As seen at the Germonski compound

Don’t touch my croissant.

hi.

The solar eclipse wasn’t nearly as interesting as the lizard our neighbor found.

Jammy day!

my favorite spot.

Seesters?

Stella – approx. 6 weeks

Louisa – approx. 6 weeks

Our night sky…

It seems only fitting that it took me over a month to do this post. But then again, those of you who read this blog already received the news via email (unless your spam filter rejected my message!) Has it really been five weeks? I have caught myself a few times saying, well, my daughter, and then rephrasing, well, my older daughter… or my other daughter. It’s a little odd still. Or maybe that’s just the lack of sleep talking.

Welcome to the blog, Louisa Luna.

You’re actually pretty lucky you have these pictures at all – so rushed into the world were you. It’s a good thing we never signed a contract with that TLC baby show – because “Louisa: A birth story” would never have been filmed in time – nor even filled a one hour show!

I guess, though, your birth story is a bit longer than 45 minutes. It’s actually 4 days. On Sunday, March 25, I made aloo gobi for dinner, an Indian dish that usually is just potatoes and cauliflower, but I added chick peas. Unfortunately, after soaking for 24 hours and cooking for 2, the darn chick peas were still pretty crunchy, and your father and I both remarked that we were destined for intestinal trouble. After dinner and Stella’s bedtime routine, your father climbed in his van, in the rain, and drove 2 1/2 hours to Long Beach, CA to go to a two day rigging workshop, the start of a weeklong conference devoted to technical theatre. He hadn’t been in almost 10 years, and was really excited to go. After reading, I finally went to bed around 11pm and lying there in the dark, experienced some serious intestinal distress, enough to make me writhe around in my bed. Wow, those chick peas, I thought. Little did I know chick peas had nothing to do with my pains.

Tuesday, March 27, I had my weekly doctor’s appointment, and had to take Stella with me as the whole week was “Spring break” at her preschool. I wasn’t seeing my usual midwife, but the older “grandpa” doctor, whom, although a bit quick during appointments, was one of the doctors I actually liked on the staff. Because it was approaching week 38, they checked for dilation, effacement, etc. (I never had these checkups with Stella, as the midwifery program didn’t do those). Stella lay with me on the table, snuggled in close, wondering what was going on. “Um, have you been having contractions?” the doctor asked. “Not that I know of” I responded, and told him about my “intestinal distress.” He then informed me I was over 5 cm dilated and 90% effaced and that he really wanted to admit me to the hospital. What? Seriously? My husband is at a conference in Long Beach, not to come home until late tonight and my daughter is sitting right here. I can’t go to the hospital. Nothing’s going on. He smiled at me and promptly scheduled an induction for the following Monday if I didn’t have the baby before then. Should I call my husband and have him come home early from the conference? He should be home by 10 tonight. “Um, maybe?” the doctor suggested.

Hm. So I took Stella out to lunch after the appointment, thinking that maybe that might be the last time we’d get to do just a mother-daughter special day for quite some time. Steve hopped in the van and headed back through LA traffic to get home by 5pm. However, nothing doing. We went out for Vietnamese food and came home and went to bed. That was the night that I posted my last blog post because I couldn’t sleep from 1am on. Preoccupied? Maybe. Thoughtful? Oh yes.

Wednesday, March 28 my mom arrived in town at 4pm. Knowing that we didn’t have much in the house, I whisked her and Stella to Trader Joes to stock the house for the weekend. We came home, made homemade pizza, and sat around after Stella went to bed, talking about how glad we were that she was here. I remember having a few general waves of pressure? stomach pain? but nothing that felt remotely like a contraction.

Sound asleep, 11:25pm I feel a pop, like a balloon bursting. I turn to Steve, shaking him awake. My water just broke. We need to go.

I methodically walk into the bathroom. Drain. Pee. Blindly find sweatpants in the closet and say, “I’m going to the van. Grab the bag.” I walked out to the van, had a contraction as I climbed in, and sat on the floor of the front seat, pressing my heel into my butt. I think I was trying not to let you come out, because somehow I had a feeling, if I sneezed wrong, you were going to come out on the floor of the van.

Your father arrived very quickly, all bags in tow, my mom notified that we were headed out. I think I had two more contractions on the way there, and we pulled into the main lobby of the hospital. I don’t think I can walk from the parking garage, I told Steve. Let’s just go inside. Hazard lights on, we walked to the front desk. “You’re supposed to go to the emergency room” the security guard told us. “But we were told at our maternity tour to go this way.” “Well, I’m going to have to call for an escort.” I crumple to the ground again, have another contraction in the lobby, and tell him, you know what? Let us go upstairs right now. Another contraction in the hallway to the birth center, one more once in the main center, and then guided to a room.

The nurse, a lovely lady named Michelle, asked me to walk into the bathroom, pee in a cup and put on a gown. Um, I told her, I don’t think we have time for that. Okay, she said, most likely dubious. Let me check you out. A second later – “oh, you’re fully dilated” and she calmly walks to the door of the room, “Um, she is complete. I could use some help.”

Swarm of nurses. Calls to the doctor on call. Steve wonders, should I move my van? Are they going to tow me? They respond, um, I don’t think you have time. (So that of course also means, no camera…)

The nurses prep things, I think I have one more contraction and then I ask if I can push.Sure! The doctor walks in – it’s the older doctor from Tuesday. We both laugh. “I told you I’d see you in here! Guess you got here from Long Beach in time, eh?” he says to Steve.

Three? Four? Pushes and you’re out. Up on my chest – wailing and then inquisitive. Your daddy cuts the cord (spraying blood on the doctor!) and they exclaim, wow, there is a knot in the cord. We both gasp. “It’s an old wives tale, but supposedly, it’s good luck” a seasoned, older nurse says. I am just thankful it wasn’t tight. So your sister was an ‘angel baby’ because she was face up and you should have good luck because of a knot in your cord. We don’t have normal births, do we?

”You’re meant to do this,” the nurse says to me. “Do what?” “Have babies. That was just beautiful to watch.”

I’m not sure if I’m “meant” to have babies, but to be able to lay and hold you, for as long as I wanted, to not have to have been whisked away to surgery (like the first time) was a precious thing. To hold your little squirmy body and feel you settle in, somehow knowing the breathing, the heartbeat, now from the outside as opposed to in, I could hardly keep from crying. Your father and I also both noticed how lovely your head shape was. No offense to your older sister, but she was a conehead… yours? pretty perfect.

What followed was probably pretty typical for hospital stays… a nice new room, nice new nurses, sleep, lots of sleep, and then, the special visit from Grammy and your big sister, who insisted that “dressing up” meant wearing one of her costume dresses. My mom actually called me on the phone before they left, saying, “I can’t get her to take it off. Is that ok? She is insisting on ‘dressing up.’” Of course, because she’s Stella. Of course.

 

There was, of course, lots of snuggle time with Daddy too. Just like your sister, you seem to respond to his slow and steady heartbeat and just fall asleep.

And then it was time. Time to take you home. Time to meet the dog. Time to greet the world.

And now you’ve already changed from those first few hours.

Those first few days.

You’ve already had your first birthday party outing (day 4), your first Easter hunt (you slept through it), your sister’s 3rd birthday (I guess you enjoyed the cake?), your first bath (in the roasting pan, at your sister’s request, because, of course, she was bathed in it too!), first restaurant trip (sushi! why not?), and your first banana bread baking experience (because cooking with Mommy is par for the course around here, isn’t it?)

It might have taken almost 24 hours for your parents to agree on your name… but it was because we wanted to make sure it would be fitting. In my searches, I found variants on what “Louisa” meant – fights with honor // famous warrior // graceful warrior. To me, the ‘warrior’ part seemed fitting. You kicked and pummeled me throughout the entire pregnancy, forcefully reminded us of your presence, even when your sister vied for center stage. And gracefully, you slipped into the world.

As for Luna? Well, we already had our star, so we needed a moon. Though as Juliet says, “O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon” and my dear, we do not swear by you, but yet relish in your grace, your beauty, and your young life ready to be lived.

Insomnia Photo Dump

Nothing like pregnancy induced insomnia – as well as irregular contractions through the night to make you realize that you haven’t cleaned the digital photo card recently nor charged the camera in case, you know, you might want to take photos of that second child that could be coming in a few hours? in a few days? Who knows?

My mom gave me some face masks in our Christmas box, and of course, Stella was eager to share my presents with me. She picked this one to try because it was blue, her favorite color. I didn’t think I would be doing “spa day” with my daughter so soon, but she had a great time!

Our winter garden box which includes buttercrunch lettuce (in the foreground) and golden and chiogga beets (and the other green one in the distance holding way too much parsley and dill). Stella has been enjoying just digging the dirt and making mud pies. Does this ever get old?As I’ve mentioned, Stella routinely tells me that she is “a dancer” so my aunt sent her this dress. She’s pretty stoked.

And speaking of obsessed, this is our dog. At 7am. Out on his lead line in the yard, staring at gopher holes. This has been going on for weeks. Finally, the morning that I shot this photo, he decided that standing and watching was getting to taxing, so he started sitting and watching. It never ceases to crack me up.

      

A familiar site, up until last weekend… Steve took out the motor of the van back in mid-January and rebuilt the top end (I sort of know what that means, but basically, he re-built the motor). This was the day he was putting it back in the van, hoping that he didn’t forget any bolts and it was going to run (it does! it does!) The other familiar site is Stella sitting right in the middle of it all, snack and water in hand, hanging out with Dad. In fact, we were on a walk to visit the goats next door when Steve finally did start the motor after 8 weeks. We heard it go and I said, Stella, that’s the van! It’s fixed! Do you know what that means? Her immediate response? “We can go camping!”

Scupper celebrated his 4th birthday in style this year. Stella convinced me that he needed a cake, so we made a peanut butter cake that we could all enjoy. Stella had to blow out his candles, of course, and then Scuppy got a slice of cake, which he promptly inhaled in one bite.

And that’s February and March in a photographic nutshell.

We’ll keep you posted about Bittle. As usual, my girls tend to come when they want, on their own time schedule. Oh those independent daughters….

Myself

Score one for self-sufficiency. In literally the last week, Stella has:
 - started going #2 on the potty without any of us standing by. "No mommy, I'll do it." She goes, gets out the wet wipes for her bottom, actually cleans up, and comes back to us, proud as a peacock. Considering her timing is usually during dinner, this is nice to have to share dinner with poo clean up.
- unasked - goes in her room in the morning, takes off her nightime diaper, cleans up, puts on underwear, and puts everything away
- pours her own water (we put a 3 gal water container with one of those spouts within reach)
- feeds Scupper at the appropriate times with the appropriate amount of food (in fact, it's good that she is reminding me)

This is why we decided to try to have these kids at least 3 years apart. I hope to gosh this winning streak keeps up  in the next few weeks, because if so, we're golden!

*

Stella also made me cry this week. In a good way. On Sunday, I made the cover recipe from this month's Bon Appetit. Steve saw it when it came in the mail and basically started drooling all over it. And considering how cranky I've been, and how many "honey-do" list items he's been doing for me (because his rule of thumb right now is "placate the pregnant woman") I figure I can at least cook/bake good things for him. So I made these caramel sticky buns -

So maybe mine didn't exactly look like this - I halved the recipe, and I also didn't use heavy cream in the caramel (bad choice) so the whole glaze thing ended up being more like a syrup, but none the less, they were damn good. Anyway - back to Stella.

We are all happily munching away Sunday morning, not really talking because we were full of caramel pecan sweet roll goodness and Stella says, "Mommy. You are such a good baker. These are so good." (beat) "I love you Mommy."

And I thought the way to a husband's heart was through his stomach. ;)

*

Stella is deep into the world of pretend. Which is awesome. And exhausting. Although, I'm really digging this new pretend world she has been enjoying lately. It's called "The Beach." The beach is her 4 x6 rug on the floor of her room, which, of course, is the ocean (didn't you know that Mommy?). She puts on her bathing suit and basically rolls around on the floor, pretending to float, swim, look at turtles, whatever strikes her fancy that day. She also has a handy blanket on the "sand" (everything not the small rug) to dry off, and the best part? I get to sit in the "beach chair with the umbrella" - the rocking chair in the room. For a very pregnant momma, sitting in the beach chair is awesome, let me tell you. Today, Stella was swimming with blue fish, green turtles, swam out to the Islands and saw yellow snails and slugs. Sometimes the pelicans poop on my head, and sometimes she splashes so much in the water that she needs to come out and wipe the water off my head with her towel.

And when the beach gets boring - which mind you - takes at least 30 minutes to an hour (beach time is very important around here), we go "camping" and she makes "soup" for the campsite and we have to make sure that Scuppy doesn't step in the campfire and burn his paws. The campfire is usually in the middle of the room and Scupper, of course, steps in it every time. There is much scolding, and replacing of the "marshmallows" that Scupper squished when he stepped in the fire. 

Brilliant.

To be… or not to be

that is the question…. ‘Tis nobler in the mind…

What did Shakespeare know about about juggling a career and a family? Hamlet’s mediation on death and life came to me last night when I was tossing about at 3 am, my usual “get up and pee and then lie there for 45 minutes and stress” part of the night. To be a stay at home mommy  - or not? What is more noble? Is it all in our heads?

When my mom was here, we happened upon a rummage sale that was in the last few hours, so individually marked items turned into “stuff at bag for $5” (AWESOME!) and I picked up the book, “Mommy Wars.” It’s a bunch of essays by women who have faced the same decision I seem to be wrestling with this year – to stay at home with the children or continue in the work place. With appropriate timing, although not intended, I started it the week before I went to my on-campus interview for a tenure track job. And now, of course, I’m in the waiting stage (did they like me? did they really really like me?) and while I’m not sure I have the job or not, we must still talk through options so we are prepared if the offer is put on the table.
I’m torn. As usual. I feel that in many ways, both Stella and I have been given a gift by the circumstances surrounding the first 3 years of her life. I was lucky enough to be a graduate student without a set schedule when she was born, (and of course, the husband that could support said graduate student and baby). Her first experience at any type of “day care” was at 16 months – where she went to a local woman’s house for 4 mornings a week and was picked up at noon. 16 months home with Mommy, save for the occasional babysitter. Since our move to Santa Barbara at 18 months, even with her going into part-time preschool to preserve my sanity 3 mornings a week, she naps at home every day and she gets time with her mommy two full dedicated days a week. Now, I know by some standards, that’s still a lot of time away from home. Some women end up staying with their children until they reach school-age. Some women stay home with their children until they are forced – I mean, required, to go back to work at the staggering time of 6 to 8 weeks. (Was I even lucid at that point?) We are in the age when many women cannot afford the possibility of being home a very long time with their kids. And then there are those of us who dabble in both – who work part-time jobs, who have night gigs, who find a way to have a little bit of mommy time and work time, but not of the 40 hour a week variety.

So that leads me to this year. Bittle will be barely 5 months old if I start teaching the fall. I remember Stella at five months… just starting to sit up, play, enjoy the interaction with people, and most importantly, moving from mewing new baby into a malleable little person. Of whom I would have to hand over to someone else to watch all week long while I worked. Because although I would be teaching a college schedule, which some might see as forgiving and untraditional, teaching 4 different classes a semester, (which is what this job entails) is a hellish teaching load. Especially as a first time professor.

And yet I know I can’t let guilt run my life. Some of the women in the Mommy Wars book keep suggesting the sage, but wellworn advice, if Mommy ain’t happy, then no one else is, so just do what makes you happy. And if that means working full-time AND being a mom, then that’s ok. But of course, after 3 years of this unintentional situation that I have been in up until now, I feel like I’m short-changing my second child by not giving her the same experiences, the same attention as her sister received.
Of course, not that either of them are going to remember any of this. But I will. And that, I suppose, is the difference.
On the other hand, yesterday,  between going on a bear hunt, hiding in the bear cave in the living room, taking the dog for a walk and looking for sneaky places under palm trees, dressing up Bunny, going to the library, going to the garden center and then coming home and planting some flowers, I was furtively checking my work email throughout the day, trying to deflect a blow up at work, even though they know I “technically” work only during afternoon nap times. I want to believe that I can completely give over to my mommyhood and be present when I’m with Stella. that was one of my goals this year. But I can’t.

And here I am, up at the wee hours of the morning typing random missives into a blog just to help my brain calm down so it can sleep. I know that I can’t have guilt run my life. I can’t feel guilty for wanting this job, for wanting to practice what I feel have spent a majority of my life preparing to do, and yet, the desire to be a “good” mom seems to translate itself into being a mom who does not work. How 1950’s am I? What type of feminist do I assume to be? I don’t suppose I’ll come to a conclusion tonight. But those of you who do read the blog (the mighty few!) who have struggled with these questions, I would appreciate some advice. Maybe you haven’t struggled with them? Maybe you’ve intuitively understood that being a mom is all consuming, but that doesn’t mean that having a job means that you are any less of mother. it just means that you have a job. Simple as that. And that even if picking children up from daycare, running around to put food on the table, throwing them into baths and bed seems rushed and hectic, that it’s ok. Because who is judging what is nobler? Do your kids still love you just as much? Do they excel because Mom is also excelling at what she does?

For to be… or not to be… that is the question.

Interesting addendum: This morning, Stella asked me at breakfast out of the blue: "Mommy, are you a teacher?" Well, yes Stella, some days I am. "Are you still my mommy?" Oh yes, I will always be your mommy. Can I be your mommy and a teacher too? "Oh yes." she said. Was she giving me her blessing? I wonder....

Extreme nesting!

It’s been awhile since I’ve had time to blog – but I have a dozen posts in my head of things I’ve wanted to report, comment on, and share over the past few weeks. My mom graciously took time out of her busy retired life and part-time teaching to visit for a week while Steve was in tech number 2 of the month so that I wouldn’t go insane. The joy in watching Stella come alive in the presence of her grammy was amazing. Oh, this is what it would be like if Grammy could come over for a long weekend… or babysit on a random Tuesday night. I’m not just talking about the relief from the 24/7 of parenting, but the excitement of my daughter sharing her favorite moments with a grandmother. The book reading! The pretend play! The laughing! It was great for everyone. I, sadly, was high-strung, stressed out, and cranky due to the large bowling ball I’m currently packing under my clothes and an impending interview in Montana (which is over and more on that later…) Poor Mom. She took the full force of crazy prego woman for a week (something, I’m sure that Steve was happy to give over for a time) so I hope she’ll still want to come back when Bittle is born!

Her visit also reminded me of how much of a bad housekeeper I am. It’s not that she pointed it out, it’s just that she’s good at things like this, and I am woefully inadequate. I mean, I change the dirty wash towels and placemats when they are yucky, sure, but Mom tends to remember to also wash down the dining room table every day. (oops). Or scour the sink daily with something more than dish water (oops), or pick up the random stuffed animal that has been currently sleeping on a section of the kitchen counter top for 2 days (oops).

So in a burst of extreme nesting, I have been organizing and rearranging things all over the house, hoping that things might be a bit better when she returns. That box of framed art that is still in its packing materials from when we moved 16 months ago that has been sitting/hiding in a corner of the living room? Gone. The filing cabinet wedged in a corner that I don’t believe I’ve opened since I completed my dissertation 18 months ago? Cleaned out and moved. All the 0-3 months clothes organized and ready for Bittle? Done.  I have found, however, that in making changes in Stella’s room, I need to do it in baby steps. I asked her to help me move all her dress-up clothes and tutus to a bin in the closet. No problem – but then take away the now empty bin that is sitting in her room on the floor taking up valuable real estate? Oh dear the tears! No mommy! No mommy! For a second I worried about the autism spectrum and OCD, but then again, I also remember that toddlers like routine and change is hard. Just wait until recycling day tomorrow when the cardboard box house that has been looming large in her room since Christmas goes out to the trash. She’s either going to give a good send off with the trash guys (since she is enamored of their truck) or she’s going to lose it big time.

I’m trying very hard not to disrupt her world too much with the impending arrival of her sister. I want things to be as familiar to her now as they will be in a month so that when everything else goes to hell, at least some things will be a constant. However, the need to organize, re-arrange, and clean up is so strong right now that even she might not be spared. But that book chapter that I’m supposed to have a draft of by July 1? Do you think that has fallen into the “extreme nesting” category?

Not so much.