Marti Finds a Binky

I can pretty much bet that Marti is up to no good when she disappears from my side for any length of time. Earlier today I went into the bedroom to find her soothing herself with a pacifier.

This isn't the first one she's gotten hold of, but it's the first one she's destroyed. The funny thing is that it was in the bassinet, meaning that she was brave enough to reach in and get it. Or jump in and get it. Luckily this pacifier is one that Avery hates—she makes a scritchy face and ejects it every time we even attempt to give it to her—so she wasn't too upset about its demise.

Avery's Arrival

Throughout my entire pregnancy, I had a feeling our little one would arrive early. Never mind the fact that most first-timers go past their due dates, I just had a gut feeling that our baby would show up before September 11. Never mind that people told me to add a week to my due date so that I wouldn't be disappointed when she didn't show. I just knew. Mother's intuition.

I, however, did not expect her to arrive five weeks early. And while I'd joked about starting kitchen renovations late in the pregnancy, I didn't honestly think the little squirt would show up while our kitchen was totally destroyed. Just goes to show—I'm not in charge.

With our kitchen taken apart—appliances in the dining room, no floors—Alan took off work Thursday and Friday to start the process of laying down the floors. We headed to the Depot to buy the backerboard and tiles.

The plan was to get the backerboard down and be ready to tile by the weekend. We were right on schedule when we took a detour to go appliance shopping on birthday Saturday. Our oven had the minor problem of burning your freaking hand off because the door didn't close properly and then we decided we needed a fridge as well. So we purchased appliances, making small talk about pregnancy and babies with a delivery driver at the store.

Because we hadn't arrived at the appliance store intending to buy a fridge, we bought a much-too-deep one and had to go back to the store to re-order. As we were walking in the store for the second time, the delivery driver asked when I was due. I said "September, I still have a few weeks" and he goes, "Nah...a few hours." When you know how the story ends, you know just how weird this comment was.

So Alan and I get home from appliance shopping. I'm in the kitchen, standing in this exact spot, and Alan is downstairs. I'm looking for squeaks in the floor; Alan is drilling to get rid of squeaks in the floor. Then...my water breaks. Only, I'm not totally sure it's my water breaking. Did I pee myself, perhaps? It's 4:30. Let's just see what happens.

What happens is that contractions start. And I'm slightly confused. Because the contractions are anywhere from 4 minutes to less than 3 minutes apart. And aren't they supposed to start really far apart? And wasn't I supposed to get Braxton Hicks contractions first? And isn't the baby supposed to wait until September? Or at least until the kitchen is done?

So while the contractions are frequent, they're also fairly mild. I'm bossing Alan around, making him clean up our disaster area a bit (in case parents come to town), making him organize the baby's room (because I'd moved furniture to hang stuff on the walls). I pack a bag for the hospital. All the while I'm thinking of what I learned in our (apparently worthless) childbirth classes: "Don't rush to the hospital. You have HOURS of labor to go through. Labor at home for as long as possible. It's not like the movies."*

So we're getting all of our stuff together when all of a sudden the contractions are like, "HEY! WE'RE NOT MESSING AROUND!" And I'm like "Shit, these contractions aren't messing around. Call the doctor." So Alan does and we head to the hospital.

Alan gets in the car. And I just stand next to the car with the door open. Gripping the roof of the car. Unable to get in because sitting in the car basically sounded like the worst thing in the world for my uterus to do at that point. Also, I was feeling like I had to push, which I smartly kept to myself. Alan coaxes me into the car for what is the most miserable 15-minute car ride ever. I wait until we're two stoplights from the hospital before I tell Alan that I feel like I need to push. He tells me "Don't push! Pull!"

We pull up to the hospital entrance, jump out of the car and head straight to labor and delivery. I feared that if we parked, I'd be delivering in the parking garage. We walk into L&D, Alan supporting me as I try to walk, and I say "I feel like I need to puuuush." The nurses look up from the nurses' station with surprised looks on their faces, ask for our last name and direct us to room 7.

As I enter lucky room 7, I'm stripping off my clothing because the need to push is undeniable at this point. No "Hi, nurse, nice to meet you." I'm like "This baby wants OUT!"

As I get on the bed, I'm thinking two things: 1) Please let me be ready to push because if not, I just made an embarrassing scene and 2) Please let me be ready to push because I cannot take hours more of this. Thankfully, I was indeed fully dilated**, so with half an hour of pushing with all of my might, Avery Anne arrived at 7:09 p.m. at 5 pounds, 15 ounces, and 18.25 inches long.

After the craziness of labor, my only concern was that the baby was healthy. So it took a minute for Alan and I to realize that we didn't even know the baby's gender. I was genuinely surprised when Alan announced "It's a girl!" I think I would have been surprised either way. And really, I was surprised to have a baby outside of my belly at that point in time.


Because she was so early, she earned herself a stay in the NICU, so she was there until she was discharged on Friday. She had an IV for a day, was hooked up to monitors and got to go under the lights for jaundice.


Luckily, we were able to stay in a room on the pediatric unit just down the hall from her, so that made the extended stay a little easier. I have never been so happy to head home.

Now that we're home, we're settling in, trying to get into a bit of a routine. Mostly we're just trying to get a bit of sleep and soak in every minute with our little girl. She's changed so much already. She's got my dimples, Alan's chin, crazy blonde hair, the superhero ability to sleep through anything like her dad and the habit of sleeping with her mouth wide open like her mom. She's perfect.


Also perfect? My wonderful husband. I couldn't have made it through that week without him. And not only is he proving to be an amazing support and wonderful father, but he also finished those damn floors. And they look awesome.


*We want our money back. IT IS EXACTLY LIKE THE MOVIES.

**My discharge form says that I arrived fully dilated and gave birth within 30 minutes of my arrival to the hospital.

The Opposite of Nesting

Alan and I have been improving our house since the day we moved in. Alan is the driving force behind the renovations and updates, the Home Depot trips and the power tool purchases. I participated fully at first, when my energy was high, my belly didn't get in the way, and the projects involved paint brushes.

But then power tools and pot bellies entered the picture. My belly grew as projects grew increasingly more complex. I'm as helpful as I can be, but much to Alan's chagrin, I'm not quite as agile as I once was.

The lack of help from me hasn't stopped Alan from charging ahead on projects though. And I'm fully supportive because I know that once the baby is here, it's going to be a lot more difficult to carve out the time and energy for big home improvements.

Besides dealing with hidden surprises like The Plurb, and this stenciled mural, which greets us every day as we enter the house from our side entrance...

...or head to the basement...


...we're also dealing with real eyesores, like dirty, nasty linoleum that is coming up at the edges around the kitchen. So we've been looking at floor tiles, talking to the tiling guys, buying tiling books.

And we decided that now was the time to tile our kitchen. Nay, destroy our kitchen. Now, when we're less than six weeks away from our due date. Now, when I can't bend to help Alan with flooring whatsoever. Now.

But we don't turn away from a challenge or a deadline. We turn up our doing-dials and GO GO GO.


After pulling up some linoleum, we discovered that we have hardwood floors in the kitchen. Um, yay! A home improver's dream come true! We had momentary fantasies of throwing out the tiling books and refinishing the hardwoods. Until we dug down a little further and discovered that only the edges of the hardwoods could actually be called "hardwood floors." Because the rest? Completely BLACK. Black...like tar? And something had been nailed over them. And that something had been pulled up. Leaving nails with remnants of whatever material it was under the nails. Everywhere. All over the black hardwoods.

So tiling it is! And so the destruction begins.


I really was reading What to Expect When You're Expecting when Alan snapped this picture. He told me to look concerned as I surveyed his handiwork. I didn't have to try too hard. Marti is also concerned.

You'd think this would be giving me panic attacks, but the funny thing is that I was most apprehensive before the project started. I guess I now see all of the chaos as progress.

The stove, refrigerator and dishwasher are all now in the dining room. The floors are completely ripped up. The tile has been decided. Now all that's left is to rebuild. And eat out every day for a week or so. (Please let it be a week or so.)