To All My Sisters Who Still Hope

If only The Chief arrived in like fashion!
Photography by Wendy of Blue Lily Photography

The very first month that we tried for a baby and did not conceive I was devastated. I went to my parent's house, slunk into a fetal position and wailed. It wasn't just a missed cycle that I grieved, it was the unshakable feeling that this was the first of many to come. It was a manifestation of a personal revelation that said "Infertility is your life's burden."

The second month I thought I might be pregnant. I was late by two hours. In trying for a baby everything is so calculated, you know, timed for best results. Caught up in my tardiness, I had forgotten the lesson that accompanied the previous month's period. This time I was reminded, and given more specific instructions, "It will be five years before your conception."

When we married, Chup and I decided to leave birth control up to the Lord's timing. In all disclosure, I felt that such obvious faith would be rewarded with ample fertility. Chup, on the other hand prayed that the Lord would know that a baby-right-off wasn't prudent for us. In this I learned that giving control to the Lord sometimes feels like chaos. But not necessarily directionless chaos.

Twelve barren months later, I gave into the current belief that infertility after a year is reasonably a medical issue rather than a spiritual one. I called a specialist, and while the phone rang, my head echoed "Don't do it. Don't do it." Five thousand dollars, a couple month's worth of deflated pride and some strange, fruitless procedures later we decided to quit.

About that time a friend came to visit a friend whom I wanted to meet. She had also carried the banner of INFERTILE, came to understand that she would be blessed through adoption, and had become a mother to a beautiful daughter some time later.

"I knew I was supposed to adopt." She declared.

And when she said the word "knew" my heart started to flip like a pancake on a hot griddle. I also knew, but I had never declared it to anyone. Instead, I listen to years of advice and misdirection aimed at me to direct. Then she asked me,

"Do you know?"

I nodded.

"I am going to conceive." I said. And when that statement hit the atmospheric pressure of this earth it transformed itself into light so I felt like sunshine was figuratively bursting out of my body.

Not only did I know I was going to conceive, but there was no explanation for our situation other than Heavenly Father was in complete control. The same control that we (thought) we gave him by choice in the first place. He was exercising our right to agency. The baby was coming--coming via my body--all in good time.

Then, for the rest of the time that remained of the initial five years I swam in the cycle of stability, frustration, which lead to doubt. Close friends and family often had to question my seemingly lackadaisical approach. It was heavy on the spirit and non-existent on the body. Fine, fine, fine we understand what Heavenly Father is saying, but what is the doctor saying? When in these times the Lord would visit me with encouraging inspiration and I would start the cycle all over again. Many times I had to review what had been said, "you will conceive" "in five year's time" "your body is perfectly healthy" which became more and more specific until finally I not only knew that I would conceive, but I knew how old I would be and the actual month it would occur.

Only, on the last month--as a tactic of survival--I decided to give up all hope for motherhood. I poured every last drop back out into the ether and replaced it with current contentment. I needed to be able to say that my happiness was contingent on nothing. I had given my will to the Lord and His will was done. The hardest thing I had ever done. Or hope to ever have to do.

It has now almost been a year since my stalled infertility. I came to know that pregnancy carries with it it's own special bag of insecurities and anxieties. Should I be blessed with that once-assumed ample fertility from here on out I will be ever so grateful. If not, and my months of wishes return I will also be grateful. And this is why: Something still grows inside a woman who doesn't conceive a baby. In her grows character that is consumed with confidence, humility and desire. A symbolic embryo that is hers to nurture and others to behold.

And its birth is phenomenal.


Would you like to see more gorgeous photos of my baby taken by the famous Wendy of Blue Lily photography?

You would?

Shucks.

Click, click!

Mammorial Day

Yes so, birth.

In the night there is a dream and in the dream you are riding in an old elevator with your best friend from childhood. The elevator stops and suddenly you feel wet and declare, "I think my water just broke!" Around you gathers a crowd of people who are cheering. Some even whistle. It's like a coronation of sorts, except you still feel wet.

And then you wake up and realize, labor has begun.

In the early morning you wake up the husband. He gives a spirited response and groggily rolls back over to sleep. For a couple hours you clean your house, do the last load of laundry, set some warm towels in the crock-pot and manage to bake a few batches of chocolate cookies. All the while, it is your little secret. The Secret.

Then the contractions begin.

In the afternoon, while rushes are coming randomly you decide to wait it out watching the latest Indiana Jones movie with the husband. It's campy and silly, but doesn't matter because, remember? In a short time there will be a baby in your arms. A real baby.

A baby who belongs to you (finally!)

In the evening, the contractions come faster. Family arrives at the house with food and prayers. They set up camp, watching you welcome regular contractions. Your husband rubs your feet. Sister Page adds a lavender-scented essential oil. You spend the evening reading birthing stories out loud to Page and Mom.

They eat your cookies.

By morning the next the contractions have moved to the back. Page figures that your baby must be posterior. The camp decides to head to the hospital where the nurses quickly confirm Page's diagnosis. After thirty hours of contracting there is an appeal to an epidural.

Then your feet turn numb and you feel like you've turned into Octopus Woman.

Hours later, in a sea of green scrubs and a cheering section of your woman-folk, plus one bewildered husband you are pushing. . .

. . . at least, you think you are pushing. . .

and smiling even though there is an oxygen mask on your face. It takes a few pushes--maybe a half dozen--and boom.

A head, a neck, a cord, a torso, a baby.

The baby.

The long-awaited infant! The specimen who has been occupying your belly (and thoughts) for the past ten months. The end of a season of unproductive fertility. The answer to your plead-full prayers.

And he's a cute little fella.

Who, as it turns out has a rigorous latching ability. Who, ray.

Shortly, there are visitors. Happy Grandma and Grampa K bringing food and handmade blankies. Md, Kentucky and Phun. Phun greets The Chief with the appropriate "HOW!" as one would to an Indian in the Pilgram's day. Lucy and Ric bring blooming peonies. Lisa enters crying. Owen finds the blue surgeon's gloves.

Nurses in. Nurses out.

Grandpa and Umi. Suze and children. Emily holds her promise of being the first cousin to cradle the newest crew member. Jesse and Lindsay stop by, make you laugh. Make Chup laugh. Give you a gorgeous green blanket knitted by Olga herself.

All-the-while, Steph is texting from the desert.

You debate with your husband for many hospital hours about a name, meanwhile the birth certificate worksheet stares at you with yellow eyes. Name him! Name him! It chants.

Finally the husband agrees to your first name, if the middle name can be the state of his origins. Yes, that is right your baby's middle name is one of the 50 states. A gem of a name.

(Like Indiana Jones!)

In the morning there is a circumcision to be done. Daddy is still at home, showering and readying the house for our arrival. You can't handle the thought of having your son's privates clipped in some sterile room in the recesses of the hospital all alone. So, at the insistence of your good friend Dr. Melissa, you walk down the corridors with a your son and pediatrician cursing Dad for firmly making this decision.

Turns out, circumcisions are fascinating. Not so gory. Baby sleeps through entire procedure. Daddy shows up for the last part, Dr. Melissa shows him the clipped skin. Daddy looks confused, Dr. Melissa recommends being proud. Deal.

In the afternoon you get the okay to go home. Katie, the nurse, wheels you out via wheelchair. It seems ceremonial, if not silly. And then someone forgot to take The Chief's security monitor off his little ankles.

The hospital goes on lock-down as we pass the exit.

The day is rainy. We pack in the car and drive towards home. Daddy says something like, "It feels like we are young college students, driving our beat-up Toyota back to Wymount with our new baby."

Exactly what you were thinking.

There is a brief stop at El Azteca, and finally you are home again. Safe, quiet, nurses-free home! The rain has turned to hail and as you sit there, baby on shoulder, eating beans and guacamole Daddy announces that after all, he still finds you attractive.

Deep breath.

In the afternoon, as you breastfeed (heaven!) you look at your new house, your good husband, your sweet, sucking newborn son and wonder . . .

. . . how soon until I can do this again?

Today's Headlines Confirmed What My Heart Already Knows

People are always like "c jane you never answer your phone. It is really annoying. Why don't you answer your phone once-in-a-while? Why don't you want to talk to me? It hurts my tender feelings so badly. Like you don't care about us. Why don't you care about us?" and so on like that.

This is why people. This is why. And (like every study done under the sun) it's SERIOUS.

Click here.

I'll See What I Can Do

Chup (this morning): Could you not have The Chief today?

Me: Why?

Chup: Kristy won everyone on the team free Chipotle burritos for lunch.

Me: You eat Chipotle once a week already.

Chup: I know, but today it is free.

And Still Nary A Contraction

I've said it before and I will say it again, if you ever want to know who reads your blog go to Target. (If you don't have a Target nearby take two of these and call me in the morning.) There--out of the shoe aisles or in the middle of the fluffy pillow section--you will meet someone (an old friend, a new friend, a stranger) who greets you and says, "I read your blog!" And cheers all around strengthening my testimony that Heaven is a big Target (Super Target because I love the groceries, Archer Farms anyone?)

From the response we got on Saturday evening's trip to Target/Heaven apparently there are those out there who are interested in knowing if The Chief has held his final pow wow (so to speak). No, he is still here, right here, between me and the keyboard. Did you feel that squirm? That is was him getting comfy. There's just no rushing The Chief when he's got a pound a week to gain and amniotic fluid to float around in.

And now allow me to answer (candidly) some of your questions.

Am I dilated? I don't know. I've decided not to care. Such things have driven many a good woman batty at a time like this. My pupils are dilated for sure though because it is dark in the Retro House and I am typing by the light of my laptop.

When is my due date? What is a due date? A number that pops up on a little laminated wheel chart at the doctors office? Is it the date your computer gives you when you type in the date of your last period on baby.com? A message from the ultrasound machine after measuring your baby's cranial? I don't get it. I think the Gods laugh at us. I just read that only 5% of babies are actually born on their "due date." Where is the comfort in that prediction?

I tried to attach numbers to my body when trying to get pregnant. It didn't work. Sometimes I ovulated on day 11, others on day 16. My cycle was sometimes 24 days, other times it was 27. If numbers didn't predict my fertility then why should I attach numbers to it now?

And that is the short answer.

What is your birth plan? I eloped to Vegas to marry my husband, that should tell you something about how I coordinate(i.e. plan) my momentous life events. Also, I am going to eat sushi directly following the birth. Sushi. Sushi. Sushi. Not that I've denied myself during the pregnancy, it's just that I can never get enough of Mercury. Mercury. Mercury.

Do you have a name? Yes, but I go by c jane when I am blogging.

How are you feeling? Positive, hopeful, maybe a little sarcastic in conversation. My body has amazed me these past nine months. Everything is just getting more intensified here at the end. I love it. What a funny ride.

If you'll excuse me, the wind is blowing outside like mad. There is talk of barometric pressure inducing births. The Chief and I need to do some conversing before the rain starts to fly.

Pray on!

Waiting for Burrito

Today is the sickest I've been this past nine months. There is no point in smattering the details on my "enjoy it" blog, but needless to say, it's been dreadful. Chup was good enough to stay home from work to see to it that I didn't die. As I type, we are in the orange-carpeted nursery. He is figuring out the crib dimensions like a giant puzzle as I sit in my white rocking chair. The whole thing feels insanely surreal. Whose life is this again?

I know what you'll say. You'll say something like "hang on, it's almost over." I know it is. I mean, I really know it is. It must be because I caught myself refolding my lunch burrito over and over practicing the swaddling technique Sarah taught me on Friday. Not until later did I realize what I was doing this afternoon, playing with my food absent-mindedly.

Last night I read in the Book of Mormon about when King Limhi tells his people to rejoice in that the end of their subjection was almost over. Still he adds, "yet I trust there remaineth an effectual struggle to be made." (Mosiah 7:18). Is today's bodily purging the beginning of my last remaining effectual struggle? Will it end with a (well-swaddled) baby in my arms?

This much I know, I couldn't do it without Chup. His insistence of my comfortability allows for me to feel confident. Funny how that works.

Funny how it all works.

The Three E's of Buying a Nursing Bra

There comes a time in every woman's life when she acknowledges her dependence on a sturdy bra. This morning was such a time for me. So it was with a brave face that I went off into the battlefield of fine department stores looking to spend lofty cash on a bra that would last me through my next stage in life: The Nurse.

As a first timer, I thought I might as well try the whole nursing bra contraption, may it come with snaps or buttons or lace or bows or dangley doo-dads. I see no problem making do with one I've got now, only that hormones have done a number on my physiology and the dam is near breaking (if you follow.)

And yes I intend to nurse, I've got all sorts of great expectations. I might even nurse until The Chief goes to Kindergarten, only I just remembered that I am going to home school. Oh vey, how did things get so complicated? (And when did I turn Jewish?)

All smiles, I showed up at the "intimates" counter and asked the Dr.-Laura-looking lady (pink measuring tape for a necklace) if she could help me with a nursing bra. She looked at me for a brief second and returned leafing through a big catalog on the counter.

"Oh yes . . . let me see . . ."

Turning pages. No eye contact.

" . . . you might be a good candidate for . . ."

A good candidate for what?

This much I knew: I never want to be a good candidate for a phrase that starts with "you might be a good candidate for . . ."

" . . . a new line that comes in . . ."

Polka-dot?

The suspense is killing me.

She turns two pages.

" . . . specialty sizes . . ."

Like Double J?

" . . . oh but I can't find it here in the catalog at the moment."

Eye contact. Then bosom contact. Then belly contact.

"Have you had your baby already?"

"I hope not."

"Ok. Let's go to the dressing room."

If you are a lady, and you are reading this, only you know what happens next. I am just so gratefully glad that I live in Utah Valley where the Lingerie Specialists acknowledges your Mormon needs behind closed slatted dressing room doors. In fact, mine even went so far to say that LDS women can outwear bras longer than their non-LDS counterparts. Something about our bras being blessed? I forget now. But talk about another reason for getting baptized!

After being measured in what was a semi-formal affair, I was offered a couple options. Only that the Lingerie Specialist was very fumbley-at-the-mouth when it came to telling me my correct size. Was she embarrassed? Was I freakishly huge?

"Well, you are a . . ."

"It seems like . . ."

"Do you remember what you were before you got pregnant?"

Look, I wanted to say, nothing is worse than getting on the scale at the Dr.'s office only to have him tell you to exchange chips for nuts. Chips for nuts! A pregnancy miracle! Just lay it on me already. What is my blasted bra size?

"Triple E. I should think."

I stood all amazed. Never even knew the existence of that size.

Then with a half-curtsy she disappeared to fetch a pail of bras labeled "EEE."

I looked down, very stunned.

(And . . . admittedly a little bit proud of myself.)

Then I did what any rational wife would do. Texted my husband with the news.

[Start text.] Triple E! [End text.]

I waited for his quick (witted) response. Only it never came, and that dressing room got increasing smaller. And more lonesome. Until finally I felt like couldn't breathe. Panic! Attack!

As it turns out, life is very lonely for those of us marked Triple E.

(I found that out early enough.)

Just as I was about to dress and exit with my wire-encroaching bra of yore, the LS came back into the room. She asked me to do some bra fitting exercises with her. (Lower chest, shimmy--her word, not mine--slide into contraption, and clasp!) Ah the comfort of a well-fitted bra! Practically like not wearing one at all. (Which is always preferable.)

"Now, did I say that you were a Triple E?"

She asked businessing her hands with hangers and lacy unmentionables.

"Yes." My voice came out like I had been sucking on cotton balls. It was a huge-sized leap from nine months ago. But I am learning to own my Inner Goddess, and besides, I've never been shy about my physical endowments. Only, they've never seen that side of the alphabet before.

"Silly me! Actually, you've only gone up one cup size from your pre-pregnacy chest! Great news!"

Then she took my pink credit card and swiped away.

Making me the proud owner of two new nursing bras.




Of which sizes I shall keep a secret.

Swell

I can safely say that I am not addicted to blogging. What a relief! I've been so enthralled with setting up my house that I haven't needed one blogging break. However, I have missed writing and therefore have all sorts of thoughts and posts that are marinating in my head. Oh yes, and I've missed my blog-o-sphere friends. But I am just really saying that for your sake.

As you may recall I am less then a month's way from delivery. A couple of weeks ago, my equally pregnant friend Ashley, at a spontaneous Cafe Rio gathering, asked if I was swelling yet. "Swelling? No. Still pukes." And you know what? I was kind of proud, like I chose my poison, thank you.

But last week I said, hello to Cabbage Patch Doll feet and hands.

Chup, Lucy and I went to Ikea on Saturday. I kept saying "I need a wheelchair." And they kept saying, "Har har har!" After 3 hours of walking around I sat down on some special pine bench (The Klarrifurkl?) and showed them the swell of my red feet. "Happy?" I said in a very mean-pregnant way.

Then Chup let me buy the chandelier I wanted, so it all worked out.

So yes, I am getting ready for this adventure of pregnancy to be accomplished. In fact, I've started looking for signs of the end. I listen to the wind, I write down my dreams, I look in the entrails of neighbor's dogs.

Nothing.

Until yesterday.

A couple months back I had a dream that I was toting my baby around underneath my parent's crabapple tree. He was a newborn and I had to support his head as he looked around at the mass of pink blossoms and happy chirping birds. With milk-drunk eyes he looked up and exclaimed,

"Burrrrdies."

And I thought,

"Holy crap my child can talk already."

(Pride.)

Since that dream I've added to my obsession with birds and nests. Every room in our house has a bird or a nest of some kind. It reminds me of nest-building, my ultimate purpose. The point of swollen feet. And hands.

Then yesterday, as my family and I were meeting with Topher and Lisa's ward to celebrate the blessing of baby Margot, Lucy pointed up into the rafters of the spacious sacrament meeting room.

"Look!" She whispered to me, "there is a bird up there."

Indeed. A blue bird was swinging on a chandelier towards the front of the chapel. Occasionally it would fly back-and-forth from man-made wood perches. It made no sound and seemed content to listen to testimonies and songs of Zion. Soon everyone in the congregation was entertained by our visitor. (I hope the whole experience makes Margot's Blessing Day scrapbook page.)

And I knew that it was My Sign.

Burrrdie.

Only a little bit longer.




Bird from Limon Verde's.

Now, On to Chosing a Color for the Nursery

I am standing in front of our bedroom mirror.

I look at my face.

I wonder what it will look like when I go into labor.

I glance at Chup.

He is sitting on the bed, engrossed in a magazine article.

Not watching.

So I pretend I am in labor, just to see how it looks on me.

Face 1: I clench my jaw, dropping my cheeks, making my eyeballs look like they might pop out of my head.

Face 2: I puff up my cheeks, the bridge of my nose a wrinkled road of flesh, my eyes squinty like a glance in the sun.

Face 3: I grit my teeth and seethe.

I can't decide.

Chup is still reading the article.

"Excuse me." I say to him politely.

"Hmmm?" Chup does not look up.

"Which labor face should I choose?"

I quickly demonstrate all three as soon as he lifts his head.

"Right. Probably not the gritting teeth one." He responds, and returns to his article.


So . . . I'm glad that's decided.

Baking From Scratch

Lucky's photo of me in front of the Provo Bakery, pre-pregnancy

Yesterday I found myself conveniently downtown Provo. I was picking up my taxes, only a block away from the Provo Bakery, and decided to give in. To sin.

A chocolate sprinkled donut.

And as I was ordering the very perky and terribly cute bakery girl asked me if I liked being pregnant.

For a split second I paused.

I remembered that for five years of my life I honestly hated to hear women say that they disliked being pregnant. That was the worst offense. Even my own puking-seven-times-a-day-the-whole-pregnancy-sister-in-law Megan never complained around me because she was sensitive enough to know that I'd trade her trials in a nano. I also thought such a whine was a sin against womanhood. How could any female begrudge fulfilling the measure of the uterus' creation? I cheered on friends like ~J who said "My body loves to be pregnant." Was this not God's eager gift to all The Fertile?

And then I remembered how that very morning, like the last seven months, I had woken to severe nausea and puked in my hands before I could make it to the bathroom. My belly is too big to comfortably upheave anymore, but my body doesn't seem to take that into consideration. The most gratitude I could muster at that point was that I didn't simultaneously pee my pants like I normally do. I thought about how I don't sleep at nights, my back is sore and my hips vibrate with pain. If I don't constantly suck ice I get dehydrated and feel like death. Oh yes, and medication just makes me a loopy mess.

But perhaps worst of all, my doctor admonished me to "cut way back on carbs" after he looked at my peaking weight chart. And here I was in a bakery drooling for a donut.

"No, I don't like being pregnant." I finally answered her. And then, somehow I followed that up with,

"But I'll do it as many times as I can."


That is my final answer.

Up In There

If you will allow me to permit, this is a photo taken by me. It is a lonely photo because after many many many inquiries to Chup he has yet obliged me with a photo shoot of my "lovely baby bump." He claims my new over-the-hills-esque physique is to his liking, though not enough to get out his snapping Nikon D-70. And yet, e-mail after e-mail comes pouring in, "When are you going to show us an updated picture of your pregnancy?"

A couple of days previous I had taken some pics of my belly exposed. My belly button is wondrously cavernous these days. As I was doing some post-production work on the shots (nip tuck/nip tuck), I asked Chup if he thought it appropriate to show my naked belly to the world via my blog.

His answer?

"No."

Being the old-fashioned wife that I am I immediately halted plans to publish my centerfold. And yet, it was he who, just a year ago, streamlined a series of pictures of my cleavage on a birthday tribute to me and posted on youtube. The universe looks at youtube! Even the Martians!

Cleavage ok? Baby bump not?

Then I start to wonder, as any wife would, perhaps Chup doesn't find my belly as attractive as I had hoped. Maybe he's just enduring the whole protrusion. Or at some level, it is a symbol of things to come. Our rapidly awkward ability to hug reminds him only of something "getting in the way" of "just us." This is so complicated.

I would like to relish this time though, it won't be long until this happens. (That is a link by-the-way, you are supposed to use your mouse to click on it.)

I am sure even the Martians think it's a little too alien.

I Am Falling In Love With My Baby Cherry Pie

Through nine pregnancies and thirty-three grandchildren-pregnancies, my mother had never seen a baby ultrasound. When Katie told me that I would need a third ultrasound for a clearer picture of The Chief's heart (all four handsomely-molded atriums) I invited The Councilwoman to come along.

From the very squirt of the lubrication on my belly my mother was impressed. The Chief soon appeared in a dust of grainy magnetism "Oh! Look at him!" she gasped. As the baton moved over The Chief's temporary apartment inside my skin we saw his spine, kidneys, stomach, lips and yes, again, that much hailed teepee.

Every body part came with acclaim from The Councilwoman.

"What a beautiful spine!"

"Would you look at those kidneys?"

"Oh! The stomach!"

"Huge healthy lips."

"Oh yes, that is a nice sized teepee!"

Of course the more my mother complimented, the more proud I became in my baby. At one point we watched as The Chief drank in the accessible yummy (?) amniotic fluid. This time it was me who exclaimed, "Look at him gulp!"

Then I started to cry.

After the visit was over I texted Chup,

"I think I am falling in love . . . with The Chief."

He responded,

"Don't go loving that baby more than me."

To which I responded,

"Whatever. Earl."

They Eat A Lot

I went to Page's house for lunch today. It is Tuesday, Bread Making Day, a great day to have lunch at Page's because who doesn't like homemade 12 grain all hot and dripping with whipped honey butter?

But just moments after Page delivered the bread pans from the hot oven, the front door charged open and also delivered four teenage boys. All sporting earphones and hungered bellies. From what I could tell, two of them were my nephews, two were not, all obviously coming home from high school in search of a lunch break.

Oh drat. I thought. There goes my quiet lunch of bread and carrots shared with a few sisters and a sampling of their children. The boys quickly crowded the kitchen with their energy. Such big voices. And shoulders. With enough combined hair to donate to a balding alpaca.

They wasted no time raiding the fridge. Layton made fruit shakes while Clark finished off some flat Root Beer. Chips and salsa (mixed with sour cream) were offered on the dinning room table. In the midst of the chaos, I asked Clark what he was listening to and he responded, "Message in a Bottle by The Police."

"Sting?" Lucy asked trying to get in on the act.

One boy with dramatic bangs rolled his eyes.

"Would you boys like some bread?" Page asked with oven-mitted hands.

"Yes." Said the boy with the hair like Screech.

"Yes Sister Checketts." Page corrected.

"You don't really make them call you that?" Lucy protested.

"They are at the age where it is terribly awkward to know what to call your friend's parents. I am just letting them know that they can call me Sister Checketts. Sister Checketts, you can call me that from now on." As she commanded, Page was testing out a loaf of bread for durability.

"I called my math teacher Brother Jenner today on accident." Clark said reaching for some crackers with cream cheese. The other boys laughed. Loudly like, WAAAHHH! WAAAHHH!

Finally Page gave up on slicing the bread warm and hacked it up into four man-sized chunks. The boys each grabbed a piece, smothered it with sticky honey butter and stuffed it into their mouths like starved Vikings on pillage.

I dared not look.

As I turned away I thought about this whole business of having boys. How aggressive, awkward and constantly hungry they are! How indefatigable, red-blooded and grumpy they can be! And here I am, only months away to giving birth to one! Someone get me help.

Then, in the corner of my view I saw Page attempting to move Mery's glue-and-dried-beans project from the kitchen counter out of the way of our teenage army. The bottle tipped and glue went pouring down Mery's little jean skirt and fell into a puddle on the floor.

Mery gasped.

The kitchen was suddenly quiet.

"Nice one . . . Sister Checketts." Quipped one of the boys.

And that is when I went to get my camera. "Stay there." I said to the formidable gang, "I need to remember this moment."

A picture to remind me of the other adjective that describes transforming males: surprisingly clever.

Anyway and Alright

The Chief flashes us the ol' ancient virility sign

Chup and I went to have another ultrasound for The Chief today. What is with The Chief anyway? He made me so sick last night that I couldn't sleep. After some help with medication I awoke this morning thinking I was going to die. Not even kidding you. I called The Councilwoman and ~J and dictated my will. (Is will capitalized?) Anyway, I had to do it twice because "out of the mouth of two witnesses" and all that jazz. By-the-way May, I left my muu-muu to youu-youu.

Then we go to the ultrasound as conducted by my smarty scrubs cousin Katie. You get the reference to smarty scrubs right? Anyway, after a day of pregnancy sickness delirium (I am done taking suggestions--they don't work--but thanks anyway) Katie sticks her magical magnetic baton on my belly and the first thing we see is The Chief giving us the thumbs up, after which he proceeds to flex his biceps.

Oh I see how it is.

Anyway, I swear ultrasound techs are the most brilliant people ever. They should be running for president (instead of Mr. Huckabum) what with their ability to point out a grayish area on a blob and call it a kidney. And oh look! see that white line? That is the femur.

Sure it is.


Do you think that The Chief will feel bad when he finds out that his dad fell asleep during his ultrasound? Anyway, Chup has been playing this PC game called Portal and you'd think that my very own portal would be far more interesting . . .

Anyway, after the ultrasound I had to have my blood pressure, urine and weight checked and so while the nurse was checking my urine I offered to weigh myself. She said "sure." So I did so forth and took a couple pounds off what the scale said (shoes were really heavy--Crocs you know). I don't feel bad either because the last time she weighed me she said "honey, could this be right?" and the time before that she said, holding up my urine sample, "Now lets see, what color is your urine? I've never seen that color before." And I just didn't need those sorts of comments today.

Anyway, after that I had a Bavarian chocolate cream donut from Provo Bakery.

Talk about thumbs up.

My Lovely Baby Bump

Here I am at 19 weeks. Get a load of my pink skirt. I tell you what, it's gonna be with me in the hereafter I just know it.

Just a couple days ago at church I was asked, "Are you disappointed that you aren't showing yet?"

If this isn't "showing" then tell me what is making my stomach distend? Hunger?

Seriously tell me.

P.S. For comparison's sake, here is me "before baby" in the pink skirt (I really want to make sure that I am just not getting lumpy) :

P.P.S. Chup has food poisoning. Which makes him say to me,
"I have full empathy for you my darling!"
To which I say,
"Right back at you Babe!"

A Funeral of Sorts

This photo was taken by Lucky Red Hen for my 30th birthday. I miss Lucky and I wish she didn't live in Seattle (mostly so she could take my photo more often,) but I wish a lot of things.

I've lost my fabulosity. That is if I ever had any. I mean, I think I had at least a small portion, but that is gone, baby, gone. All I've got left is . . . a pretty face.

Don't get me wrong, I'd give up my charm to have a baby. I know The Chief is worth my ever-growing boring demeanor (I LOVE HIM!). But I feel impelled to announce to the world that a candle is dimming. My candle.

Because of my previous amount of "spirit" shall I say, I've been invited to many celebrations as of recently (or so I'd like to think). Friends meeting here, friends meeting there. Though I haven't felt anywhere near as festive as I did, say ten years ago, I have kept up with most gathering this year. Sadly, I have disappointed myself at every occasion. I say things too bluntly, I complain of nausea, I work hard for jokes that go no where, I bore myself mid-conversation. After the event is over I go home wondering if I should e-mail everyone present and apologize for specific instances where I had mis-grace.

It is ever so tragic.

For proof's sake, at a recent outing, Chup and I were having a lovely double-date with another couple who share our love of . . . whatever (details not important to plot) when I noticed that the couple sitting opposite from us were actually laughing at Chup's jokes LOUDER than my own. What? Seriously? I am the funny one, he's the tall one. This reversal of fortune sent me into a tailspin.

Who am I?

After that night I have wondered about my state of personality. Where once I complained that my whole life was infertility, I now find that I am Pregnancy. I am Sick. I am Protruding. I am Headache-y. I am Silly. I am Proud. Why I can't be pregnant and friendly is eluding me at the moment. My pregnant self is allergic to good times. Will they ever come again? Now I wonder.

And it is not only my sociality that has diminished, but the physical-me is also foreign. I stepped on the scale this morning to see the needle reach heights I've never seen in front of my own two feet. I think about how all my life I've heard about female-ness being a physical burden that only the brave species endure. I used to laugh in the face of that crap. Cramps? Bring them on! Emotionality? Ha! But I hadn't met Pregnancy. Soon I will meet Labor. Oh help me I pray. I've never been so humbled in all my life.

Who am I? I am a grumpy gestating worry-prone energy leaking ever-expanding tragically serious no-longer funny female who loves feeling her baby swimming inside of her and wonders if her fabuloisty will ever ever return. (At least before menopause?)

Anyway, I can't wait to wear fishnets again.

In the Tree Tops

On Saturday we woke up to snow. According to me, this is a perfect way to open the month of December. Undeterred by the weather, Chup and I set out to find our Christmas tree at our favorite neighborhood tree lot The Baum's. It was early and we were their first customers of the day.

After a scrutinizing scan of every flocked tree available, we decided on a bushy tall one with some minor flat spots at the bottom. Then it was off to Kmart for all red lights on white strings. Oh how I hate Kmart! (Another post, another time.)

Back at home, Chup wrestled the tree through the front door using some grunting noises. With the tree in place, he proceeded to wrap all the lights around and around. I turned on How the Grinch Stole Christmas just for effect. That Cindy Lou Who just gets cuter every year.

When Chup's work was finished I adorned the tree with pink ribbon, green holly, and some more lanterns I made last month. Feeling proud of our festive Christmas tree, I sank back on the couch and gazed at our fine work.

That is when I felt it.

Flutter. Flutter. Flutter.

A feeling in my belly so funny it made me laugh out loud.

It came again.

Flutter. Flutter. Flutter.

I started to wonder what produced such a fantastic--though little--sensation. It was like an internal tickle. It was like . . .

Flutter again.

The third flutter was unmistakable. It was my baby moving inside me! It is that hardly describable motion of a four-inch-being rolling around in your uterus. I yelled to Chup in the next room and tried to describe what was going on.

"It it it was like this . . ." I stuttered on until finally I placed his hand on my belly as if he could feel it through my skin.

And so it was on December First of this year, two-thousand-and-seven, our baby became known as The Great Chief Flutter Foot, Lord of the Teepee, (or just The Chief for short.) This christening seems to have put-out the naming fires that have been blazing around here lately. Will he be known as The Chief in mortality? Maybe.

One thing is for certain, with his x-ray vision, I think The Chief was letting me know that he well-liked the tree too.

Baum's Christmas Trees
1650 North 1250 West
Provo

Seeing the Teepee

Vintage photo of Chup with Claire. Note Chup's sitting position.

One of the first things I noticed about Chup was his propensity to sit Indian style. (I hope no one thinks that my using the term "Indian style" is racist because 1.) I think that is the correct anatomical name for that position and 2.) I have an uncle named Frank who comes from the Navajo Nation. He even comes around from time to time.)

Admittedly I thought Chup's Indian style was odd. He has these great-and-exceeding legs and to see them all wrapped up under each other looks a bit unnatural. When I first mentioned this he further appalled me by wrapping them behind his head. Then there was the time that he did the splits at a social gathering. . .

When I see the Michelangelo's David I see my husband's legs. Perfectly long and muscular. In time I began to appreciate Chup's preference. Considering the length of his appendages, it would be nice to sometimes coil them in all snuggly-like. Now we play Skip-Bo, watch t.v. and have heart-to-heart talks all in Indian style.

So I wasn't surprised today when we went to have a little ultrasound peek and our baby was happily sitting Indian style. It was my first reminder that, oh yes, Chup had something to do with this growing entity inside my uterus (who is still making me pukey.) My clever cousin Katie who was doing the ultrasound prodded the baby to move the legs. We wanted to see what was between those little (already long) legs! As hard as she nudged with the baton my baby refused to show us the prize. Second reminder that this baby was partially Chup's (stubborn.)

We tried everything. I moved around from side to side, up and down. We even took a break and I walked around the room and rubbed my tummy. Katie was determined to give us a definite answer and I was happy to gaze at the monitor at a very beautiful head, and oh, those cute little bitty toes. There were three of us in the room, Katie, Lucy and I, and two out of three of us admitted to sweaty (though not stinky) armpits.

I sat back on the table, more warm squishy gel on my stomach and the search continued fruitless. Legs, legs, legs.

Then something rotated and Katie gasped.

There it was.

The Beat is On

Not to brag or anything . . . but . . .

I heard my baby's heartbeat yesterday and it was the most beautiful sound I have ever experienced.


And it was fast!

In Touch

In 2004: Grandma K, Chup, Me (with bangs...never again) and Grandpa K

I am not a first-time-pregnant woman who keeps a full time job, or continues lunch dates or even attempts church. I am sick and that is about it.

I've heard (rather constantly) from mothers-to-be who prefer to continue on with their lives while feeling like vomit could, at any point, escape their stomach and splatter out to the biosphere simply because it kept their minds busy. I tried that approach for the sake of the ever-true scientific process. As it holds, this hypothesis doesn't compute for me. Me? I stay close to home, mostly because I don't have a full time job, pressing lunch dates or, as of recently, a calling in the ward. I do have a bag of cinnamon bears, and as I discovered last week, a cure of my own.

Last week I ventured on a plane to Arizona to visit my sister Stephanie and her troupe of Four Delights. You'd think after all the advice I've been given ONE person could've told me NOT to fly when pregnant and sick. That was bad news right out of the headlines.

I did bring with me a pair of wrist bands with little beads in them. The bead presses on the reflexology point that connects to nausea. My lovely Lani brought them down from Idaho before my trip, and as she placed them on me I instantly felt better. When I told her so, she replied "Oh that's just because I am touching you. Touch always makes you feel better." And then her friend Rebecca put her cold fingers on the back of my neck. "This will feel good too." she said.

And it did.

When I was safe at the Rancho Nielson-Amigo in Arizona, I was put to work on the orange couch while Claire and Jane took turns brushing my hair and using a small paint brush and an imagination to "do my make-up." I felt like I did in third grade when the girls in the class would braid each other's hair during Mrs. Frazier's story time. Having your hair touched just after late recess made for the most wonderful sensation. I've tried to teach Chup how to duplicate it, but I'm afraid the male species will never twist a french braid so tenderly.

Steph did her part in feeding me every fifteen minutes. When she was in the kitchen whipping up a seven-fruit smoothie (or something wonderful such as) I'd curl up with baby Giggs and kiss his loaded cheeks until I felt better.

For his part, one night two-year-old Oliver snuggled with me in my guest bed and sang me songs. When he had exhausted his last "Woody" tune (You got a friend in me. You got a friend in me.) He demanded "Do the tickles" which meant that I was supposed to lightly tickle his legs and arms until he was out. I woke up the next morning with Oliver's hand on my face, covering my right eye.

That morning, to my surprise, I experienced no morning sickness.

The same morning I got a call from Chup telling me that Grandma K had passed away. I have written about Grandma K before, mostly about her potato salad which was the real reason I married Chup. Look, I didn't even like potato salad before, that should tell you something.

Shortly after I arrived back in Utah, Chup and I headed up to Idaho to be with the family. I worried that the car ride would be disastrous, but Chup held my hand the whole way while I ate about fourteen bagels in between the miles.

Dear bagels,
I love you.
Love, me.

In the days that followed we saw lots of family and friends. One thing I've grown to like about Twin Falls is the ample amount of hugging that goes down. It is almost an insult to shake hands. I gave Grandpa K and big embrace, and like always, he chuckled and boomed, "Oh hi sweetie. Thanks for coming." Then I gave him another hug, because it was the least I could do for a man who had just lost his wife of seventy-one years.

In the afternoon we followed the funeral procession to the cemetery. Though the sun was shining it was a little cold and I thought a walk with four-year-old Phun might help warm me up. Happy to get some exercise, he held my hand for a bit as we jumped over tombstones. When Kentucky caught up with us, we discovered that we both had a light crush on our father-in-law's cousin. If that sounds a little strange, then I will add that he just happens to be a KUTV anchorman, and how can you help it? This caused a slight bit of tension between us especially when he made a very funny joke about funeral potatoes and clearly looked at me to see if I was laughing (which I was!) But life is short, and we are already married to the two greatest men alive (Chup first, then MD, in that order) and so we put it behind us.

Then I started to gag.
And Kentucky ran to the car for crackers.
But crackers (though they did help) will never do for me what touch will. This simple cure--planted in my mind by Lani at the beginning of the week--helped me survive the week that followed. I also plan to use more of it in this last week of my first trimester. In fact, as soon as I am done writing this post, Chup is going to rub my feet. (He just doesn't know it yet.)


And that is my secret.