Almost Half Way There!

And, yes, it does seem like I've been pregnant that long.  And, no, it hasn't flown by.  Surely you know by now I'm not going to sugar coat it.

Spencer has been napping closer to once every other day.  It's bumming us out--me, Spencer, his father. And, when he takes a 2+ hour nap--yeah, then bedtime doesn't go over well at 7:30 p.m.  I know he needs to be woken up about 2 hours after he falls asleep, but man, right now, I just can't bring myself to do it, especially since we've managed to stay somewhat sick with some sort of minor (or not as minor) "bug" since, oh, I'd say March.  I remember blogging last year that the only thing I'd given up for Lent was health.  I remembered it, ironically, as I was in bed with a stomach virus that I'd already had a week or so before.  This was, of course, all during Lent of this year.

Once we were all "in the clear," and I was actually having many, many mornings where I was not throwing up while making breakfast, we ventured out into the real world.  We played at friends' houses, we went to the Chick-fil-a indoor playground, the Wonderplace, etc.  I was feeling more like a worthwhile person.  I was smiling and laughing with my child, having conversations with my husband.  Life felt a little bit normal again.  But, as I always say in hindsight, you just can't go to those play places without coming home with a virus.  It's amazing.  My child is like a magnet.  Truly.

So, I began to suspect he had a cold, he was rubbing his nose, pushing my hands against his head, etc.  And, then he woke up in the middle of the night with a fever--which, by the way, we will take over waking up vomiting EVERY night of the year--then the next day the fever was gone (he hadn't had any Tylenol or anything, it was gone by itself).  Then, he was fine for a few days.  Then, the fever came back one afternoon.  And, now, bless his heart I finally caught whatever it is that he has, and, let me tell you, we need a new word for having a "cold."  You know?  I mean, there should be degrees or something!  Because there are degrees.  And this cold is at least a third degree cold.

Along with this cold, there has been lots of screaming (usually Spencer), but once I came down with it, and have spent many nights in a row lying awake in bed, stopped up and miserable, I have to say, I don't fault him so much for all the tantrums, and I do feel a little guilty for some of the harsher disciplinary measures that I've employed this week now that I know how bad he has been feeling.  And, I don't over-medicate him, so, he was pretty much feeling all the symptoms unless it was bedtime.

He is still my sweetest little boy, though.  And he does the funniest things.  I can't wait 'til he's four and finally talking in sentences--yeah--that's still the rate at which we're traveling.  (Don't worry, I'm keeping a close eye on the situation, lol.)  He has a paci only for sleeping now, and even when he feels horrible, he knows it is supposed to be put up once he's awake.  I don't snatch it out of his mouth right when he leaves his bed, because, honestly, that seems mean.  Half of the time, he's not even fully awake as he staggers into the living room.  It also just doesn't seem to jive with his personality.  He can be very compliant, and he likes his boundaries, but he doesn't like to be rushed.  I know in some instances, he'll have to get over it, but in this one, I feel like he deserves a little understanding.  So, usually, by the time breakfast is served, we trade it for the paci.  Believe it or not, there is actually a point to this annoyingly rambling paragraph.  It's in the next one.

A few mornings ago, I made him his waffle and eggs, brought it into the living room (where we frequently eat while partaking in some media over load--I know, I know, Mother of the Year alert), and he just sort of stood by the food, glancing around the room.  He obviously was congested; his face was all puffy; he looked kinda pitiful.  We sat there in silence while I scarfed down my couple thousand calories to last me about an hour or so, and then I said, "Are you going to eat your breakfast."  Without saying a word, he walked over to where I was sitting on the sofa, still in his little cream sleep sack, then proceeded to lean down, so that his head (face first) ended up right next to my leg, where my hand also happened to be resting; and it finally dawned on me--he wanted me to take his paci out of his mouth!  LOL!  I asked him if that's what he wanted, and he leaned back over, right to my hand, again, so I took it out and stuck it in my pocket.  Then, he walked over and started his breakfast.  Ha!  I felt like he was my little well-trained dog.  "Lassie, what's wrong?  Oh, you want me to take your paci out?  Ok!"  I don't know if the humor translates or not, but it was hilarious at the time.

He got some new books at Easter, and he has really been enjoying them.  He even lets me read the ACTUAL words on the pages, as opposed to just requiring me to name all the animals that he can find.  Never mind that these books are about Dora and the Wonderpets.  I didn't buy them, and he's letting me read to him--whatever.  His Dora book has a line where it says, "Do you want to ride with us on the bus?"  And every. single. time. he says, "No!" as I continue reading the rest of the page.  The only question in the whole book, and he can't wait to shout, "No!"  Every time.  He usually smiles while he says it, but not always.  He says it even when he's not really into it.  So consistent.  Love it.

I've mainly been sneezing, lamenting my inability to breath through my nose, eating so much at one sitting that I restrict the room required for my lungs to completely expand, and trying to remind myself that food isn't fun if you can't continue breathing to enjoy it.  But, being awake in the middle of the night is replete with opportunities, plenty of peace and quiet, perfect for contemplating where to cram all of the stuff that's currently in the "nursery-to-be" and what sort of cloth diapers I'm going to use when "the baby" gets here.

Decisions, Decisions

I got the Littles down for a nap today by 12:35 for the first time in over three months.  Life has meaning again.  Apparently three Easter Celebrations in two days is all it takes.  I'm also starting to have some "good" days, which is a welcome and much-needed change.  When I say "good" days in regard to pregnancy, please don't hear me wrong.  I don't feel good.  I just don't feel like I'm enduring some sort of cosmic punishment in the here and now.  We've almost made it to the half way point of this pregnancy.  And I say "we" to credit the many family members and friends who have swooped in to rescue us from sure and pathetic implosion.  Thank. Goodness.

I'm a planner.  And throughout this entire pregnancy, one question has perpetually been on my mind:  can I possibly do this again?  Most days I answer with a resounding but sad and defeated, "No."  And then Spencer is his little amazing, adorable, toddler-extraordinaire self, and I think, "Gosh, but I really truly always wanted to have at least three kids...but could I possibly do this again?"  And so the cycle continues.

Jonathan and I both had thoughts and plans of eventually adopting.  In my mind, it was something I'd do when I was an older, wiser, seasoned mother.  It was something I'd do because I've heard about the need my entire life.  It was something I'd do because I hope to bear witness to the fact that unborn lives are worth preserving, nurturing, and raising--whether or not I had anything to do with how they came into existence.  It was something I'd do to exemplify what I believe God in Christ did for everyone who will come to him willing to be His adopted child.  It really sums up the whole Story quite nicely.

Adoption was not something I'd planned on doing because I was too big of a wimp to endure multiple pregnancies of my own.  It was not something I'd planned on doing while I had other small children around me, the likes of whom drain you physically and emotionally every day, even on the best of days.  It was not something I'd planned on doing as an "out" of some sorts in my own life.

Now it's something that seems so confusing and complex.  And I'm sure it shouldn't, but it still does.

Many, many people, adult males included have told me of their regrets regarding the number of children they had.  No one has ever told me that they regretted having so many.  Fifty year old men have told me they wished they'd had more.  That seemed profound to me.  Perhaps only because I've viewed the child rearing and raising thing as my career.  The weight with which I heard their thoughts may have been partly provided from my end as the information recipient.  I heard it, and I took it to heart, because that's where my heart and my mind are.

On the other hand, I've had many women, some old enough to be my grandmother, confide to me that they were unbearably sick when they were pregnant.  They could only do it twice.  They just could not do it again.  I heard their sincerity, and with some, their peace they'd reached in this life decision they'd made decades ago.  They are no less amazing women who've lived wonderful lives.

My mom has told me many times that your twenties and early thirties can be a very hard, stressful time in your life.  You're making decisions--personal, financial, and business-wise--that set the course for the rest of your life.  I know they don't have to be "stressful," but I do think they're full of course-setting decisions.  Not to mention that as you're making these decisions, you're raising your babies.  And they're watching.  You're teaching them what's really important, not in words or lengthy explanations, but by the  priorities that become obvious with every dollar you spend, with every person with whom you cross-paths, with every hour you work.

So, hopefully, no matter how many pregnancies I manage to weather, or how many years I wait to adopt, no matter how many children I raise as part of my family, I will do it well.   Hopefully, the seemingly weighty decisions will fall away, usurped by the more pressing, daily decision of what am I teaching today by my decisions?

Finger Painting

The power was out.  I'd bought and hidden the finger paints for just such an occasion.  Spencer thought it was fun for about three minutes.  Then, he thought it was fun to make me finger paint--another three minutes.  Then, he thought it was really fun to run around the back yard with the works of art, using up at least thirty minutes. There was also much intermittent dancing to my humble rendition of "Go, Diego, Go!" and "Say 'Click'!" medly-style. 

Mimi Visit

Spencer is a very loved boy.  On any given day, a Mimi might just knock on his door.  Just to play with him and to rescue him from a decent nap time.

She's the one who knew of his secret, passionate desire for Dora's Backpack.  She got it for him for his 2nd birthday.  He plays with it almost every day.  This particular visit included many-a-question pertaining to the next gift on her list for him.  An Easter gift.

I have to admit, she made a mean Easter basket in my days of receiving them.  Lots of chocolate, jelly beans, and even some Peeps.  None of the candy ever compared to the stuffed bunny that we knew we could count on EVERY year.  I know my mom must have hated it, but I loved stuffed animals.  I never played with dolls or Barbies, but I "collected" stuffed animals.  I continued to look forward to stuffed rabbits for years and years after it was age appropriate. 

 However, many a grand and great-grand parent have visions of Easter gifts for this little guy, so I think Mimi is going to go a different direction.  I'm afraid she didn't heed my warning of not spending an arm and a leg.

He's her first (and so far only) great grandson.  It took them a while, but they seem to have finally bonded.  (Again, he takes his sweet time warming up; but once you're "in," you're in.)

She's in.

And as long as she doesn't reinstate her long-standing tradition of offering minor grand children a beer at every major holiday, they could have something really special.   

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

When she came through on her Spring Break weekend, Spencer's cousin finally got to hold him...

...bless her heart, she's been waiting for over two years!

Just to clarify, she has visited him many times in his 28 months, but he has never acquiesced to being held until now.  What can I say?  It takes him a while to warm up.