Today I was interviewed by The Tennessean for an article that is coming out in Sunday’s paper on midwifery in Tennessee. How was I found, you wonder? Because I constantly open my big fat mouth and splurt about midwives all over the internets. For fun.

I am sooooo excited about this article (the second newspaper article I’ve been interviewed for… EVER!) because I really enjoy reading this health reporter’s columns as she’s very fair and balanced. And I think we could all use a bit more health reporting that is balanced. Something along the lines of OMG! SWINE FLU = THE APOCALYPSE!

Plus I love that she’s bringing attention to midwifery – a subject that sadly very few women know anything about. I know that I personally knew nothing about midwifery until I started doing my own research because it’s just not in the public eye.

At any rate, this is all falling on the week that we returned from a fun trip to the East Coast. Meaning I had no food in the house and the house was a mess. We had just finished painting the kitchen floor, so the kitchen was ripped apart. And the drywall for the upstairs gets delivered tomorrow morning with the crew right behind ready to start working. Tomorrow morning Matt has his board certification exam, which is just a tiny little bit important. Meaning if he passes he gets a nice fat raise. And the letters behind his name will now say “M.A.  B.C.B.A.”

Then we’ve got Matt’s climbing buddy coming in from Massachusetts on Saturday to go rock climbing for the weekend, and my mom arrives on Monday morning to hang out with me for a week. Which means I will frantically clean every nook and cranny of my house only to have her arrive and clean it all much better than I did the first time. And I will love and adore her for it.

And somewhere in there, I need to finish the nursery because the photographer from The Tennessean will be coming by to take a picture. Of me. At seven months pregnant and heavy enough to be a mean and competitive contestant on The Biggest Loser.

Strangely enough, all of this hectic activity is actually really good for me. I work best under tight deadlines, and frankly get a rush from anything that feels a little bit like a high school theatrical production.

But if I completely crash and forget to pick my mom up from the airport on Monday morning, can someone please tell her it was all because I opened my big fat mouth? She’ll roll her eyes and understand.

A few years ago, after much debating, my parents decided to keep the house they had lived in nearly my entire life, but renovate it throughout. They figured that in their mid-fifties it might be nice to have things like, oh, say… central air. And a fridge that wasn’t puke yellow and from 1989.

Projects like installing central air and wood floors throughout your house are a bit of a pain, but nothing is as much of a pain as knocking down a wall in your kitchen, gutting it, and putting in a new kitchen from the ground up. This I know from experience, although my parent’s budget and timeline was far different than ours. They hired an awesome contractor and over the span of several months lived in their finished basement while the kitchen was being renovated. For those many months, they referred to the room in the finished basement as “The Studio” and became well accustomed to cooking with a toaster and microwave and living out of a dorm-sized fridge.

This past weekend, we blocked off our own kitchen to finally get around to painting the wood floors. Because we didn’t want to push our luck, we decided to plan the painting with the most conservative of timelines including two full days between coats for optimal drying time. Which meant that I had 5 days worth of food to plan out in advance with a toaster oven and basement fridge as my only options.

I spent much of Friday at the grocery store and in the kitchen making up a whole host of sandwiches, cutting up cucumbers and summer squash and marinating chicken that could be grilled outside. We’re on day 4 of living without a kitchen, and I’ll be honest, the sandwiches are getting old. Same for washing our dirty dishes in the bathroom sink. And going outside and around to the back of the house to get milk from the basement fridge.

Here’s what our dining room currently looks like with a mattress blocking off the door to the kitchen and the dining room table covered with our picnic staples.

From Daily Daguerreotype

And here’s the kitchen floor drying.

From Daily Daguerreotype

After five days of living like this, I honestly cannot imagine how my parents lived for months on end in The Studio. But then again, our finished project is nothing like theirs.

From Daily Daguerreotype

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that every time I go to my mom’s house I beg to cook a meal, and the entire time I talk to my pretend audience as if I’m a Food Network chef.

One lesson I learned early on in marriage, and the thing I tell people whenever they (shockingly) ask me for marital advice is not to nag one’s husband. Matt is a typical stubborn Irish Mick, and will actually dig his heels in deeper if he gets the feeling he’s being nagged. Although he doesn’t pick up on passive-aggressive manipulative nagging too quickly, he doesn’t respond to it either. So all in all I’ve learned it’s better to just let him do his thing and be responsible for whatever positive or negative consequences might occur.

Perhaps this leaves me open to his sometimes ill behavior reflecting poorly on me, but I can deal with that. My grandmother is horrified that I don’t iron his dress shirts for him, so I’m used to letting people down.

On the other hand, I have found that when I simply ask Matt or remind him about tasks that are a given (like could he please take out the trash?), he hops right up and does them happily. It’s all about determining which things are worth arguing over and which things are not, and then making sure the things I really care about mutually transition into “givens.”

One thing I really cared about when I married Matt was the diligent writing of thankyou notes. Now, I was raised a proper New Englander and was taught to write thankyou notes at a young age. I’ve been writing them ever since, in fact my sisters and I continue to exchange thankyou notes and hostess gifts whenever we get together. (Although I must admit they are MUCH better at remembering and much prompter in the sending of said thankyou notes than I am.) Frankly, even after all these years of writing thankyou notes, I still really enjoy how relaxing it is to sit down with a box of cards and write out a note to a kind and generous person, despite my atrocious handwriting – the brunt of many a family joke.

Last week Matt sat down to write out the thankyou notes to his coworkers for the very generous shower gifts they gave him. He whipped them right up without a problem and was done in no time. Then this afternoon I reminded him that he still had birthday thankyou notes to write, so he hopped right up and went to my card basket to retrieve some blank cards and a pen.

“I think we’re out of cards.”

How can this be, I thought? My proper New Englander mother is constantly sending me cards that she finds on clearance (including those somewhat strange purple baby shower cards you might have received in the mail from me) to keep my card supply stocked, and perhaps to keep reminding me of the importance of being polite. In all my days of thankyou note writing, I’ve never been without a spare card.

“Ok, I’ll pick some up next time I’m out.”

I was struck not only by the generosity of our friends being too fast for my thankyou note supply to keep up, but also by how crestfallen Matt appeared at not being able to complete his task. It will hover over his head like a dark cloud until I have supplied him with some new cards.

Perhaps now when people ask my marital advice, instead of telling them not to nag their husband, I’ll tell them to marry a person who will quickly prioritize and care about the things that matter to you. The boy cares about thankyou notes because it matters to me. And that’s the quickest route to a nag-free relationship, methinks.

That and letting him buy a motorcyle. Oh Matt, n0t nagging, but just a reminder to up your life insurance policy.

For those of you who follow me on Facebook and Twitter, you’re already well aware that I may or may not have spent the very early portion of Sunday morning in an emergency room at a posh hospital in the Chicago suburbs. I may or may not have gone to the hospital after spending seven hours of Saturday evening vomiting promptly every thirty minutes for a total of fifteen pukes and two unfortunate changes of underwear. I also may or may not have found out that vomiting in your third trimester is made easier by being on all fours, and that in moments of desperation I will beg the nearest ER nurse for an IV to rehydrate me – things I never would have assumed before this weekend.

I caught a stomach bug that was goin around, and I’m pleased to say that it gave the Hof and I some good preparatory experience for what I’d imagine D-day will entail: multiple calls to the midwife (who was kind enough to coach us through my stomach bug in the midst of delivering babies), many, many clean towels, and my exclamation to everyone I was wheeled past in the hospital that “I’M TWENTY NINE WEEKS PREGNANT!” for fear they would inject me with some drug unsafe for my daughter in utero.

You hear these horror stories of people who were given a drug they were allergic to because their emergency medical band fell off, or a dosage gone wrong because the nurse was overworked, underpaid, and just needed a vacation forheavensake! Well I was determined not to be one of those people and questioned everything that went into my IV – what would the side effects be and um, hi, but my face is tingling, just as an FYI. At one point, when I reminded the nurse that “I’M TWENTY NINE WEEKS PREGNANT! And is this safe for the baby?” she responded with a snarky, “the doctor wouldn’t have prescribed it if it wasn’t safe for the baby.”

So that’s when I just shut up, told her she had gorgeous hair, and turned on the tele to watch Ben Harper on Austin City Limits. About five minutes after that miracle-working hydrating IV, I was ranting to Matt about how STUPID Reliant K was, how Ben was just letting it all go to pot, and myohmy how I LOVE THIS IV!

The whole ordeal was really rather comical (aside from the moments when I really feared my daughter was in danger), and we had a stupendous weekend with family although it was cut short. My biggest regret? Not being able to eat my sister’s slow-roasted Chicago beefs. I cut all of that meat the day beforehand and didn’t even get to taste it!

Now that we’re home, my system is slowly returning to normal. And frankly, as I head off to the grocery store today to fill our empty fridge, I look forward to doing so with a non-existant appetite – something I haven’t experienced in seven months. You really can’t imagine how nice it will be to walk past the bakery and not fight with myself over whether or not I need to buy five chocolate cakes… one for each workday BECAUSE I WORK SO HARD!

A few shoutouts to my new favorite people, Annie Reeder (my doula) and Gaylea McDougal (who co-taught our awesome childbirthing class with Annie), both with informative websites on your many childbirthing options.

And my sister, Clarissa, an almost-doula, has started a blog where she recently posts about various baby-wearing options. You don’t really have to be all into attachment parenting (I’m not… yet. Likely to change…) to be into baby-wearing. You can just be like me – someone who likes to keep it simple, Stupid, and not haul around a lot of useless baby gear. In the next few days she’ll be highlighting her recommendations for good carriers.

Now a little bit about doulas. Caution: I’m gonna get spiritual on you. Just pretend you’re listening to Oprah, and you won’t feel as wonky.

Matt and I went back and forth on whether or not we needed to use a doula because of how in tune with our desires my midwives seemed to be. Last week everything seemed to really come together remarkably. We had a wonderful appointment with the midwife who assured us that yes, I could push in whatever position I wanted, and try many positions! And yes! Matt can catch Penelope! And no! I don’t need to have an IV at all if everything is going fine. And yes! It’s totally cool for me to stay at home and labor there until it’s time to start pushing. And no! They won’t give me an episiotomy! And I can eat and drink to my little hearts delight throughout the whole process. In fact she was totally on board with our birth plan.

Last week we also decided to hire Awesome Annie to really make it possible for me to labor at home until the very last minute – we’ll have an experienced and knowledgeable doula there to make sure all is going well. On top of that, she goes to our church and will be able to help us achieve the one thing I really care about, and the only thing that I can control – to make sure that Penny’s arrival into the world is a worshipful experience, one where I am leaning on God for my strength and glorifying Him.

Matt and I were talking last night about just how at peace we feel with all of these decisions. I can truly say that I am facing my medical phobias head on with an amazing team of people, Matt, the midwives, Annie, and my Heavenly Father, who are going to support me emotionally, physically, and spiritually, and keep Penny’s health first and foremost in their mind. I have completely come to grips with the understanding that this will be a roller-coaster ride with lots of changes in course, but I feel totally equipped to handle it because of this awesome support team.

Now when I can’t sleep at night, I envision that awesome day when my daughter makes her arrival. I see myself in the quiet of my house focusing through contractions with Annie pushing on my back and Matt holding my hands, all of us meditating on the words of our Savior. And I’m no longer afraid.

And that’s why you want a doula…

Yesterday was the first day of the long-distance shower that my sisters are throwing me, and I don’t know what to say, you guys. I’m blown away by your generosity. The mailman had to take two trips to my front yard to carry in all the packages!

I can’t tell you how humbling it feels to be inundated with amazing  baby gear from such dear friends. I’ve spoken with some of you personally about how awkward and grabby it feels to me registering for baby gifts. It feels differently when I’m perusing Babies R Us to pick something out for a friend’s baby showers, but for some reason I feel wonky being on the receiving end. I come from a family of very generous people who give really lovingly (case in point – my wonderful sisters) and take gratitude seriously… so you can blame my issues on them.

Needless to say, I was absolutely giddy yesterday afternoon looking through all the adorable onesies, books, and teeny tiny nail clippers. I never in all of my life would have thought I’d get giddy over teeny tiny nail clippers. Has my evil twin taken over my body in the form of maternal hormones?

When Matt got home from work I had my stacks all organized, and walked through showing him what came from whom, and OMG HOW CUTE IS THIS CAPE COD HOODIE!?! Penny’s first of many Cuffy’s Cape Cod hoodies and t-shirts!

“Holy cow! She’s going to be a clothes horse,” was his response.

My biggest concern is that she won’t be able to spend enough time with all of her mother’s wonderful friends in NH, NJ, PA, MA, OH, and elsewhere.

I love you guys. Thanks for filling my love tank this week.

Now let me give something to YOU! Go comment to win the Turtlebob’s Doggie Delights!