A day in the life

I thought it might be funny someday to look back on what a typical day is like with Owen, who is currently 7 months old.  Now that the fog of the early days/months is starting to lift a little, I would really love to be able to remember what life was like when he was 3 months old, or 3 weeks old.  But I was so busy surviving I didn't record it.  I do remember repeating over and over to Owen "I'm ok.  You're ok.  We're all ok."  Sometimes to calm him, sometimes to calm myself, sometimes because I really looked forward to the day that I could say it and mean it.

And now, ladies and gentleman, I mean it.  And without any further melodrama, I present to you in word and picture, the events of Friday, March 14, 2014.  Owen, 7-months.  Me, 34-years.  Let's see who wins, shall we?

I should start by saying that I am working part time these days, 3-days a week (usually Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays).  So, as is typical, it was a Friday at home with Owen.  1-on-1.  Let's begin:

6:48am: Owen squeaks.  He's awake and slept through the WHOLE NIGHT.  7pm - almost 7am.  I rejoice quietly and creep across the hall to high five him and nurse him.

7:18am: Put Owen in his door frame jumper thing.  He loves it.  Time for coffee!

Please excuse the laundry in the background.  We'll get to it, I promise.

7:23am: Realize you've gotten distracted by laundry.  Actually get coffee.

7:31am: Eat an egg sandwich while watching Good Morning America.

Gourmet, no?

7:56am: Start a load of laundry.

7:58am: Restock diapers.

See the almost empty basket on the lower right of the peg board?  My life's work is to keep that thing full.

8:00am: Make a shopping list for a trip to Target!!!!

8:02am: Get interrupted by the dog, who needs to go wee.

Elsie the dog needs a doggy door.

8:18am: Fold laundry.  Move Owen to the floor because he LOVES to watch laundry being folded.  Odd child.

8:24am: Smell the unmistakable smell of baby poop.  Diaper change.  Ew.

8:28am: Back to folding laundry.

8:42am: Practice some good old fashion sitting.  He's getting pretty sturdy!

Please take a moment to note the flip flop in the background of this picture.
It will become a MAJOR player in about 8 minutes...

8:50am: move laundry to the dryer, start a new load.  Return to the living room to find Owen chewing on his father's flip flop.  Gasp and gag.  Can you boil a child's mouth?  No?  Sigh.

8:55am: Put Owen down for nap #1 because it's fun to get yelled and cried at.

9:02am: Owen still crying, go in his room for some butt patting (his, not mine) and shushing.

9:04am: Realize that your presence in his room is only adding fuel to the fire. Retreat!  Retreat!

9:09am: He's asleep!

9:10am: Clean the kitchen.  I can't even believe I'm about to do this, but here's a picture of my dirty kitchen.

I can't even believe I'm sharing this picture.

9:30am: Decide to fire the dish washer fairy, who loaded the dish washer full of dirty dishes but did not start it?  Operation Clean Kitchen is 50% complete.

9:32am: Fold laundry.

9:59am: Begin primping.  Realize I forgot to take a shower the night before.  Sigh.  Brush teeth, wash face, deo, mascara, pony tail.

10:02am: Primping done.

10:06am: Decide to get dressed.  Check the weather.  High of 64*.  Mom jeans it is.

10:07am: The Beast Has Awoken (Jeremy and I say this every time Owen wakes up.  Then, we giggle.  Join us, won't you?).  One of Owen's super powers is his ability to wake up almost exactly one hour after he falls asleep for a nap.  It used to frustrate me, but now I've decided to find it charming.  I'm still working on that.

Hi.  My name is Owen.  My internal clock will astound you.

10:12am: Solid meal #1.

10:30am: Meal finished.  Leave Owen in his high chair while I resume the fight with the mom jeans.

10:37am: Finish dressing.  Realize I'm wearing all black.  Johnny Cash Friday?  Maybe I'll wear my yellow coat to compensate.

Can't even believe I'm posting a selfie.  Also, do not adjust your computer screen.  Those smudges you see are on the mirror, not on your computer.  They are Owen's finger prints and I can't bring myself to windex them away.  Getoffmyback.

10:48am: Out the door to Target.

11:07am: Arrive at Target.  Harps play and angels sing.  My happy place.

Owen, enjoying the harps and angels.

11:44am: Depart Target.  Good times, good times.

This basketball was definitely NOT on the shopping list, but Owen asked nicely.

12:02pm: Arrive home.

12:07pm: Diaper change (him, not me), nurse.

12:31pm: Nap (this time he goes down without a fight)

12:38pm: Realize I'm hungry enough to eat an actual human arm.  Settle for a turkey sandwich instead.

Mmmmmmm...

12:43pm: Resume watching "20 Feet From Stardom", the Oscar winner for Best Documentary.  I started watching it the night before but didn't finish.  I love a documentary.  This one is pretty good.

1:24pm.  Feeling very drowsy.  Decide to lay down until Owen wakes up.  I know this is a mistake, but I do it anyway.

1:41pm:  The Beast Has Awoken.  I feel like someone punched me in the stomach.  A 17-minute nap is an insult

1:49: Let the dog out (who? who? who who?)

1:52pm: Solid meal #2.

2:09pm: Owen spits up a startling amount of sweet potatoes.  I guess he's full?  Meal over.

2:46pm: Go for an afternoon walk.

3:21pm: Return from the walk.

3:30pm: Diaper change and nurse.

4:02pm:  Time for a bath (him, not me).  Time for a bath?  Ugh.  Decide to watch Ellen instead.

4:14pm: Time for a bath (him, not me).  Embark on 10 minutes of what feels like wrestling a greased pig.  Not sure what Owen's goal was.  I think he was hell-bent on wiggling all around to stick his entire head all the way under the faucet of running water?  I was literally out of breath when it was over.  Literally.

See that crazy look in his eye?  He was strategizing.

4:26pm: Bath over, mercifully.

4:27pm: Attempt week 31 picture.  I try to take a weekly picture of Owen in his crib with his sock monkey friend.  I've missed 3 weeks over the span of his life.  Today was tough.  Most of the shots I got looked like this:

Very lady-like, Owen.

4:33pm: To the living room.  Owen rolls around on the floor while I have a snack.

Also, wardrobe change!  And mama needs a pedicure.

*Apparently I lost the ability to take pictures from this point forward.*

4:51pm: Read stories (aka: chew on the books, depending on who you ask).

5:02pm: Down for a short cat nap (this one usually lasts for about 30 minutes).

5:39pm: The Beast Has Awoken (see?  I told you).  Jeremy arrives home from work.

5:42pm: Solid meal #3.

6:14pm: Meal over.  Start on adult dinner.  Having left overs!  How exciting!  Warm them up.

6:47pm: Jeremy puts Owen to bed.  I finish "making" dinner.  We eat.

(enter into some sort of time warp at this point.  We ate dinner, watched TV?  Entered the 5th dimension, unawares?)

8:01pm: Shower.  Finally.  Get distracted by the dirty kitchen.  Half-heartedly attempt to clean it.  Give up.

8:09pm: Shower.  Finally.

8:35pm: Out of the shower.  Teeth brushed (did I do that this morning?), realize there are 4 things that must be done before I can go to bed: fold one more load of laundry, nurse Owen, clean the kitchen, and unload the Target purchases from the car.

9:36pm: Go to bed.  Did everything on the list except clean the darn kitchen.  Ew.

4:25am:  (Yes.  AM as in "the morning".)  Owen cries.  Why does he cry?  Is he offended by the dirty kitchen?  I am.

4:51am: Owen still crying.  I go in his room to ask him why in the world he's crying.  He won't answer me.  I try patting and shushing.  No luck.  Change his diaper by the dim light of a night light.  Consider petitioning the International Olympic Committee to include this activity as a competition in the Rio games.  I would dominate.  Try more patting and shushing.

5:01am: I give up, limp back to bed.

5:12am: Jeremy puts on his body armor and goes in.  They rustle and tussle and negotiate.

5:49am: Owen falls back asleep.

7:16am: The Beast Has Awoken (now that I'm viewing that statement in print, I'm not sure it's grammatically correct?  Oh, dear.)

Rinse and repeat...

An accidental tradition?

Christmas is my favorite holiday, for lots of reasons.  One of them is the whole tree-in-the-living-room thing.  I love the soft lights and the smell and the pine needles all over the freaking place.  For me, decorating usually starts the day after Thanksgiving, and I've noticed that my Grinch of a husband usually makes himself scarce after the manly work of putting the tree in the stand is finished.

This year, though, I've got to admit, the thought of dragging out all the decorations and ornaments exhausted me even more than I already am.  Which is a lot.  But I couldn't just not decorate - I mean, it's my favorite.  So, much like I did in every English class I ever took, I decided to half way do it.  I would decorate the tree, I decided, but not all out.  I kept reminding myself that everything I pulled out I would end up having to put away.  And ugh.

So our tree looked a little bit Charlie Brown-ish.

But then something amazing happened.  It was as if my subconscious brain had been working on a solution to our somewhat bare tree.  When we received our first holiday card of the year, it's like the tree gave out a magnetic pull.  I placed the card amongst the ornaments and branches.  And boom.  An accidental tradition was born.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...The Card Tree:

I think it adds such interest to the tree.  The cards make wonderful ornaments, it solves the problem of how to display all these precious photos of our loved ones, and the tree changes almost daily as more cards arrive.  

Looking at the tree is a wonderful reminder of how rich our lives are, due in large part to the friendships we share with people near and far.  

Don't you just love it when being a total slacker works in your favor?

Why our pediatrician should moonlight as a weatherman

Our not-so-little friend Owen has proven to be quite the conundrum for our pediatrician.  We've now been for 4 well-check visits, and at all but the first one, the doctor's predictions about what Owen will probably do have been...well...mostly wrong.  Mostly very, very wrong.  Two examples:

- At his 2-month appointment, the doctor assured us that Owen would begin sleeping longer stretches at night as Thanksgiving drew near.  Translation for Owen?  PARTY at 2:30AM!  Every.  single.  night.  And most nights, again at 4:30AM.  And again at 7AM.  Still.  And we're less than a week away from Christmas.

- On Monday, at his 4-month check-up, the doctor predicted that it would probably take awhile for Owen to start rolling over.  The kid is currently slightly massive (19.5 lbs), so the doc theorized that all that body mass would mean a delay in a successful rollover.  Translation for Owen?  He rolled over on Tuesday.  The day after the appointment.  It's like he heard the doctor and took umbrage with such a statement.  Maybe Owen will be competitive like his mom?

In that case, Owen, it's worth noting that I don't think you'll ever sleep through the night.

The kid in action.  Also, at least his feet are warm?

Dear Owen

Dear Owen,

Tomorrow, you will be 12 weeks old.  Does that mean 3 months?  Or are you 3 months on November 14 since you were born on August 14?  These are the burning questions I have. 

Anyway, you've been around for 12 weeks now and I figured it was finally time to write you a letter telling you what life is like these days from my perspective.  Letters to you at 4 weeks and 8 weeks were written in my head, consisting mostly of sentence fragments and profanities, so let's just be thankful those never made it onto paper, for posterity's sake.  We shouldn't pass bad grammar on to future generations.  They'll have enough to worry about, like can you even imagine how expensive gas will be for them?!?

Currently, you are sleeping in your crib at our little cozy house on Parkside Drive.  I tried to nap, too, but you put a swift end to that after about 40 minutes because I guess you were hungry?  Or today is a local election day...maybe you had political opinions you felt compelled to express at the top of your lungs in the language only you understand?  You settled back down after a brief snack and are currently snoozing away again.  It's raining outside, which sort of ruins my aspirations for an afternoon walk around the block.  What a relief! 

These days, you are about 17 pounds, which apparently is a lot for someone your age.  Having no frame of reference, it seems perfectly normal to me, but people are impressed by your girth.  You are starting to hold your head up better every day, and you've mostly stopped smacking yourself in the face randomly with your hands.  From a personal entertainment perspective, that's sort of disappointing for me, but probably better for us all in the long run.  Sometimes I watch you as you stare very seriously and intently at your little balled up fist.  Yes, son, that is your hand.  You control it.  And you better not use it to launch any nuclear weapons, EVER, young man. 

You are rapidly growing out of your 3-month clothes.  On to the more sophisticated stylings of the 6-month designers, I guess. 

You've still got that strawberry blonde hair that makes people swoon.  It's starting to get longer and the color hasn't changed yet.  If we discover in a few years that your hearing is damaged, we will be able to directly attribute it to the squeals of people exclaiming over your hair.  It is pretty darn cute, as are your dimples.  DIMPLES!  Blame your father, and promise to use the power of the dimples for good and never for evil.  The power you possess is astounding. 

Your sleeping could be better, quite frankly.  Not to be critical, but seriously?  You are HUGE (see above paragraph) and yet you can't quite manage to drop the feeding that happens nightly between 2:30 - 3:30 am.  Do you know what a gut-punch it is to be awoken by a scream at that hour?  And every night?  Come on, buddy.  You can sleep through.  I know you can.  We even started serving your highness rice cereal each evening when you were 10 weeks old in hopes that the extra calories would hold you over, or at least plug you up (excuse the crassness, but it's true.  We were trying to constipate you.) enough to get you through the night.  No luck yet, but I'm still hopeful.  If you're reading this in 2033 and you still wake up nightly for a snack at 3am, I might suggest that you seek medical help.  And get some for me while you're at it. 

My arrival on the motherhood scene has been rocky.  More of a good stumble-around than a waltz.  I've often felt like one of those cartoon characters who wanders around confused only to step on the business end of a rake and knock themselves senseless with the rake handle.  Again.  Think less "synchronized swimming" and more "desperate, flailing doggie paddle."  That will give you the visual of how gracefully I've stepped into the role of being your mother.  I often wonder if all new mothers feel this way, certain that any sort of camaraderie would be impossible to find.  Why don't more new mothers share what it's really like?  Oh, yeah...they're too busy shaking the cobwebs and trying to decide between eating a sandwich or grabbing a 20 minute nap.   "Telling what it's really like" falls into last place on the long to-do list. 

I love you so deeply it surprises me every single day.  In the past 12-weeks/3-months, you have grown and changed before our very eyes, in ways that are obvious and ridiculous and so fun to celebrate and commemorate.  I have grown and changed, too, but in ways that are less amazing and awe-inspiring.  And for all the crying and grunting and sighing and hitting yourself in the face that you've done, I can say with certainty that you've handled growth during this time better than I have.  You have exposed the most selfish parts of me, and challenged my regimented, controlling nature.  Your little life continues to inspire deep and powerful questions for me about my own life and how I might embrace this call to be more flexible, less self-centered, and more willing to welcome change into my world.

Also, I think a couple of solid, 4-hour blocks of sleep might help sort it out, too.  Or maybe a couple of face punches? 

The first time we took you to the pediatrician, you were 5 days old, and our #1 concern was that you would only sleep if you were being held by someone.  We were on the verge of panic.  How could this be?  What should we do, doctor?  What should we do?  "Hold him," the doctor replied.  He went on to remind us how new you were.  How big and wide and overwhelming your world was for you.  How important comfort and security and warmth and closeness were to you.  So we did.  We held you.  And eventually you transitioned to sleeping ON us, to sleeping in your car seat, and then from the car seat to the crib, where you lay right now as I type this.  And while I'm so very glad you can sleep on your own, unattended, now, I also desperately hope that you never lose your need for comfort and security and warmth and closeness.  I hope those things are part of who you are, and that you will give them away to humanity as quickly as you receive them.  Just not to any girls just yet, ok?  Not for another 916-weeks/216-months.  Give or take.  It's the dimples, man.  I'm concerned about the dimples. 

In your early days and still now, your dad and I peer down at your little face as you sleep and before long, one of us whispers quietly, 'we got the best one.'  Like we're on the lucky end of some grand conspiracy.  We got the best one!  Better not say it too loudly, lest someone find us out and realize our good fortune.  Dad and I crawl into bed after you fall asleep at night and talk about the day, and often we'll repeat that truth.  We got the best one.  Owen, you are the best one for us.  For our little family.  You are the best one.  And because of that, dad and I strive to be the best ones, too. 

Love,

Mom

Like looking in a mirror

I'm going to try (again) to start blogging more (again).  I have written so many, so many, so many blog posts in my head.  Brilliant stuff, really, composed in the wee hours of the morning while rocking in the dark.  Rocking in the dark has always been a favorite pastime of mine, only now I get to use Owen as an excuse for doing so.  I chuckle and chuckle to myself at the hilarity of my written word.  Only problem is that it never actually gets written.  But if you could literally read my mind, you would join me in awestruck-ness.

I guess the best way to approach this is to start with some very short posts.  A picture here, a sentence or two there, eventually graduating to an actual paragraph (but let's pace ourselves, shall we?).  I can't promise quality OR quantity.  How's that for commitment?  Here goes:

Very few people have looked at Owen and remarked that he looks like me.  Instead, it's usually a gasp followed by some excited declaration about how he looks JUUUUUUSSST LIIIIIIIIIIKE Jeremy!!!!!!!!

Annoying.

But fear now!  I've discovered a way to find solace.  When people go on and on about how much Owen resembles Jeremy, I picture this photo in my mind, and I giggle internally:

He's a spitting image, really.

Wait...what?

I had a check-up at the doctor the other day.  It was pretty much boring and uneventful, just like doctor appointments should be.  Justin Timberlake was playing in the waiting room, and it was the first time I ever wished I'd have to wait a little longer.  Apparently, I need to get out more.  Actually, CLEARLY I need to get out more.

At some point during my time with the good doctor, she asked if I had any questions.  I asked a few, and somewhere in the course of the conversation, I mentioned that I sometimes have trouble falling asleep, which is, you know, SO FRUSTRATING considering that I'm the mother of a 6-week old and often feel like someone just punched me in the stomach, what with all the lack of sleep and such.  I limp to bed, bone tired, wishing there was some way to get to bed besides having to expend the energy to walk there, and once my head hits the pillow, my mind is like one really long run-on sentence.

My thoughts aren't anxious.  They're stupid.  I think of stupid things, like how Justin Timberlake was playing in the waiting room at the doctor's office and isn't that cool and I would really like to see him in concert, but only if I could have good seats because sitting in the nosebleeds would be disappointing considering the visual he presents is such an important accompaniment to his singing and on and on and on and on and on and before you know it, 45 minutes have passed of me laying there wondering what I'd wear to this imaginary Justin Timberlake concert and SURPRISE!  It's pretty much time for Owen to eat again.

Awesome.

So I mentioned this to the doctor (leaving out most of the above detail...don't you feel privileged?), and she explained how some of that is hormonal and will go away eventually.  And then she goes, "You might also try doing something relaxing before you go to bed.  Like take a hot shower, or have a cup of hot tea, you know, something that helps you relax."

"Ok," I said.  Sounded reasonable.  Until I thought about it more later.  (Yes, while laying in bed, trying to fall asleep.)  So I should take a hot shower before bed to help me relax?  And I should do that 3-4 times each night, given that I "go to bed" multiple times each night?

Does she have any idea the havoc that would be wreaked on my skin and hair if I took 3-4 hot showers per day?  Can you even imagine the WATER BILL?  Did she totally forget that I have to fall asleep as many times as I have to wake up?   Which is, you know, MORE THAN ONCE?  At that rate, I'd end up on Oprah, being profiled for my obsessive behavior.

But there I sat, nodding like a dolt, making mental notes to take a hot shower to relax.  Sigh.

On that note, I'm off to bed.  To think about what I'd wear on Oprah.  Except that Oprah isn't on anymore.  I wonder what Oprah would wear?  I wonder if they give you wardrobe suggestions before you go on a talk show?  Like the ones our photographer sent us before our engagement photos.  I still can't believe our photographer was 20 minutes late to our wedding.  OMG...here we go again...

Connell, party of 3

Ok, so here's my attempt to sum up the birth and first month of Owen, our darling son who has spent the past 4.5 weeks bossing me around.  I have about 20 minutes until he wakes up*, or maybe less than that, or maybe more than that.  If I could, I'd write the whole thing in one long, run-on sentence because that would adequately sum up the pace of life these days.

Monday, August 12
I got a pedicure.  Hugely pregnant, I sat down in a pedicure chair next to a sweet lady who asked me when I was due.  I said, causally, "tomorrow."  Her eyes got as big as saucers and I think she spent the rest of her appointment hoping I didn't go into labor.  I'm sure it was a relaxing experience for her.  I chose coral for my toes.

Tuesday, August 13 (my due date):
I was already on maternity leave, so I probably slept in and took my sweet, sweet time getting ready to go to the doctor.  I probably even brushed my teeth.

12:10pm: Jeremy and I arrive at the doctor for our 40-week appointment.  I was 2 cm dilated, the appointment lasted about 7 minutes, and we made an appointment for the following Monday.  I felt frustrated and OVER IT.
12:45pm: Jeremy and I went to Cracker Barrel for lunch.  I attempted to drown my sorrows in biscuits and gravy.  It sort of worked.  Until the waitress asked...yep, you guessed it..."when are you due?"  "Today."  "What?!?!  Today?  What if you go into labor on a full stomach?"  Seriously.  It was the single dumbest question anyone asked me my entire pregnancy, and it happened to be the last dumb question.  Nothing like going out with a bang.  What if I go into labor on a full stomach?  Well.  I guess...I don't even know how to respond to that question.  I still don't know.  I'm sure there's a clever response, but I've yet to find it.
2:30pm (approx.): Spoke on the phone with Lin, the doula we hired to help us through labor and delivery.  Now would be a good time to disclose that Jeremy and I spent the last 3 months taking Bradley Method classes to have an unmedicated childbirth.  We decided that having an experienced, level-headed third party present might help cut down on the OMG!!!!! OMG!!!!  OMG!!!! factor, so we hired a lovely woman named Lin, who also happened to be the teacher of our classes.  I called her to tell her about our doctor appointment, basically that there was not much news to share, and she gave me a pep talk.  Told me to go do something that I really enjoy doing.  We hung up the phone and I started to consider what it is that I really like to do.
3:00pm: Kicked my pity-party to the curb and headed to Bi-Lo.  What do I really like to do?  I like to eat cake.  So I bought the stuff to make yellow cake with chocolate icing.  I made the following master piece:

5:30pm: Jeremy arrived home from work, I showed him the cake, and then cut myself a huge piece and ate every crumb.  It was good.  I can't remember what we ate for dinner, but I'm sure it was probably something along the lines of...more cake.
9:00pm: I went to the bathroom and my mucus plug fell out.  Gross.  Sorry. Called Lin to tell her.  She seemed kind of unimpressed because apparently that isn't really any indication that anything is about to happen.  Hung up the phone and went to bed.
9:50pm: Had what I thought might have been a contraction.  Since I never experienced any Braxton-Hicks during my pregnancy, I wasn't really sure if it was a contraction, but I was certain this was a false alarm and it would just go away.  After all, nobody goes into labor on their due date.  Or will a full stomach.  I went back to bed.
11:30pm: These pesky fake contractions kept happening, one every 20 minutes or so.  I kept asking Jeremy, "this isn't really it, is it?  I mean, this is going to go away, right?"  He called Lin to report the news, and she seemed a bit more impressed than she'd  been with the mucus plug report.  She told us to go to bed and call her in the morning.  Or something like that - I'm sure she was more supportive and delicate about it that that.  We attempted to go back to bed.
11:30pm - 4:30am: Contractions got closer and closer together, I was still convinced that any moment, the false alarm would sound and we'd all have a good laugh.  At around 4:30, with contractions about 7 minutes apart, Jeremy called Lin again.  This time, she seemed super impressed and headed over to our house.
5:00am: Lin arrives at our house.  The first thing I asked?  "Is this going to go away?"  Amused, she assured me that this was the real thing.  Oh.  Well then.  This is it!
5:00am - 7:00am: Labor continues at home.  Don't remember much about it, other than it hurt, Jeremy tried to sleep, and I ate some pineapple which I would later puke up.  I don't recommend eating pineapple while in labor.  I bet it's worse than going into labor on a full stomach.
around 7:30am: Because she is a genius and has done this before, Lin suggests we call the hospital.  Contractions are about 5 minutes apart, and Lin offered the inside scoop that the nurse shift change was at 7am, so the new shift of nurses were there and settled in.  Perfect timing!  Jeremy called the doctor's office, the doctor called us back.  She sounded totally asleep and confused, asked a couple of questions, and told us to go ahead to the hospital.  We gathered up our supplies (the bags that had been packed and waiting for the past 6 weeks), and hit the road.  I remember being afraid of the ride to the hospital - contractions in the car would be so much worse than contractions in a house?  Turns out contractions hurt the same amount regardless of where you are!  Fun fact!
8:10am: We arrive at the hospital (I remember the exact time because there was a digital clock behind the desk of the checker-in lady, who was sort of unimpressed with me and my labor).  I was embarrassed because I was in public wearing a bathrobe.  I mean, what if the paparazzi spied me?  The unimpressed checker-inner directed us to the elevator, we are shown to our labor and delivery room.  Game on.  This isn't going to go away now, is it?
sometime around 8:30am: The doctor declares that I am 6 cm dilated.  Whoop!
(*later, Lin confessed that, given my progress, she thought we'd have our boy in our arms by noon.  She was wrong.)
8:40am - 5:00pm approx: Labor continues.  And continues.  And continues.  We pass the time by: walking, sitting on an exercise ball, puking, taking hot baths, laying on an exercise ball, laying draped over a bed, eating blow pops, puking some more, drinking water, walking, and so on.  Throughout these hours, the status of my dilation is periodically checked.  Somewhere along the way, I got stuck at 9 cm dilated.

Totally, totally stuck.

5:00pm approx:  Labor is hard work.  That's why they call it "labor" and not "relaxing."  It is mentally exhausting.  Physically exhausting.  Emotionally exhausting.  On all levels, it is exhausting.  At hour 19, with my water broken and my spirit about the same, we arrived at a crossroads.  I was presented with the option of receiving a dose of Pitocin, which might help speed and strengthen my contractions to get that last 1 cm out of the way.  Key word: might.  No guarantees that it would work.  The only guarantee would be that things would get even more intense.  Even more painful.  Even harder than they'd been over the past 19 hours.

Lin and the doctors and Jeremy, with all the enthusiasm they could muster:  "Sit in this rocking chair.  We'll give you a dose of Pitocin.  We'll wait an hour and check again."

Me:  "No."

Long, long, story short, I ended up getting an epidural, at hour 19 and with 1 cm left to go.  I tapped out.  I was done.  Finished.  I fought the good fight and I didn't have any fight left.  After the glorious, wonderful epidural, I rested for about an hour, pushed for awhile (not sure how long) and was finally convinced that labor wasn't just going to go away.

9:45pm:  BAM.

Owen Francis Connell II, named after Jeremy's sweet dad, arrived on the scene.  8 pounds, 10 ounces, 21 inches long.  Red hair.

Love this picture of Jeremy, arriving in the waiting room to spread the news:

Proud papa

Owen arrived after 23.5 hours of labor, 19 of them unmedicated.  It was an awesome experience, and I'm only a little sad we didn't make it all the way without an epidural.  But I'm proud of what I did accomplish, and even more proud that Owen arrived safely and healthfully.

A few more pictures from the hospital:

Jeremy with my parents.  Waiting.

Owen meeting Grandie

Connell, party of 3

Getting ready to leave the hospital

My first-ever ride in a wheel chair.  Wheeeeeeee!

Our royal baby.  

I hope to blog soon about some of our experiences over this first month.  Owen is such a good baby.  He has several tricks, including eating, pooping, peeing, spitting-up, crying, being cute, smelling good, loving bath time, gaining weight, and being so, so cute.  He performs each trick several times every day.  Even though it has been a TOUGH adjustment, Owen really has taken it easy on us, and we are so thankful for him.  What a sweet little life, and we get to share it with him.

Also, sometimes he cries.

Proof

*It ended up taking me approximately 7 hours and 15 minutes to finish this entry.