Hi there. Guess what? I had a baby a week ago. Not that you’d know it, since I haven’t posted anything about it. I managed to get some photos up on Flickr before the realization of having two children, both with an affinity for filling diapers at an alarming rate, finally sunk in.

I’ll put together a birth story over the weekend, but I’m pleased to say everything went extraordinarily well. I went in for an induction Thursday night, had my water broken late afternoon Friday, ordered an epidural at 5:30 pm and started pushing at 10:04 pm.

Wilder Wellington was born 20 minutes later.

At a jaw-dropping 10 lbs. 8 ozs. The general consensus among the doctors and midwives was 9-9.5 lbs. I made the nurse weigh him twice to be sure. Despite being almost 2 lbs. heavier than Emerson, he was a lot easier to birth. Thank god for that. If I would have known the size going into the delivery, I think I would have gone on strike. Or on vacation. Let somebody birth the Christmas turkey.

He is lovely. I don’t know what else to say right now. He is just simply gorgeous. He looks a lot like his brother, but with darker skin and more hair. (And a smaller head, for which my nether regions are grateful.)

It is a week later and he has already gained his birth weight back. After several nights thinking our house was an all-night afterparty, Wilder slept 11:30 pm to 6:45 am, only waking once at 3 am to gorge himself at the milk bar. I forgot how heinous the whole “milk coming in” process was. Picture flaming hot coconuts. Now stuff them under your skin. Comfy? Now attach a vacuum lined with tattoo needles to your nipple and turn to “puree” for 25 minutes every three hours. Joy.

For me? I’m doing so much better than last time that I could burst with it. Despite a belly that looks like Laura Flynn Boyles’ alien at the beginning of MIB 2, I feel great, taking some iron for anemia, and have dropped 25 lbs of fluid already. I think I spent an hour yesterday just getting reacquainted with my ankle bones. (why hello, you’re so…so, delicate and boney, aren’t you?)

All in all, despite the nonstop bitching about the heat, I would totally recommend summer babies. Sitting on the porch swing, rocking the baby in the breezy, dappled sun, watching Michael draw chalk trains on the driveway with Emerson, drinking iced coffee…not a terrible start.

My two boys. I foresee a future that is lightly perfumed with sweaty athletic socks.

Two hours until I leave for the hospital. And I’m still working. And probably would work at the hospital if they had the decency to install WIFI. Alas no. All of this means I will be packing up stuff to go approximately five minutes before I leave.

People keep asking me if I’m excited. Not yet. I know what I’m in for this time and I just want to get through the labor and delivery. Then I’ll be excited.

Here’s the final belly photos. Holy stretch marks. And chubby cheeks...thanks to 45 lbs and copious amounts of ice cream. Yeesh.

I would officially be 40 weeks tomorrow.

And here’s Emerson being “sweet” to his baby brother.

See you guys on the other side!

Helen beat me to the punch on this post.

I’m sitting here with a slightly rumpled piece of paper that was tucked into one of those “Seventy billion perfect baby names” books. The paper starts conservatively, with a long list of neatly typed boy names, then spirals downward into a mess of blue, felt-tip madness – scratch-outs, additions, comments, doodles and even a game of tic-tac-toe and hangman.

It is this list we chose Emerson’s name, and it was flat-out war. Michael and I, knowing how opinionated and picky we are, started out early. After battling from 25 to seven names, we wrote them all out with the middle name (easily chosen from a tradition in Michael’s family) and each of our last names. We agreed that our children would have each of our last names – mine as a sort of second middle name, and then my husband’s surname. I never gave a thought to changing my last name when I got married. Hell to the no. And I decided that I wanted to balance the traditional patriarchy with the practicality of having a single, consistent surname for our kids. (People used to ask me if Michael minded about keeping my name. My standard reply is that if he would have minded, I wouldn’t have married him.)

After we had snug, final few names…Michael decided, at 3 am about a month or so before I gave birth, to insist on a new favorite – Emerson. I wasn’t sure I loved it at first, but some time, convincing, and the promise of naming rights for all future children sealed the deal. And, of course, we love it.

My parents, however, were not sure and were, let us say, they were pretty direct in their opinion. To say they pretty much abhorred every name we picked was an understatement. Maxwell, Beckett, Jamison, Bowie, Whitman, Sawyer…HATE. Even though as an expectant parent, your heart knows naming is absolutely your right and final decision, it was pretty demoralizing.

I think they love the name now, I knew to gird my loins for the onslaught this time around.

Naturally, we went right back to the short list to name Pilot Fish. Again, we’d already picked out a middle name – Wellington – which is a family name on my side. Michael’s last name is short and very common (at least around here) so the two names sound quite good together. Especially with MD, or PhD, or even Nobel Prize winner attached to it. Not that I’m thinking about those sorts of things.

Being the good book-dorks that we are, we wanted to stick with a literary name. We knew right away which one. We hunkered down over the name, knowing that once again we would be faced with vocal protest of my folks (and, funnily, other people of my parents’ generation). And we were not disappointed. I did manage to stem the flow a bit at one point, telling my father,that upon hearing I was getting my crap about the name we chose, my uber-conservative, 86-year old grandfather (my dad’s dad), yelled “It’s none of your parents’ damned business what you name your kid!” Go, Poppop.

To date, my parents still choke when they try to utter this baby’s name. Emotionally, I’m large unaffected. I know can’t win, and I don’t care. I’ve bluntly told them to get over themselves. We love it, we hope the child will love it and they will do and say nothing to make our son feel awkward about his name EVER.

In the meantime, we’ve been coaching Emerson on the name of his new baby brother. He’s got the hang of it now, but is more likely to call him “What-to-wear”, “Underwear” or “Wonderwear.” Unfortunately, some of those are starting to stick. Underwear – what a hell of a nickname.

My only Blogher note. Probably ever. It’s likely that I will never go to Blogher. MAYBE if it was located in Lancaster, which HAHAHAHA! (although, Blogher, listen up. Lancaster is building a new convention center…just saying).  I wish I wanted to go, what with everyone OMG!!ZZZ BLOGHER leading up to, during and in the hung-over recaps. While I like reading about the antics and the drama and am jealous because I lack the personality to drum up the level of enthusiasm these women have about meeting in person to talk about blahgging, the thought of me in that type of social situation makes me black out. Maybe 10 years ago I could do it. Yeah, definitely. Now I would probably hide in my room after sessions with room service, crappy cable and a bottle of wine. What I will say is that all of the Blogher drama and the “you had to be there!” recaps have been great sources for finding new blogs to read. Am mad deleting and adding new feeds…desperately needed.

So how about something totally unique…say a pregnancy update? No! you say…really? Because you having been talking about that at all! I mean, at this point, what’s there to say beside…am big and fat, swollen ankles, holy hell, is this baby ever going to come?  Here is one more thing.

Am being induced late Thursday afternoon. Which is, like, TOMORROW. Holy yay. Pilot fish should be here Friday or (if the universe hates me) Saturday. I’m fully expecting another marathon induction, wherein my labor is as easy to start as an open, honest dialogue on birth control with John McCain. (wha?) Easier second-time labor, my ass. This baby is still tucked up around my larynx, with no sign of dropping, and my cervix is playing completely dumb (baby when? Due date what? Are you expecting something? *blinkblink*) This boy is absolutely going to be bigger than Emerson. I have the horizontal stripes across the middle of my stomach that tell me so. I went to the grocery store last week and the sight of me carrying a watermelon under my arm nearly made my husband pee his pants with laughter. If he didn’t give such orgasmic foot rubs, his ass might be buried in the backyard right now.

Ok. So, I know it’s the way big medical practices work these days, but I hate having to see whatever doctor or midwife is available. You can’t get to know a single provider, which means I have to retell me life story every visit. I also have to account for my choices and decisions (last week…induction a go! This week…why induction? Why not wait it out?), convince every person I see that I am a thoughtful, well-informed and rational patient, not a hysterical, hormonally imbalanced pregnant woman who just wants this baby out already. Every provider I’ve seen has had a different opinion about risks, procedures, things to watch, etc. Fluid too high! Fluid fine. Induction reasonable! No, no, let’s wait and see. Baby is going to be 9 lbs or more! Nah, will be normal. Gaining too much weight! Weight is absolutely fine. You need an ultrasound! Ultrasounds not necessary.

Come The Fuck ON already. I’m sick of it.

Hey, did everyone (at least here in the US) have a nice holiday weekend? We did here, except I do have to question the sanity of hosting a Fourth of July family barbecue while at 37 weeks. All those icy beers being passed under my nose – oh the agony. Then there were the next two days spent on the couch willing the swelling in my hands and feet to go down. Plus the added fun of constant Braxton Hicks contractions which I wanted to either slow the hell down or turn into something meaningful already. SHEESH.

And with that graceful segue, let’s talk about the current status of this pregnancy, because at this point it is filling every brain cell I have. Except for those cells occupied by thoughts of ice cream. I think a lot about ice cream. (Where mah husband at? I think it is time for another Rita run)

Last Tuesday I had my 36-37 week appointment. I was pronounced, yet again, “big” for not quite 37 weeks. Plus it felt like I had a lot of amniotic fluid, maybe more than I should. Fantastic. I didn’t know about that, but I knew my belly was very different this time…it’s high, tight and round (there’s a joke in there somewhere, but I can’t be assed). While the pilot fish moves a lot, I’m not getting the really painful elbow, foot and knee flailings I did before. Parts of my stomach feel very sore and overstretched. If you tapped me just the right way, my belly button might just possibly explode like an overripe cantaloupe. Or that Violet chick from the first Willy Wonka movie.

After the appointment, I was summarily trotted off for my quadrillionth ultrasound to check on size and fluid levels. And maybe look at the tire pressure and brake pads. As the tech commenced measuring the head, I merrily joked that I hoped this boy wasn’t the overachiever his brother was in the melon department because, HOO-BOY, I didn’t need to spend my post-partum weeks sitting on that amount of catgut again. I watched in horror as the numbers (measured in weeks) raced past the size for 37 weeks and settled around 40 weeks, 4 days. With an estimated current weight (with three weeks to go!) pronounced at around 8 lbs.

And then I blacked out.

Is it wrong that work has been so frantic and nonstop that I’ve actually said (out loud. To actual people…people at work. On a conference call) that I couldn’t wait to give birth, because giving birth, complete with pitocin and third-degree tear, would mean that my projects were officially over? Ok, maybe I left out the vaginal tearing part. But it was there in spirit.

While there is an epidural for labor, there is no known drug that can be inserted into my spine to make work days any shorter, less stressful or otherwise cause a pleasant numbing sensation for the frequent post-midnight candle-burning going on around here. I’m like a zombified, bitchy, mutated hippity-hop. Instead of eating brains, I inhale mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Notes from a summer pregnancy:

It sucks moldy donkey nuts. Enough said.

Actually, no, it’s not. When you are talking about being eight months pregnant in near 100 degree temperatures in June, it is not nearly enough.  Whoever came up with “bun in the oven” wasn’t shitting Dixie. I am literally being cooked from the inside out, like some bizarro Betty Crocker convection oven. I swear, my internal organs are sweating Right. Now.

December 2005, temperature in the house, 55 degrees:
Husband: Shivering in multi-layered wool sweaters, wool socks and (I kid you not) wool hat.
Me: Just barely comfortable in a t-shirt, shorts and bare feet.
Me: Touch that thermostat or even think about the fireplace and you are a dead man. Suck it up, here’s a parka.

June 2008, temperature in the house: 55 degrees:
Husband: Huddled in blankets and fleece slippers.
Me: Absolutely melting in a tank top and shorts.
Me: Touch that air conditioner and you are a dead man. Suck it up, nancy, don’t you have a parka somewhere?

Household mantra: The pregnant woman is always right. And if she’s not? STFU. She is now and you will like it.

I’m a little under 36 weeks now, and absolutely huge. That’s not dramatics, here, I’m serious. Despite the fact that I started about 5 or so pounds heavier than last pregnancy, I’m about 7-9 pounds behind.  But, somehow, that hasn’t registered to the pilot fish who, in the past four weeks, has grown to freakish proportions. The t-shirt I wore to the hospital last time around is now insufficient in hiding a generous swath of scary white flesh. Last last, the midwife measured my enormous gut a few more times than necessary, muttering “that can’t be right.” Not a good sign for someone whose last spawn was 8 lbs, 9 oz with a head like a watermelon. Bets are this kid is going to be bigger than Emerson. And then my mother cheerfully reminded my of my 9 lb, 4 oz status at birth, and my mother’s own distinction of being over 10 lbs at birth.  Aw, thanks mom.

I wonder about the chances of being administered an epidural upon arrival at the hospital. Let’s just cross the shortest distance between A and me screaming profanities at the sweet Mennonite nurses as I attempt to pass an SUV through my cooch, shall we? 

Yelled by Emerson, upon spying a cell phone cover featuring the Playboy Bunny in rhinestones.

“Look, Daddy. It’s MIFFY!”

Dinner last night, stated in perfect seriousness by one exasperated parent to one rebellious toddler refusing to eat his chicken enchilada:

You’ve got to eat your meat!  You can’t have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat!

This is my life now.  Parenting via The Wall.  Excuse me while I run my head into a door a few times.