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

Stuck in the past. And loving it.

My day job is anything but boring. Whether attributed to my co-workers or the various writing assignments -- usually both -- I genuinely look forward to coming to work every day. That being said, having something even MORE fun to look forward to is the icing on the cake.

I recently became acquainted with online radio on my computer at work. Specifically, a selection of streams playing nothing but hits from the 80s.

Ahhh. My people.

I have been treating myself to some pretty fabulous ear candy -- The Cure, Depeche Mode, the occasional musical styling from Morrisey/The Smiths. It's brilliant. Of course, there are THOSE songs from the Big 80s that make you cringe, but you love them anyway. George Michael (extra bonus points if it's a Wham! song), Madonna, Terence Trent D'Arby... even one-hit wonders like Scritti Politti, Matthew Wilder or Charlie Sexton. Then there are the songs you hear, may not particularly care for, but they bring back such a rush of bittersweet teen memories, you just have to keep listening. Case in point, I just sat through Billy Idol's rendition of "Mony, Mony." Never been a big fan of that one, but it was played at each and every Friday night sock hop we had in high school. (Of course it was a crowd favorite, given the ad libbed lyrics everyone shouted. Everyone but me, that is. Not that I considered myself too prudish to join in; but it was a fairly crass statement.) But I digress... I cannot hear that song without pausing to remember dancing with my friends for two solid hours in the gym, glad the week was over and having the entire weekend before us.

Not long ago, I was radio channel surfing in my car, and paused upon hearing one of my favorite songs from the 80s. Imagine my surprise when the station ID followed the song, and I realized it was playing on the local "oldies" station. Apparently, they had refreshed their playlist to cover said "oldies" spanning the 70s and 80s, rather than the 50s, 60s and 70s as they had before. Oldies were ... well, ... OLD. Surely the favorite music from my teenage years cannot be considered old ... ? Then I remembered how each and every week when I read the entertainment section of the Sunday paper, and glance through the top 10 hits I rarely recognize any song, let alone the artists themselves.

So, I've come to accept the fact that I have become desperately out of touch, and it's perfectly fine with me. I guess my musical growth period topped out somewhere around the late 80s/early 90s. Maybe I just figured the music couldn't get any better, so I decided to stay put.

That's OK. Bring on the 389 different "Hits of the 70s, 80s and 90s" streams online. I'm all ears.

Hi! Remember me?!

For the four or so people who actually read this blog, HELLO THERE! IT'S ME! REMEMBER ME? THE PERSON WHO USED TO WRITE THIS BLOG??

It's been so long. Too long. I'm guilty of letting life get in the way of, ... well, everything.

So, I'm using February 4 as something of a "turn over a new leaf" day. Which is sort of sad when you consider some people haven't even abandoned their New Year's resolutions yet. I wish I could say I've had some marvelously interesting, exciting new "something" that's been keeping me from writing. Nope. Just staying afloat between work and home -- trying to stay one step ahead of things. Maybe I'm simply anticipating being out of commission for a few weeks after 03/14 (which is officially "BABY DAY 2009," unless he has another plan in mind to make an early debut). I know I will be doing nothing except healing, nursing, sleeping, eating, ... healing, nursing, sleeping, eating,... and so on. Perhaps I'm trying to both mentally and physically prepare for the required "down time." Who knows. All I know is that my intentions have been fully-geared to writing every day, even if it doesn't actually get done.

It's difficult to keep a firm grasp on the bigger picture when some days the small details start to obscure the view. I'm guilty of getting mired down with small worries (and some big ones) when this is supposed to be one of the happiest times to experience. I need to remember to focus on the facts: I have a wonderful husband who is there for me in so many ways with his love and support ... we have a beautiful family of five wonderful kids and we're ready to welcome one more ... we (along with our extended family) are healthy and happy ... we live within our means, making every attempt to find a way to enjoy perks within our financial boundaries ... I am blessed to have a few very close friends -- women who have shown me what true friendship is, and I hope I am returning the same to them.

Yes,... focus on the facts. See the big picture. Know that it's all good, and don't dwell on the problems. They will be resolved without the benefit of worrying.