Summer is here. Can you feel it? The humidity, the heat, and the sun.

Ooooohhhhhhhhh, the sun...

I consider the largest celestial body in our solar system my closest "frenemy." For years, I've basked under its rays, sometimes (more times than I'd like to admit) foregoing sunscreen in pursuit of the perfect golden tan. As a child, my mother carted me to and from the pool every day in the summer; as a teenager, I worked 40 hours a week as a waterpark lifeguard; now, as an adult, I carefully apply sunscreen to my daughter's sensitive skin, while often skipping my own.

So when a suspicious mole started looking even more suspicious than usual, I panicked. I first noticed some changes in this mole at the end of last summer, before I became pregnant with C. Located where the sun don't shine, it seemed to violate all the "ABC"'s of skin cancer: it was asymmetrical, it had a blurry border and it had a two-toned color.

Of course, you're not supposed to have moles evaluated during pregnancy -- as hormonal changes and swelling can alter a mole's appearance -- so I sweated it out for nine months, eying my moles with increasing fear. At my weakest moments, when I lost all faith, I was able to convince myself that I had melanoma and was surely dying. In my more lucid moments -- which in this pregnancy were few and far between -- I knew I was simply scaring myself unnecessarily. But nothing short of a doctor's "you're ok" were going to alleviate my worries.

Last week, before the start of the summer swim season at our community pool, I finally went to see the dermatologist. Even as I sat in the waiting room surrounded by high schoolers panicked over whether they'd get their acne cleared up before graduation, I was still on edge. Were my questionable moles really something to worry about?

After giving birth, my doctor's complete body scan wasn't nearly as embarrassing as it could have been. While my most-concerning mole did catch his attention, my dermatologist said it wasn't anything to be worried about at this point -- although he did make note of its size, shape and color and vowed to monitor it from here on out.

My diagnosis? Skin cancer free!

As an adopted child and a sun-worshipper, I know my trip to the doctor could have ended much differently. I don't know whether skin cancer runs in my family tree, whether I'm predisposed to melanoma or basal cell carcinoma. I do know that I spent too much unprotected time in the sun; it's a mistake I won't make again.

For this summer, I've stocked up on a good sunscreen -- and not just for the kids. I'll be sporting a hat and a light cover-up for when I'm not in the water. I even indulged myself and bought a tinted moisturizer with 30 spf for daily use.

If you haven't had yourself checked for skin cancer, I'd definitely recommend it. Getting a baseline assessment of your skin when you're relatively young can really help your doctor down the road, giving him something to compare with as you age. Be proactive! Your skin is your biggest -- and some might say, most vital -- organ; take care of it.

If you've read my blog for any length of time, then you know Baby C's conception was a surprise to me and DH. We had just decided that G was going to be an only child when that second pink line appeared on my home pregnancy test. For us, one was enough, and two is definitely enough.

For some people, I know this isn't the case. For some, two isn't enough; maybe three is, or four, or five. But there are some families whose procreative ambitions plainly baffle me.

One of these families goes to our church. I first noticed them when I was pregnant with G; she was pregnant as well, but that's not what stood out to me. No, it wasn't her belly, but her two daughters under the age of three. DH & I looked at each other in awe; here we were, panicked over the arrival of ONE child, and it appeared this woman had mastered motherhood enough to parent three children under the age of three.

For some reason, DH & I continued to keep tabs on this family, whom we'll call the "X Family." Both she and I gave birth to baby girls about six weeks apart in the fall of 2008; by the next spring, she was noticably pregnant again.


"Must be trying for a boy," DH guessed when he saw her expanding belly. "Must be trying to beat the Duggars," I replied.

But the X Family's fourth child was another brown-haired girl. Neither of us was surprised when Mrs. X was sporting a baby bump once again in the summer of 2010 -- that was baby #5 if you're counting.

Another girl.

This past Sunday at mass, it looked like Mrs. X was pregnant yet again. It's hard to tell these days. In the three years that I've been church-stalking her, she's been pregnant for roughly two of them. I honestly don't know what she looks like not pregnant; maybe after five pregnancies, her belly has just lost the ability to shrink back to its standard size (something, after just two pregnancies, I can definitely sympathize with).

I think the X Family is bound and determined to have a boy; I think that's got to be the reason why she keeps popping out babies every 12 to 18 months. Either that, or they're fabulously wealthy and can afford such a large family -- a luxury I will never know.

But the X Family has got me thinking...

DH is on my last nerve.

When we first discussed his plan to take the entire month of May off for paternity leave (the single best perk of having a government job), I was thrilled to have two more hands to help me with the kids.

21 days later, I'm not so sure...

First, there was the near-accident with DH at the wheel (actually, to be completely honest, there were the THREE near-accidents). The first time, he was looking at the crazy dancing man who works the corner trying to attract customers to a nearby pawn shop. The second time, he was trying to send a text on his cell phone (even though we live in a state where texting while driving is strictly verboten). The third time he was simply in his own little "manland," and didn't realize that the Suburban in front of him wasn't going to run a red light.

Then, there was DH's church attire for services last week. Left to his own devices for dressing himself and G, he chose to put himself in a pair of khaki shorts and G in a pair of cowgirl boots... clothes that might be ok for the park, or even mid-week mass, but not for Sunday at what is a pretty traditional (ie, conservative) Catholic parish. Naturally, I -- clad in the only dress that currently fits me -- asked him to change.

But the proverbial straw that broke this camel's back happened Saturday afternoon. After spending half the morning searching for the perfect birthday gift for a three-
year-old boy, DH called the child's parents to get the address for the party... only to find out the party was the week before. I was furious, but G was heartbroken; she was really looking forward to the party, which of course, DH had told her she'd be attending. I asked him for an explanation (I'd postponed plans with one of my best frends because of the party), and he told me the invitation had it wrong. Seriously??? Of course, DH had conveniently thrown the invitation away, so there was no proof for his dubious alibi, but I suspect his memory -- and not the invite -- is the real culprit.

When I explained DH's symptoms to a friend, she said it was a case of "post-partum regression." I had to laugh at her diagnosis; not to joke about post-partum depression -- I coped with this very real and definitely NOT laugh-worthy condition when I weaned G -- but because it so accurately explained DH's frame of mind. While my mind and body were working overtime, thanks to a surge in hormones and adrenalin, DH's was reeling from too many nights up late with a cranky baby. His brain was regressing, shutting down, failing to process the realities of every day life.

Talking to some of my other friends -- just about all of whom have welcomed baby #2 into their homes in the past year -- I learned that this is fairly common for dads. While mom does most of the heavy lifting, dad stands by in a fog, paralyzed into inaction by both an innate lack of estrogen and out and out fear.

If this keeps up, I think I'm going to claim Father's Day for myself this year. I'm going to need a break.

"My nipples are growing bigger," G proclaimed proudly to DH about a month ago.

In shock, my husband asked her why.

"Because mommy's nipples are growing," she explained emphatically. "She needs big nipples to feed C."

It's true, when I initially explained to G how life would be with a baby brother
around, I told her that I'd be feeding him mommy's milk. At first, she thought that meant he would share my big girl cup -- this, of course, resulted in her screaming because she's only allowed to use her big girl cup sometimes.

Then, I tried to explain that C would be eating from my breasts... but I didn't know exactly how to describe this. I couldn't imagine the word breast or boob coming out of my daughter's mouth, so I opted for the more anatomically-correct "nipple."

G took this and ran with it. She started openly talking about nipples to anyone who would listen. Once at a playdate, she lifted up her shirt to show her little friends exactly what a nipple was (thankfully I have very understanding and open-minded friends!).

Now that G is getting a first-hand look at exactly what breastfeeding is, she's more curious than ever. She's constantly prodding and poking at my nipples (I know, I know -- I need to establish boundaries... I'll get to that... eventually). She hasn't asked yet to taste what comes out of them, but I have a sneaking suspicion that's not far away.

When G was first born, DH & I made a rule: no babies in our bed. Over the years, that has changed to "no toddlers in bed" to "no little girls in bed" and now to "no children in bed."

And then came Saturday night, when we broke that rule big time.

It began when Baby C had a tough time going to sleep -- as in, he didn't want to go to sleep at all. Just as I was pulling his wide-eyed little body out of his crib and into our master bedroom, DH & I heard a "thud" in G's room followed moments later by her howling sobs. Yup, she'd fallen out of her big girl bed for the first time since she got it at Christmas. When DH went to calm her down, she told him she didn't want to sleep there anymore... so into our bed she came.

I can't say it was a silent night or a holy night, and absolutely nobody was calm or feeling very bright-eyed in the morning; but it was definitely a sacred night. Having the three most important people in my world cuddled up next to me in the same bed was absolutely heavenly. It was the moment when I felt we truly made the leap from a family of three to a family of four.

DH & I spent the better part of nine months preparing G for the arrival of her new sibling.

"Babies cry a lot," I'd tell her when she'd ask why her friend's baby sister was howling during a play date.

"Babies can't play with you yet," I'd remind her when that same baby sister just stared at her when G offered her a favorite toy.

"Mommy will need to hold the baby," I'd use as an explanation for why I couldn't carry her in the grocery store parking lot.

So when Baby C arrived, G was prepared for a little person who would cry, not play with her toys and always be in Mommy or Daddy's arms.

Unfortunately, we didn't do a very good job of preparing her for some of the other very important elements of C's arrival. For the past several weeks, I'd been storing some old toys in C's closet until I figured out what to do with them. When G found them, they proved to be ample distraction, giving me the time to cook, clean or simply rest. Now, C's here and playtime in his closet has been nixed. G's not happy.

I also forgot to mention to G that babies sleep a lot... and that when they're sleeping, we need to do our best to be quiet. My good friend "M" told me last summer -- after the birth of her second son -- that she'd never realized how loud her older child was; today, I can say that I completely understand that statement. I've found myself telling her to speak in her "library voice" more times in the past week than I did in her entire life up to this point. G's really not happy about that.

But most of all, I forgot to teach G about the importance of gentle touches. Yes, we practiced holding, burping and feeding Baby C on some of G's stuffed animals; I thought it was cute when Myrtle the Bear ended up dangling by one leg mid-diaper change. Although G is very gentle while holding C, she's not quite as gentle when DH or I am holding him. That's when she starts trying to lift his eyelids to get him to wake up, or sticking her fingers in his mouth when she thinks he needs a binky. Then, she usually gets a scolding, to which she responds with protests that she was listening, which ultimately leads to a few minutes on the timeout step. Again, not happy.

But truly, these moments are (surprisingly) few and far between. She's as in love with her baby brother as her father and I are. She's always asking us how she can be a helper; she willingly brings us wipes, throws away dirty diapers and fetches his binky. She's expressed virtually no signs of jealousy. She wants to wear her "Big Sister" shirt every day, and tells random strangers in the grocery store or at the park that she has a baby brother.

I grew up without a sibling, so watching her interact with C has been eye-opening for me. I pray the two of them will become friends -- dare I say, best friends? -- over the years. I hope they'll love each other as much as DH & I love them.

I'm typing this post with one hand, as Baby C sleeps on my chest -- so it's going to be short and sweet.

Baby C and I came home from the hospital on Sunday, Mother's Day, just as I'd hoped. I was lucky enough to be able to get a parenting room in our hospital's NICU, which guaranteed I'd never be more than a few feet away from my precious baby boy. Because of this convenience, I was able to start exclusively nursing C on Thursday. He's done great; he was born at 6 lbs 11 ounces, and as of today is already up to 7 lbs 9 ounces (he's gained a whopping 9 ounces since Monday!).

Of course, a continued concern has been C's bilirubin levels. When he was born, his bili was at 7.1. While on phototherapy, his levels dropped; but as soon as we took him off all the blue lights, they shot up. By the time we left the hospital on Sunday, his bili had nearly doubled to 13. At his first pediatrician's appointment on Monday, his levels had climbed yet again to 14.2.

To say I was panicked by those numbers would be an understatement. I was terrified and paranoid. I was constantly looking at his skin tone, wondering if it was yellower than it had been the previous hour. After an intense internal debate, I decided to call the pediatrician this morning and request a follow-up blood test.

Although I definitely didn't like the idea of pricking my poor baby for what has to be the 50th time so far in his little life, I am glad I insisted on the blood test. The pediatrician just called to tell us C's bilirubin level is down to 12.1 -- praise God! By C's age (9th day of life), once those bili scores begin going down, they tend to keep going down... we're not out of the woods just yet (it could take several weeks before his jaundiced color vanishes completely), but we've seen the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

I have so much to say about how life as a family of four is going for us, but this single-handed typing is taking me for-ev-a as it is, so that'll have to be another post for another day.

I've been asked four times in the last four days if I went to medical school.

Of course, the answer is no (I don't do bodily fluids or needles very well). But because Baby C is our second child to go through the NICU journey, I am very well-versed in the medical jargon that goes along with his specific condition.

Q4... central line... IVIG... these are all terms that probably mean absolutely nothing to you. But since Tuesday, they've been a way of life for us. Blood tests and other screenings every four hours (that's "Q4"); the debate over whether to install a central line through Baby C's belly button to give the phlebotomists easier access to his blood supply; the decision not to administer a dose of IVIG to help bring his bilirubin levels down to a normal level.

When DH & I went through this two and a half years ago with G, we were flummoxed, scared and paranoid. We didn't know what to expect, and were really blindsided by it all. In fact, when we had gone on our obligatory hospital tour during my third trimester, we hadn't even paid attention to the NICU portion -- we didn't think it would apply to us. This time, we set aside the time and (financial) resources in advance necessary to cope with a NICU stay of at least a week. We were prepared in every possible way.

The neonatologists are starting to discuss when Baby C will go home. I hate to type this, because I don't want to jinx us, but a Mother's Day homecoming is a definite possibility. What a gift! In NICU, time seems to stand still. Between the beeps of the ECG machine and the hum of his heplock IV, it's almost like a fourth dimension suspended between time and space, garish fantasy and reality. I can't wait for C to join his big sister at home, and for our life as a family of four to truly begin.

Hey everybody!

I only have 10 minutes because Blogger is a restricted site at the hospital, and that's all the "quota time" I get on here. So this is the abbreviated story without pictures.

So there I was, Monday afternoon, hosting a playdate with one of my best friend's and her two daughters when I stand up to get us each a glass of water and I start leaking. I run to the restroom, and scream, "Either I've become incontinent, or my water broke!" Turns out, it was my water. So as DH, my mom and I dashed to the hospital, my friend stayed at our house with G while we waited for another family friend to arrive.

Labor started off well. I spent four hours in maternity triage, waiting for a labor & delivery suite to open up. During that time, my contractions started up and began getting closer and closer together. By 1am -- eight hours after my water broke -- contractions were coming every four minutes and I was 4cm and 80% effaced. Feeling good, I chose not to go for the epidural and went with a dose of stadol to take the edge off instead.

Well, just as the epidural did during G's labor, the stadol completely stopped my labor. By 5am, I was having no contractions at all and was STILL 4cm. My OB ordered pitocin, which immediately started contractions again. An hour later, I was still in a lot of pain... but only 5cm dialated. I called for the epidural, and by 7am it was in and I was feeling GREAT.

That's when all hell broke loose. Just minutes after I sent my mom and DH to get some breakfast for themselves, Baby C's heartrate began to drop... well, plummet is more like it. With every contraction, he went from a stable 130-140bpm to 30-40bpm. The nurses did a great job of stabilizing him, but in the process, MY blood pressure started to tank; it eventually bottomed out at 70/40. I didn't feel a thing, but -- with the oxygen mask on -- was definitely scared; more for C than for myself. I laid in bed reciting the Hail Mary prayer over and over and over. By the time DH and my mom returned to the room around 8am, I was surrounded by three nurses, four anesthesiologists and my OB.

I was shocked when (what felt like) a few minutes later, my OB told DH to come over to my bedside and grab a leg. Apparently, it was time to push! I had gone from 5cm and 80% to ready to push in under 90 minutes. Three contractions later, Baby C came into the world with the cord wrapped around his neck. My OB anticipated this and quickly remedied the situation. I was stitched up and he was in my arms a few minutes later.

But I knew there was a problem. He was yellow... which would mean another stay in the NICU... and that's where we are now.

After 40 weeks and one day of pregnancy, I'm feeling vulnerable...

Emotionally...

Physically...

Spiritually...

The burden of knowing this baby is coming -- "sooner rather than later," as my OB likes to say -- but isn't here yet is beyond pale. Women who deliver at 38 or 39 weeks are lucky; they remain blissfully unaware of how emotionally taxing that last week of pregnancy truly is.


I've decided against an induction. The fact that I was 2 cm and 50% effaced at my 39 week appointment (last Wednesday) disqualified me for the induction study my OB's office is currently conducting. (The fact that today -- 5 days after that appointment -- I am STILL 2 cm and 50% is just irritating.) Induction will not be a consideration until I reach 41 weeks, which (sadly) is now just 6 days away.

I did have my OB strip my membranes. I had that done when I reached 40 weeks with G, and had previously vowed that I wouldn't do it again... but my urge to deliver this baby naturally (and immediately) won out over any remaining patience I may have had.

So here I am, stripped bare in every possible way. I delivered G 51 hours after my OB stripped my membranes; given that timeline, Baby C should arrive around lunchtime Wednesday.

C'mon kid... I'm ready.