A special thanks...

This month celebrates Thanksgiving—also known in our house as the holiday smushed in between the Goetz family rush of birthdays (August 2^nd for P, September 20^th for Joe, October 29^th for yours truly), followed closely by Halloween, and Christmas. It’s the holiday with multiple stops to visit multiple families in our beloved ‘Nati—and multiple helpings of turkey, taters, punkin’ pie, cranberries and such at each. Then it’s off to the train display at the Museum Center on Friday followed by a visit with Dad and Gaile on Saturday. Suddenly it’s Sunday and though we’ve talked about Pilgrims and Indians and Plymouth Rock; and Black Friday and How Many Days ‘Til Christmas and Santa Claus, the weekend has gone by so fast that we’ve somehow forgotten the essence of what it’s all about: giving thanks.

To keep me on the straight and narrow path of thanks giving, and from letting this month go by in an instant, I’m doing the thing where every day I give thanks for something new and different. And I’m posting  most of my thanks on Facebook. I’ve recently had a love/hate relationship with our ubiquitous social media friend, but decided giving thanks on Facebook was the best way to hold myself accountable for not missing a day. Yes, it’s trite and cliché and all that jazz, but, much like my blogging, I’m not doing it so much for others, rather to take inventory and self-reflect. You loyal blog readers (all two, maybe three of you) are just along for the ride—and I’m lucky if I’ll even get you on board long enough to weather the storm that is getting my thoughts down on to paper in a way that makes some kind of sense.

So far my thanks have been a mix of the practical and the emotional kind, the immediate and more profound, long-lasting kind. Every day the theme of my thanks has either been in direct reflection of that day, or something that has been on my mind for quite some time. It really depends on what rises to the surface as most relevant on any given day.

My thanks for today falls into both the emotional and profound, long-lasting category. It’s a thank you I have been carrying with me for nearly four years. It’s been the driving force behind much of what I have done in my professional life. It’s long overdue.

I would like to thank an individual who will remain unnamed and I would like to thank her for lighting an UNBELIEVABLE fire under me that fuels me even on the darkest of my professional, working days.

It’s story time.

Rewind to Friday, December 5, 2008. It’s a cold night in Bloomington. A beautiful, crisp winter night, but darn cold.

I am at the retirement reception of my boss from the previous four summers, the director of the IU Honors Program in Foreign Languages. It’s a night to celebrate her contributions to the Program over the last fifteen plus years. It’s a night for her students to pay tribute and express to her their gratitude for their ‘summer of a lifetime’ with the Honors Program. It’s a night for the University and her colleagues to honor her faithful commitment to the Program.

I am there in the same vein. She was my boss for four summers, and though she only supervised me during the summer, we had a professional and a personal relationship the whole year round. I respect her. And much like the students, I wanted to express my gratitude for affording me an incredible opportunity to teach for such an impactful Program. I am there to, appropriately enough, give thanks.

But it’s also a little weird and here’s why: while I’m attending to pay tribute as a former instructor for the Program, I’m also there as the Director delegate; I’m assuming directorship of the Program that I just spent four summers teaching for. I am taking the reins from my former boss.

I am experiencing a mixed bag of emotions: I’m thrilled to be taking my dream job at age 27; after all when I interviewed to teach for the Program as a naïve first year graduate student in the fall of 2004, I told Jack that the job I REALLY wanted was the director’s job. And now I have it. I’m excited for the challenges of the Program, as well as the autonomy and creativity that I was not getting in my previous position. I’m also daunted by the fact that three of our eight Program sites are in countries in which I do not speak the language (France and Germany). And I’m very, very aware that the my predecessor, though she couldn’t be more than 4’11” and 95 pounds soaking wet with a backpack on, and she has the world’s the tiniest feet, she is leaving me with some incredibly big shoes to fill.

As I make my way around the reception, interacting with high school teachers, students, and University administrators alike, I’m simultaneously stoked about the position I’m stepping into and freakin’ scared pants-less. I learn quickly that I’m being watched, as many people are wanting to know more about the young woman (some might even call me ‘girl’) moving into the Director position. I can sense that many think I’m not up to the task, while others are genuinely intrigued at what brought me to this point and moved by my enthusiasm. In short, I learn that listening and observing is best, and when it’s time to speak, to do so with confidence, assertiveness and conviction.

Some moments I feel on top of my game and other moments I feel, um, stupid. I am having more of the latter kind of moments, so I scan the crowd looking for my anchor—Jack—and find him. He’s mingling with everyone from the janitor to the Vice President of International Affairs. He’s good at this kind of thing. I admire him for that. He smiles at me, and it helps me find the confidence I know I have within me.

Then I overhear a group of individuals talking about the ‘direction’ the Program is taking. As I do my best to pretend I am engaged in the current circle of conversation in which I find myself, I am bending my ear something ridiculous to try and find out what’s being said in the other circle. I hear low mumblings, infused with a tone of doubt and scrutiny. I don’t hear much, but what I do hear loud and clear is the laughter (almost cackling) of one person in particular who predicts the Program will go under in six months.

It is her that I would like to thank.

Thank you for, in that moment, shaking me out of my self-doubt and firmly placing me on the path of moving forward and not looking back.

Thank you for inspiring me to mobilize forces and add another French-speaking site so that we could serve more French students across the state—in only our second year into my directorship.

Thank you for giving me the confidence to even conceive of moving into the Eastern world with our Program, a need that has been growing strong ever since I began.

Fast forward to now. I am fresh returned from  a trip to Hangzhou, China—still not over the jetlag, in fact. I remember when the idea for the trip was first born back in June. I was hesitant, even resistant to the idea of opening a program in China. Why? I’m not sure. I found a number of excuses that seemed appropriate and justified. The model of our Program in China would have to be different. And why mess with the unique, more importantly, highly effective model we currently have in place? Parents won’t agree to send their children to China. If they are filled with trepidation at the thought of their children going to Europe or Mexico, how will they even think to let them travel twice as far? We will be shooting ourselves in the foot if we offer a program in China; Chinese seems to be in direct competition with German, a language we’ve had in our profile since the Program’s inception in 1962. How can we justify what in my mind was pitting the two languages against each other?

But those were all excuses masking the ultimate human fear: the unknown. I was resistant to the idea of China because I didn’t know China. But isn’t that why I got into the field of study abroad in the first place? The challenge of discovering the unknown, of pushing yourself beyond your limits? And more importantly, discovering yourself in the process of discovering the unknown and pushing your limits?

Jack, not only my anchor, but my gut-checker, reminded me of this one day this past summer when I was having a particularly challenging job day. I was dealing with a mini-crisis abroad, and had gone to a meeting about China that hurt my brain to even wrap around. Every meeting about China seemed to bring about more questions than answers. It was all a little more than I could handle at that moment in time. I was also low on sleep, as I was just coming of the heels of a pretty significant student health issue from over the weekend that sent one of our students home. I grumbled something about how it used to be so nice to have laidback summers (note to myself and readers: since I have taught for the Honors Program in the summer of 2005, I have NEVER had a laidback summer, so I must have really been delusional that day), and here I went adding China to my plate when I already had enough to ‘deal with.’ Without missing a beat, Jack called me on it. He said to buck up, that he knew me and thus knew that deep down I was excited about China. I asked him how he knew and he responded “You like the challenge. You would be bored without it.” BINGO.

As soon as those words were articulated (ain’t it funny how you sometimes just need to hear things out loud for them to really click?), I embraced the challenge of China rather than fought it. And here I am. Several days of meeting with the Education Bureau, the University and the Foreign Affairs Department in Hangzhou, and it’s looking pretty promising that we will open a Program in China in 2014. There’s no guarantee we’ll even get this up and running, but I’ve done plenty of research on the ground. Now it’s time to roll up my sleeves and dig, see what can be done. Time to stretch ourselves (myself), move out of our comfort zone, go East. If this does come to fruition, our Program will have to tweak its model, yes. And there will be parent concerns, without a doubt. Will our German Program suffer as a result? I think not. We will be proof that languages can coexist. We will simply fight even harder to promote German, as we have done every year for the past four years.

And to think, the drive for what I do burns so bright partly because of what that woman said. I’ve always been driven, ambitious, more likely to take on more than take on less (sometimes to a fault) and most importantly, passionate about what I do. Combine that with an extremely dedicated office staff who also believes wholeheartedly in what we do and 35 or so talented instructors who have a passion for language and the culture that speaks it, and you’ve got a formidable team to carry out our mission. But you throw a doubter in the mix and DANG!—you’ve just upped the ante. Game on and challenge accepted. Thank you, unnamed individual, for articulating your doubt.

No worries, friends. I’m not a vengeful or spiteful person—not in the least. So I do not think of her and get angry. Or even. No one is keeping score. Instead, I think of her and am appreciative for the external motivation. Her voice resonates in my head on the days when I am not motivated enough on my own or by the idea that the students on our Program are having a meaningful study abroad experience as young and ripe 17 year olds. There aren’t many days that I need to fall back on her words to give me that extra push, but you better believe they’re always milling around in the hidden corners my mind when I need them. They will help me to never be complacent in my work.

And they will help me to always remember that haters gonna hate. Nay-sayers gonna nay-say. And party poopers, well, they gonna poop. It’s how you react to them that makes all the difference.

So to the person that shall remain unnamed—thank you for helping me pave my professional camino, a camino that has shaped who I am as a person and the kind of work I hope to dedicate my life to.

I leave you now with a glimpse of China, a beautiful country, like no place I have ever been before. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore. And that’s not a bad thing.

The sun setting over West Lake

THREE!

My Dearest Joe Joe:

I just peeked in on you and Daddy. You are both soundly asleep, left hand above your head, cocked in that funny sleep position you two always find yourselves in—you in your big boy bed, Daddy in the trundle. You both make me beam, both make my heart burst.

Could you two be any more alike?  

In a little less than 24 hours it will be your official birthday. Your THIRD birthday! And in the last week, I have wanted to say so many things to you—

I will never tire of going out of our way home from daycare at least once a week to pass Bloomington Hospital and say to you: “Joseph, that’s where we met you for the first time!” And then I ask you, “What did we say to you the moment we met you, Joseph?” And you respond, “HappyBirthday, Joseph Anthony!” And you never seem to tire of it, either. I know one day you will, and my heart aches for that time even though it hasn’t come—but for now, you love it as much as I do. You claim to remember that moment. Some days I am inclined to believe you, as you remember every little detail. You are my scientist, after all. Daddy says you see the world differently, the way he did as a child. I don’t care how you see the world, my sweet son, I simply care that you DO see it and that you feel it with all your heart.  

You finally came to us on 9/20/2009. You think that look of joy on my face is something else, huh, kid? I only wish you could have felt how I felt in that moment. I hope you know that feeling one day, Joe. There ain't nothin' like it.

I will always look forward to two moments in my day, even if I have the world’s poopiest, ickiest, crapshoot-of-a-day: you coming into our room when you first wake up in the morning, hair all in a swirly-do and either George, Nemo, or a hammer in your hand (you are always prepared for adventure!) and you running to greet me when I pick you up at daycare (expect for those days you are too engulfed in treasure hunting with your buddies). Those two moments perfectly bookend my work day and give me reason to always, always smile. Thank you, my sweet soul of a boy.

Crazy Joe Joe morning hair. And face. 

I will forever live for those unsolicited “I love you, Mommas” and the ‘just because’ hugs and kisses that you sneak me every now and then without me asking. After all, you are your Daddy’s son, and your shows of true affection are few and far between which makes them all the more special, even though I know you love me more than your words and your deep-thinking mind can possibly articulate. As with your Daddy, I can tell your love for me by the way you look at me (I catch you watching me sweetly), the questions you ask me (‘Do you like the color red, too, Momma? We both love that color, huh, Momma? It’s our favorite color together, Momma, we both love red!’), and the fact that there is no other place you’d rather be on a Saturday than at the market, followed by a walk, and a picnic dinner, with me (and of course your Daddy and Miss P). It is a good thing I adore your father, Joseph, because you are just like him. I have two JAGs, there is no doubt about it, and I’d have it no other way.

I will always cherish your warm little body on my lap as we read a book together. Ferdinand (known to you as ‘Ferdimand’), Caps for Sale, Polar Express, The Little Read Caboose, The Happy Man and His Dump Truck, Pink Me Up, The Giving Tree. Some of my favorites are now your favorites. I have loved sharing with you one of my favorite pastimes—reading—from the very day we brought you home. I’ll never forget it—the night you came home with us from the hospital, after we settled in with you and realized we were ‘for real’ parents (an ‘oh, crap’ moment!) and going this alone (no, the nurses didn’t come home with you!), I took comfort in taking you out of your car seat and laying you next to me on the floor, reading you your first Little Critter book. Daddy made fun of me for doing it, saying you didn’t understand. Joke’s on him now! You followed along in no time—you always paid attention—and now you are our little reader. Just today you recited Caps for Sale to us on the way into school. “You monkeys, you…you give me back my caps!,” your inflection and intonation spot on. *Smile.* Sometimes you ask me to read you a book, and I tell you I can’t at the moment because I’m doing X, Y or Z. In those moments, I’m sorry, kiddo, and I always regret them—please keep asking. And remind me that sometimes (in fact, all times) laundry, dishes, and picking up after you and P are just not important.

Your favorite pastime, much like mine

I will pray and hope for you a long life of joy and wonder, of self-love, self-knowledge, self-confidence. I only ever want to see you happy and fulfilled, my sunshine sugar bear Joe Joe. I will need to remind myself of this, I know.

I have also had some random thoughts running through my head this past week—

Will you ever be potty trained, my dear one? Will we forever be coaxing you to the terlit with M&Ms, Oreos, and stickers? I’m starting to think Pili might catch you, even surpass you, on this milestone. I get it. You just can’t take the precious time to do your business! It’s kind of like when I have to remind your Daddy to eat, otherwise he’ll forget. You Goetz boys just always get wrapped up in your projects, God love you.

Somewhat related, will you always laugh when you toot, and then say ‘It’s from those beans I ate!’ even when you haven’t had beans to eat in days? And will I ever stop joining you in that laughter? Sometimes I forget that I’m the adult.

Will we ever go a week without watching Rudolph or Charlie Brown Christmas or clips of Polar Express or A Very Monkey Christmas in the house? Don’t tell Daddy, but I secretly hope not. I’ve finally found my Christmas soul mate—I just had to give birth to him! I can’t wait to take you to French Lick in December with Daddy, P, and Nonna and Papoo to ride the Polar Express. And I can’t wait to spend our first Christmas in Bloomington together this year. I also love that you and I sing ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Harkthe Herald Angels Sing’ no less than once every few days. Yesssssss.

Our first baby is now such a big boy (but no worries, kiddo, you will always be our ‘baby’). Maybe it’s time for another? We asked you recently if you’d want to have another brother or sister. You said you wanted another sister, much to our surprise. Will she be Lourdes? Giselle? Jude? Inmaculada? Or will she be a he? Another JAG? Or will there even be another? Or will there be more than another? Sweet baby Joe, these choices are not ours to make, but we will be listening closely to God (remember He whispers and the world is a loud place) to see if that’s in the cards for our family. If it is or it isn’t, I hope you and Pili will always be thick as thieves and take good care of each other. Even if that means we’ll have to fish you both out of a heap of trouble, just like your favorite race car, Lightening McQueen.

One big heap of Double Trouble 

How will I ever get you to eat your veggies?

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to tell you if you keep touching your peep in the bathtub it will fall off. I’m not sure why it occurred to me to say that to you tonight—but it set you off on a fit of giggles, which of course set me off on a fit of giggles. And only made you touch it more. Doh.

Did I ever tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes? ONLY EVERY SINGLE DAY! They light up a room and are most certainly the window into your very old soul. Keep smiling with those eyes, handsome.

Will you ever stop drooling and/or putting your hands in your mouth? The best part is you’ve taught your sister this skill well.

Will you ever stop sneaking icing when we make cupcakes? Are you going to turn into a big ole block of cheese one day (because you eat enough of it! And all kinds—Brie, Manchego, Gouda.)? Will you ever like ice cream? I mean, what kind of kiddo doesn’t like ice cream? MY kiddo, that’s who! You are the only kiddo I know who orders a side of Oreo crumbles at Hartzells…and I love that about you.

And the list goes on and on…

Joe, I’ve wanted to tell you these many things and ask you these many questions in the last week. But I have to pick my moments to tell and ask, because I know you are a thinker, a listener, an internal processor. You are always listening, so I choose carefully the things I say to you. When I do tell you things, I keep them simple. I tell you when you are eating breakfast at the island that “I love you thiiiiiis muuuuuuuch,” the same way my Daddy (your Pappy) always told/still tells me—and I do our special motions to go along with it. I tell you when I drop you off at school in the morning, “Be kind and gentle to your friends.” I tell you when we are playing in the evening that I’m proud to be your Mommy. The last thing I tell you at night before you close your eyes and I’m putting you to bed is that you are my bestest boy and biggest helper, and the boy I always wanted. You sometimes respond with words, or with whispers (you are finding your voice, and what a joy that is to see unfold), but always with understanding in your eyes.

Those eyes. That drool! What a keeper. 

I adore you, my Joseph Anthony. You are one of a kind, kid. Happy Third Birthday. You have helped me find my camino; I can only hope to help you find yours. 

Love,

Your Proud Momma

Momma said there'd be days like this...

If you would have told me Wednesday morning that when I went to bed Wednesday night I’d be more worried about Joe than P, I’d have called you crazy. Or cray-cray, as the cool kids say. But so it was.

I’m probably supposed to be worried about both of my kids equally as a Mum, but more often than not when I go to bed at night, one of them is weighing heavier on my mind than the other. I guess this is normal (at least I hope), and I’d say if I took a poll I’d split down the middle the number of times it’s Joe and P. So now that I’ve justified in my head that I worry about them both equally, just on different days, we can move on with the story (stupid mom guilt)—though I should give fair warning: this story is not meant for certain audiences, i.e., folks who want to have kids but can’t decide for sure, or folks who are thinking about having another but are afraid to take the plunge. If that’s you, you probably just want to stop here. Another fair warning: this blog post may contain mental images unsuitable for some. Reader discretion advised. Disclaimer: I’m so grateful and blessed for two healthy kiddos—I thank God every day that the only things we’ve had to deal with so far are ear infections, bouts of pneumonia, stomach bugs and irritating coughs. I’ll take those one thousand times over any day when compared to the illnesses that some parents face. So I’m in no way complaining here. I’m simply sharing our day so that we are reminded to laugh at ourselves—and so others know they are not alone. If we didn’t laugh at ourselves as parents, we’d probably just pull our hair out (that’s not possible for Jack) and/or cry (sob).

Wednesday Miss P was having surgery to get tubes in both of her little earsie doozies (that’s ‘ears’ in Steph speak), so the night before, Pili was heavy on my mind as I laid my head down to sleep. The deal was that I was taking P to the hospital for the surgery, Jack was taking Joe into school, and then Jack would catch up with us at the hospital. We both would have liked to be there, but that’s just how the cookie crumbles when one kiddo needs to get one place and the other to another, our nearest family is 2.5 hours away in the Nati, and we found out about the surgery the day before so couldn’t get anyone to B-town to cover Joe for us. Buf.

Back story: Pilicakes has had an ongoing ear infection since late July. After the first round of antibiotics, Jack took her to the doc for a re-check, at which point the doc said her ears didn’t even look like they’d be treated. Boo. On to second round of antiobiotics. Shortly after the second round, she went in for her one year appointment. No surprise to hear the doc say she had a double ear infection. Argh. Time to pull out the big dogs: two shots of antibiotics, one in each leg, on that Friday, and another two the following Sunday. Oh, and time to go to the ENT to check out the tube option. Tuesday was the appointment with the ENT (mind you, this is after four shots of antibiotics)—he takes a look at her ears and says ‘Yuck.’ Groan. As Miss P looked at him, sweet as can be and smiling, he could see the desperation in my eyes. ‘We’ll get her in as soon as possible,’ he says. ‘And if you think she has a great disposition now, wait until you see what she’s like with her ears fixed!’ He wasn’t messing around—his nursing team called me later that day and said they would take her in the next day. I didn’t have time to worry and didn’t have time to fret, it was happening—and soon.

More back story: Unfortunately, the Goetz kiddos are no strangers to ear infections, and no stranger to tubes either. Joe had his first set right around P’s current age: one year and one month. Joe got a second set less than a year later—just three weeks after P was born. Joe’s also been to the ER on two occasions because of such bad pain in his ears caused by ear infections. As the nurse who attended P yesterday said, ‘You make darn cute kids, but you give ‘em terrible ears.’ Well, thanks, Miss Sunshine, that makes me feel awesome about myself as a Mom. Bottom line: we’d been down the tube road with Joe. Twice. And we saw how much each set helped. Even so, we were hoping not to go down this path with P. I mean, who wants that for their kiddo? She did great the first few months of her life. Her first ear infection was at 5 months or so. But once they started, they didn’t stop. And to think she had a perpetual ear infection since July—and it wasn’t even the bad time of year for colds and snot and such? Yeah, we knew where this was headed.

On with the present story: so the morning of the surgery, I got up, got ready and scooped up our Pilarina chiquitina and loaded her in the carseat, with her little buddy Violet tagging along.

We got there and it was an adventure for P. Ohhhh, the lobby! All the magazines! A nice cold floor to spill out onto! Once admitted to pre-op, she began to charm the staff immediately, ‘Oh, she’s so sweet.’ ‘Oh, look at those eyes.’ ‘Oh, what a cutie.,’ But P is a whipper snapper and could smell something wasn’t right. She looked around then made eye contact with me and immediately reached out her hands and waved her hands upside down (that’s ‘Pick me up!’ in P speak). I picked her up and kissed her and she clung to me like a koala bear. I then got her into her hospital gown and that’s when she really knew something was going down. 

What's goin' down, Ma?

Baby girl went from suspicious to downright pissed after about 25 minutes. We weren’t allowed to give her anything after 12:00 midnight and it was 8:30 already—torture for a little gal who still wakes up between 5:00 and 6:00 for a bottle. So she began to chew on everything in sight, while simultaneously pointing at her purple backpack, to the pocket that she knows holds the bottles, and grumpin.’ She looked at me, then looked at Violet, with pleading eyes. ‘Please, guys!’ she seemed to say. So I took her out to the nurses’ station where she made more friends and got easily distracted. Then the doc walked into the hospital and it was game time. 

Since I’d done this before, I knew the drill. They’d whisk her away and I’d hide into the room until she was out of sight. I hated this part, hated it. My gut tied up into a million knots and I fought back the tears—without Jack there, I had to keep it together. After a few moments, I left the room and went out to the waiting room to sit and wait. I prayed for the doc to have a steady hand and for P to be brave. I’m sure P was brave, she always is. I, however, was not. Tears and more tears.

I tapped my feet, texted some folks and generally fidgeted for the next thirty minutes. Then the doc came back out to report that, while the procedure went well, he found some gunky fluid in her ears that hadn’t drained and had hardened to what he likened to rubber cement. No wonder the gal felt awful. He said her ears were in good shape after the procedure, but that ‘she’s not happy right now.’ I figured as much. P is not shy to let you know when she’s happy—but all the same, she’s not shy to let you know when she’s pissed off. I love my baby girl, she wears her heart on her sleeve (finally, a trait one of my kiddos gets from me!).

P, super hungry and borderline deranged

He took me back to recovery…and Pili was not even crying—she was growling. Mad, hungry, and coming out of anesthesia, she was like a little lion cub fighting the nurse, swatting at her and knashing her two bottom teeth together with her one top tooth. When she saw me, she calmed somewhat, but then gave me a crazed look as if to say, ‘Not cool, Mom, how you gonna leave me and Violet back here with no num nums and in the arms of a stranger?’ I apologized to her with my eyes and my arms, soothing her back to normal. It took almost thirty minutes for her to cool down, and when she did, she drank 8 ounces in less than 5 minutes. She was still not very happy with me—so Jack’s arrival to the recovery room was well-timed. She reached out for him and snuggled right up. Figures. Mom does all the work, Dad gets the glory.

We gave her a few minutes to snuggle with Jack, then packed her up to go home. Violet got to take home some rad hospital gear, and the nurse gave us some gear for big bro Joe, too, so that he could play ‘doctor’ later.

Miss P fell asleep on the way home, and I had no intentions of placing her in her crib or on a bed—in my arms is where she was going. All day. Cuddling my little snuggle buns, I got a call from daycare. Joe was struggling to breath—he had a coughing fit that really freaked out his teacher. Whatty? Rather than wake the sleeping lion cub again, I called Jack and off he went to get Joe. On the way, he made an appointment with the doctor. Right away I began composing a letter out loud:

“Dear Sh*t:

Why must you hit the fan all at once? And why must it be today? Take your whirling, swirling storm of poo and dump it on someone else, please.

Begrudgingly (and not the least bit lovingly),

Steph”

Whoever/wherever Mr. Sh*t was, he did not care and did not listen. Poooooo, I mean, Booooo.

Jack called me on the way home from the doctor’s appointment with Joe and asked me if I cared to guess what was wrong with our son. I knew it was either something totally bogus (Joe falls prey to the strangest things—strep throat in the middle of summer, pneumonia 24 hours after being checked by the doctor and looking fine, things of that nature—and I blame his maladies on the fact that he—still—puts everything in his mouth) or nothing at all. “Strep,” I took a guess. “Nope,” he said. “Nothing at all. Doc says his lungs are crystal clear, ears are fine, and that he’s just got a yucky couch caused by all the drainage he’s had.” Neat.

By the time Joe and Jack arrived home, P had risen and was a little fireball. Almost like she got two brand new ears! She was jibber-jabbering, getting into all the toys, scarfed down a lunch of grapes and cheese, and was getting stronger by the minute. On the contrary, Joe was getting worse by the minute. He was coughing literally every 15 seconds and was holding his sides, telling me his tummy hurt from wretching so much. Jack and I looked at each other desperately. “Anything we can do for him?” I asked, knowing what the answer was. “Not really, but the doc did have a good suggestion for a cough suppressant—honey.” Joe gets one of these colds about five or six times a year, mostly in between the months of January and March—and we’ve tried all the home, herbal and Western remedies we can find. The kiddo takes puffs of albuterol, we elevate his bed, put a humidifier in his room, pump him full of Vitamin C—you name it, we’ve tried it. We’d never tried honey before because, well, we kinda knew he wouldn’t take it. But desperate times call for desperate measures. We tried to get him to take it, telling him it would make his cough feel better, would make him sleep better, etc. No dice. Time to pull out the big guns: “If you take this, we’ll give you M & Ms as a treat.” We are not above bribery in our house.

Joe nodded, a bit hesitant. Jack had diluted the honey with water and gave it to him in a medicine spoon. Joe had maybe half of it down and I began to see The Heave. The Hurl Heave. His shoulders lurched, his throat extended, his eyes began to water, then raaaaaalf. Joe puked up his lunch. He began to get upset at having gotten sick and started to run around the island, stopping to spew every few steps. Really? Really? P was on the floor, and began chasing after him, thinking it was a game. Once again…really? I threw Jack, Joe and P out to the porch and started cleaning up the mess. I glanced outside. Joe was still periodically puking. The kiddo has the worst gag reflex. Ever. What were we thinking trying to give him thick and sticky honey?

Once the mess was cleaned up Jack had to go back into work, since his earlier attempt to do so had been thwarted. So there I was with a fragile Joe and a rambunctious P. Awesome. Joe was so tired at this point (he missed his nap because naptime was replaced by a doctor visit) that he couldn’t see straight. So I took him upstairs to try and put him down for a nap. I was reading him stories, and Miss P was coming up to us groping at the books and playing peek-a-boo all the while. Every time she’d reach for the book, Joe would grump, “NO, Pili!” and P would grump back and start tugging at his shirt or pants—then look at me as if to say, “Mom, it’s MY day to be doted on!” Poor gal, never ever gets her fifteen minutes of fame. Part of being the second child, I guess.

Did she really just have surgery? P's a tough cookie, and she just soldiers on

I tried to corral her and take her into her room with some blocks and clean laundry (she’ll normally play all day in a pile of clean laundry—rub her nose all over it, put it in her mouth and slobber on it, smother it in her grubby post-lunch hands), but five minutes later, she’d push Joe’s door open and charge us, thinking it was a huge game of hide-and-seek. At one point I almost had him asleep, then in she came, bull in a china shop, and his eyes darted open. “Didn’t you just have surgery?” I thought to myself. I was delighted she was feeling so well, but was pleading with the sleep gods to give Joe just a few minutes of shut-eye, and P was not helping. No use. It was almost 5:30 at that point, and we missed the naptime boat, plain and simple. I tried one last time to settle him in and he downright refused…then, to put the nail in the coffin, he wailed “I want my Daaaaaaddy!” Time to move on, clearly sleep was not in the cards.

I asked Joe what would make him feel better. He said to watch Polar Express. Right on, pal, Polar Express it is. I went downstairs only to find that Polar Express was missing. Okay, not funny. Toddler on the verge of a meltdown, P growing hungrier and hungrier by the moment, and also needing a nap herself. Where in the eff is Polar Express and who messed with it? Joe didn’t take the news of no Polar Express well. In fact, he spouted off his favorite insult at the moment: “You can’t come to my birthday party, Mommy!” Grumble, grumble, grumble. I realized I was starting to hit my low point when I almost responded to him, “I don’t think so, buddy, because I’m THROWING your birthday party! Neener, neener, neener!” Thankfully, I kept that to myself, along with the second letter I was drafting in my head to Mr. Sh*t.

“Dear Sh*t:

Could this not have waited till the weekend? Could you not have been so kind as to throw us this curveball of crap when we were a tad bit more rested and not so zombie-esque? If you haven’t guessed already, you are on my sh*t list.

Not so respectfully yours,

Steph”

I managed to convince Joe that Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer would be a fair substitute for Polar Express (we watch Christmas shows in our house year round, you see). He settled into that (still coughing every 1-2 minutes, laying on his side, eyes bloodshot and snot pouring from his nose) and in walked Jack from work. I asked him if he knew where Polar Express was. He walked over to the armoire and pulled out Polar Express and several other DVDs that I couldn’t find for some time from behind one of our picture frames. Well, dang. He put in the DVD. Joe was still moaning and crying, even though his beloved movie had started.

Meanwhile I plopped P in her chair to give her some yogurt, which she scarfed and then proceeded to lick from the bowl herself, attempting to self-feed. It turned out pretty messy. The sleepy-eyes face then became apparent. I told Jack I was going to go out and pick up dinner (Fast Food! A rarity at the Goetz house, and only an option when we’re stressed and need to indulge), hoping P would catch a nap along the way. Ha. Hahahaha. Not so much. P was talking up a storm to Wendy’s and back. She fell asleep about two minutes before we returned home. Perfect. Yet another plan thwarted for the day. Wheeeee!

We all attempted to eat dinner—a few bites in and Joe declared he didn’t want anymore, said he wanted to go to bed. So Jack stopped mid-dinner to take him upstairs and try to put him down. Again. Nope, he came crying to the top of the stairs and said he wanted me. So I abandoned my dinner, and headed upstairs. We did three stories and prayers, but he just couldn’t settle in. And the cough kept coming, a deep, and guttural cough from his toes. Every time I thought he’d maybe settle down, there it crept back up again. Finally, I decided to try something I would have wanted tried on me had I been in his shoes. I pulled up his little white Hanes tee and rubbed Vaporub all over his chest, again and again—and every time I could feel the cough coming on, I pressed down on his chest a little as if to try and suppress the cough with my own two hands. Twenty minutes in and it seemed to be working somewhat. Joe finally closed his eyes and seemed to be on his way to a deep sleep. So was I. I fell asleep holding Joe in my arms, flat on my back.

At 2:30 a.m., I woke up, totally disoriented and with the world’s worst kink in my neck. I got out of Joe’s bed to see what was going on with P. I found P down the hall in the guest bed (she’s been refusing to sleep in her crib lately—it’s awesome) and Jack in our bed, both conked out. They looked peaceful. Joe sound asleep, P and Jack sound asleep—Steph wide awake. I went downstairs to my half-eaten dinner, which I threw out, and then proceeded to clean up the kitchen a bit. Crap, I had a presentation to give the next morning, so I needed to look at that. I glanced over it, and then went back upstairs to curl up to P, who I felt I had neglected all day. I hoped she would forgive me (she did—the next day when I spent all day with just her after my presentation). And I also crossed my fingers that Joe would sleep through the night (he did—thank heavens).

7:30 rolled around and P woke up chipper, as did Joe. I even felt half-way decent, and so did Jack. It was a new day.

A few days later and Jack and I can see the humor in the sh*t storm that was Wednesday—in fact, the days since Wednesday have been calm and normal—but in the moment, we were floundering, drowning, bleary-eyed and fatigued, throwing a serious pity party for ourselves and thinking we were the only parents to have ever had such a bad day. ‘Yeah, right,’ you must be thinking. I know that’s dramatic—but if you’re a parent, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t felt the same at some point. Told ya.

Jack and I have this thing we do at the end of the day to gauge how we were as parents that day, and if we are potentially ready for more kids. We always ask each other “What kind of day was today? A two kid kind of day (meaning it was a bad day—and we’re not having any more kids)? A three kid kind of day (meaning we’re feeling pretty okay at the job we did that day as parents—and our kids even cooperated)? A four kid kind of day (I think that’s only an option when wine is served with dinner and Nonna and Papoo put the kids to bed or when we are on a long weekend alone)?” Thankfully, we didn’t have a chance to re-group that night and ask each other our nightly question.

To whom do I thank at the end of this blog? I always end the blog with a nod to so and so for helping me find my way, or el camino, in this crazy life. I think it’s our kiddos I have to thank. For testing me on that day, for forgiving me the next, and for loving me all the same. They’re two pretty great kiddos, even when they’re sick. I'm blessed. 

As for a third or fourth—let's catch up on sleep first. And let's see if it’s part of the Big Man’s plan. For now, Violet is shaping up to be a nice fifth member of our family. 

Violet, the fifth member of the Goetz family (and P's faithful companion in surgery)

How Miss P Came to Be

The Story of Jumpin' Bean 

Jumpin’ Bean’s birth story begins on November 5, 2010, when we were on our way to a weekend trip to Missouri, just the two of us. That Friday night Jack and I arrived to a quiet and peaceful hotel in St. Genevieve. The next day my friend, Sarah, was getting married at the nearby Chaumette Winery. Sarah and Ben’s ceremony was sweet, set in the early afternoon amongst the backdrop of sunshine and blue skies on the winery’s hilltop, followed by the best wedding food I’d ever had (a French and American spread), a glass or two of wine, dancing, and a tranquil drive across wine country to St. Louis where we would spend an adult evening alone.

Jack and I at Sarah Bear and Ben's wedding

Once in STL, we went to a quaint Tapas restaurant Sarah recommended to us, had some bravas, olives and peppers, tasty fish and jamón and drank us some Alhambra. We sat at the corner table where we felt like the only ones there—just perfect. We stayed at this super cool hotel in The Loop, so after dinner we walked up to campus, got some coffee and sat. And talked. Uninterrupted. If you’ve got kids, you know what a treat this is. We slept in the next morning, went to Mass at a nearby old church (that’s one of our favorite things to do when we travel—go to Mass at new places), then went to the St. Louis zoo (for free!) before heading back home to Joseph, who was staying in B-town with Nonna (my mom) that weekend. Do I really have to spell out for you what the result of our weekend was? Nothing inspires procreation like a bestest buddy’s wedding. Love was in the air!. Muchisimas gracias, Sarah and Ben. It is only fitting that you were Jumpin’ Bean’s first non-family visitors. (P.S.—Joseph was the result of a trip to St. Petersburg, Florida. Jumpin’ Bean was the result of a trip to St. Genevieve/St. Louis. Lord help us if we go on trips to places with the name ‘Saint’ in them.)

As we pulled into our driveway I got this feeling. Were my boobs hurting already? We ran inside to greet Joseph, literally pushing each other over to get to him first, and he was happy to see us. That sweet, innocent little face. Oh, God, are we ready for two? I’m probably not even pregnant, why am I freaking out? Big monkey hugs from him as he wrapped his legs tightly around my torso. I know I’m pregnant, I just know it.

A few days later I traveled to Spain for work. In between site visits, I got to see an old friend, Padre Zazo, Joseph’s namesake. The last time I had seen him, it was the spring of 2009 and I was pregnant with Joe. I didn’t tell him I suspected I was pregnant again. I don’t think I needed to. I could tell in his face that he knew.

Catedral in Leon, Spain. Said a prayer here for JB. 

I came home to a mess two days before Thanksgiving. While I was gone my poor kiddo got pink eye. Then my poor kiddo, hubby and mother-in-law got a nasty stomach bug, so naturally I was bracing myself to get it upon my return. Nothing says ‘Missed you, Mommy’ quite like projectile vomiting. Instead, what I got was a wicked case of jetlag. Joseph was taking three hour naps to recover from his rough patch, so I joined him every day in hopes of recalibrating on this side of the Atlantic. My brothers and sisters poked fun at me for being such a party pooper—and my stepdad called me out when I kept declining wine. “You must be pregnant!” he said with a sly grin, as if saying it out loud would will it to happen (he loooves being a Papoo). After being home for a few days and still taking three hours naps with Joe, I realized this was not mere jetlag. It was jetlag with a pregnant punch. I was whooped, exhausted, pooped beyond words. Jack finally asked me if I was alright and I told him that I thought I was pregnant. His heart might have skipped a beat. When he asked me how long I had thought that, I told him pretty much since we had driven home from St. Louis. He knew I was being serious and I’m pretty sure that’s why he turned completely white. After the ten days he’d had with Captain Pink Eye followed by Captain Pukies, baby on board seemed a little overwhelming to him and I couldn’t blame him. We got back to B-town the Sunday after Thanksgiving and we took a test. Holy. Schmoly. Ready or not, here two come!

We were elated, really we were. We were just kind of stunned, frankly. Joe had turned one in September, and we knew we wanted our kids to be about two years apart—but could it really have happened so fast? Turns out, after checking my charts and doing some quick math, this little nipper would be arriving to us at the end of July—the 29^th according to my calculations. We’d be joining the two under two club. I also hoped that the babe would arrive late just like his/her brother, as my job requires me to essentially be ‘on call’ until all nine of my study abroad programs return to the States. The last program in 2011 was set to return July 28^th. Uf, we were going to be cutting it close.

We phoned my parents and Jack’s parents right away. Thinking of it makes me smile so big. Is there any more fun news to relay than you’re having a baby? My Mom was squealing on the phone. She called my stepdad to tell him and rumor has it he started to do jumping jacks in the airport while waiting to catch his flight for a business trip. We told my brother, who was pretty pumped. My Dad replied with an enthusiastic ‘That’s fanTAStic!’ My stepmom said she knew we’d come back from the St. Louis wedding weekend with a baby on the way—and she said she could tell by the way I looked when we saw her over Thanksgiving. My mother-in-law cried. We didn’t tell my father-in-law because we knew if he did, he’d tell all of Greater Cincinnati before we got a chance to. We swore our five parents and my brother to secrecy and decided to make the announcement at Christmas. Both of our moms were bursting at the seams harboring such a secret, and lived to run in to one another on the westside of Cincy to talk about it (who else could they talk about it with?).

Before the night was over, negotiations for baby’s name were under way—and settled before we even went to bed. For a boy we wanted Jude—the middle name was still up for grabs (with Albert, some variation of Augustus/Augustine, and Aquinas all in the running—remember those saints I was talking about? We like saints. To be eligible as a Goetz-approved baby name, you have to either have been a saint or a Marian apparition). For a girl we wanted Pilar Kathryn, the name we had picked out had Joseph been a boy, after the Virgin Mary who appeared to St. James on the river Ebro in Zaragoza, Spain, and told her to build a church on the very ‘pillar’ on which she appeared—the beautiful Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar is the result. It took us a few days to decide what we would nickname this little one. Joseph had been Peanut while he was in the womb. Peanut 2.0 felt like a betrayal to both Joe and his sibling, so we settled on Jumpin’ Bean for the newest Goetz tater tot, or JB for short.

Our first doctor’s appointment was on December 17^th. We did the typical first visit stuff—met with the childbirth educator (“Can’t eat this, should stay away from that.” Oops, ate and drank most of what was on that list while in Spain), the financial rep (“Your baby will cost roughly $X,XXX.” Jack went white again.), the doctor (“How are you feeling? Any questions? Ready for two?” Ha. Hahaha. Ha. No.), and then, the ever favorite, the hero of that hours long first visit—the ultrasound technician. She looked at me kinda like “You’re back again already?!”, but then got straight to work on gelling me up. I don’t care how many babies a woman has or how many times she hears the swoosh and gallop of her baby’s beating heart, it’s never enough and never as special as hearing it for that first time. Tears streamed down my face, and Jack’s, too. This was for real, and we had our baby’s first photo to prove it. When we went to Cincy a few days later for Christmas, we hung JP’s ultrasound photo on the fridge, and decided we’d just let people figure it out. My sister was the first to notice the night before Christmas Eve and she cried (how I love her!). Then the night of Christmas Eve, my uncle Mike Tallarigo spotted it and asked if it was Joseph. I said ‘no’ and the people who overheard me got real quiet and their eyes got real big—the calm before the storm—then all one thousand Tallarigos whooped and shouted. Hugs, and kisses, and general loudness ensued. When we told Jack’s family the next day (my mother-in-law wrapped a pack of diapers up for my father-in-law to open), everyone was thrilled. JB was everyone’s favorite Christmas present in 2010, especially ours.

In many ways, my pregnancy with JB was eerily similar to my pregnancy with Joseph. I felt the same (great—but a bit more tired due to chasing around a toddler), was on a pretty similar trajectory (with their birth dates about an estimated six weeks apart, I went through the winter looking a little pudgy, like I’d eaten too much turkey at Thanksgiving and then again at Christmas, then started to get a belly in March or so, blossoming in the spring and just popping in the summer—bonus: I got to wear all of my maternity clothes that I wore with Joe a second time around since I was preggers in the same seasons), looked the same (mostly all belly out in front), and had the same zest for being pregnant (see Joseph’s birth story; Jack thought once was just good luck, but enjoying being pregnant a second time and he officially began to panic thinking we might produce an entire soccer team). Because so many things were ‘the same,’ and were ‘the same’ from the get- go, I began to think very early on that I was having another boy. And I was really thrilled about that! I’m a tomboy—I’ve always been considered ‘one of the guys.’ I was more than alright with Joe, Jack and I’s many outings playing in the mud and dirt with sticks, tossing rocks, racing cars across the tile and the like. Jack had the same gut feeling, too. In fact, everyone did—except for Papoo (my stepdad) and GG (my stepmom). So we pretty much began to focus on what the middle name would be, praying to the saints to give us a sign.

Well, a sign came, and it wasn’t the one I was looking for or expecting. But is it ever?

My pregnancy with JB went by so, so fast. Mommas of two or more out there know exactly what I’m talking about. The first pregnancy, it’s all about you, the Momma Bear. The second pregnancy you have no time to think about you because you are chasing after another one and that other one has no concept of the fact that there’s a little nipper growing inside of you, taking much of your energy, and making it harder for you to read him/her goodnight stories since he/she is getting pushed out of your lap more and more each night due to the belly, which seems to grow infinitely faster the second time around. Got morning sickness? Too bad, toddler reigns. You’ll just have to barf in a bag on the run. Got hemorrhoids? Shucks, that’s unfortunate. Can’t soak your hiney in the tub for an hour because, well, you don’t have an hour! In fact, you don’t even have fifteen minutes! Got back aches? Dang. Well, get used to it because big bro or sis still wants to be picked up, more so now than ever, mainly because he/she can sense that someone or something is encroaching on his/her territory, and soon. Fortunately, I had a very happy and healthy pregnancy, and only had one of the previously mentioned maladies. I’ll let your imagine roam—a true ‘lady’ doesn’t reveal her secrets (hahaha, since when have I been considered that?).

The point is, time flew and before I knew it, it was mid-July and we found ourselves in the same situation in which we had found ourselves with Joe—all ready to go and just waiting on baby. Joe moved out of the baby room into his ‘big boy’ room (which he rather enjoyed getting in and out of to come visit us—did I mention many older siblings tend to regress in their sleeping habits when a little one is on the way?), and one day I found myself in JB’s room, just looking around in awe. Wow, this was really happening, wasn’t it? For whatever strange reason, I opened the drawer of the changing table and that’s when I saw the sign: the rosary of the Virgen del Pilar that I had bought when mom and I went to visit Zaragoza so that I could show her the Basilica that would be my daughter’s namesake, should I ever have one. I had been wondering where that was—it was tucked away in the back of the drawer, with just la Virgen’s head peeking out. I literally felt the breath knocked out of me. I think I actually sighed out loud. Shivers went up my spine, the hairs on my arm on end, the way you feel whenever you know that God’s telling you something. I had been wrong about Jude all along. I hung the rosary on the wall and smiled, then sealed my lips. This was the kind of sign not meant to be shared.

I kept this sign in the back of my mind for the last few weeks of my pregnancy. My spiritual being knew better than to doubt it, but the logical side of me was still convinced I was carrying a JAG. Or maybe it was this: I was petrified, I mean scared to my core, to have a baby girl. Why, you ask? Well, I feel like it’s taken a lot of hard work, a huge community of support, and about 25 years (out of my 30 on this earth) to officially come into my own as a woman. Dang…that’s a long journey! I do not regret a second of it and if that’s how long it took for me to be who I am and who I was meant to be (which, I believe, is still a work and progress), then it’s well worth the wait. Perhaps in a different era or a different time, the journey to feeling comfortable in my own skin would not have been as long—but in THIS time in which we live, gals have it tough and the journey simply takes longer. We are being taught to be virgins on one channel, to use contraception on the other, and how to be sexier/skinnier/prettier/add any adjective with ‘ier,’on the end, which implies that what we are currently just isn’t enough, on yet another channel. Ugh, mixed messages anyone? So while I know that women can come out of all that mess with strong voices, strong careers, and strong senses of self (I like to think I’m one of them—and I know so many more), I also know that there are some major growing pains, moments of self-doubt (and sometimes self-hatred), and feelings of inadequacy along the way. What a daunting task to think about bringing up a baby girl in this world! On one hand, it’s what I wanted more than anything: to feel the kinship with my daughter that I’ve always felt with my mom, to have the special bond that my mom and I have with a little Pili, to go on Momma/Daughter trips like so many that Mom and I have gone on before. On the other hand, I just felt like I was better wired to raise baby boys. I’m NOT saying boys are easy breezy, because that’s certainly not the case. I’m also not saying that boys aren’t spoon-fed mixed messages, either. I just feel like boys have less inherent baggage to carry (I know that sounds awful, but I can’t think of another way to say it without saying what I mean) and less pressure on them to meet certain (mostly unrealistic) expectations. I know that I wake up every morning thankful I am a woman and that I a woman empowered. I also know, however, that Jack wakes up every morning thankful he’s not a woman—for many of the reasons I list above.

Yup, that was it. I was afraid to have a baby girl. So I prayed only to la Virgen del Pilar for the remaining weeks of my pregnancy, asking her to help me be the best mother I could be, regardless if a Jude or Pili arrived to us. I also prayed to la Virgen that JB would wait until after my programs ended, not because I couldn’t handle it if he/she arrived before then, rather because I didn’t want my little child to ever have to compete with my work on his/her birthday. Ever.

Joe and JB playing peek-a-boo

July 28^th came and went. Phew! Even though I still had a project that would have been nice to finish up before JB’s arrival (the launching of our program’s new promotional video), I gave JB a special pat on the belly and told him/her that he/she could come out whenever he/she wanted at this point! I took Friday, the 29^th, off of work and treated myself to a massage (the only one I got with JB—in the month leading up to Joe’s birth, I got one just about every weekend—see paragraph above on being a second time Mum), a trip to Hobby Lobby to put together Joseph’s ‘Big Brother Bag’ (a slew of goodies—books, stickers, paper, markers, etc.—a care package, if you will, to remind him that he’s still a special boy) and a movie, yes a movie!, all by myself, complete with Twizzlers, popcorn and a soda. I saw ‘Midnight in Paris’ and it was just perfect—light, funny, whimsical. It fit the mood of the day just right.

That Saturday we took Joseph to the Monroe County Fair, which is right up that kiddo’s alley: chickens, pigs, cows, horses, big trucks and trailers and…of course…John Deere tractors. The little guy was in heaven. Jack and I looked at each other at one point when Joe was climbing in and out of the tractors and somehow had a sense that this was our last weekend together as a family of three. In fact, I remember Jack commenting to me what a difference a year had made, given in 2010, we went to the Fair and Joe was barely just walking and rather stroller bound. Fast forward to a year later, and he was climbing like a monkey on tractors, so articulate for not even being two, and about to become a big brother. My comment back to Jack was…can you imagine what next year’s Fair will be like?

Visiting the horsies at the fair, three days before JB joined us

Saturday night, after Joe was nestled in bed and I had found my usual spot on the couch, I started having some cramping. Familiar cramping. It was around 11:00 at night, and I told Jack I thought something was happening. We both went to bed soon after and slept peacefully, all faired out.

Sunday (JB’s due date) I woke up and the cramping had increased, but had not become what I would call contractions. Still, my gut was telling me that change was on the horizon, and since we have no family in B-town and my mom was pretty much just waiting for ‘the call,’ I phoned and told her she might want to think about packing her bags. And I also told her to pack them as if she wouldn’t be returning to Cincinnati for a while. As the day progressed, the cramps turned in to full-on contractions, but were very, very infrequent (one every few hours). Also, I noticed that JB wasn’t moving as much and that always freaked me out, especially given that both Joe and JB (up until that point) were active kiddos in the womb. When Mom got to our house, I called the doctor and after describing my occasional contractions and lack of movement, they wanted to be safe rather than sorry and had me go up to the hospital to be monitored. While ‘the bag’ was packed, I didn’t think this was ‘it’ so I didn’t bring it along. Jack and I left for the hospital and left Joe and Nonna behind.

They hooked me up right away to a monitor and once they had me do a non-stress test, we came to find that JB was moving around just fine (precocious little stinker—waited until he/she was hooked up to start moving again!). What they did notice was that I was pretty dehydrated. So they gave me lots and lots of liquid through an IV, and I had tons of ice chips and water. Three hours later or so, they released me. We got home after midnight. “Maybe tomorrow,” I thought.

Joe went to daycare and God love Mom, she helped me do some last minute nesting at home while I was at work. Yes, work. Mom came and picked me up from work, then we went to get Joe together from daycare and took him to the Mall to burn off some energy. Since it was so bloody hot out, playing outside was not an option. Also, the doc recommended I not have a repeat of the recent dehydration bout. It was August 1^st. Just like with Joseph, I was bound and determined to walk JB right out, so I was walking/running after Joe at the Mall as much as Mom would let me. I went to the bathroom for the umpteenth time that day and, lo and behold, my bloody show greeted me in the terlit. That hadn’t happened with Joe until I was at the hospital, so I was encouraged that JB might actually be more motivated than Joe was to meet the world on the outside (for those of you that know JB, this should not come as a surprise). We got home that night, all had dinner together, and then after Joe went to bed I checked my e-mail. The promotional video with all the most recent edits was waiting in my inbox for me to review. I watched it one last time and it was just perfect. At 9:50 or so, I sent the e-mail signing off on the project, saying it was good to go. Green light. I felt a huge weight off my shoulders. I fell asleep almost instantly…

…and was woken up by a wandering Joe around 5:45 a.m. “Uppy, uppy,” he kept saying (in case you are not fluent in toddler, that’s a command for “Pick me up, dummy!”) I scooped him up and we snuggled right away. He rubbed my hand and played with my fingers before nodding off back into sleepy land. I, however, remained wide awake because they had started. Contractions every ten minutes or so. It’s like Joseph knew. He wanted to spend a few last hours with me as my only child and I adore him for that. I also adore JB for allowing its brother to get one last snuggle-with-Mommy-moment. I think both Joe and JB probably realized that I needed that moment perhaps more than they did—Big Joe’s world was about to get rocked, yet I was the fragile one. The contractions did not hurt in those moments, with the security of my little baby boy cuddled up against me. I just breathed through them—they were about a minute long—and focused my energy when they came and relaxed when they went. I cried softly as I held him, not because I was in pain but because he was soon going to be a big brother. As I breathed through each contraction, I hoped and prayed that he would still feel loved, and special, and needed, and cared for when JB came along. All of these silly thoughts entered my head: Will Joe resent us for creating him a sibling? Will JB ever feel loved the way Joe did, given he/she has to share us from the very start? How will my heart possibly be big enough to love two children the same and so very much? Without saying a word, Joseph comforted me and made me feel calm, much like his Daddy always does. Those first few hours of labor were—dare I say it?—blissful.

When Joe woke up around 8:00, it turned from blissful to—intense. The contractions had picked up to every seven minutes or so, but were not lasting long at all now. What the? I called the doctor, who suggested I come in later that afternoon to get checked and see how I was doing given I had been at the hospital two nights before. So Mom called my stepdad, Jack called his mom and I called my dad to let everyone know that these were the kind of contractions that lead to the main event. In the meantime, I took a nice, leisurely shower, finished packing JB’s stuff into ‘the bag,’ and by that time, Bill had arrived. Jack, Mom, Bill and I decided to have lunch together. Since it was probably going to be my last meal before JB arrived, it was my pick and I chose Scholar’s Inn. I’ll never forget eating our lunch there, and reaching across the table to squeeze Jack’s hand every time I felt a contraction coming on. Jack was my rock, just like he was when Joe was making his entrance. Bill was on his cell phone to all of his business pals, bragging that he was soon going to be meeting his new grandchild. When the waiter caught wind of that, he looked at me kinda crazy. “I’m in labor,” I told him nonchalantly. He said he was honored that I chose to have my last pre-baby meal at Scholar’s Inn. Little did he know I only chose Scholar’s Inn because I didn’t choose Mother Bears since I was looking forward to getting pizza delivered from there post-delivery.

Last pic of JB in my belly, taken before going to the hospital

From lunch, I went straight to the doctor’s office while Jack went to the house to pack his bag. I was eerily calm through the whole first part of the check-up (they took my blood pressure which was looking good, did another non-stress test to which JB responded well, checked me and I was 2 cm dilated), then the doc made a suggestion: “How about if you report to the hospital at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow morning and then we’ll go from there?” Calmness and poise out the window. I literally laughed out loud, followed by a rather resolute, “NO!” If Joseph’s labor and delivery were any indication of how this one might go, I could labor for hours and hours (and hours) with no progress—didn’t the doctor check my records? Um, hello, did he not remember the 25 hours of labor with Joe? He was rather taken aback, and then offered a much more palatable suggestion: “Okay, well you can go to the hospital, but they aren’t going to want to move your labor along at all.” “That’s fine,” I said, knowing that if I showed up at the hospital they weren’t gonna turn me away without a baby. So, I left the doc’s office and went home to pick up Jack. Just like with Joseph, I took a long look around the house and knew the next time I set foot in it, it would somehow be different—homier, sweeter, fuller.

Upon arriving to the hospital I was delighted to see that Dr. Cook was on call, who is the same doc that delivered Joseph. Dr. Cook seemed to understand Jack and I’s relationship (and banter) as well as our outlook on this whole labor and delivery thing, and right away after I got my lovely gown on he asked if I wanted him to break my water. “YES!” I responded. And laughed inside at the other doc’s comment “They aren’t going to want to move your labor along at all…”

From here, my memory gets really fuzzy—I don’t remember exactly when things happened, but I remember the order in which they happened. Contractions picked up after breaking my water. Mother-in-law showed up. Mom, Bill and Joe came up after they took Joe to dinner. Epidural. Yessssss. Dad made it in from Cincinnati. Mom took Joe home to be with our sitter (big shout out to Casey Biggs!) and then came back. Ice chips, tons of water, popsicles. Lots of residents accompanying the docs and nurses (I felt like a human guinea pig. Also my undercarriage was getting lots of exposure. Yay for being preggers in a college town.). Finally, around maybe 11:15 or so, they came in to ‘empty my tank,’ (can’t tinkle myself when I have an epidural so another resident had the honor of inserting a catheter) but didn’t proceed to check me afterwards. I looked at the nurse kinda funny. “Aren’t you going to check me?” I asked. During labor with Joe, they emptied my tank and I dilated from 7 to 10 cm just like that. “Dr. Cook will be in to check you before midnight. If you need anything, just press the button!”

She left the room and suddenly it felt like I had to, well, you know, relieve myself through the non-catheter end. I knew what that meant…it was time to push out a baby. So I pressed the button and in she came. I told her the dealio and she sent the entourage behind the curtain so she could check me. This was what she said, I kid you not (I can’t make stuff like this up): “Okay, close your legs. I’ll be back with Dr. Cook.” Cheers erupted from behind the magic curtain. I glanced at the clock. About 11:30 p.m. JB had less than a half an hour if he/she wanted his/her own birthday—otherwise if he/she arrived on the 3^rd, JB was going to have to share its birthday with my Aunt Julie. As Dr. Cook made his way in and the family entourage made their way out, I heard Bill tell him that he’d slip him a 50 dollar bill if he could facilitating JB getting’ born in under the midnight mark. That was of less concern to me—my biggest issue was keeping this baby from creeping out before Dr. Cook could get his catcher’s gloves on.

Jack and I had less time to get our thoughts together than we did with Joe. We did say a quick prayer together, though, and then it was go-time. They reviewed pushing with me again, and I gave it a whirl. One push. Two push. Three push. Born. Like a Dr. Suess book. Yup, JB came out in three pushes—Dr. Cook was stunned, Jack even more so. In the meantime, I’m waiting for the big reveal while Stunned 1 and Stunned 2 can’t believe a baby just came out in less than five minutes. “It’s Pili!”
Jack said, still stunned. “The rosary…” I thought to myself and cried tears of sincere happiness. It was 11:49 p.m. Still August 2^nd. Miss P had her own birthday, by golly. Now that I know her, well of course she wasn’t gonna be born on the same day as anyone else. She’s a feisty Leo and wasn’t going to share her 24 hours with nobody, God love her.

My fear of how I would find enough room in my heart to love two children was washed away in an instant as my heart just grew. I literally felt like the Grinch in that ending scene when he’s so happy that Who-ville got to celebrate Christmas—you know, when his heart grows too big for its chamber and it just bursts?

And what happened then? Well, in Who-ville they say that the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day! And then the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches…plus two.

To be clear: I am not likening myself to the Grinch (stop snickering, Jack), but I can think of no other way to describe how my heart grew three sizes in a day, and by virtue of Miss P simply being born, how I found more inner strength than ten Griches, plus two…more inner strength than I ever thought I was capable of, but was certainly going to need in the weeks, months, years to come.

They handed Pilar Kathryn to me on my chest, a squirrely, wiggly and writhing 7 lbs, 4 oz. and 20 inches long. She was screaming. She didn’t stay on my chest long because she pooed on her way out (that oughta tell you the spunk she was born with) and had to get cleaned up. When she was ready to go, I got to see her for real. Big, pensive eyes. And this mate de pelo (head of hair) that was to die for—fuzzy, and with blond highlights! I mean real highlights, like the kind people pay big bucks for. She just looked at me, and I at her—and I felt this instant connection, this instant camaraderie with her. With Joe, I had an instant connection, too, but with more of a Momma Bear protective instinct kind of feel. And he nuzzled right up to me and snuggled. With P, it was different. We just seemed to ‘get’ each other. There was less nuzzling and more mutual understanding, more looks of complicity, something that just happens among females who have that chemistry, something that you just can’t describe. We just clicked. Sounds bogus, but I know what I felt. I still feel that way with her. It’s beautiful. I know it will inevitably cause us some strife and possible discord in future years, but I look at her and relate to her so much already, the way only Mommas and their Daughters can.

Instant Connection. Boom.

While I don’t know what Jack felt in that moment, I had a good idea based on the look on his face: he loved her so much already it hurt. And he was bracing himself for a lifetime of moments with her in which he would fear for her knowing she would have no fear, want to protect her knowing he couldn’t, and tell her, much like my Dad has always told me, that he’d be the first man to ever love her and the only man to love her for her whole life. Also in that moment, I sensed that Jack would be perfectly happy if Pili became a nun, as the only men she would then have permission to love would be her dad, her brother and Jesus. Jack has since confirmed for me my last suspicion, declaring that he thinks Pili would make an excellent Carmelite nun, or perhaps a splendid Poor Clare Sister. I think P has other plans.

Bill tried to slip Dr. Cook a fifty, but he graciously declined and instead told him to treat the staff to pizza. Bill did as he was told. From that moment forward, we became the hospital’s favorite guests that night. The family was of course thrilled about the astute little girl who arrived just under the midnight hour. We ate pizza, laughed, and all marveled at little Miss P. I had a daughter! I wondered what Joe would think of his new sister when he met her the next day…

Joe and P meet for the first time. He stole her binky. Clever.

And, as is only fitting, Sarah Bear and Ben came to visit Miss P the very day after she was born. They were passing through B-town on their way to visit family. Pili Punkertons, you would not be here today had it not been for Sarah and Ben pledging their love for each other. 

Ben, Sarah, a one day old Miss P and a proud Daddy-o

Pili Kate is a rock star. A dream come true. How could I have been afraid to have her? Now I can’t imagine life without her. She’s my Pilarina chiquitina, Miss P, Pilicakes, my Pili Pili Punkin’ Pie. She is a firecracker of pure spunk, yet at the same time she’s incredibly easygoing. Fantastic combination. She melts all of our hearts on a daily basis, especially her Daddy’s and her brother’s. And of course, she puts those two on a pedestal. She rocks her brother’s hand-me-downs, rocks her gushies and naturally always rocks that mess of hair she has that just keeps growing and growing. She is her own person and has been since she came out kicking and screaming. She’s independent and strong-willed, free-spirited and be-bops to her own tune (literally—she moves her little hips and bumsy to the songs in her head). She needs wide open spaces. She’s like I was when I was turning 20. Except she’s turning one. Uf. I think we might have a boat-rocker on our hands—but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Happy Birthday, Sweet P, Apple of my Eye and Keeper of my Soul. Feliz Cumpleaños, mi chiquitina. You are my sunshine—and the sweetest pea in the whole pod. Thanks for helping your Momma to find her way. 

Miss P as a youngin' 

Miss P on her first birthday, cupcake face and all