6 years ago this morning I woke up feeling...funny

I tapped soundly sleeping Mr. stb dangers mom and said, "Honey, I think I'm in labor." "That's nice darlin," he yawned before rolling back over. "HO-NEY I said I think I'm in labor!" He sat up rubbing his eyes with obvious amusement. "You heard the doctor," he said, "We have at least two weeks, you aren't even due for three." "Well, be that as it may I feel...funny."

I got up to take a bath realizing the contractions were contractions and they were coming faster. I spent the next hour in and out of the tub and shower while my amused husband made phone calls to his office to let them know I didn't think it was a good idea for him to go to work today.

Sometime around 10 I realized I really really wanted to go to the hospital. I think my husband was actually starting to take me seriously at this point because he started throwing things into a bag with a simple okay. Just when I finally thought I was getting out of there the doorbell rang. "Delivery!" How appropriate, our new baby's furniture had arrived. I had to wait another 15 minutes scared out of my mind while they hauled the furniture up two flights of stairs and into the small nursery we'd lovingly painted yellow with multicolored moons and stars.

Finally around 10:30 we left for the hospital. I'd been in labor for about 4 hours. We got to the hospital, found a place to park and made our way up to the maternity ward. My husband winked at the nurse and said, "My wife thinks she's in labor." She looked in her computer and said, "Well you aren't due for another three weeks (yes, tell me something I haven't heard TEN times this morning) but let's take a look. We go down the hall to a small examination room where she checks my progress. "Well?" my husband asks fully expecting to be sent home. "Hmm," she says, "She seems to be about 8 centimeters dilated"

At this point my husband nearly falls over. "I, um, need to go down to the car to get her stuff," he manages to say. "If I were you sir, I'd hurry."

Now on his way down to the car he is calling our family members and leaving messages about what's going on, one of which, the one he leaves for my mother, has become infamous. There is something about my husband stammering something about me being "eight cm didilated, I mean dilated" that can still send us all into roaring laughter every time we hear it.

Thanks to a doctor with a need to over manage and some complications it took 7 hours for little Danger to make his way into the world. He had his cord wrapped around his neck multiple times and meconium in his fluid which meant half the staff of the hospital was there to witness the miracle of his birth. It's amazing how that modesty goes right out the window while your sitting there spread eagle praying for a healthy baby to emerge from you.

And healthy he was and oh so small. I remember being afraid I'd break him if I hugged too hard. My normally stoic husband was reduced to a pile of tears. "He's just such a little dubba!" He exclaimed, a nickname that stuck.

It's hard to believe the 50 pound 5 year old I sent off to school with 2 dozen cupcakes was a 7 pound 8 ounce baby just 6 years ago. He's turned out to be a funny intelligent little kid with sparkly dark brown eyes and a smile that doesn't end. He was once a tiny squeaky newborn who relied on me for everything and now he is a not so small person who plays soccer and baseball and insists on getting his own cereal.

6 years ago I became a mother, a journey that has had its ups and downs, its thick and quite a bit of thin. It's a journey that has changed me in ways I could never imagine. I wouldn't change any of this, not for the wide world.

Can it really be 6 years?

6 years ago today a very pregnant stb dangers mom and a very stressed Mr. stb dangers mom finished moving from a tiny cold beach duplex to a slightly less tiny two bedroom condo in West Los Angeles. I remember it was raining (as it usually is this time of year) and cold and all I wanted to do was sit on the couch and moan about my sore swollen feet. It had taken 4 days to move the 2 miles already and even though the fish tank we were moving was the last bit I knew there was the cleaning and unpacking still to go.

I wasn't due for another three weeks so there was plenty of time. We'd planned it close but not too close so we'd have time to unpack and set everything up for this new stage of our life. Like most expectant parents we were excited but nervous. We didn't really know what to expect, we didn't know what parenthood would be like. We didn't have much experience with babies, my husband had never held a newborn and I'd only held two, the children of close girlfriends just after birth.

That night I had my 37 week prenatal appointment. The baby's heart rate was a little low so I had to drink some apple juice and sit there hooked up to the fetal monitor to make the doctor happy. It came back up and I left with a lecture about eating more regularly and the doctor's assurance we had at least 2 weeks to go. In the car I got a second lecture from Mr. stb dangers mom about not eating enough and had to explain to him that unless water gave him heartburn he couldn't possibly understand. We stopped at the market where he ran in and bought every snack food known to man for me to munch on then went back to our old place to pack up any other small things that were left behind.

When we got there I realized I was actually really hungry and had a huge hankering for some spicy beef and broccoli from the Chinese restaurant next door. Mr. stb dangers mom was just so glad I actually wanted to eat that he rushed right over there to get it. The two of us ate our last meal in our well loved first home together then turned off the light, closed the door behind us and stepped into the next chapter of our lives together.



To be continued tomorrow....

Another year older another year wiser?

Today is my birthday. I’m not going to give away too much, but suffice it to say it’s one with a zero on the end. People keep asking how I’m doing because apparently zero birthdays are supposed to bring a lot more angst with them than the other number variety. I’m doing okay I guess, though I did notice a few more grays when I was at the hairdresser the other day. Now that those bad girls are all covered up I’m fine, crisis averted.

Last night we had the pre-birthday dinner with the in-laws. Of course there was a cutesy gift of assorted goodies in groups of *insert zero birthday number here*. Soda, candy and one-dollar bills (which is great because I need the speculation that I’m a stripper when I go to spend those suckers) all wrapped up in their own little goodies bags. Of course I was a bit disappointed when that big heavy gift turned out to be cans of soda, especially because I drink diet, but I managed to contain myself. My MIL has a zero birthday coming up, think she’d appreciate if we did something similar?

Truthfully I didn’t think I cared about another year behind me, and maybe I don’t. I have a lot to be thankful for and not many regrets. I have accomplished a lot in my years on the planet and I have a lot to look forward to. I have all the really important stuff. A husband I love and who loves me, three wonderful healthy children, my own health and that of my family.

I can’t help reflecting on what I have and haven’t accomplished though, and I realize there are things I planned on doing by now that I haven’t. I’m not sure how much this bothers me since there are things I’ve accomplished that I didn’t think about or plan on. I’ve traded some goals for others and weeded out the ones that didn't seem so important after all. There are some I did put on the backburner to care for my kids and I do think they need to be revisited.

Maybe I will set some goals for my next “one” or “two” birthday. Perhaps some of those things that were put on the backburner while I nurtured my young family can come back now. Perhaps what I really need is a little more time and attention for me. Instead of thinking of this as the end of an era it can be the beginning of better things to come. Perhaps bettering oneself is what getting older is really all about.

What we seem to have here is a failure to communicate

Last night my girlfriend came over in tears, bottle of wine in hand. It seems her husband, ever the sensitive guy he is, had suffered from another bout of "open mouth insert foot" syndrome. She was already feeling slightly frail after celebrating her 40th birthday last week and his comments, though likely innocent in nature, stung.

Since my own big sensitive guy is traveling this week and my son is skiing with grandpa, we are a house sans men right now. That's a bonus when comforting a hurting friend who is mad at her husband. So we had a few glasses of chardonnay and we talked it out.

She went home at the end of the evening to a concerned husband. She'd driven her car and parked it around the block so he didn't know she was just down the street. He thought maybe he'd finally gone and done it this time without really knowing what it was he did. He almost stepped in it again by suggesting this wasn't the first time she'd overreacted to something he'd said. She pointed out that if she'd left in a huff every time he said something stupid they wouldn't spend a whole lot of time together.

You are all probably wondering just what the heck my point is. Just this. Sometimes we hurt each other with our words. Sometimes we are all careless with each other unintentionally. My friends you are all very special to me. If I have hurt you with careless words I'm sorry. If I have ever made you feel there is something you cannot tell me forgive me. I am human and sometimes I speak without thinking it through. Please keep in mind that I would never try to hurt you intentionally and I will try to remember the same goes for you. Please tell me when I've stepped on your toes and I will try to make it right. I hope I can do the same with you.

This morning my husband was attacked by humming birds

I almost drove off the road laughing when he called to tell me (which is of course just proof that I shouldn't talk on my cell phone while driving). Apparantly humming birds don't like each other very much and my husband ended up in the middle of some sort of turf war between 4 of them. Their constant divebombing and buzzing around his head made him spill his coffee which he found not very funny at all.

Who's on first?

My grandfather loved to tell this joke. I don't know if he was a big Abbott and Costelo fan, but he told me this joke often enough during my childhood that I can't hear it without thinking about his scratchy face and his breath that smelled like mouthwash.

A few weeks ago my grandfather died. He was an amazing man. He was a war hero and an amazing engineer with over 200 patents. He grew up the youngest son of a dirt poor widow who had to deliver groceries for pennies to help support his mother and 7 brothers and sisters but he died a millionaire. And most importantly, he was my Pop pop.

My father (asshole) and his brother (bigger asshole) are now involved in some sort of sick nickle and dime game that involves sucking up as much of the financial goodies my grandparents left behind as they can. It kills me because I know he thought the money he left behind would help make things easier on us all and he did his best to make sure of that that. He didn't want any of us to ever have to suffer the way he and his siblings did. But now there are just two very small very greedy men who care more about their father's bank account than they do his legacy.

I sit here with my copy of his book of patents on my lap thinking about what it would be like to be small again and have him crush me up against him in a giant hug, scratchy face and all. I wish I had listened more when he talked about the things he invented. I wish I hadn't rolled my eyes at some of his war stories or his lectures about the times when a quarter bought an entire meal and then some. I grieve that due to the complicated messed up nature of my family my kids didn't get the chance to know him. I'm angry that my father essentially stole that from them, from all of us.

Rest in Peace Pop pop. Thank you for embracing me and letting me know I was always a part of your family. Thank you for the skinned knees you bandaged, the grilled cheese sandwiches and the lipton instant sweet tea. Thank you for the birthday checks with the note to buy something fun that never stopped, even when I was a grown up with kids of my own. You will always be remembered and loved.

"Hey Lady! Your baby's eating paper!" And other things you hear at Costco.

I think I have a sign on my back that says, "Criticize my parenting, come on, you know you wanna!" Only strangers and My MIL can see it, but it's there. Yesterday I embarked on that twice monthly self inflicted torture that is Costco. Since it's summer and school is out I had the pleasure of taking all three kids.

Before we left the car I of course checked on potty and diaper status. The two older assured me they were fine. "Already changed mamma" my daughter said. I loaded the three of them into a shopping cart (no easy feat) and maneuvered it into the store. We were there for 15 minutes, cart already starting to fill up when, "Momma, I POOOOOOOOPED" "Did you really or did you just pee?" I asked hopefully.

30 seconds later I'm tearing through the packed warehouse with a child who is suddenly frantic about the state of her derriere. I park the cart, beg my 5 year old not to move while pulling the baby and her car seat out. Then I pull out the 2 year old and that thing you stick in the cart to keep them from biting it and haul all of this to the bathroom. I don't know if you've done this before but it's no simple task. All those kids and equipment are easily 100 pounds worth and they are squirmy and don't listen. We make it through and even get back to our cart before someone has removed it and somehow manage to finish filling the cart without incident.

I manage to get us in what appears to be the shortest line and have that arrogant "Whew this wasn't so bad" thought. "HEY LADY!" I hear, "Did you know your baby's eating paper?!?" Sure enough there is my 5 month old scarfing down my shopping list. "HEY!" hollers my helper again, "I think she's choking on it!" *Sigh* I manage to get the paper out of her mouth which is now turquoise care of the washable magic marker I snatched from my son to make the list with.

Who does this? I mean really, who thinks it's A-OK to scream, "Hey LADY!" at the obviously frazzled mother of 3? Does she think she's Jerry Lewis? Does she think she's actually being helpful? What is it that makes people feel as if it's acceptable to speak to me that way, to speak to anyone that way?