Thursday, December 31, 2009
Pumpkin patch
Sara and I visited a couple of different pumpkin patches in late October. One was the Fullerton Arboretum, which we visited with our Mommy and Me class. The arboretum actually did not have its usual "pumpkin patch" display this year. There were some gourds to look at, and that was about it.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star"
Sara likes to sing. There are usually lots of words missing, not to mention the almost complete lack of melody, but that doesn't stop her singing from being extremely adorable, in my not-so-humble opinion.
This is from October 22, 2009. I went to get her from her nap, and she instantly started singing, so off for the camera I went.
Little cutie!
This is from October 22, 2009. I went to get her from her nap, and she instantly started singing, so off for the camera I went.
Little cutie!
Blogging the final quarter of '09
With only hours to go before the decade draws to a close, I'm going to try to post pictures from some of the highlights of the last quarter of 2009. My poor blog has missed out on some fun times!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The best-laid plans of mice and men...
Almost three years ago, Larry and I decided that it was finally time to try for a baby. Less than a year later, our sweet Sara Jo arrived. She gave us a big scare when she was brand new, but ultimately she showed herself to be wonderfully healthy.
About twenty months ago, I started to think about spacing and planning for Baby #2. Since I wanted the option for three kids and did not want to have a baby past 37 or so, I decided two-and-half to three years apart sounded about right, and Larry just kind of nodded and shrugged, along for the ride with my crazy planning. I thought the kids would be close enough in age to hopefully relate to each other fairly well but far enough apart to make child-rearing manageable for us.
So, about four months ago, we decided to throw caution to the wind--not necessarily to "try" for a baby, but to just see what happened. Four weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
About two months ago, I was sitting around feeling tired and nauseated much of the time, wondering what on earth I had done, whether I was really ready for another baby. I was grateful to be pregnant but also feeling pretty unwell. I called Anna and just cried to her, while she reassured me that everything I was feeling--physically and mentally--was normal. I would get past it.
About one month ago, I did get past it. My mental outlook was better, my energy was returning, and my major food aversions were subsiding. Things were looking up! I could hear our baby's heartbeat on a home doppler machine and was starting to wonder, "Are you a boy or a girl?" I started to look forward to having my belly pop out and to feeling the baby move.
About three weeks ago, I went to see my OB for a routine visit at twelve-and-a-half weeks pregnant. I inquired about prenatal testing, which we had done with Sara and wanted to do again. Larry and I had talked about it, and we both agreed that we would rather know than be surprised with a poor outcome if at all possible. My blood was drawn that day, and I was given an appointment for an "NT scan," which, along with my blood results, would give me a "risk assessment" for common chromosomal disorders.
About two-and-half weeks ago, I dropped Sara off at Tanja's house and headed to my NT scan by myself. I was excited for a chance to see a glimpse of our baby and was hoping for a "money shot" so I could start guessing about the baby's gender. I had been at Tanja's NT scan with her several months before, when baby Blake had made his sex very, very obvious to us. At my appointment, due to a paperwork mix-up, I got called in for the ultrasound prior to meeting with the genetic counselor, which is the opposite of the typical protocol. I didn't mind. I was looking forward to an extra little glimpse of our baby.
And then things started to unravel. Our baby wasn't moving very much, and the technician was having trouble getting a measurement. The baby was measuring small, about ten days behind where it should have been. When the perinatal doctor was finally able to get the nuchal fold measurement, she said something like, "Well, I can't make that be small. This is going to be a screen positive." I didn't know what that meant, but I was suddenly very scared. I asked her if I should call my husband, and she said it would be a good idea.
About eighteen days and three-and-a-half hours ago, Larry and I sat in front of a genetic counselor while she delivered the results of our risk assessment. I knew we were a "screen positive," but I didn't know what to expect in terms of numbers. I don't know--maybe 1 in 25 or something? I do know that I wasn't expecting anything close to what she told us, and the risk assessment was like a punch in the gut. Our baby had a 1 in 10 chance of Down Syndrome. "That's really high," I thought. But then came the even-worse news: Our baby had a 1 in 5 chance of Trisomy 18. "What's that?" Larry asked. I sobbed.
I already knew a bit about Trisomy 18, because I have two former-coworkers who have had children with this syndrome. In the first case, the baby survived the pregnancy and died two or three weeks after childbirth. In the second case, the baby was stillborn. "That's a death sentence," I told Larry.
Eighteen days and about two hours ago, I was lying on an examination table in Long Beach, sobbing after a CVS procedure. The procedure itself was not painful, but we were shocked and scared and overwhelmed by all the what-ifs. In the course of a few hours, all of our hopes and plans for a May baby had been turned upside-down.
All I can say about the week that followed is that it was incredibly stressful. Larry and I knew we would be fine whatever the outcome, but we were so scared. We tried to stay positive and to remind ourselves that the odds were still in our favor, but we didn't know anyone with a risk assessment remotely close to ours. Things were not looking good. Still, we tried to stay as busy and distracted as possible. The what-ifs were just too much to take.
Eleven days and about four hours ago, Larry and I sat in an examination room at our OB's office, not knowing whether he would have any news for us. He did, and it was, in his words, "not good."
"How bad is it?" I asked.
"It's really bad."
Our unborn baby had Trisomy 18. The baby was terminally ill. It was not a question of if our baby would die; it was merely a question of when.
Nine days ago, we said goodbye to the baby we never really got a chance to know. The days before and since have seen us surfing through waves of grief, anger, disbelief. I'm sure there will be more of that in the days to come. The emotions are all over the place.
Here's what I know. I know that our family will be just fine. I know that I am still grateful for all the things I was grateful for before: family, friends, love, life. I know that our God is a loving God.
Here's what I don't know. I don't know how well I'll endure the first half of any subsequent pregnancy, the part before blood and ultrasound technology can leave me relatively assured that the baby is healthy. I don't know whether the possibility of three kids is still in the cards for us. I don't know whether the larger age gap between Sara and her (I hope) future sibling will be a good thing.
I think it was John Lennon who so famously said, "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." Indeed. At this point, I don't have enough distance from this experience to really have any wisdom to share. I just know that we will be okay. This sadness might or might not linger, but it will not consume us.
Sometimes bad things just happen.
About twenty months ago, I started to think about spacing and planning for Baby #2. Since I wanted the option for three kids and did not want to have a baby past 37 or so, I decided two-and-half to three years apart sounded about right, and Larry just kind of nodded and shrugged, along for the ride with my crazy planning. I thought the kids would be close enough in age to hopefully relate to each other fairly well but far enough apart to make child-rearing manageable for us.
So, about four months ago, we decided to throw caution to the wind--not necessarily to "try" for a baby, but to just see what happened. Four weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
About two months ago, I was sitting around feeling tired and nauseated much of the time, wondering what on earth I had done, whether I was really ready for another baby. I was grateful to be pregnant but also feeling pretty unwell. I called Anna and just cried to her, while she reassured me that everything I was feeling--physically and mentally--was normal. I would get past it.
About one month ago, I did get past it. My mental outlook was better, my energy was returning, and my major food aversions were subsiding. Things were looking up! I could hear our baby's heartbeat on a home doppler machine and was starting to wonder, "Are you a boy or a girl?" I started to look forward to having my belly pop out and to feeling the baby move.
About three weeks ago, I went to see my OB for a routine visit at twelve-and-a-half weeks pregnant. I inquired about prenatal testing, which we had done with Sara and wanted to do again. Larry and I had talked about it, and we both agreed that we would rather know than be surprised with a poor outcome if at all possible. My blood was drawn that day, and I was given an appointment for an "NT scan," which, along with my blood results, would give me a "risk assessment" for common chromosomal disorders.
About two-and-half weeks ago, I dropped Sara off at Tanja's house and headed to my NT scan by myself. I was excited for a chance to see a glimpse of our baby and was hoping for a "money shot" so I could start guessing about the baby's gender. I had been at Tanja's NT scan with her several months before, when baby Blake had made his sex very, very obvious to us. At my appointment, due to a paperwork mix-up, I got called in for the ultrasound prior to meeting with the genetic counselor, which is the opposite of the typical protocol. I didn't mind. I was looking forward to an extra little glimpse of our baby.
And then things started to unravel. Our baby wasn't moving very much, and the technician was having trouble getting a measurement. The baby was measuring small, about ten days behind where it should have been. When the perinatal doctor was finally able to get the nuchal fold measurement, she said something like, "Well, I can't make that be small. This is going to be a screen positive." I didn't know what that meant, but I was suddenly very scared. I asked her if I should call my husband, and she said it would be a good idea.
About eighteen days and three-and-a-half hours ago, Larry and I sat in front of a genetic counselor while she delivered the results of our risk assessment. I knew we were a "screen positive," but I didn't know what to expect in terms of numbers. I don't know--maybe 1 in 25 or something? I do know that I wasn't expecting anything close to what she told us, and the risk assessment was like a punch in the gut. Our baby had a 1 in 10 chance of Down Syndrome. "That's really high," I thought. But then came the even-worse news: Our baby had a 1 in 5 chance of Trisomy 18. "What's that?" Larry asked. I sobbed.
I already knew a bit about Trisomy 18, because I have two former-coworkers who have had children with this syndrome. In the first case, the baby survived the pregnancy and died two or three weeks after childbirth. In the second case, the baby was stillborn. "That's a death sentence," I told Larry.
Eighteen days and about two hours ago, I was lying on an examination table in Long Beach, sobbing after a CVS procedure. The procedure itself was not painful, but we were shocked and scared and overwhelmed by all the what-ifs. In the course of a few hours, all of our hopes and plans for a May baby had been turned upside-down.
All I can say about the week that followed is that it was incredibly stressful. Larry and I knew we would be fine whatever the outcome, but we were so scared. We tried to stay positive and to remind ourselves that the odds were still in our favor, but we didn't know anyone with a risk assessment remotely close to ours. Things were not looking good. Still, we tried to stay as busy and distracted as possible. The what-ifs were just too much to take.
Eleven days and about four hours ago, Larry and I sat in an examination room at our OB's office, not knowing whether he would have any news for us. He did, and it was, in his words, "not good."
"How bad is it?" I asked.
"It's really bad."
Our unborn baby had Trisomy 18. The baby was terminally ill. It was not a question of if our baby would die; it was merely a question of when.
Nine days ago, we said goodbye to the baby we never really got a chance to know. The days before and since have seen us surfing through waves of grief, anger, disbelief. I'm sure there will be more of that in the days to come. The emotions are all over the place.
Here's what I know. I know that our family will be just fine. I know that I am still grateful for all the things I was grateful for before: family, friends, love, life. I know that our God is a loving God.
Here's what I don't know. I don't know how well I'll endure the first half of any subsequent pregnancy, the part before blood and ultrasound technology can leave me relatively assured that the baby is healthy. I don't know whether the possibility of three kids is still in the cards for us. I don't know whether the larger age gap between Sara and her (I hope) future sibling will be a good thing.
I think it was John Lennon who so famously said, "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." Indeed. At this point, I don't have enough distance from this experience to really have any wisdom to share. I just know that we will be okay. This sadness might or might not linger, but it will not consume us.
Sometimes bad things just happen.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Letters to our baby girl, part 2
Sara –
You are turning 2 years old today, and have constantly exceeded every expectation I have for you as a daughter. I exude nothing but pride when I talk about you. Thank you for being your mother’s and my shining star.
In the past year, you have learned to walk, talk in small sentences, feed yourself (for the most part!). I love watching you learn new things. We gave you your new tricycle today, and I laughed when you kept wanting to put your new helmet on no matter what you were doing.
Every time you spend the night with your grandparents they have nothing but good things to say about you. You definitely know how to turn on the charm with them. Thank you for being good when you hang out with them.
I hope you know that your mother and I love you very much. You are our greatest accomplishment. Thank you for making our lives better every day.
I love you,
Daddy
You are turning 2 years old today, and have constantly exceeded every expectation I have for you as a daughter. I exude nothing but pride when I talk about you. Thank you for being your mother’s and my shining star.
In the past year, you have learned to walk, talk in small sentences, feed yourself (for the most part!). I love watching you learn new things. We gave you your new tricycle today, and I laughed when you kept wanting to put your new helmet on no matter what you were doing.
Every time you spend the night with your grandparents they have nothing but good things to say about you. You definitely know how to turn on the charm with them. Thank you for being good when you hang out with them.
I hope you know that your mother and I love you very much. You are our greatest accomplishment. Thank you for making our lives better every day.
I love you,
Daddy
Letters to our baby girl, part 1
My sweet baby girl:
You are two today! What a fun, challenging—but mostly fun—year it has been. I can’t tell you how much joy and adventure you brought into our lives this past year. I feel like we got to know you more and more this year, and you are so sweet, so gentle, so beautiful. Of course, I know that who you are right now is not necessarily who you will always be, and I will love you no matter what. Loving you brings me a joy I still can hardly wrap my head around.
This year brought a couple of huge milestones: mobility and communication. You are now a walking, talking, Barney-watching little person. You are still pretty easygoing, but you are asserting your independence more and more. You now say, “I self!” multiple times per day. “I hold it!” and “No!” are also favorites. Fortunately for us, you also say things like “I love you, too,” and “I want Mama/Dada” and “Yes, please.”
When I look back at this past year, there were definitely some points where my patience was tried and my fuse was short. Although I miss the chubbier little baby cheeks and the willingness to be held for longer periods of time, I don’t miss the stage where you whiiiiiiiined a lot in a really high pitch because you couldn’t communicate your needs. I don’t particularly miss when you had no impulse control at all. You still don’t have a whole lot, but now if I say “no” you’re likely at least to pause a little bit. I do miss the longer cuddles, though.
What do I want to say to you on your second birthday? My baby girl, I love you more than words can say. You bring such joy into our lives. I love watching you walk, talk, play, sing, grow. I love your sweet little disposition, and I will love you still if and when you become feisty. As your little baby brother or sister grows inside of me, I worry about what this change will mean for you, but I also know you’ll be a wonderful big sister and that a sibling will be a blessing for the rest of your life. I still thank God for you every night, and I cannot imagine a time will come when I won’t.
From now until the end of time, I will love you, and you will be my baby. I love you, sweet baby girl, and I look forward to another year of watching you grow and change as you become the person you were born to be. I love you, I love you, I love you—now and forever.
Love,
Mommy
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
When the BFF comes to town...
My best friend Anna came to visit from Maryland recently. She came for her cousin's wedding and stayed an extra week so she'd have plenty of time to visit with her extended family and with yours truly. We had grand plans. We were going to hang out every single day and possibly even throw in a trip to Disneyland!
And then, as it so often does, life happened.
First, Anna's little boy got sick. Then Sara was sick. Then Anna's daughter was sick. Then I was sick. In a cruel turn of events, it seemed like someone was constantly suffering from something. Aside from the discomfort all around (especially for Anna and her kiddos), this threw a major wrench into our plans. We stayed away from each other for several days, and then we only did a few park playdates, where the air could circulate and hopefully minimize the germ transfer.
Despite the challenges, it was so wonderful to see my BFF and her beautiful children. I know Sara enjoyed them all, as she quickly identified them all by name: "Anna. Sophie (pronounced Fo-see). Sammy." I can only hope that our next chance to visit will come quickly and involve healthy parties all around!
And then, as it so often does, life happened.
First, Anna's little boy got sick. Then Sara was sick. Then Anna's daughter was sick. Then I was sick. In a cruel turn of events, it seemed like someone was constantly suffering from something. Aside from the discomfort all around (especially for Anna and her kiddos), this threw a major wrench into our plans. We stayed away from each other for several days, and then we only did a few park playdates, where the air could circulate and hopefully minimize the germ transfer.
Despite the challenges, it was so wonderful to see my BFF and her beautiful children. I know Sara enjoyed them all, as she quickly identified them all by name: "Anna. Sophie (pronounced Fo-see). Sammy." I can only hope that our next chance to visit will come quickly and involve healthy parties all around!
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