Queen of the Ball Droppers

I’ve been dropping the ball a lot these days. Dropping the ball at keeping in touch with friends and loved ones. Failing to keep our abode in a cleanly state. Failing to make myself presentable. Failing to keep my blog up to date for my beloved 3 or 4 readers (Hi Mom!).
Nobody likes a ball dropper. And nobody likes an excuse maker. BUT! Rest assured I have a really, REALLY good reason because………wait for it……….

I made one of these:

TA DA!!

TA DA!!

It’s a baby!

Twelve weeks ago (what???) I gave birth to the most sweet and beautiful little boy that ever did get birthed. And you KNOW that’s a fact because mothers are always objective and unbiased when talking about their offspring. He is handsome and smiley and cuddly and changing so fast I want to scream at him, “Slow down!” but it’s not nice to scream at babies, so…I don’t.
In true motherly fashion I am compelled to share the baby stats of which people always seem to inquire. Asking a newborn’s stats, I feel, is the type of question people throw out there but generally don’t ACTUALLY care about the response. People just feel like they should ask a new baby’s size because it’s right up there with “How are you?” or “How’s the weather?” in general social etiquette. I believe this because while people often ask about the details, they tend to get a distracted and uninterested look when I respond. And that’s okay, really, because what’s so exciting about a baby’s height and weight? Unless you gave birth to a record-breaking ginormo rhino baby or the baby popped out ready to walk-on for the Pistons (and if any of these ever happen to you…I’m sorry), it’s truly not THAT exciting to anyone but the parents and grandparents. Right? And maybe the baby – if he or she could speak – wouldn’t want everyone to know how much they weigh. They spend 9-10 months cooped up in a quiet, warm, soothing place and then they come out and everyone tosses them around and gets in their face and THEN they have the nerve to ask baby mommas and daddys, “Ooooh, how big was he/she?” I mean, if someone asks me what I weigh, I would immediately assume they are rude and while I might answer them in polite fashion, my mind would be spinning with questions. “Why do they need to know? Do they work at the circus?” “Do they think I am bigger than I should be?” “Do they think I’m a boxer?”

"Step right up, and pay me to offend you!"

“Step right up, and pay me to offend you!”

Come back, Erin.
Okay, so here are the details:

Olaver Nathan 7 pounds 3 ounces 19 1/2 inches 10 tons of cute

Olaver Nathan
7 pounds 3 ounces
19 1/2 inches
10 tons of cute

I’ll spare you the entire birth story (for today, at least), but he did follow in his sister’s footsteps and made his grand entrance with interesting and somewhat comical timing. Fortunately, despite all my pregnancy/prenatal complications and relentless worrying, Olaver cooked until a wonderful, healthy 39 weeks. The C-section was scheduled for February 14th and we gratefully laughed that after all the weeks of fear and planning for worst-case scenarios, he decided to stay put until the final days of pregnancy. On the night of February 13th, we sent Hazel off to stay with family for the duration of my hospitalization and decided to enjoy one last dinner date sans babes and hoped for a good night’s rest before our expected arrival time at the hospital for 5:30 the next morning.
The car ride to dinner was excrutiating as every bump, vibration, and turn created stronger, more painful contractions. This was nothing new as I had been having contractions for months, thanks to my irritable uterus. Given my extended bed rest and consequent sabbatical from civilization, I hadn’t been on many car rides for weeks and assumed it was par for the course I had been enduring. At dinner, the contractions picked up and it was all I could do to sit still. Nathan kept glancing at me asking if I was okay and I contended that Yes. I was fine. I was just hungry.
“Maybe you should time your contractions.”
“I have been.”
“Oh, well, how often are you having them?”
“Every minute and a half.”
A moment of silence passed between us and he suggested that maybe I shouldn’t eat “Just in case.” I scoffed at him. My c-section was 12 hours a way and so it was, of course, impossible I was going into true labor NOW after ALL of this and I was probably just having more contractions because I was STARVING and he should just eat his meal.
He responded that, of course, he would finish his meal regardless. We were only 3 minutes from the hospital, after all.
Dinner continued in this fashion – Nathan steadily eating his meal, eyeing me every few minutes and pretending to ignore the near-writhing pain that I was undergoing at that point and miserably attempting to hide. He questioned silently – because he treasured his life – whether it was appropriate I was scarfing down my meal at an impressive speed and to completion.
Despite my hopeful hypothesis, the contractions did not slow down once my stomach was full.
“How often are your contractions now?”
“Um, every minute.”
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“No…we’re not. Let me just lay in the car and rest.”
He continued to insist on going to the birth center and I continued to refuse because I didn’t want to appear ridiculous or dramatic and show up hours before planned surgery in false labor.
But alas, I eventually caved. I strolled (waddled…limped) my preggo self into Labor & Delivery when it became difficult to form sentences, and as you can probably deduce from this unpredictable, plot-twist, drama-filled novella, I was, indeed in labor. Much to the anesthetist’s dismay (as anyone in the health care field can appreciate), they operated on me despite being chock full of food, and our amazing, healthy, fully-cooked and incredibly vocal baby boy made his debut.

Six days and many complications later, I was finally released to the wolves – or home, at least – and we became a family of four.

IMG_1697 IMG_1699

We have joyfully, exhaustingly, been adjusting to the new dynamic of having two babies. I have slowly, and (mostly) patiently continued my long and gradually improving course to health. I am physically, emotionally and strategically adapting to trying to maintain a home, keep two adorably high-maintenace babies alive and content while returning to work and pretending I have my shtuff together.

And I’ve been dropping the ball allll along the way.

Recent photo of baby boy.  Only had 874 more to choose from.

Recent photo of baby boy. Only had 874 more to choose from.

Tales of ball-droppery and our lively adventures to come…