I am not by any means a trained cosmetologist, so a year of DIY coloring and trims had left me with a messy, heavy mop of frizz on my head. So it felt FABULOUS to go see my dear hairdresser Becky again today and let her work her magic.

I swear I feel ten pounds lighter!

The BEFORE pic:

And AFTER:

I love it!!!

But wow, it’s been a crazy five weeks. I thought that easing into new motherhood would be a piece of cake this time. After all, I’ve been here twice before. I expected the c-section to be the worst part of it, and that the weeks after the birth would be spent peacefully healing and growing together as a family of five.

Instead, it felt like being plowed into by an invisible tornado, then spending the next few weeks staggering around in a fog, trying to get back on my feet. I am just now beginning to feel like myself again.

The pregnancy itself was high-risk, with several complications including a preterm labor scare. It was a blessing to make it to 38 weeks, and deliver a healthy, normal baby.

I give my obstetrician the credit for that. A trusted OB/GYN is probably the most important doctor a woman can have, as she not only holds your life in her hands but your precious baby’s as well. Dr. Veronica Garrett has seen me through three pregnancies, infertility and a miscarriage, always treating me with compassion and the utmost concern. Every time a new issue arose, she made sure we got to the bottom of it.

Ruby, Tiffany and Heather, midwives in her practice, also took excellent care of me. I can’t say enough good things about this amazing group of women, or fully express the gratitude I feel for them when I look into the faces of my three beautiful boys. I know that without their care, I might not have my little blessings today.

Dr. Garrett’s team was a real comfort during what became a stressful postpartum experience. I had high blood pressure during the pregnancy, as I’d had before. But for some unknown reason, it stubbornly refused to return to normal after Jonah’s birth. So they adjusted my medication and kept me in the hospital an extra day to monitor it.

The night we came home from the hospital, I began to feel breathless. I attributed it to sleep deprivation and pain medication. But my blood pressure rose higher through the night; later, I couldn’t breathe when lying down. I was warned that could indicate a pulmonary embolism or a postpartum type of heart failure. That meant a scary, predawn trip to the ER, praying that nothing was seriously wrong.

After several tests and a cardiology appointment, it was determined that extreme fluid retention was seeping into my lungs, causing the shortness of breath. The cure was a diuretic, and the water weight finally began melting away.

It was so lovely to breathe well again, and to get reacquainted with my ankles. I’d forgotten there were bones inside my fat Flintstone feet. But the dye used during the CT scan meant that I couldn’t breastfeed for 48 hours and that exacerbated the difficulties I’d already had with nursing Jonah.

Again, after nursing two babies for a year apiece, I thought the third one would be a breeze. But Mr. Jonah keeps me on my toes—or rather, sitting on my butt, coaxing him to eat as God intended. We’re finally making progress and I am glad that we’ve stuck with it.

I’ve seen Dr. Garrett weekly for a slow-healing incision, and ended up at the dermatologist due to a systemic allergic reaction that caused itchy hives all over my limbs. Then we learned about a big financial setback and what was supposed to be a time of great joy felt dark and heavy and like things would never feel healthy, whole or normal again. I suppose it’s only natural that I battled the “baby blues” and ended up weeping over every little thing. It even rained most of those first weeks at home, matching my emotions.

But praise the Lord for friends and family. I can’t begin to name everyone who blessed us by bringing over food, cleaning, praying with me and sending encouraging emails and cards. It got me through, and if you were one of those people—thank you.

Despite all the struggles, I’d do it all again. I wish I could do it again. Infancy is so fleeting, so precious, and I’m astounded by how loving a new child takes nothing away from my love for my older children. It just multiplies, expands, filling up the house with joy and my heart with thanksgiving.

Postpartum complication #246 is a nasty, itchy rash covering my arms and legs. (OK, there weren’t really THAT many complications following the birth, but there were more than expected!) I saw the dermatologist yesterday and they don’t know what it is. They took a biopsy so maybe that will have some answers when it comes back. The best guess is that it’s eczema brought on by stress, or that it’s a weird postpartum case of PUPPP. Whatever the case, the meds they gave me aren’t doing a whole lot and the next step is to take oral steroids, something we want to avoid because of breastfeeding. It looks just like the images in the link above–except add scabs–and feels like having 1000 mosquito bites… or being covered in poison ivy.

So I’m trying to be strong and not think about how bad it itches, because scratching definitely makes it worse. And I really hope it passes without having to resort to steroids. They couldn’t give me an idea of how quickly it’ll pass.

Maybe I’ll dress up as a leper for Halloween?

Jonah Cade Apted entered the world early on a Tuesday evening, all 9 pounds of him lifted from my belly via cesarean section at 5:19 pm on 9-29-09.

I knew I’d need a c-section, and we’d already set a date for October. Though I was extremely uncomfortable and welcomed an early delivery, I wasn’t expecting it to happen quite so suddenly.

The day before Jonah’s birth, I had an amniocentesis to check his lung development, and an ultrasound to measure his growth. They were concerned that he would be a big baby, and the ultrasound predicted a 10-pounder.

I saw my obstetrician the next day to get the amnio results. His lungs were fully mature. And when my doctor saw his predicted size, coupled with my rising blood pressure, she said, “Let’s see about moving up your delivery.” Then she stepped out of the exam room and was gone for quite a while.

“She’s going to deliver him today, you know,” my husband Donnie predicted.

“No, she’s not. She can’t—I still have too much to do!”

“She wouldn’t have been gone so long if she wasn’t trying to make this happen today. You’ll see.” My gut told me he was right

And he was. When she came back, she sent us to the hospital and said she’d be there after office hours to deliver our baby.

Donnie and I scrambled home to get my stuff together. Procrastinator that I am, nothing was ready to go. We flung things into suitcases and scribbled down instructions for my sister, who would care for the older boys. Zach and Eli were excited, yet apprehensive over the suddenness of it all. We gave them triple hugs and promised that they could come meet their brother that night.

When we got to the hospital, everything flew along. Before I knew it, I was gowned up, pumped full of IV fluids, and they’d brought Donnie his scrubs. Soon, we took a short walk down the hall to the operating room.

The OR was smaller than I expected, and freezing cold. The anesthesiologist gave me the spinal, then I was numb and lying flat, my extended arms covered in those deliciously warm-from-the-oven hospital blankets. Donnie came in and sat beside my head. I held his hand tightly as the procedure began.

The icy air was filled with the beeps of my heartbeat, and the sounds of suctioning. It felt like constant poking and prodding, as if I were a dresser drawer and someone was rummaging through me. I just lay there, waiting to hear my baby’s cry over the doctors’ chattering about Disney World and C.S. Lewis’ writing.

It felt like ages that I stared at that sterile blue drape, squeezing Donnie’s hand, glancing up at him, waiting. It was so different, so passive compared to the other boys’ births, so odd to just lie still and wait instead of pushing and panting and working to bring my child into the world.

I can’t remember what came first—the doctor’s announcement that the head was out, or the wet, angry sound of my son’s first cry. Everything blurred as my tears spilled over that long-awaited, most glorious sound.

Donnie felt squeamish about seeing the surgery, so he waited til the baby was on the warming table before taking a look. “He has lots of hair! He looks a lot like Eli—actually, he looks like you,” he said tenderly.

He snapped a picture to show me while the nurses finished cleaning and wrapping the baby. Then they brought him to me. It was heavenly to reach out a fingertip and stroke the downy pink globe of his cheek.

Donnie went with Jonah to the nursery while the doctors put me back together. The anesthesia made me shaky and dizzy, and I just lay there with my eyes closed, meditating on the image of my newborn’s face as the soothing chorus from the David Crowder Band’s “Come and Listen” looped through my mind. “Praise our God, for He is good…”

The shaking continued while I was in recovery, and Donnie didn’t realize that was from the anesthesia—or that I would remain numb from the waist down for hours afterward. So the poor man was afraid that I’d been paralyzed and that’s why they kept asking me if I could move my toes.

I finally got to cuddle with Jonah, and that was amazing, taking in his button nose, his long fingers, his head full of dark hair, barely believing that we had been blessed yet again with such a perfect miracle. Zach and Eli came to meet Jonah that night, and it felt so fulfilling to be a family of five.

We went home after spending four days in the hospital. Little did I know it marked the beginning of a rough recovery for me.

But look at the prize I got. He couldn’t possibly be more precious…

Meet Jonah Cade…

My third son was born on Tuesday, September 29th, after a rather sudden decision by my OB to schedule the surgery that day. He weighed 9 pounds, 1 ounce and was 20 inches long.

I have had a rough recovery from the c-section, but am getting better each day. Jonah is a peaceful, wonderful baby and of course, we think he’s gorgeous.

I am so blessed to be the Mama of three amazing sons.

Both questions have the same answer: “I don’t know!”

In this time of early gender determination via ultrasound, the majority of babies are named months before they’re due. But here we are, mere weeks—–possibly days—–from having our third son and I still don’t know what we’re going to call him.

His in-utero nickname has been Cletus, as in “Cletus the fetus.” Unbelievably, a few people took us seriously and thought that’s what we’re actually naming the poor child.

My husband and I might be from the south, but even we aren’t quite that redneck.

My friend Lori—–a mother of four—–suggested naming him “ZachEli” because that’s what I’ll end up calling him most of the time anyway. That made me laugh out loud as I’m already bad about confusing my kids’ and pets’ names when I’m yelling for someone.

We didn’t have any trouble naming our first two sons. Zachary was chosen during seven long years of infertility. Both of us loved the name Zach, but ultimately chose it because of its meaning: “God has remembered.” His middle name, Allen, is my maiden name, and means “happy and cheerful.”

Elias Jeremiah was chosen for our second born because I’ve always loved this Greek version of the Hebrew name Elijah. Jeremiah is a favorite book of the Bible and I love the way the name sounds. His name means “The Lord is my God; Exalted of God.”

My interest in name meanings complicates matters. Because no matter how trendy or nice a name sounds, I just can’t name a child Avery—–which means “elf counselor” or Brogan, knowing that it means “shoe.”

I love the name Henry, nickname Hank. But it was scratched off the list when we discovered it means “ruler of the house.” Babies of the family usually do that anyway; I am not giving my son a name that would ultimately encourage his lordship over us all.

I don’t want my kid to be the tenth Jacob, Joshua, or Jackson in his class, but some of the more unusual names that are becoming popular surprise me. Atticus, for example, has risen in popularity over 700% in recent years. I just can’t imagine a wee baby with such a strong name—–nor an adult of that name being taken seriously.

I could follow actor Ron Howard’s example. His four children are named after the places they were conceived: Bryce Dallas in Dallas, Texas, Paige Carlyle and Jocelyn Carlyle at the Hotel Carlyle in New York City, and Reed Cross after a particular road.

Let’s just say that our street’s name is even worse than christening the child Atticus.

Orion is probably the most unusual name that I like. Then again, I just noticed when typing it that it looks an awful lot like the word “onion.” Hey, I could pair that with Ringo as a middle name and tell everyone he was conceived after dinner at the Varsity.

I’m notorious for indecisiveness, and find the responsibility of giving a child a name that will follow him the rest of his life almost paralyzing. I don’t want him to hate it. I’ve had to accept that our relatives will criticize any name we choose. But they’ll get over it, like they did with my other two. Most of them just want a namesake, for reasons I struggle to understand.

It’s definitely a lot easier to recycle a name into a “junior” or a “third” than to come up with something new. Certain in-laws of mine would love to see this child become Donald Richard the Third, but thankfully my husband and I have agreed against that. We understand the concept of honoring someone by reusing their name, but frankly—–you can tag a kid with a lot of unnecessary baggage that way, too.

Someone asked if we were going to continue with our unintended theme of using variations of Biblical prophets’ names. I think we might. But we’ll just have to wait until we meet the baby to decide what fits him best.

Please forgive the dearth of posts between columns lately. With every extra ounce of water I retain, my sense of humor drops accordingly and I know you guys have better things to do than listen to me whine about how miserable I am.

Because truly, I could whine every waking minute of every day and still not fully express how uncomfortable the past month has been. And as someone who endured years of infertility and used to cry over pregnant women who were ungrateful enough to complain about their discomfort–I want to kick myself for sounding so negative.

It is a blessing to be in this condition, and I get weepy every time I think about finally holding this little guy. Heck, I cry at Pampers commercials, at magazine photos of chubby baby feet and velvety little heads. What a privilege to get to experience the baby stage of parenting again.

So, that’s where I’ve been and that’s where my mind is these days and I hope you understand! I am certain that if you have ever been 9 months pregnant (and you know it’s actually more like 10 months) you can relate.

But every year we age, the clock moves a little faster. And by the time we’ve reached my stage of life, the crazy parenting-multiple-children stage, we barely know where one day went before the next one begins.

However, I’ve rediscovered one thing that makes time slow down to near-childlike perceptions. It’s living through the last weeks of pregnancy. Don’t tell me to hang in there, that it soon will end, because at the moment, I’m not convinced that’s true.

Today, it feels like I will always be as big as a whale, my feet will always be concrete blocks tipped with sausage toes, and my wedding band will never again slip over these freakishly swollen fingers.

I will never be able to walk from the kitchen to the bedroom again without huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Could. I will never, ever sleep again for more than two hours at a time. My emotions will forever pop off at random, and I’ll never again know what it’s like to be comfortable in one position for more than five minutes at a time.

At least, that is what it feels like, each exhausting, drawn-out minute I plod through life these days. My mom always said that God made the last month of pregnancy nearly unbearable so that a woman would be willing to go through anything to deliver. I think she’s right.

It’s been seven years since I was pregnant, so my memory might be a little foggy. But I just don’t remember being quite this miserable before. With my first I was on bed rest by this stage, and had no one else to take care of. It was bon-bon, TV and magazine time, not exactly a difficult thing to live through. And my second pregnancy was pretty easy overall.

Surely the current difficulties are at least partially due to the fact that I’m carrying a big baby this time. He’s measuring four weeks ahead on ultrasound, though there is no way my dates are off that much. The strength of his kicks is often stunning, and I wonder just how huge he’ll get before my doctor evicts him.

I also think that homeschooling my older kids is part of the drain. It’s rewarding, but truly a full-time job. And I’ve never before worked full-time while nine months pregnant and stumbling through a sleep-deprived haze.

Of course, the biggest contributing factor is that, in obstetrical terms, I’m older than dirt now. Has there ever been a less-appealing term than the “advanced maternal age” label that’s stuck on me every time I turn around? But I can’t deny it: the difference in energy levels now compared to my 20’s and 30’s is significant. I always planned to be finished with child-rearing by the time I was 35, but here I am welcoming another little surprise at 41.

Like Christmas, birthdays and vacations, part of the sluggish passing of time is tied to the anticipation of something good while being unable to make it come any sooner. I see photos of other people’s babies and I just can’t wait to meet this little guy. On my last ultrasound, the technician showed me a halo of hair floating around his little noggin. I can’t wait to find out if it’s dark or if our recessive genes paired up to give us a blondie this time.

He’s hidden his face on most of my ultrasounds, so I have little idea of what he looks like. Will he favor his brothers, or have totally different features? Will he be quiet and introspective like my firstborn, or chatty and hilarious like my second? Will he be a good sleeper? (Dear Lord, please let him be a good sleeper!)

I keep repeating the mantra I chanted through hard contractions during my last labor. “I can do this. This has an end.” Hopefully, soon, I’ll believe it.

I’ve mentioned before that I grew up with only sisters. So when the ultrasound showed that my first baby was male, I entered a season of uncertainty over my ability to mother a son. Most of the boys I’d babysat were monsters, so I was apprehensive of what the future held for me. Thankfully, my sweet little guy showed me how wonderful little boys could be. Four years later, I had another awesome boy. And soon we’ll meet son number three.

For all their charm, boys can definitely be challenging little critters. I alternate constantly between amusement and annoyance over their antics.

My older boys recently began sharing a bedroom so that we could turn the smaller room into a nursery. We tried to cram the contents of two bedrooms into one, but it just wasn’t happening. So I had to get over my fear of buying the children bunk beds.

I hesitated because bunk beds plus boys equaled trips to the ER, experiments with gravity, and potentially injured houseguests. Not to mention the difficulty in changing sheets, or the horror story my husband shared about the time he puked on his sister’s head from the top bunk when they were kids. But until we can afford a bigger house, there is just no choice: bunk beds it is.

The boys have longed for bunks and were elated when we brought them home. But sure enough, within days, my prediction came true. Eli fell off the top bunk with a loud crash and many tears. Thankfully, nothing was bleeding or broken. When I asked how it happened, he answered, “I was just pretending to be a bowling ball.”

That, my friends, is why parenting boys is not for the fainthearted. Because in the mind of a male child, somersaulting along the top bunk is a perfectly logical thing to do.

It’s nearly impossible to keep anything nice in a house full of boys. They are so rough and so creative with everything they use: furniture, clothing, toys. I used to think this was a discipline issue but my sons have taught me that it’s just the way they are. Other moms of sons agree.

My friend Stephanie shared how her son asked her for an aerosol can the other day. When she asked why he wanted one, he wanted to use it as a flame thrower—–just like he and his friends had done during a Boy Scout camp out. When she said no, of course he complained that she was totally unfair.

I’ve found it hard to understand boys’ fascination with weaponry. Recently, my husband and sons went to visit our friend Brian at his Volkswagen shop. They took their Nerf guns and all the guys—–boys and grown men–—spent the day sniping each other. So I’m convinced that you can’t undo the way the male brain is wired. I really wouldn’t want to, anyway.

Although, a little less bathroom humor might be nice. I’ve been known to laugh at their bathroom jokes, to be amused when read passages from their “Captain Underpants” books. But it’s all day long with these guys. They can’t just subdue their burps, or pass gas quietly. They must compete for the prize of biggest, loudest or longest—–every single time.

Even a simple science lesson on the solar system ends up in the toilet. I made the mistake of pronouncing the planet Uranus as “ur-A-nus” instead of “YUR-a-nus.” What followed was gut-busting, floor-rolling laughter as they read passages such as, “Uranus is green. It is made mostly of methane gas. The clouds of Uranus are formless. The rings around Uranus are thin.”

As I get closer to meeting him, I wonder ever more what my next boy will be like. Will he be quiet and mellow, or loud and into everything? Or somewhere in between?

Regardless, I am certain he will pass gas loud and proud, laugh over it, and devise sinister uses for everyday materials. And I have no doubt that he’ll melt his mama’s heart with the intensity of his love, just like his older brothers.

Summer vacation always seems to drag by until the very end. Then today we wake up and realize: there is just one week left until school starts.

If you’re like me, this is cause for mild panic. As a homeschooling parent, not only do I have to finish our lesson planning for the year ahead, but I’m thinking about all the things we didn’t accomplish this summer. I’m haunted by the books left unread, the attractions left unseen, and the friends left unvisited. I spent much of last week scheduling play dates in an attempt to squeeze in as much fun as possible into this one remaining week of downtime.

So what did we do with the previous nine weeks of summer break?

Not a whole lot of anything. As you might already know, I’ve had to take it easy for most of the summer due to pregnancy complications. This means my summer was whiled away on the sofa, in the recliner and stretched out on my bed, interacting with the kids during the short time frames my doctor permitted.

In addition, my husband wrecked his car in May, requiring major repairs—–something he and our oldest son tackled together during the weekends and evenings. Thankfully, it is finished. All we need is an inspection and a new title to make it road-worthy again.

Sharing one vehicle meant that the kids and I were pretty much stuck at home all summer—–one of the true downsides of living in suburbia. More than once, I daydreamed about how nice it would be to live in a big city, with good public transportation or the ability to walk wherever you want to go.

We wanted to hit some water parks, take advantage of the fun free activities at the pavilion in Olde Town Conyers, go to Six Flags and Stone Mountain and the zoo. The kids usually spend a couple of weeks in Florida with my parents, but due to my grandmother’s health, that didn’t happen, either. So all our summer desires just went to pot—and I couldn’t help complaining about it at times.

I have to brag about how well my kids handled it, though. Theirs was a summer of excessive time wasted on the Xbox, lazy, hazy afternoons playing ball in the yard with the neighborhood kids, and watching far too many Spongebob marathons in honor of the yellow square’s 10th birthday.

But they took it all in stride, proving my old-school parenting theory that unstructured downtime is actually good for kids. Most families would probably choose our usual activity-packed summer if given a choice. I have a couple of friends who stayed so busy that just hearing about all they did made me tired.

But you can’t devalue the lessons learned by boys who had time to carefully observe the nesting mother bird in our carport. Or the extensive car repair knowledge that my oldest gained by helping his father. Eli loved catching, releasing and learning about a variety of frogs, and was amazed by the gigantic iridescent green dragonfly that hovered around the house one evening.

Still, the boys were more than ready when the highlight of their summer finally arrived last week. It was the rich, chocolate icing atop their vanilla summer cake when they got to attend Day Trek at Camp Westminster in Conyers. Both kids loved their first camp experience. They came home every afternoon exhausted and suntanned, chatting enthusiastically about all the fun they had and the new friends they made. I’m thrilled that they enjoyed it so much, and that it gave me a whole week of quiet time at home alone. Those beautiful days of silence truly refreshed me for the school year ahead.

So we might not have gotten to do all we wanted this summer, but we ended up getting all we needed. My husband’s car is fixed. My kids are well-rested, have made new friends and seen several of their old ones. My baby is growing beautifully as I continue to take it easy, and I can call this summer a good one even if it didn’t fit any of our original plans.