Unzip Me

This is why people can't help but
giggle when I walk into a room.

I do have the intellectual understanding that this baby will be born eventually, but I also have the irrational exhaustion that makes me feel like I will be pregnant until the end of time.

So it is with immeasurable relief that I have received my doctor's permission and agreement to schedule a C-section this week. Someone will go in there and *get* him out of me.

And as you may be able to see from the picture, I am so freaking ready.

I am not keen on scheduling C-sections just to avoid vaginal labor or to protect the sanctity of one's cookie box. That seems like flipping off Mother Nature, and she can be a bitch.

Neither am I keen on Pitocin to induce vaginal labor. Talk about a bitch. I have experienced the kind of contractions that little concoction brings on, and they suck.

But this little bugger inside me is well on his way to being another 9-pounder, just like his brother, and I think once is enough to squeeze out someone that big.

He also is positioned in what's charmingly called "sunny-side up." The back of his head is resting against my spine, which would make labor all the less "sunny" and increase risks to me of horrible things like tearing and blood loss. Speaking of the position of his head, it is nowhere close to where it needs to be in order to go through the magic baby door. (That was the explanation my mother gave me when I asked where babies came from, according to my baby book.)

These things combined with my age, blood pressure roller coaster and history of excruciatingly long labor make me a very good candidate for a C-section.

This makes me a very happy pregnant woman, who soon will be a very happy mother.

With a gnarly scar.

Pillow Talk

A glorious thing happened this morning.

I slept in.

Today is the first day of my maternity leave from work. Technically, I'm burning vacation days, but I am simply ruining the office pool for those who bet that I'd still be at my desk when my water broke. (A police reporter informed me, "If that happens, I just want you to know, I'm not cleaning that shit up.")

On any other given Saturday, I would have woken before the birds and the sun and my entire household and headed to downtown Toledo. I would have had the entire newsroom to myself for a few hours, mostly transferring wayward customers' calls to circulation to discuss the non-delivery of their printed edition of The Blade. Which is a great job for an online editor, btw.

I would be mowing through the moderation list of comments readers had left on our online edition, mostly overnight and apparently drunk. There may be a wreck or a drug bust to write up, but I also may leave it for that grossed-out police reporter. Unlike weekdays with a full newsroom and a steady stream of stories to be posted, weekends are rather slow and one must scour the wire for those long analytic pieces that may have some interest to readers, just to freshen the site for those hoping to leave a few hungover comments. A good two hours can be consumed by preparing the Sunday advances after the presses spit them out, three if the photo or graphic files aren't where they're supposed to be.

Saturday mornings aren't too bad of a shift, but sleeping in is waaaaay better.

So is wandering downstairs and spending some time chatting with my husband on the sun porch while we laugh at the dogs frolicking on the deck. Eating cookies for breakfast.

There's a grocery trip that needs to be made, and I might run some errands with my brother. The recycling bins are overflowing, so I will have all day to nag my husband into taking care of that.

Once/if motivation strikes, I'll tackle the stacks of stuff in the dining room that should be in the nursery, and the basket of stuff cleaned out from the nursery when it was my dressing room that should be in several different drawers and shelves all over the house. But I'm on vacation all next week, so I have plenty of time to do that.

By next Saturday, my schedule likely will be ruled by a squalling infant and sleeping in will be a thing of the past. I'm going to milk it today for all it's worth.

I may even take a nap later.

You Hadn't Better Leave Your Kids Behind

In a Shine blog on Yahoo, the fifth phrase mentioned in a post about "Things Parents Shouldn't Say to Their Kids" is a big pet peeve of mine.

I've overheard plenty of parents at parks and restaurants and libraries threaten their children with: "I'm going to leave without you."

I've always been tempted to respond: "I'm going to take your kid, then."

Really, people? You've got the audacity to admit in public that you're about to do something that should result in a call to Children's Services?

First, never ever ever ever say anything to your children if you don't intend to follow through with it.

Don't say you're going to ground him if he ever does such and such again unless you really will do so. Otherwise, he will come to view you as a paper tiger, and he will have no reasonable expectation of the consequence to prevent him from doing it again.

There was only one time in Gabe's childhood (that I recall) that I knowingly threatened him with a consequence that I never really would have meted out. We had moved to a little cottage house near a set of railroad tracks. Even though the big backyard was fenced in, I had visions of my 4-year-old sneaking through the gate and investigating the oft-used tracks.

"Gabe, if I ever find you anywhere near those train tracks, I will beat you until you can't grow anymore."

His little eyes got round as saucers. I've had never beaten him, of course, and I never shall, but I was putting on a good enough show that he figured I was serious. I wasn't serious about beating him, but I surely was terrified by the thought of his limbs severed or head squashed. He was going to be equally afraid before the day was out.

Other than that, I've refrained from telling him I would throw away his toys if he didn't pick them up or send him to school in dirty clothes if he didn't put them his laundry in the hamper. I wouldn't ever do something like that, so there's no point in lying to him about it.

Second, never ever ever ever tell your children that you are going to do something criminal to them.

OK, so beating to the point of stunting is indeed criminal. But again, I threatened that only once and that was in the scenario of another deadly threat.

In the scenario of trying to get an unwilling child to leave a place when summoned, the threat of legally acceptable physical consequences seems preferable to the psychological torture of abandonment.

I've seen kids thus threatened go chasing after their parents, screaming incoherently in a trail of tears. The parent has gotten what she wanted -- to leave -- but the child has gained emotional scars.

Since he was misbehaving in the first place with his defiance, he obviously already was compromised in his pee-wee brain. Now he has to contend with the horror of being left behind as his parent goes off to whatever safety he knows and leaves him to the wolves.

On the other hand, especially with an older child, getting left behind might just be nirvana. He didn't want to leave in the first place, and now the person demanding that he do so is going to bug out and let him be. That probably sounds pretty good to his pee-wee brain.

Gabe was not prone to tantrums because I had been conditioning his obedience from early on. But if he had refused to leave a public place, I likely would have thrown him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I would rather he cry and rail against his mother's sheer force of will -- which he would come to respect one way or another -- than sob and flail over his mother's cruelty.

If your kid is too big to do this, and you're still dealing with his refusal to leave a place when you tell him it's time to go, I've got news for you: That sure as hell isn't his fault. Don't make yourself look like an even bigger ass of a parent by threatening to leave him behind.

Oh, excuse me, the experts put it like this:

"Don't tell your kids you're going to leave without them. Instead, plan ahead. Chances are high that you've seen your child behave this way before. You know what will trigger a tantrum. What will you say if your child throws a fit or refuses to leave? 'It's okay to identify unacceptable behavior," says Dr. Deborah Gilboa, a family doctor, parenting speaker, and mom of four boys. 'You can tell them it's not acceptable but you have to motivate them with a consequence that you can carry out.'"

My Three Husbands

When I married Dan in Las Vegas,
I think the something "old" might
have been the groom himself, who
was a boyfriend 16 years prior.

No, this isn't an episode of "Big Love."

For those of you keeping track, you may have noticed that I have mentioned three father figures so far.

Yes, yes, I've had three husbands, but don't bother trying to shame me about it. I did that enough to myself and I'm long over it.

I am fortunate to have had three good marriages. True, two of them ended, and there was much sadness and pain involved, but on the whole they were loving experiences. Divorce ends some aspects of the relationship, but it shouldn't obliterate the honor. While not all of the guys are crazy about each other, I maintain friendships and co-parenting of Gabe with each of my ex-husbands.

In a roundabout way, my marital experience actually begins with my current husband, Dan. We met while we were undergrads at Syracuse University, where his philosophy major and my religion major brought us together in a class called -- get this -- "The Ethics of Love."

We dated for a little while but ended up as friends. And we stayed friends, the best of friends, for 15 years while we moved to other places and joined our lives with other people. I had a baby, he went to war, life just happened.

Fifteen years later our paths intersected again, and everything we had been through made it all the more poignant when our hearts were ready to be one again. We got hitched in Las Vegas on May 8, 2010, and fast-tracked ourselves into parenthood. In all likelihood, we conceived in a town called -- get this -- New Hope, which is on the New Jersey-Pennsylvania border. I'm hoping to at least get through our one-year anniversary dinner next week, at the restaurant where he proposed, before I pop this baby out.

Ted and Gabe at Chickamauga
National Military Park.

I don't often think of Dan as a stepfather to Gabe, mostly because my oldest son already had such a good one in Ted, my second husband. Ted and Gabe don't see each other as often as either of them would like, but they keep in touch and exchange gifts on holidays and birthdays. Truthfully, Ted and I share my dog Johnny more often.

Ted and I had about a decade together, in our home and in our profession. We suffered through major flooding events, including a national disaster-level one in 2007, and other joys of homeownership on two journalists' pathetic salaries. He dutifully parented Gabe through youth sports, something I rank slightly above diving into a vat of snot on the enjoyability spectrum, and was there for those milestole family vacation trips. Ted helped Gabe grow from a little boy to an adolescent, and there's no limit to the amount of gratitude I shall always carry for that.

Snuggled in his daddy's arms,
Gabe experiences his first
snow. In Syracuse, that was
probably in September.

I was married to Gabe's dad, another Dan, for like a minute. We too had met at Syracuse, and we were ostensibly engaged during what was supposed to be my last semester there when we found out that I was pregnant. My studies derailed, but Dan had another year to go anyway after changing schools and majors several times, so our little family had its beginnings in central New York while I took another year to get my degree. We soon moved to Ohio to be near my family, and I was able to start my newspaper career.

Dan F. was a loving, attentive, patient baby-daddy. He even survived a poo bomb incident during a shared bath with generally good humor. Gabe was an adorable toddler when we finally got around to marrying, but we quickly realized we were going to be better parents than good mates, and we amicably parted ways in under a year. Dan F. soon found Jackie, who became the world's most amazing stepmother and has been nothing but wonderful to Gabe since the first day she met him. Dan F. remains a loving, attentive, patient father.

It was a great advantage to have four loving parents working together to raise Gabe. It's just me and Dan K. with this incoming one. That will be different, if I'm permitted an understatement here.

"Two times is lucky, third time's a charm," croons folk singer Meg Hutchinson in her song "Can You Tell Me." I certainly do love my charming third husband, more than I ever could articulate, and I'm having the life with him that I dreamed of having when I was a mere 19 years old and hoping he was going to be my first and only. But I feel lucky to have known and loved and lived with Dan F. and Ted too.

Of course, they may be wiping their brows in relief to have escaped me.

Chicago: Big-City Birthday

I'm headed down memory lane again, this time on a family trip to Chicago to mark Gabe's 11th birthday.

The following was originally published on The Courier's travel blog On the Road.

Chicago: Big-City Birthday

In early August 2007, I clambered into the Yukon -- the only leather-padded, reclining way my father was willing to travel -- with one Daddy, one son and four diet Cokes to drive through the night from Whitehouse, Ohio, to Chicago. I have made this trip several times, and I must say: Driving at night with just a few random semi-trucks is the way to go, provided you can stay awake or have the blessed chance to chat with your usually reticent papa for five straight hours.

We descended upon my mother -- in town as a voting member of the ELCA Churchwide Assembly -- at the Hyatt Regency at 151 E. Wacker St. at 3 a.m. like gypsies, complete with brown paper bags under our arms. (I was mortified to discover my father had packed his toiletries in such a manner but was thankful the ungodly hour presented only one pair of valet eyes to behold them. I paid him $5 to keep quiet.)

I would rarely do this, but our hotel really was beautiful: Click here for a slideshow of images, although only the first few showcase the impressive atrium. My son, Gabe, was less impressed. There was no swimming pool anywhere in this sky-scraping multi-towered building, and he was unsuccessful in brow-beating us into paying the "discount" $25 access to an athletic facility a block away just to go swimming.

Gabe and Dad brave the komodo dragon entrance to
Shedd Aquarium, a nod to a 2007 special exhibit.

Instead we took him to Shedd Aquarium, where everything from frogfish to beluga whales were swimming around. The periodic dolphin shows are wonderful, although the aim is more educational science and less theatrical Sea World. The best part about the show in the Oceanarium is the illusion provided by the building's ingenious circular design, situated right on Lake Michigan; the dolphin pool spills over the edge near windows that provide an endless view of water. There are more than just aquatic creatures among the 24,000-plus animals here, including birds, spiders and the weirdest looking shield-tail agama I've ever seen in the Lizards and the Komodo King exhibit. We had a wonderful lunch right there at Shedd's fine dining restaurant, Soundings, which features sustainable seafood and locally grown organic produce. I had the best seat in the house, in the corner with windows that overlooked both the lake and the downtown skyline.

After lunch we headed just down the street to Adler Planetarium, where we tilted our heads back and rested our exploding knee caps during a most instructive lecture on constellations. Admittedly this place held more interest for my son, who turned 11 that very day, than either myself or my dad. Gabe would have gladly stayed there all day, especially once he found the robotic moon rover that visitors can program by computer and then watch roll over rocks and bump into walls.

That's a root beer Gabe is drinking
at the bar at Ditka's restaurant.

But he was turning 11 after all, and such a momentous occasion called for a fantastic experience at Mike Ditka's, the former Bears coach's restaurant. While one does not have to check her ovaries at the door, this is truly a man's man kind of place, with sumptuous yet muted decor, dark wood detailing, and sports-themed artwork everywhere. Waiting for my mother to arrive after a day of national church business, Dad and Gabe sat at the bar sipping scotch and micro-brewed root beer, respectively, while I accidentally spilled the best $12 dirty martini with blue cheese-stuffed olives I've ever had all over my birthday boy. What a milestone -- his first alcohol abuse. Upstairs the attendant in the women's room helped clean us both up, and when we returned to the bar there were complimentary replacement drinks awaiting us, "on the Coach." Upon my mother's arrival, we were comfortably seated in one of the smaller dining rooms and waited on by efficient, courteous staff. We enjoyed pot roast nachos, lobster bisque and steaks even better than our own farm-raised beef. My son ordered, and devoured, calamari and rack of lamb. That's how you celebrate 11.

We would have enjoyed the nearby observatory in the John Hancock building -- one of the five attractions on our City Passes, THE way to do tourist-type things and save money -- but we were too full, too tired and too loaded down with hats and T-shirts from the restaurant gift shop. Instead we chatted with the valet as we waited for our truck, learning that our night was a rare exception to Mike Ditka's typical presence at the restaurant. The fireworks exploding over the city that night weren't really arranged for Gabe's birthday; a display is presented over Navy Pier every Wednesday and Saturday night during the summer.

The next day we visited Field Museum and the most complete T. rex skeleton in the world: Sue. We probably could have spent six or seven days exploring the myriad exhibits here, but we made do with dinosaurs, Egyptian mummies and dirt. Yes, dirt. We were "shrunk" to microscopic size and plunged into a tunnel for a bug's-eye view of what's underground and learned about beetles, roots and conservation.

Gabe admires a stained glass piece
honoring Martin Luther King Jr.

For lunch, we went to Navy Pier via water taxi, providing a welcome breeze and water spray in such sweltering heat. We took "Gotta Go" there and "Wai Wai" on the way back; after seeing another boat named "Andale," I suppose the whole fleet is christened for whatever means "get me there quick." We met my mother for yummy fare at Riva's Cafe and then enjoyed a stroll through the magnificent Smith Museum of Stained Glass Windows. We shopped a little, but it was mostly overpriced tourist kitsch and we bypassed it all.

While Dad rested at the hotel, Gabe and I walked across the Chicago River to the Tribune Tower, one of my personal must-sees in the Windy City. Designed to be the "most beautiful office building in the world" in a 1922 contest, its cathedral silhouette is formed with stones plucked from famous sites all over the world. But more importantly, carved into the walls of the newspaper lobby are several quotes pertaining to the freedom of the press and the importance of watching one's government like a junkyard dog. I made Gabe read every single one.

We then flitted down Michigan Avenue, the "Miracle Mile," the Land of Serious Shopping. We picked up some birthday gifts at the Lego store, which was impressively stacked with life-sized statues of R2-D2 and Darth Vader made completely from Lego bricks, and a thank-you gift at Hugo Boss for our family farm sitter tending dogs, cats, goats and "all creatures, great and small."

As only an 11-year-old boy can, Gabe fixates on the plop
of poop a Lego bird left on this Lego man's jacket.

We then bid my mother adieu and headed back east, regrettably through daytime traffic and construction delays. Chicago is a notorious pain to navigate, but I have been remarkably lucky -- and decidedly aggressive while driving a big truck -- and have always gotten through there just fine.

My only caveat: This was an expensive trip. Apart from the elevated train, which my father wasn't about to get on, or walking, which my father wasn't capable of doing, getting around town is pricey, especially when you're using the valet everywhere you go. At least the water taxi was fun too. But such an expense is SO much better than driving around trying to find a parking place. We of course took the standard tourist approach to the city, which is solely purposed for making a lot of money, but it was an easy way to keep three generations happy at once. I've hung out in Chicago before with far fewer funds and still had a good time, but I'm glad to have had this kind of experience as well.

Still, it's only a teeny fraction of what Chicago has to offer. Art museums can be one vacation all to themselves. Funky ethnic neighborhoods, lake cruises, sporting events and deep dish pizza are also signature experiences. Gabe has decided that each double-digit birthday (11, 22, 33, etc.) should be declared a "Big City Birthday," and I bet he just might find himself in Chicago again one day. I hope we're invited.