Little brothers are always little

To Baby's Uncle, My Baby Brother, On His 18th Birthday

 When I was four, mom and dad told me I would have a new baby brother or sister. I really wanted a baby brother. Well, I wanted an older brother, but mom and dad said that wasn't possible. So instead I asked God every day for you.

The day came where mom went into labor and it was time. Sarah watched TV at Grandma Mason's and I sat with Grandma Mason until the phone rang. It was dad, "You have a baby brother Mary!" I was so overjoyed I could cry. Finally. A brother. Someone to wrastle and poke fun at. You were the first thing I wished for that I got.

You were so small. Dad bought Sarah and I matching dresses to wear for your homecoming. You were asleep when you came home; so peaceful, quiet, I wanted to see your eyes but instead Sarah and I sat in awe and rocked you in the cradle. You were the perfect addition to our family!

First birthday, please note Bud Light cup.

When you were three, just a few weeks away from four, you almost left us for good. Michael, my world was shattered. I woke up to play with you and you were gone, you were in the hospital, you were maybe going to die. Life without the brother I've wanted for so long? I prayed to God again. An angel came to me in my sleep that told me you were okay. I believed in you, even though you didn't remember me. I just wanted you alive and safe.

Thanks to Dr. Michael Handler, you were.

I loved learning about you. You were so funny. You loved The Lion King and Hot Wheels. You loved the song Tusk by Fleetwood Mac. You had the best imagination. You'd tell us what was happening now was already in your dream, and you'd describe to us the moment we were in. 

Together, Wherever We Go talent show performance

And I picked on you sometimes. Okay, a lot of times. Sarah and I duct taped you to the wall once. But mostly, you and Sarah fought more than you and I did. I think that's because Sarah's easier to fight with! The ladies always loved you. You were so small and cute, and bright blonde, and you had the most adorable squeeky voice.

And through it all, you've always been the best at raising my 'spirits':

You make the best goofy faces:

And if you want a good laugh from someone, you'll get it.

I love you John Michael Collins, you're one of my best friends and there is no brother I'd rather have! Here's what you can do with your newfound Age of Majority, even though in my mind you'll always be the scrawny kid who hated pants.

Legally it means that one can engage in a contract. The same or a different minimum age may be applicable to, for example, parents losingparenting rights and duties regarding the person concerned, parents losing financial responsibility, marriage, voting, having a job, serving in the military, buying/possessing firearms (if legal at all), driving, traveling abroad, involvement with alcoholic beverages (if legal at all),smoking, sex, gambling (both lottery and casino) being a prostitute or a client of a prostitute (if legal at all), being a model or actor inpornography, etc. Admission of a young person to a place may be restricted because of danger for that person, concern that the place may lead the person to immoral behavior, and/or because of the risk that the young person causes damage (for example, at an exhibition of fragile items).

One can distinguish the legality of acts of a young person, and of enabling a young person to carry out that act, by selling, renting out, showing, permitting entrance, participating, etc. There may be distinction between commercially and socially enabling. Sometimes there is the requirement of supervision by a legal guardian, or just by an adult. Sometimes there is no requirement, but just a recommendation.

With regard to pornography one can distinguish:

• being allowed inside an adult establishment
• being allowed to purchase pornography
• being allowed to possess pornography
• another person being allowed to sell, rent out, or show the young person pornography, see disseminating pornography to a minor
• being a pornographic actor: rules for the young person, and for other people, regarding production, possession, etc. (see child pornography)

With regard to films with violence, etc.:

• another person being allowed to sell, rent out, or show the young person a film, a cinema being allowed to let a young person (under 18) enter 

(from Wikipedia, Adult legal definitions)

YOU'RE A ROCKSTAR

Warm yourself by the fire, son
And the morning will come soon
I'll tell you stories of a better time
In a place that we once knew

Before we packed our bags
And left all this behind us in the dust
We had a place that we could call home
And a life no one could touch

Don't hold me up now
I can stand my own ground
I don't need your help now
You won't let me down, down, down

Don't hold me up now
I can stand my own ground
I don't need your help now
You will let me down, down, down, down

We are the angry and the desperate
The hungry and the cold
We are the ones who kept quiet
And always did what we were told

But we've been sweating while you slept so calm
In the safety of your home
We've been pulling out the nails that hold up
Everything you've known

Don't hold me up now
I can stand my own ground
I don't need your help now
You will let me down, down, down

Don't hold me up now
I can stand my own ground
I don't need your help now
You will let me down, down, down

So open your eyes, child
Let's be on our way
Broken windows and ashes
Are guiding the way

Keep quiet no longer
We'll sing through the day
Of the lives that we've lost
And the lives we've reclaimed, go

Don't hold me up now
I can stand my own ground
I don't need your help now
You will let me down, down, down

I'M NOT READY! I'M NOT READY!

Wednesday--abdominal pain. Lower back cramps. Difficulty moving.

Thursday--abdominal pain. Lower back cramps. CONTRACTIONS.

And I'm thinking. Okay, what? I am 24 weeks pregnant. That's nowhere CLOSE to 40. It's barely closer to 40 than it is to 0. So I'm counting them. More than four in an hour. Shit!

At this point I'm freaking out. Like, crying hysterically at work freaking out. Like, about to run out screaming "MY BABY MY BABY!," get-fired-I'm-so-upset, freaking out. IT'S TOO EARLY.

And I've joked about not wanting to be pregnant anymore. I don't want to be pregnant anymore, I think pregnancy is annoying, except for getting to feel her kicks and hear her heartbeat and know that shortly I'll get to raise a miniature human being. But God, I was joking. Seriously. I started making pacts, crying on the way to the doctor's office. "God, I promise I'll never complain about being pregnant again if you let this baby cook longer!"

So I sit there in the doctor's office waiting room blubbering like an idiot. Fortunately Jenny was there so I didn't have to look too pitiful (nothing worse than being a crying preggo lady alone). I was exhausted. I was convinced that the worst case scenario was occurring and that I'd have to take drastic measures to get labor to stop.

The nurse called me back and they weighed me. Another nurse was comforting me while I was crying and snotting all over myself, and I wanted to scream at her that I'm only 153 lbs and her gentle touch is making me weigh more. 156.8 lbs. Fabulous. Now I'm broken AND fat.

And, despite numerous promises that he wouldn't have to do a pelvic until the third trimester, I took off my pants and covered up with the "modest" paper sheet they give you for exams. Which didn't cover my WHOLE ass. Which, if Jenny was scarred permanently, she was nice enough not to mention it (there's even some zits on there now!)

Doc comes in, asks questions. Gets nurse for pelvic. Says my cervix is fine (calming my fears of active labor!). Then says I have a lot of discharge, gross, and explains that certain infections can irritate the uterus, initiating false labor. He said he's going to go look at it under a microscope and he'd be back shortly.

Much to his (and my) dismay, yes, I did have an infection. He mentioned a "mass of white blood cells and bacteria" and put me on antibiotics. He also was kind enough to throw in there a vivid description of what the infection looked like, which made me very embarrassed. It was better than not knowing what it was, and it was certainly better than having a doc think it was all in my head.

Unfortunately, I got this magic idea in my brain that knowing what it was would make the pain go away. What a sad, magic idea.  I went to Burger King after I picked up my antibiotics and scarfed down my fish and cheese sandwich (biggest craving!) with french fries between jabs in my belly, crying hysterically because of how ridiculous I must look. 

I suffered through the contractions for the better part of 12 more hours and still have abdominal pain. BUT...my cervix's lips are sealed, extremely figuratively speaking. And baby still gets to kick and somersault and play and get fat in my belly before she makes her debut. I'd hate for her to come out only knowing half of her lines!

So, Divine Being(s), if you're listening:

I bitch a lot about being pregnant, because it sucks, and I cry a lot cause of the weight I'm gaining, but please don't make her come out before she's ready. Even if I have to gain 80 million more pounds to get her out I'll do it.

And Baby Girl:

Sorry about the earthquake.

I Get a Kick Out of You

My, how Baby has grown!

From a line on a test, to a tiny indistinguishable bump, to a heartbeat in a doctor's office, to a ten 1/2 inch, 12 ounce mini-child, motherhood is turning out to be amazing.

Granted, it's gross. I smell everything. I puke a lot. I'm tired. I can't control my gas. A miniscule amount of garlic makes me smell of it for 12 hours. But my favorite, most motivating thing thus far has not been the growing belly but....

The kicks.

As any veteran mom knows, they start out like gas, little bubbles that leave you questioning. Was that the baby? Or should I have skipped the onions?

But then, almost out of nowhere, Baby kicked. Baby kicked HARD.

One of the amazing things to me is how my baby will kick to get my attention, and if I tap my belly or place my hand, the baby will kick smack dab in the middle of it. It's my first bonding experience. This is more than "I'm eating food you're eating!" This is more than "I can hear your heart." This is, "Here is my hand, HI! I love you," and getting a response. This is the baby loving me so much. This is my baby saying, "Feel how strong I am!" And then I remember why I decided to follow through with this pregnancy thing in the first place.

Getting 'Knit'-Picky

My new nesting craving, so to speak, is making things for the baby.

It started when I went to pick up a prenatal listener to listen to nugget in my belly (which I had to return anyway, because I ruined my birthday present!). Walking past the yarn aisle, I regained a sudden urge to purchase yarn and a crochet hook and make a baby blanket. So I did. Of course, I never do things right the first time, so I ended up changing my mind about 20 times before deciding on a final pattern and yarn for the blanket.

However, I noticed quickly that I was running out of the yarn I had chosen for the blanket--a thick, soft, almost velour white yarn. So, as usual, Jenny and I got bored and decided to go out to dinner/Hobby Lobby.

At first I was pissed that they didn't carry my yarn, but then Jenny stumbled upon some knit-stuffed animals, packaged and made by this company. Spiders, teddy bears, giraffes, lions, zebras, etc. Granted, they were ten bucks per pack but I figured it was worth it for something that would keep me busy. Plus, I thought, it would be a great addition to the Safari animals theme that had happened upon baby and me around Christmas-time. So I picked up the lion and decided that, by weekend's end, I would have completed the damn thing and decided if I wanted to make the rest.

We got home, put on a movie, and I sat down with a vicious determination to 'tame the beast.' Maybe a bit too hastily, I started knitting. The pattern had asked for garter stitch when I had begun working the stockinette stitch. 

Shit.

By the time I realized this, I had to decide if I was going to start completely over and lose some of the minimal yarn the kit had supplied me with, or continue in stockinette. Frantic, I tried to convince myself that stockinette was better anyway. "Damn patterns," I said to myself. "Anyone can follow them, but it takes a real knitting badass to modify them!"

And then my self limiting talk kicked in, saying stupid stuff like "Well the baby's going to think you're lazy" and "Everyone will be able to tell you messed it up." So I countered it. "NO! The baby's going to be like, dude, you guys suck for saying that it's ugly, it's MY lion and my mom's awesome for not following the rules! She's a knit-revolutionary."

I was having a lot of fun imagining that my kid will be born with an automatic knowledge of all things knit, but then I realized the baby will just cuddle it because I put it there, or because it smells like me.

Cheers to knitting, and completing ugly, lumpy animals for your kids to love.