I’ve spent a large portion of the past few days watching season one of Prison Break. Considering the fact that I’m currently under house arrest myself, I feel a great kinship with those poor rascals. I’m so involved with this story that my dreams consist mostly of attempted escapes, paired with desperate hunts for a non-existent bathroom. (Don’t worry, so far I’ve managed to wake myself up in time to make the bathroom portion of the nightmare go away.)

Last night I officially hit the final countdown. This always happens right before my baby comes. In a moment, the reality of what I’ve done is suddenly so poignant and so powerful that it takes everything I’ve got to keep myself from breaking into a million pieces.

All I can think about right now are my babies. Have I filled their emotional bank accounts enough? Will they be confident of my undying love for them each on an individual basis? Does everyone have clean underwear?

Jason will be home on Friday night. At the moment, I’m torn between wanting the baby out this very second, and desperately trying to hang on to this pregnancy by the skin of my stretch marks. It’s the oddest mix of emotions I’ve ever felt.

But the good news is that after talking with my mama tonight, we’ve agreed that this time, I can’t do it without her. She’s coming Saturday on Jason’s heels and will be here to hold my hand all the way through.

Hey, I may be having my fourth child, and I may be a semi-mature thirty-something grown-up, but when it comes right down to it, there’s only one person on the planet who would still stay up nights walking the floor for me, will wipe my nose and kiss my cheek no matter how snotty it is, and who regularly fights the urge to brush the bangs out of my eyes. That’s my mom.

God bless mothers everywhere.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie column.

“There is a reason a baby’s gender should sometimes be a surprise.

This is our last child, and I am so glad we haven’t found out the sex of the baby. I sit around staring at walls and random strangers, contemplating the possibilities of Its gender and all the things that go with it. Logically, I want a girl. We’ve got two boys and a daughter, even numbers are so refreshing. Besides, who doesn’t like the idea of clearing out all the mini-male paraphernalia once and for all? It will simplify so much.

The funny thing is how many people are horrified that we have the gall to wait it out. If they only realized the upside of ignorance.

With our first baby, Harrison, I was so certain and so hopeful that he was a girl, just the idea of a boy gave me fits. Quite frankly, nothing short of a c-section could have convinced me otherwise, and I can tell you right now that had we found out, I would have mourned my expected little daughter.

But.

The moment the doctor pulled him out and said the word, “Boy!” I was madly in love. I didn’t have a chance to miss my baby girl, she had been replaced with a handsome, strong, new little man that took over my world with his first wail. It was magical, shocking, and I instantly forgave him for entering the world with the wrong chromosome.

With June, my third, I also “knew” she was a girl. Unfortunately, I had to admit that my intuition is totally faulty. My sweetheart was adamant that we wait for the surprise, but I came up with a list of personal reasons why I needed to know, and committed the ultimate crime: I secretly found out the sex of our baby and didn’t tell my husband.

In case you’re wondering, I’ve only recently revealed this treacherous act to my darling, who no longer trusts me and thinks I’m the world’s worst person/greatest liar. Mr. Honest John is convinced that I know what we’re having this time and am full of sneaky, underhanded mom-foolery. (He’s also been secretly investigating the possibility that I’m an undercover Russian spy.)

Having been on both sides of this gender fence, and looking back at my experience with June, I so wish I had waited for those three magical words–“It’s a girl!”

When it comes right down to it, there are so few grand surprises left in the world, I don’t want to mess with one of God’s most thrilling moments. And I know how fun it was in the ultrasound room, but it didn’t hold a candle to meeting my baby in person.

Boy or girl, it really won’t matter. This will be our last baby, the last time I’ll experience the magic first hand. We don’t care if it comes out pink or blue (figuratively speaking). Bringing a child into the world is a first-class miracle that I’ve been privileged to experience, and I wouldn’t trade this sacrifice for anything.

Now, if I can just avoid labor until my husband comes home from Never Never Land.”

Yes, you’ll all be happy to know that I actually managed to make my deadline this month with the Standard Examiner. Here’s one of my never ending opinions on teen pregnancy and the conseqences.

This week’s column…

I’ve managed to not have the baby, and Jason will be home in five days. Hurray!

We had another hospital scare on Friday. The doc wanted to keep me and cut me, but I begged and pleaded to go home (because I absolutely love being grounded from all flight while I sit in the lazy boy and watch reruns of Arrested Development) so they gave me a shot of something horrible to stop my contractions (which were accompanied by incisional pain, yikes) and it finally worked. It also made me feel like I was going to have a heart attack and throw up, but all for a good cause.

It’s now Sunday, and thanks to my WONDERFUL FAMILY, who have taken over the care and rearing of my three babies, I have hardly moved a muscle in the past three days. My kids think they’re on vacation all the time. Their fun loving aunts and uncles have filled their lives with activities that their own mother would have never dreamed up on a good day. It is only because of my family that I’ve managed to keep this baby right where it needs to be.

As we all know, I’m a doer. When there are things to get done around here, no sweat, I take the chair by the arm and move it. Right now, I cannot do any of those things. So let me tell you, briefly, about some of the angelic arms that have come to my rescue.

1. My Mother-in-law. While she was in between shifts with the kids the other day, she asked if there was anything in particular I’d like done before the baby comes. I pointed to the dilapidated TV table in my family room, with cables and cases and cookie crumbs scattered underneath it, and told her it was making me insane. Her solution? She showed up the next day with a brand new beautiful consul/shelf for my television (plus really cute boxes), reorganized the furniture/book shelves/paraphernalia in my family room, cleaned the windows inside and out, and left me feeling like I was living in a showroom straight out of Domino. I love her.

2. The girls next door. I’m lonely, I’m alone, and there’s no one here. As the most extraverted individual on the planet, you can imagine what this kind of torment has done to my moral. But, thanks to my darling neighbor girl and her little sisters, I haven’t been alone. They stop in to watch TLC with me and go get me chocolate when I’m sad. I have neighbor girl friends who bring meals without being asked, drop off treats for no reason, and are always willing to send their kids up to help me if I’m in need (thank you, darling Natalie). Plus, my dear Tricia is always ready with some good grown-up conversation and a Big Gulp. I love women.

3. The Scouts. After a month and a half of neglect, our property is so full of five foot weeds (including lovely little plants like Night Shade) and brambles that it’s nothing short of a community embarrassment. I know my husband will take one look at it, kiss me, and ditch all of us for his weed eater. So, with more than a little chagrin, I finally called the young men in the ward to see if they could help me tidy it up a bit. Thanks to a crew of men and boys and two hours of manual labor, I now live in the Garden of Eden. Seriously.

I cry a lot right now, but it’s not all bad tears, so don’t worry. Don’t know when I’ll make it downstairs to blog again, but know that I am doing great and hanging on for dear life until next Sunday. With so much love and support from my family and friends, I can do this. Please pray that I can do this.

So I have to face the inevitable: In a week and a half my girls are going to be back in business.

Sometimes nursing is hard. Not only is it a learning curve with every baby, but it’s a major time commitment. There’s no propping and cleaning, when that kid is hungry you are officially out of service for everyone else around you.

Now that I have three demanding children, I’m trying to think of a way to nurse and run at the same time. (Unfortunately, my body likes to sit and chill when we’re in dairy mode, so that’s not an option.)

I’ve also noticed that my enthusiasm has waned with each little baby I nurse. I’m hoping that since this is my last I’ll find it sentimental and thrilling. Maybe if I buy the right bra I can feel like this girl.

Seriously, tell me she doesn’t make nursing look like fun? Not only is she fantastically stacked (thanks to her new addition), but obviously this whole  breast feeding thing is as good as a pile of donuts on a sunny morning. She’s saying, “Hey! I’ve never had sore nipples! Engorgement? No way! I absolutely love spending ten hours a day unclipping this little white darling! I’m gonna nurse until he’s three!”

Yeah. I’m not really feeling that way. Eleven months. If I can nurse for eleven months (okay, maybe ten) I will officially be in the Selfless Breast Club (a club my husband is desperately opposed to, and is currently planning to campaign against). If I can’t quite make it, let’s all forgive me, yes?

I have a serious case of ants in my pants.

Whoever thought that service could be so efficient? I am telling you, I’ve got helpers running out of every room of my house at most hours of the day, there’s so much service going on around here. I swear, my loved ones are so happy and jovial and insistent on caring for our every menial need, I have decided that if I’m ever blue again, I just need to find a pregnant woman on bedrest who has a sink full of dishes to tackle. From my perch, it looks better than Disneyland.

And what do I do? I sit in my recliner and try to remind myself that just because I feel fine does not mean I’m allowed to go run a marathon. You know it’s bad when you spend all day guzzling water, just so you have an excuse to take regular trips, via the scenic route through the dining room, to the furthest bathroom in the house, in hopes of seeing something on your path that you can pick up and put away while no one’s watching.

And it’s funny, because normally in life when we’re down, it’s so we can heal. I’m used to post-surgical periods of boredom and they don’t bother me. I know that I’m getting better, building up my strength, improving. It is so hard for me to make the leap backwards. Instead of getting better, sitting just leads to more sitting, and there is no such thing right now as “improving” (unless you count my growing waist line, cause man is that impressive).

Let me tell you, you can only watch HGTV so much before your brain explodes with an overload of home improvement ideas that can never come to pass. And you  know you’re desperate for entertainment when you find yourself cheering and commenting like a long lost basketball coach for the underdog in “Chopped” (a brilliant show on the Food Network).

After this, I’m never watching television ever again.

Let the record state that this is me trying not to talk about my pregnancy.

I have to be honest, I’m terrified about second grade.

Luckily, I’m the only person who seems to feel this way. Harrison talks every day about how much he’s going to love his teacher and how great second grade will be. Personally, all I can think about is, “What if she recognizes me?” Will the memory of last year’s newspaper debacle ruin my child’s life? Did my thoughtlessness predestine him for dislike? I’m hoping that if, by chance, she does recognize me or him, she’ll feel sorry for my boy that he’s got such a horrible mother and be kind to him anyway.

I’m sure this is just a transference of pent-up labor anxiety, but I find myself praying fervently repeatedly throughout the day that his teacher sees the wonderfulness in him and not the horribleness in me. I’ve considered a million first day of school bribes; cinnamon rolls, bushels of apples, hundred dollar bills–nothing sounds quite right.

In the end, I think I’ll just put this in Father’s oh-so-capable hands and let Harrison draw her a picture (since he’s planning on it anyway). Maybe send a few M&M’s to sweeten the deal.

I hate the first day of school. It’s way worse as a parent than it ever was as a child.

Because the date isn’t bad enough, I had to spend the afternoon panicked that we were going to have a baby.

We, meaning I, since my husband is STILL IN ALABAMA.

When the cramping and lower back pain joined my fake contractions, I became suspiciously concerned. I watched the clock, washed my hair, took a bath, and drank a drum of water in hopes of slowing things down. (Actually, I washed my hair just in case. Come on, who wants to have a baby on hair day three?)

By the evening, I was feeling nothing short of panic. Jason gets home two weeks from today. My doctor goes on vacation next week and won’t be home until the 28th as well. I really can’t afford to have this baby with both of them out of town, so I did the only respectable thing: I went to the hospital to see what was up.

Praise be, while the contractions were regular, they weren’t horribly strong. After discussing it with the nurse and my doctor, we all decided that if I go home and try not to breathe or move for the next two weeks, there’s a chance I can keep it together just long enough to finish growing this baby. I’m not quite 38 weeks and the thought of having a teensy early baby is surprisingly upsetting.

I guess what I’m saying is that I care about this baby more than I care about myself, or Jason, or my doctor’s tan line. If gestating a little longer means a bigger, healthier, well done baby, it’s worth the pain and the anxiety and the inability to do anything successfully but use the toilet (which I’m really good at these days, BTW).

Two weeks. I can so do two weeks. Now if I can just do it without going back to the hospital and donning that horrid gown…

Any woman who claims to enjoy sitting around eating bon bon’s is a big fat liar (cause we know those babies aren’t low cal).

I’ve got to tell you, this inability to move around and nest is maternal torture. I sit on my couch and see a hundred projects that can and should be done before I birth this child, then sip on my diet coke and shake with the over abundance of stifled energy. I’m not tired, I’m irritated. I get up and try to do something, but it seems like I can’t get any further than wiping off the counters before the pain lands me right back on my rather overcushioned tail bone.

And that’s another thing. Yes, I have completely lost the weight battle with this pregnancy. It’s not that I’m a pig, it’s that I burn absolutely no calories during the day, but still manage to need five (seven) meals. At this point it looks like I’ll be birthing a 42 pound fetus.

Jason flies home in exactly two weeks, and I’m determined to wait for him. Besides, I just found out my doctor will be out of town until my delivery date as well, go figure. I got a blessing from Jason before he left that told me this child would come at the perfect time. Since we know the Lord has a sense of humor, I’m really hoping the “perfect time” doesn’t include me and an EMT, plus three screaming, emotionally scarred children.

Okay, must get out of this chair and go save a few calories and some serious pain by reclining in my new La-Z-Boy recliner (a story that I would love to tell, but which my husband just might refuse to come home over, should I make it public).

This is my husband’s most current form of emotional torture.

Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nr7DcJdbCS0