I hate waiting.

I know my due date isn’t until Sunday, but I honestly thought I’d have had the baby by now. Without going into too much detail, things have been steadily moving in the direction of getting this baby here for about three weeks. My doctor thinks I won’t go past my due date, and she even thought I might have the baby last week. There have been several times when I thought, “Okay, this is it,” and it wasn’t (see my last entry for an example).

To make matters worse, my parents are in town for a mission reunion, and if I haven’t had the baby by the time my dad needs to leave on Sunday, my mom will go with him. So basically, Squirrel Baby needs to get here tonight or tomorrow. No pressure or anything.

So today I’m grumpy. Big time. I want my body back, and I want my baby in my arms. Is that too much to ask?

Also, I’m grumpy because Fly Boy went through the temple for the first time today, and I decided not to go because a) he went to the Timpanogos temple, which is a good 40 minutes at least from LDS Hospital, and b) going into labor in the middle of an endowment session isn’t my idea of a good time. Then it turned out that I had a grand total of two weak contractions the whole time they were in the temple, so I totally could have gone.

Baby, if you can hear me, I’m ready for you to come out. Any time now. Really.

Haircutting it close

Sorry about the bad, bad pun in the title. Actually, if I were really sorry, I would have avoided it instead of leaving it and adding a token apology. Hm.

I got a haircut today, which makes me happy. I had a specific look in mind, but I wasn’t sure it would look good on me. Turns out the hairstylist was able to read my mind and give me exactly what I wanted, and the style looks as good on me as I hoped it would. It’s about shoulder length with layers. I needed a haircut very badly, so I’m pleased.

Jon Boy and I joked a bit about how awkward it would be if I went into labor while at the hair salon. Turns out it’s not quite so funny when it might actually happen. I had some contractions on the way to the salon and briefly wondered if I should just turn around and cancel. But I really wanted the haircut, so I pressed on.

After the stylist had finished with the cut and was blow-drying volume into my limp hair, I began to have contractions closer and closer together. I wonder if she looked at my face as she was working. I hope not because if she had, what she would have seen might have made her think I hated the haircut. I was sitting there, not quite in pain but definitely uncomfortable, and wondering how on earth one goes about telling her hairstylist that she might be in labor and should probably leave.

In the end, I just asked if I could use the restroom. Luckily, walking around and relieving my bladder ended up slowing the contractions considerably, so I was able to finish getting my hair styled. I do wonder if today might be the day that I go into labor for real, though. Eep!

I think I’ll stay home the rest of the day, just in case.

They’re setting me up for insecurity.

Yesterday was my baby shower. Four of my friends brought children under the age of 18 months with them, and all four children were unbelievably well behaved. The only child who cried in the two-hour period was my nine-month-old niece, who had been happily sitting on my mother-in-law’s lap until my sister-in-law (my niece’s mother) talked loud enough for my niece to hear. She immediately cried for mommy, but stopped once she changed hands.

My friend’s 17-month-old son walked around and squeezed the teddy bear my mom gave me for the baby and tapped the boxes gifts came in, charming the pants off everyone but not making a mess or a sound. The children didn’t compete with each other for attention, and the two newest babies (two months and four months old) just stared and were cute the whole time.

Afterward, my mom remarked about what good parents my friends are and how incredibly well behaved their children are. I agreed that I have awesome friends and that they’re good parents, but I also felt a twinge of insecurity. What if my baby is colicky or even just normal? Will I compare my son to these “perfect” children in my mind? How much can parents control how quiet a 2-month-old baby is, anyway? I’m thinking a lot of it is just the personality of the baby at that point.

Jon Boy and I will joke to each other sometimes and say, “Let’s not have bratty kids, okay?” The thing is, we do think a lot about parenting and about being firm with rules and boundaries without being mean. I think that when kids are genuinely bratty (as opposed to just active or even difficult), the blame is entirely on the parents. Brats aren’t born; they’re made. I just hope Jon Boy and I can avoid making them.

Which brings me to think about our childbirth class yesterday. The last fifteen minutes or so were spent talking about parenting. The teacher asked three questions: 1) What did your parents do that you liked and want to do? 2) What do you wish your parents had done that they didn’t? 3) What did your parents do that you want to avoid doing?

I asked questions 1 and 3 on BB a while back, and I’ve been musing over them ever since. ‘Cause I don’t want to just blindly parent like my parents did. That’s bad for three reasons. One, Jon Boy’s parents didn’t do things the same way mine did, so it would inevitably lead to head butting between us. Two, doing anything without thinking is a bad idea in my book because then you take the bad with the good. Three, if I do things just like my parents did, I’ll almost certainly be a bad parent because I’m not them. I need to work with Jon Boy to find a parenting style that fits me and our children, to find ways to discipline that I’m actually willing and able to put into practice. My parents spanked me quite a lot. Last night, Jon Boy and I decided to try to not use spanking if at all possible. I think that’s a good choice for us because I’m pretty sure I’d feel terrible every time I hit my kid, no matter how “bad” he was being. Besides, I don’t see it as being as productive as some other methods.

Anyway, all this rambling is really just me working through the fact that sometime in the next three weeks, I will become a mother. Probably the next two weeks, actually. The thought scares me to death sometimes, but I also feel like it’s the right next step in our lives. I think parenting will help us to grow and experience joy in ways we wouldn’t be able to otherwise.


My first job was as a server at Boston Market. One of my favorite regular customers was a man I thought of as Meatloaf Man. Really, this was not the most inventive name I could have come up with for him, but it suited him.

You see, once a week he came in for lunch and ordered a meatloaf meal with two sides: rice pilaf and creamed spinach. He also looked like the sort of guy who would order meatloaf. He was about 6’3″ and weighed at least 250 lbs. He had a ruddy complexion and thin, almost-black hair and big eyebrows. He would often wear a plaid flannel shirt under dirty overalls. This man was meatloafy through and through.

Then one day Boston Market stopped serving rice pilaf. Meatloaf Man came in and ordered his regular: meatloaf with rice pilaf and creamed spinach. I informed him, regretfully, that we didn’t serve rice pilaf anymore. He looked heartbroken. He took a step back, looked at the menu, and stewed a while. I think I asked if he would like mashed potatoes with brown gravy instead, and he said no.

Finally he decided on a sides meal: chicken salad and two other sides. No meatloaf.

He didn’t come in as often after that.

I thought of Meatloaf Man today when, for the fifteenth time in the last eight months or so, Jon Boy and I got a Five Buck pizza: medium, half with pepperoni, ham, and sausage, and half with ham and pineapple. It’s our regular. And I wondered whether the Five Buck Pizza employees have a nickname for us.

I can’t think of anything quite as catchy as Meatloaf Man, but then, I’ve already proven myself to be less than inventive.