Since Sam has been born, I have had a couple of friends ask me, "So...uh...what do you do all day?" I have to admit, I was a little devastated when I finished up my art history research job after we brought Sam home from the hospital. I like working. I like to be busy. And I like money...er, financial security.

When my friends first started to ask me what I did to fill the day, I didn't know how to answer. To be honest, I didn't really think about how the day was being spent. It would just pass, seemingly with and without incident. I think a lot of the first few days were spent with me just looking at Sam, getting to know him. Although I still don't quite know how I spend my time, I thought that creating an 24 hour breakdown might be helpful, if only for myself:

3.5 hours - feeding and burping Sam (he usually eats every four hours or so)
3 hours - getting Sam to fall sleep
1 hour - playing with Sam while he is awake
1 hour - changing dirty diapers, changing Sam's clothes, giving Sam a bath, etc.
0.5 hour - laundry (yep, I have to do about a load of laundry every day now)
1.5 hours - showering, blow-drying hair, taking care of the house
1.5 hours - cooking, eating
2 hours - reading, talking with J
0.5 hour - doing postpartum exercises
2.5 hours - napping while Sam naps
4.5 hours - sleeping while Sam sleeps
1 hour - watching an episode of LOST online with J
1 hour - responding to emails, reading the news online, blogging, Facebooking, etc.
0.5 hour - gardening related activities (which often includes just staring at my flowers)

And, that's about it. I've decided to do some personal research on Caravaggio and have downloaded some PDFs to read while I nurse Sam. I want to start some research regarding Josiah Wedgewood and some 18th century abolitionist art - particularly the prototype of the kneeling African man (see here for an example). I also have developed the habit of searching for jobs online. I started looking for graphic design positions for J, but more and more searches for art history/curatorial jobs have been infiltrating my searches. I'm not looking for a job or anything. I'm just...curious.

He has a "scarlet pimpernel" (or "purple pimpernel," if you've seen The Court Jester) birthmark on his bottom.

He's finally here.

I sent out an email to friends and family this past weekend - hopefully everyone who reads this blog received it. If not, let me know. I had trouble with my address book and I'm not sure if the word got out to everyone. Anyhow, the email was rather short and simply directed people here to see some pictures of Sam.

But I thought that I would write down "the rest of the story" here. Perhaps I'm writing this down more-so for myself than anyone else; I don't want to forget any of the details of the day. Please feel free to skim this entry, should you find that I wax too verbose.

I woke up the morning of June 10th (which was my due date, by the way) with really painful contractions that were about 25-40 minutes apart. They progressed throughout the day, and I tried to distract myself by working, playing MONOPOLY on the Nintendo, and watching an episode of LOST with Jeremy. Finally, we went to the hospital at 10:10 pm, when my contractions were about three minutes apart. The nurse hooked me up to different monitors to track the progress/intensity of my contractions, and also to monitor the baby's heart rate. At this point, I was dilated to a "4" and was completely effaced. We sat in a hospital room for about an hour, so the staff could verify that I actually was in labor.

The contractions were so, so, so painful. Wow. We turned on the TV to a documentary about an Abstract Expressionist group in California (as opposed to the infamous New York school) during the 1950s. I thought that the documentary would be more distracting, interesting, and less annoying than the "Tonight" show with Jay Leno, which was our other option. I don't know why I even bothered to care - I really don't remember anything about the documentary because the contractions were so horrendous. My legs started to shake uncontrollably around 11:30 pm and I felt very nauseated.

When the nurse came back, she checked me and I had dilated to a "5". However, she told me that my Group B Strep test had come back to the hospital as "positive," meaning that I would need to be hooked up to an IV of penicillin for four hours before the baby could be delivered. I had been informed by my doctor that the test results had come back "negative," but the nurse double-checked the records and verified that I did indeed test "positive." That being said, the nurse explained, "You are definitely progressing in labor, and normally we would break your water to help speed up the labor process at this point. However, we can't do anything like that tonight, since we need to keep you in labor for at least four hours." At this point, the contractions were so painful that I immediately requested to get an epidural - there was no way that I was going to sit through four hours of contractions while the penicillin was administered.

And the epidural made SUCH a difference. It was SO great. My legs stopped shaking and I didn't feel nauseated anymore. Plus, I was able to sleep a little bit and get ready for the actual labor. I was worried that I would find the administration of the epidural to be too painful to bear, but I couldn't feel anything because I was in the middle of a contraction when the medicine was administered. And honestly, if I could have felt something, I think it would have paled in comparison to the pain of the contractions.

So, after I received the epidural, Jeremy and I just hung out in the hospital room, waiting for the four hours to end. At 4:00 am, the nurse came in to check on me and my water broke on its own. I began pushing at 6:00 am, and Sam was born at 7:36 am. The process of pushing is another story in and of itself - it is so much harder than I thought it would be! I felt like I was running a marathon. When we watched labor videos in our prenatal class, I quietly had scoffed at one mother who couldn't push for the full thirty seconds, especially since the nurse and doctor were having her push for ten second intervals (I thought, "C'mon, it's only ten seconds!). However, I now can see why that woman was so exhausted. It was so completely and utterly draining.

And by the time my doctor recommended that we use a vacuum cup to help expedite the labor, I was all for it. Before I went into labor, I didn't think that I wanted to have a vacuum used, since it can give the baby a cone-head for a day or two. However, I would have agreed to whatever the doctor suggested at that point. I just wanted it to be over.

It is such a strange feeling to have something leave your body that is alive and wiggling. But, at the same time, it's also very beautiful. Jeremy and I both started to cry when the doctor pulled out Sam and lifted him onto my belly. He was just so perfect - and I was baffled that my body had created this new piece of life. It was such a happy and peaceful moment to look at him. I felt like the world stood still for just a few seconds, and then time started up again when the nurse whisked away his little body to be cleaned and weighed.

8 pounds, 5 ounces. 20 inches long.

While performing the routine checkup, the nurse observed that Sam was breathing a little bit quickly. They didn't seem too concerned, but they wanted to monitor his breathing for a while. He was taken to the ICU, where he was hooked up to a breathing machine. Jeremy was able to go up there with them, but I was taken down to a hospital room instead. My legs were dead-weight because of the epidural, and the nurse told me that as soon as I had feeling again, she would put me in a wheelchair and take me to the ICU. But my legs stayed numb for a while, and I ended up staring at the wall for two hours, not knowing if my little baby was alright. I finally was able to call and get an update from a nurse in the ICU, and Sam was brought down to my room shortly after. He's doing fine.

We stayed in the hospital for two nights. We were anxious to try and go home on Thursday, but the doctor wanted to monitor Sam a while longer, partially because of the trouble he had with his breathing. I was so glad to finally bring him home on Friday morning.

And now, we are all recuperating and trying to get used to the new sounds and schedules that have entered all of our lives. The days have passed by so quickly; Sam's needs determine the whole course of the day. I used to measure my productivity by the amount of tasks I was able to accomplish, and I realize that I won't be able to measure that way now - at least for a while. My whole focus now is on sustaining a new little life. And trying to get some sleep for myself, whenever I can.

Contractions are 10 minutes apart.

I have never felt the need to justify to my friends why I don't watch rated "R" movies. More than once, my refusal to discuss my reasons has led to awkward situations with friends, ex-boyfriends, etc. I guess I feel like LDS people should respect and understand my decision at face-value. Plus, I just don't want to be confrontational by presenting my reasoning. An incident that happened this past weekend made me think more about justification, why I feel like I don't need to justify myself, etc. Although I still don't feel like a justification is necessary, I thought that I might divulge one particular, personal reason why I don't watch rated "R" movies.

Up until I was seventeen, I was rather proud to admit that I had never seen a rated "R" movie. I realize that now the Church has advised members to simply avoid films that are violent, immoral, etc., but when I was in high school, it was very clear that rated "R" movies should be avoided. I was happy and proud that it was easy for me to follow this counsel.

Then, at the end of my junior year, I started to become friends with some of the popular "skater" kids at school. I was excited to get to know this circle of kids better, and ended up gong to prom with one of the boys in the group. Sometime around prom, I finally was invited to hang out with this group after school. When we arrived at one kid's house, everyone immediately agreed to watch a rated "R" movie. I wanted to speak up and say that I wasn't comfortable with that, but I felt awkward since I was the newcomer. I don't even remember what the movie was about, or why it was rated "R", but I was disappointed in myself for being such a coward. I remember trying to stare at the floor during the movie, get glasses of water from the kitchen, and trying to do whatever I could to not pay attention to the show. I felt so awkward and uncomfortable for not speaking up. Ever since that time, I have been especially determined to not watch rated "R" movies, I guess as a way to redeem myself for my cowardice as a teenager.

So, friends, it's not specifically because of "the only thing" or "just one part" in rated "R" movies that I'm trying to avoid. It also has nothing to do with me questioning your good judgment. It's something more. I continually need to prove to myself that I'm not the coward that I was in high school. I have other reasons for not watching rated "R" movies as well, but hopefully this explanation will suffice.

This Martini painting makes me giggle; it looks like St. Martin is trying to stifle a snore in his sleep. However, over the past few days, I have decided that snoring is no laughing matter. I always knew that pregnancy would leave my body physically changed, but I never imagined how the effects would spread into my sleeping habits. Over the past few months, a snore has been creeping into my sleep by creeping out of my mouth. It started out as a little wheeze, but the other night it (apparently) was so bad that Jeremy got up to sleep on the couch. I was so horrified that a) I was snoring and b) I was snoring loud enough to estrange my husband that I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

I don't know what's happened - I never snored before I got pregnant. Perhaps all of the weight gain, swollen face, awkward sleep positions, and five pillows have something to do with it. I really hope that I go back to silent sleeping in the next few weeks. I don't feel incredibly ladylike when I know it sounds like a chainsaw is revving inside my mouth.