So, we had a baby.

Sunday morning at 5 a.m. I woke up to what I thought might've been a contraction. I felt a lot of pressure, like a bad menstrual cramp, and then it went away. I had about 3 of those episodes in the space of 45 minutes, at which point I snagged the iPad and opened the app I downloaded previously to help time contractions. It was tricky deciding when they started and ended, but the general pattern of being about 15 minutes apart and lasting about a minute and a half continued.

At 6:45 I got up to use the loo and noticed some bright red bleeding. I was pretty sure that was a symptom my doctor told me to call about, so I turned on the ol' lappy, verified the instructions to call OB Emergency Services in that circumstance, and proceeded to make the call. The midwife wasn't terribly concerned, but said I should probably come in and get checked out "just in case." I woke up Jacob at that point by shaking him and saying "We need to go to the hospital." He was a little out of it at first, but quickly snapped to action.

I wanted to eat breakfast since I knew I wouldn't be allowed to eat once we got checked in, so I had some cereal while Jacob hopped in the shower. We packed the hospital bag (if by "packed" you mean "threw in a bunch of random clothes and the camera and some other odds and ends") and got ready to leave. By this point, contractions were coming about 6 minutes apart and I was more convinced this was the real deal. This did not, however, stop me from apologizing to Jacob in advance if this was a false alarm and made the trip for no reason.

During the car ride, contractions were coming three to four minutes apart and I really had to focus on breathing through them. Fortunately, since it was Sunday morning, there wasn't any traffic on the ride to the hospital. Unfortunately, the valet service was closed, so we had to find a spot in the parking garage. Jacob tracked down a wheelchair and proceeded to take me for a whirl as we attempted to find the entrance to the hospital from the garage. (It was trickier than anticipated.)

We made our way up to the labor and delivery unit and then wandered the halls for a bit, unsure of where to go since nobody was around. Jacob ended up calling the Labor and Delivery unit again, effectively saying, "Uh, my wife is in labor and we're at the hospital . . . where do we go?" When we finally checked in, I told the woman in charge that I'd been having contractions about four minutes apart and had experienced some bleeding. When they checked me, we were told that I was 7 cm dilated.  I ventured to ask, "Does this mean we're not getting sent home?" No, no, we were not. Later, one of the nurses said prior to getting checked they didn't think I was in actual labor because I was so calm about describing the frequency of contractions.

We were taken to our labor and delivery room and I requested an epidural. Jacob went back to the car to get our things, so he missed out on the whole process. At this point I was kind of out of it. I could hear the anesthesiologist speaking, but I wasn't really processing his words. Getting the epidural wasn't too bad, but I think it may have been too late to be super effective. I think he was finished by 9:20 and said it should start taking effect by 9:30. My legs and bum got tingly, but I still felt incredible amounts of pressure. I kept grabbing onto the side of the bed and trying to switch positions to cope with the pressure better, but nothing really seemed to help. The contractions were piling on top of one another, and I didn't get much of a break in between. I remember kind of whimpering and saying, "It hurts," to Jacob at least twice. I did a lot of heavy breathing and kept asking for water. Around 9:55 I asked Jacob what time it was, and when I asked again at 10:10, I said, "It's only been 15 minutes?!" More power to the women who have to endure long labors.

A short time later, I was checked again and was found fully dilated with the baby's head super low. They called for some doctors, and by the time they got there, one held up his fingers maybe an inch and a half apart and said that was the distance between her head and the opening. They got me into position, with Jacob holding one leg and a nurse holding another, and told me to push when I felt pressure. I wasn't really sure how to control my breathing at first, and someone put an oxygen mask on me. After maybe three contractions and a total of 14 minutes of pushing, our daughter made her entrance into the world.

Marie Elizabeth, welcome to our family. We couldn't be more thrilled that you're here!

Adventures in fourth grade, part 8.

Last Friday, I was puttering around the front of the classroom doing something very important and teacher-y when a student came up to me.

"I have a problem," he said.

"Yes?" I responded.

He gestured to his shoe. The laces were untied. "I don't know how to tie my shoes."

Uh . . . come again?

Turns out he's always worn shoes with Velcro straps because he never learned to tie his shoes. I attempted to talk him through the steps to tie his own shoe the first two times his laces were untied. The third time, I gave up and tied them myself.

Pretty sure one of the reasons I decided to teach fourth grade is precisely so I wouldn't have to tie shoes. Alas.

* * * 

During spelling today, we were focusing on blends at the beginning of words. I instructed each table to think of words that started with a specific blend and then write clues so the other students could guess which words they wrote. One of the tables was assigned the "pr" blend.

One particularly resourceful student went straight to the dictionary and started looking up words. Good for him, right?

Until the first two words he read aloud were "prostate" and "prostitute."

I couldn't turn the page fast enough. "How about protractor?" I suggested. "We have those in our classroom!" Not to mention they're a little less likely to bring about phone calls from angry parents.

"All I eat are carbs and the occasional piece of fruit." ". . . Which are also carbs."

The Olympics are upon us, and you know what that means: I have watched approximately 2,374 times more television in the last week than I have in the last year.

A few days ago, Jacob and I were watching the pairs figure skaters. As we witnessed the lifts, jumps, and spins, I was struck with a brilliant idea:

Me: Jacob. Let's take up figure skating and become the world's next pairs' figure skating champions.

Jacob: . . .

Me: It'll be an inspiring story! The teacher and the corrections officer quitting their jobs to become Olympic champions in 2016! They'll make TV specials about us!

Jacob: 2018.

Me: Eh?

Jacob: The next winter Olympics are in 2018.

Me: Oh . . . it isn't 2012. HOW IS IT TWO THOUSAND FOURTEEN ALREADY? Anyway, it could be so fun!

Jacob: I think you're on crack.

Harrumph. There go all my hopes and dreams of Olympic gold. But Jacob redeemed himself last night when he relayed to me, in detail, the happenings of the pairs' free skate, as I was unable to watch it. He even correctly used the term "triple axel," so, you know, bonus points.

We go for the gold

A couple funny things students have said to me in the last week:

1) After "teaching" the group of students a song on the recorders (by which I mean I read the notes out  loud while clapping the rhythm): "Mrs. Erickson, if you know so much about music, why aren't you a musician? Or a music teacher?"

Ha! I'm glad I have you fooled, kid. Have you not noticed that I have never once played the recorder for you?

2) On the way out the door at the end of the day: "Bye, Mom. I mean, Mrs. Erickson!"

The expression on his face as he realized what he called me was priceless. Truth told, I get more joy out of being called "Mom" by my students than I probably should. I mean, I do spend about as much (or possibly more, in some cases) time with the students as their parents. And I call them my kids when I'm talking to other people about my class, so I suppose it works.

On a completely unrelated note, 25 days until the Olympics! I'm so excited!

The peaceful happy moments roll

At the beginning of the school year, I was somehow roped into being on the social and sunshine committee, despite the fact that I never socialize and lack sunshine in my soul. (I kid, I kid.)

As part of that committee, another teacher and I are in charge of getting cards and gifts for staff members inflicted with various illnesses and ailments. Apparently this also extends to spouses, which is cool, I guess.

I made it a good 16 weeks or so doing absolutely nothing on this committee, but I received my first assignment today: obtain a card and a plant for a staff member whose husband has recently had surgery.

Armed with a budget of $40 and the school's debit card, I headed to the local grocery store in search of the perfect gift.

I failed to remember that I am the worst at picking out greeting cards. I agonized in the Hallmark section (so they knows we care) for a good fifteen minutes, trying to find a card that wasn't overly sappy or specific. When I finally found a sufficiently sweet yet generic card, I moved on to the floral section.

There I spent another ten minutes perusing the plants. Should I get a poinsettia? I'm pretty sure those are poisonous. And they're monstrous. It would take up so much space! What about this orchid? It's pretty, but a little more fragile looking. What if I destroy it in transit?

In the end, I decided on the most expensive plant in the store (I had to use up that budget somehow!). As I checked out, the cashier mentioned, "Oh, those plants are so pretty, but I never get them because I'm afraid I'm going to kill them."

Now I'm nervous. Remember that time I have Harsh Brown Thumbs of Death? I hope I don't kill the plant overnight. Wish me luck.

Ro Sham Bo

One of my students, bless his heart, is a little socially inept. He prefers talking to adults rather than other students his age, and he often tries to engage me in conversation at inopportune moments. I try to be patient with him, but usually once a day or more I have to tell him he can't talk to me right now. Today during our snack time, he asked for a slice of my apple. Um, no. That's my food, sonny!

Moving on. Today we had an assembly so the junior choir could perform their Christmas concert for the school. As we were waiting for it to begin, some of my students began to play rock, paper, scissors (or, if you're from California, Ro-Sham-Bo). This student asked if I would play with him, and I declined, telling him to play with somebody else in the class. He furrowed his brow, pouted a little, and then proceeded to play rock, paper, scissors -- against himself. For about 20 minutes. Once the assembly started I had to keep telling him to keep his hands still.

Well, then. He gets points for resourcefulness, I guess?

A Christmas miracle

If Jacob and I weren't so cheap, I would definitely be ordering one of these right about now:

We're expecting a girl!