You wanna see pictures of my good-lookin' baby?

Last Monday...

Joseph Taylor Beeson was born at 1:36 pm. He was 8 lbs., 2 oz., and 21.7 inches long. Labor was quick and entirely painless (too much epidural). Easiest one yet.

We named him Joseph after my great grandfather, Joseph Newberry Allred, and Taylor is a surname in both of our Mothers' families. (No, Jake and I aren't cousins. As far as we know.)

Sorry I've been absent, but my free time has been spent napping, changing diapers, staying up at night nursing and watching sappy Christian pioneer romance movies (Love Comes Softly, based on books Shanda Harry lent me in the 5th grade) starring Katherine Heigl, and sniffing my baby's tiny, soft head. Oh. And eating cookies. Why can't I stop eating cookies? You know what would make me quit with the cookies? Cinnamon rolls. Or maybe more See's milk chocolate assortment (Oh, wait. Jen just brought me another pound. I hid it in my bed).

But even with all the treats, I was feeling real svelte and cocky and got on my bathroom scale. Guess how much I'd lost? 3 pounds. You can scroll back up if you want, but yes, I gave birth to an 8 pound baby and lost 3 pounds. I have resolved not to get back on a scale until my ankles are back to normal. They pumped me so full of fluid my face looks weird (see above). Has anyone else ever had a baby and forgotten to lose any weight? Is depressing enough to make a girl eat 2 pounds of chocolate. Take that, bathroom scale.

Anyhow, I wanted to post earlier, but the baby wouldn't let me. I think he hates my blog. He doesn't like to be put down, and I am happy to oblige him. I mostly just sit around holding my tightly swaddled little burrito of a baby. I call this 'recovery'. But really, it is therapy. What is it about cuddling newborns that just cures all ills? Just tucking his little bald head into my neck, the skinny little chicken wing arms and curly legs tucked up tight against his belly...or staring into his almost certainly going to be blue-like-his-dad and not brown-like-mine eyes, where it is obvious to the keen observer (me, Jake, Grandmas) that the tiny, soft, therapeutic head is chock full with brilliant brains.

I could keep going, but I hear Joey. I think he wants to know if Miss Heigl's husband is going to croak from that gangrenous leg he hacked up in an unfortunate ax incident. More later...

Historic Flight.

So I met Jake 18 years ago. March, 1992.

I was washing my car when he pulled into my driveway.

I was not wearing a bikini, so he was probably attracted to my fine mind.

I think I covered it all rather well two years ago. You can read it here.

So then I was thinking about something else that happened in March.

It was four years later. 1996. Jake and I flew America West from Salt Lake to Phoenix. About halfway through the flight, the air waitress gets on the intercom and pages me to the front of the plane. I was pretty sure I was in some kind of trouble, and I hate getting in trouble. Passengers were silent and stared me down as I made my way forward, cause everybody else thought I was in trouble, too. I do not like it when people stare at me. Especially from behind. Is not my best side. My pits were very sweaty.

When I arrived up front, the nice friendly lady handed me a tiny polished wooden box and her little microphone and then I heard Jake, who was on the identical device, in the back of the plane. All the heads swung around to peep at him. I just kind of stood there, looking dopey, so the flight attendant opened the box for me.

(All heads forward again.)

It contained a ring.

Jake cleared his throat and asked me if I'd marry him.

(Heads back. It was like Wimbledon in there.)

I pushed the button down with my thumb and stammered something like sure, I will, cause I'm so good (I'm not) in front of audiences (and every eyeball on that flight was on me, leering out of heads leaning out into the aisles, or on necks stretched up over the seats), and there was whooping and clapping and whistling and all manner of celebration, and I grinned real big, grabbed my ring box and started back toward my assigned seat. The trip took like ten minutes, because everyone wanted to see the ring.

When I arrived, Jake kissed me and everyone started making noise again. And he said, you know, you can take it out of the box, if you like. And slipped it on my finger. And then I turned on my overhead light, buckled my seatbelt, and stared at my ring for the remainder of the flight.

And in celebration of these anniversaries, I give you the other half of my profile picture, which includes, appropriately, my other half:

I know. Hubba, right?

Happy 18 years. Happy 14 years.

D-day

That 'd' just stands for DUE. Although I probly tricked you because the real D-day was a day of action. And it was June 6.

And I'm just sitting here blogging, trying not to let my mucous membranes get the best of me.

Cause I'm having some sinus pain, which I refuse to call an infection.

Two items of good news:

1. Induction is set for Monday morning, 5 am! So there is an end in sight. Would have liked to do it on Wednesday Morning, 3 am, because that is a really great Simon and Garfunkel album, but I don't want to wait another 46 hours, plus who wants to get up that early?

2. My parents took all the kids to Payson last night, so it is eerily silent here in my house. It feels so weird, I keep thinking the stress will put me into labor.

So I cleaned my kitchen.

Then, the family room.

And I closed all the kids' bedroom doors, so I wouldn't have to look at those messes.

But that is about as much fake nesting as I can force.

So the kids will be home this afternoon. Which gives me like 3 or 4 hours. What should I do with myself? What would you do?

And I promise not be be so whiny today.

Nope, no baby yet.

But I did get the flu (was severe), but possibly a cold (seems to be relatively short-lived).

Which is fun, but I promised not to whine, so I'll spare you the details.

On the bright side, since I really haven't gotten out (of bed) much in the past 3 days, my ankles have receded a great deal. I like to stare at them and exclaim to Jake: "Look, if I flex it, just so, you can see like 3 centimeters of tendon!" (Now that I'm trying to dilate, I've got metrics on the brain.)

Yesterday I turned down some invasive measures (you know what I'm talkin about, right, ladies? Painful cervical fiddling?) my Doc was willing to inflict on me to get this baby moving, cause Jake wanted to attend this yesterday, more than he wanted to attend the birth of his son. No, I'm not kidding. Very much. But he is in this group, the Zanjeros, and this was their first big project, so he wanted to be there to schmooze and glad-hand golfers. Apparently there was good food (I might consider taking up golf if they fed me sushi and sliders and quesadillas at every hole), free luggage and Addidas golf shoes for all, and 70 degree weather. At least I think it was 70. (I can't remember if I went outside). Anyhow, it all went very well. I think they raised lots of dough for the charities they were looking to fund (check out this one, House of Refuge. I think Jake is on the board?) People are already saving spots for next year.

I'm not at all surprised. The shoes were really cute.

In addition to the golf, Jake (11-year-old scout leader) wants to go to the Boy Scout Camporee tonight. Ross is going, too, cause he turned 11 in January. Jake didn't do the whole scouting thing where he grew up in rural Nebraska, so when I asked Ross what they bought on their troop field trip to Wal-Mart on Wednesday night, I wasn't surprised when the answer was "four cases of pop." I was actually relieved the answer wasn't "four cases of pop, gasoline to light stuff on fire, and ammunition."

Oh. And I told him he couldn't go more than 40 kilometers away from home for the campout. You know, just in case. He said no problem, but let's be honest: neither one of us has any idea how far that is.

Have you (or your doctor) ever tried anything to get labor going (besides pitocin, of course, which has thus far been my drug of choice?) Did it work? Were you pleased, or did you regret it?

38.5

That's weeks along.

Not years old.

In the last few days, I have reached new heights of bigness and soreness and puffiness. I hope it is the harbinger of THE END. But people like my sister and my obstetrician look at me with great pity when I say things like this. They know I'll probably go over and be induced. AGAIN.

Jake even had the gall to ask me if I could wait until next weekend to go into labor. Cause he's just too busy this week. Well, get used to that smell from the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Cause I'm too busy too move.

I'm wondering if the Girl Scouts have a drive-thru? Cause I need some Samoas. And I don't want to have to park in front of the Wal-Mart with my hazards on, and honk and wave over a Brownie Scout. Is too humiliating.

Yesterday morning I got up at 6:45 and put on my tall boots. First thing. Cause I was afraid if I waited until 7:45, the boots wouldn't go on over my cankles/hot dog feet and I'd end up in flip flops again.

And it was raining. I love rain.

One thing nice about the 8 am church (perhaps only thing?) is the Sunday nap. I awoke in a blurry stupor at about 4 pm, warm under my down comforter, the rain tapping on the window and watering my shrubberies so I won't have to, and asked Jake: when do you think we'll have another rainy Sunday with three hour naps?

Never, he replied.

That seems very glass-half-empty (if realistic).

Because realizing my dream is possible, if these criteria are met:

1) The as-yet-unborn infant is old enough to go upstairs and play Super Mario Bros. with all his sabbath-breaking elder siblings.

2) El Niño comes round again. (in 3-7 years.)

We are going to start to work on the baby's eye-hand coordination as soon as he gets home from the hospital. So we'll be ready, when the weather is.

My Grandma died, but I don't really want to talk about it, okay?

So my Grandma* died, and we had a funeral this last weekend. It was a good funeral, so that was nice. And all my cousins, and aunts and uncles came, which was great, too. But it was also pretty hard, and I feel emotionally spent. So forgive me if I don't talk about how much Grandma meant to me, and how great she was, cause look, I'm already bawling.

I am finding it hard to write anything that isn't sarcastic or humorous (obviously an inappropriate tone for this post). Is very uncomfortable for me. Maybe I'm not so real after all? Even if I did show you my kitchen? Perhaps I was only being fake real? Which is hypocritical. So unattractive.

During the funeral, my kids (Tommy was in the nursery) sat with their cousins and didn't talk or wiggle or poke one another, but sat very still and silent. This has never happened before. Ever. Was true miraculous miracle. Sam actually keeled over and slept on Jake's lap. Which made me think he must be very seriously ill and would likely throw up at any moment (turns out was healthy). At one point cousin Will did get out his DS and start playing, but it was totally on mute. Was a very reverent Game Boy. Jen tried to get Jake's attention to tell him to tell Will to turn it off, but Jake was busy shopping on ebay on his iphone.

I cried all the way through it, almost without pause, but that's just what happens when your Grandma dies and you are 8.5 months pregnant. (And you are already a giant wussy.)

For the rest of the weekend, we hung out with the relations. My cousins are pretty great. Becky and Laurie can always be counted on to stay up all night telling family stories that cannot be repeated on the internets, Christine told me she stalks my blog (hi Christine!), and I wish Ben would move down here from Utah, cause he is smart and hilarious, even though he once (he was a college freshman, so he can't be held fully responsible) called me a big girl and said that big girls weren't his thing (I was 5'9" and 135 pounds). I think I told him that was okay, since cousins weren't my thing. We had Dave and Mindi and kids staying at our place, where I was a horrible hostess cause I'm too large to get up very much (NOT 135 pounds this week), and didn't cook any food. Somehow, though, by Sunday morning my feet had grown from twice to four times their normal size, and I had to wear flip-flops to church, and people noticed and I was humiliated because I normally have very nice ankles and AA width feet. My Mom saw them and told me to go to the hospital. I'll spare you the visual. You are welcome.

Instead, I'll share these:

Verna in high school

Young Verna and Don

Grandma and Grandpa

At her 99th birthday party, last month

My family, the Laytons, at the graveside on Friday: Ross, Mareen, Ryan, Jen, and Kelly.

(Is taking pictures behind coffins weird? It felt weird.)

All her 25 grandchildren. I'm at the far right. Next to Ben, who is probly thinking I'm big. Well, he's right. This time.

*Verna Pauline Oswald Taylor. January 9, 1911-February 19, 2010. I checked my stats and it turns out people are googling her. Even people in Germany. Gutentag, Germany! So for family history purposes, grandma was married to Don Leon Taylor (died 6 years ago May), and they have 5 children , 25 grandchildren, 75 great-grandchildren (plus at least two on the way, including this boy of mine!), and 3 great-great-grandchildren. All of us are brilliant and extraordinarily good-looking, according to Verna.

I'll miss you, Grandma.