37 Weeks

I feel like I'm at That Point already, where I need to check in at least every day with some kind of NO BABY YET alarm. Even though I'm still technically three weeks away from the dead last of my assorted due dates. (June 5th. Though May 30th and June 2nd also have reasonably good chances of being correct. Take your pick.) 

But oh, my lands, my uterus is getting SO GOOD at this Big Tease routine, to the point that I'm actually waking up each morning a little surprised to still be pregnant. Yesterday I started getting contractions at the farmer's market (which was just SO VERY hippie Earth Mother of me, don't you think?), every 20 minutes, like clockwork. They continued during a trip to the playground, throughout an ENTIRE reenactment of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, as performed by Noah And A Bunch Of Kids He Just Met Who Were Happy To Be Bossed Around By Mr. Noah B. DeMille, and back at home, during a few loads of laundry and nesting business and standing up AND lying down AND more water AND ALSO several furtive helpings of Easter candy. It was all starting to feel...genuinely exhausting and hard work in and of itself, like...hmmm, YOU COULD ALMOST CALL IT LABOR, but I was able to take a short nap in the middle of them. 

When I woke up, the contractions were still going strong. Stronger, actually. And 10 minutes apart.

AFFLGGLAGGLEPPPFFFTBZZZT.

The excitement continued until the contractions decided to...stop. Just...stop. Back down to zero, nothing, no baby for you. Because of course. After all that work and recategorization of several hospital bag items, why should there be any POINT to any of it? 

(Jason: So what's it gonna take before you ever dare to call the doctor again?)

(Me: Crowning, probably. Up until that happens I am assuming everything is just gas.)

Anyway. Here is what I look like today. Still pregnant, still weirdly and unintentionally dressing in colors that blend into our beige-y walls, huh. And my skin. STILL LIFE IN FLESH TONES. 

The basketball is getting a little watermelon-y, I think.

My belly button never turned inside out, this time. It just stretched itself into a flat sort of non-existance, where I look like I never had a belly button in the first place. If this were a sci-fi film that would probably be your cue to destroy me. 

The Third-Time-Around Hospital Bag

So. You may be happy to hear that I finally up and packed a damn hospital bag. (You may also be mildly ambivalent, profoundly disinterested, or experiencing nausea and dry mouth. Side effects may vary, please consult your doctor.) Packing the bag, I believe, is the sure-fire way to prevent a repeat of Tuesday's events, and guarantee that absolutely NOTHING of baby-and-labor-related interest happens until June 1st, when we are scheduled to go in and get 'im. 

The first time I packed a hospital bag I used one of those checklists from the Internet. (Many of which, I've noticed, still mention FILM. Like several times. Make sure your camera has FILM. Bring extra FILM. The hospital gift shop will overcharge you for FILM. It's like a glimpse into childbirth circa 1994!)

Anyway, the checklist I consulted was a very, very looooooong checklist, and I ended up hauling a tremendous amount of useless shit with me. And none of it was organized very well, and since we changed birthing venues multiple times during my labor with Noah (an extended stay in triage due to overcrowding, then a birthing suite, then the OR, then recovery, THEN my non-private, exceedingly small room), we ended up needing a hotel-bellhop-style luggage cart to haul all the various loose things we'd pulled out at various points in time but neglected to re-pack. 

By the time we made it to the recovery room, Jason was wheeling around a giant pile of Random Crap, with expensive electronics shoved in tote bags underneath a precariously-perched Boppy while various charger cords dragged on the floor behind him. Once we were in my room I kept finding smashed-up granola bars ("BRING SNACKS FOR YOUR PARTNER") in my nursing bras and rogue tennis balls ("GREAT FOR COUNTERPRESSURE DURING LABOR") in my toiletry bag.

And then! VERY MUCH WORST OF ALL, IN FACT THE WORST THING EVER! In an attempt to streamline and declutter my room later, Jason packed up a bunch of the Random Crap and took it home, but accidentally took the bag containing everything I needed for a shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razor, deodorant, you name it. We didn't realize it at first, because post-c-section you aren't allowed to shower for quite some time. Which was awful. I felt disgusting. I LOOKED disgusting. Visitors came to see the baby and I couldn't stop thinking they were all staring at the oil slick on my head instead. 

So when I finally got the all-clear that I was allowed to shower, I practically dove in headfirst. Only to discover that Jason had taken my things and I was limited to the hospital-supplied products, which included a horrible combination shampoo/bodywash, a bar of antiseptic hand soap and...nothing else.

Jason had just arrived for the morning and said he didn't feel like turning right around and driving allllll the way home, so just to "deal with it" and he'd bring my stuff back the next day.

To this day, you guys, I am still SO SO SO MAD AT HIM ABOUT THAT.  

We were determined to Do Better the second time. Having the scheduled c-section meant we didn't need to worry about the tennis balls and squeezy stress fidgets or labor-coach snacks (plus I'd come to the realization that hey, Jason could PACK HIS OWN FUCKING BAG, IF HE WANTED ONE, WHY DID I CARE IF HE HAD FUCKING TRAIL MIX AND VENDING MACHINE CHANGE OR NOT, JESUS CHRIST). Plus -- with the exception of the toiletry bag, which I was determined to keep shackled to my ankle this time -- I'd learned that duh, you really don't need ALLLLL your things with you right from the moment you show up. Stuff can stay in the car! Or at home, even! Your partner will go home at some point, especially since you have an existing child, and stuff! 

And lo and behold! THERE ARE ALSO STORES NEARBY. STORES THAT SELL THINGS. 

This freedom -- this terrible, terrible freedom -- to not feel limited to packing One Hospital Bag To Rule Them All, did have its drawbacks. I did, in fact, leave everything in the car except for my purse and a camera bag. This meant we had no bag of our own to put our own clothes in, once I was in a gown and Jason was in scrubs. The hospital gave us plastic drawstring bags...one of which we lost completely between triage and the OR (Jason's clothes. They turned up HOURS later.) and the other of which contained my clothes but somehow was missing one of my shoes (MIA to this day). 

Plus, I hadn't done a very good job of making sure that if there WAS anything I really, really wanted right away, that it was in my purse, and not in the suitcase in the trunk of our car. Because apparently, "riding down the elevator and walking to the parking lot" was the new "I don't feel like driving all the way back home so just 'deal with it'" moment for which I still harbor a great deal of unresolved anger towards my husband. He was too preoccupied with the fact that we'd just had a BABY and look at the BABY and I want to hold the BABY and take pictures of the BABY to understand just how hysterical I was getting because I NEEDED MY HAIRBRUSH AND LIP BALM. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GO GET ME A HAIRBRUSH AND SOME LIP BALM.

So! Good God. Hospital bag angst. The most first-worldy problem ever. Other than maybe your cleaning service forgetting to dilute the floor cleaner properly before mopping and LOOK AT ALL THESE OILY RESIDUE FOOTPRINTS WTF NOW I HAVE TO MOP GAH GAH BZZZZTTTT NESTING OVERLOAD.

(I mean, not that that last bit applies to me and my spoiled little life, or anything. Was just a figurative example.) 

So we have one final chance to Get It Right. I would very much like to Get It Right. Or at least not verbally abuse my husband in a drugged-up hormonal haze over some trivial item that I have suddenly decided is the most important thing in the world go get it gogetit GOGETIT.

Here's how the bag is shaping up so far. I think it's at least, a pretty good start, and acceptable should we have another rush-to-the-hospital emergency because OH, I DUNNO, I COULD PEE MYSELF AGAIN, OR MISTAKE GAS FOR CONTRACTIONS, ANY OF THOSE NOT-AT-ALL EMBARRASSING THINGS. 

In My Giant Ass Purse, On My Person At All Times:

Cell phone with all possible needed phone numbers, iPod selections, lifeline to Twitter, Google, blawwwwgs, etc. 

Flip video camera

Kindle (book selections still TBD)

Fancy outlet splitter with USB chargers for all of the above

Headphones

Lip balm, assorted varieties

Hand cream

Nail file (for me or baby, but probably mostly me because my beautiful pregnancy-enriched nails have a history of breaking into stubby, uneven shards within 30 minutes of giving birth)

Hair brush and small variety of hair clips/bands/restraining devices

Oil-absorbing pressed face powder, because I clearly have Priorities

Laptop. I think. Not definitively sure which bag this will get shoved in, but I solemnly swear to not deprive the Internet of a prompt, timely posting with a baby picture and name information, no matter what. 

*shakes fist at sky Scarlett-O'Hara style*

In Small Tote Bag, On Jason's Person At All Times: 

The "real" camera, the big SLR one

Zoom and 50mm lenses

Extra memory card AKA NOT FILM

Extra battery

Charger

Card reader

Room for those plastic drawstring bags of our clothes, provided everyone dresses seasonally appropriate and does not wear exceptionally clompy shoes. 

(Note that Jason has also been informed that IF we are heading to the hospital *in labor* and a VBAC appears to be at all a possibility, it is his responsibility to handle all the Labor Coach supplies -- tennis ball, bathing suit, snacks -- and also I am not reminding him about bringing his toothbrush or a change of clothes or whatever, YOU GO WITHOUT SHIT YOU WANT AND SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.)

(Wow. I know! I should probably see a professional about this.)

In Small Suitcase, To Be Either Left In Car Trunk Or Hauled With Us, Depending On How I Feel That Day Oh Who Am I Kidding I Will Probably Tether It To My Ankle:

Bathrobe

Slippers

Nursing sleep bras

Lanolin, package of gel Soothies, small travel scissors for cutting said Soothies in half because those suckers are expensive and like, four times the circumference of my actual nipples, HEY-YOOOO. 

Mother's Milk teabags to kickstart boobs into production

Gorgeous embroidered shawl a friend brought me from India to use as an alternative to frumpy bathrobe and/or impromptu nursing cover in case of visitors. (While EXCEEDINGLY VAIN, I'm not particularly shy about breastfeeding, but still don't really want to make like, the husbands of my friends and/or Jason's coworkers or whoever else feel weird, but bringing an full-on classic "nursing cover" to the maternity ward seems kind of excessively fussy.) 

Coming-home outfit for baby. Okay, maybe two outfits. I haven't decided yet. Plus one is a newborn size in case of a 7-pound Ezra Variety of Baby, and one is 0-3 months in case of a 10-pound Noah Variety.

Soothies pacifers, because the ones the hospital offers are crappy and never work to stop the screaming and/or endless self-soothing on Mama's increasingly battle-scarred boobs.

Toiletries, including dry/powdered shampoo, actual shampoo and conditioner, body soap, razor, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, makeup bag, all packed directly INTO the suitcase's interior pockets so there will be NO REMOVING ANY OF IT FROM THE ROOM WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Outfit for me to wear home, UNLESS I happen to be wearing my black dress from Old Navy when we arrive at the hospital, because then I will just wear that home as well because it's my best option right now because it fits and it's black and slimming (SHUT UP) and comfy and every time I've tried to wear pants home from the hospital I've ended up kind of maybe crying over said pants and how they fit and look so FUCK IT, I'M WEARING A MUUMUU BUT WE'RE ALL CALLING IT A DRESS, OKAY?  

Ample extra space for robbing hospital room blind. Boo-fucking-yah, free diapers and disposable mesh panties for everyone!

In Secondary Shopping Bag, Out In The Car, And I Promise To Be Okay If These Items Are Not Within My Possession Within An Hour Of Giving Birth Or Maybe Even Two But Three Is Probably Pushing It OH MY GOD GO GET THE BAG JASON:

Nursing pillow. I gave away my Boppy but that's fine since I never particularly loved the thing, so this time I bought one by Balboa Baby. I bought it 100% based on the fact that the cover was cute. I know absolutely nothing else about it. It may in fact turn out to be the worst nursing pillow in the history of the world, but dammit, it's cute. I AM EDUCATED CONSUMER WHO MAKES EDUCATED CHOICES. 

Regular pillow.

Two full-sized towels, because the hospital only provides tiny little handtowels, which, COME ON, I need like 17 of those to properly dry off after a shower. (Why yes, I AM obsessed with the postpartum showering process a little bit). Both towels are old and disposable in case of horror-movie-like grossness* but still totally Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy approved.

Big Brother gifts for when Noah and Ezra arrive to completely ignore the new baby while we try in vain to take Incredibly Preshus Life-Affirming Photographs.

DVDs, because the hospital rooms do have DVD players but last time ours was missing the remote and didn't really have working external buttons that made any sense, so the DVDs we brought mostly just sat there taunting me. Except for Iron Man, which Jason managed to get to play at fucking 11 pm the first night while I was trying to sleep and was the reason I suggested that hey, I know we have a private room this time and all but I think it might still be better if you don't stay over again. Go be with Noah or something. I also fucking hate Iron Man to this day as well.

(Really, you do NOT want me to develop a grudge against you at any point during the immediate days postpartum. I will take it to my GRAVE.)  

*Okay, this might very well launch us into another whole blog entry here, or cause a significant portion of the reading audience to head for the fucking hills**, but OMG. The Grossness. The Bloooooood. I am guessing -- like everything -- the whole lochia thing varies from person to person, but I am a bleeeeeeder. Some of this probably has to do with having c-sections -- you are confined to bed with a catheter for quite some time afterwards, so I guess maybe it all just...pools and stores up more than for someone who is allowed to get up and out of bed right away? Because the first time I get up to use the bathroom and get cleaned up, it really, seriously is like a slasher film set in an abattoir. For this reason, I DO NOT pack my own nightgowns or underwear or maxipads or any of that sort of thing. I am a believer in the hospital-supplied Giant Mesh Disposable Panties and Two-Foot-Long Rectangular Pads. If my (cheap, cheap) bathrobe and slippers survive the stay, I consider that an unexpected bonus. 

**I'M JUST TRYING TO BE SERVICEY HERE! For anyone else packing a hospital bag! I was caught so unprepared the first time! Like this:

OH MY GOD, COMBINATION SHAMPOO AND BODYWASH?!?! WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS?!?! THE HORROR, THE HORROR!!

And They Kept Asking If This Was My First Pregnancy, For Some Crazy Reason

So apparently I very much accidentally made the end of Monday's post sound a little...misleadingly cliffhanger-y, as many of you misinterpreted my "awkwardly backing out of a topic about how crazypants I am in order to go search of better hand-me-down bin labeling materials" as "I JUST WENT INTO LABOR DUN DUN DUUUUUN."

I was totally planning to tease y'all about that, by the way. Oh! You guys! Are so cute! I forget how labor-trigger-happy the Internet gets whenever it gets within spittin' distance of a due date!

At least, that's what I PLANNING to write yesterday. Right after I took a shower. But then I started to step into the shower, and...what's that? On the floor? Pooling between my feet? And running down my legs?

Um.

Okayyyy. Quick change of plans, I guess?

Now, my water never broke during either of my previous pregnancies. With Noah, it was broken deliberately mid-labor with a pokey plastic stick at the hospital, and it stayed intact with Ezra all the way up to my scheduled section date. (I remember overhearing the nurse say the word "ruptured" while I lay doped up in the recovery room and hysterically thought she was talking about my UTERUS for like, five whole terrifying minutes until I asked and she patiently explained no, they ruptured the amniotic sac. Bless your heart, dumbass.)

So I was not entirely sure what was happening there in my bathroom, though I knew that my water breaking was only one of SEVERAL highly undignified options. I did my best to...ahem...identify and/or classify it, but remained fairly baffled.

I took to Google, surprised to find that it was ready and willing to auto-fill SEVERAL choice color/viscosity-related adjectives I planned to type. Handy! AND YET SO GROSS.

I put on a pad and laid down to stare at the ceiling, wondering whether I felt like overreacting that day. Or under-reacting. I finally decided the risk of looking like, oh, I don't know, AN INCONTINENT IDIOT was probably worth it, just in case I was actually leaking something vitally-baby-important.

Plus, for once, shit was happening during regular office hours! No after-hours answering service! No immediate trip to Labor & Delivery! I could go to the office and they could do that little pH test strip thing right there and send me on my sheepish way in a few minutes! I could hit Chipotle on my way home!

WIN. I called.

It turned out my doctor was already en route to L&D to perform an emergency c-section on another patient. He called me back from his car and listened to my description of Just What Exactly I'd Cleaned Up Off The Bathroom Tile. 

And he told me to not pass go, do not collect $100, do not worry about remaining unorganized closets, but to head directly to the hospital right that very second. 

"WHAT?" I yelped. "WHAAAAAT?"

You guys, I tried to argue with him. I tried to fully express the ENORMITY of how unsure I was that my water had actually broken, of how INCREDIBLY LIKELY it was that I was wrong about the source that watery, milky-colored puddle (sorry), but he was not hearing any of it. Go to the hospital. NOW. If it was your water (and you're not in full-on active labor by the time you get there), you're having a c-section TODAY. 

(Here's where I sigh and rub my temples, because you MAY or MAY NOT have noticed that I've avoided the whole "birth plan" topic around here, because it's just one that you CANNOT WIN, particularly after TWO c-sections. VBAC talk will be met with gasps of horror at the DANGER or IRRESPONSIBILITY or SELFISHNESS, while scheduled section talk will rile up...well, pretty everybody else who thinks they are UNNECESSARY and EVIL and PATRIARCHY and ETC. The fact is that yes, I have a c-section date scheduled. Three weeks from today, actually. However, if I go into labor on my own before then, I do plan to allow things to just...sort of progress and see what happens. However however, an induction is out of the question either way [higher risk of complications] so in the event of broken water + no contractions/dilation = automatic c-section.)

(I hope that paragraph clears a few things up, including a big ol' SPOILER ALERT that I did not have a baby yesterday and am, in fact, still completely pregnant today.)

So. I hung up the phone and began the traditional pre-birth earth-mother-goddess process of WIGGING THE FUCK OUT. It involved a lot of pacing and hand flapping. And phone calls. Jason would meet me at the hospital. ("HOLY SHIT," were his last words to me.) Our sitter could take Ezra to her afternoon job; we'd just need to figure something out by 3 or so to make sure someone was around to meet Noah at the school bus. 

Then I called Tracey for no particular reason, other than the fact that I needed someone to shriek unintelligibly to. Or at, as the case may be. She shrieked back, and then tried to get me back to thinking about like, reality and shit.

"Do you have everything you need? Is your bag packed?" she asked.

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA," I howled.

"So...that's a no, then."

"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. But I'm going to put on some makeup now."

"I really don't think you need to worry about your makeup."

"You're right, you're right, I know."

I swore her to Internet secrecy and promised to keep her updated, then hung up and totally put on some makeup. BECAUSE BITCH, PLEASE.

Then I left. Then I ran back into the house to grab our camera...just in case. I was deeply certain this was all a bunch of fake-out nonsense but figured I'd feel pretty shitty later if my cynicism and self-doubt meant we ended up with nothing but iPhone photos of our newborn later that day.

I also called my mom while on my way to the hospital. "I NEED YOU TO NOT FREAK OUT," I said when she answered the phone. That command worked about as well as expected. 

Now, here's where things get weird. And a little rage-y.

I arrived and signed in while the registration nurse tried to find my name among a pile of little Post-Its with notes from doctors about various patients they were sending in. I wasn't there, so I guess she tried to help me along in the waiting-room wars by declaring definitively over the phone to SOMEONE that my water had broken, despite my original explanation that I was there to get CHECKED to see IF my water had broken. 

It worked. I was barely in the waiting room for five minutes before a nurse arrived to take me back.

But apparently she had a different idea about what "back" part of the maternity ward we were talking about. 

"Usually we'd take you to triage first, but we're going to skip that and take you right back to get prepped for surgery, so we're ready to go as soon as your husband arrives."

"WHOA WHOA WHOA." I said. "LET'S BACK THE FUCK UP FOR A SECOND. SCALPEL MCCUTTYPANTS."

(Okay, I didn't maybe say that exactly. It was probably more like, "Wait, what? No.")

So it turned out that some not exactly minor miscommunication had occurred along the way, with this particular nurse thinking that I'd already HAD the strip test done at my doctor's office, and the head L&D nurse thinking that my Puddle of Mystery was something more like a Gushing Geyser of Absolute Certainty, and my doctor being in the middle of surgery and fighting to keep dibs on the operating room IN CASE I needed it next ahead of a scheduled section currently sitting in the waiting room cursing people like me and MODERN HOSPITAL MEDICINE AT ITS FINEST, FOLKS, JESUS CHRIST IN A SWADDLING BLANKET.

"I need to be checked first," I said, folding my arms. "In triage or wherever. I am not sure. I am, YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, a complete and total idiot."

(THIS IS WHY EVERYONE I INTERACT WITH SHOULD READ MY BLOG, YOU KNOW?)

The nurses agreed, and my one-way ticket to the operating table was rerouted to triage. Jason burst through the curtain just in time to see my cervix get swabbed with a giant Q-Tip. 

"Hi!" I said cheerfully. "How was traffic?"

THINGS WE LEARNED IN TRIAGE:

The baby was doing great.

I was having contractions.

But.

My cervix was closed.

And my water was most definitely not broken. 

So. I got dressed and came home, exceedingly relieved to NOT be having a baby that day, holy shit, stay in and cook, and let me pack a proper bag and launder my nursing bras first, or something. Yet also kind of embarrassed over the havoc I'd managed to wreak during the last hour and a half (over what was, probably, some random unholy episode of MUCUS AND PEE). The nurse at reception looked so shocked as I stepped on the elevator, like I shouldn't I have been crowning or something by then? My doctor remained suspicious, ordering me to call at the first sign of Any Additional Weirdness (of which there has been none, NONE), and scheduled me for a follow-up visit at the office this afternoon. 

I AM SO HITTING CHIPOTLE ON MY WAY HOME, IS ALL I AM SAYING. 

36 Weeks & The Return of the Hysterical Nesting Syndrome Thing

I spent most of the weekend alternately convinced that 1) I was going into labor, or 2) never going to go into labor until I FINISHED ORGANIZING ALL THE CLOSETS EVER.

Saturday night:

Very Serious-Looking Self-Portrait With Toilet Paper & Assorted Hand Soaps (And A Very Bad Angle Of My Kickass Mother's Day Gift, Dammit). Taken at some point during three hours' worth of contractions, at times coming as little as three minutes apart. 

I figured the best way to put a stop to that nonsense was to pack my hospital bag, but then decided to take a quick bath first -- just in case, so I could shave some essential areas -- and BAM. The contractions stopped as soon as I got in the tub, which...was good! I'm still a week away from full term! I have to wash the car seat cover, and that one baby blanket I ordered hasn't shipped yet, also CLOSETS, and...and...

Fine. I was kind of bummed. 

Luckily, Noah was on hand to amuse me with his best Hipster Michael Cera impression.

Sunday Morning:

Very Serious Portait Of A Very Serious Breakfast In Bed. Perfect eggs Benedict with shaved pork loin and homemade Hollandaise sauce. Coffee and additional bacon arrived later, but by that point the rest of the plate was no longer as pretty because I'd practically eaten straight through the tray in a frantic rush.

Because I thought I was in labor. Again. This time, I was sure my water was leaking. It was not. 

I will...spare you any more details, now. 

Instead! 
 

Closet!

(Don't judge all the shoes! In particular those green gardening clogs that I wear FOR GARDENING OUT IN THE GARDEN I SWEAR TO GOD DON'T MAKE ME STAB YOU IN THE EYE WITH A STILETTO OF WHICH I ALSO OWN ENTIRELY TOO MANY.)

Baby closet! Freshly stocked with a brand-new summer-baby wardrobe, which he'll maybe wear about half of because I am generally too lazy to attempt anything more complicated and snap-centric than a diaper. But still! The clothes are there! They EXIST! They have been washed and organized meticulously by size and style and maybe even color scheme a little bit!  

I am ready to have a baby. This baby. Because seriously: I have nothing else to do with my time now except sit around and imagine that I am in fake labor all the time or maybe relabel those bins of hand-me-downs with a more pleasingly color-coordinated tape. 

*stares at blue tape*

*twitches eyelid*

I...need to go. Now. Something...important...just happened. 

Bragging + Blogging = Mommyblagging? Brogging?

SOMEONE had a preschool interview this morning. His first -- and likely last, because the kid just totally got himself accepted to our first choice school, the uber-precious Montessori down the street that strikes that perfect balance of all-plain-solid-wood-toy adorableness, completely imaginary snob prestige, and oh yeah, being in our goddamn price range, holy shit. 

Though I originally THOUGHT we'd apply for a two-day two-year-old program, only to find out that no, Ezra's mid-October birthday is still early enough to admit him as a three-year-old. 

Three-year-olds attend five days a week, they said.

Imma gonna need to call you back, I said. And promptly passed the fuck out. 

Oh! The sunrise/sunsettiness of it all! My baby! MAH BABY. 

I told Ezra he'd be visiting a school this morning. He promptly requested a backpack. When I told him it was time to go, he said, "OH MY BUS IS HERE!" and hustled out the door, where he was crushingly disappointed to learn that no, he would be chauffeured to school by Daddy. In the minivan.

Jason took him; I pretended not to care in the slightest because WHATEVER, PRESCHOOL, but of course as soon as they returned and I oh-so-casually asked how it went, Jason called my bluff and told me, "They said he's not a good fit."

Well. HE thought it was funny, anyway. 

Ezra arrived in the classroom and immediately and painlessly separated from Jason, like TOYS TOYS THINGS BYE DAD, quickly settled on his activity of choice and sat down with a teacher for a quick mini-lesson, chatted politely with her for awhile and then obediently cleaned everything up when they were done. 

Then he wandered over to some flash cards and pointed to one with the number nine. 

EZRA: Nine!

TEACHER: Wow! You know your numbers already!

JASON: Um. I...guess so? Apparently? Yes?

(THANKS, NICK JR!)

(HI, MAX!)

So it's settled. Come September I will be the mother of a kindergartner and a preschooler. And an infant. A fresh one. With that nice new-car head smell. Well...actually even that one be three months old by September, and possibly outgrowing clothes already and making his first rolling-like attempts at mobility and Ruining Mama's Life and growing up so fast and I will need another new little baby to stay home with me forever and ever AND I AM SENSING A FLAW IN THIS HAVING BABIES THING ALL OF A SUDDEN. 

Here Is Some Ezra, For No Particular Reason

ALL RIGHT. WHICH ONE OF YOU ASSHOLES STOLE MY BABY?

AND REPLACED HIM WITH THIS...

THIS...

KID.

THIS CHILD.

THIS SUPER-GROWN-UP-LOOKING LITTLE-BOY CHILD.

(Who still, admittedly, sleeps with his Winkie blanket and sucks his thumb and blows raspberries on my pregnant belly and calls Cheerios "chowder" and says "I SCARED!" whenever Noah watches Harry Potter and "OW MY BUTT" whenever I pinch it but who also unloads the silverware from the dishwasher and counts to 10 and knows his shapes and is applying to preschools this week because it just now occurred to me that wow, he's not my baby anymore, he's my very funny, very amazing, very wonderful, very super-grown-up-looking little boy.)

Imprint

I haven't cried since that night. I've teared up a couple times, my voice has wavered now and then, I've stood deer-in-the-headlights style at a party waiting for the topic of conversation to move on from cute stories about other people's fathers, but I haven't cried. 

That is, until this arrived in the mail:

That's my dad's thumbprint. I took the impression while sitting with him after I could no longer talk with him. Some people take photos or locks of hair, I rolled up balls of purple-and-white putty and gingerly pressed his fingertips into them. 

This is it, I thought the whole time. This is IT. 

I suppose I'd known before then -- after all, I'd specifically requested the compound be overnighted ahead of our visit, just in case. On the Friday before he passed away I told him about Janessa and the fingerprint jewelry she offered to make for me and my mom, and I felt...weird, like YO I KNOW YOU'RE DYING AND ALL BUT IMMA GONNA MAKE ME A NECKLACE, OKAY? 

He didn't think it was weird at all. He thought it sounded like a lovely idea. 

Still, though. I left the compound in my suitcase until Saturday, when he was unconscious and we were waiting for an ambulance to arrive to take him to hospice. I did one frantic batch of impressions then, like omg omg fuck shit hurry get it done, and another batch on Sunday, because I was terrified I'd done it wrong in my frazzled state the night before. I was alone in his room then -- I'd sent my mom home to shower and change clothes -- and I repeated the process. Gingerly, quietly, reverently.

This is really, really it. And it's okay. 

I don't know which batch Janessa was able to lift this particular print from. Either way, holding it brought the memories of the whole awful, terrifying, precious weekend back in waves, and I sat on the couch and just...sobbed, for the first time. 

And you know what? It felt good.

He is gone, but he wasn't always. He was here and I had him, for 33 years, and after that I also had the chance to be there at the end and say goodbye and preserve a tiny reminder of him in silver. For always. 

(Thank you again to Janessa for making this charm for me. I don't think there are enough terrabytes on the Internet for me to fully capture how meaningful it is, so instead: Y'ALL GO BUY STUFF FROM JANESSA AND GIVE HER NICE MONEY BECAUSE SHE IS GOOD PEOPLE.)