The Emergency

(taken from www.smittenkitchen.com)

If you've been pregnant, you know that there are several occasions that could be considered, "The Emergency", aside from the obvious delivery day.  Everything's heightened to red alert when you're carrying another human being.  A trip to the bathroom simply can't be put off.  Sitting down cannot be postponed.  And when the inhuman hunger strikes, you must eat.  And you must eat now.  Or you might die.  Or someone will die.  Like, whoever is standing in the way between you and the closest form of nourishment.  Morning/Afternoon/Evening sickness has taught me well how to read the hunger "Emergency" before it, in fact, becomes a "puke all over the kitchen floor" emergency and these little, handy snacks have been privately dubbed by me as, "The Pregnant Emergency Bar".

I'm a food blog stalker, and I've mentioned several times before that my all-time favorite blog to haunt is www.smittenkitchen.com.  Deb's candid banter, simple recipes and delicious pictures of both her food and her toddler never cease to bring a smile to my day and some new inspiration for dinner.  My sister-in-law and I have been making these granola bars http://smittenkitchen.com/2010/02/thick-chewy-granola-bars/ for almost exactly a year now, and though we vary in ingredient preferences ( she swears by peanut butter and pretzels, I love almond butter and shredded coconut- alright, and the occasional chocolate chip) we both conclude that are the most fabulous, homemade snack we've come across.  A delightful, lifesaving discovery since pregnancy has been uncovering their magical powers to stop, "The Emergency" dead in it's tracks as well.

The combination that I've found works the best for, "The Emergency" has been:
Dried Cherries/or Cranberries
Shredded, Toasted Coconut
Toasted Almonds
Sunflower seeds
Almond Butter
Honey
Maple Syrup (in place of the 2 TBS of Corn Syrup)
And, "the occasional chocolate chip or two"

But, obviously, you can use whatever you like or have in your pantry.

The Optimistic Pessimist

  I'm not an optimist.  My dishwasher begins making noise, I automatically insinuate that "there goes 200 hundred bucks to get someone to fix it only to have him tell us we need a brand new one we could've gotten for a hundred and fifty".  My husband had only to open the door and find an olive pit stuck in the wiring that was causing the problem.  The forecast says snow, I assume our school district will never cancel, and I will be stuck at 7:30 a.m., eight months pregnant on the side of the parkway waiting for a trooper to pull over and dig me out.  My Mom says she has a doctor's appointment, I hear "cancer".  Rich has resorted to telling me that if I were to have a super-hero name, it would be Worst Case Scenario Woman.

Pregnancy brings on a whole slew of pessimistic qualities I never knew I had.  I have assumed we will go penniless and be unable to pay our mortgage due to my leave from work.  At any given time during the day, I am under the belief that there is something wrong with the baby because she is not moving enough or too much.  I have accepted the 46 hour, agonizing labor as my fate based upon nothing other than my opinion that everything I experience must, indeed, be difficult.

Some people may be under the impression that it is much better to resort to this way of thinking because at least you'll never be disappointed- just pleasantly surprised if something less than catastrophic occurs.  I will not judge you if you fall in that category.  But, lately, with the arrival of said child quickly approaching, and the reading and re-reading of a book that changed my life ( which you should buy: http://www.amazon.com/Running-Scared-Fear-Worry-Rest/dp/0978556755) I am profoundly struck by the importance of the transformation that comes from the "renewing of my mind", to "set my mind on things above"  and not to "be anxious for anything".  These are the things I want my daughter to believe.  So, with that in mind, I am desperately trying to overlook the aches and pains and awkwardness of these last few weeks (this week marks the end of my 31st week!) and focus only on the blessings of the things I am looking forward to in the coming months.  Culminated in an on-going list, of course.

I CANT WAIT TO...

1.  See my feet without having to bend all the way over
2.   Eat tomato sauce without it radiating all the way back up my esophagus
3.  Hear my husband sing lullabies to my girl, just like he does for me:)
4.  Take Ellie outside for a walk and get a latte while she's still little enough for me to tote around
5.  Take a ridiculous amount of pictures of Ellie doing normal, boring things like every first time parent does
6.  Watch commercials or movies or television shows without crying
7. Have conversations without crying
8.  Do just about anything without crying
9.  Be able to sit straight up in bed in order to get out, not have to roll over and out
10.  Have a martini.  There, I said it.
11.  Plant my garden while Ellie watches from the patio
12.  Watch how one little girl brings families together
13.  Trade my life for every whimper and whim of the baby for my body back
14.  Wear pants without elastic waist bands
15.  Purchase clothes without "motherhood" on the tag
16.  Hold this little being who's been growing inside of me for what seems like forever
17.  See how God will work out all things for good, because that's what He promised- and if I want my girl to believe that, she's gotta learn it from me.
18.  Sushi.  I will be eating an obscene amount of sushi.  Try and stop me.
19.  Have a blessed opportunity to have several months off to get to know my daughter and myself as a Mom
20.  See who Rich and I will be as parents

I will be adding to the list, and if you can think of things, add them, too.  I'm excited to cover these last few weeks with prayers of hope, peace and love as we wait to meet our daughter, but God knows sometimes I need a little help in the optimistic department.

Cravings

DSC_0033, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

Everyone loves to know what a pregnant woman craves. In fact, my husband considered it a rite of passage when he had to make a late night run to find shrimp cocktail and Italian Wedding Soup. Don't ask me how he found them both at 9 at night but upon returning home you would have thought he had won the World Series, brandishing shopping bag proudly in hand. I am, probably, one of the most boring people to ask this question. I loved both ice cream and pickles (separately, of course) long before a little Shannon was in the works. But, since it seems to be a much anticipated inquiry, I thought I'd outline food preferences that have risen to the occasion during the incubation of said child.

1. Before Ellie, I did not eat red meat and if I did, it would have to be burned and gray and completely unappetizing looking without a trace of pink. Now, you could probably serve it raw and you might have to fight me to lick the plate. Totally weird.

2. Before Ellie, I hated bananas. Banana bread, banana muffins, banana pancakes, banana smoothies- even the fake banana flavored candy was cause for disdain. Now, I eat one with breakfast. Every day. And if I don't have one, I get really cranky. Trust me.

3. I, currently, put strawberries in/on everything. In my salads, in my yogurt, on my ice cream- everything. Very odd considering that the strawberry was my least favorite berry.

4. I have always loved dark chocolate- being pregnant just seems to have accelerated this taste. Unfortunately.

5. All icy confections anywhere from italian ice to ice cream to ice pops are high in demand- even in the middle of winter. Waddling all the time makes you so thirsty.

That's really about it- aside from the occasional turkey sub or mozzarella stick craving, I'm a fairly boring pregnant lady. However, if I start putting hot sauce on my chocolate cake or rolling my pickles in powdered sugar, you'll be the first to know.

Mrs. Shannon

DSC_0532, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I've been writing "Mrs. J. Shannon" on the insides of notebooks, the backs of books and on crumpled, diner napkins for approximately eleven years. When I first fell in love with Rich Shannon he had bleach blonde hair, a fabulous 90's goatee, a tie-dyed Beatles tee-shirt and Birkenstocks. I was solidly in the pink tank top, jean short, tons of bracelets and sweatshirts with local band names camp. Still, we somehow managed to rise above our fashion differences and culture clashes and see something in one another that we had yet to find anywhere else.

Many phone calls after baseball practice, visits to the ice cream store his parents owned, our first date to see "Gladiator" in the theater (he swears it wasn't a date, but it was-he paid, picked me up and tried to hold my hand. Clearly a date) moves to different states, different significant others, different lives planned later, when I sat down at the end of the day, it was still Mrs. Shannon on my notebook. God ordained it from the beginning.

Being a high school English teacher can occasionally make me sick of hearing my name over and over again. "Mrs. Shannon....Mrs. Shannon...." I hate that it's sometimes so easy for me to forget how much I longed for someone to call me by that name.

I am more than proud to be Mrs. Shannon. To have married the man who coached more than 50 young boys dedicatedly, tenderly and fatherly over the course of 4 years and loved it so much he did it for free. The one who has made me my morning coffee every day for the last five and half years just the right way- cream, no sugar. Who does all my laundry. And folds it. And doesn't shrink anything. Who goes to a job everyday that he less than loves so that he can provide for the life we've built together. Who sings to me and our daughter and teaches the both of us what worship really means. Who is a constant encourager, a support and a reminder of God's faithfulness.

I love being Mrs. Shannon.

D-Day

Around this time in one's pregnancy (Helllllloooooooo week 31, we're getting closer!), the most common topic of chatter amongst the women surrounding you is the big D-day.

Delivery.

People love to share their horror stories, philosophies, beliefs and opinions concerning the matter.  I have sat through an in-depth description of a 36 hour labor resulting in 50 stitches that not even a sitz bath with the healing powers of the Jordan River could soothe- by a complete stranger.  Thanks, lady.  That's so encouraging. I've listened attentively and interested to the outline of a difficult, but rewardingly natural home birth surrounded by family and friends.  I've nodded appreciatively when a woman told me that a c-section was the best decision of her life because it saved her son- and to another, who believed it was the most unnecessary, horrific experience she's ever had.  I was told sex was so much better/worse after delivery, that I will lose the weight quickly if only I breastfed or ate nothing but strawberries and yogurt or meditated an hour a day.  Or that I had better get used to the love handles because they'll never go away unless I make an appointment with a plastic surgeon- would I like his number, by the way? That I will never sleep again.  Ever.

And after all of that unsolicited (but genuine and well-meaning) information, their testimonies are always followed by the question,

"And, what's your birth plan?"

Then, I calmly take a deep breath, smile, and explain.  I don't have one.

No, I'm not crazy.  I'm not naive- well, being a first time mom you certainly can't help a bit of naivety since it's an experience I've never had before, but I am not uninformed, I should say.  Rich and I have experienced much in the last year, in which God has taught us lessons in epic proportions- the most important one being, we are not in control.  Losing a baby and gaining a baby all in the same year makes it very clear that in the long run, my "plan" doesn't really matter.  I can be as prepared as possible, of course, and I can have preferences- but as for a plan? Not me.  I don't do that anymore.

The truth is,  this child is a gift.  Not one that I had planned at all.  Which leads me to believe, that God really does know and plan the best after all. Why mess with that?

 Would I like to be able to have a safe, short, natural birth? Yes.  Am I planning on it? No.  Ultimately, the only elements I want present on the day of Ellie's arrival is the calm, peace, and joy that come from knowing that I have a God who has everything under control.  How she enters the world much like how she was conceived, is entirely up to Him.

This little piggy...

I have a pair of red, worn leather ballet flats with a lovely, little knobby plum colored button at the top held together by adorable stitching.  They are my "bad day"shoes.  If I knew a day was going to be particularly awful, I'd don those shoes and trudge half- heartedly through the rain/snow/dirty puddles by curbs with the knowledge that at least my feet were prepared to rise to the occasion.    Can I tell you that if pregnancy doesn't teach you the truest meanings of humility and sacrifice, you're made of different stuff than I.

Over the years from my freshman year in college to before I got pregnant, I have gained and lost about 20-25 pounds approximately three times, at least.  However, no amount of waffles and ice cream ever prevented me from wearing those shoes.  My appendages remained the same, tiny size no matter how my waistline expanded or contracted.  Until now.

My feet have suddenly unearthed and proclaimed their Fred Flintstone ancestry.  My toes are so swollen with fluid, I'm sure if ever I were shipwrecked I'd have no need to "grab the cushion that acts as a floatation device".

I. Have. Cankles.

Cankles, for goodness sake.

My doctor was so gracious today in telling me that I might want to be a little more careful about what I ate without exactly telling me how much I weigh ( he finally learned), and I couldn't even flash my red shoes at him in denial.  I can't get them on past my piggy toe.

Sigh.  I know my shoes will be there after the swellings gone down, waiting for me.  I know that when I hold my girl, and she's pink and screaming and wonderful I will not care that I was unable to wear my favorite shoes for the last 2 months that I carried her.  I know.

But after a day of arguing with teenagers, figuring out maternity leave paperwork, breaking up fights, eating a terrible salad for lunch (which obviously does nothing so I'm going to stop torturing myself), being weighed in like cattle and watching numbers climb into the "where no woman has gone before" territory, I really could have used a little red shoe boost instead of this little piggy crying all the way home.  

Air Supply

I rolled out of bed this bed this morning (since I can't really "sit up" any longer) and stood in front of the closet to pick out my clothes for the day when I noticed this heinous, panting noise emanating from somewhere terribly close by.  

Oh, it's me.  

It's apparently not enough to waddle, but I must now wheeze like a bulldog.  Pregnancy is beautiful.