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I read this the other day: http://www.mamapedia.com/voices/an-open-letter-to-time
And then my eyes got a little watery at work.
I look at Lucy these days and I want to ask her where she came from. This goofy, chattering, tall, hilarious girl. She can’t be my daughter, because my daughter is a little baby girl. Of course she is her. After some time.
When she was little I was very excited about things like, “OH MY GOD SHE TOTALLY JUST ROLLED OVER!!!!” or “OH MY GOD SHE JUST ROLLED OVER THE OTHER WAY!!!!” To be fair little babies don’t do much so you are kind of always waiting for the next thing to happen.
My goal with baby Rocky is to just be. To just enjoy him or her as she is in that moment, because as soon as the day is gone, the little baby is a day older and a day wiser and pretty soon she’s doing summersaults and building towers with legos and “reading” her favorite books to all of her stuffed animals. The time, it goes so much faster than you realize.
I’m sure I’ll be saying the same thing with the next baby as I don’t think you are ever prepared to see your little babies all grown up. But I just want to take it a little easier. Not that I won’t be excited about the baby rolling over. I mean come on I still get excited about stupid little things that I would get excited about when I was 9 so I really haven’t changed that much, (ahem, Christmas morning).
As far as personally I want to take the same attitude. For example, I’m going to start running as soon as I’m allowed, but I’m not going to train for the marathon this year. With nursing I just couldn’t do it the last time I tried it and having to be out running for 3-4 hours at a time doesn’t work. We do have the baby jogging stroller but Rocky will be too little (although I think we can get an attachment for it that would work). And we have the Lucille to think about. Also last time I was biking about 24 miles a day (Ok I did this for like 3 weeks) to and from northwestern, or downtown to catch the train to then bike to fermilab. All while carrying my pump and then my pumped milk and a change of clothes on my back. No. Not this time. Although I would like to get some more use out of my bike.
I do have a goal of the 2013 marathon though. But I just want to be. I want to run and enjoy it and not feel like I have to. I do like all that I was doing last time because I got into pretty good shape pretty fast after she was born. When Jason would come home from work when I was on maternity leave, I would already be dressed in running clothes and I would hand him the baby and walk out the door. All day home with the little baby is tough so I imagine that will be similar. So OK fine, just no planned races. And no biking with pump parts. And I did love that Core Power Yoga.
With work and keeping the family unit from falling apart, I also think I will have to do all my runs early in the morning at like 4:45 because that is the only time that won’t take away from family time. Which will be tough, but not impossible. I need to make a Moms Morning Running Group. Running Jayhawk I’m looking at you.
Ok, I really meant for this to be a short post and on and on I went. In short. Enjoy the time.
2011 was quite the wild ride for us here at JasonLeahRun. Ok not that wild, but it was a good year nonetheless.
2012 is shaping up to be one of the most exciting years I think we’ve had yet!
- We are expecting baby Rocky (Lucy says the baby’s name is “Rock a baby in the treetop” and so we have nicknamed it Rocky) on April 30th.
- Jason and I have started a joint creative project that I’m excited to watch grow as the weeks go on. More on this in the upcoming weeks.
- I’m planning on doing more professional photography work as well as just *more* photography. I *have* to make time for this. I really enjoy it too much to let it starting slipping.
- By the end of the year I hope to be back to consistently running with a plan for the 2013 Chicago marathon. I know that I have a hard time running far while nursing and as I plan to do that for a year again, there won’t be any “real” distance added until April of next year. Which if I’m in some kind of shape will be good timing.
- Making a run for a house before the new baby comes? Waiting until next year? We don’t know yet.
Those are the big things this year with the usual suspects with work and city living thrown into the mix.
With that The Lucille is up and I must go play with her before taking her to school!
Christmas Eve is here! Happy yule tide logs, egg nogs, and green frogs to all!
What you used to think was true wasn’t really true, but now it is true. Sorry about that.
How do you explain to your daughter that you killed Santa Claus?
I obviously didn’t mean to. I didn’t even know he was real. Given this, I was more than a little unprepared when my night of wrapping presents and fine wine was interrupted by a sound that can only be described as fat hitting cement. A cloud of soot poured from my fireplace, filling the room and setting me to coughing. When I finally caught my breath, I looked up and found myself face to face with a great, fat man.
I didn’t even think; I was just so shocked. I raced around him to the fireplace where I snatched up the iron poker, swinging it in a wild arc towards the intruder. He had turned to follow me as I darted past him; his momentum leading him right into the path of my makeshift weapon. I connected; the shock of iron meeting bone propagating from my hand up to my elbow. His legs crumpled under him and he dropped to the floor.
I looked down at his face, snowy white beard and rosy cheeks, mouth forming a perfect “O”. His final “Ho Ho Ho” never made it past his lips. His eyes stared back up at me; glassy, empty. He was dead. I’d killed Santa.
Holy shit! I’d killed Santa!
My concern at that point wasn’t the ruination of Christmas or all the disappointed little boys and girls. No, at that moment, my only concern was the corpse laying in the middle of my living room. I grabbed him by his armpits, bending at the knees to hoist him off the ground and out of my apartment. I heaved. Nothing. I grabbed at a shoulder, hooking my hands under his left armpit to drag him across the floor, but strain as I might, he would not budge. I tugged and I tugged at him, forward and up and then down again, rocking him, attempting to gain some kind of momentum. But the only evidence of my efforts was an echo of waves across his girth, his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jelly.
I slumped next to Santa, wiping at the sweat beading on my forehead. This was hopeless. I needed help. I called my friend Joe, the one person I always joked I could call if I were stuck in a Turkish prison and needed saving. I figured the corpse of a mythical figure sprawled across my area rug was close enough.
. . .
When Joe arrived a half hour later, I was sitting on my couch holding an untouched glass of wine, staring down at the body. Joe entered without knocking as I had instructed (last thing I needed was a curious daughter woken up), stopping abruptly in the foyer as his eyes fell on the familiar red and white figure sprawled across my floor.
“Jesus Christ,” he cried. “Is that guy dead?”
I just stared at Joe, my eyes saying what I couldn’t bear to admit over the phone.
“Jesus, you killed a guy,” Joe mumbled to himself, assuming the thousand mile stare of shock required for visitors to my private hell.
“Joe,” I said, my head in my hands. “I didn’t kill a guy. I killed mother fucking Santa Claus.”
Joe stared at me for a solid minute. “Santa isn’t real,” Joe said, using the tone generally reserved for the unhinged. “You killed a guy dressed up like Santa.”
“He came down my chimney.”
“Well, then that was breaking and entering. Congratulations, you’ll probably duck jail.”
I just shook my head and pointed to the ceiling. “Hear that?”
Joe cocked his head at the ceiling, squinting slightly as he listened. Coming from above was a muffled scuffling sound.
“Reindeer,” I said in answer to his unasked question. “I went out to look after I called you. They won’t go away. They’re just up there shitting all over my roof.”
“Alright,” Joe conceded. “That is weird.” He walked over to the body, ducking down to look closely at the bearded man. “Holy shit, is this really Santa? Wow, real all this time.” Joe smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. In the next instant his smile dropped and he looked at me in horror. “And you killed him!”
“Fuck, Joe, do you think I wanted to kill Santa? He was first on my list? Yeah, you know what, I did do it on purpose. And you know who’s next? The fucking Easter Bunny. I’m taking him down along with the Tooth Fairy. I’m going on a rampage.”
“Okay, okay,” Joe said, gesturing for me to calm down. “I’m sorry. Shit, what are we going to do here.”
. . .
Fifteen minutes later, we both were crouching over a rolled up area rug with a rather pronounced lump in the middle, like a chimichanga served in Hell’s cafateria. Joe looked up at me, opened his mouth to speak a couple of times, but each time caught himself.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, I mean,” he dipped his head as if apologizing for what he was about to say. “Does this mean you’re Santa now?”
“Seriously?”
“Well, you know. I thought that’s what was supposed to happen.”
“Based on what? The collected works of Tim Allen?”
“Alright, nevermind.”
“You seriously thought I was going to grow a beard? Get fat? Command an elf army?”
“I said nevermind. Let’s just do something with this…thing.”
. . .
When my daughter awoke the next morning and padded down the stairs in her favorite pink pajamas, she found me sitting on the couch, glassy eyed and exhausted after a night spent staring into my half-filled wine glass. I smiled as she approached, swallowed hard, and said “Merry Christmas, honey.”
She looked at the motley pile under the tree, a mix of wrapped and unwrapped presents. She looked over at me, brow furrowed.
I just shrugged. “Santa didn’t get a chance to wrap all your presents this year, kiddo. He fell behind on his schedule.”
My little girl smiled shyly, “It’s okay, Daddy. I’m nine now. I know the truth.”
“What truth is that?” I asked, pouring all the innocence I could muster into my question.
“I know Santa’s not real. I mean, he used to be. He was called Saint Nick, but he died and now he’s just a story. Right Daddy?”
I looked at my little girl, so grown up. I mean, what could I say?
“Yes, honey,” was my reply. “You couldn’t be more right.”
It’s Christmas Eve Eve! Santa has pre-packed the sleigh to check and make sure everything fits and then unpacked it just to do it all again on the 24th. A meticulous man, that Santa.
Prelude to a Christmas Carol
“What do you want me to tell him again?”
“Tell him how terrible it all is. Make him fear the afterlife.”
The ghost looked down at his ethereal self, a translucent version of who he once was, the only difference being the chains draped from his limbs. He then looked up at the figure before him who was explaining his task. The Angel Mitch, overseer of the guardian angels, keeper of Christmas, and patron saint of small, collectible figurines, was readying the ghost who had once been Jacob Marley for his trip down to the mortal realm.
“But I guess it’s not clear to me what about my situation he’s supposed to fear. Are you referring to the chains?”
The Angel Mitch sighed deeply, exhaling slowly. “Yes, the chains. The symbols of your wretched life that you must drag behind you. The shackles you placed on yourself through a lifetime of cruelty. To what else would I be referring?”
Marley twisted a short length of chain between his hands, shrugging. “Well, I don’t know, but you know, these chains aren’t really such a big deal. Granted, they slow me down. No argument there. But I just leave myself more time when I need to get somewhere. And, if we’re being completely honest with each other here,” Marley leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper, “the sound is kind of nice. Reminds me of a ship in port.”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear,” Mitch said, stabbing a finger in the direction of what had once been Marley’s chest. “Just because you don’t mind the chains doesn’t invalidate the torment. If you want to help your old business partner, you’ll convince him he needs to turn his life around.”
Marley shook his head emphatically. “No, no, I’m really pretty confident about this. I know Scrooge. He’s just like I was. The money he’s making exploiting his workers more than makes up for an afterlife of chains. I mean, maybe you don’t appreciate just how rich Scrooge really is. It’s worth it. Just trust me on this.”
The Angel Mitch stared icily at Marley. “I don’t have time for this. I went to a lot of trouble to line up Past, Present, and Future for tomorrow night. Christmas eve night! Do you have any idea the strings I had to pull to get them to agree? And I need you to pull it all together; someone he knows and trusts. Otherwise they’re going to show up unexpected and he’s going to either assume it’s all a dream or that he’s lost his mind. And neither case helps his immortal soul! So just make an appearance, moan a little, and shake your chains. It’s not that hard!”
“So, shake my chains, moan, and lie,” Marley said, eyebrows raise. “As an angel, you’re telling me to lie?”
“As an angel, I’m telling you that if you ever want to change your eternal punishment, you’ll do as I say.”
“Eternal punishment. Again, you mean the chains?”
“Yes, the chains.”
“The things that make me walk slightly slower and jangle pleasantly?”
Mitch closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and softened his expression. “Look, I’m asking you please. Please. Don’t do it for me, do it for Scrooge. Do it for Bob Cratchit. Do it for Tiny Tim.”
Marley snapped his fingers, his eyes lighting up. “Cratchit! That’s an idea. Make him a ghost and have him do it.”
“I’m not going to kill Cratchit just to convince Scrooge! Half the point is to help the Cratchits. Jesus, how did you ever make your money? You’re a fucking idiot!”
“Hey, come on now, “Marley said. “Let’s not get personal here. It’s fine, I’ll do your little task and introduce your ghosts. Just try to be a little nicer.”
Mitch relaxed his posture, the anger draining from him, regretting taking it’s place. “I’m sorry, okay. The holiday’s are a stressful time and I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
“I’m sorry too. I know I can be a little stubborn sometimes. I’ll help you out tomorrow night. I’ll have that ol’ miser shaking in his boots.”
The Angel Mitch’s mouth twitched with a half smile. “Thanks Marley. And hey, Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Mitch.”
Three more days until Christmas! Here’s another story to get you in the holiday spirit.
A Very Ursine Christmas
What I didn’t know, until just today that is, is that bears celebrate Christmas. Brown bears, grizzly bears; they all celebrate the birth of Jesus – although, oddly enough, not polar bears. Maybe they live too close to the birthplace of Santa? Or maybe they’re all just Jewish. Who knows.
But Bears have been deeply integrated into the story of the brith of Jesus from the very beginning. As legend has it – and, of course, it has to be only legend as our story begins over 2000 years ago – three great brown bears traveled down from the forests of Russia (which, at the time, was known throughout Jerusalem as “The Really Cold Place with the Good Perogis”) bearing tiding of great joy and the carcass of a deer. Guided by the tip of Ursa Minor (or, as the bear community refers to it: “Little Bear’s Nose for North”), these three bears lumbered South. So, I guess they must have walked away from the North Star? That’s actually kind of confusing, but hey, bear legend is bear legend. It’s not like the Bible doesn’t have a few head-scratchers of its own.
After many months of travel, they found the King of Kings lying in a manger. Out of deference to the baby Jesus, they ate didn’t eat any of the livestock hanging around the nativity scene despite their great hunger, and they refrained from mauling the Virgin Mary despite the fact that she had the scent of one who recently given birth. No, they merely bowed their massive heads in respect and silently presented their dead, bloated gift to the holy family, commemorating the blessed event. After lying the deer at Jesus’s feet, they left, setting out on the long journey north to their homeland.
Apparently they should have said a little something, though, as their efforts do not seem to have been enough to make it into the Bible. Or maybe with the wisemen already there, three bears and three wisemen seemed just a little too cute, too on the nose. It’s hard to say, but whatever the reason the Bible fails to celebrate the efforts of the three bears of legend, not so with modern bears. Oh no, the bear community pulls out all the stops in commemorating the birth of Jesus and the journey of the bears.
It really is a wonder to see a bear’s cave decorated for the holidays. To symbolize the joy Christ brought into the world, light is brought into the caves, pushing out the gloom and darkness that usually inhabits a cave. But as candles aren’t an option with bears (you can’t light a match without thumbs. And have you ever seen a thumbless attempt at sparking a lighter? Just embarrassing), more creative solutions are needed.
To funnel light into the caves from outside, the bears have come up with a rather ingenious solution: squirrel heads. Basically, you string the squirrel heads up around the entrance of the cave – like you might string lights around the eves of your house. You then angle them just so and light from the moon will reflect off the silvery lining on the back of the squirrels’ retinas and into the caves. It’s the same science behind why a cat’s eyes flash in the night, harnessed for the holidays. This redirected light is then picked up by an array of quartz crystals and guided to the back of the caves by the milky-white prisms, casting a warm glow throughout the bears’ den.
Then, and this is simply gorgeous, rubies and amethyst are hung from the stalactites. When light hits these gems, red and purple shapes are cast on the cavern walls, dancing like butterflies as the precious stones slowly turn.
Christmas eve dinner, as you can probably imagine, is an elaborate affair. There’s deer, of course, in honor of the original offering. But there’s also honey by the comb-full, pile upon pile of fish and, oddly enough, yams. Bears love sweet potatoes.
How do I know all this? How am I the first person to tell this story when the tradition has been alive for over 2000 years? Well, this year there’s a special treat being added to the holiday menu: an intrepid spelunker who got just a bit too ambitious in his winter cave-hopping. And so I’ve had a front row seat to all the preparations as I’ve sat in my pool of brine, tenderizing in anticipation of the blessed event. After of couple more days of this I’m really going to be quite delicious.
In many ways I consider myself quite lucky to have been able to witness this secret ritual. Although the feeling of wonder is somewhat mitigated by the knowledge that, in two more days, I’ll be eviscerated and eaten alive, guts displayed before me like the back room of a butcher.
But hey, live in the moment I always say.
And I’ll be damned if this isn’t just delightfully festive.
Copyright Jason Rieger 2011
The fun continues with another original Christmas story. Deck the halls, everybody!
There’s Nothing to Fear But Fear Itself. And Santa. You Should Fear Santa.
“Billy”
Little Billy Watson of 1113 Honey Oak Drive bolted upright in bed. He’d been sound asleep in his Batman pjs when the sound of his name brought him out of dreamland. And what a dream it had been, soaring over his friends’ houses in his new bright, silver jetpack. That was the only thing he’d asked Santa for: a real, working jetpack. But now Billy had been wrenched back to reality, wide awake, his listening ears on and tuned to the sounds of the night. With intense concentration, he worked to separate ordinary sounds from those of weirdos calling his name.
“Hey Billy,” the voice called again, the words bringing forth goosebumps from Billy’s arms. “I’m watching you.”
“G – go away,” Billy stammered, pulling his covers up to his eyes.
“I can always see you. I see everything. You’d better watch yourself, Billy.”
That did it, Billy had reached his limit. “Mom, Dad, come quick,” he screamed. “Help, help help.”
In the span of two gasping breathes, Billy’s mom and dad burst in through the bedroom door, eyes wide and ready for battle. Mom wearing a teal nighty and carrying a pair of scissors in her right hand; dad in his boxers and a white t-shirt, a lamp wielded as a weapon. Dad looked around the room and, seeing nothing, lowered his combination reading light/club. Mom kept her scissors at the ready.
“Billy, what is it?” Mom asked, her voice anxious.
“Mom, mom, there’s a man outside my window. I heard his voice. He said he was watching me. Mommy, there’s a monster after me.”
Mom and Dad exchanged knowing smiles; Mom’s mouth a bow, Dad’s eyebrows arched. Dad walked over to by Billy’s bed and crouched to his level. Mom lowered her scissors, relaxing. “No son,” Dad said, “that wasn’t a monster. That was Santa!”
“Santa? The same Santa that brings me presents and stuff?”
“The very same. He’s just keeping an eye on you, checking to see if you’ve been naughty or nice. You know the songs, silly.”
“He comes to my bedroom?”
“Sometimes, yes. Probably you’ve been a little naughty this year,” Dad said, tilting a crooked eyebrow in Billy’s direction. “He keeps an extra eye on anyone who’s been naughty.”
“But Daddy, I’m scared.”
Mom came over from the doorway and put her arm around her husband and together they pulled the covers up snugly around their sons chin. “There’s nothing to be scared of,” Mom said. “Just be good and he’ll eventually stop watching you. You still have four more days to make the nice list. Now let’s turn out the lights and get some sleep.”
As Billy’s Mom and Dad retreated from his room, Billy lay back down, clutching his covers up around his collarbone, eyes on his window.
. . .
Ester and George Franklin sat on their worn, plaid couch; Ester drinking a frothy glass of Ovaltine, George a Busch Lite. Each had their eyes on the TV, watching as Billy whimpered softly in the dark. At the bottom of the screen was a phone number and at the top a company name: The American Behavioral Center. A man walked into Billy’s room as the lights came up, addressing the audience directly.
“Has your child been on the naughty list this year?” the perfectly coiffed man asked in a rich, deep voice. “Are you at your wits end? If so, call The American Behavioral Center and we’ll send over one of our trained Santa’s to scare your kid straight onto the nice list. Call now; elves are standing by.”
George belched loudly, crushing his now-empty beer can in his hand. “What a load of crap,” he said. “You know what we needed for behavior fixing in my day? A foot up the ass. God damn soft kids these days.”
Ester sipped her Ovaltine in silence.
Copyright Jason Rieger 2011
For the last few months, I’ve been writing about a short story – maybe one and a half – each month. I’ll write during my commute to and from work whenever I can manage to get a seat and then, after I finish, re-read and revise until it seems done. But I thought I’d try something a little more ambitious: five stories in less than a couple of weeks (very short stories, more flash fiction than anything). This didn’t really leave any time for revising (this is pretty much just written in one go and then edited while typing up), but what the hell. I’ve written five original Christmas stories that are sure to be instant classics; feel free to tell them to your kids around the Christmas tree. Today we begin the countdown to Christmas: five original stories in five days. And so here we go: Day 1.
The Revolution Will Be Pine Fresh
”I tell you, my friends, it’s time for action! We can not sit idly by any longer and allow our numbers to be decimated. We can not allow ourselves to be sacrificed at the altar of the fat, bearded man. My friends, it is time we unite. It is time for revolution!”
His speech concluded, the great fir tree relaxed his limbs, his boughs swaying gently in the breeze. He cast his gaze around at the forest of conifers surrounding him. A forest of trees looking for a leader, looking for an end to the yearly Christmas tree massacre. He moved to call for a vote of support when a voice piped up from his right.
“Violence is not the answer,” came the high pitched voice of a young pine that couldn’t have been more than 40 years old. ”The problem is simply one of marketing.”
The ancient fir gathering himself up and scoffed mightily. “Marketing? Who is this little pine? Marketing indeed.”
“I’m just someone who doesn’t want to see any more sap spilled,” the pine said. ”I want this to end peacefully. And what I’m saying is, we can win this through marketing. We can be smarter. My fellow trees, what’s our problem?”
“They cut us down and take us into their homes,” someone chimed up from deep in the forest.
“Yes,” the pine said patiently, “but why?” The trees all fell silent, the only sound that of the rustling of needles. ”Why would anyone cut down a living tree just to take it indoors? It’s the act of an insane people.”
“Of course it is,” the fir interjected. “That’s what I’ve been saying all this time. These “people” can’t be reasoned with.”
“No, that’s my point. They’re not insane, they simply have twisted cultural beliefs. They don’t know any better. They’ve been told this is the way things are and people have never thought to question the practice. They just need to be taught new traditions.”
“And you’ll teach them?”
The pine dipped her branches. ”I can. Give me a little time and I’ll have them decorating oaks and joking about the old days when they used to have to deal with pine needles in their carpet. Christmas trees as we know it will be a thing of the past and evergreens and humans will again live in harmony.”
The great fir, stately with his short, crisp needles and broad trunk, shook himself from roots to crown. ”It’s this kind of thinking that’s allowed us to be cut down for centuries. We’ve remained passive for too long. Maybe it’s time to cut down a few humans and bring them into our forest. Decorate them for the holidays. I’m not speaking of revenge, my friends. I’m speaking of justice!”
A murmur of assent rippled through the forest.
“I’m calling for the forest floor to be fertilized with the bloody remains of the human race. As their life drains out, so shall we grow strong! Now I ask: who’s with me?”
“We are,” cried the trees in unison, all but the young pine. ”Kill the humans!”
“My brothers and sister! Tonight we march! We marching into the cities! Into the villages! Tonight the blood will flow! Onward!”
And with a cry that shook the earth, the forest of pine and fir, cedar and spruce all rustled their needles in unison.
“Um…” came a voice from the edge of the forest.
“Oh,” said another.
“Hey guys, I’m stuck.”
“Yeah, uh, I seem to be rooted here. Can any of you guys move?”
And so it was, on the evening of December 20th, 2011, the human race was narrowly saved from extinction by the simple fact that trees can’t walk.
Copyright Jason Rieger 2011
When I was pregnant with Lucy around 20 weeks people would say, “Oh you must be feeling the baby?!?!” And I would smile worridly and say…well not yet. The whole pregnancy was me not feeling Lucy move, me sitting on the couch calmly drinking an ice cold blackberry izze and waiting for her to do a little bit of a song and dance. But it was never like, all the time. She moved enough (eventually) to know everything was ok, but in general it wasn’t that often or that violent.I failed a stress test once because she wouldn’t move (go figure she’s still a good sleeper).
For this baby I was sure that it would be different. I was sure that I would know what the baby moving felt like, as maybe I had missed it the first time. And I would already be all stretched out and so the baby would have an easier time moving and so on and so forth.
While I am feeling little tiny kicks maybe like once a day (if that more like every other day), it’s not anything dramatic. The baby didn’t do much for the ultrasound and so we were done really quickly. Stories from friends and family of the baby going crazy during the ultra sound or their bodies being used as a punching bag have me a little jealous (well not for the painful part of the punching bag scenario but just to have nice big movements goign on). Maybe it’s because I’m tall (I’m almost 6 feet) and so there is more space in there so I won’t feel it as much as someone who is short. Maybe I just have calm babies in utero. But because the baby doesn’t move that much I tend to worry a little bit that everything is ok. At one point when I was pregnant with Lucy, Jason suggested that she had yarn arms. I suggested she was a weeble wobble and didn’t have any arms or legs. Yes even after the ultrasound. I didn’t say I was rational when it comes to pregnancy.
Yes I realize I’m only 20 weeks pregnant and so it’s still early. That doesn’t mean I can’t have irrational fears.
Today we had our 20 week appointment. You know the big one where you get the good ultrasound pictures and find out that all is ok with all of the organs. It’s an exciting appointment because with how good the ultrasounds are you can get a view of what the baby looks like which I still find kind of creepy.
This baby behaved great for the tech just like Lucy did. Really calm in there so she could get all of the pictures that she wanted. We think this one looks more like Jason but it’s hard to tell with the 2D pictures we got. Last time we got some 3D ones, but no dice this time. It looks really cute and according to the stats it weighs 12oz or the size of a bag of chocolate chips. All of the sizes for everything fell right in the 50th percentile range. I’m pretty sure Lucy was always a few weeks bigger than the ultrasounds were saying so I wonder if this kid will be smaller than Lucy. I mean the head size was at 40% where Lucy was always at 100%. We didn’t find out the gender and since we made that decision we also found out that no one else (besides the tech) knows the gender so no chance of it getting leaked. I think it’s going to be really fun to email and tell people, “IT’S A ____!!!” when it gets here. Currently I think it’s a boy.
My stats were all good too. Weight gain is good and blood pressure is nice and low. Although since my first reading of this pregnancy was high and my blood pressure was going up and up with the last pregnancy as time went on we will have to get ultrasounds every 4 weeks with this baby (as we did with Lucy), which yes is exciting because you get to see the baby more but by the end it’s like, “Ok I get it. I don’t want to see it in me anymore.” Plus at the end it gets all squished and funny looking in there. I thought Lucy was going to come out looking like Darth Vadar without the helmet on. Seriously. It was disturbing.
This pregnancy is going so damn fast. I’m so busy with Lucy and work and general crazy business that sometimes I have to stop myself and be like, “Leah. You are having a baby in 4.5 months.” After the holidays we have a lot of general house organization to do. One of the big steps is we have to get lucy her own big girl bed. Which I find very exciting. She will look very cute all tiny in a twin bed. She’s pretty big in the crib now. We are doing a twin bed with this rail thing that I found on Amazon. That should happen in the middle of January I think. I want to slowly transition her room so it’s not like, “Hi Lucy here is your new sibling and by the way everything else that you understand is changing too.”
So here are two pictures from the u/s (seriously this is really happening) although I realize they aren’t the best quality. The first is a profile of it’s face and the second of it’s foot, which baby feet at any size and age are cute.
In general I’m feeling good. I’m not running because I just don’t have time for it. I know I know, it’s an excuse. But whereas I will give up sleep to run if I’m not pregnant I don’t think it’s the best idea to do that while I’m pregnant. I’m walking a ton though so that’s good. Plus chasing around a 2 year old can be pretty exhausting and quite the workout.
So yeah, that’s the update with JasonLeah Baby #2.
Really? When did that happen? I mean it was just like a few minutes ago that she looked like this:
I read on the internet recently that the days go slow but the years go fast and holy crap is that true. Where did the last two years go? I mean now she looks like this:
Her eyes are really that color there isn’t any photoshopping.
She’s got a mind of her own and frequently says, “NO! Lucy does it.” If you try and help her with anything it’s usually a big battle. We just had our parent teacher meetings at her daycare and found out that she’s doing perfectly fine. One of the comments on her little sheet was something along the lines of “We are trying to encourage lucy to use her words when she gets frustrated.  .
She loves to read and would rather do that than anything else. Or legos. Her favorite stuffed animal is a Curious George doll. We have three of them in case one gets lost or left at school.
She has a great laugh and loves to be tickled.
She likes to boss people around, “NO. Mommy sit here. Like this.” Heaven forbid you do it wrong.
She’s still a good sleeper (for the most part), and loves her bedtime routine of dinner, bathtime, read 2 books and then bedtime.
She’s by far the best thing I have ever done and when I have a bad day at work and come home to her laughing all that fades away.
Happy Birthday my sweet baby girl. I can’t wait to see what the future bring.
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