It's a good thing he's cute.

Oy!  What. A. Day.

This morning I was feeding Owen in our bed before we got up to start the day. He had a major poop explosion... in our bed. (Remember how we just had our mattress replaced less than a month ago?)

I carried Owen over to his Pack-n-Play/changing table to clean him up. When I flipped him over to clean the poop off his back, he puked into his crib. And not just onto the sheet-covered mattress, but also into the mesh siding of the Pack-n-Play. That's super-easy to clean.

Time to call for back-up. Josh took a clean but naked Owen over to the bed while I began cleaning the mess. Before Josh could get a diaper on him, Owen released his (apparently) very full bladder onto our bed.

We went onto have a nice day.  I, of course, did laundry. We went out for a walk and saw lots of cute little Trick-or-Treaters.

This evening I prepared a bedtime bath for Owen. As soon as I put him in the water, he gave me some strong indications that he was about to poop. (I've learned from experience!) Josh ran over with a diaper, and we got Owen out of the kitchen sink and into a diaper as quickly as possible. Success!!

We wrapped Owen in a towel and gave him a few minutes to take care of business. During that time, he puked onto his towel and pooped out of his diaper.  As I was taking the ineffective diaper off to {finally} bathe him, he peed on our ottoman, living room rug, and his father's leg.

Owen is now sleeping soundly. Josh is taking his second shower today. I am so tired, but so glad that this constitutes a "bad day" for me. So many in this city had truly bad days today. I am blessed!

He's not an ugly girl!

Today's grateful thought stems from the last few weeks before Owen arrived.  Owen was born at 41 weeks and one day gestation.  To say that I was anxious for his arrival would be quite the understatement.  Truthfully, the last few weeks before he was born were very trying for me.  Yes, I was excited to meet my baby soon and wanted that day to come quickly.  But I was also just tired of being huge and swollen and not being able to lie flat because of heartburn.  I was a crabby, grouchy mess the last two weeks. 

I knew that my crabby heart was sinful, and that was when I really began making a conscious effort to focus on the things for which I should feel gratitude.  I reminded myself what a privilege it was to even be pregnant, and that it wasn't long ago that we weren't sure I would ever get to experience this.  I thought of how many babies are born too early and how those mamas would love to be in my shoes.  (That one really got me.)  I remembered that I had asked for enough time to get my home in order before Owen's arrival, and the Lord had been faithful in granting me sufficient time and then some.

I also came to a conclusion that the best thing I could do was focus my mind on something other than the fact that I was still pregnant.  That was not an easy thing to accomplish, and it certainly wasn't made any easier by the well-meaning questions from loved ones (and strangers) of "How are you feeling?", "Any signs it's getting closer?", "When are you gonna have that baby already?"  So  I became a bit of a recluse: I avoided Facebook, phone calls, text messages, and going out. 

But of all the comments and questions, the one that haunted me the most was, "You're having a girl, aren't you?"  Not once, not twice, but three times within one week, complete strangers assumed I was carrying a girl, one of whom was a medical doctor.  Perhaps I wouldn't have been as concerned had the sonographer been able to assure us of her certainty.  However, at the 20 week gender-reveal ultrasound, the technician just casually muttered, "It's a boy."  I wasn't even sure what she had said, so she repeated "It's a boy."  "Oh!" I exclaimed.  "Definitely a boy?"  Her response was: "No, I never say definitely."  Great.

I was sharing my concerns with my friend and mother-of-four Jena, who attempted to reassure me by reminding me that we had the definitive ultrasound picture of his boy-ness, didn't we?  Um... no.  They didn't print that picture for us, just head shots.  Hmm...

So in the midst of all my crabbiness those final weeks, I now also had internal angst that whenever this baby finally decides to come out, it's going to be a girl.  Don't misunderstand, we would rejoice that we had a daughter.  The problem was that we had nothing for a girl, no name, no clothes, no... nothing!

Once my due date passed, my doctor sent me for an ultrasound to ensure the baby was still thriving in utero.  Thankfully, the technician confirmed that Owen is, indeed, a boy.  Phew!  However she also told us she believed he was over nine pounds (which was not accurate, thankfully!), and then printed these lovely pictures for us:

Seriously?  I was so disturbed by the deformed-looking baby in the pictures, and even more disturbed that I didn't even think my own child was cute.  "I'm going to be a horrible mother, and my kid's going to be ugly."  (After Owen was born, I was relieved to see that he is indeed quite cute.  He just doesn't always photograph well.... *Ahem, he gets that from his father*)