Sunday, December 21, 2014

I'm growing a tiny human GIRL!

In all the excitement of the holidays and Quinn's birthday, I forgot to share the most exciting news of all: #3 is a girl! More details to come, but in the mean time rest assured that we are over the moon, despite my still-frequent bouts of nausea and recently-developed thunder thighs. Thanks, little miss. I still love you.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Quinn is TWO

Today my baby turns two years old. Two. And it's with bittersweet emotion that I type those words; bitter that the days are slipping by too quickly, sweet because there was once a time when we weren't sure we'd be celebrating two years with Quinn. There were so many "what ifs" and "how longs" in those early days before he arrived, and when he got here, I couldn't stop holding him. Now he's too busy to stop and be held. And for that I am thankful.

But there's something that happens when you raise a child with special needs that I try so hard to avoid. In fact, I hardly admit to myself that I'm doing it, but today it feels like it's very much at the forefront of my mind.

I compare.

I compare him to other kids his age. I compare him to his brother. I compare him to other children with Down syndrome. It's not fair, I know. But I do it anyway.

Here's Atticus on his second birthday. He's standing on a chair next to his cupcake. He blew the
candle out all by himself and even sang the words to "Happy Birthday." I remember how he carefully licked the icing from his cupcake and then peeled the liner away to take little bites before he tore from the table toward his pile of presents, impatiently awaiting permission to rip each one open. When he did, he thanked the giver before turning to the next one. These were gifts like toy golf clubs and remote-control cars, art supplies and soccer balls. In other words, typical gifts for a typical two-year-old. And I was blissfully unaware that the celebration would ever be different.

Yesterday I brought cupcakes to Quinn's class to help celebrate his special day. We had so much fun stuffing sugar-laden icing into our mouths and singing "Happy Birthday." But I also can't help but feel a twinge of sadness that Quinn really didn't know it was his birthday. He couldn't walk to the sink to wash the chocolate from his face without someone's help. He couldn't sing the words to the songs. Instead of daintily dissecting his cupcake, he shoved the whole thing, wrapper and all, into his mouth. To be honest, it looked more like a first birthday than a second one. And when we open presents this weekend, the gifts will be toys from the baby aisle that light up and whir and sing songs.

Monday, December 1, 2014

Mennes, Party of 5

It's hard to believe it, especially since Brian and I were taking steps to avoid this very circumstance, but it seems I am knocked up again. Surprise! Trust me, we're just as shocked as you are. Yes, we know how these things happen. Yes, we also know how small our house is, how full our schedules are, and how crazy our lives will be with three kids under the age of 5. I spent a good two weeks crying fat, irrational, hormonal tears over these realizations (Brian, on the other hand, was trying to hide just how over-the-moon he was about this recent development, likely to avoid what typically follows hormonal tears: hormonal yelling and demands for odd combinations of food from across town at 3am). Now that the news has had a chance to sink in, I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that I will soon have a whole litter of children. At least they're cute.

This isn't to say that I didn't want another child eventually. Brian and I have talked at length about how we weren't finished, but we didn't intend to even consider the possibility of maybe trying for a third for at least another few years. Ideally, both boys would be out of preschool (and the tuition that comes with it) and we'd be more able to focus our attention on a newborn. Best laid plans, I suppose. And I can't help but feel terribly guilty that I have friends who are trying desperately to get pregnant and I can't NOT get pregnant. It just seems unfair. But also a good reminder that a baby is a blessing.

This particular pregnancy is so different from my first two. First, I'm pretty darn sick this round. I remember bouts of nausea with Atticus and Quinn, but nothing like this. Of course, this has everyone speculating girl, but I don't want to get my hopes up there. I would LOVE a girl, especially since this is definitely my last, but I kind of resigned myself to the idea that I would never escape a house full of testosterone and penises. So while a girl would be most welcome, I'm anticipating another boy. Brian's paternal grandmother had six boys because she kept trying for a girl. The last two were twins and she understandably gave up.

Second, I'm remarkably calm this time around. Since Atticus was my first, I naturally worried about every little thing. I avoided soft cheeses, deli meat, nail salons, and hot showers. I panicked if I didn't feel him move every few hours and read every baby book obsessively. With Quinn, I worried about some pretty serious and life-altering stuff following his diagnosis because our massive medical team insisted we should. So it stands to reason that I would worry that things would go wrong this time, but I haven't. What will be, will be. And even though we've done genetic testing to verify that all is going as expected (results should be in any day and I'm anxious for both what they'll tell me about this little one's health, and also the sex...the wait is interminable), we're pretty even-keeled about the whole process. It's odd. And maybe it's because we had the whole book of prenatal problems thrown at us last round and survived that we figure we can take what comes our way this time.

Third, I'm already showing, have a face full of acne, have gained a whole mess of weight in my hips, and cannot stay awake past 8pm. I was tired with the first two, but this kind of exhaustion takes on a whole new meaning. Exercise is supposed to help give me energy, but the thought of doing any kind of manual labor makes me want to vomit. So I'm in a holding pattern of first trimester misery, even though I'm already 14 weeks along and should be over it by now. Last week I did have entire stretches of time when I didn't want to puke all over everything, but then I smelled what the neighbors six houses down were cooking and BLEH.

All in all, we're taking this news in stride. We'll somehow manage to survive this pregnancy, which I do not do well. Seriously, who are these women who actually enjoy being pregnant? It's so miserably uncomfortable and stressful and the one thing that can ease said stress is one of the many things I can't have. So I turn to food and gain 40 pounds and complain about how fat I got and WHY can't I stop eating? My poor husband...