When are you due?

It has happened. It was inevitable. The first perfunctory gasp when I answered a stranger that yes, indeed, I'm not due to give birth until FEBRUARY. Thanks to my size, the way I carry, my husband's genetic predisposition to create sturdy, strapping boys that grow inside a (albeit long) petite and let's just say it: delicate frame, I will pocket nearly 100 more gasps or comments of the like over the next 19 weeks. The worst part is that they're warranted. I denied that fact the first time around, magically gazing into the mirror and simply seeing pregnant me, which was normal for me and nothing to do with some crazy pregnant-woman standard. This time, having come out the other side and looked back at pictures of what "pregnant me" actually looked like I can certainly see why that shape (reminiscent of a grape stacked on top of an orange, perched on two toothpicks) would incite rude gasps, chuckles and loud monosyllabic exclamations like "wow!", "whoa!", and "no!" That last one is one of my favorites. Really? You think I'd joke about this?

So it's begun. The season in which I try to be rubber while complete strangers throw sticks and stones at me that they haven't even realized are destructive weapons. The good news for both sides is that my skin is thicker this time around. I've emerged from denial and can almost laugh with them...at least for now. I'll check back in after 50 more shocked reactions, 15-20 more pounds of weight-gain, and 10-15 more weeks of unintentional verbal abuse. We'll see who's laughing then. Until then, when/if you see me refrain from using words like "enormous" (or any variation of it). Mostly because I'm not...yet...so you should save up or you'll run out of adjectives by the time January hits and it really is true.

The streak continues

After much anticipation and more social media hype than I intended, I downed my 24oz of water (a pregnant woman's nightmare) and waited for a nurse to call us back to our ultrasound. "Interested in gender?" asked the tech, "ABSOLUTELY!" I blurted. "Do you have a preference?" she inquired. Logan explained about his overpowering Martin-ability to produce males. 3 nano-seconds later she laughed, I saw the definitive between-the-legs shot, and she said, "looks like the streak continues...it's a boy! DEFINITELY a boy. And he's not shy!" It's true, our second son bounced around spread-eagle for quite some time as if to say, "Read me loud and clear, mom, I'm NOT a girl!" I think he was mocking me. I love him already. I loved him before then, but there's something about seeing your child squirm around on an ultrasound picture that gives him a new sense of reality and permanency that can carry a mom through the last 20ish weeks until they meet face-to-face. I have a friend, whom I adore, who is walking an adoption road right now (thank you, Becca, for your insight, your honesty, and your perspective), an alternate and equally poignant journey to motherhood. I think of her now and I believe that getting a referral and seeing a picture of your child would have a similar effect. It's just knowing more about the little one that you've already given your heart to that propels you through the rest of your wait until you can hold them in your arms.

Something strange happened to me while I lie on the ultrasound table, trying to forget about my throbbing bladder: my ache for a little girl in my life was obliterated at the sight of my youngest son. Perhaps, down the road it will return, as Logan and I discuss the direction of our family, but for now, in my here-and-now, this little boy is exactly what was intended for our family. It was always him, and he's supposed to be a him. Elias is supposed to grow up with a brother. I'm supposed to be a mom of boys (maybe always, maybe for now). It was strange to realize that he's what I wanted all along, even 3 weeks ago when I was praying in Fred Meyer over the baby girl clothes that God would give me someone to put them on.

We called family to let them know we were tossing another little boy into the Martin pool and we were met with this odd, apologetic tone a lot of the time. This wracks me with guilt, so let me be clear RIGHT NOW: there is not a shred of my being that was let down when that tech giggled and I saw my baby boy. Not even a little. If God ever gives us a baby girl I will be THRILLED. If God gives us more little boys to love I will be THRILLED. In equal measure. I don't know how to explain that but it's the honest truth.

Oh, and p.s. Wal Mart lady, you were wrong.

Gender Games

Two weeks from tomorrow (Sept. 20) we go for an ultrasound--THE ultrasound. The check on all the vital organs, see how he/she is growing, find out the gender ultrasound. You should know, before I go any further that having girls in this family is unheard of. Period. I have brothers, my husband has brothers, his dad has brothers, his brothers all have had multiple boys...there is NO estrogen. So, naturally, this ultrasound is highly anticipated.

"What do you want?" is one of those questions that owners of pregnant bellies hear equally as often as "How far along are you?" and it's generally the predecessor to "What are you having?" The "good mom" answer is "It doesn't matter as long as it's healthy." [Aside: I have come to despise this answer. What does that mean? That if it's not healthy you'll be dissatisfied? You'll return it like an ugly vase you got as a wedding present but never registered for? NO! You love an "unhealthy" baby the way any parent loves their child...maybe in an even more painful, transcendent way than you love a "healthy" baby! I wish P.C. women everywhere would find a new catch-phase.] Some version of that answer is what I give strangers. What I would tell you if we were friends is that we want a girl SO bad! Now, there's some honesty in the "..as long as it's healthy" answer--sort of. We know boys. We love boys. We can do boys. We would be THRILLED with another boy; however, the novelty and enigmatic qualities that seem to surround this unknown creature called "female" in the Martin family is undeniably irresistible. She's like the forbidden fruit of baby making--we just want a taste of what it's like!

Yesterday in WalMart, in an M. Night Shyamalanesque scene, a strange woman with frizzy hair and dark circles under her eyes looked my belly over and stated flatly, "So, you're having a girl next." I subconsciously stepped back and stammered "I don't know, maybe. We haven't found out yet." She just nodded, as if someone had told her something they hadn't let me in on yet. Maybe she's psychic, maybe she's gifted, maybe she's just a little nutty, but in some strange way I took it as confirmation...for the moment anyway. We'll see what the ultrasound technician finds. Frankly, I'll be shocked if they say it's a girl. I'll demand black & white proof of a tiny between-the-legs shot if they say it's a girl. In the mean time, I'm left having twisted dreams about the WalMart lady and my so-called baby girl. And I fully expect to hear, "It's a boy!" on September 20. Here's to waiting!

ANNOUNCEMENT!

ELIAS HAS AN ANNOUNCEMENT!

Little brother/sister is due to arrive February 9, 2011

First Haircut!

Our internet has been down for a while, but we're back in the game and here are some highlights:

Elias got his first official big boy haircut! It wasn't terribly traumatic, but definitely not his favorite thing...

Silver Falls

We took a trip in June to one of our favorite places in Oregon: Silver Falls. Lucky for us it's only about 20 minutes from our house--one of our favorite things about Oregon. This was Elias' first trip and as with most things in his life, this was a great adventure. We hiked some walking trails along 2 of the falls and enjoyed the view! The first of many Silver Falls trips I think.

A boy and his purse

Somehow, around age 11-12 months, my son developed an attachment to my purse. He (loudly) lost his mind when I would have to get it out in the grocery store to pay, he sought it out when we were at home, he became obsessive. So I did the only thing I could think to do and I gave it to him. I cleared everything out that I couldn't live without and it became his. It was his best friend. He took it with him everywhere, he carried it around the house, it was his pretty patent sidekick. Much to his Dad's relief, he has since moved on and now only desires my purse for the intent purpose of dumping its contents, but for a time, my rough and tough little boy carried a purse. And he wore it well. Goodbye "purse stage." Hello to a new one, perhaps.