Oh my gosh, Internet. Who are you, and what have you done with my pants that used to fit?

My baby will be two weeks old tomorrow, and let me tell you, the time freaking flies. I’ve been wanting to blog, you know, with pictures and all, but somewhere between the millions of guests (seriously, I had no idea we had this many friends!) and the endless pediatrician appointments (Baby Girl is up to 8 lbs 7 oz already!) I completely forgot about the fact that I have a blog. I also didn’t care that our wifi wasn’t working for about a week.

But now that the visitors have all gone, and I actually have time to sit down and stare at my baby and learn each and every one of her facial expressions, I am torn between my desire to write about it and tell the world how stinkin cute she is, and my desire to just sit there some more… staring at her face and kissing her toes.

I can only sum up the past two weeks by saying that the first week was me in survival mode. Surviving from a long labor and abdominal surgery, and trying to share my girl with all the people who came to see her and not be one of THOSE moms. The second week was me crashing down from the week before, which I survived purely on adrenaline. So I slept, and I snuggled her, and we went to appointments, and came home and napped because we were so exhausted.

But now… this part right now… this is what I was living for during the past nine months of pregnancy. I have a load of darks in the washing machine. The dishwasher is going and my kitchen is clean. I just changed the sheets on our bed since Penny peed on them this morning. And now I’m sitting at the dining room table checking my email for what feels like the first time in weeks, and staring at my daughter who is sitting in her bouncy seat on the dining room table. (I was totally one of those people who saw children placed precariously on things like counters and dining room tables in all manner of infant seats and thought, “OMG THEY ARE GOING TO DIE!” And now I am one of those people who does it because I have tried bending over, and the pain from my incision makes me scream, “OMG I AM GOING TO DIE!”)

I can’t begin to tell you how in love with her I am, and it all would just sound so cliche if I tried. I’m kinda waiting for the Baby Blues or the dreaded post-partum hormones to kick in and make me hate everything, including The Rolling Stones. But it hasn’t happened yet. In fact, each day I wake up and I like her more than I did the day before. I know her more than the day before. And I would chop off an even more important body part of mine for her than I would have the day before. The crying jags that I’ve had seem to be about two things. The first being my frustration at how slow recovering from a C-section can be – my desire to be up and about and taking my girl to the zoo is just that strong. And the second is when I realize yet again how blessed I am that I’m going to be a Stay At Home Mom. I just weep in Matt’s arms and thank him incessantly for making it possible for me to spend each and every day just hanging out with Penny. My life is great, internet. It really truly is.

So that’s what Penny’s first two weeks have been for me. As for her, she is growing like a weed. She loves to eat, and does it well. She takes a bottle and a pacifier and her mother’s cowlike teet all equally well. She sleeps wonderfully – last night gave us a 5 hour chunk before quietly whimpering for a diaper change and… maybe a snack, please? She even took her first Hep B shot like a champ this morning which leads me to believe she has her father’s medical disposition.

But right now? Right now it’s time for me to feed her again, so we’re going to head to her room to sit in the rocker for a half an hour of uninterrupted time, just me and my girl. And I think this time I’ll sing some Michael Jackson to her.

I’m a week overdue with Penny today, and actually couldn’t be happier. She passed a non-stress test with flying colors this morning allowing us twenty minutes of listening to her darling heartbeat on the monitor and watching it rise and fall correctly as she flipped and flopped. Apparently I was also experiencing Braxton-Hicks contractions every 12 minutes, but could NOT have told you that. I think I’d have to have a million babies before I could truly recognize a BH contraction.

The midwife sent me home with the edict to spend the weekend doing nothing but the thing that got me into this mess to begin with. Matt had an evil glint in his eye. Boy is embracing midwifery more and more each visit.

41 weeks is no more uncomfortable than 40 weeks or 39, or 38. Would I love to be holding my baby girl this very moment? Absolutely. But I continue to be tickled pink that I have a team of care providers who are really in my court – ones who feel induction at this stage is unnecessary unless Penny was not responding well to the tests. I have until Monday before I go in for more tests, and should we pass those I’ll have until 42 weeks before they will plan induction.

A lot of people have asked me why I don’t just go ahead and get induced anyway. Aren’t I uncomfortable? Wouldn’t I rather just get the inconvenient waiting over with? I so appreciate that they understand how non fun it is being this pregnant for this long, but I truly believe that my babe will come when God wants her to come. Getting her out for my own comfort seems a bit… selfish, no? I want her arrival into the world to be the God-ordained, natural process that it is supposed to be.

Plus if I do this laboring according to my brilliant plan, I can come out the other end without once being touched with a needle.

So a big thank you to all of our dear friends and family who are inundating us with love, support and encouragement. As Tom Petty so correctly put it, “the waiting is the hardest part.” But I am having so much fun spending these last few weeks with Matt, and am really happy that my care providers are giving me the (very normal and healthy for a first-time mom) extra time for Penelope to make her way into the world.

Scuse me… I just got a rascally wink. Duty calls.

My little girl is due in two weeks. Meaning she could come any day now. Also meaning I am planning on starting all homeopathic wivestales that theoretically induce labor as of this evening.

This week has been one where I have felt very blessed by the friends and acquaintances in my life. My house is bursting with fresh flowers that have been given to me all week long. A chair in our living room is covered in gifts that I need to write thank-you notes for. My email inbox is overflowing with messages from people who are thinking of us, praying for us, and telling me to hang in there for the next few miserable days until she arrives. I am truly blessed.

A few months ago, our pastor called Penny our “Blessing Baby” when referring to her in conversation. I found it moderately cheesy, but in actuality she really, truly is. Even yesterday as I moaned to Matt about how sore I was, I still got giddy thinking about how she is now fully formed – fully ready to live in the outside world. Perfectly knit together. And more Matt for me to love.

I want her so badly. I have wanted her so badly since what feels like forever ago. I am eager to have her radically change my life. I am ready for her to stress me out. I am dying to be her mama and take care of her every need. I can’t wait to see what she accomplishes in her life and how she changes the world.

And as I write all of this I am astonished by what I’m saying. I’m floored that I have become this person – this person who just cannot wait to go through labor and delivery and get to the other side where I’m holding my tiny baby girl in my arms. I never thought I would be this person. I never thought I’d admit it even if I became this person. Although, I still wouldn’t be all that disappointed if a puppy came out instead.

While I’m incredibly impatient and can hardly go ten minutes without thinking “WHEN THE FLIP IS SHE GOING TO MAKE HER APPEARANCE, ALREADY!?!” I am trying to kick back and enjoy the last two weeks of our lives as we know them. I’m trying to get and keep my house in order. I’m trying to look at Matt as my best friend and partner in crime, not just my Baby Daddy. I’m trying not to kill the cat for making me have to vacuum daily.

But I sure wouldn’t mind if the next two weeks flew by in double time.

I’m headed out of town this weekend for a ladies weekend in Easternish Tennessee, which is going to be fun fun fun. On the docket is food, more food, some movies, some reading, some exploring, and food. Last night I folded myself up like a pretzel to give myself a pedicure… THAT is how serious I’m taking this weekend.

As I prepare to drive out of town, we’re having a delicious Tennessee thunderstorm. When I moved here last year I was blown away by the thunder and lighting, and every time it rains like this I’m tempted to break out 1980s Eric Clapton and dance around until the power goes out. Don’t ask. I just love it that much.

While I hunker down for girl time in the rain this weekend, Matt will be busy working on the second floor and told me that he intends to have it basically finished by the time I get home. “Basically finished” means all the painting except the trim. I won’t hold him to it, in case he decides to spend all day tomorrow in front of the TV watching scary movies about space exploration that I would never put up with. But the thought of coming home to a completed upstairs makes this pregnant woman ready and willing to head straight into labor and delivery.

I hope you have a glorious weekend that involves either chocolate or space exploration – whichever is more your gig.

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.

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.