Owen's Arrival {Part 1}

December 11, 2003. 6:30PM.

I was standing over the stove, carefully watching hamburger steaks sizzle on our flimsy grill pan. In between contractions, I'd peel the potatoes that would become a huge pile of mash. Dinner seemed to be taking my mind away from the tightness in my belly, distracting me from what could or could not be about to happen. I didn't own a watch, so I had teetered clumsily on one of the 1978 looking orange upholstered chairs that made up my breakfast table set, grabbing the clock with the second hand perched high on the wall to properly time the steady coming pain.

The night before had been a doozy. Contractions kept me up until 4AM, when they magically ceased, causing me the curse my body and maybe even slightly the baby that was calling it home. Le husband le boyfriend was off running the streets with his best friend, doing whatever it was that they did after work. 

I loved le boyfriend, but we were both still in our immature, barely post teen "No one's going to tell me what to do!" phase. We were young. And stupid. And stubborn. Which made for an interesting and sometimes (a lot of the time) argumentative household. 

"Mom, I think I'm having contractions," I cautiously said into the phone, scared that even mentioning them might make them disappear. "And if I'm counting them correctly (which I wasn't) I think they're about 3 minutes apart."

Le boyfriend finally strolled in the door. I cradled the phone in between my shoulder and face, put my hand over the receiver and informed him that I think MAYBE we could be having a baby tonight but not to hold his breath. 

"Jess, listen to me," my mom urged through the phone, "finish cooking, eat a little bit, take a warm bath and wash your hair, just in case. If the contractions continue through all of that, then call the doctor."

As soon as I hung up the phone, I was doubled over in pain. 

"Dinner's on the stove! I'm getting in the tub. Eat, because I'm not sure if you'll have time to later," I shouted, not so nicely, at le boyfriend as I gingerly made my way to the bathroom, clutching a small piece of paper, a pen, and the wall clock.

Every 2-3 minutes.

They were getting stronger. But at only 35 weeks and 6 days, I was doubting that this could really be it. Just days before, the doctor discovered that I was nearly four centimeters dilated. He didn't think I would make it to January 9th, my due date. I shouldn't be so surprised that this was happening, but I was a first time mom! Wasn't I supposed to go days, even weeks past that date?

After getting out the tub and quickly dressing, I silently checked through the hospital bag that I had packed weeks before. I grabbed the little blue layette that I planned on bringing my baby boy home from the hospital in, laid it neatly on the bed and ran my hand over it. Pretty soon, there's going to be a little person filling out these clothes. Our Owen will no longer be a far off idea. 

"So what are we doing?", le boyfriend suddenly appeared, interruping my moment of silently freaking out. I quickly tucked the blue-trimmed gown back into my bag. 

"I think I'll call the doctor and then we should probably head into the hospital. Please don't call and tell anyone yet. I don't want everyone to get all excited over a false alarm."

He agreed and listened quietly while I relayed the past few hours to my OB. 

"He said to head in," I said wide-eyed. 

Holy shit. This is really, really happening. 

The Boy

When he was one, he was labeled a "handful."

When he was three, he was juggled back and forth between classrooms because no teacher wanted to deal with him.

When he was four, I was told that he was a "distraction to other students."

He taught his little sister how to write basic addition this afternoon.

He never lets his little brother go without a kiss goodnight.

He insists upon hugging his mom and dad goodbye every morning.

At eight years old, the boy, who I was told, most certainly would need to be medicated, excels.

Not only in academics but in heart.

<3

Armpit farts

Me: Owen, what are you doing?

Him: Teaching the baby how to armpit fart. Duh.

Well then..

Time to go.

I like routine. Of course I like Owen more, but routine is a close second. So when this kid started hacking up his lungs last week, routine got tossed out the window. After 7 days of illness and school cancellations, it was overdue for him to go back. When he walked out to the bus stop this morning, I may or may not have done the happy dance.