Baby Bed

Last night while I baked Thanksgiving pies, Daniel assembled the crib. Now our little Leland nook is all set up and ready for a baby boy. Leland's nursery is also a shared office space, so Daniel and Leland are going to chill together in their man cave all the time. I'm just waiting for the day that "No Girls Allowed" poster shows up on the door.

The aquarium, one of Daniel's favorite hobbies, is sure to be a lot of fun for Leland as well. It will also double over as a noise maker and a night light. A very expensive night light.

My sweet friend Roseanna Hatton hand-sewed these sweet little fox and owl pillows for Leland. Roseanna is also pregnant, and her baby girl (Leland's girlfriend,) Lyla is due on December 13th. We are so, so excited to meet sweet Lyla Grace soon!

The canvas with the writing on it was painted with love by Leland's Aunt Audrey. It features the lyrics to my favorite lullaby, "You Cannot Lose My Love"which makes me cry every single dad-gum time I hear it. It's by Sara Groves. Go figure. Here's how it goes:

You will lose your baby teeth.

At times, you'll lose your faith in me.

You will lose a lot of things,

But you cannot lose my love.

You may lose your appetite,

Your guiding sense of wrong and right.

You may lose your will to fight,

But you cannot lose my love.

You will lose your confidence,

In times of trial, your common sense.

You may lose your innocence,

But you cannot lose my love.

Many things can be misplaced,

Your very memories be erased.

No matter what the time or space,

You cannot lose my love.

-Sara Groves

Agh. Now I'm crying.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. God has been so faithful. I am thankful for His providence and provision, and for the love and support of our family and friends this year as we've prepared to welcome our little one.

"Meaningless! Meaningless!" Says the Pregnant Lady; "Everything is Meaningless."

I don't even know how many weeks I am anymore guys. I lost count somewhere around a thousand. What I do know is that these days, anytime someone calls me and I don't pick up, they leave me an excited voicemail asking, "ARE YOU HAVING A BABY?!"

Sadly, I'm not.

I'm never having a baby.

I haven't had one. Single. Baby.

And at this point, I'm starting to think there may actually be four or five inside me.

Don't ask me how they missed them in the ultrasounds.

These babies are ninjas.

But on a serious note, there's something I've been putting off telling y'all for a while now. I'm not actually having a baby. I know this probably comes as a shock to those of you who are still naive and pure of heart, and still believe that pregnancy ends in labor, which, in turn, ends in the birth of a baby. But as those of us who are a thousand weeks pregnant can tell you, babies are not born into this world. It is simply not the reality we live in.

I was once like you. I used to call Daniel in a desperate panic and have him fly home from shoots in New Orleans when I had 10 contractions in an hour, because I, too, believed in labor. But not anymore. I have become, as my sister Haley so aptly coined it, a Labor Atheist. Contractions are meaningless. I've been having them for weeks now, and sometimes they are painful and come every two to four minutes. But now, I just ignore them. Fool me once, contractions, shame on you. But until a baby physically comes out of me, I will believe no more of this poppycock about "labor" and "birth". What's that you say? There's a puddle of amniotic fluid on the floor? Ignore that. It's nothing. It, too, is meaningless.

Now that we've established that I am not having, nor will I ever have a baby, let's talk about why I've fallen off the face of the earth.

The real reason have been missing so many calls from my loved ones is because I spend an insane amount of time napping. Most women report that in this stage of pregnancy it's almost impossible for them to get any sleep at all, so I'm not complaining. But I do have (sort of) good news for those women: it doesn't matter. No matter how much sleep I get, I'm still a total zombie when I'm awake. The only difference is that I get to enjoy long bouts of unconsciousness, and that helps the time pass. You could achieve the same effect by hitting yourself over the head with a frying pan occasionally, if you were so inclined.

Every so often, though, I will have one really good day where I will experience a burst of energy. The cycle has gotten to be pretty predictable. I usually have about two or three down days, followed by a day of feeling normal, and then two or three more down days followed by a day of raving lunacy.

On one such occasion last week, I woke up at 6:30 am, baked banana bread from scratch for breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, washed and folded all our laundry, sewed some pennants for Leland's room, made some thank you tags and bows for the goodie bags I'm assembling for the birth team, (this was before I'd given up all hope,) cooked homemade soup, and wrote, addressed and mailed all our thank you notes.

Another time, after catching up on some basic chores I'd fallen way, way behind on, I vacuumed our entire house, including many of the walls, (not a joke,) mopped the floors, and crawled around the perimeter of several rooms with cleaning spray and a sponge scrubbing all the baseboards. I'm not going to say I felt great that night. Or for several days afterwards. Or even that I will ever fully recover. But I'd been lying around on the couch for days at that point, staring at the dirt, silently seething and plotting my victory over it. So when I collected enough strength to do something about it, I showed no restraint.

Each time I finish one of these cycles, I get exceedingly desperate for Leland to come quickly. Because if birth really does exist, and it happens during the part where I haven't touched a dish for days and no one in the house has any clean underwear left, I'm just not sure what we're going to do.

That's about all I've got for today. If I keep being pregnant right through Thanksgiving, I might have some pictures of the crib to post soon. If not, I'm probably just going to post pictures of Leland's face at the rate of 12 per hour for the rest of my life and not bother setting up the crib until he's about six months old.

Third Trimester Highlights

32 weeks

Purchase absurdly enormous body pillow. Bring home to full size bed and sad husband. Enjoy first decent night of sleep in weeks.

Heaven

Birth class instructor teaches Daniel and I a neat trick: after birth, instead of bathing the baby to get the vernix off, "rub it in like lotion" to "protect the baby." Unclear what we are protecting baby from. Try hard not to make eye contact with each other and risk laughing.

33 weeks

Mom comes to town for a wonderful shower with sweet Axis ladies. Feel the love.

Daniel assembles stroller, stands back and laments its incredible size. "It's so big. I didn't know it would be this big." He's right. It looks like a boat.

34 weeks

Notice first stretch marks on stomach. Soon thereafter, notice girl ahead in line at coffee shop wearing midriff top. Grieve for approximately one millisecond that I can "never wear a midriff top again." Snap out of it, recalling that in the 24 years I've had to try this out, it's never once struck me as a good idea. Promptly get over it.

Get dressed for dinner with a friend. It's cold out; wear red maternity sweater dress I've been looking forward to bringing out. Feel really cute until I look in the mirror and realize I look like a Christmas bauble. Resolve that getting dressed up is no longer worth the effort.

Week 35

Daniel and I are 2 years old! Celebrate with a short trip to Chattanooga. Reserve a hotel with very few pictures on the website; don't know what to expect. At least seventeen cats is what to expect.* Have a great time, see aquarium, eat dinner at the best restaurant in the world. Decide to stay in Chattanooga with the cats forever.

Week 36

At my appointment, chiropractor corners me and begs me not to vaccinate the baby. Wish he would stop using words like "child abuse" and "propaganda;" feel very uncomfortable.

Baby drops.

Earlier today

Midwife tells me Leland is measuring a little ahead of schedule. Next week they'll check again, and I may have an ultrasound to determine if the fetus is too strong.

*At the hotel, the tip envelope has a handwritten note on it reading, "anything you can give will help feed the cats!" We get the feeling this whole operation is about the cats.

A Challenge

During the last 20 minutes of our childbirth class last night, we worked on a relaxation technique that involves deep breathing and massage.

I triple dog dare you guys to lie down on the floor with a dozen pillows around your body while listening to the sounds of soothing music and my instructor guiding the men through how to give a buttocks massage, then have your derriere awkardly massaged for the first time in your life in a room of people you don't know very well at all, then lift your head up from your pillow to see all the men concentrating really hard on massaging their wives butts. I dare you to do these things and not laugh. I was able to stifle it pretty well in my pillow so I don't think the whole class knows that I'm not mature enough to handle the seriousness of labor. But oh my goodness. I am not. It is all so very very funny.

Now This Is Happening

There's so much to do. So naturally, I'm sitting down to blog about it.

This past week I went to a used bookstore and found a few of the books you all recommended, then ordered the rest on Amazon. I made some good headway on a couple of them this week at work. I was initially expecting to spend much of my free time trying to keep up with all my reading, but then I remembered that I work with the most wonderful supervisors in the world, and as long as we don't have any customers and there's nothing else for me to be doing, which is very often the case, I can read all day and they don't mind a bit. It really is very helpful that I can read at work, since it frees up my days off to work on all my other baby projects. At work, as a courtesy to everyone around me, I've been making a concerted effort to cover pictures of anything alarming, like babies crowning, with post-it notes. Don't want to scare off all the customers.

Tonight I'm attending an open house for Nine Months and Beyond, a doula service in Nashville. They call this event a MaterniTEA Party, and the idea is that you can meet and interview doulas on their Baby Ejection Squad, or whatever they call it. (Probably not that.) Meanwhile, Daniel is currently on his way to Athens, GA to get a tattoo to commemorate Leland's upcoming birth, which means that I'll most likely end up choosing a doula on my own. I hope he likes my choice. And I hope he loves his tattoo. Here's the design:

Juuuust kidding. More on the tattoo later.

This morning I was lying in bed thinking about all the things I need to do in the next three months, and it occurred to me that I wasn't sure when to pack a hospital bag. So I checked it out on my phone. And wouldn't you know, there's a whole website dedicated to the packing of hospital bags. Of course there is. Here's what it said:

"We recommend that you pack your hospital bag by the end of your second trimester. Although this may seem early, it's better to be safe than sorry and you never know if you'll go early."

Guess what today is? The last day of my second trimester. I'm taking a trip to Target and packing today. Who knows what could happen if I didn't have it packed by tomorrow! I'm so glad I found out before it was too late!

Tomorrow marks the first day of my final trimester, as well as the first day of our birth class. Then on Monday I have my monthly (soon to become biweekly) prenatal appointment and Daniel and I are going to our pastor's house to talk to him and his wife about this whole Becoming Parents thing.

Today it feels like I looked up and all at once we have actual concrete things that we can do to prepare to welcome this child into our lives. It's very exciting, because up until now it's just felt like a lot of waiting around. I'm aware that it's common to get impatient toward the end of the third trimester once you can't breathe anymore and you're running to the bathroom every five minutes and you've completed all the major preparations. For now, though, I just feel elated that I can do things. I can start packing for the hospital, setting up the nursery, writing a birth plan and doing stupid looking pretend-pushing exercises with a room full of giant pregnant women and their husbands, (all of whom have a far away look, as though trying to recall how, exactly, they got roped into this class,) and all of those things are perfectly appropriate for this stage of pregnancy. It really is time to start getting ready to have a baby. It's almost time to have our baby!

A Tale of Woe

The time has come, my children. My eye is open, vision has returned, and I can gaze unflinchingly upon my laptop screen. Come close, little ones, and I will tell you my tale. Listen, and I will tell you the story of the vacation from hell.

When Daniel and I booked our flight to California, we had big dreams. I imagined long, lazy afternoons stretched out on the warm sand, soaking up the California sunshine. There would be virgin pina coladas in abundance, and I would dig a little hole for my belly so I could sunbathe my back comfortably. (My tan had become comically uneven.) Daniel had his fantasies, too. He spoke of going for a dive near a (nonexistent) reef off the coast. We could rent a couple of bikes and ride along the beach at sunrise. Maybe we'd take a little sailboat out one day. And we were both excited about the prospect of getting in some quality shopping at local boutiques and stores we don't have here in Nashville. This vacation was going to be just what we needed. We would cherish the pictures and memories for years to come.

The only comfort I've had since the storms of disappointment first rolled into our sunny babymoon skies has been this little observation: nobody- no matter how much they love you- nobody enjoys reading about the vacation we were anticipating. Nobody cares to hear how relaxing and perfect and dreamy your trip was. It's not that your friends don't want you to have a nice time, it's just that a nice time does not make for very entertaining material. So every time something went wrong, I would just tell myself, "it's okay... this will probably be really funny after the Vicodin kicks in."
Daniel had been suffering from a pretty nasty cold all week before we left. Fortunately, he recovered just a couple of days before we flew out. Unfortunately, I caught it the day before. Our travels on Saturday went pretty smoothly until we were landing at LAX and my ears wouldn't clear. I tried everything. I was frantically chewing gum, plugging my nose and blowing, drinking water... all to no avail. As we touched down, I felt the bubble of pressure from my ears force itself into my sinus cavities. It felt less like a headache, and more like a little demon in my forehead prodding my brain with his trident while laughing maniacally. I knew then that it was too late, and that there was nothing left to do but wail and cry in pain. So that's what I did. We sat on the tarmac for about 20 minutes in the inexplicably hot plane while they dealt with some maintenance issue with the gate. It was a long time to weep in front of strangers. I think everybody was pretty uncomfortable.
That afternoon, while I laid down for a nap in hopes that my ears would clear in my sleep, Daniel went grocery shopping. When he returned, he told me that someone had hit our rental car in the parking lot and left a note. He called the girl and left a message, but she never did call back.
In spite of these things, we were still highly optimistic about the week ahead. The apartment we were staying in was even nicer than we'd expected, and the owner had thought through every detail to make our stay comfortable. She'd even set out a cheese plate, fresh cherries and wine for our arrival. While I couldn't enjoy the wine, I thoroughly enjoyed the snack and we both appreciated such a thoughtful touch. And then there was the climate. There was no air conditioning, but we soon discovered that all we had to do was open the doors and windows and a cool breeze would keep us perfectly comfortable. It was such a refreshing change after the sticky mid-July heat we'd left behind in Nashville. That evening we walked to the beach and Daniel brought his camera. Everything from the plant life to the graffiti was new and beautiful and exciting to us. When we reached the boardwalk on Venice Beach, there were plenty of colorful sights to see. (There was this one guy on stilts with what appeared to be moss covering his body and dreadlocks? Someone dressed as Spiderman? Also, a lot of open drug use. Indeed, "colorful" may have been a bit of an understatement.) We came back to the house for dinner, and we both proclaimed aloud that this week was going to be fantastic, starting the minute my ears cleared.

Sunday, my cold was a little worse, my headache was a little sharper, and my ears were still clogged. I started to worry I may have an ear infection, and decided to go to the doctor on Monday and get it checked out. Hopefully, that would leave enough time to heal before the flight home Thursday.

On Monday we were having lunch at my Aunt and Uncle's house, so I located an urgent care center near their home and decided we'd swing by after lunch, before heading into Hollywood to do some shopping and sight seeing. We had a delightful time with Aunt Merry Lynn and Uncle Steve, who Daniel still hadn't met and whose home I'd never been to. Afterwards, we went to the urgent care as planned only to find that it only became an urgent care clinic after hours? And before that it was... something else, I guess. Anyway, no big deal. We'd just go to Hollywood and have our fun, then come back between 6 and 10 pm to see a doctor.

The first thing we did in Hollywood was go to the Beverly Center, where we'd heard rumor of an H&M with maternity clothes. When we got inside the mall, we went in Bloomingdales to use the restrooms. On our way back out, we spotted an All Saints section in the women's department. We started browsing, and soon a sales person was following us around making suggestions. I went to the dressing room with a lot of flowy tops we thought might work with my bump. I tried on the first top, showed it to Daniel, then started changing into the next. When I went to toss the blouse on the bench in the dressing room, the sales tag, which was made of cardboard and unusually heavy, swung at my face and scratched my left eye.

"DAN-IELLLL!!! HOLY.... GET IN HERE!!! OPEN THE DOOR!"

"What is it? Is it your ear?"

"NOOOOOOHMYYYYGOD!!!!"

I was convinced something was stuck in my eye. I didn't know what- maybe a safety pin or a fighter jet. Whatever it was, it hurt like the dickens, and I needed Daniel to get it out. But when I held my eye open and rolled it around, he couldn't see anything. I wasn't satisfied with his answer until I looked in the mirror myself. I was surprised by what I saw... not only was it not hemorrhaging, there was nothing there. Daniel suggested we go sit at one of the tables around a coffee kiosk we'd seen outside Bloomingdales until my eye felt better. I had a pretty good feeling this wasn't going to blow over in ten minutes, but I agreed. He led me, one eye shut and streaming, through the mall, past a lot of people who I could feel staring at me.

Daniel sat me down at a table, and brought me some napkins for my eye, then went to the counter to order something. While I sat there, there was this one guy sitting alone at another table facing me. I wondered what he was thinking as I sat in front of him, some pregnant lady all red in the face and crying, clutching her eye. I wondered if he had a vague idea of what must have happened. He continued to stare at me, but looked pretty indifferent and unsympathetic.

While Daniel was waiting in line, I tried to open my eye a few times. One time, I held it open for several seconds at a time, and got really excited. I was cured! It was over! Let's go to H&M! I waved at Daniel to get his attention, then opened my eye and animatedly began pointing to it with one hand while waving with the other. Almost as soon as I did this, I blinked and was struck with the worst pain I'd had yet, like a piece of shrapnel from a nearby explosion had plunged into my eye. I screamed and clutched it again, dabbing it with a napkin as the river began flowing anew. The guy at the other table was unimpressed. He clearly thought I was some kind of idiot.

Soon after that, we gave up the ghost and decided to leave the mall and head toward the urgent care so we could be there when it opened. But when we arrived, they turned us away, saying that they were part of a medical group, and you had to be a patient of that medical group to receive treatment there. It all sounded like a bunch of nonsense to me, but I gave up long ago trying to understand the bizarre rules of the medical community. They sent us to an ER across the street.

At the ER I was rudely checked in, rudely questioned about why I’d come to the hospital and rudely asked for insurance information by various personnel. By the time I got to the waiting room, I could no longer disguise my tears as directly related to my injury. And even if I could have done that much, I was sobbing hysterically, so the gig was up.

I feel like I need to step back and make a little disclaimer here: I can handle mean people. I can even laugh when people are mean to me. It can be funny sometimes! But I was having a pretty bad night, and I was in a lot of pain, and I don’t know if y’all have noticed, but my body’s been rather flooded with hormones lately. So yeah, maybe I was a little on edge. The thing is, no one in the waiting room knew any of these things. I just looked like I’d escaped from the psych ward.

When they called me back, I was “helped” by a PA named Jesse. One of the first questions Jesse asked me was whether I was on any medication. I told him I was on my prenatal vitamin, and that I was taking Sudafed, Robitussin, and Tylenol Cold. He looked dumbfounded.

“Have you talked to your OB about taking all of that?”

“That’s what my midwives recommended last time I had a cold, so I just took that again this time. Are any of those bad?”

“That’s just… really a lot of medication to be taking at once when you’re pregnant. What if you had a reaction to one? How would you know which one? Here in the state of California, we just think the baby’s health is as important as the mother’s. But you know, that’s just how we do things…”

I asked what he would suggest I take instead, and he said plain Tylenol. But Jesse the PA wasn’t done upbraiding me yet.

“Do you see an OB? Or are you just seeing your midwife?”

“Well it’s not just one midwife, it’s a clinic with several nurse-midwives who do my regular prenatal checkups, so an OB isn’t really necessary.”

“So you don’t have an OB?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

(Pause)

“That’s just the route I wanted to take.”

(Longer pause)

Okay… (The clear undertone being, “Okay, I guess if you want to kill your baby, that’s your prerogative…”)

Finally, Jesse started addressing the things I actually needed his help with. He looked in my left ear.

“Oh yeah. Full blown ear infection. Looks like it’s gonna burst.”

He prescribed an antibiotic. I tried to get him to advise me about whether it was safe to fly, but he just wished me luck. “Good luck! Hope your eardrum doesn’t burst!” This was not very reassuring.

He then explained that he was going to put some numbing drops in my eye so he could swab it with a dye and look at it under a black light to see if it was scratched. He said he would send me to the waiting room while they prepared the dye.

By the time we got to the waiting room, I was in hysterics again. At first, I felt guilty and ashamed for taking so much cold medication. But soon, it started to dawn on me that this Jesse character was a giant A-hole. He had just treated me like I’d come in and announced, “In Tenn-uh-see, me and the other hill people like to sprinkle rat poison on our Corn Flakes in the mornins. My midwaff says that’s just fine. My baby loves it when I go cliff jumpin’ and do a good belly flop, ‘specially when I get him good ‘n drunk!” He’d suggested that he and the state of California cared more about my baby than I did because I was following the advice of inferior medical personnel who happen to be staffed by Vanderbilt Hospital, thank you very much. I have a lot of faith in my nurse midwives, and this PA was starting to seem like a real ignoramus. What a jackass. I hate him.

This is the frame of mind I was in when he called me back to the examination room. He put a numbing agent in my eye, which made it feel better. Then he stuck a stiff little strip of paper in my eye and started rubbing it around, which did not make it feel better. I have this unusual condition called reflexes, which caused me to flinch a little, and that sure was a problem for Jesse, who was very rude to me about it. I could have punched him in the face.

When he looked at it under the black light, he said, “Oh wow! That’s a deep corneal abrasion, right through your vision center! You may have vision loss!” He sounded super excited about it. Obviously, Daniel had a lot of questions about that, like, “what do you mean, ‘vision loss?’” but Jesse said he couldn’t say, and there was just no way to tell if I’d be blind in that eye until after it healed. I could tell Daniel was pretty concerned, but I wasn’t. I mean, what Doctor breaks that kind of news to someone that way? I had a gut feeling that him celebrating my potential half-blindness and telling me my eardrum was “about to burst” were just textbook examples of bad bedside manner and general douche-baggery.

Before we left the ER, I had to sit in the waiting room one more time. This time I’d been given the numbing agent and could temporarily open my eyes. I saw that there was a small child who had broken his leg, and was not sniveling and making a scene like I did. I also saw that all the other people in the waiting room seemed scared to look at me.

The next day my eye felt worse, and there was some gunk in it which we'd been warned to watch for, so I got scared it was getting infected and we went to an ER that was closer to our apartment. It wasn’t infected, but the doctor there was much nicer, patched my eye for comfort, (Jesse said they don’t do that anymore. Screw Jesse.) and prescribed me some Vicodin. I was wary when he first suggested such a strong painkiller, but as I’d recently been informed that California doctors care about my baby more than I ever could, I took his word for it. (Just kidding. I made him show me in a medical reference book where it says it’s okay for me to take that.)

He referred me to an ophthalmologist nearby and told me to get an appointment for the next day so he could check on it and make sure it was healing properly.

I felt significantly better for the next 12 hours, and we even ventured out for a walk on the beach that night. This was our first outing besides trips to the hospital since I'd maimed myself. My eye was too sensitive to light for me to go outside for long, and I had been walking around with both eyes shut since having my good eye open tugged too much on my other eyelid and caused more pain. The patch remedied both of these problems, and the painkiller made me feel up to enjoying an experience like a walk on the beach.

My eyepatch. I think I thought I was smiling.

The next day I went to the ophthalmologist as instructed, and he patched my eye again (I’d been told to take the first one off that morning) then we returned to the scene of the accident so we could get me some freaking maternity clothes. I started feeling kind of queasy on the way to the mall, and thought the Vicodin must be making me carsick. When we got there we found out that that H&M didn’t even have maternity clothes. But you know where they did have them? In Hawthorne, the town we’d just come from 45 minutes away. So we drove back to Hawthorne in the middle of rush hour. And I got some dang maternity clothes. When we were done shopping, I wasn’t feeling great, and my eye patch had come undone in the store. Daniel suggested we go out to dinner since it was our last night in town, so we drove to Santa Monica and to a restaurant Daniel had found with good reviews. When we got there, I felt nauseated, but after we parked the car and sat still for a while and I thought I was going to be okay.

Umm, long story short, I ordered a $30 dish, took two bites of it, and ran to the bathroom to vomit. So we went home.

Obviously, I stopped taking the Vicoden after that, so the little demon came back and started stabbing my brain again.

The next morning we (read "Daniel") packed our things, then we went back to the ophthalmologist before our flight home because for some reason the doctor really wanted to look at it one more time. I just want to point out that this makes four consecutive days out of the five days we spent in LA that we were in an ER or doctor’s office. I was still feeling sick, so I told the doctor when I got there that I thought I was having a reaction to the Vicoden and asked if there was anything else I could take for pain. He said that really any other narcotic was going to do the same thing, and my best bet at that point was to just take Tylenol and wait it out. I was in a lot of pain, and I was going to be flying with a double ear infection to top it off. I knew I had a hard day ahead of me. I just didn’t know how hard.

Daniel and I were on way to the airport having a conversation to the effect of, “Thank God we survived this trip! And we're still married!” when he realized we had the address to the wrong rental car location and decided to pull over and figure out where the heck we were going. When he attempted to pull into a nearby gas station, he sideswiped another vehicle.

In this moment of crisis, when we needed to bust out our problem solving skills and do our best to wrap it up and make our flight, my contribution was to burst into tears on impact. Literally. The very millisecond that I felt the car hit something, the floodgates opened, just like that. I was actually kind of surprised by how readymade and accessible this meltdown was. The whole time Daniel stood outside my window exchanging phone numbers and insurance information with the other driver, I just sat there and sobbed my way through a box of tissues like a ninny. The other driver seemed to be making a concerted effort not to look at me, and I felt the same way I’d felt in the waiting room and at that coffee kiosk. I knew this guy was wondering what the heck was wrong with me. I didn’t want to personally explain myself to him just then and tell him what my week had been like and how much pain I was in and how pregnant I was, but I did wish there was a sign over my head that would explain it for me. I just felt like he couldn’t possibly be giving me enough credit.

After Daniel finished handling all the wreck business, we went to the rental place to return the car. I was starting to feel a wave of nausea coming on. We had to file an incident report, and we were trying to do it before the next shuttle to the airport departed. I felt like we were on the Amazing Race. We turned in our form and keys just in time to board the bus. The doors shut and the bus started moving, and then… I puked. I held it in my mouth and ran to the front of the moving shuttle while Daniel yelled, “Let her out! Let her out!” The driver stopped and I ran out to the bushes and continued to barf for a couple of minutes, with this whole busload of people watching me. When I was finished the driver, much to my surprise, let me back on the bus and we headed to the airport.

When we got there, Daniel literally sprinted to check us in for our flight, and our tickets printed out with the words “seat request” on them. We went to check our bags, and there was a lady looking at people’s tickets before letting them in line. When we gave her ours, she looked at her watch and said…. “Ohhhhh. It looks like you’re not going to make it.” The impression we got was that had we been five minutes earlier, she would have let us go. Dang bus puke.

A hundred dollars later, we were assigned to a different flight departing not long after our original flight time. Soon we boarded a plane, where we sat in front of the two most ill-behaved boys in the United States. They sat directly behind Daniel and me, kicking our seats with vigor and screaming things like, “Why you put ice on my butt?” and “HE SPIT IN MY FACE!” Their mother was not much quieter than them, and spoke about fifty decibels louder than anyone else on the plane. Sometimes, she would raise her already booming voice to chide "I will NEVER travel with you again! Never! Did you enjoy this trip?! GOOD! NEVER AGAIN!!!” Needless to say, my ears and headache were in great shape after being jolted around in my seat for five hours in front of this charming family.

One good thing about a really bad vacation is that it makes your own home feel like paradise. I’m still recovering from the cold, but my eye has been feeling much better for the past few days, my vision is getting clearer, and I’m not throwing up anymore. Saturday after we got back, my friends threw me a shower where I saw a lot of people I love who were so kind to me, and none of whom looked at me like I was crazy, not even once. Daniel had a wedding this weekend so he left Nashville about eight hours after we landed here, but he’s back now, and everything can just go back to normal. Now we can put this vacation behind us, and pretend it never happened.

What's In a Name?

Let me tell you one thing. Naming a baby should have been a piece of cake for Daniel and Hannah Meigs. We love naming us some babies. We even made a hobby of it. Throughout our relationship, we've been texting or emailing each other at random during the day when we hear a name with a nice ring to it. We've kept a running Word document since 2006 consisting of 20-30 of our favorites. We're like those crazy people who collect scary porcelain dolls or cuckoo clocks, but with baby names. So if there's one thing in this world I was confident Daniel and I could do, it was name a baby.

Then I got pregnant.

Our first conversation on this topic was brimming with enthusiasm and confidence. We pulled up our faithful Word document and began narrowing it down to a short list. By the end of that discussion, we had tentatively agreed on one boy name and one girl name, and agreed to test drive them for a while and see if they stuck.

What a great start! This is going to be so easy, right?

Wrong.

Less than a week after our initial conversation, I got cold feet about both names. We'd run them by a few people, and I didn't feel like they'd gotten adequately positive responses. I suddenly found myself deeply insecure and paranoid that bestowing either of the names on our baby would be to subject him or her to a life of social ostracization, as well as a plethora of personality disorders.

From that point on, I was no fun. I became increasingly rigid and tense about what other people would think of our names. Daniel really liked the name Lucas, but, umm, sorry, that rhymes with mucus. The name Edwin came up, and we both loved it initially... for a minute, we thought we might have a winner. But one morning I woke up totally convinced that someone was going to call him a fairy prince and it was going to stick and then everyone would call him Edwin the Fairy Prince and he would get beat up on the playground. I honestly don't know where I got that idea, but I couldn't shake it. Eventually, I got over it and realized that Edwin is a perfectly decent name, but by that time I think I had ruined it for Daniel.

On the rare occasion that we both liked a name and it made it past my hypersensitive Target of Ridicule Radar, we'd immediately test it out by telling people about it. This, we now know, was a huge mistake.

When it comes to baby names, everyone has unique preferences and sets of experiences that shape their opinion, so ten different people can have ten completely different reactions to the same name. (Really, this is a great thing. Otherwise, we would no longer have thousands of options to choose from when naming our snowflakes. There would just be The Boy Name and The Girl Name. Boring, right?) So when you and your partner find a baby name you both love, that in itself makes it a very special name. You shouldn't expect everyone else in the world to be as enamored with it as you both are. If other important people in your life don't love the name you choose, it will grow on them in time because that name will come to represent a child they love. You shouldn't fret over whether they take to it right away.

Here's the thing, though.. even though I know all of this intellectually, my expectations are still entirely too high. Fifteen people can smile brightly and assure me that we've selected the most astoundingly beautiful name in the universe, but as soon as I hear a negative comment about it, even if it's from a stranger in an online baby name forum, that one comment will lodge itself in my brain and taunt me until it has totally and irreparably ruined the name for me. I'm confident that people wouldn't share their opinions with me so freely if they knew this. I simply can't be expected to listen to their thoughts responsibly or in moderation.

In many cases, no one has actually said anything negative, I've just perhaps been sensitive about body language and the absence of positive feedback. But on occasion, people are more assertive, and sometimes outright rude. Here are some examples of things people have said about names we were seriously considering.

-Makes me think of an evil vampire. (Well, it wouldn't if you didn't read trashy vampire novels. That's on you, buddy. Don't hold me responsible for your poor life choices.)

-He's going to hate his name.

-Reminds me of a hillbilly.

-You know he's going to change his name.

-He's not a prophet. (In response to Elijah.)

You get the idea. You guys, I'm telling you, our baby is going to be nameless until he's old enough to name himself if I don't stop cluttering my brain with other people's opinions. So, without further ado, I hereby formally grant you all permission to lie to us about what you think of our names. Really! Please! I beg you to lie to me! I am so happy to be lied to! If you think the name we choose sounds like a dog fighter, or a male stripper, or someone who deals drugs out of an ice cream truck, please, for the love of all that is holy, keep it to yourself. If I tell you we're naming our son King Acidophilus Rainbow Y2K Meigs, please just smile and say something nice like, "what a strong name!" Got it? Are we all clear on how we're responding? Will everyone please take a moment to practice smiling and nodding? And lying to my face?

Great. Now if everyone's ready, I have an announcement to make. Daniel and I have, at long last, picked a name that we both love and feel really good about. It's such a relief to finally have a name after fretting over it for so long.

We're naming our son Leland Elijah Meigs.

Do you like it? Be honest! ;)