On Marrying Young

The day we stopped laughing.

I'm kind of late to the party. When you combine my tardiness with the notion that marrying young is like leaving the party at nine, well shoot, I am just the worst party invitee ever, am I not?

Although I'll confess something ... I've always liked leaving the party early. But that is beside the point. 

When I first saw the blog post, "23 Things to Do Instead of Getting Engaged Before You're 23," I clicked on it right away as I normally do when I see posts of the sort. I don't read them to get angry. On the contrary, I normally read them for a chuckle because I have to admit that I find it amusing to see what a humdrum life most of society seems to think Chris and I live. 

You know what. She was shockingly right. Since getting married, we have stopped traveling ... except for those trips to the Philippines, Scotland and Ireland. We stopped enjoying new experiences ... other than learning to ski (me) and road tripping to see the Grand Canyon. We are settled and old fashioned ... if you forget about our two moves. Yep, things have clearly gone downhill since we tied the knot. 

So after a lighthearted chit chat with the old ball and chain and a week to mull the post and its response over, I have one thing to say to the author of the post.

Thank you.

Thank you for perpetuating the notion that young marriage is where you go to die.

It is because of people who think the way you do that I was fully ready to walk down the aisle at twenty-one years of age a mere three months after graduating from college and two months before I walked in the graduation ceremony.

That probably doesn't make sense. Read on, dear reader.

I've mentioned before that meeting my husband at eighteen and have two kids at twenty four was not what I saw in my future. It's not that I disliked the thought; I just didn't think it was possible, plus I felt a lot of pressure to make something of myself before "settling down." 

Yet, meeting Chris was a dream come true no matter how early it was.  It was and is unreal how perfect he is for me. 

For the record, we weren't exactly rebellious trailblazers betting our whole life on love. By the time we were married, both of us had traveled extensively, graduated from college, we both had the same beliefs, Chris was gainfully employed and I was in a good position for employment opportunities.

Now I wish I could say getting engaged to him and the months after were a fairy tale, but they weren't. Far from it.

While the vast majority of our friends and family were positive, some people very close and very important to me were not happy at all about our decision. I was too young. I was throwing my life away. I needed prestige. My education was wasted. I needed to live for myself. There were fights and lots of them. I knew it came from love, but I was hurt and so was Chris. It was hard. I would see other people older than I was get engaged and everyone in their worlds would be ecstatic and helpful, yet I was supposed to feel shame. 

So why was all of this good? 

Opposition made me put my mouth where my ring was. It was an opportunity to live what I believe. 

No, I was not getting married for the show of it, for the ring, the gorgeous dress and the honeymoon. Chris and I always planned to pay for the necessities of the church, the priest, the premarital counseling and the marriage license ourselves because we wanted to be able to be married no matter what. 

No, I was not getting married for benefits. No, I was not getting married just to be able to live together. No, I was not getting married merely because it was the next step. No, I was not getting married just because we felt sooooooo in loooooove. 

We were getting married to serve each other; it was not just a celebration of love or something to make us happy. We were getting married to receive the Sacrament of Matrimony. We wanted to receive that outward sign of grace leading us to Christ and to receive it til death do us part. 

Marriage has not robbed me of my freedom. It has given me freedom from my self, my naturally selfish person. I am honored to serve my husband.

Has it been easy? No. Of course not. Marriage is inherently difficult no matter the age. I always have to put someone else first, and I am not wired that way. 

But I love it. And I knew that it was going to be this difficult and this fulfilling because I had to defend myself against society's view that a selfless marriage is an institution to enter only after you have perfected yourself as a selfish being. 

So to all of you that thought I was going to die once I vowed my life to Chris, thank you. Truly and sincerely, thank you. I wish you well. And you can alert the media because this blog post must be coming from the afterlife. 

A Guest Post - an Extra Edition on How Chris and I Met

Remember when Grace started the How We Met link-up and all hopeless romantics were given enough reading material to last a good long while? I joined the par-tay and wrote my little novel about the story of us.

Well, my best friend, Laura, let me know that she wanted to write a guest post from her perspective on the whole thing - more specifically her perspective on the moment that she bluntly catalyzed the whole thing by asking Chris if he were interested in me. I was like a little bobblehead on a dashboard of a car that has never known a smooth ride; I couldn't nod enough as I read her request. Duh! Who wouldn't want to hear another take on her love story, especially when her best friend can write? And I mean write. 

Laura comes tonight (!!!) so I am posting her aside to our story and completing my end of the deal. I promised that I wouldn't edit anything before I published it ... and I had to publish it. Rookie. Laura looks at me with what must be the crème de la crème of rose-colored glasses. With that in mind, skip paragraphs 6-9!!! I won't tell her you skipped them, promise. (And I keep my promises since I am publishing this post, after all). 

And with that, take it away eLLe.

---

An early morning in a quiet office. I just put on “Of Monsters and Men,” because it reminds me of Chris and Katrina, of riding with them in the car on the way from Chicago to their home in South Bend and hearing Little Talks come up on Chris’s playlist.

I needed to set the mood. I’d told Katrina I’d wanted to write a guest post to complement one of hers, on a subject that I know about as well as any outsider could. There’s a love story on the line, and I’m not taking any risks.

The only error in Katrina’s “How We Met” story was calling me the personification of good (sorry Katrina, I had to correct it!); everything else was spot on and honest and unexaggerated. Katrina really did predict marriage after their first date. I remember her standing with me in a stairwell in McGlinn hall the morning after the Rugby formal and whispering, “he’s the one, Laura, he’s the one I just know it! I know I’m going to marry him.”

And she really did remember all those tiny tiny details, from Chris’s green sweatshirt, to her making a passing comment about his arms (I mean, they were pretty impressive). She wasn’t trying to embellish the story at all; things like that stick with her, and she loves to share them. That’s just Katrina.

Speaking of Katrina, I think we need to take a moment to appreciate what we’re working with here before jumping into all that falling in love stuff.

If she’s going to try to call me the personification of good, I think it’s entirely fair for me to say that she’s the personification of love. She loves, and she loves, and then she loves more. I’ve told her this before; I have a particularly vivid memory of doing so during a late night talk in my dorm room in McGlinn, one of those precious moments that’s tucked safely away in the long-gone universe of endlessly sun-touched days and star-speckled nights that have nothing to do with the actual weather, of life that seemed make-believe for all the indulgent time spent with your very best friends through all the very best and very worst times you live through (“Of Monsters and Men” was a good choice. Definitelyhelping with the mood). At the time, she was crying from worry, and hurt, and worry about not wanting to hurt. And I had to be her eyes for a moment; she couldn’t see herself clearly, so I was reminding her of who she was.

She’s a sensitive soul—I mean to say that she’s opens herself to others and to the world and has no hardness in her. Well, everybody probably has some hardness in them I suppose. Katrina must just have the most microscopic amount.

Well, it might take someone a little while to figure all that out about her. Not long, but a little while. What’s immediately and strikingly apparent, however, is that she’s eye-catchingly beautiful. Or all-eyes-catchingly beautiful, or something like that. She was known on campus for it, and I don’t know many guys who didn’t wish that they could have a chance with her (unfortunately for them, Katrina’s also extremely friendly, which was all too easy for a guy to mistake for interest). Yep, Katrina Corcoran was quite the looker, and plenty of boys (men—whatever) had no shame in looking.

I’d seen a fair amount of these “looks” from all different guys. The hungry ones whom we’d serve during our shifts at Reckers, the tired ones who’d just finished their football/ baseball/ basketball/ etc workout, the cocky ones who thought they could get something out of her, the quiet ones who hoped against hope for a hello (and who of course actually received one), the drunk ones who were mesmerized by the Irish-Filipino vision who was smilingly standing before them, the bookish ones who sat near her in class…if you still don’t have a clear idea of what I mean, let me know and I’ll start listing off names. Lots and lots of names.

Anyway, right, I’d seen all these looks from all these different guys. And then, one day, I saw an entirely different one. It came from that nice guy who’d so freely talked to me at several of the rugby parties I’d gone to, and who’d kindly kept me company in my solitar-ily sober state.

Now, how to describe this? It was like…it was like he was looking at her with his whole self. Does that make sense? No. Probably not. Unless of course you’ve seen the look I’m talking about. Every single thing that went into making up Chris Harrington seemed to be looking straight into the eyes of my best friend Katrina Corcoran. Every part of him seemed attuned to her, seemed noticeably attentive to each word coming from the mouth of this beautiful young woman who could basically quote every line from the ND Nation website and who knew the football roster better than he did.

I noticed the look each time we HAPPILY ran into Chris on campus. Which did happen quite a bit, and which we thoroughly enjoyed every|single|time. I mean, Katrina and I enjoyed a lot of things we did; it was kind of our underlying philosophy, and it wasn’t dependent at all on what actually happened, now that I think about it (it’s ok, you can laugh at us if you want. We don’t mind). But. We actually truly honestly really did enjoy the run-ins with the gentlemanly Chris Harrington—Katrina, for obvious reasons, and I, because this was just all so fun (ahem. I’d like to take a moment to put in writing, Chris Harrington, that I did not have a crush on you at all during this time. Or at any other. For the record!).

Sooo, what then was I supposed to do when I found out that Chris and his girlfriend had broken up? Katrina was certainly not going to say anything to him. And to be honest, I wasn’t really expecting that I’d say anything to him either.

It just came out. There we were, standing somewhere near the sandwich station in South Dining Hall, saying hello ‘n such, when poor unsuspecting Chris was gut-punched with a perfectly innocent question.

[paraphrasing!]:

“I’m sorry the breakup’s so rough. I can’t imagine how hard that is. [pause] Umm, this is really silly of me, and I probably shouldn’t be asking this at all, especially so soon after ending your other relationship…but can I ask you a question.”

“Definitely, you can ask me a question.”

“Are you possibly at all interested in Katrina? It just kind of seemed that way. Maybe.”

“Uh, that’s sweet, Laura. I think Katrina’s a great girl, but I’m not thinking about that at all right now.” (said with a kind smile, and in a way that didn’t make me feel terriblyridiculous for asking. Thanks Chris)

Maybe he truly wasn’t thinking consciously of it at that moment. Maybe I brought some hidden little thoughts to the surface. Maybe maybe maybe. We just might never know for sure.

Whatever the case, no one can argue with how it turned out, right? See Katrina’s story for a refresher on all the plot details, but there’s no doubt that that Look accurately foretold of a lifelong love. Chris Harrington ended up with the girl all the guys had pined after for so long, and Katrina won over the dashing rugby captain with excellent style. There’s so much more to them than that, and so much more could be said! Not right now, though. Nope, for now I think that’s just enough to show you that, for all of Katrina’s twitterpated-ness, there was a very similar thing running through the veins of that cool Mr. Harrington.

I've resisted doing my office stuff for too long now. Music is done, people are here, and I've got work to do!

----

Oh, she made me cry. 

She really is a treasure. I think our kids and grandkids will enjoy our story, but I will always cherish this little explanation the most. 

By the way, Laura ... I seem to remember you promising that you would read Twilight as a wedding present to me. Better get reading ... 

Conor's Birth Story, Part II

 Part I

I was hit with a reeeeally hard contraction, and I was now alone. All through the pregnancy, I had been pretty nervous about going through labor again. For me, anticipating labor with the second baby was worse than with the first, I think because now that I had gone through it once, I knew how hard it was. Chris had to listen to months of variations of, "Do you think I can do it?" He always kindly reminded me to look at Ryan. 

However, now that I was alone, I had no confidence in my ability to get through what was about to come. I'm normally silent during contractions, but I started to whimper and mutter doubts like, "I can't!" I decided to get in the shower to see if I would be able to relax so I got mostly undressed before another contraction came. Once that one was over, I remembered that the shower was the opposite of relaxing while I was timing my contractions earlier, and I wasn't about to stop timing them now.

Three minutes apart. Two and a half minutes apart. Two minutes, twelve seconds apart. Closer and worse. I tried to breathe through the contractions, but by the time a few seconds had passed, my confidence would be gone, and I cried out. I kept listening for the sound of the garage door. Nothing. It takes less than ten minutes to get to Alexandra's so Chris should have been back. I started walk around our room during the contractions while trying to pray Hail Marys and Our Fathers. The baby felt so low that it was much more of a waddle than a walk.

Finally after thirty minutes, I called Chris. I was basically crying into the phone asking him where he was. He was one street over and about to be home. When he came into the house, he found me in the bedroom right as a contraction was reaching its peak. I went down to the floor whimpering, "I can't! I can't!" Chris now says that he thought the baby was going to come right then and there, ha.

Chris told me to get dressed right away and ran my bag up to the car. We had a similar short discussion to the one that occurred right before we left for the hospital with Ryan. I wanted to wear my boots and told Chris to grab them from the closet. I won last time, but this time Chris won. He still thought the baby was going to be born very soon and my moccasins were closer so that is what made it on my feet.

As we were about to go up the stairs to the garage, Chris casually mentioned, "I got you Chipotle!"

What.

I wasn't exactly kind nor did I express gratitude when I found out that he had stopped on the way home from dropping Ryan off while I was having contractions less than three minutes apart. Granted, he didn't know they were that close because they had been about four minutes apart when he left and the food was for me, not for him, but still. Still!

Maybe I should retire that see-through shirt ... 

The drive to the hospital started out horribly. I did not want to be sitting. I kept squirming through the contractions, which only made them worse. I commented that we were going to switch health insurances because the hospital we were going to now takes fifteen minutes to get to as opposed to the five minute drive to the other hospital. Chris called my dad to let them know that we were on the way to the hospital and was way too polite for his laboring wife's taste when my dad kept talking and a contraction was starting. "Just hang up!!" I commanded. Sorry, Dad!

After that horrible contraction was over, I proclaimed that I was going to get the epidural. (Chris doesn't remember this, he just said. Good thing I am the one writing this! Or would you prefer ... there were contractions, she pushed, the baby was born?) Then I told Chris to forget that I said that because I wouldn't be able to get one quick enough anyway.

He told me to try and relax through the next contraction. I was a ball of self-confidence and huffed and puffed and told him that I couldn't. The contraction began, and Chris talked me through it. He instructed me to relax my forehead, then jaw and all the way down to my toes. Breathe in and out. He reminded me that we were going to meet our baby soon. He kept talking softly until the contraction was over.

It worked.

I was so relaxed that I felt like I was in a trance and as the contraction subsided, I almost felt like I was asleep. I didn't say anything again until I told him to start the timer again. We repeated this until we got to the hospital, and oops ... we had no idea where the labor and delivery wing was. Chris parked as close as he could to the main entrance, and then we made our way to the door. I walked straight through the grass. I just wanted to be able to lay down as soon as possible. Chris helped me through a contraction outside the hospital and right in front of the reception desk, and I remember there were people walking by so I was extra conscious that I didn't scream out in pain or anything to scare women from having babies.

After all the tedious name, date of birth, yada yada yada collecting and a whole lot of me wishing they could just scan me and see that I needed to be in a delivery room stat, the receptionist led us to a row of backless padded benches to wait for a nurse to come get us. I promptly laid down and waited for the next contraction.

The next contraction was the best contraction of my life. It's true! Chris instructing me to relax, Chris whispered, "Think of the look Ryan gives you when he wakes up from a nap." I instantly remembered a couple days before when I was sitting at the computer, and I heard the door handle of his bedroom door jump and then the door swing open. His little pitter patter started and when he came round the table to see me at the computer, he shouted, "Mama!" and started running at me with his stout arms pumping and pumping. Once I imagined those little, enthusiastic arms and thought of another little one growing up and someday erasing my momentary dread that naptime was over with one little swing of his or her arm, I seemed to have all the power in the world to get through that contraction with minimal suffering. I replayed those little frames of time in my mind over and over until the contraction had departed.

It was a good thing that Chris had planted that moment in my head because the contractions started coming right on top of each other and were almost a minute and half long. The nurse came out with a wheelchair and started asking me questions like how long my contractions had been going. When she heard that it was my second baby and how close my contractions were, she pushed a little bit faster. When I muttered that I was 3.5 cm and 50% on Wednesday and then requested that we stop so I could sit through a contraction and tried to get out of the wheelchair, she apologized and said that we had to get upstairs now. I obeyed.

We made it to triage, they handed me a sample cup and a hospital gown and my complete disregard for who sees me while in labor began. I started to take off my pants before the door was even shut because I wanted to speed through everything since the contraction clock was a-ticking. I somehow managed a sample, but then a contraction started so I promptly laid down on the bed even though I still didn't have the hospital gown on. The nurse came in, strapped a heart rate monitor on my belly, and started to get even more information (seriously ... never will I desire global telepathy than when I am in labor and people are asking me questions. Although, then the curse words in  my head would ring loud and clear so maybe it is good that it doesn't exist?). She said that my midwife had been called. Then a resident came in to the room, introduced herself, and said she was going to check me.

I am always so nervous when they check me in triage because what if all of those intense contractions were for one measly centimeter of dilation?

"I think your fully dilated."

Oh, hallelujah!

Well, that hallelujah was downgraded to a thank goodness when the nurse checked the resident's checking (not very gently I might add ... ) and declared me at 9 cm.

With that very green light of dilation, they promptly threw a sheet over my bottom half and moved me via bed to the delivery room. I had Chris lay the bed down flat. I craved laboring on the bed just like I did with Ryan. I just laid there silent and with my eyes closed while everyone was bustling around getting the room set up. Pretty soon after I was on the delivery bed, I felt a lot of liquid. 

"Ummm I think I peed or my water just broke." 

The nurses lifted the sheet and saw that it was nice and clear. I could feel that the baby was lower. I mentally could not wait to push, but I didn't actually have the urge to push yet. My nurse asked me what I would like to do in terms of pain management, and I somehow politely told her that I would be okay without any. Chris whispered that we had done the Bradley method with our first, and we were doing it again. For some reason, I am always really sensitive about being polite when I'm in labor and apologize about everything from the nurses changing the pads on the bed after my water breaks to not talking with them. I never get to ask them if they mind those things, but I now that I look back, I assume that they don't!

A bit later, I felt some pressure and pushed a little just because and out came quite a gush. My water hadn't broken completely the first time. Patty, the midwife I had seen the most throughout my pregnancy and who conveniently was on call, wasn't at the hospital yet. I remember being bummed that she wasn't there because I had some delusion that once she arrived, I would have the urge to push. The attending OB came in to introduce herself since I was so far along. I had told them that I was okay with her delivering the baby when Patty walked in! Sadly, the urge to push did not arrive.

She checked me and told me that I was at a nine, but that the baby was a bit posterior otherwise known as sunny side up. Immediately, I thought of Grace's pushing marathon with Theo. Oh boy. If I took around three hours to push Ryan out, how in the world was I going to push a sunny side up baby out even if he or she was my second? Patty asked me to keep relaxing through contractions in the hope that I would dilate and the baby would turn, which was not the synchronized midwife arrival and urge to push commencing I had envisioned. I begged Chris to talk to me about Ryan and meeting our new baby so I could get through the contractions.

After a few contractions, Patty checked me again. The baby was still in the same position, and she said there was even more of a lip of my cervix (after delivery, she told me that it seemed that my cervix had actually dilated back to seven or eight centimeters, but she didn't want to discourage me with the fact that I had regressed that much. Smart). She had me switch positions. I whimpered that I just wanted to be able to push. They raised the back of the bed up and I squatted in front of it and leaned on it with my arms hanging over it.

A couple of contractions later, I said that I felt like I had to push. I pushed and Patty tried to push the lip of my cervix over the baby's head. It didn't work so Patty had me lean over the back of the bed again and said that if I was able to sit through a few more contractions, the baby would arrive sooner than if I kept pushing with the baby in the wrong position and possibly cause my cervix to swell. I tried to argue with them, but nope, I had to wait. I looked miserable, whimpered some more and then leaned back over the bed. Those contractions were so horrible because I knew I was so close to being able to push, and I did not want to sit through any more. Amid all of my whimpers and doubts, Chris kept encouraging me through each of them. I just kept rolling my rosary through my fingers and praying and praying.

Finally, finally, we had good news when Patty checked me. I was 10 cm, there was no lip, and the baby was in a better position. I could push! Patty asked me if I had something else that I wanted to wear instead of my shirt that had never made it off because she likes to put the baby right on the mother's chest after birth. I breathlessly started to tell her that was fine, I just never made it changing! Chris brought me the black sports bra that I wore when I had Ryan (surprise, surprise). Then Patty asked me if it would be okay if the resident caught the baby. I said yes although I will admit that I was a bit concerned about tearing for a hot second since she had mentioned that it was her very first week, but honestly I just wanted to push.

I first tried to push the way that the Bradley method talks about - a modified squatting position on the bed. My arms were under my knees with my elbows up and my chin was at my chest. When a contraction started, I took three full and deep breaths and then held my breath on the last one and pushed with all of my might. I was determined to be a good pusher this time. It was such a relief to push because there was no pain; it was just a whole lot of effort and exhausting. Once after a contraction, I told Chris that he could check the score of the Notre Dame game ... he didn't though! This was the first Notre Dame game that he missed watching in nine years. Blood is thicker than football fandom. They could see the head slowly coming, but the baby's heart rate was a little slower than before so they started giving me oxygen in between pushes.

After a few pushes that way, Patty had me start pushing on my side. I pressed my face against Chris' stomach, held (okay, squeezed to death) onto his arm, and pushed with all of my might. The baby moved down. I did a couple more pushes on my left side, and then Patty was concerned about the baby's heart rate so she turned me onto my right side in case the baby was on the umbilical cord. She then told me that she had gone ahead and paged the doctor in practice because the heart rate was a bit lower than she was comfortable with. If she wanted to scare me a bit, she did. I pushed so hard with the next contraction until I felt the ring of fire as the baby's head crowned. I didn't even care how much it burned because I just wanted the baby to be born healthy and as soon as possible. They had me stop pushing so I didn't tear. At the next contraction, I buried my face against Chris, clutched my rosary and pushed and pushed until the shoulders came out, and I felt that life giving slip - life for our new baby and life for us as parents of two.

Patty immediately put that sweet life on my belly (the baby couldn't go any farther because the umbilical cord was a short one). While she was putting the baby on my belly, I kept asking, "Chris! What is it?! What is it?!" He laughed and said he thought it was a boy although he wasn't completely sure. 

Well, it was a boy. A second son.

I looked down at him. Just like on our wedding day and just like when we met our firstborn, I wasn't overcome with tears. I felt completely present, completely overcome with love and as completely with God as I imagine I can feel on this earth; the privilege and blessing to give birth to the greatest manifestation of my love with Chris is the holiest experience I have yet to encounter.

As I held our son, our Conor Daniel Harrington, I noticed that his hands were clasped as though he was praying. 

Two minutes old and praying hands already

I have been praying for him for so long, and I am so honored and happy that I get to for the rest of my life.

Conor's Birth Story, Part I

On Friday night around 10, I started to hit my normal wall that can't even be blown down by a second wind and started to fall asleep on the couch while cross-stitching. Wow, if you read that sentence again, you so cannot guess that I am twenty-four. In the midst of the nodding head and accidentally poked fingertips, I noticed that I was having slight cramps in my lower back every ten minutes or so. Finally after my fingers had had enough, I got up and told Chris that I was retiring for the night. I mentioned the cramps and that I thought they were Braxton-Hicks since they were so light.

We had been hoping that I stay pregnant until the following weekend for various reasons, and it seemed like I was going to. I felt as perfect as you can while pregnant! With Ryan, you could tell that his entrance into the world was coming. Swollen ankles, retaining water, Braxton-Hicks, crazy, hormonal pregnant woman not fitting into any clothes, etc. But at 39 weeks, 6 days with this one, I was not swollen one bit, had barely any practice contractions as I like to call them, my hormones were pretty well behaved (maybe Chris would have a different opinion on this ... ) and I still had clothes to wear as long as I stayed on top of the laundry. At my appointment on Wednesday, I was 3.5 cm dilated and 50% effaced, but after reading many extra-expert forums of expectant mothers claiming they were 75% effaced for weeks, I decided that the measurements meant nothing. I called my dad on Friday night, and I boasted that I wasn't going to go into labor soon.

The next morning, Ryan woke me up at 5:40 as usual. He had a PB & J for breakfast and so did I. We settled onto the futon and began reading like we do pretty much every morning. In the midst of Ryan's animal imitations, I noticed that I was having cramps. When they kept coming, I started casually glancing at the time on my phone whenever they started, and they were about seven minutes apart. I didn't really think much of them.

At 7:30, I went to wake Chris up, which happens every day. But on this particular day, he woke up startled and played the stereotypical father in the movies. "Is it time?!" came from him as he threw the blankets to the side before I even mentioned anything at all about the cramps. I wasn't even planning on saying anything at the time. His reaction made me stop and think. Is it time? Chris told me to rest and start timing them. So I got back into bed with my cross stitch and opened up the contraction timing app that was still on my phone from Ryan's labor. Cross stitch and an iPhone app: a geriatric and Millenial combination. The contractions were about forty-five seconds long and four to six minutes apart, were getting stronger and they weren't stopping. We were in the baby delivering business, people.

Early labor with my early riser

Since we had been hoping for a late delivery, we had planned to not do any baby stuff until the very end, thinking that we could trick my body into knowing when I was ready for the baby to come. Out of bed, I jumped. In between timing contractions, I threw a bag together for Ryan and then started packing one for myself and the coming babe. I went up to the attic to bring down the newborn clothes so I could wash a few onesies and the polar bear sleeper that Ryan came home in. Next, I cut Chris' hair because who knew when I would do that again post baby. Once the onesies were in the washer,  the bags were packed, and Chris' hair was cut, I started to bake a pumpkin pie.

I like to stay active during early labor to keep my mind off of the contractions, and I'm really sentimental about repeating things. For example, when I guessed Chris was going to propose to me, I purposefully wore the same shirt that he had first kissed me in. When I went to the Grotto at Lourdes, I wore the scarf that was around my neck when we got engaged at the Grotto on campus which is a replica of the one at Lourdes. Etc., etc., I'm a weirdo. Anyway, a few weeks ago when I was grocery shopping, I picked up pumpkin and evaporated milk not just because it is fall, but also because I wanted to have the ingredients to bake a pumpkin pie on hand for when I was in early labor just like I did before Ryan was born. Washed clothes for the baby? Not a priority. Pumpkin pie ingredients? Priority.

I told Ryan that I was going to bake a pumpkin pie. He shouted, "Baking! Watch!" and then ran off. He returned with his bath toys, lined them up along the sink and proclaimed, "Watching!"

Then he moved them so they could get a better view.

After the pie had been pushed into the oven, I went to go take a shower. The contractions were definitely picking up in intensity, but not in frequency. I was frustrated because now that I was in labor, I just wanted it to be fast and furious. I wanted to meet the baby that afternoon.

While in the shower, I didn't want to stop timing the contractions because I was so hoping that they would get close enough to really mean something. We weren't going to leave for the hospital until they were three minutes apart or so because I didn't want to labor in the hospital long. I like laboring at home. Every time a contraction would start, I would have to open the shower door, dry off my hands, open my phone, and then begin the time. By the time all of that was finished, the contraction would be really strong, but I wasn't in a good mindset to relax through it. This whole process did not help me relax at all, and I kind of hated it so I just got out of the shower.

I started to curl my hair since I hadn't washed it. I was able to relax through the contractions more since I didn't have a multi-step process to undergo in order to start the timer. This is another thing that I seem to like to do while in labor. With Ryan, I painted my toenails, blew dry my hair and did my makeup. It never makes any sense (but, then again, when do I ever make sense?) because I always plan to get in the tub at the hospital, plus labor isn't exactly a walk in the park so whatever amount I primp, it is all going to be long gone by the time the baby arrives. Nevertheless, it keeps my mind off of the coming contraction so I do it.

A crooked picture frame and a penguin bath toy keeping me company. And here is more proof that I am a sentimental weirdo ... that is the same shirt I wore to the hospital while in labor with Ryan.

Chris' job that morning was to spend time with Ryan so I could relax as much as possible. He would check on me periodically to see how things were going. I could hear the cheers coming from upstairs where they were watching the Manchester United match, which is always a good sign. By 11:40, the pie was cooling, the hair was curled and I settled down on our bedroom floor to labor. I laid down on my left side in the runner's position from the Bradley method book that really helped me reach 7 cm by the time we got to the hospital with Ryan. Chris and I have never taken a Bradley course; we just read the book with Ryan and then reread three chapters during my last week of pregnancy. It is definitely a dated book and Dr. Bradley thinks very highly of his own method and isn't afraid to show it, but his husband-coached method really works for us.

The game was over so Ryan started to come looking for me. Chris told him that Mama needed to rest so Ryan put his hands on my cheeks, "Mama." Then he laid down next to me on the floor and fell asleep. Naptime the whole week prior had been such a battle with lots of crying and protesting and screaming. But somehow his little toddler heart knew what his mama needed right at that moment. I know that that moment, that picture of his innocent and caring face with his brown eyes somehow containing compassion beyond his age slowly closing under his curly head of hair will always be with me.

I ate a roast beef and cheese sandwich made by Chris (thanks, Laura and Luke!) and stayed on the floor for his whole nap. My rosary that my friend Aubry brought me home from the Holy Land was clutched in my hand, and I rolled it around in my fingers in between contractions (yep, you guessed it ... I used the same rosary for Ryan). My contractions were still concentrated in my lower back (Glory, back labor!). I started offering up each contraction for various intentions on my mind. Praying and offering up the pain helped an immense amount.

By the time Ryan woke up around two, the peak of the contractions were really intense and much more painful than before, but the spacing of the contractions were still only about four minutes apart. I was so discouraged because I thought we would have met the baby by now. Chris took Ryan to play in the living room, and I followed because staying in our room just didn't seem to be working. However, soon after camping out in the living room I realized that I could no longer be around sound during my contractions. Back to our room, I went. The contractions were no longer of the level that I could handle on my own. I needed Chris to be there.  I texted Alexandra who was graciously taking Ryan while we were at the hospital and told Chris that Ryan had to go now. 

Chris grabbed Ryan's bag and asked if he needed to pick anything up for me to eat. I told him that I didn't want to eat anything. Chris was concerned that I wouldn't have enough strength throughout the rest of labor and to push the baby out because I took so long with Ryan so he kept insisting that I eat something. I told him I would have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich if I had to eat something.

I told Ryan that he was going to play with Peter, Mary Frances and James like I had told him for the past few weeks would happen when I went to the hospital. He kept saying mama and making me cry. Finally, he gave me a kiss and Chris carried him off. I heard the garage door open and close.

And then it started.

Postpartum Bullet Points

We have been home as a family of four for two days now, and it has been pretty blissful. Although, if you hear Ryan the Parrot's latest word, you would think otherwise. "Dan-nit!" doesn't exactly paint a picture of bliss does it? But, it is. We are enjoying a week of almost constant nursing, readings of Baby Bear, Baby Bear, What Do You See?, casual lunches with a baby in arms, casual dinners with a baby in arms, somersaults down Uncle David's old, giant beanbag and renditions of I'm a Little Pee-pot on repeat because well, when else in our life will we get a week straight together like this?

>>> Almost peri, peri bad - I was taking a luxurious shower yesterday morning when through the glass door, I saw Ryan walk into the bathroom. He was just in a diaper (duh), which just adds to the "we definitely have it all together" aura that is oozing from this post. Anyway, I watched him clammer up onto the toilet, and then watched him swipe the peri bottle from its permanent spot on the counter (any mom will understand it is my crutch that first week home).

Stooooooop! That is NOT a water bottle! Chris!!!

Fortunately, he put it down. Chris came in, I told him what happened, and we both laughed which caused Ryan to start crowing, "Joke! Joke! Joke!" otherwise known as his latest trick. 

>>> Ryan loves Conor. A bit too much, if that is possible? Baby! Kiss! Baby! Kiss! Let me put all of my weight on you, little eight and a half pound brother so I can kiss you!

>>> Conor loves nursing. Like brother, like brother. If his lips so much as brush anything, he starts rooting and rooting until Chris uproots and finds him his feeding source.

>>> I am not good at taking naps. I just normally burn the midnight oil and the noon oil until one day I crash. Having Chris at home this week means he forces me to take a nap with Ryan and Conor when Ryan goes down every day. I kind of love it. Maybe I will be a nap convert.

>>> Poor Conor is sporting his first badges of brotherly love and curiosity after Ryan scratched his nose on the ride home from the hospital.

>>> Chris is really good at taking care of us. Thanks, parents-in-law, for making him the oldest of twelve!

>>> Newborn sneezes are awwww-inducing. Newborn sneezes followed by a, "Bwess you!" are let-me-have-a-million-babies-feeling-inducing. 

>>> After-birth contractions are not fun at all. At all.

>>> Ryan still likes to kiss my belly, but that is okay since Kate Middleton brought bellies back. Plus, it's kind of cute.

I know things will get much harder when Chris goes back to work and after my mom leaves and then his mom leaves and the terrible twos come and maybe colic will introduce itself to us. But right now, this second time around with a newborn has been so fun, and we are treasuring it.  Maybe it's because we know in the blink of an eye, Conor will be clammering up onto the toilet to swipe a peri bottle ... but that will be a treasure, too. I kind of love being a parent.

Five Favorites

Happy Wednesday! I'm up late waiting on the diapers to finish washing so I'm linking up with Hallie for Five Favorites. 

1. Grilled PB&J with cinnamon.

On Fridays during Lent in college, our dining hall didn't serve any meat and there were lots of seafood options. I love seafood, but some days I wanted to mix it up. One day, I smothered one of those soft pitas with peanut butter and another with jelly, married the two of them and then plopped them on the panini press. Oh my goodness. Then the next Friday, I saw the cinnamon spice shaker near the toast area and sprinkled some on the PB part of the sandwich before I grilled it. World changed. Everyone should try it! It seriously makes it a luxurious and comforting walk down memory lane. Dinner was just me and Ryan tonight, and he was requesting PB&J so, why not? I grilled my sandwich like you would a grilled cheese since my aversion to dishes includes getting my panini press down from the shelf. Ryan's did not get any grilling treatment because he is quite attached to his open faced sandwich torn up just so each piece has some "delly" on it. 

Favorite 1, part b. check out that jelly pocket. I love pockets in dresses, and I love pockets of jelly in my PB&Js!

2. Baked Sweet Potato Fries with Five Guys' Cajun Seasoning

I Insta-ed these the other day, but I love them so much I had to bring them to blog-land. The last time we went to Five Guys, I asked for the Cajun seasoning on the side since it is too spicy for Ryan, but I could eat a whole large myself. I still have the seasoning so I chopped up a sweet potato, tossed it in cornstarch and olive oil because I read that is the trick to crisping up yummy yams, then baked at 450 degrees for 15 minutes a side. After I pulled them out of the oven, I gave them a generous dusting of seasoning. Give it a try!

3. Ryan's reaction to Chris getting home tonight. 

Happy Dad is home from Katrina on Vimeo.

If you can't tell, he is in a dad phase. 

4. Amazon Prime

A couple of weeks ago, I was supposed to receive my prenatals and my favorite supplement, and it showed up as delivered online. Sadly, I had no clue where the package was even though we had successfully received another package that day. Alexandra came to my rescue to tide me over because she is the sweetest. 

I called Amazon Prime customer service, and it was quite a quality call. They promptly overnighted new prenatals and then refunded me for the Blood Builder because that wasn't fulfilled through them. It was the fastest customer service call ever ... Ryan didn't even have time to become a stage five clinger like he normally does any time I am on a phone call that may be recorded for quality purposes. 

Thank you, Amazon!

5. Chris' weird taste in background movies. 

So far tonight Netflix has played: a documentary on Lord of the Rings, a documentary on zombies and a documentary on the Bermuda Triangle. Thrilling. 

He is mine, ladies! 

The Sober Hangover

You would assume that a sober pregnant woman would never suffer from a crippling hangover. 

Wrong. Never assume.

I was born with a lovely mix of emotions that classify me as sensitive. I need some wellies to wade through the small stream of tears I have cried over the course of my young life. Some of these tears were  understandable, but most would belong in the why-are-you-crying-this-is-a-tv-commercial category.

As a whole, living with a growing baby inside of me for nine months is thankfully easy, but pregnancy in my case, does concoct a dangerous cocktail of emotions and hormones. I would say that normally my emotions would be like a girly trio of a cosmopolitan, a margarita and a piña colada. When my pregnancy hormones are added to my normal emotions, we end up with something that looks like straight vodka + straight tequila + straight rum. Yum, yum. 

On opposite day.

A couple of months ago, Chris chose a movie for us to watch. I thought he was joking about choosing The Road. I, unfortunately, am the queen of complaining about all of Chris' movie choices even though they turn out to be really good 99% of the time so I was determined to be nice for once and not complain ... but I seriously thought he knew better than to choose The Road. Then the movie started and brought the apocalypse to my be-nice-and-quiet goal. 

Do you know what happens in the movie? Just don't watch it. I never read the book, but I knew the storyline because Chris had and relayed the horrific plot since he knew his wife without a reading stomach of steel would never, ever read it. 

I proceeded to sob for two straight hours all while berating Chris incessantly for making me watch it ... and yet I would yell at him if he said he was going to turn it off. Super sane, right here. I brought down the ironing board and ironed my mountain of wrinkly clothes because I had some faulty notion that combining the worst movie ever with my least favorite household task would somehow make the combination better. Smart one, I am. Instead, I just looked like the portrait of an unhappy housewife (which I am not!!). Ironing board, tear-covered face, pregnant. 

Come morning, I looked like the portrait of a college senior suffering from senioritis and the popularity of Four Loko (that pretty much dates my graduation year, ha!).  Baggy eyes, swollen eyelids, pale, and a throbbing headache that cursed me all the livelong day. No amount of water or  Gatorade could drown that cursing sailor of a headache out. All I wanted was salty Ramen. And I didn't even have any fuzzy memories to balance out the hangover.

So this is where my tolerance stands:  

Once again, I do not recommend watching the apocalyptic cocktail of The Road while pregnant unless you have a level of emotional tolerance equivalent to the alcohol tolerance of Indiana Jones' fair Marion. If so, then watch up.

(In Chris' defense, it is a good movie, it just is way too tragic and sad of situation for me to watch. When I was incoherently pondering the reason any sane human would like it, Chris wisely responded that it shows the depth of a father's love. I guess).

She loves me ... she loves me not ...

Ryan has been kind of possessive of me lately. Whenever Chris and I sit next to each other and cuddle (cute or gag? I think cute!) or even if Chris gives me a hug, the whining machine starts whirling around in a fury. This also parallels his inability to consistently grasp the whole sharing concept that is a just a bit important in the whole toddler social scene. 

After Chris declaring every time the whine started to flow that I was his wife and that he was allowed to hug me (and other cheesy stuff!) Ryan has started calling me, "Wife!" whenever he sees Chris lay one on me. He also announces, "Wife!" whenever he sees my wedding and engagement ring. It has been like the priest announcing, "And I now declare you husband and wife!" so I am a fan of his trumpet and fanfare act. You would think that all of that would have buried the hatchet between my two boys?

Well. It seems Ryan decided to go ahead and see if I still loved him past all of this wife business and carried out the preferred tell tale method of true love according to five year old girls:

Mama loves me ... she loves me not ... she loves me ... she loves me not.

Don't worry, I do (unconditional love and all that jazz)... but next time, don't let your plucking game coincide with me swirling your explosive diaper in the toilet.

Five Favorites

Finally linking up again with Hallie for Five Favorites! Hop on over for the link-up's half birthday edition.

I guess these aren't really my five favorites for the week, but more so five favorites in the past month since I have been a slow blogger. 

1. My boys. 
This two-wheeled pack camel came cycling up our driveway at 9am after I slept in last Saturday morning. They had a boys morning and came home with groceries for Oreo dessert, donuts and flowers. You know it has been a good day when you find leftover donut glaze on your arm later in the afternoon. 

(I had started to take Ryan out of his seat so that is why his straps are down and his feet are out of the stirrups!)

2. Google Maps app
This was my best friend for the 38 hours I spent in the car in one week spanning ten states. I can't stand the regular Maps app that comes on the phone, but for some reason,  I didn't download this amazingly helpful and free app until now. I wonder what other apps I am missing out on ... 

3. The diaper look

Hi, my name is Katrina, and I rarely dress my son. I snapped this photo right after we met the new family that moved in next door. I thought I should document their great first impression of my parenting. 

4. Italian family.

Remember when I wrote about the family that invited us over and forever ruined other Italian food for us forever? Chris casually mentioned on Saturday that we were invited to their annual wine party the next day and if I wanted to go. Silly question. 

There were three food tents: one that dished out Italian beef and their homemade Italian sausage (I asked for both on the same sandwich, and the lady working the tent said I was the first one brave enough to ask for that ... if she thinks pregnancy nonchalant eating is brave, then I like her) AND fresh pizza straight out of a pizza oven, one tent for the goodness shown directly above and then one tent for desserts that people brought and probably one hundred bottles of wine! And that was the wine that was out when we were there. As we left, I spotted a whole lamb roasting. They know how to throw a party. 

5. Adorable pregnancy announcement.
Is this not a clever and cute announcement? I love it. I was scrolling through Facebook not really paying attention to it on Sunday when I did a furious back scroll up when I realized I had read the word "announcement" in the photo caption of my friend, Sara. Then I shrieked with excitement. The label is even in their wedding colors. I don't know if it was intentional or not, but this creepy friend remembers that detail. Congratulations to Sara and John! Can't wait for our babies to cheer on the Irish together.