Our Little Piggy Bank

\\ A tiny shiny UFO moving through Emerson's intestines //

Emerson is at the age where he is putting everything in his mouth. Initially I was proud of him for having such a wide palate - "he even eats spinach without even blinking" I'd brag - but then I realized that he'll chew on a mouthful of sand with the same enthusiasm that he devours the real food I give him, and I stopped feeling quite as proud.

Last week, he thought he'd show off his hand-to-mouth skills, and he put a penny in his mouth. After a little struggle (as I panicked and he choked) he swallowed it. And looked pretty proud of himself.

I immediately called our pediatrician, and spoke with a nurse who told us the worry with swallowing a penny was that it might get stuck in the esophagus or in the lungs. She recommended that we take Em to an emergency room and get an x-ray to make sure that the penny was in the safety zone (the stomach or intestines). Sure enough, an x-ray showed a big ol penny making its way through our tiny baby.

We have been on the lookout for the penny on, ahem, the other side of things, but haven't seen any sign of it. Until we do, Derek calls him our little piggy bank...and I keep grabbing things out of his mouth before he swallows them.  

Too Squirmy For Tradition

I've got a Pinterest account. I know that parents have all sorts of cute ways to document their baby's growth every month. I vowed to start all sorts of cute traditions as well.

At one month old, I plopped Emerson down on a blanket, placed a weird stuffed squirrel next to him for size comparison, and took a million pics of him by his "one month" sign while he laid on his back and cooed:

And...I faithfully documented his growth in a similar style every month.

At six months, I was able to grab maybe two decent pictures before the boy flipped over and crawled away.

He turned 7 months today and I couldn't get him to sit still for even one picture. He immediately tore his paper in half and ate part of it while scooting away from me as fast as he could go.

All our photos from here on out are probably going to be a blur. 

Dentally Precocious

\\ Six teeth in six months //

Poor Emerson broke his first teeth at four months; his two chompers on the bottom showed up out of nowhere. Everyone that stuck their fingers inside what you'd expect be a safe little 4 month old mouth got a razor sharp surprise. Those bottom teeth were followed by two top teeth last month, and just this week his excessive drooling indicated that two more teeth were already pushing their way through the top of his gums. There is something about those gappy pearly whites appearing every time he smiles instead of a gummy grin that makes me feel like my baby is just growing up way too fast.

Besides being a harbinger of his fleeting youth, the teeth also strike a little fear into me, since we're still breastfeeding. I am hoping to teach Emerson as best I can to use the power of his teeth for good, and not evil.

Sideways Sleeper

\\ proving already that I'm not the boss of him //

As soon as Emerson started rolling over on his own, I noticed that when I put him down in his crib he immediately turned onto his side to go to sleep. All these months we've been dutifully putting him to sleep on his back, but the second that he has a say in the matter, he chooses to sleep on his side.

I think watching this happen was one of the first glimpses I've had into seeing this little being as a person that has preferences and makes his own decisions. It has to feel so liberating for him to start gaining control over his little body more and more and to feel like he's the boss of things.

New Baby Smell

// For as much as he proclaims to like milk, he sure spits a lot of it back up \\

I cringe every time anyone leans in to Emerson's neck and takes a deeeeeeep whif, expecting the scent of baby powder and a thousand angel kisses and ready to proclaim how much they love "new baby smell," because technically Emerson smells faintly of regurgitated milk most of the time.

Yeah. I wonder why. 

The Loch Ness Diaper

We've just started feeding E solids in the last month or so, and he loves them. He eats everything from sweet applesauce to green peas with the same enthusiastic gusto that ends up leaving most of the food on the area surrounding his mouth and dripping down his chin.

The one downfall to this newfound love for food is what it has done to his diapers. It has turned his mild little breastfed dirty diapers into mega, super smelly, 10-wipe-required, squish-out-the-side-outfit-ruining diapers that I live in fear of having to change outside of the safe confines of our apartment.

So far, I'm the only one who witnessed one of these new terrifying diapers. Derek says that they are like the Loch Ness Monster; he's heard the tales, but despite doing his fair share of diaper changing, has yet to experience one of the mega poops himself.

I'm a believer, and know that one of these days, upon opening E's diaper, he'll be one too.

Welcome Baby: Baby Face

\\ Hard to know whose double chin and giant balding head he inherited //

When I was pregnant I would sit and wonder what our little baby's face was going to look like, and what features he might inherit from Derek and I. It is amazing to see the same tiny face that appeared on day one evolving as he gets older, but always recognizable as his own little face.

I'm still not 100% sure who he looks like most. I see flashes of both of us depending on what face he is making. Sadly, it looks like I might have given him my giant feet instead of my dimples, and Derek's mom doesn't have that plaid vest anymore, so he doesn't inherit that either.

Welcome Baby: What's in a Name

\\ Our newly named baby headed home in his new car seat and hospital hat //

Trying to come up with a suitable name might have been the hardest part about having a baby.

We were supposed to be leaving the hospital in the next twenty minutes, and we still hadn't finalized the name. I was sitting there on the adjustable bed, giant plastic water cup in hand, waiting for the wheelchair to be rolled in, and Derek and I stared at eachother with big eyes, knowing a decision needed to be made but not being sure how to make it.

The woman from the records department had been...persistent in checking in with us every few hours (that's a nice way of saying that she'd been harassing us) to see if we were ready to fill out our paperwork, and we'd started avoiding her phone calls since we were sick of telling her that we needed a little more time. She surprised us by poking her head in the door, and in a voice that was too bright to actually be cheerful, asked us if we were trying to sneak out of the hospital without giving her our decision. We assured her that we weren't planning on it, but that we still were having trouble committing to a name. She gave us a look, reminded us where her office was, and told us that it was much easier on everyone if we could just get our paperwork in before we left.

I made Derek fill out the papers and take them upstairs to her. It felt a little like the harried last minute of an exam, where you decide to fill in the rest of the scan-tron bubbles at random since it is better to guess and have written something rather than just leave the space blank.

The thing is, it wasn't as if we hadn't discussed names beforehand. Derek and I kept a spreadsheet full of possible baby names that we bandied about for months, but hadn't come to any final decisions.

We talked about family names. We made lists of names that had a tie to San Francisco. We talked about names that were meaningful to us in some way, and names that had the right number of syllables, and names that just sounded good and names that we hated. We imagined ourselves yelling the name across a playground. We imagined our boy having to introduce himself to his friends. We imagined his name printed on business cards some day. We imagined saying his name along with the names of future siblings to come. We imagined possible nicknames. Through it all, we came up with lots of names that we liked, but it was a lot of pressure trying to figure out which name was the right one to actually give this baby for the rest of his life.

Finally, the name that we kept coming back to:

Emerson Bixby Wright.

The name Emerson is just a name we liked. And, though the name doesn't necessarily come from Ralph Waldo, he is associated with liberal thinking, self-reliance and a love of nature, which are all things I wish for in humans.

Bixby comes from a beautiful bridge down in Big Sur that we had crossed over during one of our valentine excursions a few years ago. It is a fine piece of engineering, which Derek obviously appreciates, and the name stuck with me after that trip.

Of course, like any good parents of the 21st century, we googled our possible names before committing to them. Just in case.

When googling "Emerson Wright" one thing that pops up is this amazing video by a kid that looks to be about 11. Apparently he is THE expert on vlogs, comedies, and gaming, but the thing that really put him over the edge into awesome is his glasses that look just like mine and Derek's...except, of course, that his are actually 3-D glasses stolen from the movie theater with the lenses popped out.

The most notable "Emerson Bixby" to be googled is a writer/producer who allegedly wrote and starred in a campy low-budget zombie flick in 1986 that no one can find a copy of.

We felt satisfied.

On our way out, we got cold feet and called the records woman to ask her not to turn our paperwork in until the following Friday, just to give us an extra few days to change our minds if we needed to. I could almost hear her rolling her eyes over the phone.

In the end, I'm not sure why we stressed about it as much as we did. For the most part, we don't even call Emerson by his real name yet. If he goes by what I actually call him, he's going to grow up thinking his name is "bun bun", "bub", "milk mouth" or "little sad sad." 

Welcome Baby: A Birth Story

I know this is a bit belated, but I wanted to finally share my first baby's birth story:

My duedate came and went, and that baby was still cozy and riding high. I should have known that 11/12/13 was too good of a birthday to hope for.

I had no major contractions, even after having my membranes stripped, but I'd been trying to stay as active as possible. Derek and I took long lumbering walks to pick up paint chips and buy groceries. We ate spicy Thai food that made my nose run. We walked around feeling like something major could happen at any minute, but the unknowingness of it made it feel a little like we had all the time in the world.

Two days later, on Thursday night/Friday morning, I rolled over in bed and felt a warm gush of liquid. In the haze of just waking up I thought that I had accidentally peed the bed. I groggily stood up, only to find that the liquid just kept gushing - there was no mistaking this as a bout of incontinence. My water had definitely broken. 

Despite all the movies I had seen to indicate otherwise, I did not feel the immediate need to get in cab, shrieking all the way to the hospital. In fact, had my doctors not told me to call them in this situation, the whole thing felt so uneventful that I probably would have just headed back to bed for a few more hours of sleep. Instead I woke Derek up and dutifully called the hospital to let them know that my water had broken, and they asked me to come in. 

I was suddenly glad that Derek had convinced me to pack a hospital bag, although it felt almost too easy. I picked the bag up and was ready to go, just like that? Baby time? It felt very strange, and I kept walking around the bedroom trying to figure out if I was forgetting anything. We tossed the carseat into the car and headed to the hospital, walking the quiet halls we'd toured just a few weeks earlier and giggling nervously. 

Once the nurses determined that my water had, indeed, broken, they sent me off to my delivery room to get an IV put in and rest for a few more hours. I woke up Friday morning refreshed and feeling good (which obviously meant my contractions hadn't really started yet; a fact that became increasingly obvious on the nurses and doctor's faces as they monitored my progress throughout the morning). 

Finally, since the risk of infection increases the longer one's water has broken without delivering, the doctors got quite insistent about doing something to get this baby-having-party started. Frustrated that we were being encouraged to induce labor, which I was hoping to avoid, I tried a few last times to kickstart my contractions. Balls were bounced on. Halls were walked. Stepping stools were used for mini stair climbing exercises. Nothing helped. 

We decided to start with some Misoprostol, which did start some contractions, but not effectively enough for my doctor's liking. Late in the afternoon on Friday I finally consented to start on Pitocin. 

THEN I started to feel those contractions. Still, I managed to eat a pleasant dinner with Derek and chat with the nurses. We played quiet music, which I didn't think I was going to want but ended up grateful for (I think I made Derek subscribe to some sort of Enya/yoga music channel) and it provided a calming distraction.

By 3am on Saturday morning, I wasn't smiling quite as much. I was sitting on my big blue bouncy ball, propped with my head against the bed trying to work my way through the contractions, but my body was having a hard time relaxing. I'd anticipate the pain of the contraction, and my entire body would tense up and seemed to hold onto the pain. No thoughts of relaxation or deep breathing seemed to help me let go of it, and the cycle seemed endless. First I received a shot of morphine, and though that did help, I eventually found myself calling for an epidural. THAT was a blessed relief, and I immediately went to sleep and was able to rest for a few hours. 

Saturday morning I woke up refreshed, albeit with legs that were mostly numb. I sipped my broth and nibbled my jello, and watched the doctors keep cranking up my levels of Pitocin until around noon, when the doctors watching the beeping monitors told me it was time to start pushing. 

There was quite the fanfare. I pushed. And pushed. The doctors cheered me on. Derek helped hold my legs. We made progress.

After several hours of pushing, however, the enthusiasm of the crowd was waning and I was getting pretty tired. There was also worry about potential for preeclampsia and the baby's blood pressure. Finally the doctors told me that this baby wasn't budging, and that they recommended a vacuum-assisted birth in which I would have three tries to get that baby out before needing an immediate c-section. I automatically balked at this proposal. I really, really wanted to avoid the dreaded c-section, especially since I felt so close to being able to do it on my own...but finally decided that if that baby didn't come out with a vacuum assist, then he probably wasn't going to be coming out on his own any time soon anyway.

Everyone immediately suited up and wheeled me into the OR. There was a different energy in there. Things felt more dire. I already was so tired, but felt the mounting pressure of knowing that this was when it all really counted. I knew that this was my last shot, and that it wasn't guaranteed...especially after we got started and the vacuum popped off the baby's head after the first attempt. The doctor fell backwards almost comically while still holding the little plunger, spraying everyone around her with drops of blood in the process. I was surprised at how hard they were pulling on their end, and that the baby was still refusing to budge. We made it through the second round of pushing, but still no baby. I was trying hard not to give up already, but the situation was feeling hopeless.

I am glad I didn't feel the part where they gave me an episiotomy during the last push. All I know is that I felt the most amazing sensation as that little baby finally made his way out of my stomach and into the world. They let Derek cut the cord, and got the baby to give a good cry before bringing him over and placing him on my chest. I remember: Tears. Smiles. Relief. And a weird sensation of having finally experienced this thing and meeting this tiny being that I'd been anticipating for so long.

So, here he is, world:

Emerson Bixby Wright.
Weighing in at 9lbs 4oz, with a surprisingly well-shaped head, given the circumstances.

I love him more than anything.

++++

I am forever grateful for both Aubrey Trinnaman and Robyn Kessler for being there with their cameras to share this experience with us. Aubrey brought a sleeping bag and flowers and speakers and rallied for an entire day while we waited on this baby to come. Robyn, 8 months pregnant herself, showed up with an hour's notice after Aubrey got called away for a prior commitment, and was the one that ended up being there for the actual birth. Not only was she a supportive and encouraging friend during the delivery, she captured so much of the experience that I didn't fully remember and from an angle I could never have seen. I will love her forever for being able to remind me what a squish face that baby of mine had upon entering this world. The photos in this blog post are all hers, and you can see her own beautiful post about the experience here. 

re: Late

\\ taking long walks can help bring on labor... so i took a long walk to the jcrew 40% off sale //

Well. We've officially moved past the 40 week mark into baby overtime.

Sadly, it looks like in addition to inheriting his parents bad eyesight (this is still speculation, of course) the boy has acquired their knack for showing up fashionably late to everything.

40 weeks, one day, and counting ...  

re: In No Rush

\\ The mildly terrifying doll I learned to swaddle on //

"Don't worry," my BabyCenter email cheerfully told me a few weeks ago. "If you've been nervous about preterm labor, you'll be happy to know that babies born between 34 and 37 weeks who have no other health problems generally do fine."

I just stared at those words suddenly feeling like the wiggling creature in my belly had turned into a ticking time bomb. I'd kind of been counting on the last month of pregnancy to get A LOT of stuff done; Move into a new apartment; Train a replacement employee; Put together cribs and install car seats. The idea that this baby could in theory come AT ANY TIME sort of threw me into a panic.

"Oh, I delivered a month early," my co-worker told me, right before suggesting I probably have everything at work organized every night and set up as if I might not come back the next day. 

The thing is, I've been pretty good about anything that requires a checklist. Find a pediatrician? Check. Take my baby classes and learn how to swaddle an inanimate, kinda ugly plastic doll? Check. I've had my shots. The number of the hospital is programmed into the speed dial section of my phone. There is an entire room of our apartment dedicated to tiny clothing and doodads that I'm unsure how to use. Check, check and check. 

But when people ask me if I'm "ready" for this baby to come, I'm not quite sure. I mean, yes I do own an inordinate number of swaddle blankets, but whether that means that I am "ready" for 2 am feedings and preschool interviews and the pressure of raising a decent human being? I suppose that remains to be seen. 

I'm hitting my 39 week mark tomorrow. The last thing on my list is to pack a hospital bag. 

Let's be honest. This might be as ready as I get. 

re: Weighing In

\\ That's about all I see of my toes these days //

In a fit of quantified-self geekery last year, Derek and I bought a wireless scale from Fitbit that automatically sends our weight to a tidy little graph on an online profile every time we step on it, so that we end up with a nice picture of our weight over time. It is such a smart little device that it "recognizes" me, and blinks a little greeting of my name as I stand there waiting for my body fat percentage to appear.

My graph has been kind of fun to watch as my pregnancy progresses, as it arcs in a way that would be otherwise horrifying if I didn't have another growing human inside me to blame. In the beginning, the little blinking display would just dutifully tell me my new weight daily, without any hint of alarm or judgement as the number grew and grew every week.

Then there was the awkward phase where my weight got too close to Derek's for the scale to tell us apart very easily anymore. You could tell it didn't want to offend anyone ... but instead of boldly blinking my name when I stood on the scale it blinked it with a tentative question mark afterwords. "Bex?"

Now I've safely made it to the other side and the scale knows the difference between the two of us again, though hopefully it isn't the side of things that I'll be staying on too long. I'm planning to confuse the scale again in a few months.