Holden's First Birthday; What Will I Remember in Ten Years?

Holden's first birthday was last week on the 28th. We're having his party this Sunday at our house; let the stress rain down.

God, our house is a dump. The garage is full of crap. Shelf upon shelf of musty, dusty, often mildewed books "rescued" by Mark from other people's trash line two of the walls. At least 20 large boxes are stacked four and five boxes high, forming a wall barring access to the books and housing all the things Mark can't throw away: movie stubs, binders of his work in high school and college, boxes of pens and reams of paper. A third wall houses all the games we never play and with which Mark can not bring himself to part. A large, never-used table saw, an air hockey table (likewise virginal), and a dining table and six chairs given to us by Burgundy's grandmother eclipse any hope of actually parking in the garage, and our cats live in there. Enough said.

Inside the house, our pantry's contents have found their way out and onto the floor in front of the pantry. The laundry room exists in a perpetual state of overflow. Our dog lives mostly outside, but at night he sleeps in the guest bathroom. Guess what that room smells like? Well, dog and dirty diapers; Holden's diaper pail provides a heady, pungent aroma that permeates the back half of the house, eclipsing the fragile wisps of candle smoke competing for recognition in our olfactory palette. My craft room has a treacherous, 3-foot long, winding path by which I can reach my desk to sigh over unpaid bills and pray for a rain of money. The hallway is crowded with about 10 boxes of Christmas decorations, more than half of which never went up in the first place.

Throughout the house, baseboards are mismatched in both size and color, and walls bear the distinctive striping of people rubbing against them in an attempt to traverse a pathway without knocking something over. The front and back yards are overgrown (in January!); our lawn mower is broken, and I have no idea where to even start with getting them cleaned up.

Somehow I must organize, clean, disinfect and somehow apply the mask that I keep in a jar by the door to my whole [profanity redacted] house by Sunday while attending to all doctor appointments, keeping Holden fed; keeping him from sucking on electrical cords; keeping him in dry, unsoiled diapers; keeping him from eating the dog and cat food (in all honesty, I sometimes give up on the latter in order to buy myself a precious 5-10 minutes in which to wash, dry, fold, and put away all the laundry in the house); making and cleaning up from dinner for the family; driving Burgundy all over creation with a happy smile on my face, and employing grace and dignity while dealing with all the minor emergencies that populate every human being's day to day life. All with 3-5 hours per night of sleep interrupted every 60-90 minutes by Holden's near obsessive need to suck on my teats. It goes on. And on. And on.

Once I've disguised our trashy hovel as the respectable suburban manse the world expects, I have to bake a cake for everyone and a cake for Holden, ice the damn things (can you believe the standards people hold me to?), and decorate the house for our illustrious guests.

I'm honestly tempted to pick up a cake at Wal-Mart, set the house on fire, buy a plane ticket to Paris (France, y'all; I don't think Paris, TX has an airport. Holy crap. Paris, TX has an airport), and let Mark handle the rest of the birthday party.

I could be less consistent.

Holden is 5 weeks and 3 days old. Yesterday he wanted to eat every 2 - 2.5 hours all day. I obliged, hoping he'd sleep through the night. He did not. He wanted to nurse all night, too. Today he does not want to eat every two hours, so I'm presently attached to the Booby Sucking Machine of Doom, which thankfully has a hands-free option, and I'm watching Holden do what I so desparately desire for myself: Sleep.

In the last couple of weeks, he has started to coo and gurgle without it being a presage of imminent screaming fits. I love cooing back at him, making faces at him and watching him try to process them, watching the little faces that he makes when he's pooping, peeing, or excited about the cool breeze on his nether bits while being changed.

He's just woken from a sleep previously so deep and gratifying that not even milk expressed into his mouth could induce him to wake and nurse. Now that I'm typing, my boobs are attached to the machine, and Burgundy is in the shower, he's awake and has just begun to scream.

Ha! What a little curmudgeon! He's out to get me. I turned the computer to get a shot of him wailing with my webcam, and he went back to sleep. His habit of thwarting me does not bode well for the future.

I'll Think About It Tomorrow

Oh, Scarlett. 

I didn't take the castor oil yesterday. The more I thought about it, the more I figured, "Hey, if God wanted to give me the opportunity to hang with friends and watch Dr. Who yesterday, who am I to turn my nose up at it?" So I called the midwife (Jackie), chatted with her for a few minutes, and we decided I'd wait one more day.

Last night on the way home from Dr. Who, we stopped at Walgreens and bought the castor oil. This morning I texted Jackie as follows: "Good morning! I have 1 errand to run. After that, I can have an ultrasound, castor oil, patience, or some combo of the three. Guide me, o wise and gentle one."

I just knew I would hear that we should have an ultrasound followed by castor oil. Instead, she told me somebody cut in line in front of me and is in labor now; no castor oil! Tomorrow I'll go in for a biophysical profile if I haven't yet had the baby. I won't have the baby because he's too darn comfortable. Why should he come out? Jeez-o-Pete.

Mark just came home with eggs, bacon, and other yum-yums, so I suppose I should go cook and eat a late-ish breakfast. Wake Burgundy, run a couple of errands. Straighten the house and do laundry. 

Buh. I'd rather be coping with contractions. 

Red Raspberry Leaf Tea

At 6:30 AM the day after Christmas, the whole family sleeps. I would sleep, too, but I can only lay down for about half an hour to an hour at a time. Of course, I can only lay on my side, and it causes a horrible burning feeling down the sides of my legs. Naturally, I can't sleep through the burn, and I found myself squatting on the floor next to the bed, composing the first lines of this post in my head while I waited for the burn to stop. "Why not?" I thought. I haven't actively avoided the blog; I've only been lazy.

By the way: I think making teenage girls watch labor is not the best form of birth control. They should have to watch a heavily pregnant woman get out of bed. First, I use my husband's formerly sleeping form as a kind of wedge to keep from falling onto my back. If I end up on my back, I lay there like an oversized, upended bug, all my limbs waving at the air in futility. So I start with a funny backwards shimmy that lets me roll onto Mark. Then, I use my hands to fling the covers off myself with as much force as possible. This must be done with force. If I fling them away but they don't completely clear my [useless and constantly pained] legs, I will be trapped. Mark will have to get out of bed to rescue me, I'll fall on my back in the process, and we'll be back to the Palmetto Bug Pose. Once free of the covers, I use my legs to kind of bicycle the large pillow I have to use for my lower body out of the way.

All the foregoing only clears the obstacles; still I must somehow get my body out of the bed. Please understand, I am not a giant fatty. I've only gained 14 pounds since the day I found out I was pregnant. My face, arms, butt, thighs, everything is smaller than it was the day I got pregnant. Unfortunately, I'm carrying Hercules the Mighty in my uterus, and nothing works right.

From here, I have to wriggle and squirm for several minutes until I'm close enough to the edge of the bed to fall out of it. Sometimes, like this morning, I can slither off face up so I land in a kind of stable squat. Other times, earlier in the night, I just have to roll off and pray. Sometimes, when my bladder is really full, I give up and say, "Mark, I really need to pee." And he gets out of bed and helps me stand and makes sure that I'm over the tile before falling back in bed. Can't have urine in the carpet.

I lurched into the kitchen and turned the heat on under the tea kettle. Tea is so boring. It's bland; it doesn't bring any kick. I insist on using a real teacup and saucer if I'm to punish myself with tea. And today, I will punish myself with tea. Red raspberry leaf tea. I don't hate it, but I wouldn't notice if it never appeared in my life again either.

I gathered my cup and saucer, my spoon, a little brown sugar, and the tea. The tea almost has finished steeping, and I'll drink it. Bitterly.

Honestly, I wonder why I bother with the tea. It's good for the uterus. It's good for the pregnancy. Blah blah blah. Thing is, I'm going to be pregnant forever. The baby will keep growing past his anticipated 8.5-9 pounds (as of the 23rd), and my cervix will hold firm. I will walk 5,000 miles (and I will walk 500 more), and he will stay put. He's comfortable in there, curled up like a gargantuan elf, kicking me when he's hungry (or when I've just eaten), punching my bladder for fun, sucking his thumb and enduring the hiccups like a proper boy. Red raspberry leaf tea will not coax him out. And it's boring. Why bother?

I think I'm a bit of a spoiled child. Laundry bores me too, and no matter how many loads of laundry I process, still more will be required. Talk about why bother. I just started the washer on the third hot cycle to prepare the cloth diapers that Dad and Gail, his wonderful wife, sent me. I'm excited about diapers (for now), and still my Little Voice is whining and throwing a temper fit. "Isn't there something more exciting to do? I wanna surf the web! I wanna knit! I wanna go into labor! I wanna do something FUN!" GAH. Blah blah blah! Shut! UP!

Even when I'm doing things I like, I'm whining on the inside. Like knitting. I made Burgundy a really awesome pair of knee socks with a matching beaded cowl. It's gorgeous and presented a real and legitimate challenge to my knitting prowess. I know it's bragging, but I'm a pretty good knitter. Most projects get boring fast. This one took almost an entire sock to bore me! I think I had six pattern repeats done before I memorized it enough to go mobile without a copy of the pattern. And boy once I hit that? Whining non-stop. "This is boring. This is stupid. I want to be finished with this project. They're not gonna fit anyway. I wanna go play! I wanna bake! I wanna do laundry! I wanna go into labor!"

I swear to God, I'm never going to have this baby because I am FOUR YEARS OLD. No four-year-old should parent a child. So God in his infinite wisdom has decreed that I will never go into labor. I'm doomed to sleep in 2-hour fits tapering to 30-minute dozes, to waddle and lurch from bed to bathroom to kitchen to laundry room, to whine and moan and sulk for the rest of my born days.

And that is why I got up and opened the blog. Turned the heat on the kettle and set out the damn teacup. Turned the washer on for the third cycle of clean diapers and started to type. I found my big girl panties, and I'm wearing them [yes, Little Man, I know you're in there; thank you for that lovely punch. I'll go put on a clean pair of big girl panties now]. I know this post is the longest, whiniest rant in all of history, but I'm banishing the whiner, too. She has to shut up or have a different conversation.

I'm 41 weeks. Women all over the world are wrinkling their brows and saying, "What? Only one week overdue? I went two weeks over! My Aunt Sally's cousin, Billy Bob, got some poor girl pregnant, and she went four weeks over!" Well, more power to Billy Bob's girlfriend and to you. I have had enough. This little man is coming out; I plan to serve the eviction notice in just a little while in a form that only a gestating baby will understand. Castor Oil.

The midwife said not to take it in the afternoon and not to take it before noon Christmas Day (she had family in town), and as an act of love only (simple obedience could not have induced me to wait), I waited. As soon as my family arises from their gilded sleep (grumble grumble), I am off to Walgreens.

I know it will be nasty. I don't care.
I know I will miss visiting with my friend from North Caroline, who's here for one day. I don't care.
I know I will miss the Doctor Who Christmas Special over at my friend Christi's place tonight. I don't care. Uh, yes I do. I care about the Doctor and one last hoorah with my knitting friends. If it was earlier in the day, I might care enough to wait on the castor oil, but it isn't, and I don't.

I made cinnamon rolls and bread yesterday. Neighbors brought veggie and meat/cheese snack trays and a plate of cookies and fudge (I'm borderline gestational diabetic, so I really can't eat that stuff). I made gift bags and mailed them for all our close family (I made marshmallows. You should have heard the four-year-old whining on that project), and I have a few undelivered under the tree; those people will want to come see the baby anyway. My kitchen floor is clean (thanks to the awesome teenager), the living room and library are passable; in short, it's time. So I'm going to shower and wake my husband, and we're going to buy some castor oil. Wish me luck.

We had another appointment with the midwife Tuesday. I really appreciate how much she puts me at ease. I've had a very hard time communicating to anyone how much pain I'm having. The only person who seemed to "get it" was my friend Camille. While working on my trigger points, she said, "Melissa, your sensitivity levels are up there with those of a fibromyalgia patient." So when Jackie told me that her second was like this and described the pain as being, "like the bones of your pelvis are rubbing together," it really helped me to be confident that this pain, awful as it seems, is not the harbinger of doom that I fear. She even said out loud what I'd said to Mark just a couple of nights before: "The pain was so awful that I was afraid I wouldn't be able to handle the birth." And then she reassured me, "but the birth was just fine. We were fine."

I bought a maternity support belt while there, and I'm surprised by how much it helps. Not much for the fashion statement, but I can walk without wincing now.

Our baby boy is 25 weeks old now. I try to imagine his little fingernails, his eyelids fluttering open for the first time, and the fat beginning to fill out his skin. I wonder whether his lips will be shapely, like mine, or round like Mark's. Either way, they'll be full. Mark and I both have big lips. He spends the morning stretching and rolling, and the best I can figure, trying to divebomb my cervix. I feel a ridiculous amount of movement extremely low in my pelvis. It's like he keeps his hands over his head and bounces on them.

As far as I know, I have only three weeks of employment remaining. My company continues to hunt out work for me; I can only pray we are able to find it successfully. Mark's employment has not come through yet; however, he fully expects that it will. So we continue to hold.

We had a death in the family this week. My father's wife, Gail, is a delightful lady who really has worked hard to have a loving, real relationship with her adult stepchildren. We're so lucky that Dad married such an open, ingratiating, loving woman. Unfortunately, her stepfather, Albert, passed away this week. He had Alzheimers and had been living with Gail and my father for the past couple of years. Dad said that Albert had just come home from visiting his children in Dallas for his birthday. He'd been to see the rodeo and spent time with his great-grandkids. Dad said that when he came home, he was sitting at the dinner table talking about going back to Houston and getting back to work.

Suddenly he went catatonic and unresponsive at the table. They called for an ambulance. Dad said that Albert revived once, briefly, and Gail was able to say goodbye to him. Then he went out again as the ambulance arrived. A scan revealed massive hemmorhaging on both sides of his brain; they pulled life support that night, and he passed within about 10 minutes.

I did not know Albert very well at all. Gail and Dad have been married about twelve years now, and it's possible Albert already had Alzheimers when I met him. He was a sweet old man for all the exposure I had to him, and my heart goes out to Gail, who is occupying her mind and heart with funeral arrangements, schedules, lodging for family members who are traveling to Houston for the funeral, and so on. I hope she's able to cope well when the chaos and business of the funeral and burial have passed and she's left with time and quiet on the long drive back to Mississippi.

Pray for her, if you think about it. I think Dad will be fine. Ultimately, Gail will be, too. But my heart goes out to her.

Back Flips

Our parasite hates the jeans I'm wearing today, which sucks because they're not too tight, not too baggy, not falling down, and not giving me indigestion. Also not buttoned (yay belly sleeves).

I know he hates them because he is one laid-back, calm, cool, and collected little dude. He's so much like his dad already. Content just to be, he only moves when I'm uncomfortable. *TMI WARNING* The other day, I got all constipated, and he literally kicked the crap out of me until things got moving again. Hilarious. *OKAY, YOU'RE SAFE*

He goes mad after a long day on my feet when I lay down and put them up and the blood starts to rush back into the rest of my body. As my heartrate speeds up with the sheer pleasure of feeling the pain drain out of my feet, he rolls and squirms and pokes and wiggles like wild. When I sit for too long at work, he sticks and kicks and yanks (God he has a grip) until I get up and walk.

For the most part though, he just enjoys being there. As long as I'm happy, he's happy. However, today we are at odds. In spite of these wonderful, lovely, comfortable maternity jeans that aren't even buttoned, he's having little hissy fits. Does. Not. Want. Tough cookies, kiddo. Your big sister will tell you in a heartbeat: you just lucked out to get stuck into the least sympathetic mother ever. I like the jeans, and I will wear them again. Partially because I love to feel you moving.

August is half-over, and contrary to my dire predictions, I have not yet expired of heat exposure. I'm certain I will; I mean, God still has two more months of Houston summer with which to assault me. So hang in there. I'm not dead yet . . . [but I'll] be stone dead in a moment.*

Meanwhile, one of my favorite bloggers ever (I mean, GOD, she's so funny and real and raw [and wriggling]), grammardog at livejournal (y'all, I miss the old livejournal so much!), decided to do this meme. And given that I can't stick with the same topic for more than 15 minutes either way, I figured I'd announce my intention to do the same so that you'll all know that in fact, I will not do more than 1-2 posts. Then I'll see something shiny and chase it down and come back in two weeks blogging about Russian organized crime and its impact on the environment of Saturn or something.

Anyway, it's a 30-day thing with a different topic each day:

Day 01 - Introduction
Day 02 – Your first love, in great detail
Day 03 – Your parents, in great detail
Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail
Day 05 – Your definition of love, in great detail
Day 06 – Your day, in great detail
Day 07 – Your best friend, in great detail
Day 08 – A moment, in great detail
Day 09 – Your beliefs, in great detail
Day 10 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 11 – Your siblings, in great detail
Day 12 – What’s in your bag, in great detail
Day 13 – This week, in great detail
Day 14 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 15 – Your dreams, in great detail
Day 16 – Your first kiss, in great detail
Day 17 – Your favourite memory, in great detail
Day 18 – Your favourite birthday, in great detail
Day 19 – Something you regret, in great detail
Day 20 – This month, in great detail
Day 21 – Another moment, in great detail
Day 22 – Something that upsets you, in great detail
Day 23 – Something that makes you feel better, in great detail
Day 24 – Something that makes you cry, in great detail
Day 25 – A first, in great detail
Day 26 – Your fears, in great detail
Day 27 – Your favourite place, in great detail
Day 28 – Something that you miss, in great detail
Day 29 – Your aspirations, in great detail
Day 30 – One last moment, in great detail

I suppose that's it for today. I and The Parasite have a lot of work to do, so I suppose it's time to put my nose to the grindstone.
* Anyone want to identify the quote source for minor geek points?

Der Behbeh - Un Update

What a full weekend! Friday morning, Mark, Burgundy and I drove to an office in Pearland where we would have our ultrasound done. My mom met us there, and I have to tell you, regardless of what you think of interventions, there's something miraculous about seeing your bitty baby right in front of you, kicking, waving, and heart whumping away. Mark stood under the monitor completely mesmerized by our child. Burgundy stood next to me yelling, "WOW" and "OH MY GOD, THAT'S A FOOT!" every couple of images. My mom stood behind Burgundy, just as enthusiastic but oozing sentimental tears the whole time.

He's beautiful, by the way, in that black-and-white, grainy way that ultrasound babies are. He weighs 289 grams, about 10.2 ounces. The ultrasound showed my date almost spot on to our calculations based on last menstrual period, and yes, he gave us every view we needed.

Meanwhile, I feel a little bit of something every couple of days. I had a lot of trouble sleeping Sunday and Monday nights, but last night I slept until 3:30, barely made it to the toilet, then slept soundly again until 7. Mind, I'm supposed to be at work at 7. Thanks God my start time isn't critical.

We've been throwing around names. Mark suggested Gallifrey, and much as we love the Dear Old Doctor, Burgundy and I both vociferously denounced the idea. That led to a round of who-can-come-up-with-the-worst-sci-fi name. So far the best contenders are Gandalf, Frodo, Bilbo, Adversary-Destroyer of Kings-Angel of the Bottomless Pit-Great Beast That is Called Dragon-Prince of this World-Father of Lies-Spawn of Satan-and-Lord of Darkness (the real name of Adam Young in the link), and Aragorn. We've encountered surprisingly little resistance to Aragorn, perhaps because I named my first child Burgundy and people simply are relieved that we aren't seriously considering Gallifrey (hands-down top contender for worst sci-fi name, by the way). I think either way we're going to have to call the little guy Strider just to honor this laborious process we've undertaken.

Serious naming contenders: Lucas (general acceptance), James (Burgundy's on the fence as it's her name as well), Darcy (Burgundy has decided the child should be called Darcy James), Tristan, Colin, London, Phoenix and Bob. Well, not really Bob, but you know. I think I really like Tristan Lucas, Colin, Darcy James, and something with Phoenix. But Phoenix is a little too close to trendy for my money.

This weekend, I pick up Burgundy from horse camp Friday evening in Conroe. We'll spend the night in a cheap motel and get up super-early Saturday morning to pick blueberries from Moorhead's Blueberry Farm. Saturday evening, several friends are coming over, and we'll all make blueberry-lime jam together. Very excited about that.

Midwife Visit, 18 Weeks!

I went to the midwife yesterday for my second visit. I've gained 5-3/4 pounds rather than the 8 I thought I'd gained. Turns out I'm a bit math-challenged, having somehow calculated the difference between 200 and 196 as 6. Now the whole internet can figure out how much I weigh. Oh NOES!

The baby's heart raced loud and strong. Whumpwhumpwhumpwhump. My measurements show a 16.5 cm increase over my last visit. Jackie said, "Whoa, big growth! I'm surprised you haven't gained more weight."

It would help a lot if I could eat. Without heartburn, nausea, or insurmountable fatigue.

We're at ~18 weeks now, and Jackie ordered an ultrasound. Of course I want to run out and do it tomorrow; I can't wait to see him. However, I really want both Burgundy and Mark to be there, and Burgundy will be at Girl Scout camp next week. So we'll probably do it either Friday of this week or sometime week after next.

I brought a number of questions this time. We talked about her backup doctor. She seems really to like him and said that if he's working when I need him (IF I need him), he will take the time to assess my condition and labor carefully, to treat me with respect. Basically, the other hospitals in the area all will automatically perform a C-section if I come in during labor having attempted a home birth. We think that the best thing, assuming the need to transport without the presence of an emergency, will be first to go to her backup hospital IF her backup doctor is available. Barring that, we'll go to LBJ Hospital, which she recommended as also being staffed by respectful doctors and nursing who will take the time to address me personally, figure out my history, and then decide how best to treat me.

The most ironic thing for me is that her backup hospital is Bayshore Medical Center where I gave birth to my daughter. The experience was so bad that I swore I'd rather eat my own toe cheese than set foot in the place again.

Of course, if we have an emergency, all bets are off. We'll go to the nearest hospital, the same one in which Mark was born over 36 years ago!
The conversation left me with a bit of a to-learn list.

• I've read a number of ads on cord blood collection, donation and storage, and after talking with Jackie about it, I think I need to do real reading. Big con: in order to collect the cord blood, we can't allow the cord to finish pulsing. I sort of had a "duh" moment when she explained it to me. I don't like the idea of the baby not getting all his (or her) blood.
  
• In addition, while I didn't talk to her about immunizations, we need to learn more (a great deal more) and decide which ones we'll give the baby and which ones we won't.
  
• Need to learn a little more about waterbirth and decide whether we'll go that route.

I better end this missive on that note because I am tired, cranky, and ready to take the afternoon for a nap.

Bad Dream

I dreamed terrible things last night.

I think I was at a picnic. I know I was somewhere outdoors. I began to bleed. Because I'm past 17 weeks now, I didn't worry at first, but then I began to cramp. I felt dread creeping in, and I shoved it down and ignored it. After the third bout of finding blood with worsening cramps, I admitted that something was dreadfully wrong, and I called my midwife, Jackie.

Suddenly, Jackie was there at the picnic with me, and she told me that she needed to examine me right away. She wanted to check for a heartbeat. She told me that her backup physician's office was closer to us than her birthing center, so we began to go there. I think we walked. On the way, she asked me questions.

"When's the last time you felt the baby move?" I haven't felt the baby move at all, and in my dream, I realized that this should have worried me. I should have been worried long before now not to have felt the baby. In real life, this would not be cause to worry. Just so you know.

"When's the last time you had caffeine?"

"This morning," I told her. Her expression changed to alarm and shock, and I began defending myself. "But I only had like half a cup," I pleaded, "And I never have more than one cup in a day." I felt a knowledge that the caffeine had poisoned my baby. Jackie's disapproval and judgment confirmed it. I slipped into a denial and began shouting the facts that I know: Nobody knows how much caffeine is too much, and most experts agree that a cup a day or less should not hurt the baby. Jackie just watched me, then disappeared. I was at the doctor's office.

I went in and explained to the doctor who I was. He led me into a glass-walled exam room, put me on the table and in stirrups, and two interns came in. They looked like rednecks, hard day laborers, rather than physician interns. The doctor told them they should leave. He explained to me that we'd need to wait for Jackie so she could examine me. The interns protested, so I sat up, looked the beefy one in the eye, and said, "I don't want you in my room for this exam. Get. Out." The doctor looked smug and justified, and the interns left, all dejected.

I removed myself from the bed and stirrups while I waited for Jackie, and people began pouring into the room. The doctor and all the visitors were watching a Discovery Channel show about flowers. I wanted them to get out. By the time Jackie arrived, 20 or 30 people lined the couches, chairs, floors and walls, and more poured in by the minute.

Jackie looked at me and said, "I think the baby stopped growing. You should be showing more by now."

"But I AM showing," I yelled, "Look at this," and I pulled up my shirt. "The fat is covering my baby, but I'm showing, I swear." And then we sat on the couch and talked, and I woke up never knowing whether I'd killed my baby with coffee or whether my baby was dead at all.

I woke Mark and said, "I had a horrible nightmare. I dreamed I was bleeding, and I think the baby was dead."

He rolled over and opened his arms and said, "Come here, Baby," and he cradled me until I fell asleep again.