Q is for Quality

*If you're new to the alphabet series, start here.**

If you haven't gathered by now, sweet girl, life is hard. It takes a lot, a LOT, of energy. You will constantly compare yourself to others you see around you, constantly second guess yourself and what you are doing. And the more you look around, the more you compare, the more you might think that I've lied to you. That life doesn't actually require a lot of energy. Or effort. That it's not really all that hard. You'll see people left and right getting by by doing less. And you, weary from your effort, will look at them and long for their passivity. You'll want the rest they appear to enjoy all the time. You'll wonder why you always try so hard, why you bust your butt when you, apparently, don't have to.

And you'd be right to wonder. You don't have to bust your butt in life. You don't have to get up early, pack your day full of activity, strive to do more, to do better, than those around you. You don't have to collapse into bed, weary and sore and spent. There are people--lots of people--who don't. And they wake up every day, just like the rest of us. They breathe in and out. They eat. They laugh. They sleep. They never exert the kind of effort I'm talking about. They never set themselves up for failure because they never reach for anything outside of their grasp. They just . . . get by. They just exist.

And you could do this, too. But I hope you won't.

There's more out there.You deserve more. You deserve a different, a better, experience.

Life is short and moments are fleeting. It's this very brevity, this finite nature of our time here that gives life quality. Meaning. It's the laws of economics, of supply and demand, taken to it's biggest stage. Imagine if you had a money tree growing in your yard--an unlimited supply of money, all you could ever want. Would you ever think twice about buying a new television or eating an expensive dinner or getting a stain on a new shirt? Of course not. But what if you only had $100? Or $50? Or $10? And once you spent that, it was all gone. Would you be so free, so careless? You would weigh your decisions much more carefully, wouldn't you?

So it is with life. If you lived forever, it wouldn't really matter what you did with your time. You'd always have more. But you won't live forever. Life is finite. Everything that lives, eventually, dies. So time becomes invaluable. Precious. And how you choose to spend the time you have becomes immeasurably important.

I'm not here to tell you what to do with that time. I don't know what your dreams are, what your dreams will become. You might be a cook or a philanthropist or an athlete or a teacher or a writer or an executive or a stylist. That's the fun part. That's the part that you get to pick.

But whatever it is that you decide to do with your time, do it well. Be a bad ass at it.

Because life is too short to half-ass it.

So go for it, girly. Go for better than everyone else. Go for the extra credit, the A+ on the test that everyone else bombs, the race that is longer than other people would ever consider, the experiences that are more, that are richer, that are fuller. The point is not to pack your life 'til it's bursting at the seams with so many activities that you have no choice but to half-ass them all. The point is to do whatever it is that you do with quality.

Even when you're busy. Because if you don't have time to do it right the first time, how are you ever going to have time to do it again? And the fact of the matter is, it's when you are busiest that the most moments slip by you, to be gone forever without you taking much notice of them at all. Never use "busy" as an excuse. Use it as a motivation to try harder.

Even when you're tired and just want to quit. Because looking back at the road you just fought up, at the view from the top of the hill, is the most incredible, fulfilling, exciting, energizing feeling. The ability to look at what you've accomplished and feel proud of yourself is the stuff that makes you okay with dying when the day comes, because you know, in your heart of hearts, that you gave everything you had to life and you got everything it had to offer in return.

Even when you may not care. Because chances are, if it's a task set before you, there is some value in it. There is something in it for you. Someone cares about it. And at the very least, the constant practice of putting quality into everything that you do will only strengthen your abilities, will only reinforce the behavior so that it becomes second nature, so that next time, you don't actually have to try so hard to convince yourself to do it. Eventually, quality will touch the edge of everything you touch.

So you see, life becomes not so much about what you do with it but how you do with it. There is so much out there for you. So much you can get. But it takes effort, it takes attention quality, to get it.

So turn off your autopilot and get uncomfortable. Get tired. Challenge yourself. Give all of yourself to a task.

And revel in the raw act of living.

The Best Laid Plans

We all have visions of what our children will be like. I've always been a staunch believer in nurture over nature, and I've had visions of weekend soccer games and ponytails, of my sporty, tomboy daughter laughing together with her group of sporty, tomboy friends for . . . well, for as long as I've been envisioning having a daughter. I cringed at the cheerleaders and dance team girls in high school. I felt appalled at the flighty college sorority girls, at girls who couldn't be seen without makeup and hair just so. And I imagined it all came from the moms, from childhood beauty pageants and rooms stuffed with Barbies and princess castles.

No previous relationship in my life taught me any different. You can choose your friends, self-selecting the peer group that has the same values and interests as you. The same goes for your boyfriends and, eventually, your spouse. You can pick the qualities that most appeal to you and steer clear from the ones that don't. Find out the guy you're dating has an obsession with weekend role-playing tournaments? Hey, that's cool for him, but it's not something you want, so you move on.

When you get pregnant, when you find out you are having a daughter, you immediately start planning her environment so as to promote the vision you've held in your head and heart for so long. You shun sparkly pink clothes that say "princess" or "spoiled" on them. You paint her nursery blue, or green, or tan, or any other color than soft, pastel, cotton candy pink. You buy toys that feature brightly colored animals and books that show female characters being firefighters and athletes and doctors. You hang a plastic baseball bat on her wall, next to her stuffed bears and butterflies.

And then she's born. She grows and smiles and starts developing her own little personality. And that's where the disconnect begins. Her own little personality. She swishes around in her dresses. She loves having your glittery scarf wrapped around her neck. She watches you put on your necklace and earrings every day and begs for some of her own. And you are conflicted. You don't want your daughter to be prissy. Or bossy. Or rude. Or spoiled. Or ANY negative adjective, not just the ones that you imagine in your head are somehow tied to an early fascination with glamor. But at the same time, you see her smile when she holds out her delicate little arm with a bracelet dangling from it, and you know how happy she must feel at that moment, how pretty.

And you realize that you don't get to really pick your child's personality. You can't date your kid for a while before deciding it's not really what you were thinking. For the first time, you realize that you have to work with--and love--exactly what you have, even if it's not what you imagined in your head all those years.

There are a lot of things my daughter does that I didn't foresee. She's a consummate daddy's girl. She's a hitter. She has a quick-flash temper that I recognize all too well. And she love love loves to dress up and be girly. None of those are things I would have picked. But there they are, still. Reality. And I could spend my time fighting against these things, constantly trying to steer her in other directions, directions that I pick for her. And for some of them, like the hitting and the temper, we will choose those battles and work work work on helping her change.

But the others? The fact that a lot of the time when she cries, she reaches for her Daddy rather than for me? The fact that she's called the "princess" of her class? The fact that she loves to prance around in my jewelry and accessories, and often asks for shoes when she first wakes up? Well, I just have to love her. Her. The real her. The her who is, not the "her" I thought she might have been. I have to realize that these things aren't bad in any way, shape, or form. They're just different. Different than the way I was. Different than the way I thought she would be. And that's okay. Great even. Because it means that she is her own person. She's not an empty vessel. She has her own personality, her own preferences, her own ideas, and I could wish for nothing more, nothing better, for my daughter, than for her to feel comfortable and confident in her own skin, for her to have her own goals in life, her own identity.

What a realization.

Parenthood is a process of getting over yourself.

And here we thought it would be us teaching our kids all the important lessons.

Note to self:

When googling alarming information about the potential bacteria in the soft serve ice cream you just ate, take a second to also google aforementioned ice cream to make sure that it was, in fact, soft serve.

Apparently the shake I had was "made with real ice cream."

Apparently "soft serve" does not mean just keeping real ice cream in a soft, semi-melted state so that it can pour in a long, poo-tube looking way.

Apparently, I need more sleep so that I can function as a calm, rational, level-headed adult.

After the rough 24 hours I've had, I think I'll stop for a shake on the way home.

Breaking the Rules

I'm a rule follower. Rules provide structure. Safe paths. A "do these things and you'll be fine" kind of security. If there are guidelines, I follow them. Recommendations? Yep. Done. There are enough things to worry about in life without worrying about what's going to happen if you break a rule. Rules are in place for a reason.

When pregnant, I don't eat lunch meat. Not even heated-up lunch meat. I don't eat soft cheeses or sushi or hot dogs. I don't drink alcohol.  The minuscule chance of harming my unborn child is far and away not worth any temporary enjoyment I could find in any of these things. Like I said--a rule follower.

Last night, TH and I got into a fight, as married folks are wont to do from time to time. I had had a hard day at work, and I had been looking forward to venting to him, and now I couldn't even do that. I was feeling thoroughly sorry for myself and decided that BY GOD, I deserved the find some comfort in a milkshake if I couldn't find it anywhere else.

It wasn't even that good of a milkshake. Milkshakes need to be chocolate, or oreo, but since I'm not doing caffeine, I had to settle for strawberry. It wasn't even real strawberry. They just shot a couple of squirts of strawberry syrup into the cup before adding vanilla soft serve ice cream on top and blending it up.

I drank about 2/3 of it and threw the rest away. It was while I was in the motion of throwing it into the trashcan that the thought struck me. Soft serve ice cream.

I'm not supposed to eat soft serve ice cream.

FUCK.

Immediately I pictured the soft serve machine swimming with listeria bacteria. I mean, those people work at a fast food restaurant. How dedicated and capable can they really be of diligently cleaning those machines. I noticed a funky taste in my mouth, something I likened to soap. I felt sick to my stomach. I thought about making myself throw up, but I knew that whatever was in that shake was already coursing through my body. I plopped down in front of the computer and googled listeria--signs and symptoms, how you get it, what it does.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I cried. A lot. I'm sure that my reaction was made worse by (1) my awesome hormones, (2) my bad day, and (3) the fight we were still working our way through, but guilt blossomed in my body and consumed me. I felt heart cry out to my son, begging him to be okay, apologizing for being so stupid and thoughtless.

This morning I feel 5% better. He's still bopping around in there. I try not to think about what I read saying it could take up to 70 days for the infection to set in. I've held back from calling my OB and tearfully confessing to them my soft serve transgression. I am hyper alert to how I'm feeling, and have to remind myself that the queasiness in my stomach can be fully attributed to the fact that I don't really eat any dairy on a regular basis and I sucked down most of a shake yesterday.

And this, folks, is why I follow the rules. Because I lose my flippin' shit over soft serve ice cream.

If anyone wants to chime in and tell me why it'll be okay, that would be awesome.

The Choices We Make

I have an old high school friend. We played softball and volleyball together. I played volleyball to keep in shape for softball season. She played softball to keep in shape for volleyball season. We were in the same classes--AP math, AP English. We went to different colleges, but kept in touch sporadically through the years.

After college, I married my high school sweetheart. Settled down. Bought a house. Started a family. She got a job with the government and has spent the last 10 years traveling the world. A couple of years in New Zealand. Some time in Afghanistan. Panama. China. Touring southeast Asia. Running a marathon on the great wall. Scuba diving in the south Pacific. Getting updates from her is like reading an adventure novel, the kind of story that you read and dream about and wonder if anyone is lucky enough to actually live that life. Only this person is real. An old friend.

TH and I used to travel. Back in the days before sippy cups and lovies. We backpacked across Europe when we were in college. We've toured Ireland. We, too, have walked on the Great Wall. Our list of places we still want to visit is long and all-but forgotten these days, these years. Turkey. Egypt. Petra. Bora Bora. Tibet. New Zealand. We had planned a trip to Peru in 2009, but we figured hiking up a mountain in rural South America was probably not something I should do while pregnant. Seeing the world, seeing different cultures and experiencing other lives speaks to me of part of the essence of existing, getting the most you can out of this short time we have.

I often read her updates with physical pangs of jealousy. I think about what an incredible decade she's had since college. I think about how very different it's been than my own. Reading about her life makes my life seem so . . . banal. Dry. Boring. It makes my life seem empty of the things that give life color--excitement and adventure and exploration and new experiences.

And then I think again.

I've had, since college, 10 years with my high school sweetheart. My best friend. I've known a love that is deep and accepting and lasting, a love I've never had to leave. A love I've never lost. I've bought a house. A place I can settle into, a place that is mine, waiting to embrace me at the end of every long day. I've had a child. How do you even describe that? I've known what it means to feel so overwhelmed with awe and responsibility, to feel my heart explode at chubby little fingers reaching up for me and break at the quietest whimper.

I guess in some people's eyes, my world has narrowed, my life has changed, gotten smaller, so that the most important thing in the world to me now is, literally, child's play, a far cry from seeing the sunrise on the pyramids or riding an elephant through a jungle. And maybe they're right. Maybe TH and I gave up on grand adventures when we chose to embark on the smallest adventure of all.

Every choice in life comes with losses. I chose roots. History. Building a family. She chose wings. Adventure. Building out her own life. My choices came with the loss of her life. But her choices came with the loss of my life, too. She has traveled the world but has never found a lasting love. She has lived in 12 different cities in 10 years but has never built a home. She has an ocean of personal life adventures and experiences, but hasn't given another soul the gift of life, of future adventures.

And in our emails, once or twice a year, I know that she reads my updates with the same longing with which I read hers. That she feels the loss of experiences the same way I do.

Tonight I'll leave work and pick up my daughter from school. I'll check to see how long she slept, how much she ate, how many wet diapers she had, and what new things she explored that day. I'll drive to our house in the 'burbs and throw a frozen meal into a skillet while she destroys and rebuilds our tupperware cabinet. We'll eat dinner. We'll play, pushing my giant red yoga ball around the house or taking indoor wagon rides between the front and back doors. We'll do bath time, where we'll count her octopuses and form her wet hair into a variety of hilarious formations. We'll sing lullabyes and read books together, and after she goes to sleep, I'll clean my kitchen, do laundry, catch up on facebook, pick up the living room, and hopefully catch an hour or so on the couch with my husband, watching our recorded shows and listening to my unborn son's heartbeat on the doppler.

When she leaves work tonight, she'll probably hop in a cab through the heart of a major international city. She'll meet her boyfriend at a bar or restaurant, dining on a fresh, hot, chef-prepared meal with a live band playing a samba beat in the background. They'll go salsa dancing, and then retire, slightly tipsy from the wine, to her apartment on the 40th story of a high rise that overlooks the ocean.

And we'll both think, with longing and satisfaction, about the choices we've made.

Superpower

Pregnancy has given me a superpower.

My superhero name? Bloodhound.

It's true. I didn't really take note of this interesting development with my first pregnancy. I was probably too caught up in the miracle of life, blah blah blah. But this time, being able to relax a little more (except for when Dos is messing with me) has given me the time and brain space to notice the other, more subtle effects of expecting.

Like my now-superpowered sense of smell.

I walk by our work break room and can tell what someone has microwaved for lunch. Today, it was King Ranch Chicken. The frozen, boxed, healthy kind. I can even tell you if the dish was frozen or fresh.

Or whether my kid just had a nasty fart or if she pooped, just by breathing in when she walks by.

Speaking of poop, I can walk into our work bathroom, with all six stalls empty, and tell which stall the previous person took a dump in. That's right, y'all. I can detect the essence of poop. (I put my power to use in this case by avoiding that stall at all costs.)

And if our one of our cats jumps on my husband's lap, I can tell if he (the cat, not the husband) just used the bathroom or not. NOT because he (the cat, not the husband) smells of poop (cats are far too meticulous for that), but because he (hopefully you understand whom I'm discussing by now) smells of fresh kitty litter. A bit like flowers mixed with fruit. And I can tell when TH needs to change the litter because my kitty's no longer smell like fruity flowers after using the box.

And I can smell my husband's pants at the end of the day and tell if the just-out-of-the-litter kitties spent some time snuggling on his lap that evening.

I would like if pregnancy gave me the ability to read minds or fly or become an amazing cook or any other super power that would actually be useful and/or fun. But I suppose we mere mortals should not be choosy when it comes to the temporary acquisition of superpowers.

Already My Heart Stops

I knew, since finding out Dos is packing a penis, that our lives were going to become exponentially more nerve-wracking. Above and beyond the harried air of just being a parent to two children (at once), simple observation of my friends' boys, memories of my brother as a child, and an eye and ear firmly planted in mommy blogging world has prepared me for the reality that this child, this boy, is going to stop my heart on a daily basis with his wild antics. Baby girl doesn't climb furniture and launch herself off it. She doesn't tease large animals. She has a healthy gauge of where the lines between comfort, discomfort, and danger lie and she doesn't hesitate to reach for me for security when she feels like they're being crossed. We can play dress-up on our bed and I can turn my back to grab a necklace for her because I know she'll still be there, sitting and smiling and waiting in the middle of my bed, not diving of the side head first. But a boy. Oh, boy.

So I knew about the heart-stopping moments in my future. I just thought I had another several months to steel myself.

But apparently, this boy likes to thrill his momma from the get-go.

I've been delighted this pregnancy with a posterior placenta. A far cry from my movement-dampening anterior placenta with baby girl, I felt kicks very early with Dos and have loved every second of feeling him romping around in there. And I was loving having a relaxing pregnancy, with only a fraction of the constant worry that accompanied me through my first.

Dos must have heard me say that last week. I can already imagine the wheels turning in his head, the mischievous smile on his face.

I didn't feel him as much this weekend. I chalked it up to being busy, to be up on my feet, working on the house, visiting family and friends, not having time to sit and count every bump and nudge. I looked forward to Monday, to sitting at my desk and reconnecting with him.

But then Monday came and the movement I was used to didn't accompany it. There was still movement, but it was lighter somehow. Deeper. More sporadic. I told TH it was like someone had gone from talking to mumbling. Still sounds being made, but not as distinct and forceful.

In rolled the worry.

I gave myself a sugar headache Monday afternoon trying to get him all hopped up, hoping to feel him dancing around. No luck.

By the time I went to bed Monday, laying still and willing him to move, my worry had grown like a thunderhead. Mom emotions are protective, impressive things. I told myself I'd give him another chance Tuesday before calling the doc. He didn't change--a dull thump or twitch here and there. Nothing solid and reassuring. Nothing saying, "Don't worry, Mom! I'm loving life in here!" A couple of hours after breakfast with no internal dance party in sight, I called my OB's office and left a message. I think I sounded calm and collected on the phone, but when I hung up, tears stung my eyes.

And then, just when Dos could probably sense that he had driven me to the brink, lunch comes and goes and with it, a good, old-fashioned dance party.

When the nurse called me back, I told her the story of the last several days, including the increased movement I had felt only a few house before. She told me I could come in any time to get checked if I felt nervous. I thanked her and hung up, already feeling better.

There was more movement last night after dinner, and I was smiling and hoping that he was getting back to his usual rambunctious self. I allowed myself to relax.

And then he decided to mess with me again, to hide all night long and see how long it took until mommy freaked out.

At about 5:45 a.m., I made up my mind to just go to my doc's office before work for a quick check. This worry thing sucked, and if I could just know that he's okay in there, that everything is okay in there, I could just relax.

And then, bump. Bump-bump-roll.

And my heart started beating again.

So my adventure as a mom of a boy has already begun. Already he tests me, scares me, messes with me to see what effect it has. Already my heart has stopped beating because of him.

Have mercy.

Progress!

Houston, we have progress! For months we ignored the fact that we had to do anything at all to prepare our home for Dos's arrival. That due date in late May floating out in front of us may as well have been May 2097--we knew in the backs of our minds that it was a real date that would be here eventually, but it seemed so far off that it didn't really have any immediate impact on our present lives.

Eventually we started talking about all the things we needed to do. In vague, someday terms. Things like, "We'll need to . . . " Always in the future tense.

Then we realized we were thinking of the same tasks over and over, like rediscovering the same tree when wandering in circles in the woods and thinking that you were making progress. So we made a to-do list. Put the tasks into writing. Made it concrete.

Then finally, finally, some actual, tangible, measurable progress!

This weekend we:
--ordered the second crib (and hit a sale + free shipping that saved us $180!!)
--started cleaning out the guest room closet (our coats are now actually hanging in our coat closet. We're officially adults.)
--got 75% done hanging one of the two fans we need to hang (so, that's 75% of 50% . . . we are 37.5% done with fan hanging)
--weeded through baby girl's wardrobe and packed away all clothes that are too small for her (and cried about the fact we may never put another child into those sweet sundresses and tank tops and fruity rompers. Darn boys clothes for not being as adorable!)
--picked up a new-to-us glider from a friend, which will be set up in our master bedroom in the hopes that I can just nurse Dos in our room at night instead of heading to the nursery every time like we did with baby girl
--took down and packed away all our Christmas decorations (all except for those darn snowman throw pillows I didn't notice we had missed until two days later. I swear I have never once actually packed away 100% of the decorations in one go.)

Okay, so that last one doesn't really have anything to do with Dos, but it was on our to-do list.

See? SEE? Progress! I feel good!

(Tired, but good.)

Love Wins and My Heart Explodes

So we decided not to let her sleep with her lovie.

It was a hard decision, but we felt comfortable with the way things had been going, comfortable with our confident, calm sleeper who has never needed anything to go to sleep.

We took Matt (Matt is the monkey. She named him Matt. All on her own. Love that girl.) away at bath time and stashed him in the kitchen so that she wouldn't see him when it was time to go to bed.

Our downfall: she's teething and TH told me to bring her into the kitchen for tylenol.

D'oh.

She saw Matt and immediately started saying, "Matt! Matt! Monk! ooh-ooh-ooh!"

TH gently said, "No, baby, Matt's going night-night, and Ali's going night-night, too. You can see Matt in the morning," while I moved slowly around the corner. She said, "Noooooo!" and buried her face into my shoulder and looked like her heart would break. I lost my resolve and looked at TH with a "I'm totally giving in" look, and he doubled his resolve. TH took baby girl from my arms (it was his turn for bedtime), and she cried, "Maaattt! Peeeeese! Oooh-oooh-ooooh!" as if we just hadn't heard. No tears, just plaintive longing.

She went to bed last night the same as ever. Not crying. Just with her lower lip sticking out and a heartbroken look on her sweet face.

I couldn't get past it. An hour later I told TH I was having second thoughts, that she had a lot of change coming up in the next few months what with changing rooms and a new baby coming home, and that Matt could help comfort her through it all. As soon as the words left my lips, relief flooded TH's face. He said he never wanted to be responsible for making her look that sad ever again.

I ran to the kitchen, grabbed the monkey, tiptoed into baby girl's room, and nestled Matt into the corner of her crib so that he would be the first thing she saw when she awoke.

I went to sleep feeling like I could live with myself again.

And sure enough, after stretching and rubbing her eyes, this morning baby girl turned over and saw Matt, and her face flooded with joy and she yelled "Matt!"

So there it is. Love wins. Or rather, lovie wins. Baby girl now has a favorite stuffed animal that she'll sleep with.

On the ride to school this morning, baby girl seemed to realize about halfway there that we had left Matt at home (he doesn't come to school with us (yet) because we don't want other kids taking him, him getting dirty or ruined or lost, etc.). I heard her turn her head from side to side, asking "Matt? Matt?" looking around the car to see where he was. I didn't say anything. Just waited.

A few seconds later, a quiet "bye-bye" floated up from the back seat.

Realizing he wasn't there with her, she offered a quiet farewell to her lovie.

And my heart burst. At her affection. Her attachment. Her maturity at being able to recognize that he wasn't there. Her ability to say good-bye without tears.

Holy damn I love that girl. I can't wait to get her home tonight and throw Matt the Monkey into her arms once more.

Lovie

My daughter has taken a lovie. Meet Monkey.

We saw him in a store on Sunday and when baby girl made her signature monkey sound/sign (ooh-ooh-ooh while scratching the top of her head), our hearts melted and he came home with us. She's never had a lovie before. Never been so attached to something that it's all she can think of. I figured this would be another one of "those" toys--the kind she shows brief interest in when it's in front of her but passes out of her mind as soon as she looks away.

Not Monkey. He hasn't left her since we first introduced them in the store.

She hugs him.

She kisses him.

She feeds him her breakfast before she's even taken a single bite herself.

She talks to him and laughs as if he's just told her the funniest joke. She's in love.

Sunday night rolled around. It was DH's turn to put her to bed. He asked what we should do with Monkey that night, and I shrugged. I mean, other kids sleep with favorite stuffed animals or blankets, right? Just because our daughter never has doesn't mean she shouldn't, right? Right? I wasn't fully convinced with my own attempt at rationalizing the situation, so I merely shrugged and left it up to him. I heard a brief cry from her bedroom, and then silence. He emerged. Monkey had not gone to bed with her. Their parting was the cry I had heard. But then she was fine. She went right to sleep as always.

In truth, I felt relieved. Satisfied. She was the girl I had known this whole time, my brave, independent, confident, comfortable girl who didn't need anything to go to sleep.

When I went to get her in the morning, she saw Monkey waiting for her on the changing table, grabbed him to her, and they were reunited.

Monkey didn't go to school with her, but she asked for him when she got home and they spent the evening together. She cried when Monkey couldn't take a bath with her. As soon as she was out, she was asking for him, saying, "Monk? Monk?" with her sweet raised eyebrows, saying "ooh-ooh-ooh?" while scratching her head. Insistent. Pleading. Sweet. I tried to sing her lullabyes and distract her, but her voice got louder, thinking I just hadn't heard. The softie in me prevailed and I gave her Monkey back for some pre-bed snuggles. She smiled her sunny smile at me and said, "tank oo!"

Monkey read bedtime stories with us. And I just couldn't bear to take him out of her tight embrace. The rationalizing came back. Other kids sleep with stuffed animals. She's nearly 16 months old. Old enough to pick what she wants. To develop preferences. I rocked her and kissed her goodnight, and Monkey went to bed with her.

For the first time in her life, she slept with something in her crib.

I was in a funk all evening. I couldn't put a finger on it, but I felt guilty at my decision to let her sleep with Monkey. She had never needed something to go to sleep before. She could sleep anywhere. She could be put to bed by anyone. She had never needed something to feel comfortable. Was I ruining a good thing? Was I enabling a dependency that would come back to bite us in the butt when we travel and forget Monkey, or when he's lost or dirty? I talked about it with TH and we agreed that we'd rather her just continue to be fine sleeping with nothing. He decided he was going to go in and get Monkey out of the crib.

We waited a couple of hours until she was very, very asleep, and then I watched on the monitor as he stood by her crib, his armed poised just above the dark shape that was Monkey. And then it pulled back. And then moments later, he was back in our room, telling me that he couldn't do it, that she was sleeping snuggled up to Monkey, one arm wrapped tightly around his neck, and that it was too cute to ruin.

So Monkey stayed in the crib with her. And I fretted once again about the decisions we make as parents. So far we'd done a pretty bang-up job of avoiding setting ourselves up for future problems, but I was afraid our good run may be coming to an end.

When I went in this morning, baby girl was still totally passed out. Monkey was in the other corner of the crib. I retrieved him and set him on the changing table to greet baby girl when she got up. I rubbed her back gently and woke her for the day, and the first thing she did, after stretching and whimpering and rubbing her eyes, was to sit up, scratch the top of her head, and say "ooh-ooh-ooh? Monk?"

I don't know what we'll do tonight. I don't know if this is a battle we will pick to fight. I love my good sleeper, my confident girl who has never needed anything at night to sleep soundly. But attachments to lovies are a part of childhood, and do I really want to deprive her of any meaningful, comforting relationship in her life?

I wish there were a set of directions for parenthood, a crystal ball or magic mirror I could look into and see the implications and ramifications of both options. I guess the best we can hope for as parents is not to screw our kids up too badly, and to make all our decisions based in love and hope that that is good enough.

20 weeks!

Remember this post where I mused on how the second kid gets shafted? Well, as a testament to that, behold my very FIRST post about my progress through this pregnancy . . . at 20 weeks!

20 weeks. As in, halfway there.

Half.     Way.

ZOMG.

My first pregnancy passed at just the right speed. Not too fast. Not too slow. Perfect.

This pregnancy is passing at light speed. I feel like I blink and a week is gone. Close my eyes to sleep and there goes a month. What happened to December???

Though it is passing much quicker, I am so happy to say that it is also passing with a great deal less worry than the first. I have found myself able to relax and not count the days, hours, and minutes until my next appointment. I started feeling movement a lot earlier this time--in fact, TH got to feel his son for the first time last night! I've been feeling Dos for a week or two now, on the outside, but I have to be very patient. TH lacks some of that patience, so it's been harder to get his hand on my belly in the exact right spot at the exact right moment to feel the kick. After two or three failed attempts last night, we gave it one more shot, and boom! He felt it! And then boom-boom-boom, two or three more kicks just to say hi to Dad. I'll never tire of the look of delight on my husband's face when he feels his child move within me. He grinned like a kid at Christmas and bent over and started talking to my belly button (he thinks the sound will be amplified if he goes through the belly button . . . funny guy), saying hello to his son and introducing himself as Dos's daddy. It melts my heart every. single. time. So anyway, back to movement. Dos's early and consistent movement this time has given me daily assurance that everything is fine, and I've worried a lot less. Yay!

We've gotten nothing, nothing done to get ready. We have no name picked out (boys names are HARD, yo). We haven't done anything to get the guest room converted to baby girl's big girl room. We can't do anything to convert the nursery to a boy nursery until baby girl is moved out. The good news is that we are talking about all the things we have to do. So that's the first step, I guess. We have set an internal deadline of 30 weeks to get everything ready. After 30 weeks, TH has a number of long, international trips to take and I'm going to be big as a house and chasing around a toddler. Likelihood of things getting done after 30 weeks are slim. So 30 weeks, then, is our deadline. Which means we have 10 weeks to get stuff ready. Guess it's time to get a move on.

I love being pregnant. I love saying that I'm pregnant. I love looking in the mirror and looking pregnant. I love love love LOVE feeling my baby move inside me. I only have 20 more weeks (or less) of this and I am making sure to enjoy every last second!!

How far along?: 20 weeks

Total weight gain: 12 lbs. Ouch. The good news is that the holiday eating marathon is behind us and I have been walking 2 miles every day with my coworkers. That's about all I can do to stay healthy. My goal is to end this pregnancy weighing less than I did with my first pregnancy (which is totally realistic considering I started it weighing 10 pounds less than I started my last).

How big is baby?: Still less than a pound.

Maternity clothes?: Yes, and I love them!! Being due in May has been hard because I have to wear maternity clothes through two seasons (being due in September, as I was with baby girl, was much easier, because by the time I needed maternity clothes it was already hot and it just stayed hot the entire time). I'm trying to limit the number of cold-weather maternity clothes I had to buy because I know I'll only be in those another two months or so.

Stretch marks?: Nope. I'm hoping I am as fortunate this time as I was last time. I've added in some Burt's Bees belly balm to increase my chances.

Sleep?: Great. I haven't even broken out my body pillow yet, though I have a feeling it's coming soon.

Best moment this week?: Feeling Dos move so much and having TH feel him for the first time.

Movement?: Kick-bump-roll! He's a dancer, but the movement has all been so much lower this time around than it was with baby girl. I'm hoping he moves on up soon because constant kicks to my bladder and cervix are not my idea of a good time.

Food cravings?: Not really, and the food aversions seem about gone as well.

Labor signs?: Ha! Hopefully not for at least another 19 weeks.

Belly button in or out?: Ah, my poor, sweet, hard-working belly button. It never really recovered fully from my first pregnancy. It started this one out much shallower, and is really, really shallow right now. I bet I'll have an outie before the end. What a funny sight that will be!

What I miss: Chocolate. Sweet chocolate, how I long for thee.

What I'm looking forward to: Getting started on our preparation of the rooms.

Milestone: Halfway!!!