March 27

When you live in the Midwest -- home of the most temperamental, fickle weather EVER -- you get to enjoy a day like this on your first day of spring break. That is, if your family is skipping the whole "load-up-the-car-and-hit-the-road" fiesta. And they're not all staring off into nothing ... I'm sure some sporting event was on TV. Little else could capture their attention so well.

Note the shorts and basketball, which is proof that the weather was somewhat mild. Of course, now as I post this (just two days later) our weather forecast is calling for rain and snow. Ugh.

Just... needed... a... break...

Last night, I had the rare occasion of being all by myself at home. Well, Bobby was with me, but when he's sleeping there's really little to no demand for my attention. I slumped into the pillows on the sofa, reveling in the fact that it was quiet. And we're talking "pin-drop" quiet -- no one running in or out the front door, no thump-thump-thump of kiddos running up and down the stairs, no extra noise anywhere.

I had originally thought I'd do my civic duty and watch President Obama's press conference on television. I even went as far as tuning in (albeit a smidge late) and tried to catch up to whatever he was talking about. And then it happened... my brain officially fried itself. Not that Obama was taxing my cognitive abilities -- I was just done with having to listen/comprehend anything. I needed something mindless. And funny. Funny would be good, too.

A few flips of the remote later, and I found back-to-back episodes of "Will & Grace." Ahhh. Perfection. I had been quite the HUGE W&G fan back in the day, and discovered how much I miss being entertained, especially by that particular cast. I love Eric McCormack and Debra Messing, but the combo of Megan Mullaly and Sean Hayes as Karen and Jack will reduce me to fits of hysterical laughter. And tear. Usually both.

As I sat there smirking, giggling and nearly laughing out loud throughout the show, I almost felt a little guilt that I wasn't tuning in to hear what our nation's leader had to say about the sucky economy among other things. But you know what? In the time of sucky economy and financial industry fat-cats with no conscience, maybe a little comedy isn't a bad thing. It makes us realize, Hey... times may be tough, but if we can still laugh, things can't be that bad, right? Laughter is free and makes us feel good.

And if you'd seen Jack McFarland dancing back-up for Jennifer Lopez last night, you'd know EXACTLY what I mean. :)

Happy Birthday, Bobby!

OK. So it's nearly three weeks after the fact, but here he is. Robert Edward Cameron was born Sunday, March 1, 8:10am. He weighed 6 lbs., 10 oz. and measured 19.5".

The surgery went off without so much as a hiccup, and Uncle James (Jeff's brother) was there to help out. (Yes, he's a doctor -- not, like, a teacher with nothing better to do on a Sunday morning.) Anyway, I don't remember the names of all the medical professionals on the job with us that morning or throughout the week, but I want to publicly thank the anesthesiologist for a spinal that didn't hurt a bit. I'm not kidding... having a needle poked into your back is never something to look forward to, but Dr. Lu made it literally pain free. Dr. Wheeler brought his usual sense of humor to the OR that morning, putting everyone at ease and calming my nerves ... even though I'd been through this particular drill before. Twice, in fact.

Comic relief came later that day and in the following days because as Jeff was there at the hospital with me, he would periodically visit the family lounge for a diet Coke or snack. As he walked the halls, at least one nurse would either comment or mistake him for James. (They're identical twins.) By the time Wednesday afternoon rolled around, and we were ready to leave for home, there was still one or two nurses who ran into the room with the now familiar exclamation, "I didn't know Dr. Cameron had a brother!"

All the nurses were great. In fact, just after surgery wrapped up, the nurses allowed James to escort not only my parents, but Jack, Charlie, Sam, Tyler and Kate back to the recovery room to visit us. A few at a time, of course, so as not to border on a riot crowd. As if our immediate family isn't large enough, we also had out-of-town visitors who had attended my baby shower the day before. At one point, after having returned to my room, I think we had 13-14 people in there. Everyone was standing quietly ... just staring at the baby as I held him. The six younger kids encircled my bed, looking at the little pink bundle in the baby blue knit cap sitting next to me. "What does he do?" one asked. "You're looking at it," I responded. And they were all OK with that.

Since coming home on the 4th, we have taken our time getting used to having an infant around again. With Sam being the youngest at 7, it's been quite a while since I've had to change a diaper or decipher a cry pattern. Jeff's youngest is Kate, who turns 15 tomorrow ... talk about a good chunk of time passing since HE'S changed a diaper. I think everything's come back to us quite nicely. We haven't had any major lapses in judgement, other than underestimating just how adorable newborn babies can be. We have done our fair share of staring ... just staring at this amazing little man we call Bobby. He doesn't do a whole lot, except melt our hearts with every stretch, grimace and contented sigh.

Sock it to me

Last night, amid the other usual loads of laundry, I manged to squeeze in the basket of baby clothes that had been loitering in Sam's room. As I loaded the washer, I marveled at how many it seemed to hold in comparison to the "big clothes" the rest of us wear and wash. I know the baby isn't going to exactly be debuting on a red carpet anytime soon after Sunday, but the little guy certainly needs at least a few freshly laundered onesies, blankets and socks. I tossed a handful of tiny socks into the washer, remembering sage advice from a friends of mine years ago -- get a lingerie bag (the kind with a zipper) and wash them in that... you'll never lose any socks. I laughed. The thought of trudging back upstairs to retrieve said lingerie bag in my bathroom was almost unbearable. I'll just remember it next time, I thought to myself. Besides, I'm right here to move the clothes to the dryer and then take them up to fold. How could I possibly lose anything?

Fast forward an hour or so, and there I am sitting on the bed folding clean, soft, warm onesies, sleepers, blankets and socks. Now, you have to understand, Jeff and I have sort of an ongoing joke about how much we both detest the "sock sorting" chore of the laundry. With five white-athletic-sock wearing men in the house -- two adults, three boys -- there is always a huge pile of socks to be matched. Inevitably, I end up with a handful that have no mates. Up until this past weekend, I kept a plastic shopping bag filled with unmatched socks--when I found a solo sock lying around, I immediately grabbed the bag and pawed through it, searching for its friend. Finally, it occurred to me that no one had been complaining about not having enough socks, even with the large number I'd saved in the bag. I made an executive decision while leading the "purge" this past weekend and pitched the bag of mismatched socks. Strange as it may sound, the action was liberating. But I digress...

So, there I am finishing the baby clothes and begin matching teeny, tiny socks -- and I realize I have four without mates.

In the immortal words of Homer J. Simpson... "D'OH!"

It's GO TIME ... well, close enough.

So, the weeks have turned into months, and the months have turned into, well... almost 9. It's just about time for this little creature (or "alien" as he's often called in our "Sci-Fi-loving" household) to make his debut. Prior to last Thursday, we had decided on March 14 as the C-S date. I have to admit, as a writer, I tend to shun anything math-related -- but I thought it was funny to have the baby on 3.14, thus calling him our little "Pi Baby." Then the OB weighed in on the situation last week, airing some valid concerns (nothing life-threatening or otherwise dramatic, but concerns nonetheless) saying "waiting until the 14th is unrealistic."

What?! What was that loud rushing noise? That would be all the air being sucked from the room.

We were turned loose from the appointment with an assignment to look at our calendars and find a new date that will work. An earlier date. A date much sooner than 3.14. Not that it's all about OUR convenience, but having the "luxury" of planning a birth date for the baby allowed Jeff to juggle his work schedule and arrange vacation/personal days in such a way that I'd have him around to help for several weeks after surgery. Now, with the date moved up, there was an alarming gap of time -- say, two weeks or so -- where he is scheduled to work, THEN have a few weeks off. That's nice and all, but having help immediately after surgery is way better than after the fact. You know, when you feel like you've just been sawed in half and had the equivalent of a bowling ball removed from your mid-section.

I think we've managed to work things around, but now the new date is March 1. As in six days from now. Six SHORT days from now. This has launched me into a fierce prep mode, which a few friends have perceived as "nesting." I've always seen "nesting" as a cute, maternal rite of passage where the expectant mom waddles around the house, washing onesies, folding and putting them away with a light, loving touch.

Me? Not so much. Oh, I waddled around the house,... but it was more high-speed. Like someone was chasing me with a chainsaw. I spent a majority of Saturday evening doing laundry, while Jeff was at work. But that was just to catch up on what we normally have lying around in a (current) family of seven. If we fall behind at this point, someone is going to be going naked next week. Yesterday afternoon and evening my pet project was two-fold: 1.) pull all the boys' outgrown, summer clothes and get them boxed for the consignment store; 2.) pull entire maternity wardrobe and box up a majority of clothing I will no longer need after Sunday. (Oh, I'm no fool... I kept out all those loose, roomy jeans/sweats.) I have to admit, though, I was practically giddy with anticipation at being able to wear at least a few pieces from my pre-pregnancy wardrobe. For the better part of eight hours, I sorted, folded, boxed or hung clothing. And it wasn't as if anyone else could help with this project -- it was all up to my discretion and I knew which consignment stores were getting which articles of clothing. But now, however, I have a few distinct piles of clothing nearly ready to get the hell out of the house. :)

The next few days will be filled with tending to last-minute details, and I even have another baby shower to look forward to on Saturday (talk about getting THAT in under the wire!). But, if all goes well (i.e., providing I don't go into actual labor before then!) come Sunday morning we will welcome a beautiful, healthy baby boy to our family. Still a bit hard to fully grasp the concept, and we haven't decided 100 percent on a name (it's down to two), but he will be warmly-welcomed and much-loved.

Just... you... wait...

This is Sid.
Sid just had a bath.
Sid is mad.
Mad may be an understatement.

I have made it known on many occasions that I have never really been a "cat person." I owned a cat once, for something like two hours. It was a Siamese kitten (the last to leave its mother) who howled and sought comfort in my parent's old console television. Yes, inside the television. The howl was disturbing. After finally liberating the cat from the inside of the television, I decided rather than make a two-hour drive back from their house with a howling, neurotic kitten in my car, we returned it back to its mother. Pronto. I all but vowed right then and there I'd never call myself a cat-owner again. Ever. Period.

Then I met Sid.

There is just something about this cat that makes him... well,... cool. I don't know if it's his coloring or his attitude. Who knows. Maybe it's the way he pairs up well with our dog, Buddy. (Both Buddy and Sid were pictured peacefully coexisting in yesterday's post.) If anyone has ever read the comic strip "Get Fuzzy," and you are familiar with the dynamic between Bucky Katt and Satchel, then you have the basics of Sid and Buddy's relationship. Sid is so Bucky (only without the fang), and Buddy is so Satchel. Making this connection has boosted our ever-present enjoyment of these two animals in our house. They were a bit wary of each other at first, and I can't say I'd blame Sid one bit. I mean, there he is, just minding his own business... then BOOM! There's a huge, dopey Lab following him around. They gradually warmed to each other, and even began trading food bowls -- yes, we had a dog that ate cat food and a cat that ate dog food. How cute. (Side note: the vet said it wouldn't hurt either one of them. Who knew?)

By now, Buddy and Sid have worked themselves into a groove of peace and acceptance. Sid does get in his "frisky" moods, where he plans and executes surprise attacks on unsuspecting Buddy. The attacks are quite funny, made even more adorable by the fact that Sid has no front claws, yet feverishly swats at Buddy's tail as if he's fully-armed. This sends us into fits of laughter, which probably infuriates Sid.

So, I can finally not only call myself a cat-owner, but I am quite smitten with this temperamental ball of silvery-grey fur. Like I said, there's something about him that just makes you want to like him. This theory has been all but scientifically proven by my own mother, who, to my knowledge, has NEVER liked a cat in her entire life. Within, like, five minutes, of meeting Sid, he was curled up in her lap. Purring. And she was fine with it.

Peacefully Coexisting