Notes from Home Plate

Onward and Upward!

2010-06-03T22:05:00.000-07:00

MY NEW WEBSITE IS UP! CLICK ON THIS LINK: www.myecdysis.com

DRY THOSE TEARS! Notes from Home Plate will continue...in a larger platform.

My new home is called MY ECDYSIS (explanations later...)

To help you navigate go to the main page of the website. Peruse. Look around. Read up. Get used to my new digs.

To find the archives from this blog, "Notes from Home Plate:"

Go to WRITING.

Look for NOTES FROM HOME PLATE.

Here you will find the archive to all the posts in this blog.

My most recent posts will be on the front page of the website.

Thanks for reading, friends and family! We're moving on up!

Pictures! Isaiah 5 Months

2010-05-26T08:23:00.000-07:00

CLICK HERE and look for the album name: Isaiah 5 months

He's getting huge. There's no other way to say it.

Best Friends Change

2010-05-25T19:30:00.000-07:00

His new best friend is his thumb.

The thumb may soon be dethroned, though. Today, early evening, Isaiah was sitting in my lap after I got home from work while Nick and I caught up on our day, exchanging details and stories. All of a sudden we paused and watched Isaiah lean forward and pull his big right toe into his sloppy cute big mouth. His toes are his new best friends by next week, I predict.

Suck, suck. Chomp chomp.

Quick Update

2010-05-17T18:39:00.000-07:00

If you think that we've been too busy for blogging, your thinking is correct.

Here's some updates on your favorite Cleveland family...

I've won the last 2 weigh-ins, up until this past Sunday when Nick swiftly kicked my butt.
Don't be excited. Some wins are just about holding steady while the other gains a pound or has a monstrous Saturday night meal and has a bad Sunday morning weigh-in. But, hey, a win's a win.

Nick and I signed up to run a 5k on June 5th. That's right. The day after our wedding anniversary, the day after we find out who wins the first leg of the competition.

Isaiah started solids! This past Thursday he had his first taste of a banana! This morning he had his first taste of rice cereal. He treats the spoon like a pacifier, but he's getting the hang of it. His neck and head stability are improving weekly and his eczema is under control (for the most part).

I am on a no dairy, no egg diet. This means I am a vegan who eats meat. (I love that oxymoron.) This has been established by Isaiah's allergist who found that he is most certainly allergic to eggs and milk and dairy. We'll see how this goes. Doc said it's likely that Isaiah will outgrow it. I hope so.

Have I ever mentioned that milk is my all-time favorite drink? Or how every morning I made myself a delicious veggie omelette?

Somehow it got to be the middle of May and I gasped at the calendar when I saw that on Wednesday, my favorite Gerber head is going to be FIVE MONTHS OLD!

And that concludes this brief update.

Dusting Off an Old Clip and Some Photos...

2010-05-10T08:16:00.001-07:00

A Note from Isaiah

2010-05-09T11:09:00.001-07:00

The 12 Startling Similarities Between God and the Right Editor

2010-05-06T07:41:00.000-07:00

I've been a writer all my life. I cannot remember a time when my right hand did not grasp a pen and moved left to right on a page, documenting the significant and insignificant morsels of living.

A few years ago, I was struck by lightning and had the tremendous opportunity to work with make/shift magazine, and with Jess Hoffman, and slowly begin learning about the fundamentals of editing.

Editing has its moments of excruciating difficulty. It is not the free flowing creative river that is writing. It can be an unpredictable whiplash that stings every time you work with a new writer. I've had the magnificent pleasure of learning from many different kinds of writers and editors and, today, thought of the countless similarities I began seeing in my relationship with God and my relationship with editing.

This is what I found...

The Twelve Startling Similarities Between God and the Right Editor

1) The Editor works with you and your ideas, trying to observe and guide and not intercede.

2) When you are excessively verbose, the Editor gets to the heart of what you are saying.

3) The Editor is patient, but nudges you from time to time.

4) The Editor knows that the writer must equally trust the Editor and believe in herself.

5) The Editor has worked with so many different kinds of writers, you know there's nothing that the Editor hasn't seen.

6) The Editor knows what is sacred and carefully addresses issues close to your heart.

7) The Editor has a vision, but it is co-authored.

8) Ultimately, the Editor wants your best self, your best work, and works with you to make that manifest.

9) Often times in conversation with the Editor, you realize hidden truths underneath a lot of rubble.

10) "I know what I know, what do YOU think?"

11) The Editor will never give you an assignment that is too large for you to handle.

12) The Editor has a way of arranging things that leaves you mystified, dumbstruck, and grateful.

So, to all the writers out there: I wish you not only deep, rich soil to till your work in, I wish you a gracious and visionary editor who believes in your ability to fruitfully open a truth for yourself to share with the world.

Nick's Reflection

2010-04-29T20:40:00.000-07:00

Though I am a main subject of this blog, I have never written a post. However, on the occasion of my Grandpa’s death, I wanted to write something in his honor.
I love you Grandpa Borchers.
Nick

Reflections on the death of my Grandpa

At times of death we are always advised to trust God.
What does this mean?
If trusting in God means things will happen as we want,
then my trust is shattered.

I want to hear another story from Grandpa about working at Stolle’s;
I want to ask my Uncle Bob if the Reds can turn it around this year; and
I want to laugh with my cousin Nathan about random college stories.

Obviously, trusting God is not getting what we want.
So, what is it?

Ultimately, trusting in God is believing that life is bigger than what we see,
that our lives do not end.

I believe all three of these family members live on in me.
Grandpa lives on as I laugh at a corny joke.
Bob lives on as I squeeze every bit of excitement out of a normal day.
Nathan lives on as I experience the sheer joy of being with others.

Our loved ones don’t just live on in metaphorical ways.
They see what we do not, they see the big picture of our lives.
They understand the sadness we are experiencing now is just a phase,
a small blip in what will ultimately be unending joy and peace with God.

And when I pay close enough attention,
for a brief instant, I can feel their presence still with me.
They are not with me in the same way, but they are still with me.
The veil between me and them is thin and even transparent at times.

So, I know this summer on a hot afternoon
as I sit down with Isaiah to watch a Reds-Pirates game,
we will be surrounded by three other big baseball fans.
This belief in life allows me to truly trust in God during this difficult week.

It's Not Just My Imagination

2010-04-28T09:05:00.001-07:00

There are days where I wonder if there are some unexplained things about the relationship between mother and child. I mean, think about it, a growing human being forms his bones, blood, and organs INSIDE a woman's body. Everything the mother is, quite literally, is given to her child. It's quite extraordinary.

There are days when I just look at the little Meatball and wonder, how did this kid ever fit inside me? How did he come from me?

Well, I soon found the explanation.

While Nick was in El Salvador, I was busy trying to clean our office. The one room that is consistently neglected because, since no one else but Nick or I ever go in there, it never meets the "we should pick up the living room before so and so come over," or "we're having company over so make sure you scrub the toilet and vaccuum," requirements.

So, while I was hauling boxes of recycled paper out of the house and pouring through old papers, I came across one of my baby pictures. I saw it and I just stared. It was almost eerie.

It was the same feeling when Nick took this picture of me and Isaiah in the hospital. It was a feeling like, "I've seen this picture before somewhere, but I can't think of what picture it is."

I found the picture.

You tell me.

Is there some unexplained force that binds me with Isaiah?

I don't know.

But since we look like almost identical twins from birth, I'm open to anything.

In Memory

2010-04-26T11:25:00.000-07:00

There was no way to describe how nervous I was when I first met Nick's Grandpa Borchers back in 2004. I've never met anyone's grandparents before and the idea of meeting them was so nerve-wracking, I even called my mom beforehand to talk out my jitters.

She didn't help much. "Oh, this is a very big occassion. Make sure you wear a very nice outfit. Address them properly. Be yourself, but don't talk too much...." The suggestions went on and on.

That only added to the anxiety. Even my Dad made a follow-up call when I got home. "Well," he sounded like one of my grad school buds after I went out on a date, "what did you end up wearing?"

Dick was sitting in his recliner when I timidly walked over to be introduced. My parents advice was ringing in my head. His smile and handshake put me at ease and I let out a quick breath of relief that I got through the first five minutes. I doubt he ever knew how nervous I was to meet him, so I doubt he knew how much I appreciated that big, sincere smile that he gave me. I'm already a fan of electric smiles and infectious laughs, and I honestly don't think there are many better than Dick's. I can see his smile in his children, especially Rog and Linda, and it always makes me smile in recognition of its origin.

But my favorite memory of him had to have been when Nick and I came back from Nicaragua in 2007 after doing a mission trip together. Nick and I were separated into different groups and I was sent to dig ditches, deep into the earth, to help in the process of making latrines.

I could barely pick up the equipment, it was so heavy, and when I lowered myself into the ditch, I was, literally, in a hole so deep I couldn't feel the wind at all. And then I started to feel like I was baking in the soil. The sun was beating on me and no wind could reach me. I tried to think positive thoughts, but the labor was just too intense for me. After a few hapless attempts, I started coughing and got dizzy and climbed out. I returned to my ditch several times, but it was as obvious as a cloud on a perfect blue sky that I was not making much progress. I defended myself to Nick, "I was BAKING, baking I tell you, in that ditch. I felt like I was going to pass out!"

On our first trip to Russia after Nicaragua, Nick promptly told his grandparents of my suffering and how I was clearly not cut out for manual labor in the sun.

I didn't know how Dick would react to that story of my wimpy-ness, given that he was a hard-working farmer who could have at one time probably dug ten ditches in a day.

He loved it.

Over the years, every holiday or visit when I leaned over to greet him and shake his hand, he'd hold on to my hand for an extra second and ask, "Have you dug any ditches lately?" His hearty laugh followed when I smiled and emphatically shook my head NO and retold the details of my failure as a dirt digger. He really got a kick out of that. And Nick always got a kick out of his Grandpa getting a kick out of it.

I only knew Dick for the past six years, the last years of his life. Oftentimes, I marvel at how we can meet people in the last turn of their life, just as we are in the main throttle of our own. What a gift it is.

In a loving and resting peace, I imagine him now. And it's because of that mega-watt smile he shared with me that first day back in 2004 that I often try to smile at newcomers and make others comfortable in my home. It's always the small things in life that make a difference and leave an impact on others.

I'm just one of the many, I'm sure, who were touched by his life, family, and kindness.

Tears Behind the Wheel

2010-04-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

Have you ever cried while driving?

That's probably not the safest thing to do.

I mean, it's not as dangerous as drinking and driving or texting while driving, but CRYING has its own level of wrong, too.

I realized this as I was wiping away tears this morning after I took Isaiah to the doctor. The little Meatball is having a terrible week. Probably the worst in his four moths of existence.

Isaiah's been struggling with moderate eczema for quite some time and Nick and I have been playing detective, trying to figure out what triggers it or how we can relieve it. Last month we figured out that the space heater in his room is the culprit.

So we unplugged the darn thing and layered him in extra shirts and socks when he went to bed.

And then spring came.

His eczema flared last week and I wondered if maybe it's something in his milk. So I took out 99% of dairy in my diet.

No change.

This week, I gave up eggs. No change.

Poor little guy looked miserable. And I was having a breakdown watching his splotches begin to spread over his head, face, torso and arms. His little uncoordinated hands were scratching his head and belly while he cried and I would try to comfort him while I bawled myself.

What a mess.

So I took him to the doctor for three things: eczema, possible teething, and a bad cough.

Isaiah laughed and wiggled as the doctor examined him and thought the tongue stick to examine his mouth was the greatest thing ever and laughed in the doctor's face.

Despite the laughs, he had a low grade fever and his eczema needs some serious attention. I fired away with questions and more questions. Without Nick there to calmly interject something very Borchers-esque, my motor mouth went nuts. Luckily, the doctor didn't mind my fretting. (I assume fretting mothers are quite common in a pediatric setting.)

So, I hauled my 17.5lb elephant back to the car and got in the driver's seat to head to Rite Aid to pick up his prescriptions.

I kept glancing in my rear view mirror to see his baby mirror. He looked so much like Nick, but covered in red patches of itch, and handled everything so well. His skin, fever, and cough coupled with Nick's departure got the best of me and my tear ducts. And that's when the bawling happened and my vision blurred from crying.

And that's why I am writing to caution all who cry while driving - it's just as hazardous as texting.

You can't see ANYTHING.

Growth off the Charts

2010-04-21T04:33:00.001-07:00

Bleh. I hate when Nick is gone.

He left this morning at 3:45am to catch his 6am flight to El Salvador. Meanwhile, my mom has arrived to help take care of Isaiah and my sister is moving in to the third floor upstairs. All the Factora women in one household - it's like a huge slumber party for Isaiah.

Speaking of our favorite meatball, yesterday he officially turned 4 months old and looks every bit of it as well. According to my mom who saw him last 3 weeks ago, when she feasted her eyes on him again, she couldn't believe the length of his legs. I didn't know what else to say except, "I know. I know. I know."

When I hold Isaiah, I feel like I'm holding onto a very soft baby elephant. There are days when I just can't friggin believe how strong he is. My sister-in-law and mother were gazing at him yesterday in his car seat and Suzi commented,"You might want to start thinking about upgrading your car seat. Uh, his feet are starting to dangle over the edge." I glanced down. She was right.

Guess what else Isaiah is up to? TEETHING.

Yes, TEETHING.

I was wondering what's been up with the buckets of drool flapping out of his mouth the past two weeks and his munching on his hand immediately after he's eaten and him barreling down on his bottom lip like he needs his gums to be in contact with something. Suzi said, "They may not be popping out, but that doesn't mean he's already teething."

And then my mom asked, "Are you sure he's not yet ready for solids?"

And that's when my head exploded.

NEW CAR SEATS. TEETHING. SOLIDS.

I complained like a little girl to my mom, "What the hell are all those books good for if they're not preparing me in time for Isaiah's development? He's not supposed to be teething or eating solids yet, say the books I'm reading."

And the common sense advice reply, "Well, those book are written for the average timeline of a baby. Isaiah may not be average."

When I consider how his onesies are 12-18 months and starting to get tight in length, that might make sense.

Meanwhile, Nick takes off to El Salvador for five days and I'm left with an elephant of a son and a stomach full of battery acid because of Nick's international travels.

Screw the books. I'm listening to my mother.

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 6

2010-04-19T17:30:00.000-07:00

The intensity. THE INTENSITY.

Isaiah 4 months

2010-04-17T10:44:00.000-07:00

Pictures, pictures, pictures...

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 5

2010-04-16T07:06:00.000-07:00

It's a bit late to post it now, but just so you're aware that I am now WINNING...

Even when I'm sick, I'll never be so sick that I cannot compete.

Recovery

2010-04-16T06:55:00.000-07:00

I've been recovering from some nasty virus this week. Doctor said it's just one of those things you catch during spring that makes you feel like you're underwater and can't hear anything cause your ears are plugged, like your legs weigh 8726 lbs because they're achy and heavy, like it's middle of summer because of a low grade fever, like you're part robot part frog because of laryngitis, like you want to suffocate yourself with your own pillow because you are miserable.

But, I'm slowly getting better.

Nick had to take a couple days off from work to take care of Isaiah so I don't breathe on him at all.

Ugh.

So, this week hasn't been the greatest and, from the inside of my house, it looks to be a beautiful spring. Too gosh darn bad I'm allergic to it.

Don't forget to stop and smell the flowers (unless you're allergic to the pollen, like me.)

Isaiah certainly has.

All the Superhero I Need

2010-04-14T16:34:00.000-07:00

GO CAVS!

Isaiah's First Easter

2010-04-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

I'm sick as a dog! Ugh, I hate it.

I'm stuck in bed and took the opportunity to finish a belated video for Isaiah's first Easter...Enjoy!

Off to Russia

2010-04-08T02:01:00.000-07:00

Off to see grandparents and great grandparents and uncles and Aunt Kelly and...

The Changes of Spring

2010-04-06T12:45:00.000-07:00

And suddenly, in Isaiah's world, this THING happened. There was no build-up. There was no transition. HEAT appeared.

And just like that, I had to explain it to him: SPRING is here. Or as Nick says, "Just tell him that each day is the best day of his life because the weather keeps getting better and better for the next six months." That's true if you were born on December 20th.

Isaiah's legs are suddenly bare, no more extra onesies and winter caps. The warmer has been removed from his car seat to keep his skin air cool and his plumpy aura pleasant. It's suddenly warm and the first day it went from the 40s to the 80s, Isaiah slept almost half the day, as if his body went into some sort of confused mode that drank all of his energy, "I have to regulate the temperature of this big baby, we need to shut down," is what I imagine his cells and neurons communicating to one another.

It's been about three and a half months since Nick's and my life took a radical turn. And things are indeed different, as I reflect on the past year. I believe Isaiah was conceived during this past week and, if you believe that life begins the moment of conception, Isaiah is technically a year old already. He friggin looks like a toddler anyway, so that feels appropriate to write.

When he's fussy or won't stop making noises, sometimes I pick him up and go outside and show him all the signs of new life in the world. The tulips springing out from the ground in our back yard, the tiny budding flowers, and the tips of green beginning to open themselves into leaves on the trees. Isaiah's fascinated by the color and the wind on his face and I start laughing to myself when I look at him look at spring. For me, Isaiah's the ultimate sign of new life and here he is, grazing the new spring grass with his chubby foot.

The gorgeous weather has also permitted us to go for long walks together and that has made ALL the difference during the day. No more being cooped inside the house, no more praying for the snow to stop trapping us indoors. I feel free! Boundless! And I'm enjoying it while I can because I know in a handful of weeks, my allergies will bound me to the house once more and I will be unable to take meds because of nursing Isaiah. This will definitely be interesting. I'm going to look like a bloated, congested goat.

Isaiah's life keeps changing our world and the worrying, planning, and mild anxiety doesn't seem to stop. Ironically, accompanying all of this is a deep serenity that I was not prepared to find in parenting. Sometimes, when it's just me and Isaiah, and I'm singing him to sleep, I kiss him on the top of his head and can feel the soft spot. A physically vulnerable place on his body revealing his pure youth - his skull is still fusing together, his brain is still growing. And in this place where I rest my mouth, I can feel his heartbeat. His heartbeat. I can feel his actual heartbeat at the top of his head. Something about that often makes me cry. In so many ways, Isaiah is this utterly dependent little thing of a human who can only wiggle around, half roll on a couch, and yelp for his needs. And yet he is his own person. He's a completely separate human being from me and Nick, a person who will grow into his own, and experience his own choices and trials, failures and triumphs. He has his own heart. He doesn't need mine or Nick's.

That realization startled me. Isaiah is his own person.

Somewhere in the future I see myself struggling to let him go. Whether that's his first day at kindergarten, his first boy/girl party, his driver's license, or college decision, I don't know. I can't fathom how this little miracle is someday going to leave us and show us his own heart's identity.

For now, I'm just enjoying those moments of realization and relishing in all the little epiphanies he brings me on a daily basis. For now, that is more than enough.

Isaiah is a gift that is endlessly unwrapping.

Isaiah - 3 and a Half Months

2010-04-06T04:52:00.000-07:00

SEE MORE PICS HERE!

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 4

2010-04-05T06:31:00.001-07:00

Don't doubt.

Happy Easter

2010-04-04T05:26:00.001-07:00

My Little Super Hero, Part 2

2010-04-03T07:13:00.000-07:00

My Little Super Hero

2010-04-03T06:51:00.000-07:00

My Good Friday Homily

2010-04-01T21:12:00.001-07:00

Today, I will be fulfilling a lifelong dream of mine: to deliver a "homily" at a Catholic church service. Because it is Good Friday, and it is not technically a mass, lay parishioners are allowed to deliver a reflection. This year, I was asked to offer my thoughts.

When I was growing up, I always knew better than to ask my mom if I was allowed to do anything during Holy Week. On our refrigerator, she would post the church bulletin and with a highlighter, go through and underline every single mass, reconciliation time, and service offered. I was the youngest of four and all of us were expected to attend, no matter what was going on. No exceptions.

It got really difficult when I was in high school. And since it was Easter break, people would have all kinds of get-togethers and parties. And since we were on vacation, you knew everyone was going to be there. Everyone, that is, but me. One time, though, I did get the nerve to ask my mom if I could go to a party. She just raised her eyebrows at me and say, “Lisa, are you going to a party on the day of our Lord’s death?”

So, you can imagine, I did not go.

I didn’t want to be a party-goer during Good Friday, so I just thought to myself, “This is just a sacrifice I’ll make by staying home.” All the while, though, I was wishing I was with my friends. Remember, as a teenager, staying home on a Friday night of vacation was a really, big deal.

My mom was right. Today is a day, among many things, about grief. It is a day typically marked with solemnity, a sobering awareness that’s almost palpable. Good Friday is when we relive the most intense story in the gospel – the Passion. It is a time that we, typically and appropriately, regard with mourning and reflective hearts. It is, after all, the day that Jesus dies.

How do we move into these hours? Is it with heavy hearts? Spiritually, that makes sense. But is there more to Good Friday than just the quiet grief and observation of Jesus’ death? Perhaps it is more than just staying home and self-sacrifice. Perhaps it is more than just the quiet 3 o’clock hour.

Personally, I know that I am able to move through this darkness because I know the light of the resurrection is but stone roll away. I have heard the sounds of Easter before, I have seen Easter lilies bloom. I have the strength to move through the darkness of Good Friday because I know and believe that today will pass. Friday passes into Holy Saturday and Holy Saturday gives way to a Sunday miracle.

But, is that what I want my Good Friday to be about? Waiting for Sunday? What is your Good Friday about? Perhaps Good Friday is the opportunity to find and witness someone else’s passion. Who in your world, who in your life, who in your heart do you know is dying? Who are those people in your life whose tomorrow, next week, and all the days of this year will be Good Friday?

Today we gather and remember the suffering of Christ. It’s easy to be overcome by the physicality of Jesus’ suffering: the scourging, the crown of thorns, three falls of Christ. But what haunts me the most about the Passion is that Jesus, who walked in the knowledge, faith, and trust that he was God’s son, believed that he was abandoned by God. Jesus! I cannot think of a more crushing anguish or more profound loneliness than to believe you have been forgotten, even forsaken, by God. The one who created you.

Someone, somewhere today is going through precisely that pain, that division from God, believing that they are forgotten. Beyond these walls, or maybe within these walls there are those who are living the Good Friday that Jesus experienced. I don’t know any one in my life who endured the brutal violence Jesus did, but I do know people who are going through the psychological and spiritual trauma Jesus did. In my world, I see my friend Katherine who is ostracized from her family because she is a lesbian and is no longer invited to her family’s Easter celebrations. I see a place called Payatas, a community I visited in the Philippines that lives at the base of dumpster where the people sift through the garbage with their bare hands for food that can be recooked for their families. I see my friend Emily who has been trying but has not been able to conceive a child for many years. I think of my mother who is walking with her mother through the last stages of life.

Who in your life is in the darkness? And who are we to be afraid to bring light to them? If Good Friday is anything, it is a day to put aside any fear we may have, and let the light of God move the stone from someone’s tomb.

How do we do that? For myself, I write letters. I send handwritten letters on ordinary days. I try not to wait for holidays or birthdays or anniversaries to remind someone they are not forgotten. This may seem very small or just a crack at their seemingly insurmountable suffering, but I am often amazed at how much light comes through one small crack. But what is even more astounding to witness is how much darkness is dispelled by that crack.

To truly follow Christ is not just observing his death, but remembering why he died. Jesus was killed because he brought light to those in darkness. So, perhaps today is more than just brokenness and sacrifice. Perhaps it is a day not to enter, not be enveloped, not become one with the darkness, but to be the light, however small.

I would like to leave you with one question and I hope you can come back to it often as you move through your Good Friday: What will you do to dispel the darkness?

Isaiah's First Spring

2010-03-31T19:54:00.000-07:00

Isaiah 14 weeks

2010-03-30T07:00:00.001-07:00

Dear Isaiah,

I am exhausted. You are adorable.

Apparently, this is how parenthood works. Nick loses his hair. I lose my cuteness. You grow hair and gain cuteness. We give it all to you, my dear child.

Your Dad these days is putting up shelves in the kitchen. Wonderful bright, white, wide, and sturdy shelves are now gracing a once-empty wall. On these shelves will be glass jars full of colorful beans, pastas, dried fruit, and anything else we could move out of the cabinets and onto the walls. This has been a longtime project of mine and I'm so excited to see it come to fruition.

We took you to Home Depot for the first time this past weekend to pick everything up. Of course you slept through everything, even my nearly knocking the cart over with my clumsiness. You're such a champ.

You even survived the hours of drilling in our kitchen. Your eyes get really big and your whole body goes still, like there's a huge monster in the kitchen waiting to eat both of us up. It's just your Dad, though, trying to make me happy with my happy kitchen project. He's thoughtful like that.

Your Lola, my mother, goes home today after a wonderful 3 week visit. Oh, she is so attached to you, I think she was seriously thinking about taking you home with her to Virginia. And now, this morning, I am realizing how much I had come to depend on her over these few weeks. The kitchen sink is full, the vacuum needs to be run. Sheets need to be cleaned. Sleep needs to occur, and we need eggs, veggies, and juice in the fridge.

And it's Holy Week.

Mothers are the source of sanity, I've found. Having MY mom here calmed me in a way and freed me to do so many things, I can't help but feel like grandparents are the greatest people in the world right now. Everyday should be GRANDPARENT'S DAY in my book.

And now, as I write this, I can hear you wiggling around in your crib through the monitor. It's just you and me again, Isaiah.

You are now three and a half months and I don't think you have growth spurts, I think you just have had one long growth spurt since you were taken out of my womb. Your face is changing, you limbs are strong, and your neck is gaining stability. You no longer look like an infant, but a chubby, beautiful BABY. Your little face is starting to resemble that of a little boy and it often makes me tear up. Your father and I can hardly believe how blessed we are to witness you grow.

And now, as I write this, I can hear you start talking to yourself which, I know now, is a 10 minute countdown to a huge yelp that translates into: HEY! GET ME OUT OF HERE AND LET'S GET GOING WITH THE DAY!

Love,
Mama

And It Went PING!

2010-03-29T07:59:00.000-07:00

What possessed me to order a large soda at the CAVS game yesterday is beyond me. I hadn't had caffeine in over a year, not since I was pregnant, and suddenly, I decide - in some sort of a daze - that WILD CHERRY PEPSI was a fantastic idea to wake me up to witness some Lebron magic.

After scoring CAVS tickets from my friend, Alexis, as a belated birthday gift, Nick and I enjoyed an adults-only afternoon and dinner, courtesy of Alexis who supplied the tickets and my mom who supplied childcare.

The game was unexpectedly thrilling as the Sacramento Kings kept it interesting. Although, the most interesting part of the game had nothing to do with the game. After my bulb of brilliance went off and I slurped down my drink and immediately began to have a headache, I heard a sharp PING! noise from the floor and felt Nick tense up and began looking frantically through the legs and feet of strangers sitting around us.

Hyped from our favorite legal drug of choice, I shouted a caffeinated, "DID YOU JUST DROP YOUR WEDDING RING? HERE? AT THE Q? HERE?! IN THE NOSEBLEED SECTION?!"

The man next to us looked at me. His eyebrows went soaring. The men in front of us sensed troubled and Nick asked them to look down at their feet for his ring. As they fished around for Nick's half of fidelity, affection, and honor, I muttered obscenities into the popcorn and furiously slurped even faster. The Wild Cherry was wild indeed.

Luckily (for Nick) it was retrieved and returned to his fourth finger. Of course, my motor mouth couldn't stop running, "JUST PUT IT ON AND KEEP IT ON!"

This would be a hilarious time to mention that I do NOT have my wedding ring on either. I took it off when I was pregnant because my hands were often swollen and I have yet to put it back on.

Caffeinated hypocrite, you could call me.

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 3

2010-03-28T05:41:00.001-07:00

Worry not. Next week, I shall come roaring back. It will be Easter Sunday and, appropriately, you will see a second resurrection that morning in addition to Christ's.

The Evolution of the Grandson

2010-03-26T07:25:00.000-07:00

My brother Fran has four kids, 3 of them are boys. Nick and I try to visit their family in North Canton as often as we can. Now that the weather is turning, it's easier to get down there and let all the kids run around. (Well, Isaiah, for now, just kind of lays there.) It's amazing to me to know they will all grow up together and are so close in age. Cousins are an invaluable part of our lives and I know it's true for Nick and I that we love spending time with our cousins. So, it's important for us to see Isaiah grow familiar with his.

When we see our niece and nephews, we get a glimpse of what's in store for us down the road. A lot of it looks wonderful. Some of it looks a bit intimidating...

Right after this picture was taken, Zach started hiding in the living room. He finally admitted to Suzi (my sister-in-law and Zach's mom) that he had swallowed a nickel. Specifically, it was Jesse's nickel.

Apparently this wasn't the first time one of the kids swallowed a coin. So after a scolding and punishment, Zach was sent to his room. Jesse, looking adorably confused as to why Zach was in trouble asked what happened. When he realized his beloved little $.05 was missing he screamed at the top of his lungs, "MY NICKEL!!!!!!"

As sad as he was, I couldn't help but laugh my butt off -- he was just so darned cute and the situation was so ridiculous. He left the table with his head down in utter sorrow.

I looked at Isaiah, munching away on tongue and watching angels float around him, and wondered what was in store for him. If he was going to swallow any precious heirlooms or coveted trinkets in the future.

God, I hope not. I still need to learn know how to do the heimlich maneuver.

Sweet Sixteen Ready

2010-03-25T13:20:00.000-07:00

A Near Apologetic Letter

2010-03-21T06:03:00.000-07:00

CLICK HERE FOR MORE PICS

Dear Isaiah,

I want to be able to apologize for what we put you through in your first trip to Cincinnati, but, honestly, I don't think I should because it was a trip you had to make. While the traveling threw all kinds of baby wrenches in your schedule, the payoff was immeasurable and I can assure you, you had a great time.

Thursday we left for your parents' ol' stompin' grounds - the Queen City of Cincinnati. This is the place where, above all other places we could have gone to college, your father and I chose to go to Xavier. This is the place we met, where we became friends and also where we got married. It's an important place to us and we will always be visiting - and not just because my favorite restaurant, Ambar, is in Cincinnait, but because some of our closest friends are here as well.

So, you'll have to forgive us for what we put you through. Oh, I could see it in your muddy olive-colored eyes -- you couldn't recognize anything or anyone around you. We, as the books call it, overstimulated you. In return, you wailed like you had never wailed before in your entire 3 months of existence. This broke our hearts.

But they mended quickly when we got to introduce you to all of our friends, including the long time server at Ambar who I once thought I would eventually marry because I tipped him well enough over the past twelve years to purchase a new Ferrari. Luckily, I didn't marry him. I married your Dad, who celebrated his 31st birthday on Friday, March 19.

And to prove how lovingly patient your 31 year old Dad is, let me tell you what happened Friday morning...

We were staying with Julie and Pat Ryan, aka Julie and Goatee, and that morning we were getting ready for a full day of visiting. I thought to send a quick email reminder to my family that it was Nick's birthday and wrote, "Don't forget that tomorrow is Nick's birthday..."

Your Dad, who loves to read over my shoulder, gently cleared his throat, "Um, you know that TODAY is my birthday right?"

Me. I fumbled the days of the week. Me.

The person who makes a SPEECH on her birthday every year. I got your Dad's birthday wrong.

Le sigh.

But, as usual, he was laughing and forgiving while I buried my face in his shoulder and two fat tears of embarrassment sloped down my cheeks. I felt horrible. He thought it was hilarious which only made me feel worse because you know, my dear son, had the situation been reversed, I would've been bawling my eyes out if Nick got the wrong day for MY special day.

You slept like a true Factora on the way back home. You even slept through the fist pumping as we listened to Northern Iowa take down the indomitable Kansas over the radio in a true NCAA thriller.

Anyway, you met some very wonderful and important people and got your first taste of southern Ohio and March madness.

So, in addition to seeing Grandma & Grandpa Borchers and your Uncle Keith and dine at Palomino's (didn't you LOVE your window seat overlooking Fountain Square?), you learned some important lessons:

1) Forgive like your father.
2) Always root for the underdog.

Sleep well, little one.

Love,
Mama

Sunday Weigh-In: Round 2

2010-03-21T05:04:00.001-07:00

The smack talk this morning nearly woke up Isaiah.

The Difference Between Baseball Players and Isaiah

2010-03-21T04:50:00.000-07:00

Me: Isaiah needs new clothes. His legs are getting too long. Thank God my mom bought some new clothes for him because I hate cutting the feet off of those pajamas.

Nick: I saw that baseball outfit though. That fit him well.

Me: For now, but it's starting to get tight. That's the first time he wore that, too!

Nick: Well, baseball uniforms are actually supposed to fit like that, slightly form-fitting.

Me: You realize, though, that it's a BABY OUTFIT that supposed to mimic a baseball uniform. He's not really supposed to be an actual baseball player.

Bottom line - he needs bigger clothes.

Spring and Baseball

2010-03-17T07:59:00.000-07:00

Batter up.

MORE PICS HERE!

Happy St. Patty's!

2010-03-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

Growing up Filipino, I never thought I'd say this: my son is part Irish.

Happy St. Pat's!

Week 12

2010-03-14T20:06:00.000-07:00

Some photos for your enjoyment!

CLICK HERE

Sunday Weigh-In

2010-03-14T06:45:00.001-07:00

...and if you couldn't figure it out: "W" stands for win.

Dammit.

Bath Time!

2010-03-10T14:25:00.000-08:00

Control

2010-03-09T06:42:00.000-08:00

My wonderful mama has flown in from Virginia to stay for a weeks with us so she can help out with Isaiah. I never appreciated another set of hands around the house so much in my life. You'd think that between Nick and I, we'd have everything under control.

Shatter those expectations right now. There's no such thing as control when you're learning how to be a parent for the first time. Quite the opposite, you'll find that nearly everything is actually OUT OF CONTROL.

For example - let's take the bathroom.

Once the pride and joy of our house when we got a few things redone, but since Isaiah has come along, it has evolved into a banished and neglected corner on the second floor. It is in such dire need of a cleaning that even NICK said something about how we need to get control of that thing. By "thing," we're talking about the overdue scrubbing of the tub. Our BRAND NEW tub that we've neglected for months now.

Control is a funny illusion of life. We THINK we know what's around the corner because we anticipate problems, we logically hypothesize the risks and factors of every decision and, understandably, wait for the expected outcome.

Remember, though, that an illusion is something that appears to be real. It presents itself as something actual, something tangible, but it is, in fact, not.

It's like how I believe I have Isaiah's schedule in control and then, out of nowhere, he decides he's bored out of his mind and wiggles like crazy for an hour. He's fed, dry, and not tired. He's just wiggling. Wiggle, wiggle.

He wiggles out of his bouncer, he wiggles off the blanket on the floor, he wiggles out of my arms, he wiggles to the corner of the couch. And I think, "I can't control this boy."

Ah HA! Parenting lesson #827462 - NO CHILD IS UNDER OUR CONTROL, PARTICULARLY CHUBBY NEWBORNS.

And thus Nick and I feel out of control at times. We do our best to stay in routine, not make any plans and be nerdy 30-somethings with no lives outside our jobs and domestic responsibilities that include trips to Home Depot. We have learned that control is, quite frankly, laughable.

I thought I had control of nursing Isaiah and yet, still, every stinking week, something comes up. This week, for example, I developed a low grade fever on Sunday. My leg muscles were achy and my whole body was sore. I couldn't believe I was sick. Considering how neurotic I've been about washing and/or sanitizing my hands every time I touch an unsterilized door knob, I didn't think I'd catch any bug.

And as it turns out, I was dehydrated. I kept drinking waterbottles full of H20 and didn't have to pee at all. Miraculously (insert sarcasm there), the next morning my fever broke. I kept drinking and drinking and by the early afternoon, I felt as fine as a shiny new button.

How could I forget to increase my water intake? Nursing, working out, the weather is *just* beginning to warm up...hello? Water? More of it?

Before I admonished myself too harshly, Nick shared a story with me that made me feel oodles better...

The other night Nick woke up in the middle of the night because he heard Isaiah on the monitor. Nick thought Isaiah was just fussing around but he still got up to listen to the monitor more closely. He was alarmed, though, when he realized that Isaiah's breathing was making an irregular high pitched squeak, like he was having trouble breathing. As he started to move quickly toward the door, concerned that maybe Isaiah was sick or in a bad sleeping position, he noticed that the high pitched noise was moving with him, despite he was growing further and further away from the monitor.

"It was my own breathing," Nick told me. "It was my own freaking nose that was making those noises. I couldn't even distinguish my own self from a baby monitor."

Mhm. That's bad, babe, I thought.

So, you have a dehydrated and dizzy mom and a dad who can't hear his own nostrils.

Perfect.

It's On...It's SO On

2010-03-05T06:07:00.001-08:00

For those who know us best, the gene that determines competitiveness runs strong in both Factora and Borchers families. It has to. I've never met anyone who's more competitive than I am. That is, not until I met Nick.

Competitiveness comes in many forms. There's the obvious kind that reveals itself in sports. The Michael Jordan/Tiger Woods (sans sex scandal) kind of competition. This is the "I CANNOT LOSE. EVER." gene which makes athletes train twice as hard and cultivates a near military discipline that most of us civilians would find unbearable.

Then there's other genes of competition, more subtle but just as lethal. This competitive gene revolves around the oratory debate stratosphere, aka "I MUST BE RIGHT. I AM RIGHT." kind of thinking. It's a gene that makes its way into the most innocuous of situations - bowling, finding a parking space, starting a campfire, any household project, insurance claims...

You think these situations are not competitive? Move in with us for a week, you'll understand after that.

No matter what the situation, Nick and I often pit ourselves against the opponent, be it a piece of stubborn firewood that will not flame up along with the others or a slow car in the Panera Bread parking lot who is blocking traffic. Everything's a competition. No dispute too small, no challenge too big. There are two trophy words uttered in our house that carry more weight than anything: I WIN.

Sometimes it's shouted, sometimes it's whispered into a billowing pile of laundry. Whatever needs conquering shall be conquered in our house.

So, you can imagine the kind of raised eyebrows and smack talk in our marriage when the competition is between us. It can get ugly, but it's always entertaining. Many people do not know that Nick is, as Keith Borchers said in his best man speech at our wedding, "an ego maniac who thinks he's sweet at everything."

Save opera and any form of dancing, this is true about Nicholas David Borchers. He hates losing. He can't stand being second. He likes strategy and mind-games during poker. He's all about focus and readjustment. Don't be fooled by his calm demeanor. There's a beast inside him called THE WINNER'S CIRCLE.

And then there's me. Don't think that I don't have my own monster and even according to Nick, I may be more competitive than him. There's a reason why I have the Rocky IV soundtrack on my iPod. Most people wouldn't see it coming, kind of like a CATEGORY FIVE HURRICANE that didn't come up on your weather outlook.

My competitiveness is often stuffed away because of its monstrosity. It can and has ruined moments of friendly game playing. While everyone else shrugs after a loss, I seethe inside. Competitiveness is like a constant search for perfection, which can never be attained. So, the desire to win or be right or dominate knows no rest. But, it's not always appropriate to be competitive so I, along with Nick, keep it to myself. We're like two man-eating sharks in a Sea World tank: it's in our blood and in our nature, but we're trained to be harmless.

That was a long introduction into the heart of this post, but it's critical for you to know the background of our competitive edges.

Nick and I have a combined goal to be and become healthier parents. Running around with Isaiah necessitates optimal states of health so we decided to commit to losing a few pounds. I need to shed my pregnancy weight and Nick, many months ago, invented a campaign called, "Don't Get Fat" because of his fear of rolling into a "fat new dad."

So we made a deal and the stakes are high.

Beginning Sunday, March 7th, we are having our own personal Biggest Loser competition. We adapted the show to our own lives and here are the ground rules:

Weekly weigh-ins on Sunday
Largest percentage of weight loss wins
Two goal dates: June 4, 2010 (our 5 year anniversary) and September 4, 2010.
Whoever has the largest percentage of weight loss on June 4, 2010 has the intermediate prize - winner gets one evening of their choice every week to go out and do whatever s/he wants while Isaiah is with the other parent.

If you don't understand the impact of that reward, go back and read it again. This prize is HUGE. This can mean going out with your friends. For Nick it can mean going to play racquetball with Books and Sam or going to the library for a few hours. For me that means extended trips to a coffee shop or taking my time at a farmer's market.

The ultimate prize, come September 4, will be individualized. Nick has yet to announce what his prize will be if he wins. If I win, I get to go to the conference of my choice in any part of the United States. (I'm such a nerd. I adore conferences on writing, feminism, media, etc...) Beside the fact that I want to shed my preggers weight, that conference-attending prize alone all but guarantees that I will win. Hello? Travel? Hotels? Learning? Meeting new writers and artists? That's what I was born to do.

This competition is huge and normally, I would not post something like this on our blog, but I figured if our friends and family - and God knows who else on the internet is reading this - is in the know, we are accountable to seeing this through. And we will.

It's man vs. woman. Focus vs. Passion. Tall vs. Short. Endurance vs. Intervals.

Choose your team now and place your bets. Nick is team blue. I am team green.

Cheers to a healthier Borchers/Factora-Borchers family in 2010.

(And, here's to ME, cause you know I'm going to lick this thing...)

The Irony

2010-03-02T19:13:00.000-08:00

Writing, for me, serves many purposes. Not only is it my passion, my center, my lifelong dream and goal, writing is also cathartic. When I write, it always relieves something. It helps me share the good. It also helps me release the aggravation.

Today, I am writing for the latter.

It is my first taste in understanding how parents can simultaneously love their child and also want to run away to Bora Bora alone and get lost in the beauty of the ocean, away from screaming cries and milk stains and the smell of diapers and the sight of bad eczema.

Today Isaiah was a complete paradox. After sleeping through the night consistently for over a month (I know, I know - we're incredibly blessed and I shouldn't be complaining), he didn't last night. He WAH!ed and AIGH!ed for an hour while I tried everything to calm him down, but...to no avail.

He woke at 8am and was just as fussy. So I stripped him down to his diaper to look for any signs of...anything - rashes, bumps, bruises - signs of discomfort or hurt. Nada.

While he laid on our big bed squirming like a fish out of water with nothing but his diaper on, I couldn't help but laugh at how adorable he looked. His pure smooth skin (except his face where he has eczema, poor guy) and fat rolls...he looked like an enormous human cinnabon, just ready to be eaten. So I leaned over and teased him, calling him my favorite pumpkin and gave him a friendly zerbert on his stomach.

And thus came Isaiah's first laugh.

3 hearty, adorable chuckles erupted from his tiny little mouth and I squealed in delight.

That was the highlight of the day.

The rest of the day he was either fussing, crying, yelping, or sadfacing. I was at my wit's end and contemplated what Bora Bora looked like this time of year. I could hear it calling my name. Liiiiiisssssaaaaaa...LLLLLLLiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisssaaaaaa

I was brought back to reality when Isaiah spit up on me for the fifth time.

It was a toss-up between me and his burp cloth for WORST SMELL IN THE LIVING ROOM. We both were covered in Isaiah's regurgitation.

Of course it had to be a night when Nick worked late until 9pm. He walked in to find me on the floor, lightly bouncing Isaiah in his bouncer while his eyelids drooped closer and closer to a close. My other hand was stuffing dinner in my face because I hadn't eaten in hours. Taking care of Isaiah required both hands all day. Food was secondary. By 9pm, I was so ravenous, I felt like I was going to eat a piece of old firewood laying in the fireplace. It looked like a hotdog at the time.

Luckily, I was able to scarf down dinner while Isaiah bounced around for a few minutes. Nick had barely entered the house when I announced that I needed to go upstairs and get my sanity back. "I'm going to take a shower. If you need me, I'm NOT available."

It's ironic that Isaiah's first laugh came today when I spent most of the day near tears with Bora Bora dreams. Nothing, not even the promise of spring in three weeks could alleviate the stress of a restless baby.

And so, I write.

2010 State of the Self Address

2010-02-27T08:59:00.000-08:00

Four years ago I began delivering the “State of the Self;” a reflection on the past year of life which is always given the evening of my birthday. This is my 2010 State of the Self.

February 27, 1979 is the day I stopped breathing someone else’s air and began breathing on my own. It was not by choice. The woman’s body is built only to support another life for so long before the placenta begins to thin, before the protective and nourishing sac of life begins to deteriorate. It’s like our birthday is our first eviction and the landlord is our mother’s body.

A birth. A day.

I spare no indulgence on the 27th of February and, previous to this year, birthdays always meant my customary helium balloon, sheet cake with vanilla satin icing, and a long list of “must to do” things that include morning mimosas, naps, writing, dreaming, and sniffing around closets and car trunks for my hidden gifts. For the record, I never pretend to be more than a child on my birthday, save the mimosas.

But this birthday is different. This is my first birthday as a mother. This is the first birthday in which the word “birth” and “day” have extracted themselves from streamers and sweets and grew into profound meaning. “Birth,” as in, a son, my firstborn. Day has grown to be more than the frame of 24 hours. “Day” is now gift.

Last year, my State of the Self focused on my identity as a writer. My pen itself nearly throbbed with pain as I described the challenges of creative writing. Now, I worry less about identity as a writer and more about truthfulness. Being truthful with Isaiah may very well be the most challenging task of my life.

And one truth I am going to share with my son is to take moments for himself. Or as I like to put it: Breathe in the awesome. I never understood those who hated their birthday. I suppose it can be viewed as a self-important concept, but the celebration of life, of my own life has always superceded any other reason to deny the day. Those who dread their birthday often do so because of a number – age. Or it reminds them of death.

Birth, for me, evokes the boundless beginning of life.

But if birthdays aren’t your cup of tea, I hope and pray that you do find a day, a time to rejoice in your own life in the very miracle of your existence. Because if we can’t find a reason or an hour to relish in our blessings, to be authentically and radically grateful for our friends, family, lovers, gifts, talents, experiences, insights, and lessons – I don’t know if we’re truly seeing ourselves – or life – clearly enough.

Thirty-one years is more than enough reason for cake and drinks. And after birthing my son, I know that thirty-one seconds alone is more than enough reason for celebration. The paradox of birth – its fragility and its power – must, begs, needs to be recognized. And celebrated. Isaiah has taught me that.

So, my state at 31 is one of utter grace. Grace of understanding. Grace of frustration. Grace of holy parenting and emotion. It is a period of firsts and failures and finding that my life can hold so much more than I ever thought possible. That realization also came with the responsibility that I myself am capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.

It is my birthday wish that everyone – at some point in their life – births new life and it need not be a child. A revolution, a concept, relationship, invention, methodology, habit or path that inducts an enhanced thought-process, a better more gentle way of loving and being in the world.

Because if we all took a moment to birth and rejoice in our own birthing, the state of grace would no longer be a temporary lingering, but an everlasting positioning of soul.

Birthdays

2010-02-26T08:12:00.001-08:00

Happy Birthday to Keith and Kay!

Big hugs from Isaiah to his Grandma and Godfather!

Isaiah 9 Weeks

2010-02-24T20:26:00.000-08:00

Isaiah and Love

2010-02-22T19:33:00.000-08:00

I am listening to Isaiah gulp down his milk.

He is in the other room with Nick. The strains of the television are loud, but they still cannot drown out the long sighs and squirms and squeaks of our little one. As I write this, though I cannot see him, I know he is draining his bottle, staring at the intricate patterns of the ceiling, and kicking his legs into the air.

Isaiah is 9 weeks old. Nick and I can scarcely believe it. I cannot imagine the level of disbelief I will be in when he is 9 months, 9 years or 19 years old. Those days will come, but for now, I just watch and observe my big little guy, chasing the winter blues away - which are so common for Clevelanders - with his rainbow wide smile and fat rolls on his wrists and ankles.

My father recently commented that from the photos I have taken of him, it's obvious that Isaiah is the love of my life. And I couldn't agree more. He's the love of OUR lives - Nick and mine. Every little thing he does evokes a reaction from us that reminds me how I was when I was falling in love with Nick. All the tiny details of your beloved's existence seem to burn into your memory. Nothing seems as interesting or intriguing as what is happening in their world. Life seems more exciting when you know you are going to see this person and when you see their smile...ahhhh, it's like the world was just reborn, everything's new and beautiful again.

Isaiah has moved the furniture in our hearts and has promptly and decidedly plopped his round little bottom into the middle of it. He takes up every inch we have of energy and attention, laughter and frustration, sleep and concern. This is the transition of parenthood, I assume. You begin to learn to live outside yourself. Love of self still continues, obviously (and necessarily), but the center of well-being shifts. It's no longer contained in my life, it exists in this chubby 22 inch body who cannot do anything but need, cry, and wiggle. And somehow, incredibly, this person also delivers immeasurable joy.

Sweet Isaiah, these 9 weeks have been life-changing. Your father and I will never be able to adequately explain how nuts we are about you. I hope you know that you have introduced us to a new and deeper kind of love that we never knew before. Not only have you brought this love out of us for you, but it has also further deepened our love for one another.

Gluttony, Maybe

2010-02-17T19:25:00.000-08:00

So, the little Gerber Face received ashes today. I mean, THANK GOD, because it's been a little over 3 weeks since his baptism and he really needed to be straightened out before things got too out of hand. You saw his Valentine's Day picture, right? Flipping the camera off like he's a deranged teenager already? My sweet boy is getting a little too edgy for me. So, hopefully the ashes will set him straight. "Turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel," are mighty good words to live by.

But what sin (other than the Valentine birdy he gave me) can this sweet cherub commit? Vanity? No. Rage? Hardly. Greed? Nope. Envy? Never. Sloth, pride, lust? NO.

Gluttony?

Mhm, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllll....

What do you call one's inability to stop drinking milk? Borderline gluttonous behavior?

He's too new to sin, but it's good to have received ashes nonetheless.

He behaved like an angel, of course, throughout all of mass, and even for the soup and faith discussion we attended after mass. Nick was leading a discussion about Lent and prayer. Isaiah was like a little Lenten prayer all on his own - so quiet, holy, pure, and awesome.

So begins 40 days of meditation and fish Fridays. Nick and I decided that although we think he would try to participate as a devout Catholic, we're not going to let him fast this year.

Isaiah - 8 Weeks, 2 Days on Mardi Gras

2010-02-16T14:13:00.001-08:00

My Funny 8 Week Old Valentine

2010-02-15T12:55:00.000-08:00

He's getting a little too fresh these days and thinks flipping his parents off (with BOTH hands nonetheless) is acceptable.

Here's more pics of our sweet Cupid...

Almost 8 Weeks Old

2010-02-12T11:47:00.001-08:00

Who Doesn't Love a 4am Wake-up Call?

2010-02-10T01:28:00.000-08:00

All the little things I never understood before about parenting, I am quickly beginning to understand now.

I used to look at parents of babies and wonder how in the world they can keep their head on their shoulders when a baby is crying like it's the end of the world Answer: you get used to it.

At parties or gatherings of any sort, how do mothers simultaneously socialize, balance a plate of food in one hand, baby on the other arm, and smile? Answer: women are capable of anything.

Reuseable diapers seem like a good idea. Answer: They're not.

Why do parents keep a million framed pictures of their babies? Isn't one enough? Answer: You can never have too many pictures of Baby.

How do people wake up in the middle of the night to take care of the endless needs of a child? Answer: Hormones and Love.

I do believe there must be some sort of hormonal explanation for my newfound ability to meet 3 or 4am head-on. Seriously, I was the type of person who could sleep through hurricanes and thunderbolts, loud music and alarm clocks. Give me a chair, bed, reclining anything and I will sleep. On land or on a plane, I even fell asleep while floating in a friend's backyard pool in highschool.

I used to boast my sleep agility stories like war vet stories. I've fallen asleep propped up against a wall in a dentist's office. In the back of a truck on a bumpy dirt road. On someone's shoulder in front of a campfire. IN FRONT OF AN AIRLINE CHECK-IN DESK THAT WAS REPEATEDLY CALLING MY NAME.

These instances are all true.

And now...

[le sigh...]

Now, one little meep or beep or squeak or tweek or gurgle or belch or cough or sniff or anything from my little one and my eyes are OPEN, head is rising off the pillow with one eye on the door the other enviously watching my dear spouse snore his life away into his pillow.

Isaiah has changed our lives. He's brought us unimaginable joy and the wonderful gift of big and small laughs. E.g. Thinking about how he'll probably be taller than me by the first grade or giggling over his tiny little toe peaking out from one of the sewn holes in a knit blanket.

There's no further proof of the power of a first baby than the altered sleeping patterns of a night owl like myself.

Nick has a belief that the older one gets, the more prominent the true self becomes. For the most part, I firmly agree with him. However, my "true" self might be put on hold until Isaiah is 18 and away at college. Or my "true" self is permanently changed to reveal a mother who used to need a sledgehammer to the gut to wake up and now wakes at the slightest wind passing through the nursery. My "true" self loved sleep, so much so that I'd sleep through historical moments (the 2000 presidential election result/debacle) or natural disasters (tornado like conditions). Alas, my "true" self has changed. And that's all due to my son.

Answer: I couldn't imagine it any other way.

Pic of the Week

2010-02-04T16:26:00.000-08:00

This is one of my favorite pictures from the past week.

Isaiah, near sleep, is laying on Nick's chest. To keep him company and to shield Isaiah's eyes from the overhead lamplight, Nick ducks under the blanket with him.

I melt. Just melt.

Too funny. Too cute. Too many delicate memories that have to be captured.

Isaiah - Almost 7 Weeks

2010-02-04T15:27:00.000-08:00

See more pics here!

Isaiah - 6 Weeks & 2 Days

2010-02-02T12:00:00.001-08:00

Growing

2010-01-28T22:04:00.000-08:00

I forgot to mention that on Isaiah's last appointment, he got his Hepatitis B shot. Our awesome pediatrician, Dr. Cochran, grabbed one of his meaty thighs and stuck him with the syringe and pumped that stuff right into his little body. I watched his reaction.

Nothing at first and then the torture face appeared. Dr. Cochran promptly picked him and handed him to me. I wanted to wail out of pity for my sweet little pumpkin head but decided his tears were enough. I gathered him in my arms and he spit up all over me, old milk that was resting in his belly from breakfast and shot out of his mouth from being startled so suddenly.

After I secured him inside the folds of my arms, he quieted and I felt my first triumphant surge of motherhood. He stopped crying! I'm not only a milk machine to him, he is comforted by me. Well, I thought to myself, we do spend 19 out of 24 hours of the day together. The five hours are when I in the basement doing laundry, getting a shower, or sneak in a walk. All when Nick is available to watch him. With all that time together, he should be comforted by his Momma.

In other words, we're bonding.

Isaiah's smiles are increasing in frequency. Nick received his first dose of Isaiah's ray of sunshine yesterday. It's just adorable, simply adorable.

And if being covered in milk stains and learning quick diaper changing tricks isn't enough excitement already, I must re-announce that my new website is still underway. I've been working with my webdesigner for months. The project has taken so long because of my pregnancy. It's been a stop and go process, but we're nearing the end. Two weeks or so from now, it shall be ready and shortly after that it will be unveiled.

So, remember that Notes from Home Plate will still be up and available, but, likely, I will cease writing on this blog in the next month or so and will shift my writing to the new website which will feature many different forms of writing and other issues in which I have vested interest. But don't worry, you'll still have a healthy dose of Isaiah updates and my poking fun at Nick.

As January trickles to an end and the world turns pink and red for February, I am in awe of how quickly time passes. My sweet boy is almost 6 weeks old! And as he grows out of his newborn clothes as quickly as the transforming Hulk ripped through his human clothes, our hearts are growing with him as he gains every ounce and stretches another inch.

Isaiah, nothing compares to you. Nothing.

Gaining His Wings

2010-01-26T09:49:00.000-08:00

Happy to report that Isaiah's latest doctor"s appointment went great! He's 12lbs 5 oz!

My sweet giant cherub!

Week 4 and Baptism

2010-01-25T14:48:00.000-08:00

This is a work in progress because there are more Baptism pictures on the way, but here's a sneak peak of Isaiah's special day!

TAKE A LOOK!

Show Me That Smile

2010-01-22T05:53:00.001-08:00

The weeks are flying by and I can scarcely believe Isaiah is already a month old. A month? A whole month? I can't remember when time went so quickly. I have a feeling that it's going to be like that a lot and soon I will be saying things like, "I can't believe he's crawling," "I can't believe he's talking," "I can't believe he's on a tricycle..."

I better reverse this whole, "I can't believe..." because it's all going to unfold eventually and I want to be able to soak up and enjoy every minute of it.

Isaiah is sporadically sleeping through the night. Last night he slept from midnight to 7am, which is highly unusual for someone so young, but I've given up worrying so I'm not frazzled by it at all. He's getting chunkier every day (and cuter by the minute) and I have no worries about his weight gain either.

The most heart-melting moment this week happened yesterday. Isaiah and I had a long day together. We were cooped up in the house all day and he was just fussing for a few hours straight, not sleeping, constantly hungry, and bopping his head around like one of those bophead toys where the neck is a spring and the huge head swings in all directions. Finally, I fed him after having a long talk with him. Afterward, I looked down at his face. He was listening intently to my voice and, out of nowhere, gave me his first baby smile.

It wiped every irritated feeling out of my world and all I did was melt into his little face.

He smiled.

A real smile, not a muscle reflex or little side lip curl - it was his entire mouth widening into a big adorable upside down rainbow.

Suddenly, I wasn't worried about anything and all was sunny in the world. There were no earthquakes in Haiti, John Edwards wasn't a moron, it was the day before spring arrived, and a new batch of Rice Krispie Treats were waiting on the kitchen counter.

It was the quickest antidote to the world's problems that I have ever encountered.

The first smile, so gentle, so NEW from my firstborn son was beyond uplifting.

Nothing, not even a new episode of Grey's Anatomy, could hold my attention after that And with delivering his first smile, he promptly fell into a deep 7 hour sleep, as if trying to give me rest when he knows he deprived me of it throughout the day. And this morning, he woke like an angel, barely crying, just cooing and grunting and then feeding with no problems.

Ahh, my little cherub...If only everyone had a newborn to love who gave their first smiles everyday, I firmly believe we would end all wars, disease, and corruption. Yes, new life is that powerful.

1 Month Birthday

2010-01-22T05:43:00.000-08:00

Quote

2010-01-15T06:51:00.000-08:00

Nick says this morning as he rolled out of bed:

"Now I know why people look forward to the weekend. Not because we get to go out. Not because you can get stuff done. I am looking forward to the weekend so I can just sleep. I am so freakin' tired. I just want to sleep."

My thought: "Dude, we are OLD."

Milestones Recorded

2010-01-12T19:26:00.000-08:00

Pictures of Beginning Week 3

2010-01-12T14:09:00.001-08:00

Beginning Week 3 of Life! He's getting so big already!
(No surprise there...)

The Week in Pictures

2010-01-08T09:05:00.000-08:00

Isaiah - 2 Weeks

2010-01-07T13:28:00.001-08:00

Some Updates

2010-01-07T13:14:00.000-08:00

Some bullet updates:

Saturday, January 2: Umbilical cord fell out while Nick was changing Isaiah! Hooray! Sponge baths are over. Hello glorious baths.

Sunday, January 3: St. Dominic's Sunday mass bulletin announced Isaiah's birth to the whole congregation.

Monday, January 4: Isaiah's 2 week doctor appointment went great. He was described as "mellow," with "great skin and color" and overall "looking fantastic!"

Tuesday, January 5: We solidified Isaiah's baptism date - Sunday, January 24! Bring on the Holy Spirit!

Wednesday, January 6: Um, ok - hard lesson. Isaiah doesn't like peanut butter, anything too greasy, or pizza. He fusses and gets a little skin irritation. Bad mom. Back to bland foods...
No more Wendy's...

Thursday, January 7: His first bath. Oh, you should have seen me and Nick climbing in and out of the tub, nervous as hell and as clumsy as a first graders. Also - first visitors tonight to watch the Alabama/Texas Nat'l Championship game. Uncle Brian and Christina are coming over. Thank goodness! My social exposure is just as bad as my sleep deprivation.

Also, I finally drove today for the first time in two and a half weeks! Ah, the open road! The FM pop music! Target! The grocery store! Strangers who don't know I just had a baby! No pregger belly that everyone tries to pat or stare at! It was invigorating!

Fragments of Birth: PART I

2010-01-04T12:23:00.001-08:00

I have a saying:

Sometimes when there's too much to say, there's nothing to say at all.

That's how I feel about the past 15 days. I mean, seriously, how can I really sum up what the birth of Isaiah, Christmas, Advent, New Year, and everything else has meant in one blog post? Or one essay? It's just too large and...overwhelming. I feel I could write one short story on just Torrelle Pryor and the Rose Bowl..and that's not even the most important thing these days.

I wish I could write all the details in chronological order to give you and idea of how the whole birth process went...like how Nick was sick and quarantined himself downstairs while I was, unknowingly, going into labor upstairs and when I finally managed to get myself downstairs and said, "Something's going on. I am having really strong contractions." He nodded and said, "Ok, what should we do?" and then fell right back to sleep, snoring all the louder.

I wish I could write how we never packed that damn hospital bag even though we kept swearing every night for the past 5 weeks we would get to it and never did until, literally, Isaiah was pushing his way into the world and I was heaved over the bathroom sink in pain while Nick kept asking, "Babe, it says to bring warm comfortable socks...what socks do you want?" While my face turned into the devil and snapped, "I DON'T CARE WHAT SOCKS YOU PICK, JUST GET IT PACKED!"

There's no way to really describe how the car ride was to the hospital with Nick coughing and rolling down the window so not to spread germs while I nearly screamed at him, "WHERE ARE YOU GOING? WE NEED TO GET TO THE HOSPITAL! YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!"

Nick, the driver, was on his way to the doctor's office, not the labor and delivery unit at the hospital. His response, "Oh. OHH!! Yeah, you're right. What am I thinking?"

This was followed by a very rare and nasty demand,"GET ON THE HIGHWAY! I'M IN LABOR!"

I can't really relay the details of my parents and sister racing to the hospital, my sister breaking every kind of driving law there is - texting, speeding, changing lanes without signaling (I'm sure) - with descriptions of what my parents are doing: "We're in the car saying the Joyful mysteries of the rosary. Be there in five minutes." She later told me that my Dad kept muttering, "We should be saying the glorious, not the joyful mysteries," while my mother set curlers in her hair and kept comparing Isaiah's birth to Jesus Christ.

Nick called his family with Ron taking one slight pause after Nick told him I was in labor and saying, "Ok, we're on our way." And then when he called Keith, he could already hear the beeping of the car door in the background because Uncle Keith was already loading himself up for the trip to Cleveland - stopping in Columbus to get Jay - to see his first nephew.

Text messages galore went to our friends and extended family. From Ohio to LA to the Philippines, digital technology helped us delivery our biggest news: Isaiah was ready to come into the world.

And then there was the waiting for the c-section: my sister looking horrified every time I bent over with a contraction, my mom covering her face with a scarf while Nick was yacking his lungs out with a terrible cough, and my Dad - God love him - who ferociously unraveled the mile long data results that was measuring each contraction and my patient doctor who kept urging Anesthesia folks to "get going" so Isaiah could be delivered. It was a busy day and I had to wait (seemingly) forever for my spinal epidural. But, circa 3pm, it was time.

Whoever says that c-sections aren't that bad are lying. They are. I've had surgeries before. This being the third on my lower abdominal area, I am no stranger to surgery and recovery. I've never been awake during surgery though and it was terrible. I'm not trying to scare people off, but it was. How could I sugar coat it? True you don't feel pain but YOU ARE BEING SLICED IN HALF WHILE ANOTHER SMALL HUMAN IS BEING PULLED OUT OF YOUR BODY.

When people say c-sections aren't that bad. Remember one thing: they're lying.

Perhaps it was that my blood pressure kept dropping from the anesthesia and making me nauseous. Perhaps it was the fact the nurses and doctors kept talking about holiday shopping lists while they mangled my insides. Or maybe it was the way I had no prep time when they pushed down on the top of my stomach, causing my head and shoulders to come off the table and me to burst into tears only to be followed by the most miraculous sound I've ever heard: a cry from my son.

And then, suddenly, c-sections weren't that bad.

I remember staring into Nick's eyes the whole time and thinking I'd have to remember to tell him how the deep green of the scrubs he was wearing made him look very handsome, even with a hair cap on his head. His surgical mask covered most of his face but his eyes told me everything as we wordlessly stared at each other through the whole process. His cry was strong and I hear Dr. McElroy exclaim, "Oh my!" when she saw how big he was. One of the nurses said, "This kid's gonna be a quarterback!" and someone behind that blue curtain replied, "Quarterback? Try a linebacker."

And then Nick cut the umbilical cord. And then I got to touch the cheek of my baby with one hand because my arms were outstretched and pinned down. And then they took him away. And then they stitched me back up. Half an hour later, exhausted and on Mars, they rolled me out of surgery while someone called after me, "Congratulations! You gave birth to a toddler!"

I remember the small things.

I remember how the IV in my hand was poorly inserted and mountain of tape made my skin itchy and dried blood made it look absolutely horrendous. I remember my face being itchy (side effect from anesthesia) and wanting to rip out my nose stud. I remember waiting in the recovery room with Nick and dying of thirst but not being able to have anything but tiny ice chips which felt like heaven on my tongue. An hour had nearly passed and I still had not held my boy.

I was getting anxious.

Isaiah's blood sugar was low and they gave him a bottle to see how he handled it. He was fine. I was disappointed his first food was artificial, but it was medically necessary, so I got over it quickly.

His body seemed tiny to me despite everyone's insistence on his future NFL career. And then I saw the other babies in the nursery. The truth was clear: I had given birth to a giant.

ROSE BOWL READY

2010-01-01T13:36:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! Check us out - We're ready for the Rose Bowl!

First Nine Days

2009-12-29T13:15:00.001-08:00

Take a look at Isaiah's first nine days of life!

The Gift

2009-12-24T05:56:00.001-08:00

In Loving Memory

2009-12-15T11:17:00.000-08:00

For Bob Borchers and his strong family,
You're all held in our love, thoughts, and prayers.

Do not grieve for me, for now I am free

I'm following the path God laid for me.

I saw His face, I heard His call,

I took his hand and left it all.

I could not stay another day

to laugh,

to love,

to work,

to play.

Tasks left undone must stay that way.

And if my parting has left a void,

then fill it with remembered joy.

A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss;

Ah yes, these things, I too, shall miss.

My life's been full, I savored much.

Good friends, good times, a loved ones touch.

Perhaps my time seems all too brief;

Don't shorten yours with undue grief.

Be not burdened with times of sorrow

Enjoy the sunshine of tomorrow.
-Linda Jo Jackson

Let It Begin

2009-12-07T06:07:00.000-08:00

There are no doubts in my mind that within a month or so, I will wonder what my old life was like. "Old life," meaning, a life without a child. I hear parents say this all the time. My brother, with four children of his own, laughs in my face when I say two words: I'm busy.

He argues, "Oh, Leese, you don't know what busy is until you have kids."

Mhph.

Well, perhaps it's just another level of busy-ness that I have yet to understand. I do know, however, from sage advice passed down from old and new parents alike, that I should embrace these last few weeks of quiet, down time, doing as I please, and sleep.

I'm trying, but, it's hard to appreciate what I've always had for about 30 years.

The weekends, though, are signs of what is to come.

Comparatively, my weekends have grown to be more domestic, more tasky, less flashy than my weekends of my twenties. A Saturday night in was usually a sign of a wild Friday night. Now, though, a Saturday night in is in order because my poor feet are swollen from walking around Giant Eagle from simple grocery shopping or following Nick around Home Depot while he picks up another space heater.

Not exactly a thrilling weekend, but somehow, it fits where we are right now.

I am beginning to believe that it's the simple pleasures of life that deliver the most refreshing joy. Particularly when you're pregnant, have a nasty cold, and can fall asleep at the drop of a hat.
Being at home, honestly, has forced me to actually DO things around the house I've been avoiding. Over this weekend, I FINALLY bought drapes that I actually like for our windows. Nick FINALLY installed our printer correctly which we've had for over a year. I FINALLY tried to make chocolate chip cookies for the first time in my life. And it's these little things, working together on our home and yelling at the TV when stupid Texas beat Nebraska that makes these new kinds of weekends comforting, relaxing, and enjoyable.

So, let it begin - the quiet, the domesticity, the diapers, the "busy-ness" that my brother alludes to. Let it begin.

The Last Weeks of Pregnancy

2009-12-02T07:56:00.000-08:00

I wish there was some sensible and orderly manner to communicate the 9 billion things going through my brain as of late. It's not a frenzy of thought, it's just there are SO many things Nick and I are doing and trying to accomplish that it feels almost limiting to try and communicate even a handful of what those things are...Perhaps that's why blogging our lives in the month of November was such a struggle. There's almost too much to say and too little time and even less energy to try.

But, we're not quitters - I'm a determined blogger.

It's December and, likely, Isaiah's birthday month. Lately, our doctor appointments have been confirming what I have been guessing for the past several weeks: this kid's huge. Or, at least, he has huge limbs.

On our last appointment, his weight was in the 70th percentile of babies his age, but his head, dear Lord, HIS HEAD is what we need to be concerned about. His noggin is measuring in the 90th percentile.

Dude.

90th percentile.

Who even has a head that big?

(Nick kindly reminded me, when I asked him that question, that Isaiah's mom has a big head.)

So, Isaiah has Borchers feet and a Factora head.

I don't know whether to laugh or pray for him.

So, we just keep truckin' along, my doctor's appointments are now on a weekly schedule and we have another ultrasound next Thursday to take some more measurements, make some more decisions. Obviously, an enormous head and little bit of a bigger body may have some problems being birthed by a woman who is only 5'2.5 with a smaller pelvic region.

I knew I should have never married a tall German/Irish/Frenchman.

Sleep has slowly grown into a small nightmare. I am routinely up at least 3 times a night. If it's not a stuffed up nose (blame the estrogen that causes this syndrome in 30% of prego women), it's a really dry throat that leads to hacking my lungs out (blame our wonderful space heaters), or it's time to empty the bladder (that's just Isaiah pressing against all my organs), or it's that I am JUST UP, sniffing around the refrigerador for fresh pineapple and a gallon of water. Or, in the middle of the night, a nice bout of heartburn or acid reflux decides to pay a visit and I end up vomiting a portion of dinner. My mom told me she had the same exact issues in the last month of pregnancy as well.

My legs look like two stuffed pillows in pink boots. I have two new precious pimples on my face. My hands are either tingling, numb, or swollen - forcing me to painfully remove my wedding ring for the next few weeks. A caterpillar could officially beat me in a foot race and I cannot reach for anything to save my life. "Nick, can you grab that bowl on the third shelf for me?" "Nick, can you scratch my ankle?" "Nick, can you pick that sock up off the floor?" But the worst part, OH, the worst part has been THE ITCHY ABDOMEN.

I know that the skin is stretching, the colder air dries everything out, but the itching has been nothing short of maddening, simply maddening.

I bought three bottles of extra, intensive, for extra-dry skin lotion and will dump a very generous amount onto my hand. In one stroke across the universe that is my belly, the lotion has already been swallowed up.

Somedays I wonder if it just might be better to sleep in a tub of Curell lotion.

But all the little irritations and annoyances of these last few weeks cannot alter the simply AMAZING journey I have had in this pregnancy. I still have a little bit to go, but overall, it's been a low maintenance, high excitement 9 months that has left me and Isaiah healthy and happy.

Sure I'm now seeking cupcakes and chocolate like a dog looks for a bone, but to watch Isaiah roll around, pushing and prodding his way into this world makes me smile (or cry out of over emotion) and I just thank God for this wonderful gift of life that Nick and I have been blessed with.

Isaiah, my sweet little boy, we're ready.

Thanksgiving 2009

2009-11-27T08:00:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving 2009 in a brief summary of bulleted words:

local
delicious
preggers
gluttonous
beautiful

Enjoy a few pictures of our holiday...

Isaiah's Rosebowl Outfit is Ready

2009-11-23T19:20:00.000-08:00

Seriously.

How adorable/hilarious is

1) the sweater vest

2) Nick

Crib Talk

2009-11-11T07:31:00.000-08:00

Nick assembled the crib last night. Technically, I COULD say that WE assembled the crib last night, but he did the majority of thinking and attaching. I just stood there and held things up, lowered when he needed things lowered, and so on and so forth. Sometimes, I think that that job sucks even more than reading the instructions and doing the physical labor.

But, given that I can barely bend over to pick up a sock, I left the labor to the father-to-be.

Along with the bouncer, swing, play palace, and bringing in the bassinette, stroller, and car seat, Nick has been a MACHINE with getting things ready for Isaiah. As for me, I continue to poke my index finger into his shoulder blade at night and whisper, "Don't forget that we still need to ____, and ______, and buy ______, and pick-up ______, and figure out _____. Oh, and we still haven't decided how we're going to handle ______ or who's going to ______ ...

Nick's response is always the same: a very sleepy arm throws itself around my very large belly and he mutters, "Ok, babe, we'll take care of it this weekend."

And then he talks to his son, "Isaiah, take care of your mom. She's freaking out."

Barn-ilicious

2009-11-09T18:25:00.001-08:00

A few months ago, Nick got a storage box from home. It was heading toward the trash and we salvaged it, thinking we could use it for Isaiah's things. Nick didn't tell me right away what the storage box looked like. He just said, "Just come see it."

It was a barn.

Oh.

Well, that's kinda cute, I guess.

We took it home and put some baby clothes in it, hand me downs from Isaiah's cousins who quickly outgrew of barely used some of the outfits.

I forgot about the barn the past few months.

Then, last night, Nick and I headed to a good-bye party for one of my co-workers who was moving to Boston with her husband and 7 month old son. It was a special party. You weren't allowed to bring gifts and you had to take a "treasure" with you. Meaning, the things they couldn't take to Boston were up for grabs. There were some pretty nice items including deck furniture, shelves, books, trinkets, frames, unused clothes and jewelry...I was busy sorting through the frames and ransacking the unopened spice bottles when Nick calls me across the room, "Leese! Do you think that's up for grabs?" He's pointing near my feet.

I look down and don't see anything.

"Where? Which one are you talking about?"

He points again, "That one!"

I look and see some sort of vintage, Fisher Price box that I thought was garbage.

Oh, this thing? I ask.

"Yes!" Nick was so excited, I honestly didn't know how to react to his excitement over this dirty box.

But it was no box.

It was a BARN.

He explains as his eyeballs roll over it, "We had one just like this when we were kids!"

Oh. Ok. So you want it, then?

YES.

So, we bring it home and I say that it's an interesting toy. The barn doors open to a Moooooooooooooooo sound. It came complete with animals and tools to play with.

As we are leaving, Nick gathers bags of treasures - books, spices, a baby swing, a frame, and countless little things I can cook with.

But he's most excited about the barn.

I wondered what was up with the barn theme. Then I heard him introduce himself to someone at the party, "I didn't grow up on a farm, but I'm definitely a farm boy."

Well, that explains it.

Word of the Week: SCARCE

2009-11-09T06:50:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend, Nick and I met up with our good buds, Christina and Brian. We were dining together, scrunched in a slightly too small booth, when the subject of blogging came up. Brian, not beating around the bush says, "Dude, the blog's been scarce lately."

I know.

I say that I'm trying not to make everything about pregnancy, but, let's get real. If you had a ballooning soccer ball tucked underneath your epidermis, you'd be pretty obsessed with that topic, too.

Brian suggests, "Give yourself topics."

Mhm. That's an idea. A bit homeworkey in task, but still a good idea.

So, the topic of this post is SCARCE because that is what I am feeling I have lately, in terms of time. I do not have enough hours in the day. I do not have enough water in my system. I definitely do not have enough clarity in my brain. I do not have enough patience for anything.

SCARCE.

But, what IS in abundance are all the important things: blessings, family, peers, health...all the most important things are in place.

So, to combat the scarcity of my blog posts, I will try and be more intentional about small updates.

Here are some to kick us off:

Last week was a huge pre-parenting week for me and Nick.

On Tuesday we attended NIGHT WITH THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST in which we gained more information about what kind of pain meds I will have, should I choose to go that route (I still haven't decided). Then we got a tour of the birthing facility where Isaiah will emerge from. That was pretty awesome because we got a glimpse of the nursery where we saw a human who had been in the world for approximately 20 minutes.

Oh, the raging hormones.

I nearly started bawling when I saw all the little babies. But I didn't feel embarassed because even Nick was transfixed on the little limbs of a newborn. The raw reality of its new skin, tiny little toes, and perfect little formations set in and we were just in awe.

Then on Thursday we had a class, "Breastfeeding 101." This was an interesting night to say the least. It started at 6:30pm and went till about 9:30pm. Nick, uncharacteristically, did not thoroughly read the information and thought the class was over at 7:30pm. When he realized we'd be in the dimly lit room with uncomfortable chairs for 3 hours, his eyelids became extremely heavy and he suddenly looked tired.

"You better perk up, man," I told him. "We're in this boobfeeding class for a while and we're going to miss Grey's Anatomy tonight. Deal."

Nick headed straight for the soda machine and it dropped him a bottle of salvation: pepsi.

Ah, yes, caffeine. How I miss it.

There were about 8 -9 couples in there and I placed Nick in the #1 spot for most attentive looking. There was one guy there, I swear, who drummed his fingernails on the table, slouched in his chair, and stared into outspace the entire course.

Good information. Definitely worth $30.

And then came our doctor's appointment.

I was at about 32 weeks by the time we had our appointment, but my measurements were indicated 35. I was a bit startled, but my doctor didn't seem to be worried, "we'll just keep our eye on him. We'll have an ultrasound at your next appointment and then see what's going on. Maybe it's his position. Maybe he's just growing big."

Mhm. Big baby.

My mind was whirling.

As soon as I heard the number 35, and knowing that full term is considered 36 weeks, three words suddenly echoed in my head. Involuntarily. It was like a small version of myself was stuck in my head, talking to me, advising me, shouting advice from a mountaintop and an echo reverberated in my ears: WE'RE NOT READY!

Suddenly, a visual of the half finished nursery, unlaundered new clothes and sheets, and the fact we still need to pick up a few odds and ends for Isaiah became glaringly real.

We're not ready.

As I was going through my private mental meltdown, I remember that Nick's ultrabusy weekend was commencing and we would not be able to run errands because he needed the car, and, being a one car family, I was not about to walk or bike it to the nearest Babies R Us.

So, last night, Sunday evening, when Nick returned to me exhausted from his weekend of a massive service project and an overnight retreat he was helping with, I decided to hold off on my drill sargent speech where I was going to list the things that needed to be taken cared of immediately.

Instead, I made a warm, lovely dinner and tucked him into the couch while he lightly dozed on and off watching some televised lecture from a Harvard professor. (How many people relax this way?) And then we both climbed into bed, exhausted for very different reasons, and turned on football to end our weekend.

After a good night's rest, my eyes flipped open this morning, ready to go into hypergear.

If you haven't heard the news or don't get the overall message of this blog post, here's the summary:

ISAIAH F. BORCHERS is on his way.

Like, soon.

Positive News

2009-11-02T17:00:00.001-08:00

Nick is in charge of a nice service project that got a short blurb in the paper!
Click here for the link!

The Shot Heard Around Shaker Heights

2009-10-30T06:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a normal day for most people. A typical fall day with Halloween costume chatting, and leaf raking commencing...a very normal day indeed.

And yet, a raging two month mental battle also ended yesterday with my wondering over whether or not to get the h1n1 shot.

I'm fairly knowledgeable about the issue. Research is one of my specialties and I spared no pamphlet or website when absorbing the pros and cons of vaccinations for pregnant women. Despite my insides telling me that regardless what I choose, I will likely be fine, my housemate seems to be a magnet for all local and national news reporting bad news about the swine flu. Steeped in worry, Nick passes the information along to me as if I need more momentum to swing me back and forth in my decision.

To get or not to get the h1n1 flu shot is risky. It's risky either way, I saw it, and in the end, seeing how slow my body was recovering from a simple, albeit nasty, cold and cough, convinced me that I probably should go ahead and get stuck by the needle.

So, after work yesterday Nick and I made plans to get to the middle school where they were administering round #2 of the vaccine. I imagined it was going to take hours, Nick disagreed. Of course I was right.

But before I took the shot in my arm, I felt like I had to confess something to Nick. A deep, dark secret welling inside me like a balloon. I looked up at him in the kitchen over chopping Bok Choy and green beans for dinner and announced,"I realized today I have been stalling to get the shot because I think if anything goes wrong with the vaccination and hurts Isaiah, I'm afraid I'm going to blame you for the rest of our lives."

There. I said it.

Nick had a confession as well. "Last week, when you were sick, all I kept thinking was that if you had the flu and something happened to Isaiah, I was going to blame you for not getting the shot for the rest of our lives, too."

Immediately, I brightened, "Really? We were ready to blame each other for the rest of our lives? This sounds demented, but I feel SO much better!"

We hugged.

Now that our confessions were confessed, we headed to the middle school and saw the lines wrapping around the building. It took several minutes to find parking and finally got in line. It felt something like a combination of the lines at Cedar Point, a huge pediatrician's office with a million kids running around, and a gigantic holiday sale where they haven't opened the doors yet and make you wait outside.

In other words, it was hell.

Immoveable and inflexible situations are prime time conversation periods for me and Nick. The possibilities were endless. We had hours to wait, so talked about numerous things:

Nick's Topics: the lack of efficiency when it came to setting up the lines (half the people were waiting outside when the whole middle school could have been utilized), his brainfart that he did not bring a heavier coat, how people were supposed to "prove" if you were on the priority list (pregnant people are kind of obvious, but healthcare workers? ), and other issues relating to orderliness and publicity.

I was fairly single-issue minded: WHY ISN'T THERE A SEPARATE LINE FOR PREGNANT WOMEN?

Seriously.

No chairs. Standing out in the chilly air with children running amok.

A thought occured to me and I shared it with Nick, "Do you think that it's slightly ironic and even more slightly idiotic that they make us stand outside in the cold with a bunch of screaming children with no heat or chairs so we can get vaccinated for the FLU?"

The women behind me had a stroller for her perfectly big 6 or 7 year old. She was not careful with the wheels and kept rolling over the back of my foot. I was feeling a bit snappy but bit my tongue countless times. After all, she'd be right behind me for God knows how long.

We make it inside only to wait another hour or so. A volunteer took pity on my very pregnant state and asked if I wanted a chair. I nodded gratefully.

So, Nick held my place in line while I sat for about 20 minutes, giving my back and feet a rest. Watching Nick, I just shook my head while he made friends in line - chatting with people in front and behind him - and even helping a stranger get their stroller down the stairs. What a good samaritan. All I kept thinking of was how much I wanted a Twix bar.

I got back in line with Nick and discovered he'd made his own h1n1 support group in line. Everyone was offering us advice on birthing, breastfeeding, sleeping, pain meds, and Hillcrest Hospital where we'd be deliverying Isaiah. It was nice to be talking, inside the building and shielded from the cold, but my energy had depleted and I just wanted to get it over with.

Surprisingly, Nick was able to get a shot as well, thanks to Isaiah's due date of 1.1.10, Nick qualified as a parent with a child less than 6 months.

Then came the time to decide whether to get nasal mist or the needle.

Another decision. Not my specialty.

The nasal mist is the activated vaccine. It has no mercury.
The needle is the inactivated vaccine with mercury to keep it germ free.

My only question was, "So where's the INACTIVATED vaccine with NO MERCURY?"

One of the volunteers replied, "They are just starting to make that now, but we have no idea if or when those will ever come to the Cleveland area."

Awesome.

So, loaded with all different kids of information pamphlets on brightly colored paper, we got in line - Nick in the nasal line, me in the needle line.

And within 3 minutes, it was over.

How can one seemingly simple decison be so complicated and anxiety-ridden?

As someone said to me, "Welcome to parenting."

Cleveland Tea Party

2009-10-26T07:21:00.000-07:00

Have you heard that tea is our newest rage in the house?

It's true.

Warm drinks have always been high on my radar, especially this time of year. I drink coffee as a dessert, a special treat from time to time. I would probably drink it more if I did not have such drastic and noticeable effects from the caffeine.

When I drink coffee, if feels like there is a special vein that is activated in my body that filters out the milk, sugar, coffee bean, and whatever flavored syrup has been added, and sends the caffeine to my brain like an express train. Within minutes of a few gulps, my heart starts beating more quickly, my thoughts begin racing, and my mouth starts yapping at even FASTER levels than normal.

On road trips with Nick, pre-preggers state, Nick would watch the evolution first hand. First, I'd be quietly content watching the trees out the window and then we'd exit to get food and if I was tired, I'd get a nice small coffee. By the time we're on the ramp heading back on the highway, my head is bopping toward the car roof and I'm playing 20 questions, laughing, and talking a mile a minute.

So, it's natural for me to look for substitues now that cooler weather has arrived and I yearn for something warm to drink. I've always loved tea as well. It's better for you anyway.

So I began drinking herbal tea, non-caffeinated. Then I began hearing that herbal tea can be bad for you during pregnancy. I don't drink gallons of it, an occassional raspberry leaf treat in the evening is just enough to settle me in for the evening. Getting over this cold has been rough and tea smoothes the road just a bit more for me.

But you can imagine my surprise when Nick and venture to Giant Eagle to grab groceries for the week and while I am elbow deep in the produce section, notice he has wandered away. He normally does this when he remembers we need practical things like toilet paper, his Pert Plus shampoo stock is low, or wants more granola bars in the house. I was even more shocked when I found him in the tea section, peering closely at the labels and, after finally deciding on something, tosses it in the cart.

"I'm really getting into tea," he confides.

"I noticed. It's really good for you. I'm going to start drinking it more once I've popped our son out."

"I just realize that I feel like drinking it when I'm reading," he muses.

Nick has this, like, tendency to pick really amazing books to read. You know, some people choose New York Times best sellers or the latest from David Sedaris. No, Nick chooses Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. This book is something like 1300 pages long. Meanwhile, I am trying to balance reading my pregnancy books, online articles, links, research, and one fiction Wally Lamb book and then find my forehead falling backward because I fall asleep so easily these days. Pathetic.

Champion Nick is over halfway through Atlas Shrugged. And it was this book, apparently, where he heard his tea calling.

"Maybe we should get a tea kettle," I offered.

"I can't imagine they'd be that much," of course Nick thinks of the cost vs. benefit relationship.

"No, they're not expensive at all. And you can have a lot of hot water waiting for you in case you want another cup. You don't have to use the microwave or anything. It might be worth it." I, of course, get excited at any prospect to buy something for our kitchen, even if it's just a tea pot.

"Mhm, yeah. That's probably a good idea."

When Nick says "that's probably a good idea," that means his eyes turn from a yellow to a green light. It's the go ahead sign.

So, Nick has been experimenting with his new vice while I enviously sniff the fresh aroma from the next room. Last night he picked up the box and said, "I hope I'm going to look like this guy when I'm done drinking it." The tea box had an adorable and huge brown bear, tucked away in a couch by a fireplace, a red-striped frock for pjs and a matching hat. The tea was called SLEEPY BEAR.

I studied the picture, "I think this is what you're going to look like in about 50 years."

Nick hollered from the kitchen, "50 years? Try 15 minutes."

The New Schedule

2009-10-22T07:26:00.000-07:00

Nick, Isaiah, and I have been bumped up on to the 2 weeks rotation for seeing our doctor.

This morning, Nick and I went to the doc, eager to see how Isaiah was doing and what her diagnosis would be for the bug in my system.

It seems like the regular common, nasty, horrible cold with accompanying cough. I'm supposed to watch my temperature in case this turns into anything that resembles the flu, but it's unlikely that that is what I have. My temperature was normal, my lungs sounded clear, and I have no runny nose. Apparently, those are the big three for causes of concern.

But, I'm to rest, rest, rest and drink drink drink liquids until I feel better.

Other interesting news to report is Isaiah F. Borchers is measuring a bit big for almost 30 weeks. Doc said we have to keep an eye on him and possibly take a look with an ultrasound later to see just how big he is getting.

If he is either too impatient or too big to wait until his 1.1.10 due date and possibly forsake his early fame of getting in the paper for being the first baby of 2010, either Nick or I are to blame. If it's impatience, blame the mother. If his limbs are just too sticking big and he's breech because his feet are like paddles, blame the father.

Germaphobe

2009-10-21T02:49:00.000-07:00

Kinda like how that little kid in The Sixth Sense said, "I see dead people," in that freaky whisper, confiding to Bruce Willis his longtime secret and hidden power, that's pretty much how I want to tell you

I see germs and bacteria.

Everywhere.

I'm becoming neurotic about washing my hands and walking 10 feet behind any living thing that I think looks pale, sounds raspy, or coughs into a shirt sleeve.

All this worrying is justified.

Yesterday, I woke up with a slight tickle in the back of my throat. By 11am, it had moved into a dry cough and irritating the hell out of me. (Coughing means I am constantly holding my belly and trying not to jostle Isaiah around as much.) By 6pm, scheduled to stay later for work, I sent an email to my boss explaining that my cough was getting worse, felt like my head was compressing, and felt a little warm on my forehead.

It could be a number of things. It could be a common cold. It could be the erratic change in climate (40-50s to high 60s in one day?). It could be the annual visit from the bronchitis family that loves to descend onto my lungs once the weather provides an easy transport. It could be the damn space heater in our bedroom that dries the room out. It could be that my office swings from sauna to freezer every other day. It could be that my hand sanitizer obsession is proving futile in the wake of GERM SEASON 2009. It could be something Nick brought home from hanging out with high school kids with youth ministry. (Yeah, I know - blame the spouse!) It could be...anything.

I don't know.

So, I do what most people do when they're in the limbo of sick and well -- commiserate on the couch and think of the worst possible situations while flipping between Dancing with the Stars and the ALCS between the Angels and Yanks.

The worst thing is I feel stripped of energy yet unable to sleep.

To make team Borchers/Factora-Borchers even more hapless these days, Nick's ear problems have returned with a vengeance. His ear is ringing, making his head feel like it's going to explode each night and thus scheduling an appointment with an ear doctor. It never ceases to infuriate me how LONG it takes for ear doctors to understand that Nick is in a lot of discomfort and needs to be seen NOW. Not now-ish, or next week, but NOW. As in yesterday; that kind of now.

But he scheduled it last week and still has to wait until Monday. Until then, I try not to talk as loud or as much (that's hard when I want to tell him all about my lungs and Isaiah's latest acrobatic stunts), but we're managing.

We're still keeping ourselves busy. Nick is caulking the outdoor windows and I'm registering us for a bunch of baby classes and tours of the facility where I'll be delivering. As thrilling as, "Baby Basics," and "A Night with the Anesthesiologist" classes sounds, we're not very exited over a jam packed November of classes and learning.

I keep thinking that people have become really effective and good parents by good ol' fashion living and learning. Why do we have to go to these classes?

"Because we don't know anything about anything," says Nick.

In the end, I concur, "It's probably a good idea to figure out how to use a car seat, I guess."

Letter #3

2009-10-20T13:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Isaiah,

Sometimes I just wish you could just stay inside me forever. Even if I'm moving at the pace of a 1983 VCR on SLOW MOTION, I derive a sense of security knowing that I can protect you at all times. You have no choice but to eat vegetables and fresh fruit. You WILL listen to my piano playing and lukewarm voice exercises. Water is our primary drink and we get plenty of sleep most nights.

I can keep you safe.

But, my son, it occured to me the other day that as your neurons continue firing in your brain and you skeletal frame solidifies, there are some things that are out of my control. The more I look at myself and your father, the more I wonder, "What have we DONE?"

You'll inherit all kinds of wonderful things from us: love, compassion, forgiveness, understanding, empathy, faith, and resistance. But, you'll also stand to inherit a wealth of odd quirks.

Like the other day, your dad's ear problems have returned and I wondered if you are going to have ear aches to battle against. Or, I wonder if you'll inherit my inability to estimate ANYTHING. (E.g. How long does it take to get to east Cleveland from the west side? I always say about 20 minutes. In reality, it's at least 35 minutes to get across town.)

What if you inherit our dually acknowledged competitive nature? If you have siblings, this could spell disaster.

What if you are chronically late for things? (me)

What if you have no idea how to cook anything? (your dad)

What if you cannot resist a great sale on art supplies even if you don't need anything? (me)

What if you fall in love with the feel of tube socks? (definitely your dad)

Will you obsess over human rights, germs, gender issues, owning good pens, the paranormal, and keeping one souvenier from every beach trip and graduation in your life? (ALL me)

Or what if you cannot reconcile wasting time in poorly run meetings, applauding after a catholic mass, mechanics, grocery shopping, or Bobby Kennedy's assassination? (ALL your dad)

These questions weigh on my brain and the closer we are to your arrival date, the more my curiosity is blowing up in to full-fledged anxiety over the unfolding of your life.

Not surprisingly, your dad remains calm and says, "Some things we'll get right. But we'll mess up a lot. He'll be like nothing we expect but he'll be himself. He'll be a little bit of both of us." Also not surprisingly, that does little for my need to know how you're doing and what you're going to be like. Needless to say, I must work on my patience.

I'll try.

Love,
Mom

The View Going Downhill

2009-10-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

The combination of being pregnant and growing older makes me more attached to being at home. More and more, I take restorative comfort in the familiar couch, the wooden frames of our dining room threshold, the little nooks and crannies that make home HOME.

No matter how exciting the roadtrip, no matter how great the people we are venturing off to see, no matter how climactic the event we attend, these days, the thought of leaving home means two things: it's going to be a long trip because we have to stop all the time for me to stretch or use the loo, and, if we're staying overnight, I will lose sleep and be even more tired the next day.

So, you can imagine how excited I was to get through this past weekend which marked the absolute last planned roadtrip for me. On Saturday, I headed to Columbus for a conference I was to present at and have been preparing for diligently for weeks (hence the few blog posts in October).

My plan was to head to the heart of the heartland on Friday when I get an odd text from my buddy Christy whose house I was to be staying at Friday night. In the text she informs me she is sick but I am still welcome to stay.

Clearly, she has not been informed that I am the lead consumer of Purell's hand sanitizer and the most informed citizen reading the CDC's website. (Center for Disease Control)

Sick?

How sick, I ask?

"...well, it's knocked me off my feet this week."

Christy, my childhood friend who was the first person I met when I moved to Ohio when I was 8 years old, was the lead point guard on our basketball teams. She was an athletic volleyball player and is a general knows no sickness kind of gal. For her to say she was knocked off her feet means for a pregnant, low immunity system waddler like myself these days, there was a 35% of my collapsing Saturday morning from her bug and a 100% chance of my getting SOME sort of viral infection.

It was a no brainer.

So, I had no place to stay in Columbus Friday night and ended up getting up at 5:15am Saturday morning (OOOOUUUUUCCCCCCCHHHHHH) and driving to Buckeyeland for the conference that started at 8am with registration. My presentation wasn't until 9:40am, but I wanted to get there early and test out my AV equipment and relax.

At 5:15am, I expected to crawl like a cavewoman out of bed, dreading the cold, and trying to leave Nick undisturbed. To my sweet surprise, Nick, the loyal cheerleader he is for all things I try to achieve, pops out of bed when the alarm sounds, turns on all the lights, and starts fist pumping. I was putting on my jewelry and make-up with the speed of a tortoise when he begins blasting Kanye West's, "Stronger," (my favorite pump me up song) and starts clapping like it's game day. I smile.

I make it to Columbus without any problems and my presentation on feminism, race, and politics in the Midwest goes beautifully. I receive countless compliments from professors from all over the country and even an invitation to submit my work into an academic journal. The raving strokes my very tired and dusty ego which hasn't been activated in a long time. Around 2pm, I duck out when I feel Isaiah happily kicking his excitement and my already low bank of energy begin to go into the red.

I head home to Cleveland.

Nick and I celebrate Saturday night with a dinner date at Anatolia Cafe, a mediterranean restaurant not far from our house and beam like stars at our table. It was wonderful but I was glad that the traveling piece was over. That night, I nearly drowned taking a extra bubbly bubble bath to relax because I nearly fell asleep in the warmth of our new tub. (I guess I'm not used to such luxuries.)

And so, here we are, approaching week 30 of pregnancy, and continuing our efforts to make room for Isaiah and prepare the nursery. As he gains momentum, weight, and strength with each passing week, my appetite and fatigue are skyrocketing. I believe I slept 11 hours straight Saturday night and still felt like I could use a nap in the afternoon. Knowing, though, that I have no plans for the rest of the pregnancy relaxes my body and mind.

Nick I agreed last night that each week of pregnancy feels like you're counting upward toward 40 weeks. 5 weeks. 10 weeks. 20 weeks. But once you hit 30 weeks, it suddenly feels like you're counting down. Very similar to New Year's Eve, we're just anxiously waiting for the Big Apple (Big Baby) to slowly drop and make his way into the world.

Last Trimester and Life Insurance

2009-10-09T11:30:00.001-07:00

It's Friday and I can't emphasize enough how grateful I am to the calendar for making another Friday appear so quickly. Lately, I have been fighting droopy eyes and the deep urge to crawl into anything that resembles a chair and let my head rest and fall asleep.

Nick can attest that the passenger seat in our car has seen many hours of my dozing off like I'm a baby and the Accord is my crib.

As the third trimester begins, I can hear the trumpets blaring in the sky and the archangels singing that THE END IS NEAR! The final months of bun-in-the-oven are coming to a close.

But --

not so fast.

It's still a little over 2.5 months away. That's still a lot of pregnancy left in my life.

So I find myself making lists of what needs to get done and, believe it or not, have no problems with Christmas and the holidays coming early this year. YES. Christmas. It's already on my mind.

Why?

Because up the street there was a case of swine flu. And small little outbreaks of it are surfacing here in Shaker Heights, making me more nervous than Nick feels before the Michigan game. And while I'm probably going to end up getting the vaccine, I'm not completely confident that pumping a small dose of God only knows what into my body, permeating the environment of Isaiah's little world, is 100% safe. But, going out into crowds is not 100% safe either.

As much as I love ambling around commerical stores in November and December - elbowing small children in my haste to grab the last toy for my nephews or peering for hours into holiday decorated windows at the mall - I don't think it's that safe for me to be around local crowds. Not when the swine flu is suspiciously active in this area. I considered buying a medical mask and drawing little holiday berries and holly on it, Nick adamantly said NO.

So, I'm looking for Christmas to come early for me this year. As in, I'm going to start shopping right after Halloween. Yes, I am that person this year.

I don't care what people think. If you were beginning to waddle around, keep one hand on your belly, and just getting in and around the Giant Eagle was beginning to make you a wee bit tired, you'd want to be ahead of the holidays this year as well.

Plus, the percentage of clothes that fit me is dwindling. I think I'm down to 20% of my wardrobe is wearable, decent, and public safe. By November, I don't know if I'll have any clothes left that will fit me. I don't want to look like a eggroll, tightly wrapped in clothes that won't let me breathe. I seem to have forgotten what it feels like to actually zip something up, or wear anything that is not bandy, elastic, or blows like a flag with the fall wind. There are days where I feel like a cow wrapped in huge poncho.

Other news...

Nick and I met with an insurance guy yesterday. We now have life insurance. There was something about that meeting that was midly depressing. It's not like the idea of dying brings me comfort or the thought of being a widow makes me jump for joy. I was quiet, signed at all the x's and then shook Mr. Insurance's hand. After he left, I looked at Nick who was as happy as a clam because L-O-V-E-S getting things done and crossing one more thing off of his TO DO list. He was humming and yelled over his shoulder, "Now we can die!"

Awesome, I replied morosely.

I hate when he says things like that. Must he always look on the bright side of everything?

October Showers

2009-10-05T18:51:00.000-07:00

The beginning of October marks the beginning of the third trimester and baby showers. This weekend was one big fiesta in Cleveland that took care of all the requests from my family, our friends and co-workers in Cleveland, and old friends who live or have easy access to NE Ohio.

Welcoming Isaiah was no small task. My sister and Mom took the reins for this event and deleted the word "simple" from the vocabulary. For days, they cooked, shopped, and brainstormed on the best way to welcome Isaiah.

The guest list knew few regrets and I was delightfully surprised at how many folks turned up -- nearly 50 friends and family!

It was kinda huge.

Like Isaiah's feet measurements.

Nick's family, minus Kelly and Tim, all came Saturday and stayed at the house. My dear friend, Claire Mugavin, drove 6 hours from Louisville, KY Friday night. One of my best friends, Tricia, flew in from California for a Saturday wedding in Columbus and then drove up Sunday as well. And that's just a few traveling stories. My parents came in from Virginia and many made roadtrips from Columbus and Youngstown.

Nick and I were in awe, once again, of how many people showed up to support us and celebrate this new chapter in our lives. It's really hard to describe when I'm overwhelmed like that. I just smile a lot and don't know what to say. Everyone is just so generous and positive. Bringing new life in the world really brings out the best in people.

So many people pulled together to make this fiesta possible and we could not even BEGIN to articulate how grateful we are to our families for being there for us and for our friends who see us through everything.

To add icing on the cake, the rain held off and cooperated so we could have seating outside! (Thank God! At one point, I almost considered opening up the bedrooms so people had a place to eat.) It was beautiful.

There are numerous pics that I'm sifting through, but the two above are some of my favorites. The one picture of me is with three of my oldest friends who I've known for over 20 years. I grew up with them and they somehow manage to always rally around me whenever a huge transition is taking place in life. I was so happy they were there. (L to R -- Christy, me, Tricia, and Jen)

And, of course, the love of my life, opening the biggest present. Only appropriate that Big Daddy himself would open the big gift for his son.

It was an awesome weekend!

Next weekend we get to do it all over again in the ROOOOOOOSHHHHH! (aka Russia, Ohio) with Nick's side of the family. So excited for the fiestas to continue!

Short but Painful Story

2009-10-02T02:32:00.000-07:00

Tuesday Morning

Nick often wakes up before I do. Unlike me, he actually responds to his alarm clock and gets up when it sounds. I either sleep right through it or turn it off.

He gets ready for work and before he leaves gently wakes me up in the morning. To put it mildly, I'm not the greatest person in the morning. This is not hard to imagine.

But, Tuesday morning had some unusually intense moments when I felt Nick chiding me to reality and I instinctively raised my arms and stretched out my body, including my legs.

As Nick leaned over to kiss my cheek, I felt a sudden jolt in my lower left leg, followed by a searing pain that forced my eyes to fly open and promptly scream in Nick's face as it was inches from mine.

I thrashed around under the comforter, trying to grab my spazzing leg and feeling like it was self-amputating while Nick tried to grab my hand and ask why I was so hysterical.

I just kept screaming.

"HELP ME! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" As I nearly ripped his hand off his wrist. I didn't even really consider he had no idea what the problem was or how to diagnose why I was screaming in his face.

Of course he remained calm, "Is it a Charlie horse?"

A sudden image of me, 13 years old, getting my leg massaged by my basketball coach after a grueling practice flashed in my brain. That was my last Charlie horse - 17 years ago. But my brain appropriately filed it away under, "FEELS LIKE DEATH," and I automatically withdrew the file from memory and screamed, "Y-Y-Y-E-E-E-S-S-S!"

Nick squeezed my hand, probably thinking this is what labor and birth will be like in 3 months, "Ok then, try and flex your toes. Point them upward."

"I C-C-C-C-A-A-A-N-N-N-T!" I felt like Isaiah was trying to birth himself through my calf muscle.

"You probably didn't drink enough water yesterday and you're dehydrated. Point your toes upward and it should help."

Through my hands, I could feel waves of knots and energy passing in and over each other in my leg. I flexed my foot and let out one more scream that, I'm sure, woke every neighbor on our block and then, suddenly, it was over.

Just like that. It passed.

I lay still, opened my eyes, and looked at Nick.

He held my hand and smiled, "Good morning!"

An Impending Change

2009-09-30T11:09:00.000-07:00

Notes from Home Plate has been going strong now for about two years. I first began it as a way to keep everyone updated when Nick and I moved to Boston. Digital technology, I've discovered, has a marvelous potential for keeping people together. Through online tools, I've been able to connect with family as far as the Philippines, as close as Russia, Ohio, and spread news to neighbors on our street.

Well before I started this particular blog, I had been slowly spreading my writing to different magazines, both in print and online, and have been able to forge relationships with different publishers, press houses, and writers. The majority of my assignments, requests to present at conferences, and basically any opportunity to advance myself as a writer has come from opening my writing to the web. With careful navigation and a discerning eye, the internet is and can be the leading tool for freelance writers, especially those like me are looking to stay independent, but advance in my writing projects to become more streamlined and long-term. In a nutshell, I'm growing out of short stints for magazines, quick reports, and blog posts. It occured to me in a car ride with Nick, after one of my photography shoots, that I had reached a point in my pregnancy, or rather, in my life, where I finally had my first encounter with physical limitation: I wasn't just physically exhausted, I was mentally drained by my desire to accomplish so many different things.

Not only was I tired, but I realized after shooting a wedding for 13 hours, that to be ~~good~~ great at anything requires much more than just love and passion. I've got plenty of that. It takes large doses of discipline and a thick skin for rejection. As I collapsed in the car and Nick drove me home, this epiphany of age dawned on my noggin: I have to choose.

You don't become great at anything spreading yourself too thin or promising your time and energy to 10 different ideas. You choose one. And the rest is a lot of prayer, luck, and work.

As Isaiah lets me know more and more everyday that my life is about to take on a monumental and glorious change, my concept of "time" and "freedom" is going to undergo a radical makeover. It's time for priorities.

How does that all affect this blog?

Well, let this post be a sign of an impending change. At the endless prompting by writing colleagues, support from my editor, and a profound desire to retain and grow my readerships from various circles, I am working with a webdesigner to create my own site. It will be a forging of several blogs and websites that I already contribute to, a home for my writing, a place where people can find me. As I begin to present my writing and work to different audiences, it will only behoove me to settle into one place where everyone can find me -- family, friends, strangers, publishers, and readers. Also, it will allow me to focus on ONE place, one site, one project. The easier it is to find me, the more obtainable my writing goals become.

The new site will be much different than this blog, obviously. Notes from Home Plate has largely been anecdotal writings about my personal life with Nick, our life together, and glimpses into our domestic creation we have called home and marriage. It is quite different than, say, articles I have written about social activism, gender equality, or spiritual liberation. It won't be easy, but my vision is to incorporate ALL of my writing, all of who I am, into one place.

As a writer, especially as an online contributor where readers respond instantaneously and emotionally-charged, I've learned much about disagreement and criticism. Opening ALL of my my writing to strangers is not what makes me nervous, it's opening it to those already in my life! It's to my family and friends who often see me, know me, and will also be reading my work. But, in addition to coming to a point in my life where I have grown tired of separating my audiences, I have come to point where I feel the need to allow those in my life to read me, to know me, and pray that that will lead me to a better place as a writer. I'm planning on writing more courageously. There is a very, very fine line I must observe when it comes to boundaries and taking risks. I've been sitting on this decision for a mighty long time and I finally decided to bite the bullet. Pull the trigger. Jump in the deep end. Hit the gas pedal.

My own website is on its way.

The spirit of change is always fraught with unpredictability and fragility. It's always a channel of excitement, opportunity, and novelty. Watch for it in the next month.

UPDATE!

2009-09-28T17:05:00.001-07:00

The link to my flickr page should work now if you want to see the bathroom photos! Sorry about that! Now, really, you can CLICK HERE for the photos :)

Thanks, Betsy, for the heads up!

Baby Grand

2009-09-27T16:44:00.000-07:00

Isn't it purrrrtyyyy?

HALLEJUAH!!!

2009-09-27T16:36:00.001-07:00

CLICK HERE for more pictures that show a bit more of the process. I recommend just clicking on the small icon pictures where you can read some comments I made at the bottom. Clicking "Slideshow" deletes the description. Suit yourself.

Letter #2

2009-09-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Isaiah,

So apparently, you LOVE yoga. Perhaps you would have loved it even more if your mother wasn't such a bluthering baffoon sometimes.

Since our yoga class didn't start until 6:30pm and I made arrangements with my belly to eat a nice healthy lunch and snack the rest of the day and then eat a somewhat late dinner circa 8pm.

Apparently 1.5 hours of stretching, downward dogs, and holding odd poses can zap all the calories left that you decided to leave behind. So, you were as happy as a leaping frog and my body crunched its way through yoga, using the last of the 4:30pm banana and peanut butter snack I inhaled.

By 8:40pm, I walked into the living room, greeted by your father ready to pounce on me for cutting it so close to the season premier of Grey's Anatomy, the only acceptable ~~trash~~ prime time show on TV I will expose you to which started at 9pm.

It was then that I felt a prickly sensation at the top of my belly, the roof of your home, the oven.
I figured my body was responding to my out of routine eating habits and so I gobbled down a black bean burger on a small bagel with some naked spinach thrown in there. It was a delish, globby mess.

By the second round of commercials of the two hour opener, you were a full-fledged boxer, taking on your vision of a miniature Oscar de La Hoya, I'm sure. Between that and the ring of fire that was spreading over the insides of my belly, I started worrying something was wrong. Two hours later, I could bare stand up or exert any effort because it agitated this burning sensation. Getting up the stairs to bed took forever and I could barely enjoy the newly finished bathroom that I had landed me a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records in the "HOW MUCH CAN ONE PERSON COMPLAIN ABOUT ONE THING FOR 16 DAYS STRAIGHT?" category.

My dear boy, I broke a rule that I swore I never would: I googled pregnancy symptoms. By the end of 10 minutes, I was convinced I was dying of a ruptured absess in my intestines or I was in premature labor (never mind I didn't have contractions).

I sat up in bed because it was too hard to lie down and you fought your way to a comfortable spot inside for a long time. I kept apologizing that I didn't do a better job of whatever caused this and even your dad, furrowed his brows at my incessant whimpering. Eventually, in the wee hours of the night, I fell asleep on 8272 pillows that propped me up.

This morning, my stomach was sore and you were quiet which freaked me out so much I placed a call to the doctor. I cursed Cleveland Clinic for being so complicated. I was patched into different departments until I got Nurse Nancy, who works with our doctor, Dr. McElroy. After what seemed like eons, I explained the ring of fire feeling, what I ate that day, ("Do I have food poisoning?"), and prenatal yoga poses that I held.

Her assessment, "Is it above the belly bump?"

Yes.

"Is the pain below your chest?"

Yes.

"Is the baby still moving?"

Like a ferocious upset animal.

"Well, that's good."

What's the problem? Do I need to come in?

"Nope, just take some Tums."

TUMS?

"Sounds like acid reflux."

"What's that?"

She sounds incredulous,"You've never had acid reflux?"

No, does that hurt the baby?

"No, you probably had an empty stomach and there was nothing to soak up the acid so it burns like that for a long time."

Oh, so it's common to feel like I'm about to die and that can be acid reflux?

"Sure. Take some Tums and call me at 4pm if it doesn't get any better."

Hang up.

So now I feel like an idiot. And overreactive. And naive of acid reflux. And lucky that I never had acid reflux. And dumb when my co-worker heard that I have acid problems and promptly handed me a roll of Tums. I promptly popped 4 in my mouth.

They taste like Pez candy.

So, my renewed promise to you, my son, is to never again let so many hours go by without some nutrition because apparently that can lead to death-like experiences when pregnant.

Your mom has learned her lesson.

I hope you enjoyed the variety of today's eating selection.

Love,
Mom

Letter # 1 - About 3 Months to Go

2009-09-24T15:04:00.001-07:00

Dear Isaiah,

You are almost 26 weeks old and we are almost exiting the second trimester together. You and I, if you haven't noticed, are in this together.

I've been enjoying our morning talks about the world, my observations about the kind of life you might lead. I do apologize for the random profane words that shoot out of my mouth from time to time which disrupt our profound conversations. You see, my son, I am usually driving when we have our talks and sometimes a disgustingly irresponsible driver will cut me off or turn without signaling or speed by me and, involuntarily, your mouthy mom goes off.

Your father does an excellent job of telling me to calm down and, for the most part, I have. I drive in the right hand lane, rarely go above 5 miles past the speed limit and, instead of barreling through yellow traffic lights as I used to, now come to a complete stop without acting as if I'm in the Indy 500.

You've been quite a lovely baby to oven. I like when you're tumbling around in there, doing whatever it is your doing. Your father says that if he were you, he'd spend a lot of time playing with the umbilical cord, studying its flexibility and seeing what tricks he could do with it. That sounds fine, except just don't put it around your neck. That's one of my fears.

We're getting your room ready and this morning, I just sat in there, staring at all these little gifts, slowly appearing in your room, waiting for you. Sometimes, I just really can't believe you're on your way. You'll be here before we know it and neither me or your dad can wait. We're so excited and talk about you all the time.

Today at work someone commented to me, "Guess what's in 3 months?" I shrugged and she said, "Christmas Eve!" That sounded absurd, but it's true. In about 3 months, it'll be Christmastime and you'll be nearly here. Sometimes when people say time-sensitive comments like that, it just brings your reality that much closer. 3 months. That's not far away at all.

Well, I hope you enjoy our activity this evening. I am going to try pre-natal yoga and see if it is all its cracked up to be. Maybe you'll benefit from some of my deep breathing and stretching. If you don't like it, I'm sure you'll let me know. You certainly let me know your thoughts the other night after I ate spicy Thai food.

I'll be more considerate in the future.

Love,
Mom

Baby Grand, Baby Isaiah, and the Headache that Won't Go Away

2009-09-23T06:26:00.000-07:00

It has been two weeks now that our bathroom (at least half of it, that is) has been gutted. And, thankfully, since my last post, much progress has been made.

Just last night, I came home and was pleased to find pretty white tiles in place, a new fan and light installed above the shower, new handles and a very high-placed shower head (Nick was very pleased), and the ceilings all patched up.

With our Cleveland baby shower/Isaiah party coming up in a little over a week, I was beginning to feel some relief off my shoulders. There's still a lot that needs to be done, but, literally, the dust has settled, some clean-up efforts have commenced, and Nick tried out the shower and reported that the water pressure was not perfect but was definitely better than the trickling down effect we had a few weeks ago.

So, all was well and good last night that we even began to play with our newest toy: a donated baby grand piano!

About two months ago, I was approached at work by a woman who asked if I knew of anyone who would want a baby grand piano - for free - and all that needed to be covered was transportation. She didn't lie - it was in decent shape and hadn't been tuned in years. Of course, my ears perked up at the sound of "free," "piano," and "grand."

I took piano for a few years when I was a kid and, as my father predicted that I would, now regret that I didn't stick with it. As an adult, it would be nice to have a musical vice. However, the scale lessons and hard practice hours I put in as a child were not entirely lost. My family is a piano family. My father and sister play by ear. Nearly everyone on my father's side can play. To say that a piano is a filipino trademark would be an understatement. Nearly every wedding, gathering, reunion, funeral, or meeting involves a bit of the piano and belting out a song or two.

And so, you can imagine my excitement when the possibility of a baby grand fell into our laps.

A few weeks later, the transaction was final and the piano is now sitting in our living room. I hired a professional piano cleaner and tuner and he affirmed what I already suspected: the piano was in "wild" shape. AKA - it hadn't been played and/or tuned for YEARS. That kind of neglect is destructive. Imagine a piano like a living body. If you don't go out for a run or walk or if you don't do anything but sit in a corner eating Twinkies, you'll be out of tune as well.

And so, the long journey of repairing our Baby Grand has begun, which is perfect timing as I sing to Isaiah, teach him chords, and fine-tune his ear for the ivory keys. Baby Isaiah, I think, is loving it.

One of the instructions left by the piano cleaner was that we had to play the piano "hard" in the next few weeks and really get the keys moving around again. I made an emergency call to my sister, asking her to come over and play for a while because I am not nearly at the level she is. Even Nick is pitching in. Now, if you can imagine NICK, who may not know a xylophone from a french horn, trying to play the piano just to get it out of its rusty stage, you can understand why I've been doubled over, laughing my ass off in the kitchen when he plays.

He sits and plays the keys like he is taking a type writing course and then out of nowhere, he runs his left hand from the bottom to the top of the keys as if finishing off a Bach masterpiece. Oh, my dear spouse. He is such comedy.

So, last night, after I was fiddling with the piano while Nick was huffing and puffing going up and down the steps, clearing out furniture of the soon-to-be nursery when I hear an extremely rare, "You've got to be shitting me!" from Nick.

My first thought, "He either found a rat or there's another leak in the kitchen."

The ceilings in the bathroom and kitchen HAD JUST BEEN SEALED and I was looking forward to new coat of paint and moving forward in our showering amenities.

For one moment, in all honesty, I almost preferred that he spotted a rat.

I walk into the kitchen to see my hubs staring at the ceiling and, sure enough, there were droplets plopping down onto our newly cleaned floor.

I nearly crumbled in frustration.

As if on cue (I have an emotional reaction, Nick moves into action), our contractor is called and comes right over and accesses the situation. After about 20 minutes of rooting around, he reports it can be fixed first thing in the morning, but he does need to cut out the kitchen ceiling again.

At this point, I am staring like a zombie at the television, wondering if we'll ever get our lives back.

Even the sight of our baby grand, even the feel of Baby Isaiah kicking his disapproval couldn't remove our frustration and disappointment of the new deadline: FRIDAY.

Remember, this entire job was supposed to be done LAST WEDNESDAY. ONE WEEK AGO.

But, at least, we are able to shower and I took my inaugural shower this morning and it is quite lovely. I would just love to be able to clean again, move our kitchen out of the dining room, and get ready for more important things.

The saga continues.

Diffusing the Anger

2009-09-16T14:03:00.000-07:00

Today was the deadline for our bathroom to be finished.

I was planning on a phat post about how awesome our lives are, complete with a brand new tub, tiles, and fan, rejuvenated and clear pipes, and a fresh toilet seat on top.

That is not the headline of today's post.

If Nick gets to a level of annoyance, that means that I am approaching warning levels of volcanic eruption. I cannot believe how long and annoying this process is. At this very moment, I am listening to drills, sawing, and a very loud radio in the background to keep the workers entertained. At this very moment, as they start to clean up at 5:06pm, the bathroom is fit for someone along the lines of Jason Voorhees.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have a tender heart. I'm a nice person. I understand that things come up, deadlines are pushed back, people work their fannies off and still things don't always come together as planned. But, just follow how this whole situation has affected me this past week. Remember, Nick is still going to work with luggage for his showers. As if that isn't exasperating enough to watch him truck off to work with a piece of carry-on baggage.

1) The dustbowl that is our house has flared up some allergens that make my eyes itch and throat constrict with coughing.

2) The accessible toilets in our house are on floors 1 and 3. Our bedroom is on floor 2. Which means for pregnant persons, like myself who get up in the middle of the night, one must be fairly alert to navigate the stairs. By the time I get myself back into bed, I am wide awake.

3) Interrupted sleep is making me very, very tired.

4) Isaiah doesn't like this routine and so HE is very, very tired.

5) I am showering at work and must pack a bag everyday complete with shower sandals and extra towels. It looks like I'm moving into my work office.

And so my friends, it's difficult for me to remain my positive self when all I want to do is scream, "GET THIS JOB DONE AND CLEAN UP THIS MESS! I'M 6 MONTHS PREGNANT!"

Sunday Blues

2009-09-13T11:19:00.000-07:00

Depression resulting from sports-related issues certainly cannot be resolved overnight.

I know this for a fact because it is Sunday afternoon and I am still moping over OSU's loss last night to USC. I'm normally not an advocate of bottling away emotions without properly processing them first, but, in this case, I think it's better for everyone in my life, especially Nick, if I just move on as best as I can and deal with the blemish on the Buckeye's early football record.

When my sister was a highschool senior, their graduating class' senior tshirts were custom designed for the class of 1993 and on the back it just read: Seniors rule. Deal with it.

I think I should make a similar tshirt for myself that reads: We had that game but we lost. Deal with it.

Beyond football frenzy 2009, Nick and I have had a lovely weekend of hanging out with friends, attending our neighborhood block party, and sleeping in. This morning we attended a pre-baptismal training class which Nick both led as the Pastoral Associate and participated as a soon to be parent.

It's always fun getting the opportunity to watch your spouse in a different role, a role outside of the house. Not surprisingly he was great at making sure everyone's little bundle of joys were on the right path to their first sacrament.

Our little saint, Isaiah, has been stretching his limbs and tumbling around like an Olympian. Sleep has been a bit finicky for me lately and some days I just feel like I just need a comfy chair to lie down in. Others days I am rip roaring with energy.

Today is a lay low kind of day. Nick is working. I can't take any more football this weekend. And our house is a dustbowl of disaster because of the bathroom demolition.

I am hoping by the end of the day my Buckeye-induced sadness will have dissipated.

Here's hoping...

The Weird Reasons

2009-09-10T17:28:00.000-07:00

I haven't forgotten about this blog -- really, I haven't.

Maybe there are some things that are forgotten with a pregnant brain (a lot of pregnant women report scatter-mindedness and forgetfulness), but writing and this blog are not one of them.

This week, albeit a shortened week because of the holiday, has been really WEIRD.

Here's one reason: our bathroom tub and walls are getting ripped out. The bathroom ceiling has been taken out. In the kitchen, if you look up through the ceiling hole, you can see to the top of the bathroom ceiling/3rd floor base. That's right. From the first floor, you can see straight up to the second floor.

That means an ungodly amount of dust has settled in the nooks and crannies of our house and I am hacking away like it's the middle of Spring. Poor Isaiah has been tumbling all around when I cough. I think he thinks I'm perpetually choking.

Also, work has turned up the heat on both Nick and I in our respective employment offices. We're both getting up early to shower at work (we both have access to shower facilities) because we're obviously without a tub and unless we want to hose each other down on our front lawns, getting up early and showering elsewhere is the only way to stay respectably clean. And our workload has generally increased. We're busy bees these days.

In the meanwhile my stomach looks like a rising circus tent ready to enfold anyone who comes near it. I've noticed that the floor creaks when I walk on it now. Dude, I feel like a slowly expanding hot air balloon, except I don't get to fly.

Other weird news is that OSU football season has started and WHAT WAS THAT NEAR LOSS TO NAVY AS THE SEASON OPENER? Not a convincing win. That did not put anyone at ease. And so, this Saturday against USC, has us in a quiet nervous state. We don't want to talk about it because the intensity is just that heavy for us.

Weird reason #3, our kitchen stuff is in the dining room. Because of the ceiling hole, we had to clear out the kitchen and move everything into the dining hall. Correction: NICK had to clear out the kitchen and move everything into the dining hall. We have no place to eat and so we keep eating random foods like cereal and granola bars to stay alive and ordering out which we rarely do because we think it's usually a waste of money.

Weird reason #4, my pregnant brain is getting uber introverted these days. That means less blogging, less writing. THIS is not a good thing, as I need to be writing everyday to stay in good practice.

Weird reason #5, REGISTERING FOR ISAIAH IS THE BIGGEST PAIN IN THE ASS AND WE KEEP TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH WE HATE IT.

Weird reason #6...Did I mention how we have to shower at work? That means NICK IS BRINGING A SUITCASE TO WORK TO CHANGE CLOTHES.

Overall, this week just needs to end.

Like, now-ish....

Conversation

2009-09-02T18:03:00.000-07:00

Me: Nick?

Nick: Yeah?

Me: It's September.

Nick: I know.

Me: Do you know what that means?

Nick: It could mean multiple things.

Me: It means our son is going to be here in less than four months, roughly.

Nick leans over and loudly talks to my belly button: ISAIAH! PLEASE STAY PUT FOR A WHILE. IT'S GOOD IN THERE. IT'S SAFE IN THERE. DON'T COME OUT JUST YET. WE'LL LET YOU KNOW.

The Uneventful Parts of Pregnancy

2009-08-31T06:35:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday, we had our routine check-up. I had to pick up Nick downtown where he volunteers on Thursdays and make our way from the west side to the east side of Cleveland, specifically, the Beachwood area. Our little section of the Cleveland Clinic is inconveniently sandwiched between two highway entryway/exits and the Beachwood Plaza.

That means while Isaiah is sandwiched between the walls of my body, Nick and I are sandwiched by the walls of the car, and the car is sandwhiched between mall-goers and highway drivers eager to get on the road or speed home.

We get to the office and have our freshly conjured-up questions written down on scrap paper. We are wondering about the Swine Flu (hello, Xavier University? 10 people diagnosed with the pig epidemic?), whether or not little dots in my vision are normal from time to time (they are), if my blood pressure is on track (it is), and who is going to deliver the baby (my doctor delivers 85% of her patients).

But other than hearing Isaiah's heartbeat and Dr. McElroy pressing against certain parts of my expanding belly universe, nothing happened.

No reports on big feet. No excitement. No news.

It took about 5 mintues.

Mhm. I was expecting more.

My sister-in-law, Suzi, who has birthed four children, affirmed the uneventful period of doctor's appointments. "Yeah, you're finishing your second trimester so things are just kind of routine right now. Soon you'll go every three weeks, then every two weeks, and then the last month you'll go once a week. But for now, just enjoy it."

So we are.

We are enjoying staying in. Nick has redeemed his NetFlicks membership and is a-d-d-i-c-t-e-d to the last season of the West Wing. I have been morosely burying my head in the women's fitting rooms, trying on clothes to make me look like a somewhat normal version of myself. My pants are officially too tight at the non-waist region of my body and maternity clothes are either just too big or too ugly. Let's face it. Most department store fashionistas design pregnant clothes like window treatments. Drapes, drapes everywhere. Everything just hangs over your belly.

Ugh.

Anyway, Isaiah is a growing soccer play, we are musing. Or a punter. Or someone who just has the gift of really strong legs. His kicks and punches and elbows and whatever else he is using to make his presence known is getting stronger and stronger while my ability to sustain long periods of activity are weakening. Lately, I pour myself a glass of milk and head for the couch, or outside for fresh air to get my energy back. Nick is still a cleaning machine, keeping one hand on the broom and the other on my belly to see if he can feel his boy kicking.

Nick and I are thrilled in Week 22.