George. Is Loved.

I was kind of sad for my third child. Not only is he a third, which by nature makes it seem less exciting, but he was a third BOY. Old hat by now. I don't need boys clothes. I don't need baby blankets. I don't need stuffed animals. I really don't need anything. I couldn't help but notice as I left the hospital, that poor little George did not receive one single gift. Just because I don't need anything, doesn't mean George wouldn't like some things of his own. Even I had bought only one new baby item upon finding out about this pregnancy (oh wait, 2 items, one was for a girl though.)

But slowly, the gifts and visitors have been rolling in. I am relieved. I want my boy to feel as special and loved as he is. I know, he's a newborn, so who cares about material things, but one day he might. In fact, Brock's Giraffee and Curtis' Blanky Bears are items that were gifted to them - one from Magra and one from Mimi. And those boys CANNOT sleep without their lovies.

My sweet George is loved. We love his squeal of a cry. We love his snorting, and snoring because of his tiny little nostrils and big round neck. Can a newborn have Obstructive Sleep Apnea? He still has me guessing at night. We have had a couple nights of waking up once to eat and fall right to sleep. A couple nights of snacking all night. And a couple nights in between. We love that he weighed 10 and half pounds at birth, but lost a pound and gained an inch and a half by his first doc's appointment 3 days later. (He was quite swollen at birth, and they must not have been able to stretch him out properly).

Lastly, I love that he is already making a little identity for himself. He will not just be the 3rd boy. He will be unique, and interesting. He will keep me on my toes. He will make me happy.

Your shirt's on backwards.

Yesterday morning, I actually, kind of, got dressed for the day. Instead of walking around in pajamas, I put on a regular shirt...still sweat pants though. I was kind of proud of myself. And kind of uncomfortable. I had to keep adjusting the shirt, and pulling it down away from neck, and making sure it was still covering my not quite as large, but extremely flabby belly. Matt takes one look at me and says, "Is your shirt on backwards?"

It was. I knew it didn't feel right! Thank goodness, I was beginning to freak out that I couldn't wear normal clothes anymore. I switch it to the right way, and tell Matt, "Oh, this is only the beginning..." Let the "Mommy moments" abound. He just laughs at me, and tells me I am ridiculous.

Later that day, while Brock is at school, we take the other 2 littles out for lunch and to an Estate sale. As we wander through the house, me with the 5 day old, and Matt with the 15 month old, I hear a little old lady start talking to Matt. I am in the adjacent room, so I can't fully hear the conversation, and frankly, I don't care to, but I hear something about "Brock". I then hear Matt agreeing with the old lady that it is a "strong name", and "unique". So, I poke my head into the room and say, did you just say he was Brock (pointing to Curtis). And Matt looks at me, confused, and says, "Yes. He is Brock" (pointing to Curtis). I kind of start laughing, and say, "Really? That's Brock?" And at this point, I am sure the old lady is wondering whether or not she should notify the authorities, because a young couple has apparently stolen a couple of really cute babies, and can't even keep their story straight. Matt, still looking confused, starts to again repeat that he was, in fact, holding Brock, until he noticed I had teeny, weeny, baby George, who certainly, is not Curtis. Light bulb.

At this point, I cannot contain my laughter. Not one bit. And Matt tries to explain things to the skeptical old lady, who I forgot to mention, asked me if we stopped by on our way home from the hospital upon seeing the newborn. Ha. And he thought I was ridiculous for putting my shirt on backwards...

#3 is HE.

I took this photo on February 16th, the day I turned 39 weeks. The day I was scheduled to be induced, but called in the night before to cancel. Despite my claim that I was done complaining, I fully intended to use this photo to complain some more about still being pregnant. And I was going to complain, despite having the opportunity to evict my comfy tenant. Even though I KNEW I was carrying a giant baby. And my OB knew I was carrying a giant baby. And she suggested we induce earlier than later, I just couldn't do it. It doesn't feel right to me; choosing the baby's birthday. And I don't want to interrupt any karmic pattern (if such a thing exists - better safe than sorry.)

And, trivial as it may be, I didn't want to pick the 16th, my nephew Xander's birthday. And I didn't want to pick the 18th, my brother Brennan's birthday. But if I was going to induce I might as well get it done, so I didn't want to wait until the 19th or later. What I really wanted, was the 17th - since the day I found my due date was February 23rd. I all but begged Dr. Martinez to induce me on her one and only day off that week, just because I liked the date. It was a Friday, perfect. It was between my family's birth dates, awesome. It was almost a whole week early, better yet.

So, as it were, Matt and I continued to deliberate about what day I would actually go in and have this baby. In the back of my mind, I just kept repeating, "come on baby, do this yourself, you can do it." Every single time I had a strong contraction, I would think, "please keep coming, let's have another one." In fact, on the 16th, as I sat at Xander's birthday dinner with my family, I exclaimed, "I just don't understand how one can walk around with this much pressure, and have contractions every hour for the past 5 days, and NOT be making any progress!"

I went home. Put the kiddos to bed (or, well, watched Matt put them to bed. Seriously, by 8pm, I was pretty much handicapped. I couldn't bend over. I couldn't lift my kids. I really didn't want to stand. Or sit. Matt has pretty much had 3 kids for the past few weeks.) And tried to relax and not get too disappointed that yet another day had passed without the arrival of Baby O #3. As I went to bed, and brushed my teeth, I was honestly startled when I looked in the mirror...I had labor lips! (For those who don't know, I am sure you can predict that a woman is going into labor in the next 24-48hrs by her lips. Long story.) I went to bed comforted by the idea that perhaps things would happen on their own. And did they ever...

...after falling asleep at 11pm, things got rolling. First, I woke up at midnight, to pee. Then again a bit before 1am, to pee. Then again before 2am, to pee. And at this point, I am thinking, do I really have to pee, or are these contractions waking me up, giving me the sensation that I have to pee? Oh well, back to bed. Up again at 2am, then 2:30, then 2:50, then 3:15. And at this point, I am certain I am having contractions, and they are getting painful, and there is no more falling back to sleep for me. Despite the pain, I kept thinking, please keep going. Please get closer together. Every 10-20 minutes is not going to get the job done. Finally, I wake Matt up around 4am, and tell him I am thinking we need to head to the hospital soonish, but I will try to put it off until 6am. I didn't want to wake anyone up too early, and I didn't want to get sent away since the contractions rarely were closer than 10 minutes together. I mean, how embarrassing would that be, I have triaged and delivered so many OB patients, and this is my 3rd, I should know when I am in labor, right? So, I get in the bath for 20 minutes or so, which honestly does help with contraction pain. But man, these baby's are getting painful. Finally, a bit before 5, the quality and quantity of pain suddenly changed and increased and I began to get concerned that I might deliver the baby at home if we don't get going. The contractions may have been spaced out, but they were doing their job.

We call Mimi. We pack our bag. We arrive at the hospital by 6am. And not a minute too soon. I am telling you, thank god those contractions were 10 minutes or greater apart. So, so, so, so painful. I have now switched from praying for the contractions to continue and get closer together, to praying and begging for them to space out and stop. At least until I get the epidural. I get check-in, settled, labs drawn and progress checked and found to be a good 6-7cm on my way...all the while, being told by everyone I was way too happy and comfortable to be in labor (it's not like you're in tons of pain between the contractions, so I was fine as long as I wasn't contracting, and, I was about to have a baby! Who isn't happy about that?)

Dr. Martinez came in, despite it being her day off, love her. And the epidural was placed by 8am, love it. And I napped, visited with my mom, enjoyed my alone time with Matt, and labored the rest of the way in peace. By about 11am, I decided there was enough pressure, I was ready to push. Baby's head was still up there a bit (not quite station +1), but I was assured that was normal for a third baby, and for a big baby. Four contractions, a knotted cord around the neck and baby facing sunny-side up later, at 11:17am, a huge, purple, bloated Baby O #3 arrived!

The first image I have of this baby, is it's profile. And I exclaim, "Whoa, now that's an O'Laughlin!" Seriously, it was kind of creepy, I felt like I looked down to see myself delivering Matt. My next thought? This better be a boy, because, well, if that huge, manly looking thing is a girl, then it's a bit unfortunate. And sure enough, on the verge of happy of happiest tears, Matt exclaims, "it's a boy!"

They lay him on my chest, I poke at his quadruple chin. And everyone in that delivery room, is saying, "let's get him on the scale! He is huge. How much does that baby weigh!?" I watch as the grams shoot straight to the 4000's, and keep climbing. I see 4700+ grams, and in my mind think, "holy s*$t, I just delivered a 10 pound baby! He is over 10 pounds." They convert to 10lbs 7ozs. Matt and I look at each other, and he comes over to my bedside, still a bit teary and says, "I think he's a George." I agree. Definitely a George. (Not the name we had settled on during the drive to the hospital.)
Soon, thereafter, the meet and greet begins. George meets his 2 older brothers, as well as a few aunts and uncles and grandparents. I am surprisingly content, and relaxed, and not overwhelmed by the chaos of 3 children in a tiny hospital room. And it felt so natural to have another little boy. I am sure I would be just as happy if I had a little girl right now, but now, having met George, I wouldn't want it any other way. He is the perfect #3. He has managed to outweigh his slightly older brother, yet has the chicken legs to contest with his oldest brother. He is sleepy, but so alert during those few moments he decides to stay awake. He is a bit distract-able when it comes to nursing, but sleeps through the madness. And he is mine. All mine. And I look forward to getting to know him more and more. Everyday. As Matt said, almost 9 months ago, when we found out about our wonderful little surprise, my love has just increased by 50%. Perhaps, even more.

George Edward O'Laughlin
10lbs 7oz, 20 inches
11:17am on February 17th, 2012

Happy Valentine's Indeed.

Sitting isn't comfortable.
Standing isn't comfortable.
Sleeping isn't comfortable.
Walking causes worthless contractions, which REALLY isn't comfortable.
And food aggravates all of the above.

Isn't it called depression when you don't enjoy the things you once loved. You can't sleep. You can't eat. And you don't want to work?

The only thing keeping me within a step of sanity is knowing it is all temporary. This has been the. longest. two. weeks. of. my. life.

Make it stop.

Wood.

Our 5th wedding anniversary was absolutely nothing like I dreamed it would be. Now, I don't generally get mushy. I don't celebrate Valentine's day. I don't really get overly sentimental about too many things. But for some reason, my wedding anniversary is extremely meaningful. Matt and I got married on the 10th of February in 2007, we started dating on the 8th of February way back in 2001. This time of year comes around prompting me to reflect and look back at all the happiness, love and beauty meeting one person has added to my life. It gives me an excuse to have one night, alone, with my biggest, oldest and favorite boy.

When we met our wedding photographers, over 5 years ago, I already started planning, in my head, a little 5 year anniversary photo shoot. I thought I might get a hotel for a night, have some old, crazy looking tux or suit from a thrift shop waiting for Matt to change into. I would have found a dress, gotten my hair and make-up done, and we could go out around town and take "trash the dress" type pictures for our anniversary! But, as it turns out, when you are 9 months pregnant with your 3rd child while in residency, the time, motivation, and desire to be photographed has disappeared. In fact, I was so busy obsessing about how miserable I am, and just barely able to take things day by day, that I didn't even get Matt a gift. Nothing. Not even a card. I did set up a sitter for the night. So, I guess, technically, I gave us dinner (though, he paid.)So, I went on with my horrid work day. Filled with having to do more than just sit. I had to try my hardest to put a smile on my face while interacting with co-workers and patients, when all I really wanted to do was cry. All my patients showed up in clinic, which never happens, which means I am insanely busy. People kept asking me "how are you", and as I have expressed before, I have a hard time lying, so after a long exasperated, obviously annoyed with the question sigh, I would say, "oh, fine." Most of the time they didn't believe that response and got the message to discontinue conversation...but a few wanted details. So, I listed off all the reasons I am not currently fine, to which the most common response was, "just a couple more weeks." Great, thanks for the comfort.

So, finally, I get in the car to head home. I just start crying. I get home, to an empty house, and continue crying. I am waiting on Matt to finish meeting with a potential wedding photography client, and trying to get my act together. But it's not working. I am not hungry. I am never hungry anymore. So my lovely, relaxed, gourmet, usually wine-filled dinner is not even something to look forward to this year. Matt gets home, understands my situation and feelings without me having to explain my tears, and happily suggests a place for dinner.

We drive to Oak 63, and have to wait in the car for a few minutes while I try to pull myself together and stop crying long enough to look reasonable. But as soon as we get in the restaurant, and I sit on the hard wooden chair, and can't scoot up to the table, I can feel tears brimming at my eyelids. Matt looks up and says, "Oh great, this looks awesome." And I can't help but laugh. Here I am, obviously pregnant, a few days before Valentine's day, on a Friday night, out to a nice dinner with a man, and I am crying...no other explanation than he is leaving me!

The evening continues and despite my embarrassing show at the restaurant there is a moment during dinner when Matt just looks me in the eye and says, "There is just something about the combination of good food and good music...with you, that makes me really happy". And I just smiled. No more crying. Just smiles from that point on. I mean, how can you pity yourself, or your situation after that statement? I have more support from one person, than most people do from an entire family or community. Anniversary, a success.