One year ago ...

When she entered the room, I knew something was wrong. She wasn’t smiling. She sat down and stated matter-of-factly, “You’re ten weeks along.”
“I know, I’m SHOCKED,” I answered with a smile. “Two negative pregnancy tests later. Who’dve thought?”
She didn’t return my smile. Where was my congratulations?
“I think the sonographer said I was ten weeks, six days,” I added. “Almost eleven weeks.”
“Are you? I just saw ten weeks on your ultrasound, I didn’t look at the days,” Dr. S responded while pulling out a sheet of blank white paper. Immediately she got down to business by drawing a picture on the paper of a bean-shaped baby.
“This early in a pregnancy we can only look at a few things. There was a heartbeat, so that’s good (she drew a little spot on the bean where the heart was), and the crown-to-rump length is measuring right, so that’s good (she drew an arrow from the top of the bean to the bottom), but there’s one thing that’s concerning to me.”
Concerning? As in wrong? Something is wrong with my baby? Don't panic. Don't panic.
She drew a balloon-like structure on top of the bean and circled it.
“I think there might be a gut herniation,” she said, tapping the circle. “That means there’s a weakness in the stomach wall, and the baby’s bowels and intestines are forming outside, rather than inside the body.”
Gut herniation?
I stared at her face, willing her to say more, yet not wanting to hear anything. Her eye contact was unwavering.
“It could either be gastroschisis, which is a physical abnormality that can be repaired through surgery at birth, or it could be an omphalocele, which might indicate a genetic cause. Most babies with omphaloceles have other serious medical issues.”
Ompha-what? Oh-my-god, oh-my-god, oh-my-god. This isn’t happening. This is a bad dream. This isn't my life. This can't be my life.
“Can you write those words down for my husband?” I finally asked, holding back tears.
She dutifully wrote them down, pausing a second to think about how omphalocele was spelled.
Is this what it felt like to drown? Time was standing still. I couldn’t breathe.She was supposed to be telling me, “Everything looks beautiful” like Dr. E had told me after Adam’s ultrasound. She was supposed to be smiling and sending me on my way.
“I want you to call a specialist today to set up another ultrasound. Sometimes I send people there and it’s nothing, but this looks like something and I want you to have a consultation. They have better ultrasound equipment than we do. If it’s an omphalocele, you can have a CVS test done to determine which genetic markers are causing the problem,” she said.
A genetic marker?
I stared at her, not knowing what to say, how to respond, what to think.
“Let me show you what I’m seeing on the ultrasound,” she said, breaking the silence.
I followed her out to the hallway, where she stopped at a computer, pointed at the fetus on the screen, then showed me what looked like a ball on my baby’s belly.
“Do you see this here? This shouldn’t be here,” she said. “That’s why I’m concerned.”
I nodded. There was no denying that there was a tiny little circle on the baby’s belly. And if she said it wasn’t supposed to be there, she should know. She went to school for this. I just have a journalism degree.
I felt numb. We walked back to the room, where she once again got out her notepad.
“Here’s the number for the Maternal Fetal Medicine Center. I’ll fax over your records so you can make an appointment right away.” She wrote down the number, then looked at me and said, “I’m sorry that I have to tell you this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I answered, remembering my manners. I am, after all, Minnesota Nice, even in the wake of hearing devastating news.
“I think we should still do some standardized blood tests and give you the H1N1 vaccination before you leave here today,” she said. “Do you have time for some lab work?”
I had been at the doctor’s office since 10 a.m., it was now after noon. I had waited 40 minutes for my ultrasound, then another 30 minutes to see the doctor. I felt faint with hunger and worry. I didn’t even know if I’d be able to make it to the parking lot without passing out.
“I need to eat lunch or I’ll faint.”
“Go get something to eat and come back when you’re done. I’ll leave your file at the front desk,” she said. “Come back any time today.”
I left the office, the office that—such a short time ago—had been the place where I had felt relieved, happy, and excited to discover that my baby had a strong heartbeat and I was almost 11 weeks along! How crazy since I had taken two negative tests in September and October and my first positive pregnancy test was taken only two weeks ago. This meant that I didn't have to keep my pregnancy a secret; I could start telling people any time now! That feeling was replaced with a sense of dread and foreboding. Is this how people feel when they find out they have an incurable disease or when they receive bad news that a loved one has died? Like your world has been altered and will never be the same again?
I’m sure I looked like a deer caught in headlights as I passed the other pregnant women in the waiting room and walked out to my car. Dazed, confused, scared to death. I drove across the parking lot to the closest fast food restaurant, not even sure I could eat but knowing I should try, and ordered comfort food: a thick chocolate milkshake and a filet of fish. I almost dropped my money when I was handing it to the cashier.
I felt like saying, “I’m sorry, I’m a little distracted. I just found out my ultrasound was abnormal and, to tell you the truth, I’m absolutely terrified of what that could mean.”
I’m surprised I didn’t rear-end the car in front of me. I pulled off to a corner of the lot, attempted to eat a few bites of my sandwich, took a long, slow drink of my shake, then got out my cell phone. The hard part would be calling Aaron.
I called him at work, no answer. I called him on his Blackberry, no answer. I tried his cell phone and hoped he would pick up. I needed to talk to someone. I needed a friend. I needed Aaron.
He was in a noisy lunchroom, sounding cheerful. As far as he knew, everything was fine. I told him he might want to leave the lunchroom because I had some bad news. As soon as I told him what the doctor had told me, I lost it. I was sobbing. SOBBING. He said all the right things (I can’t remember what he said anymore, but I know he made me feel better). He looked up some of the words online and read the definitions out loud. He volunteered to leave work and go back to the clinic with me. I told him no, that was OK, he was going to have to take a day off for our appointment with the specialist, he should save his vacation time. I’d pull it together. (somehow)
“We’ll get through this. I love you.” It was very reassuring to know he—no matter what obstacles we face—would always be there. For better or for worse. He was just as invested in the health and well-being of our future child as I was. I love him SO much.
I regained my composure, checked my splotchy face and red eyes in the rear-view mirror (I was vain even during a crisis, glad I hadn’t worn liquid eye liner that morning), and went back to the clinic, feeling just as scared but maybe a little less alone. A chatty lab tech drew numerous vials of my blood and gave me the H1N1 shot, congratulated me on my pregnancy, and asked where I’d be delivering and where I’d delivered before and if I had a good experience there, and blah-blah-blah. It was sort of nice that she didn’t know that I had just received news that shook me to my core; all she knew was that I was going to have a baby. She didn’t treat me any different than any other newly pregnant patient. When she was finished, I asked if I could talk to Dr. S again. I’m not sure why I felt the need to see her one more time, but I had the afternoon off and nothing but time on my hands, so I told the lab tech that I would wait as long as I had to. It was another hour before the doc squeezed me in. I can’t remember everything I asked her (it’s kind of a blur) but she was forthright in her answers. I do remember asking, “I can call the specialist when I leave here and they’ll have my records? I don’t have to wait until the end of the day or anything?”
“No, call them right away. I’ll fax this over right now,” she promised.
The sooner I could see the specialist, the sooner I would have answers. I needed answers.
“Am I considered a high-risk pregnancy now?” I asked.
“It all depends on what the specialist tells you,” she answered. “Your baby might need surgery immediately, and if that's the case, you’ll want to make sure you’re at the best place for that procedure.”
Yes, OK, I’ll call them, thank-you, goodbye.
I’m usually a glass-half-full kind of girl; I wasn’t used to feeling weighted down by sadness. I was sad that there could be something wrong with our baby, our poor defenseless baby, and I felt guilty that maybe I had somehow caused this -- I took not one but TWO pregnancy tests that both tested negative, and because I didn't know I was pregnant, I hadn't been exactly careful about my alcohol intake. How many pints of beer had I had in the past two months? How many glasses of wine did I have at that AHA Gala? What if this was all my fault? I was scared that our lives would be turned upside down – lengthy hospital stays and regular doctor’s appointments and always worrying about our child’s health. I felt cheated that we couldn’t celebrate this pregnancy until we knew what was going on. I started thinking about all the people I knew who had perfectly healthy babies and felt a twinge of jealousy. Why was this happening to us? (Isn’t that the million-dollar question?)
When I got home, I felt this compelling need to talk to someone. I wanted to tell my parents, but I didn't want to burden them with worry. One of my best friends, Tonya, is a nurse who lives out in Idaho. She knows me better than I know myself. I decided to call her. Thankfully she answered on the first ring. I spilled my guts. She listened patiently, never interjecting or interrupting or throwing in a forced, cheery sentiment. I (surprisingly) didn’t break down crying, but I came close a few times. I felt so much better after telling her, it was a relief to think out loud after processing the information. She told me not to worry about possible scenarios until I had all the facts. She told me she loves me and she’d be thinking of us and made me promise I’d call her after I made another appointment. She told me she would talk to her coworkers about the situation and see if anyone knew anything. I wish she didn’t live so far away. I miss her.
Aaron came home early with a beautiful bouquet of flowers for me. We hugged. We talked. We sat on the couch together—no TV, no radio, no books. Just silence ... lost in our own thoughts. I was completely depressed. What if it was worse than I thought?
I tried calling the specialist around 3:30 and was told, despite what my doctor had promised, my clinic hadn’t faxed anything over yet. I couldn’t make an appointment until they had my records. I called my clinic and explained the situation. The girl I talked with promised to fax the info over right away. I waited until 4 and called the specialist again. This was urgent.
“We received one page from your clinic, but we didn’t receive your records. I don’t know why they’d do that. They know we need to have your records before you can make an appointment,” the woman said, sounding annoyed. She volunteered to call the clinic on my behalf and “if they send your information today, I’ll call you before 4:30.” She seemed to understand my urgency. I appreciated that.
And then it was time to get Adam from daycare. We realized, with disappointment, there would be no appointment made today. We would have to wait until Monday. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
When we got to Adam’s daycare, the sight of him was the brightest spot in the darkest day. His smile filled my heart. Our pride and joy.
I wasn’t feeling very social, but I tried to act normal when our daycare provider asked why we were both there to get Adam.
“I left early so the three of us could get something to eat,” Aaron lied.
“French fries?” Adam asked. “I love French fries!”
“Yeah, that's what we're gonna have,” I told him, picking him up and kissing his cheek. Oh, innocent unsuspecting Adam.
We went to a chain restaurant, where I have never enjoyed a meal less. I could barely carry on a conversation. I picked at my food. Everything tasted like cardboard.
When we got home, I got on the computer and started Googling right away. I read horror stories and I read medical miracles. Some stories left me feeling even more depressed (babies spending months in the NICU); some stories filled me with hope (gut herniation babies who had grown up to become normal, productive adults. Adults without belly buttons, but healthy adults).
“How can you Google things when you don’t know exactly what the situation is?” Aaron asked.
“I just need to,” I answered. I couldn’t explain why. Maybe because it gave me a sense of control? I don’t know. I went to bed early that night, feeling emotionally drained, but I couldn’t fall asleep. Wide awake, I stared at the ceiling. My mind raced. My heart raced. I tossed and turned. Every time I dozed off, I’d wake with a start and within moments would feel a sense of hopelessness and fear. I did a lot of praying.
The next morning, we tried to carry on as usual. Aaron did yard work with Adam, I cleaned the house. That afternoon, we met my mom and grandma at the apple orchard. I couldn’t stop staring at the healthy kids playing around us. I wanted to tell my mom that I was pregnant but I couldn't. I needed to be armed with facts. And I didn’t want to tell my mom without my dad around. We’d wait until we had more information. I felt like a ticking time bomb.
It was a beautiful day and we spent a lot of time outdoors. The fresh air was great, but I didn’t sleep much better Saturday night.
On Sunday, we drove down to a small town in southern Minnesota to visit Aaron’s grandma Margaret, who—weeks before our visit—had lost her husband after 55 years of marriage. (Adam's middle name is Lowell after Aaron's beloved grandpa.) She was doing amazingly well considering the circumstances. If she could stay strong in the wake of losing her husband; I could stay strong while facing the unknown. For once, I didn’t obsess over the baby and actually enjoyed the visit. Being there with her allowed me to forget my own troubles.
On Monday, I called the specialist, was told my records STILL hadn’t been faxed over, left a voicemail for Marge in the medical records department urging her—no, pleading with her—to send those records so I could make an appointment, then I tried to get some work done at the magazine (key word = tried). At 4 p.m., I called the clinic again and was told, “Christina S.? I faxed your records this afternoon.”
About damn time!
I hung up and dialed Fairview’s number and spoke with a very sweet girl who told me that yes, they received my records and Dr. So-and-So took a long look at my scans and—what I was expecting to hear was this: “And she wants you to come in right away. Can you make an appointment for tomorrow?” But instead I heard this: “She thinks everything looks perfectly normal. A lot of babies look this way at ten weeks gestation. She doesn’t want you to make an appointment here for at least one to two weeks, just to make sure everything is developing properly, but she’s not concerned.”
Say what? I almost dropped the phone.
“I’ve been worried sick all weekend,” I told her. “You don’t even know how reassuring your words are.”
“Oh honey, don't worry. The odds are that this is nothing. Just for your peace of mind, though, we'll make an appointment for around Thanksgiving.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Someone pinch me. That was the best possible news we could have received.
I hung up and relayed the news to the three people who knew about the situation: Aaron, Tonya, and my boss Sara (who had also been amazing and supportive and knew just what to say). I was shocked, excited, and most of all, HOPEFUL. I knew I wouldn’t be able to breathe easy until the baby was born (talk about a crazy pregnancy so far!!) but I was cautiously optimistic. I didn’t want to be too confident just in case there was an issue, but finally, finally I had some good news to hold onto. I could breathe again.


And one year later, this is our little bean. Healthy as any five-month-old could ever be.

Parthenon, schmarthenon

Aaron is here right now.

And I am here.





It's not Greece, but really, I can't complain.

Sunny days, sweepin’ the clouds away …

Adam’s new favorite song lyrics are: “Sunny days, sweepin’ the clouds away …”
It’s weird to hear him singing the same song I used to sing when I was a kid. Who knew Sesame Street would still be popular, 30 years after I watched the show? I can remember sitting Indian style in front of our TV, watching Mr. Rogers and his land of make-believe, the Electric Company (“One-two-three-four-five, six-seven-eight-nine-ten, eleven twe-ehl-ehl-elve!”), and Sesame Street. I remember learning sign language from Linda, Spanish words from Maria, and watching the Twiddlebugs on Bert and Ernie’s windowsill. And I vividly remember how badly I wanted to tell Mr. Hooper when he was talking to “Bird” about his “fictitious friend,” Snuffleupagus, that “Snuffy was REAL! Look! He’s RIGHT OVER THERE! LOOK!”
The song might be the same, but the characters have changed since I watched the show. I grew up without Elmo, Prairie Dawn, Baby Bear, Abby Cadabby, or Zoe … and now that I really think about it, why weren’t there more girl muppets on the show in the late 70s/early 80s? I mean, they hired a multi-racial cast and a woman with a hearing impairment, they had two boy puppets “rooming together,” and yet didn’t create ANY girl muppets to represent the xx chromosomes? What’s up with that?
And even though it’s still educational TV, some of the messages are different today than they were “back in the day.” We watched Sesame Street before it was PC.
For example, Cookie Monster was allowed to eat piles of cookies without introducing a ‘healthy habit.’ We didn’t have to worry about childhood obesity because we were too busy riding our bikes around the neighborhood. We didn’t have to worry about moderation because we knew to only take a few instead of eating the whole box. And we didn’t have the song “A Cookie Is a Sometime Food.” We had “C is for Cookie”!
“C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me, C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me … cookie-cookie-cookie starts with C!”

Another similarity between my youth and Adam’s: Candyland. Only, to Adam, it’s SANDYland, and when we play, he dictates what color your game piece will be (he's always yellow, his favorite color) and he likes to be in charge of drawing the cards. He doesn’t really get the whole winning and losing thing, so we don’t have to worry about letting him win (actually, even if he did care about winning/losing, I wouldn’t let him win). And so far, he’s been a very gracious loser. The last time we played, Aaron won, I finished second, and Adam was last, but rather than letting him think he came in last, we told him he came in THIRD PLACE, GOOD JOB!

He has named various toys Walter, Craig, and Emily. And he still has his baby doll, Sobie, who sometimes acts out Adam’s fears. “Sobie doesn’t want to use the potty because she’s scared of the flush. Sobie doesn’t like the Easter Bunny because he’s too big. Sobie thinks those firecracks are TOO LOUD.”


Adam loves going to Aaron's softball games because he knows he'll get to play at the park.

After we arrive home from daycare, he usually asks if he can have something to eat or drink before dinner, and by drink, I mean he wants juice. The doctor told us that toddlers should drink milk and water and only have juice once a day (at most), so I told him no, he already had juice at daycare.
“I’m obsessed with juice, Mom, right?” he asked with a grin. (Only when he said ‘obsessed,’ it sounded more like ‘assessed.’)
Did he learn that from us? Or at daycare? What three-year-old uses the word obsessed?

He loves to do what we’re doing, whether it’s “lawning” the grass (he follows after Aaron with his toy mower), doing the dishes (resulting in a huge puddle of water on the floor), or helping with laundry (I let him put the clothes in the dryer). He feels so grown up and important when he helps out. There will come a time, in the not-so-distant future, when we’ll have to force him to mow the lawn or do the dishes, so I’m trying to appreciate his eagerness to help before he becomes a lazy teenager.


He's a lovable little goofball.

He is athletic already, just like his dear ol’ dad. He can hit a ball without using a tee, kick a soccer ball across the yard, and make contact with a golf ball. I think that sports will come naturally to him, just like Aaron. And he genuinely enjoys sports. He could spend hours outside, playing ball.
I played summer softball from third grade through high school, I was on the gymnastics and cross-country teams in junior high and high school (my best mile time was 7:30, what I wouldn't give to run that fast again!), and I competed in indoor and outdoor track even at UW-Eau Claire, but aside from being pretty good at the 200 and 400 meter dash and triple jump (love), I was middle-of-the-pack when it came to sports. Average Joe. I would almost bet money that Aaron was picked first in gym class. He’s 37 years old and he can still hit a home run, spike a volleyball, and fearlessly ski or snowboard down black diamond runs. I mean, he finished his first marathon in 2005 in three hours and 30 minutes — just a few minutes shy of qualifying for Boston. He’s "that" guy (without being a pompous a-hole). I’m glad Adam seems to have Aaron’s natural athleticism.

He enjoys meeting new people and having friends over to our house and saying hi to total strangers and socializing, just like his dear ol’ mom.


Good fathers make good sons.

Adam is definitely in the “why?” phase of learning, which I find equally charming and irritating. I think it’s wonderful that he’s curious, unless I’m in a mad scramble to get out the door and he’s drilling me with “What are you looking for? Why can't you find your keys? Why are you wearing your black boots today? Why are you running upstairs? What did you forget? Can I come with you?" and then - when we're on the road, it's more questions: "What are those trucks doing to the street? Why is that guy on a motorcycle? Why are you slowing down? Where is that bus going? Birds fly, right Mom? Why do they fly? What is that billin over there? OH, it's an apartment BUILDING. Why do people live in apartment buildings? Why is that lady standing there? Oh, it's a BUS STOP. Why is she taking the bus? Oh, maybe she doesn't have a car. But we have two cars, right Mom? Why do we have to bring the library books back today? Why is that policeman there? Oh, he's PULLING HER OVER for driving too fast. Are you driving too fast, Mom?"
I try to answer all of his questions, even if I don't really know how. (That truck is fixing the street because it was broken. Birds fly because they have little legs and it's easier than walking. People live in apartment buildings because they like that they don't have to shovel snow in the winter. *Had to get creative there.) I'm just waiting for the day when he asks me why the sky is blue or the grass is green. Better study up on that answer right now.


Sometimes Adam acts so grown up, I forget he's only three.

Yesterday he told me he needs to eat dinner to “keep up his en-erz-jee.”
Omg was that cute.
“Right Mom? My en-erz … en-erj … en-erz … what did I say Mom?”
I laughed out loud as he tried to figure out the correct pronunciation.
“Yes, your ENERGY,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, my EN-ERZ-JEE,” he responded while shaking his head in an all-knowing way.

Speaking of eating, he is an incredibly picky eater. At three years old, he weighs 28 pounds and is exactly three feet tall. We worry about his lack of an appetite because he’s so pint-sized. We constantly introduce him to new foods and encourage him to try everything once. Aaron has used Green Eggs and Ham as an example, and it even worked: “Remember how Sam I Am tried to get his friend to eat green eggs and ham and he wouldn’t try it? And then, when he tried it, he liked it?”
A few of his favorite foods = French fries, hummus with pita chips, rootbeer “popicos,” eggs, watermelon, mac and cheese, sloppy joe’s, bananas, apples, corn on the cob, and hot dogs. I realize this could be a better (more nutritional) list, but I also realize it could be a lot worse.



Adam and his Benny Bobber.


He is a kind and loving big brother and told me that he “protects” Ben at daycare. (From what? Flying peas? Germy hands? I don’t know, but it was a sweet sentiment.)
When Ben is crying, he approaches him with a big smile on his face and says in his cartoon-like animated high-pitched voice, "It's OK, Benny Bobber. It's your Big Brother Adam. Don't cry."


The best thing about digital cameras = capturing moments like this.

He has an absolutely incredible memory. I hope he uses it to his advantage once school starts.

He loves it when he read him books at night. His new favorite is Curious George.

He is strong-willed (aka stubborn) and will sit at the kitchen table for TWO HOURS rather than take five bites of his meatloaf. He has also received numerous timeouts for screaming, running away, and defiantly refusing to listen. Whoever dubbed it the 'terrible twos' clearly did not have a 3-year-old, but I'll save that for another post.


Adam on our vacation in Okoboji, Iowa singing "Tonight's gonna be a good night." He knows almost all of the words and refers to it as "his song."

When I’m feeding Ben, his jealous side comes out and all of a sudden, no matter what he’s doing, he wants to be right next to me. He'll stop playing Legos or cars and climb onto the couch and wedgehimselfagainstmelikethis. I feel sorry for Ben, who gets jabbed in the head with Adam’s elbow or knee while he’s trying to eat. And even though it can get crowded with all three of us smashed together on one side of the couch, it’s also really endearing. Having little kids is kind of like your wedding day, when everyone tells you to remember to step back and take it all in, because it will be over before you know it. I’m trying, really trying, to soak it all in and appreciate every day.
I hope I will be reading this post one day years from now and the memories will come flooding back ... how small and innocent my boys were and how life was filled with endless possibilities for their future ... how I could grab them and hold them close to my heart and kiss them over and over and tickle them and squeeze them and laugh as they'd giggle and squeal and let me do it. And when we fall asleep at night, Aaron is beside me, Adam is sleeping soundly in his bedroom next to ours, and Ben is sleeping in his bassinet beside us and we’re all together, safe and healthy and happy and loved and in love and tomorrow is another day for more of the same, in only the best possible way.

Everything is going to come out just fine

In every parent’s journey, there are certain challenges and struggles that you accept as part of the parenting process. When I was weaning Adam from breast milk to formula at six months, for example, I assumed it would be a tough transition — but never in a million years knew just how tough. It never once dawned on me that he might have an allergy to the cow’s milk protein in formula, which meant he would have to drink expensive soy formula until he was one, and then avoid all foods containing cow’s milk (fortunately, he outgrew his allergy and now loves cheese, asks for milk before bed, and would eat butter by the spoons-full if we let him).
We thought we were going to be in for a fight when we transitioned him from co-sleeping in our bed to sleeping alone in his ‘big boy bed’ which is one of the reasons we avoided it for so long. I had nightmares of doing the whole Super Nanny thing and silently walking him back to his room over and over again until we were both crying out of frustration and sleep-deprivation. I envisioned him screaming and sobbing until he threw up. I thought he would hate us.
He surprised us and transitioned effortlessly. He has never climbed out of his bed in the middle of the night (it’s like he doesn’t realize he can get out of his bed unless he’s waking up on his own), and now, when we stay overnight somewhere, he wants us to make him a bed on the floor rather than sleep between us. If I had known how easy it would be, I would’ve bought him his own bed much, much sooner.

The pacifier was another bad habit we knew we had to break, yet put it off because we dreaded his reaction. (Really it was just me who dreaded his reaction. Aaron was ready to do whatever it took to get him to stop using a Nuk.) Adam was so attached to his “Nukies” that I expected a great big sob-fest when we took them away. Would he be able to sleep without them? Would he try to steal Ben’s pacifier? Would he start acting out? We told him that babies used Nuks and he told us he’d get rid of them when the baby came – surprise, surprise — that didn’t happen. Then he told us he’d get rid of them when he turned three and, to be honest, that day might have come and gone if not for our daycare provider making the decision for us. The day after he turned three, his Nuks were in the trash at daycare. He didn’t cry without them that first day, and that night he only asked for his Nukies two or three times. Each time I told him the garbage man brought them to the garbage dump and they were gone and he accepted this answer. A few times he’d ask me, “Are my Nukies in the garbage truck?” And I’d somberly nod yes and he’d answer “Ohhh” in a sad way, and that was the end of that. It didn’t dawn on him that we could buy new ones at Target.
Getting him into his own bed and getting him to give up his Nuks were two battles we were prepared to fight — two battles that weren’t battles at all. The potty thing, though, could easily become a real battle. We haven’t pushed the issue too much because, from everything I’ve read, if a kid isn’t ready, no amount of bribing with Skittles or asking him if he wants to be a big boy or praising his cousins or reading potty books or promising him a toy will do any good. It will cause the parents to stress out and feel frustrated and the child to feel stressed out and frustrated and who has the energy for that?
But Adam is three now, and he’s smart enough to know when he’s going and there’s really no reason for him NOT to use the potty. Aaron is getting impatient and pushing the issue more and more and I have to admit, the idea of having just one kid in diapers is very appealing (less work, less expense) so I need to buck up and get on board, too. We recently bought him big boy underwear and he was bursting with pride in his Thomas the Train undies … until he peed on the floor. I'm hoping that he just needs to have one successful experience for it to click. My mom said she potty trained me by stripping me down and putting the potty chair in the living room. We're willing to try this tactic. Fingers crossed.

I am not invisible

At the "Best of" party with my hubby Aaron, SIL Trish and big brother Shawn.



I wish there was a better pic of the dress, but you get the general idea.

ON Tuesday night we had a work event at the swanky W Hotel — our annual “Best Of” party when we celebrate those who have been chosen as the “best in the cities” (best new fitness class, pastry chef, hat-maker, perfume shop, you get the idea). It’s basically a “who’s who” hip party scene; an event that makes me proud to say I work at this mag.
I went to our company’s inaugural “Best Of” party in 2008, missed the party last year due to a family funeral, and was so excited to go this year that we lined up babysitters (my parents) so Aaron could meet me there. My brother Shawn and fun sister-in-law Trish were meeting us there, as were our friends Jodi and Walter.
When I was choosing my attire a few nights in advance of the fiesta, I pulled a dress out of my closet (one I had purchased years ago and never worn), tried it on, thought it looked fine, and basically put it out of my mind. The morning of the event, I packed up my curling iron, some makeup, the brown dress, my comfortable brown Mary Janes, and headed out the door.
Within an hour of being at work, it started. The questions.
“What are you wearing tonight, Kelly?” “Julie, what are you wearing?” “Alex, can I see your dress?” “Will this dress look OK?” “Should I wear the black tights or the grey ones?”
There definitely wasn’t this much buzz the first year we had the event. Some people dressed up, some didn’t. But this was the third year. And my coworkers were all about the fancy.
My friend Kelly’s dress was hanging in a bag in her cube. When I asked to see it, she slipped the plastic bag off the hanger and underneath was a very stylish royal blue strapless cocktail dress. I overheard Julie describing her dress as a little silver and black number that she was going to pair with some tall black boots. Mallika was going home to change into a satiny one-shouldered black dress. Alex’s dress was an adorable LBD with ruffles around the neckline.
“I’m starting to think I’m going to be underdressed” I wrote in an email to my friend Kirsten.
“I am not cocktaily at all... I’m Graysville,” she wrote back. “Gray boots, gray skirt, gray and purple little jacket thing. I never had time to go shopping. I wouldn’t worry about being underdressed!”
I went over to my friend Amanda’s cube. “I think I’m going to be underdressed,” I told her. (Amanda is often my voice of reason here at work.)
“Mary is wearing what she has on right now,” she pointed out.
Mary was wearing pants. Mary is very practical.
Jamie sent me an email asking, “Should I wear pants or a dress?”
“Wear a dress!” I wrote back.
Tabitha emailed me an image of a short, tight, sassy dress she was considering for the party. “Is this going to be OK?”
“Definitely! Sassy is good!” I wrote back.
I was about to realize that I was the one who needed fashion advice.

The plan was for Kelly and I to meet the rest of our marketing team at 5 p.m. to finish stuffing gift bags. At 4 p.m. I headed over to the bathroom to get ready. Plugged in my curling iron, took my dress out of my Lunds/Byerly’s bag (not nice enough to require an actual hanger), set my makeup on the counter. Awesome. I was going to be ahead of schedule. That never happens.
As soon as I had my dress on, I knew it was all wrong. It wrapped around my waist and came down to a few inches below my knees. A silky tank top underneath did an excellent job of covering me up. My chunky heels were way too casual. I stepped in front of the full-length mirror and examined myself from the front and side. These are the words that ran through my head: “Dowdy. Frumpy. Boring. Plain, plain, plain.”
I was glad I was alone in the bathroom. In a split second I hurried back into the stall and took the dress off. It was an alright dress, for a casual business lunch, maybe. But this wasn’t a casual business lunch. This was going to be a cocktail party with no shortage of cleavage and legs — a cocktail party crawling with hip, young, HOT coworkers and clients wearing spiky heels and trendy dresses.
Fuck it. I was not going to wear that thing. I was tired of blending in. I always blend in. I wanted to feel hip and trendy and maybe (gasp, gasp) even sexy.
I feel like I need to preface what I’m about to write by saying that I am madly in love with my husband, he makes me feel beautiful, and I don’t have a burning desire to morph into Kim Kardashian (or some other Hollywood bombshell) just to see what it’s like to be your average guy’s wet dream. But, I don’t know, when you’re married and you have kids and you become comfortable in your routine, you start to feel sort of invisible. The problem is, I have always blended in — even when I was younger (I was never the girl getting hit on. If a guy ever bought me a drink, it was most likely because he was hitting on one of my friends and didn’t want me to feel left out) — and now that I’m 35 (!) and have two kids, I’m a little bit bored with playing it safe and being the “good girl.” I’m finally ready to step out of the box and take certain risks.
I honestly think it took having two kids to get to this point, as backwards as that may be. I am a lot less modest now, that’s for sure. (Breastfeeding will do that to you.)
As soon as I made the decision to reject my dress, my mission became urgent. I just had to find a replacement dress. This was a fashion emergency!!
Even though I couldn’t afford it.
Even though I was supposed to be helping my department stuff gift bags in less than 45 minutes.
I threw my pants and sweater back on, stuffed my brown dress into my work bag (sorry, brown dress!), gathered up my makeup, and prepared to do some serious shopping in record time. (Gotta love the fact that 50 city blocks are connected through the skyway system!) Do I go to Macy’s? Target? Where was I guaranteed to find a fun outfit that wouldn’t break the bank?
I decided to check out the sales racks at Sak’s Off Fifth. I tried on a purple bubble dress with a low back that was straight out of Sex and the City. Price tag = $80 (on sale). I instantly felt hip. It was perfect! I put it on hold. I couldn’t quite commit but I didn’t want to put it back, either.
It’s funny how your priorities shift when you’re in a mad rush to buy something. Normally I wouldn’t even consider spending $80 on a dress like that. And then the rational side of my brain kicked in. How many times would I wear it? Was the quality worth $80? Was it as cute as I thought or was I just desperate? Would it look like I was wearing a short purple bag?
If I couldn’t find anything else, I would buy that dress. And eat PBJ until my next paycheck. “But it’s just a dress,” the rational side of me hissed. “Right now it seems like a necessity, but it’s not going to matter in a few days, once people start forgetting about this party.”
“I don’t care,” said the ‘this-is-how-I-got-into-credit-card-debt-back-in-college’ side of me. “I want to feel cute!”
And with that, off I went to Len Druskin for some shoes. I found a pair of black velvet heels on sale for $20 (half off). They had my size. These shoes were a million times better than my original choice. I was so distracted at the register that the cashier had to prompt me to sign my check card slip. “Long day?” she asked with a smile. If I would’ve been honest, I would’ve told her “No, I’m frantically trying to buy an entire outfit in 15 minutes, even though I’ve had months to prepare for this event because, turns out, I hate the outfit I brought. And guess what? I have about $200 in my account to last me the next few weeks. And yet here I am out shopping! Ha ha! Isn’t that funny?”
“Yeah, long day,” I replied.
I raced down to Marshall’s and went directly to the dresses. In record time I had six dresses piled over my arms. I didn’t really want to buy a black dress since I knew most people would be wearing black (plus I have a number of black dresses in my closet) but when I tried on the dresses, the fun, colorful ones did nothing for me.
The last dress I tried on was a black dress, and as soon as it was on I knew it was the dress: A black tank-style dress with layers of ruffles and little sparkles in the fabric. It was form fitting but not too tight. It was short but not slutty. It showed just the right amount of cleavage without being all 'Hey, everyone, check out these DDs!' It was comfortable. It had just the right amount of glitter to be fun without being obnoxious. And it was only $25! SCORE!
I hurried back to work, changed in record time, put powder on my sweaty face, sprayed on some Flowerbomb perfume, and tried to do something with my pathetic hair (I am not a long hair person and I know deep down that my hair looks a million times better when I have short hair — but it’s taken me so long to grow it out that I’m not quite ready to cut it just yet). I put on the dress, the heels, some dangly earrings and lipstick, all ‘special occasion items,’ and when I was all put together I felt GOOD about myself. I didn’t feel boring and frumpy. I actually felt kind of fun.
I’m not as thin or as toned as I’d like to be, but you know what? I’m not as heavy as I used to be, either. Just a little over three months ago I had an extra 40 pounds on my frame and a nearly 10 pound baby chillin’ in my uterus. And maybe, when I’m older, I’ll wish I had the figure I have right now (imperfections and all) and I’ll be glad I bought a dress that didn’t hide my body but actually highlighted some of it. The questions were: Did I have the confidence to wear the dress without feeling like I needed to keep my coat on all night? Could I wear it without self-consciously pulling it down or tugging it up?
Yes I could.
And I did.
And you know what? I had an absolute blast.

Maternity leave

Adam (far right)with little friends Ryan, Leah, and Greta at a surprise get-together for Aaron's birthday June 16 (not pictured: Broder, Aliza, and Ben). We had a beer tasting in the backyard, with 12 adults and 7 kids in attendance. It was so much fun we might try to make it an annual event.


Ben at five or six weeks old, wearing a onesie that Adam wore at three months. Ben is now two months old and weighs 14 pounds. Adam is almost three years old and weighs 28 pounds. Soon Ben will be Adam's big little brother.

A typical weekday:

1:30 a.m. - 2 a.m - Feed Ben in a hazy stupor.

4 a.m. - 4:30 a.m. - Another feeding.

5 a.m. - The alarm goes off. Why does Aaron set it so early? He NEVER gets up the first time it goes off. I have to nudge him, tell him "The alarm is going off. It's going to wake up Adam and Ben." and then listen to it go off at least two more times before he finally quits hitting snooze and gets up for the day.

6:30 a.m. - Ben starts stirring in his bassinet. Yep, he's hungry AGAIN.

7 a.m. - Aaron and Adam kiss us goodbye. (Aaron brings Adam to daycare at least three times a week.) Ben is wide awake now, and all I want is a nap. We watch the Today show.
I eat breakfast, check my email, and take a shower to wake up. Ben chills out in his bouncy chair while I shower.

9 a.m. - I feed Ben while watching Ellen - the highlight of my morning.

10 a.m. - 11 a.m. (or around there) - I sneak in a nap if I'm lucky.

What happens around lunch time varies from day to day. Some days, I'm a totally unproductive lump and spend the afternoon on the couch watching Mad Men re-runs or Snooki and "The Situation" act like idiots on The Jersey Shore. On those days, it's all I can do to put in a load of laundry and figure out what's for dinner. I pick up Adam from daycare at 4 and Aaron gets home around 6 so I have plenty of time to be lazy. Other days, I try to visit people or go somewhere just to force myself to get out of the house (Target, Byerly's, the mall, etc.) Sometimes I keep Adam home for these visits and sometimes it's just Ben and I. It's so much more work to keep Adam home, but it's also a lot more fun, esp if we're hanging out with other kids.
Our visits over the past two months have included my mom's work; my SIL April's house in St. Francis (she's a daycare provider so we were able to see her in action with all 10 kids and OMG I honestly don't know how she does it without losing her mind!!); my friend Katie's house while she was recovering from ACL surgery; my friend Megan's house in Anoka; Aaron's work; my friend Beth's mom's house (Beth lives in Kentucky and was in town briefly); my parents' house in Forest Lake; and my friend Amy's house before she returned to work (our maternity leave overlapped for a few weeks). We also made it downtown Minneapolis twice, once to visit the office and again for a co-worker's baby shower (thanks, Katie D., for being such a good buddy & helping me out that afternoon!); Jay, Pete & cousin Max's house twice (we always feel so welcome); my SIL Tricia's salon in Wayzata (note to self: when a 3-year-old is left alone with markers while you're getting your hair done, and he suddenly becomes very quiet, he probably isn't coloring on the paper you provided him, he's probably coloring on the floor, the couch, the table, and his legs. Good thing the markers were washable!!); the Lake Elmo Park Reserve man-made swimming pond with my mom and again with my SIL Amy and nieces Kayla and Morgan (I love how clean it is there - no seaweed, no fish, no cigarette butts or bottle caps buried in the sand); and to the Maple Creek beach in Maple Grove with friends Megan and Sadie. I haven't been to the beach this much in YEARS. On a balmy summer weekday, the beach is definitely a hangout for SAH moms and their young kids. There's no shortage of 30-something women wearing skirted one-piece post-baby-body swimsuits (so long, bikinis!) with toddlers in wide-brimmed sun hats, that's for sure. The SAH mom world is still a foreign world to me. I have nothing but respect for those who choose that path—it's a lot of work (and a lot of rewards) but I know it's not the path for me (as much as I love my kids). Maybe it would be different if we were in a bigger house and a more kid-friendly neighborhood. Maybe not.
During my maternity leave we have had visitors, too - both during the day and in the evening. Daytime visitors include my mom (she has come a few times after work to hold Ben so I can take a nap); my sister Mary, niece Eva and nephew/godson Lou (they brought us some awesome Greek pizza); my friend Kirsten (we had ham sammies together and hung out in the backyard talking about her upcoming wedding); my college friend Leah who made Ben an adorable hat; my friend Amy who brought lunch over not once but twice, first Chinese food and then Mickey D's; and friends Julie & JT who brought us a delicious pie (we watched The Bachelorette together - my guilty addiction. JT and Aaron were even sucked into the show this season, even though Aaron thinks most of it is scripted/fake.)
During the first week we were home, our friends Karla, Tony, Greta and Aliza brought us a pasta dinner; my mom, dad, Aunt Karen, and grandma brought over my favorite chowmein hotdish; and my friend Jodi made us a yummy pan of lasagna. When you have a new baby, meals are SO appreciated. Heck, who am I kidding? Even without a newborn, I appreciate it when someone else cooks for us!
I was hoping we'd get out to Green Bay this summer but it didn't work out. Our first road trip with the whole fam occurred two weekends ago when we went to our friend Julie's cabin near Alexandria for a reunion with Aaron's high school group. There were 20 adults and 21 kids there (most people tented it, I used the newborn card and scored a room in the air-conditioned cabin). Thankfully, both Ben and Adam slept nearly the whole time we were in the car. On Saturday night there was a bonfire and I wound up going back to the cabin with Adam. One of our friends was holding Ben, so I left him with her. He slept in her arms for FOUR HOURS. I woke up and saw that he wasn't in his pack and play next to me and felt a physical ache for him. It sounds silly but I genuinely missed him. It's going to be more difficult returning to work than I thought (I was ready to go back after having Adam). You form such a strong bond with your baby when you spend just about every waking moment with him/her for nearly three months that I think it's only natural to have some mixed emotions about returning to work. I'm trying not to think about it too much. I still have a few weeks left of maternity leave and I'm going to make the most of them!!

One month ago ...

... I became the proud mama of Ben Robert Sorenson. He arrived on June 6, one day before we were going to have him evicted (I was going to be induced) and weighed 9 lb. 7 oz., 21 3/4 inches long. My doctor predicted an 8-pounder when I went in on June 4 for my 41-week appointment but I think everyone was shocked (no one more than me) when the nurse put Ben on the scale and announced that he was over 9 pounds! Now I know why I was so uncomfortable during my pregnancy. That's a whole lot of baby!! Ben has a full head of dark hair, chubby cheeks, and adorably full, kissable lips. He looks a lot like Adam did when he was born. We might be biased, but we think he's pretty cute.

My labor and delivery story (better late than never, right?):

My water broke at 12:15 a.m. June 6 — the loud "POP!" actually woke me up — and I announced to Aaron that it was "go time." I was THRILLED to be in labor & relieved to know that I was finally about to meet Button after enduring a pregnancy that seemed to last an eternity. I called the hospital, told the labor & delivery nurse that my water broke, I was already dilated to a four, this was my second child, and I was past my due date, and she announced, "Come in within the hour."
Woo hoo! After two failed attempts at stripping my membranes, two days of false labor contractions, weeks of wondering when/where/how I'd go into labor, this was it!
We woke up Adam, called my parents, loaded up the car and were on our way. Ever since my doctor had set an induction date - at my request - I had felt torn/guilty about it. It wasn't as if the baby was in distress or my health was in jeopardy, I was just incredibly uncomfortable and needed to know when my misery would end. Whenever I thought about the induction, though, I felt selfish forcing the baby out before he/she was ready to come on his/her own. When my water broke on its own, I was relieved that I wasn't going to be messing with Mother Nature.

Aaron, Adam and I arrived at St. John's Hospital in Maplewood at 12:45 a.m. where I continued to gush amniotic fluid. I am SO GLAD my water didn't break while I was at work! I soaked through a thick bath towel during the short car ride over and completely drenched through my capri pants while walking from the parking lot to the hospital. Every time I got up I leaked a puddle of warm water. No wonder the baby didn't want to leave that safe and cozy environment!
Because we arrived after midnight, we had to enter at the ER. A nurse was there waiting for me (with a wheelchair) and I was promptly wheeled up to Labor & Delivery where my parents met up with us. I had only had two intense contractions at that point so we were able to chat for a little while until I felt another contraction coming and then I told my dad he had better go. I didn't want Adam to see me in pain so my dad and Adam promptly left. I felt emotional when I hugged my little guy goodbye. That would be the last time he was my only child. Aaron walked them out to my dad's truck and said we'd see them soon, when Adam would be a big brother, and I think the moment Aaron hugged Adam he felt pretty emotional, too.
My mom stayed with us at the hospital to experience the miracle of birth from a different perspective than being the one with her feet in the stirrups. I was glad she was there in the room with us - she's one of my very best friends and has a very calming presence.

When I was first checked by my very nice nurse Kara, I was only dilated to a four. It was discouraging (I had been at a four for a few days) and I assumed it would be a long, slow labor. Aaron got out the iPod and we started listening to my soothing labor mixes. It was such a good background distraction.

After a negative epidural experience with Adam, involving uncontrollable shaking (Aaron said it was like I had Parkinson's disease) and a heavy feeling of pressure on my chest (my doula told me later that she thought the epidural had been administered too high in my spine) my goal was to skip the epidural if possible. I wasn't adamantly opposed to getting one, but if I could do it without, great. I was glad to be able to skip the epidural. I survived the painful contractions with the help of Aaron's supportive coaching, breathing through the pain (or "riding the waves"), gripping Aaron's hand, and a dose of Nubaine, which took the edge off - like having a few glasses of wine. After enduring round after round of painful contractions — at one point I could feel the baby scraping its way down the birth canal (complete with the ring of fire and everything) and HOLY SHIT did those last few contractions hurt!! — I asked the nurse to check me again and heard some of the most beautiful words in the English language: "You're complete. Let's call the doctor. You'll be meeting your baby soon."
The pushing phase of labor, with Adam, was completely exhausting. I pushed for nearly two hours. I was too numb to know which muscles to use, leaving him hung up on my pelvic bone for what seemed like forever (sorry about that, Adam!) In retrospect, I'm surprised I didn't need a c-section. By not having an epidural this time, I was able to feel every contraction and push the way I was supposed to push, from my bottom rather than my stomach. I only pushed for 25 minutes and with one small episiotomy to make room for the baby's head, Ben entered the world at 4:06 a.m.
My placenta, however, decided to hang out in my uterus for awhile. The doctor couldn't get it to detach. She worked on it for 25 minutes (yanking the umbilical cord this way and that) before asking me, "Did you have problems delivering your placenta during Adam's birth?" No, I told her, it was a non-issue.
"If I can't get your placenta out this way, I'll have to go in and manually extract it. It will only take 15 seconds, but it will be 15 seconds of excruciating pain. Do you want another dose of Nubaine?"
All I could think was "HELL NO, you're not going to stick your arm up me and wrench this thing out after what I just went through! I can't handle any more pain. I WILL GET THIS THING OUT OF ME ON MY OWN!"
I just delivered a nearly 10 pound BABY! I could expel a one-pound pancake-shaped organ!
My beautiful son was in a corner of the room crying on the scale and being oohed and ahhed over by the nurse and Aaron and my mom — after so much time waiting to meet him he was HERE! And I wanted to see him and hold him and ooh and ahh too! — why wasn't this the end of my birth story?
I felt another contraction coming and asked if I could try to push. I pushed with every ounce of determination and strength I could find and somehow dislodged the placenta myself.
THANK YOU GOD.
Since my experience, I've heard through the grapevine that when a doctor has to forcibly remove your placenta, it feels like being ripped in two.

After I rested for a bit, Ben was placed on my chest and took to nursing like a champ. (We struggled getting Adam to latch. Ben knew what to do right away.) A nurse helped modest me take a bath (weird), I put on my own nightgown (so maybe I am a little bit vain - but those hospital gowns are HIDEOUS!) and at 8 a.m. we had our first visitor, Aaron's mom. After that, we had a steady stream of visitors all day/night Sunday and a few on Monday afternoon for a total of 30 visitors, mostly immediate family and a few close friends. Adam was a proud big brother. He talked to Ben in a high-pitched voice and wanted to hold his baby brother right away. Surprisingly, he didn't seem jealous at all and still doesn't even a month later. (I'm sure that it helped that he received numerous "big brother" gifts from people, too.) The only time he seems annoyed is when I nurse Ben and can't play with him during feedings.
By Monday, Aaron and I were running on empty - three hours of sleep over a 36-hour period, and those three hours of sleep only because we sent Ben to the nursery. Our hospital strongly encourages "rooming in," or keeping your baby in the room with you at all times, but we were both exhausted and needed just a few hours to recharge. We knew we'd get uninterrupted sleep if we weren't constantly checking on Ben.
Even though we were exhausted and I was healing, all we wanted to do was get home, sleep in our bed, and begin our "new normal" as a family of four. We chose to be discharged a day early and actually went out to Chili's with my family after leaving the hospital. In retrospect, that was probably a little over-zealous, but I knew it would be awhile before I'd be having dinner at a restaurant again. Ben slept the whole time in his car seat.

Ben has been a great baby - and super cuddly! His favorite position is up on your shoulder, all scrunched up in a ball. I think that's how he was in utero. So far he lets anyone hold him - it doesn't matter if the person is anxious or nervous or awkward around babies. He's been held by family, friends, and members of our softball team. He smiles already, has rolled over from his stomach to his back a few times, and knows his A,B,Cs (ha ha!) He's extremely strong for being only a month old. I don't know what he weighs, but he wears three month outfits so I'm guessing he's 13 or 14 pounds. My only complaints are that his days and nights are mixed up, he struggles with gas/pooping, and he eats ALL THE TIME (every two hours). I feed him up to 12 times a day, and the constant feeding on demand gets old fast. I breastfed Adam for seven months and that's my goal this time, too, even though I hate the thought of pumping at work again.

After a rollercoaster pregnancy, I'm so, so, so relieved that Ben was born healthy. Throughout my pregnancy people asked me if I wanted a boy or girl, and I don't think they fully believed me when I said I didn't care as long as the baby was healthy. All of the stars have to be perfectly aligned in order to carry a healthy baby to term - so many things can happen to disturb the balance along the way - that when you deliver a healthy baby, you feel truly blessed. And that's how I feel. We have two beautiful, healthy sons. I don't want to play Russian roulette again. I can't imagine going through another mentally and physically grueling pregnancy like I did with Ben, not to mention the fact that my recovery was much, much harder than with Adam (my stomach wall separated from carrying such a large baby, I had painful hemmies, I broke out in a crazy hormone-induced super itchy rash a few days after delivery, etc.)
And yet I don't know that our family is complete. I'm open to the idea of adoption within the next few years. (I can picture us with a little girl from China.) Who knows. Maybe I'll change my mind once Ben is older and my memory starts getting fuzzy.

Right now Ben is snoozing in his swing and Adam is playing with his Legos and I feel closer than ever to Aaron (I love that he loves his family so much. He is an unbelievably helpful hands-on dad). Life is good. I am blessed beyond blessed.