This week I took Baby Evan into the pediatrician for what should have been an easy visit that ended up being incredibly stressful and annoying and bad-mother-guilt-inducing.

Then I had a visit to the emergency room that was the most relaxing part of my weekend.

Doctors are weird.

Because of the weight-loss between his 12 and 15 month check-ups, our pediatrician scheduled a quick weigh-in on Friday for Baby Evan. I knew he’d been eating more and had definitely gained, so I expected a nice “You’re doing great and clearly not neglecting your kid” visit. That’s not quite what I got.

After the nurse weighed him – up almost a pound in 1 month –  the lady pediatrician, one I don’t think I’ve met before, came in to talk to us about what we feed our kid. Want to feel bad about your parenting skills? Try honestly answering that question. Peanut butter, bread, Goldfish, pita chips, cookies, french fries, fruit leather, cheese…yeah, I win mother of the year for sure. I didn’t even bother explaining it’s whole wheat bread! And organic fruit leather! And homemade cookies! And I offer him TONS of fruits and vegetables, I just haven’t figured out how to make him eat them!

Surprisingly, the ped didn’t seem to care much about the totally lack of color in my kid’s diet. She was more concerned that I get him to drink at least five cups of milk a day, offer him even MORE food and having us come back again EVERY MONTH for another weight check. When I went through my list of what caused the original weight loss and why it wouldn’t happen again, she made the same face my mom used to make when I came home late for curfew. The “I don’t care about your excuses” face. The “I doubt your ability to do the right thing” face. It was AWFUL. I’ve been thinking about that face constantly since Friday – every time my kid tosses his cup on the floor, every time he feeds his sandwich to the dog, every time he sleeps through a snack time. Today at the grocery store he ate a whole piece of cheese the deli lady gave him and I almost cried with joy, knowing the doctor would have approved.

You know that feeling you had when you left the hospital with your tiny newborn, the one where you couldn’t believe the staff was just letting you TAKE A BABY without any sort of instruction manual or rules or scheduled home checks to make sure you were doing it right?

This is the opposite of that. This is the feeling that just when you thought you were finally doing everything right and really getting the hang of motherhood someone comes along and tells you you suck. It sucks.

——————————————————–

On Saturday morning I noticed I had had some bleeding the night before and called my OB to see if he wanted me to come in for a rhogam shot. It was an exact repeat – almost to the same DAY of pregnancy & the same OB doc on call – of what happened when I was pregnant the first time (hint: certain grown up activities are apparently a little too much for my cervix to handle after the 22 week mark) only this time around I wasn’t a freaked out mess. I knew what it was, I knew what caused it, I knew the baby was fine. If I had an OB checkup scheduled this week I wouldn’t have even bothered to call on a weekend, but my next appointment isn’t until September and I could just imagine the doctor’s face if I brought up bleeding a MONTH after it happened, especially because he had JUST reminded me to have any bleeding checked out because of the rh-negative thing. O- might be the good blood type for donating but it SUCKS for pregnancy.

The doctor wasn’t super concerned, but said I could go into the ER for a shot “if I wanted”. I told him no, I didn’t really WANT a painful shot in the ass, so I’d just skip it. Of course, then he decided what he really meant was “You should definitely go in for a shot” although why didn’t he just say that in the first place? So I left E and Baby Evan at home and popped over to our very nice local ER for my rhogam.

It’s a funny place, the emergency room. There was an old lady with a broken hip who kept yelling “I’m peeing! I’m peeing! I have to go!” even though the nurse kept coming in to explain it was ok, she had a catheter and was supposed to pee. There was the kid laughing his head off at the doctor’s jokes even though he was still strapped into a car seat – they had been in some sort of fender bender and the paramedics brought the whole thing in on a gurney. There was the tearful family in the room next to me who cried as the doctor explained the definition of a DNR. There was the male nurse who kept saying “This is why people need a primary care physician” and “I wish more people would call their doctors before using the ER as a walk-in clinic” and “Well, the doctor doesn’t KNOW you so he might not just give you whatever medicine you want” despite the fact that I said my OB was right upstairs and said I needed a shot and he could verify my non-drug-seeking status if anyone wanted. Like rhogam is some sort of narcotic that gets you high instead of just making your thigh hurt for a couple days. DUDE, YOU’RE TOTALLY ON TO ME. I’M A JUNKIE FOR SURE.

Like I said, weird place. Happiness and sadness and noise and quiet and fast and slow at all once.

Because everyone has to check with everyone and everyone’s mother and then do a bunch of paperwork about what was said before they could treat me for my non-condition, I spent a good 2 hours just waiting around. I had my knitting with me and managed to finish a whole scarf plus catch up on everything in my Google reader on my iPhone. There were no babies climbing on me, no food being thrown, no dogs running in circles, no loud noises. The doctor was totally cooperative and happy to get out his fancy ultrasound machine to print me some pictures. The paperwork admin lady came in to chat a few times and we talked about kids and babies and pregnancy. After he realized I wasn’t a drug addict or a crazy person, my nurse was very nice and didn’t make me stay for the required 30 minutes post-injection so I could get home and enjoy the beautiful day.

I left feeling like I had taken a mini-vacation. Although next time I’d like one that didn’t involve quite so many needles. Or blood. And maybe included a massage.

But hey, I can’t really complain when I got enough quite time to finish knitting a whole project.

So to sum up: I’m much better at caring for babies that haven’t been born yet. Maybe I’ll just stay pregnant forever.

After going through a short period where I wanted to stab my eyeballs out with a pair of needles (really really sharp ones), I’m enjoying knitting again. I got inspired from the oasis needlepoint studios so I’ve built up quite a little stash of projects and patterns and have big plans for a whole holiday full of knitted gifts this Christmas. Making stuff is just so SATISFYING, even if the stuff is riddled with errors and the ends are done all wrong and it costs me twice as much to make on my own as just going to Target an buying a stupid sweater. But these are ONE OF A KIND and HOMEMADE and SOOPER SPESHUL so I don’t even care.

Want to see what 10 months of knitting experience looks like?

(Warning: lots of dorky knitting details ahead! Feel free to be bored to death or call me old and lame. I know.)

Green shrug

This is the first adult-sized article of clothing I’ve ever made. I had issues (the stab myself in the eye kind) with the lace pattern, but it turned out all I needed to do was take a chill pill and adapt my counting skillz. The yarn is Serendipity Tweed by the Brown Sheep Company (60% cotton/40% wool) purchased from my awesome friend Megan’s yarn store*, Mothers of Purl Yarns. The pattern is available for free online here.

A better view of the pattern & the shape – I swear I’ve worn this EVERY DAY since I finished it.

Baby Evan’s Toddler Sweater

I’ve had this pattern and this yarn since the week I started knitting, but my plans to start it were always undermined by not having the right needles or not having a button or not understanding how to pick up stitches. I finally got over it, used the needles I had and started, only to realize I was going to have to knit it in an actual big-kid size instead of the baby size, which ended up taking FOREVER, but it totally worth it due to cuteness.

I’m actually happy it’s big, so he can wear it longer. Also, I totally think he looks like a Jedi in the hood, which I think is super cool. Because I’m a dork.

The pattern is the Baby Tunic from Knitting Pure & Simple (and it was a GREAT pattern, everything was explained super well and was easy for even a novice to follow). I’m almost embarrassed to tell you the yarn is Caron Simply Soft Heather in Denim (100% acrylic). Cheap craft store yarn is the bane of “real” knitters everywhere, but whatevs, it’s for a kid and I wanted it to be a)inexpensive b)washable and c)indestructible. Acrylic FTW!

Gender Neutral Baby Sweater – made pre-girl parts revelation

I bought the yarn (Cascade 220, 100% wool) from Megan’s de-stashing basket (for $4, what a deal!) and the pattern is the Plymouth Yarn Co’s Top Down Baby Jacket.  I made the same pattern for my niece and loved it so much I wanted one for my own baby. I left it button-less on purpose, in case I needed to go with something boy-like. Now I think I’ll get a pink & brown ribbon to thread through the holes & just tie it closed.

Pink baby shrug

I had a ball of the Brown Sheep Tweed left over after I finished my grown up sweater, so I traded it in for the same yarn in pink to make my first official BABY GIRL item. I found the free pattern online from a blog called The Shizknit (BEST NAME EVER? I THINK SO) and it was so unbelievable easy I had it done in one evening + 1 nap time. I follow the directions for the smallest size but it ended up being sort of big. Baby Girl might get to wear it this spring and then again in the fall, which is actually awesome.

Gorgeous, no?

I bought this ball of yarn Wednesday night at my knitting group (Di’s Delectables, 50% wool/50% alpaca plus metallic thread) and cannot WAIT to make something out of it. I’m thinking a cowl or a scarf, because it’s only 150 yards, and the colors will be fantastic up near my face. Doesn’t it remind you of an opal? I’m going to need a REALLY gorgeous pin or buttons to finish it.

So there you go – all the stuff I’ve made in the past few weeks. Next up is Baby Girl’s teddy bear to match the one I made Baby Evan (And maybe one extra one, to be given to a lucky person yet t0 be determined. Perhaps a hand-made giveaway? Anyone?) and getting started on my Christmas gifts for all my luckiest friends and relatives. Just don’t expect socks. I hate socks.

*I seriously can’t say enough good things about Megan. Not only is she an amazing knitter, she patiently taught me everything I know, lets me and the baby hang out in her shop anytime we want and is a super friend. I don’t buy NEARLY enough yarn from her to justify spending so much of my time at Mothers of Purl and yet she never complains about my freeloading. Although if anyone ever wanted to get me the best gift ever they could call Megan and get me a gift certificate. I might love them forever and ever. AND EVER. ARE YOU READING THIS DARLING HUSBAND?

Disclaimer, just in case: None of these people have any idea I’m writing about or linking to them and I apologize if they stumble over here and discover how badly I butchered their beautiful patterns/yarn.  I spent huge amounts of my own money on this stuff, no freebies at all.

Remember how a couple weeks ago I was all “This pregnancy is so easy! Most days I barely remember I’m even pregnant! I can’t wait to me MORE pregnant!”

Yeah, that was stupid. I am DEFINITELY pregnant. I could star in my own made for TV movie called Mega-Pregnant Woman Versus Giant Bottle of Tums and I wouldn’t even need a stunt double.

My feet hurt. I’m exhausted, even with a daily nap. I am irritated by totally irrational things and want to scream at random strangers. My clothes don’t fit. I can’t bend over in the middle. Everything from crackers to fruit to water gives me heartburn. I’m being regularly kicked in the bladder and I pee a little every time I laugh, jump or sneeze. I never sleep through the night. I’m always hot. My boobs are huge and sore (and here’s a new one: I have breast tissue that extends back into my armpit so even my underarms are painful). I keep getting giant crater sized pimples I’m afraid Baby Evan might get sucked into and disappear forever. And to top it all off, I STILL have morning sickness in the mornings – I get out of bed, I throw up for about 10 minutes, then I start my day. Every. Day.

As of my appointment this morning I am up 19 pounds and got a Talking To about adding more exercise to my routine, which is ridiculous because a) I chase a toddler all day b) I’m still going to Stroller Strides at least 3 times a week and c) I CHASE A TODDLER ALL DAY. Yes I know I’ll have to lose all this weight again, thanks for the breaking news. I know I’ve had this discussion on the internet before but I wish there was a way to just not even mention weight or weight gain in pregnancy at all until it became an actual health issue. My blood pressure is good, the baby is good, shut the eff up. I have the sudden urge to yell “LEAVE THE PREGNANT WOMEN ALOOOOOOOONE!!!!111!!!!!11!” but I’m too tired to actually yell at anything.

I think the only thing more exhausting than thinking about 19 more weeks of this is imagining life with a toddler AND a newborn.

I’m gonna go lie down.

A baby woke me up at 1 am last night, but it wasn’t the one who has a name and a face and a crib. It was a baby who is still just a fuzzy outline on a black and white print out, a heartbeat over the monitor, a life so new it can’t survive without me. It was my girl, my daughter, barely even half way here but already making herself known. I can finally feel the kicks and twists and jabs the ultrasound tech could see so clearly on her screen, the Kung Fu moves every pregnant woman anxiously longs for even as we make Alien references and complain about the punches to the bladder. They’re the closest thing to a voice our babies get, saying “I’m here! I’m living! Wait for me!”

They call this time The Quickening, a term I’ve always loved, which refers to the quickening of the baby’s movements from the slow, floaty flutters of a peanut sized fetus to flippy-floppy real-baby-sized twitches.  But for me it also refers to the quickening of time, the realization I am 20 weeks into a 40 week adventure, with 140 days (give or take) to go before I am a mother. A mother again. A mother some more. A mother of two.

The reality of that hasn’t even begun to sink in. I haven’t pulled the boxes of tiny gowns and onesies out to sort through and wash. I haven’t dog-eared the pages of my Ikea catalog with must haves for a new nursery. I don’t have a plan or a name or a calendar full of baby-prep classes. I just have a wish in my heart for her to be healthy and happy and whole, to come into our lives smiling and dancing, like I know she’s doing now in the warm comfort of my womb.

The truth is, none of the preparations matter. Having a crib doesn’t bring you a baby. Buying stuff doesn’t make you a mother. It’s a lesson every first time parent learns a few months too late, after the registry and the shower and the four hundred baby items crowding up your rooms. The fact that a parent cannot love a child with things is one of the fairest truths in this world – a millionaire has no advantage over me, nor do I rank over someone who lives in a mud hut and sleeps on the floor. All that matters is love and caring and patience and understanding, the kind of trial-by-fire lessons you only learn at 2 am when you’re totally failing and ready to give up and admit to anyone who asks that you must be the worst mother in the history of the world so would they please help you return this baby?

Oh, I have learned those lessons.

So for every week I forget to take a bump picture, for every day I don’t paint a nursery, for every kick I don’t take a moment to savor, I am sorry Baby Girl. But don’t be sad. I’ve kept all that love – the love-as-stuff, the love-as-money, the love-as-things – in my heart, where it grows right along with you, a little more every day.

Baby, I’m here. I’m waiting. I love you.

Ladies and gentleman, we have a…..

GIRL!

My bank account is already weeping.

Besides THAT awesomeness, I am happy to report the baby looks perfect. For some reason, as focused as I’ve been on the gender, I’ve been secretly freaking out about the rest of the scan to the point where I’ve been waking up regularly at 2 am to obsess about it. Maybe it’s because this pregnancy feels so different from the first one I have a hard time believing it can be “normal.” Maybe it’s because after two years in the mommy-blogging world I have a better understanding of what a questionable or poor or tragic result means. Reading about it in What To Expect just doesn’t terrify me the way seeing it spelled out in black and white and gray and red and every rainbow color of emotion on the internet does. But the tech took a zillion measurements and was very thorough and said several times everything looked perfect and normal and good.

So for the record, the “high heartbeat means it’s a girl” old wives tale proved 100% true for me. Which makes it scientifically proven. IT’S SCIENCE, PEOPLE.

p.s. Oh God now I DO have to pick a name. I think we’ll probably narrow it down to a couple and make the announcement after she’s (SHE!!!!) born. So don’t be mad when I won’t tell you what it is until then – I DON’T KNOW.

p.p.s. Once this sinks in, expect a huge freak out over everything from whether or not I need to give Baby Girl her (HER!!!!!) own nursery to how exactly one changes little girl diapers.

p.p.p.s. I think E might cry. Please tell him girls are awesome and that they DON’T always grow up and break your heart. Although I think half his disappointment is not getting to use the awesome boy name we picked out. This time.