [I on the other hand…]

At this point most of my energy is being spent trying to block Mike out of my head. [It dawns on me right about now I won’t have to fain a sudden explosive bowel… I just have to sigh at exactly the right moment and Preggo will snap.] I pretended he wasn’t there because to even consider what was going on in his head would’ve shoved me violently toward disaster. [Train wreck here we come!]

But as Pat’s talk drifted to the shape a baby’s mouth should take when properly latched on… I knew it. Game over. The Reddings were about to lose. [Or in my case win!]

“You want that mouth to open 120 degrees,” she said. And you know Pat, she loves to provide a visual, using her own body. So her nervous saunter came to a dead stop in the front of the room, in the light of the video projector. A giant nipple was now perfectly projected onto Pat’s face just as she opened her mouth wide to say, “Like this.” [Too easy. I softly sighed, “Hollllllly crap!”]

Mike lost it. And like any good on-air person, I injured myself to stop from laughing (a trick to keep you from laughing on air at the wrong time.) Mike was sinking fast into a hysterical, fitful snicker. It was the kind that no one can hear except when you gasp for air or groan from the ab workout.

“You are not 12. You do not have to laugh. You are not 12. You do not have to laugh.”

“The great thing,” says Pat, “is once the baby learns how to latch on, they can do it quite easily. And I am going to show you how to break the latch because they are strong little suckers,” she says as she makes her way over to her laptop. “And a word to you men. Babies don’t know the difference between female nipples and male nipples.” [Dear lord! I might not have to fake an illness after all.]

“You men,” Pat says with a warning in her voice, “need to watch out.”

Pat hits the Power Point and the wall of boobies magically transforms into a piece of video from France. It was a French commercial. [Well, duh.]

Picture it… You hear a baby crying. Then a close up shot of Dad sleeping. His eyes pop open. He gets out of bed, wearing flannel PJ bottoms with no shirt (Dad is not in good shape – upper body is a fleshy mess.) [Groaning now.] Tight shot of crying baby in the crib and dad’s arms swooping in to pick up baby. Dad carries baby to the rocking chair and cradles baby in his arms. And the baby latches on to Dad’s man boob! He looks shocked. Then the words “GET IN SHAPE!” appear on the screen. And the lights of our lecture hall come up. [My mouth was open 120 degrees.]

I look at Michael in complete and utter shock and then freefall helplessly into a giggle fit!  [Wait for it. Waaaaait... Now!] “Hey!” he says, “I’ll take you to Bojangles if we can leave and never come back?”

We were at the Bojangles drive-thu five minutes later. [Team Redding... keeping it real.]

[As you might have guessed, as with the Birthing Class, we were not awarded the "Breastfeeding Class Certificate." We are double dropouts.

To my udder shock, our son learned how to nurse anyway!  He's a plump little lump and we're grateful beyond words.

Okay, well, this wraps up another exhausting Team Redding adventure. All this writing is hard work... yawn. Perhaps in the next Baby Diary we'll discuss the "Infant CPR Class"  which scared the crap out of me and keeps me awake to this day!

Tomorrow I'll be answering more stopandsmellthepeople.com reader vacation requests in a "Where to go... What to do... Who to smell..." entry.

Don't forget to stop and smell... MR]

P.S. if you missed the first installment of the Baby Diaries, check it out!

The Baby Diaries… Pt 1

WARNING: I asked my wife if she would like to help me write an entry for “StopAndSmellThePeople.com” and she said no.  And then she grabbed the laptop and asked me to get her a piece of cake and some soy milk.  What follows is the blog she wrote. I added my thoughts in [brackets and bold] afterward.

[Anna, take it away…]

So, what was it like going through nine months of pregnancy with Mike Redding? We are debating who should write this… He always says he’s the funny one.  [No. I say I’m the fun one. Very different.] So I suggest that he writes it…. “No,” he says sweetly, “you are very funny.” A girl knows when a man who would rather sleep than write is playing her. Mike was up with the baby three times last night. My reply? “You are just saying that so I’ll write a blog for your site.” [Can’t a guy say something nice to his woman without her thinking he’s after something?  Sheesh! By the way, Sugar, you’re looking fine tonight… bow-chicka-bow-bow…]

This debate goes back to our days of dating. Former WCNC reporter Tiffani Helberg and I were discussing relationships, when I announced that I was the fun one of this duo. That night Mike and I headed to a U2 concert. The next day he supplied Tiffani with a photo of me snapped during the encore.  Was I screaming, dancing, clapping or yelling for one more song? No, I was doing what any hard working woman would… sleeping right through it with my mouth hanging open!  [I offer States evidence #1 below...]

Anna (and Andy Benton's wife Kristie) enjoying a rousing encore by the mega-rock band U2!

Enough digressing. If you have been watching my husband over the years and reading his journals, you know he is the most well-intentioned man on the planet… but has a funny habit of saying whatever is on his mind. And frankly, not all thoughts are meant to be shared.

It was last summer… we had just started to NOT prevent pregnancy when, sadly, we had a death in the family. Baby making was put on the shelf as we went about the business of saying good-bye. After the funeral, much of my family decided to head to the beach to regroup and just be together. What better way to start laughing again than body surfing? So just as I head out the door, I ask, “Hon, do I look okay in this swimsuit?”

Mike – “You look really bloated. You should wear a different one.”  [Wow. Someone shut me up already.]

And had that come out of anyone else’s mouth, I would have been furious. But how can you be mad at him? He’s an adorable bull in a china shop and it’s usually very funny… but less so, when just a half hour later you are standing in the surf and he says, “I think you are pregnant. I am looking at your body and I think you are pregnant.”  [Seriously.  Can I get a sock in it please?]

Turns out he was right and his hopes of spending the next six months trying… were dashed!  [I cried.]

So two weeks later, there we were: looking at our son’s heart beat on a dim screen. It was amazing. We had so many questions for the doctor (the best OBGYN in Charlotte and Mike’s long lost brother – not really, but they do share the same sense of humor). [Warped.] I was worried about folic acid and asked, “We had a death in the family. I may have missed a couple of days of pre-natal vitamins. Have I hurt my baby?” Just as the doctor opens his mouth to reassure me that everything will be okay, Mike interrupts him and blurts out, “Folic acid?!? Prenatal vitamins!?!?! Why don’t you tell him about the wine you drank?” [I’ve never been to a funeral where people did so much drinking!]

And there it is. It’s a strange combination of feelings he produces in me in an instant. It’s like being amused, embarrassed and stripped naked on stage all at once. His favorite trick is to say something just wrong enough to make me laugh uncontrollably while he stares blankly at me asking, “Was it something I said? Can someone please help me with my wife the lunatic?”

“Well, Doctor,”  I explain, without acknowledging my husband’s presence in the room, “My people are Irish. That’s how we mourn. Mike’s family is Italian. They eat. At least I didn’t gain any weight,” I offered, terrified the doctor was going to think I had a drinking problem.

“Sure,” the doctor says, “cirrhosis of the liver is much better.” And that’s when I knew I was in trouble. I was seeing double. Not one, but two of them… for nine whole months! Double the sarcasm, double the slightly “off” comments. (Disclaimer – do not get me wrong. My OBGYN is the best of the best of the best. He brought my baby boy into this world and I never doubted his judgment or standard of care. He is awesome. I don’t even care if this grows his ego. [How could it?  So Massive already. We have more in common than humor.] He deserves it. Did I mention he delivered my son? And all moms love the docs who bring their babies safely into this world.) (Disclaimer 2 – we do not condone consumption of alcohol while pregnant.)

Mike was very involved in the pregnancy. [Well I did kind of start the whole thing.] He only missed one doctor’s appointment. We were known in the doctor’s office as Team Redding. Mike and I went to the birthing classes together and he would always say just a little something under his breath that only I could hear and it would set me off into a fit of laughter to the point of disrupting the class.

When the instructor taught us breathing exercises to manage labor pain, she asked us to sit down on the floor with our partners. “Close your eyes,” she said, “and Moms, take a deep breath.” Just as I started to inhale… it was like the sound of a 60mph wind gust suddenly blew through the room. It was Mike taking a dramatic and loud deep breath. That was it. He triggered a pregnant Anna laughing fit and I had to leave the room. [Sometimes pregnant women can’t control their pee.  Making them laugh uncontrollably is part of the fun.] We didn’t return. Someday our son will know that while everyone else has birth class certificates in their baby book, we dropped out. [Good times.]

[Okay, she just dumped the laptop back in my hands and said, “Read this out loud to me!”  What, you don’t want me to fetch you some more cake?  Wait.  That was definitely one of those thoughts I shouldn’t share.]

[We’ll do this again soon.  Maybe.  Anna is a great writer… and lookin’ mighty fine tonight.]

[Don't forget to stop and smell the people… MR]