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This post is slightly overdue, but the news is in: our baby on the way is a LITTLE GIRL!!!

We are soooo excited.  I had previously said I’d be happy with either a boy or a girl- healthy and sweet-natured was all I cared about- but the truth is I was secretly hoping for a little lady this time around.  My whole life I’ve wanted one of each, which is exactly what I’m getting!  And since this pregnancy has been no walk in the park, there’s a very good chance it’s my last.  So a baby girl after my baby boy couldn’t be more perfect.

When I was 12 weeks along, we had a routine ultrasound to rule out the risk of chromosomal abnormalities.  Not only did our little peanut look perfect, but our ultrasound tech offered us an added bonus— a guess at the gender! She quietly froze the screen, inspected it, zoomed in, and proclaimed with 75% certainty that we had a girl on the way. We were immediately overjoyed.  We hit the pink section at baby Gap, went to lunch to celebrate, and began sharing the news with family and our closest friends.

But a few days later, a small degree of doubt began to creep in.  Could it be that I was really so lucky to get exactly what I wanted in a family?  No one gets everything they want, and I was already so fortunate to have a totally devoted hubby, my sweet Otis, and healthy baby on board. I started going rounds in my head, needing further confirmation, and then beating myself up for focusing on the gender, something I had no control over and shouldn’t matter anyway. Waiting until my 20 week anatomy ultrasound seemed impossible— it was almost two months away! So I decided the easiest way to put my mind at ease would be to go for an elective ultrasound at almost 15 weeks.  Perfectly safe, another sweet peek at our peanut, and, with baby’s cooperation, up to 99% certainty at the gender.   

Well, there was no 75% tease this time.  There was our little girl, shy at first, but then letting us see that she clearly is, a she.  The thing I remember most was her little profile, which (call me crazy) already seems different, even daintier, than O’s prenatal pics.  I simply cannot wait to meet this sweet girl come March.

Now, Otis is in a very unique position.  On my side of the family, he seems doomed to be the only boy forever.  I am one of three girls, my mom has one sister, and my superaunt Linda has two daughters— ages 7 and 10, who always have dozens of girlfriends around.  He lunges for either Kedric or my uncle Brad seemingly out of desperation at our family get-togethers! But the funny thing is, on Kedric’s side of things, he is just one of a long line of little boys.  SEVEN have been born in the last three or four years, and O is just one of the pack.  Unfortunately, his male cousins are strung out from here to Alaska (literally), so hopefully as these boys grow up, the reunions will be fun and frequent.

Family really is what it’s all about.  It’s given me a purpose and a place on this Earth I never knew I had.  Playing this role in my family’s growth is truly the biggest honor that I could’ve received, and I plan on cherishing every moment with these sweet little people I get to raise. 

The suspense is killing me.

During my first pregnancy, I was adamant (early on, anyways) that I wanted the sex of my baby to be a surprise.  I had visions of Kedric bursting into a hospital waiting room to tell our family, “IT’S A….”, and assumed I’d have no problem planning-wise. White, white, and more white was what I wanted for bedding and clothing.  But as usual, the powers that be and my little Otis had other plans.

During an ultrasound at 13 weeks, while Keds and I were rendered speechless by the sweet profile and kicking legs of our little one, our future breakdancer produced a huge pelvic thrust that sent things flying forward.  We exchanged a wide-eyed look; it was obvious we’d seen the same thing.  I’d originally told the tech that I didn’t want a guess at the gender, but now we had to ask. She said yes, she was sure of the sex, smiled, and would we like to know?  Still unsure, I told her no, but asked if she would write it down for me to look at, if I so decided.  At the end of the ultrasound, she handed me a sealed envelope with another smile and wished us luck.

I clearly remember standing in the parking lot outside, blinking in the sun, looking up at Kedric. Neither of us said a word, the envelope weighing down my arm like an anchor. “Well,” ventured Keds. “Should we look?”

“Not here.”

“Where then?”

We decided to take the envelope to a bluff above Fisherman’s Cove, not far from our little Laguna home. It is an idyllic spot, with tall grass, yellow and purple flowers, and waves crashing right below.  It also happens to be where Kedric proposed. We arrived in what seemed to be a flash, the envelope sitting heavy on my lap the whole time.  We ambled down the narrow path to the edge of the cliff, and stopped in the spot where Kedric got down on one knee.  There was a brief moment of panic and second-guessing.  

“Are we sure we’re reading to know?”

“Well, are you?”

“I am.  Are you going to be disappointed either way?”

“No. Are you?”

“Just open it.”

I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a small ultrasound snapshot.  The tech had drawn an arrow and written three letters that changed my life forever. BOY.

I felt my heart drop to my knees, and felt tears well up in the corners of my eyes.  Every sweet emotion ran through me, and I pictured a little towheaded kid, running up to me in footed pajamas, clambering up onto my lap, and resting his head against my chest. This mental image has recently become a reality, as my sweet baby is growing into a cuddly boy, and there is nothing better on this planet.  

Now that I have another bundle on the way, I feel a NEED to KNOW. My feelings are totally different this time, having already been opened up by the profound love you feel for your child. I want to get to know this little person as well as possible, as SOON as possible!  I know that patience is required in all things parenting, but in this particular area I’m struggling to find it.  I really have no preference (I melt at the idea of another boy for Otis to have a little pal so close in age, and I get giddy at the idea of girl stuff —pink galore!), I just want to know who it is I’ll be carrying around for the next six months.  But only time will tell, and here’s hoping that time goes by really, really fast!!

PS-We have an ultrasound next week, and although it’s still early my fingers are crossed for a guess. STAYTUNED!

I’ve never been that great at keeping secrets. I’ll admit, I have a big mouth and it’s gotten me into trouble plenty of times.  When I was a kid, my family had a saying: “Telephone, telegraph, tell Elaina”.  As I get older though, and through some uncomfortable consequences, I’m learning the importance of keeping this big mouth shut. 

When I found out I was pregnant in January of 2010,  I was bursting at the seams.  I told my best friends the day I found out, ignoring the nagging philosophical voice in my head telling me to wait.  Wait for what?  The end of those first vulnerable three months? There’s no way I could keep quiet for three months when I had just received the most incredile, life-changing news a women can hear; I was going to be a mother.  As soon as the words rushed out of me to Katy, Laura, and Christine (“I’M PREGNANT!”) I felt a huge sense of relief. What is it about confiding in your best friends that seems to set your world back in order?? The bonds the four of us have- as a group, and in individual pairs- are just so meaningful, unique, and comforting.  Once I had confided in them, I felt at peace again, and was able to save the news for family until a few more delicate weeks had passed. It was easy to hide, since I had no weight gain, no sickness, no visible changes at all.  At ten weeks along, I was ready to share, and my thrilled family embraced me, my then-boyfriend (soon to be fiance, soon to be husband), and our new baby with more enthusiasm then I thought possible!

What’s the point of all this? Well, it appears that I again have news. Another little Francis is on the way, making his or her debut in March 2012!

Chances are, if you’ve seen me in the last two months, you already know— because there is NO hiding it this time.  This little person is already making it very clear that they are not Otis part 2, but rather a completely different experience and being. First and most obvious is the fact that I am majorly sick.  I’ll spare you the details, but if you see me running for the bathroom (up to three times a day), get outta my way. And at only two and a half months, I was already sporting a reasonably small but definitely there bump.  However, there are a few changes I would actually embrace this time around, such as a weight gain in the 25-pound range as opposed to the 40 I was carrying around this time last year. I’m hoping that part can be up to me, since my first two symptoms are clearly not! Also if the little one would prefer to come on or around their due date, that would be great— since big bro O was way overdue!

Are those enough demands? :)

Obviously, this is a time of major joy in our house.  Otis is going to have a little pal only 18 months younger, and Kedric and I get to re-live those new-baby-days right as we are starting to miss them. I can’t wait to find out the gender, feel kicks and pick out names.  Kedric is thrilled that we won’t have to buy any baby junk.  And we are both so excited to watch our family grow, meet this little one, and experience that profound love that only comes when you welcome your new baby into the world.

A day in the life of O!

Well, the big milestone of O’s first word has come and gone.  In fact, he’s turning into quite the chatterbox!

It happened all of a sudden, and at just the right time.  I was actually starting to worry…all the books said babies should start vowel-consonant babbling around 6 months— “mama”, “dada”, “baba”, and the like. We were fast approaching 9 months with lots of “Aaaaah’s” and “Eeeeee’s”, but not a consonant in sight (or sound, rather).

My dear friend Laura, a second-generation, soon-to-be speech therapist told me to calm down.  ”He’ll get there,” she assured me.  ”Besides, boys usually take longer than girls.”  

“So he seems, you know, normal?” I whispered back; something all moms, especially us first-timers, inevitably wonder.

“Of course!!” She laughed. “Better than normal.”

It’s true, Otis appears to be the healthiest of healthy.  He’s a robust, energetic, cheerful bundle of cuddles.  He laughed early, crawled early, and sprouted teeth right on time. But those first words had not yet arrived. Perhaps it was me; a selfish desire to have my infant look up at me with love in his eyes, reach for my face, and say “mama”…like one of those tear-jerker Pampers commercials making the rounds right now.  But life isn’t scripted, and there’s no rushing these milestones.  And so, I waited. Not so patiently, might I add. Taking Laura’s advice, I babbled TO him.  ”Mama? Mama? Mama?”  It was borderline harassment. I pointed to Kedric. “Dada? Dada?”  Giving him a bottle: “Baba?” 

While I was in his face every chance I got, Kedric had a different approach.  He continued to talk to him and engage him like he was a normal person…explaining what he was doing, reading O his morning poem, discussing the process of rolling a ball. 

Otis’s first word official word? On June 15, 2011, just 4 days shy of Otis 9-month-birthday (and Father’s Day), he looked up at Kedric, screamed “DADA” at the top of his lungs, and went right back to banging on his toy drum. Not exactly the Kodak moment I was expecting, and yet totally perfect in every way. Since that day, “Dada” remains O’s word of choice, but a few more are starting to creep in.  He’s mastering “Hi”, “Baba”, and “Uh-oh”, and has made attempts at “Katy” and “Linda”.  He’s even imitating phrases, such as “All better” and “I love you”.  But don’t bother trying to get a “Mama” out of him.  He flat out refuses.  

I’m rationalizing this as “M’s” being an especially difficult consonant to master, and ignoring Laura’s professional opinion- that M’s and D’s are the easiest.  

There’s no way he could be teasing me on purpose, right?

No way. :)

I apologize in advance for some of the language in this post.  Don’t mean to offend!

It is incredibly reassuring to know that there are some great people out there who have a mom’s back, no matter what.

On the other hand, there are also some terribly careless people who really don’t care about you or your baby— only themselves. These folks better watch out when playing with the safety of my kid, because apparently not only will I get in your face, but random strangers will, too.

About a week ago, I was running some mid-morning errands with little O, hoping to keep it quick and be back home before encountering any lunch-rush traffic. Of course, there is no “keeping it quick” when lugging around a squirmy 8-month-old, strapping and unstrapping him in car seats, strollers, and slings— when all he really wants to do is crawl around, stand up, and destroy any store display within reach. We were wrapping things up with one last stop at a center with one of those notoriously crazy parking lots that ought to be avoided at all costs, ESPECIALLY during weekday lunch hours.  However, I decided to brave the chaos and was lucky enough to snag a spot immediately! After battling the unbuckling-buckling-strapping-baby-in routine while keeping all limbs and store merchandise intact, we were back in the car relatively quickly and ready to head home.  

The parking lot was still a zoo.  I put the car in reverse, and begin inching out cautiously to avoid other traffic and the masses of pedestrians surrounding me, not wanting to (a) kill anyone and (b) put any more dents in my trusty ride, which already looks as thought it’s been in a fight.  Evidently, I was not moving fast enough for the raised, environmentally-irresponsible, white truck who was waiting for my spot.  Once I was out and put my car into drive, the truck slammed on the gas and headed straight for me at top speed, jerked his wheel at the last minute and missed hitting me head-on by a MILLIMETER, and zoomed into my old spot, tires screeching. My heart somewhere down by the gas pedal, I saw white.

Now, I have never been confrontational, but that was B.O.— Before Otis.  Call it mama-bear instinct; I can now feel rage racing through my blood at the thought of any dangers (people, cars, animals, you name it) even THINKING about coming near my baby.   And so, ignoring the cars who were starting to line up behind me, I waited, foot firmly on the brake, for the driver to get out.  

He was exactly what you’d imagine would be driving that stupid car.  27 maybe, shaved head, yuppy corporate dressed in a light blue button-down and khakis (worst combo ever), with Arnette shades and stupid shoes. Two identical friends jumped out the passenger door. I rolled down my window and started screaming.

“I HAVE AN EIGHT MONTH OLD IN THE BACKSEAT.  AN INFANT. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU CAN’T WAIT 10 MORE SECONDS FOR MY SPOT, ASSH*LE?”

He and his pals looked at me, scoffing.  ”Did I hit you?” He shot back.

“YOU ALMOST HIT ME.  YOU ALMOST HIT A BABY.  DO YOU CARE ABOUT ANYONE BUT YOURSELF?”

He laughed meanly, and turned to walk away, but was stopped by a moving force coming into my peripheral vision.  An older guy, maybe 60, shoved this kid so hard he stumbled backward right into his friends.

“She’s right, you motherf——-.  Learn some f——— respect for women  and children.  That could’ve been your own mom and you in the backseat!”

My jaw dropped.  A quick glance in my rearview mirror showed a Toyota Camry in park, empty front seat, and driver’s side door wide open.  The young guy’s friends grabbed his arms and dragged him away from his heroic counterpart, before all three of them got their asses kicked by an old guy. A face appeared in my window.  

“I’m glad you’re okay.  I apologize for my language in front of your baby.  You have a nice day, ma’am.” And he was gone.

Whoever you are, thank you.  Thank you for giving that kid the wake-up call he needed. Thank you for standing up to three guys bigger and younger than you, thank you for defending me and my little boy. But most of all, thank you for the peace of mind you have given me. There are no words to describe how much you have reinforced my faith in humanity, and how I now know I am not in this alone.  People like you will help me and all mothers protect our babies, so that hopefully they grow up and be strong, compassionate, heroic men like you.

one way or another….

Yesterday was my first Mother’s Day as a real live mom.  Last year I got some sweet “mommy-to-be” cards, but this year was the real deal.  I was surprised and delighted by some incredible gifts from my incredible husband, but what he really should’ve gotten me was a giant box of Kleenex.  I never expected to feel so emotional….actually, I never expected to feel so maternal, in general! And so with each little gesture yesterday, the tears kept coming.  I feel so incredibly blessed by the life I am living, and by the family I have been given.  And at the same time I am celebrating our lives together, I am struck by how fleeting this moment is- babyhood, that is. This jumble of emotions was explained perfectly by Kelly Corrigan in her book Lift, which Kedric gave me yesterday. So rather than ramble on about my crazy mix of emotions, I’m going to leave you with this passage, so we can continue celebrate how incredible this chapter is, how fleeting, and remember to cherish motherhood not just on the first Sunday of May, but every single day.  

I heard once that the average person barely knows ten stories from childhood and those are based more on photographs and retellings than memory.  So even with all the videos we take, the two boxes of snapshots under my desk, and the 1,276 photos in folders on the computer, you’ll be lucky to end up with a dozen stories.  You won’t remember how it started with us, the things I know about you that you don’t even know about yourselves.  We won’t come back here.

You’ll remember middle school and high school, but you’ll have changed by then.  You changing will make me change.  That means you won’t ever know me as I am right now- the mother I am tonight and tomorrow, the mother I’ve been for the last eight years, every bath and book and birthday party, gone.  It won’t hit you that you’re missing this chapter of our story until you see me push you child on a swing or untangle his jump rope or wave a bee away from his head and think, Is that what she was like with me?

I am very excited to share that I have become reacquainted with sleep.

I don’t want to jinx anything, but for the last few weeks sweet O has been blessing us with ten consecutive hours of sleep each night— 8:30 PM to 6:30 AM.  We appear to be in the clear. How did we achieve this miracle, you ask?? By doing something I swore I would never do.

I let my baby cry.

Rewind to about a month ago, when I made the decision, which was not a choice I made lightly. I mulled our situation over and over, researching a slew of sleep-training methods and getting tons of advice. The way I saw it, I had two problems on my hands and  I needed a solution for both.  My first problem was that Otis could not get to sleep on his own; he needed to be nursed to sleep.  This was no problem for the first five months of his life.  I always nursed on demand, and when he seemed sleepy either at naptime or bedtime, I would feed him (wherever I happened to be, usually on the couch or in my own bed) til he dozed off, carry him to his room, gently lay him down, lights out, show over.  Around six months, things started to change.  The “gently lay him down” part started to morph into a battle of screaming and flailing limbs the second his head hit the crib mattress.  Unable to stand his cries, I would scoop him back into my arms, get back into MY bed, and start over. The nurse-crib-scream cycle would occur 3 to 4 times before he finally stayed asleep. My second problem was that he was continuing to wake up in the middle of the night, at least once, but usually two or three times.  

I decided it was time to do something about it.  I had reached my breaking point, everyone in the house was getting frustrated, (Otis included), and instinctually I knew that my baby was ready.  It was time to form a plan of action. I re-poured through the books, including a few new ones my husband was desperately ordering of Amazon on a daily basis, and tried to let it all sink in.  But even I, a baby book expert at this point, couldn’t keep it all straight…let them cry? Let them cry and comfort them in 5 minute increments? Wake them for a “dream feeding”? Wake them early from naps? I was getting confused with the mishmash of information and opinions out there, so I decided to go with Old Faithful- my aunt.

She offered me a two-step solution to beat both issues, which worked with both of her daughters (who are now 10 and 6 respectively, and both alive, well-adjusted, trusting, and happy kids).

1.  Establish a bedtime routine.   No more nursing him whenever and wherever he seems tired.  Pick a time at night to start getting ready for bed.  We chose 8 PM.  Our routine goes as follows: Say goodnight to daddy, get undressed, take a bath, get PJ’s on, nurse, read a story, lots of kisses and “I love you’s”, and then it’s into the crib. The whole process takes 15-30 minutes, and it has come to be the most delicious part of my day….the sweetest, cuddliest, most bonding 30 minutes I have ever experienced.

2.  Self Soothing- otherwise known as letting him cry.  Here comes the tough part, the thing that 99.9% of new moms swear they can’t do.  If baby starts crying, you have to let him. I now believe that it is the only way they will learn that their cries do not immediately generate a reaction.  (Sidenote- I’m not advocating doing this with a baby under 6 months that still needs middle-of-the-night nourishment, or if a mother is not 100% confident that her baby is ready to learn to self-soothe.)

The first night was the WORST. The only part that went well was our new bedtime routine- up until the crib part.  As soon as I set Otis down, the fussing started.  About 15 minutes in, the fussing turned into crying, which turned into full-blown screaming.  We closed the door that separate our bedrooms from our living room, and I sat huddled on one end of the couch, with tears of my own.  ”I’m not letting him go more than an hour,” I told Kedric, who already seemed a lot more relaxed.  And behold- at exactly 59 minutes, I heard quiet.  I crept back to his room, and there he was, my little sleeping angel, snuggled up with his blanket and stuffed seahorse. That wasn’t so bad, I thought.  One hour of crying and we’re done! HA.  Along came 1 AM.

I woke up to his usual “talking”, as I call it.  Not quite fussing, but you can tell that’s where he’s headed if you don’t respond fast enough.  He was a little more patient this time then he had been five hours earlier.  The actual crying came about an hour later, around two.  And lasted for an hour.  At three the screaming started.  At four he was still angry, but losing steam. And at four-thirty, he was sleeping again.  That’s right, four-thirty. One to four-thirty….my poor neighbors.  The thing is, once we were an hour in, I felt there was no going back.  I saw it as, we’d made an hour’s worth of progress, and if we go get him now, we’re wasting that hour and whatever he may have learned during that time.  (And a quick note on the Ferber method- in the beginning we tried going in to comfort him every five minutes, but it only seemed to make things worse.)

Finally, 7 AM rolled around and I started hearing coos from down the hall.  I was exhausted, nervous, and emotionally drained, and I was expecting Otis to be the same way.  Fears about a loss of trust between us were starting to worry me, as I walked the hallway from our bedroom to his. I pushed open his door, looked into his crib, and saw the his biggest, goofiest smile greeting me. I scooped him up and covered him with kisses, which he returned in his full saliva manner. We went about our morning with breakfast, playing, a walk on the beach…a wonderful, normal day.  I made sure to put him down for naps when I knew he was full but without nursing him to sleep, and that night, we did our new routine for the second time. I was treated to a mere 15 minutes of fussing before quiet, as opposed to an hour. And at 1 AM? Another 15 minutes of fussing before quiet again….and that was the last time I’ve heard him make a noise in the middle of the night. 

I know that letting a baby “cry it out” is a very controversial topic for new moms.  I only wanted to share my experience, and ask that my decisions on sleep training are not judged. The main lesson I learned through all of this is to continue to listen to my own motherly instincts.  I had reached a breaking point in terms of my own sleep, and I KNEW that my baby was ready to sleep through the night, but that it would take a little nudge from me.  In the end, that one brutal night was totally worth it.  Everyone in the Francis house seems happier, calmer, and of course, well-rested. And now I have big, wet, eager kisses to look forward to every morning at 6:30 AM.