Nick turned 12 and is officially a deacon now, and I will need to resist the urge to bring a camera to church next Sunday when he will be passing the sacrament for the first time.
Christmas morning was fun and exciting, and the kids seemed excited about their gifts. Madison didn't get the ice-skates she asked for, but would sleep in her new roller skates if we let her. Nick did find a small lump of coal in his stocking. It must have something to do with those grades of his, because other than that he's a great kid. (He wants me to erase the last couple of sentences, I told him he was lucky I didn't make him pose for a picture.)We all went ice-skating, and I would like to report that I remained upright the entire time. I even tried my hand at backwards skating. My 5 year old niece Claire is quite the little skater and was skating rings around the rest of us. 
The kids hiked up Camelback mountain with their grandparents and cousins, John and I weren't feeling so great so we stayed home. We made it down to the Casa Grande Ruins yesterday, and had a good time, but my beloved camera decided halfway through the trip that it was going to get creative with my pictures. Now they look like my camera was either experimenting with crazy photoshop tools, or hallucinogenic drugs. Apparently what this means now is that it is pretty much worthless. John has a camera I shall be claiming as my own from now on, but I liked mine and shall mourn the loss of it. I am faced with the decision of looking into SLR's, which scare me, or decide whether another point and shoot is for me. 
The kids ate their fill of Swedish pancakes each and every morning, courtesy of their Grandma Tucker (John's mom). We went out to eat several times, and my mom and I cooked and baked quite a bit, some of which I actually blogged about on my other blog, but of course there wasn't time for it all, so there were at least half a dozen recipes we didn't get to. Dangit. Now I am faced with the conflicting desires to bake and make desserts and actually put some effort into my standard new year's resolution to lose weight.The last of our out of town guests left this morning, and we are being the slave drivers that we are and making the kids clean their rooms and put away their presents, while I sit at the computer and blog. We did promise to take them to a movie later today, but at the rate chores are being done, I'm seriously doubting it will ever happen.
We have no plans yet for tonight, I haven't thought that far in advance. I'm sure John will be in bed by 8:30. Party pooper.
He had to go home to the North Pole for another 11 months. Madison was pretty sad about this fact. I thought he could just go back in the box he came in. "No! mom! He HAS to fly back to the North Pole and help Santa!"
My response was that I didn't do that four times. Each of the pregnancies got worse. Other than the usual garbage that goes with being pregnant, my pregnancy with Nick was great. Every doctor's appointment went along the lines of "you're doing great, the baby's doing great, see ya next time..."
The biggest issue I had during the pregnancy was what to name the baby. John and I fought about this for awhile. Finally the only name we could agree on was Nicholas. And so Nicholas he was to be.
So like I said, every thing was great with the pregnancy, until it wasn't. There was no bed rest, no medication, no tears. Just the usual pregnancy stuff. He was due on Valentine's day 1997. But it was two months before that on Christmas Eve 1996, and I started having horrible stomach pains, and like I said I still had two more months, eight more weeks to be exact, so it couldn't be contractions, because I had weeks and weeks and weeks left. (only eight I realize, but you try telling a very miserable pregnant woman, that that isn't forever.)
Besides, it was Christmas Eve. And I was totally queen of procrastination. During the month of December besides being an exhausted pregnant woman, I had a job, and so when Christmas Eve rolled around I still had a lot to do. So many little "last minute things" to pick up. 
I spent some time that day doing errands with my mom and little brother, and every 10 minutes or so they would ask "Are you sure you're okay?" "Yes!" I'd say. "It's just gas or something." And then I would start chewing on more antacids. My little brother kindly pointed out that if it would make me feel better I could just fart and they wouldn't mind.
Later on I spent a good part of the afternoon driving myself around taking care of the last minute things I needed to do. In the snow. In my car with the stick shift. With those horrible gas pains arriving every 6 minutes now. I'm truly surprised I didn't crash or at least stall the car. I remember the pains to be nearly paralyzing as the muscles would tighten in my stomach ever more painfully. Too painful to walk or talk or breathe. I think I ate a whole bottle of antacids. 
I would have gone to the hospital to get things checked out, but it was Christmas Eve for heaven's sake! I had things to do! Places to go! We were going to a party at my aunt's in Park City that evening that I was excited about. There was no time to spend hours at the hospital only to be eventually turned away. "Sorry, ma'am. It's just false labor. Merry Christmas."
And so when my errands were done (or at least the stores were all closed) I went home to change and get ready for the party, and wait for John to get off work. (please excuse the next few lines of this story, gross as they may be, I think they are important- I can't just say "then something happened so I called the doctor.") So at some point I had to pee, and when I was done, I happened to glance at the used toilet paper and what I saw totally alarmed me. It looked like alot of snot. Alot of bloody snot. So not normal. So I FINALLY called the doctor. Being Christmas Eve and all, all I got was the answering service and the guy told me to go to the hospital immediately. Good thing since those gas pains were only about 3 minutes apart by this time.
John was supposed to be home any minute, so I spent my time packing a bag- overnight stuff for me, the video camera (oh yeah, I have footage of that blessed event, fortunately my BFF Jamie was very kind, so it's PG rated), and an outfit to bring home the baby in. My favorite little outfit that I had been given by some loving friend or family member. Not having much experience with baby clothes, I really had no clue what the little numbers meant, and all the outfits were pretty small anyway, so I didn't think much of the fact that the tag said 6-9 mos.
We went straight to the hospital, John drove like a lunatic. I was admitted immediately, it was confirmed I was indeed in labor, and no they couldn't stop it. By the time we arrived I was dilated to an eight. I had enough time to say that yes I did want an epidural (my Lamaze classes didn't start for another week, I was in no way prepared to even think about natural child birth). When I asked about taking him home, they gave me the most incredulous look, and said that he was more than likely going to be on the next helicopter to be life flighted to Primary Children's Hospital where he would stay for weeks or months. MONTHS?!?!
I really started to freak out at this point. I knew we were totally unprepared to be real parents, let alone deal with a sick baby. I hadn't even cleaned out the "storage room" and set up a nursery yet. I was just trying to get through Christmas. Two young kids raising a healthy baby was scary enough, and already I had failed to be a good mother by not rushing to the hospital when the pains first started. I hadn't realized I had been choosing shopping and parties over the health and well being of my baby.
With a grand total of one push, out popped my teeny tiny 3 pound 11 ounce baby boy. Nicholas John Berrett. And he was healthy and perfect. And he got to stay at that hospital instead of being rushed off to the other one for really sick kids. He only needed a little bit of oxygen for a day, and that was it. Well, that and an IV in his forehead, and a feeding tube down his nose, and an incubator for a bed.
I considered changing his name at the last minute. I didn't want people thinking I named him Nicholas because he was born on Christmas Eve. I could hear it in my head "Jolly old St. Nicholas, lean your ear this way..." But like I said, it was the only name we could remotely agree on. ( He does admit that kids tease him every once in awhile, but it doesn't bother him)
We visited every day for the next three weeks. Feeding him, and talking to him, and holding him. It felt like playing with a little doll. A life like little doll. We'd change his diaper, and burp him, then kiss him good-bye leave him to the excellent care of the nurses and go home. I guess it's somewhat fortunate that we had these last three weeks to find a crib and get the room ready for him. We were pretty poor, but fortunate enough to have good friends and generous family to help out with things.
Then one day they said we could take him home, something I had prayed for every day for three weeks was coming true, but I was totally freaked out! Are you kidding me?!?! Who am I to take care of a baby? How can they, these trained nurses who have been taking care of him night and day for three weeks just hand this little person to me and say "Good Luck!"?!?! Were they insane? Didn't they know how totally inadequate I was for the task? But I bought the cutest little preemie outfit to bring him home in, because by then I realized 6-9 mos was ginormous, passed their CPR test, and off we went.
Of course despite my fears he was okay. That didn't stop me from holding him for the next two months straight. I even slept with him on my chest. I needed to feel him breathing at all times. I was just so afraid that he would stop and somehow it would be all my fault.
And so despite my fears and inexperience, and many, many mistakes, somehow I find myself 12 years later wondering at how that teeny little bean is almost as tall as me, and how I was so blessed to have such a fantastic kid. I feel so very blessed every day to be his mom. Happy Birthday, Nick. We love you.
We both had fun. It was easier for me than I thought it was gonna be. Their skates are pretty sturdy. I only crashed the one time. Madison's tail bone was hurting by the end of the day, but she said it was totally worth it. I think she even revised her list to Santa last night to include ice-skates. 
On a side note, I was flipping through a book and looking at some of his other works, and I came across this picture- 
And I had this total flashback of something I had forgotten when I was a teenager- I had gone to an art exhibit featuring his work, and picked up this print at the gift shop. I looked at the eyball with the skull in the center of it, and wondered what possessed me to purchase that one? Of all the other thousands of drawings he did, why this one?
Of course we didn't plan it that way, as with anything to do with my pregnancies, nothing ever goes as planned. Madison was due on Feb. 2, and of course back then we didn't know that 8 weeks early was standard for my babies.
I could have gone back to the hospital that day, but I was already kind of busy. It was a Saturday, and Nick would be celebrating his third birthday the day before Christmas, and that was the best day that month to have his very first "friend party". He was my first child, and I wanted him to do all that fun stuff, so although it was my birthday I had still arranged to have a little party at one of those birthday places where they have games and rides, and they take care of all the work. (Lucky for me since I was supposed to be in bed!)
I spent the entire party sitting at a table trying to deal with the worsening contractions all the while pretending like nothing was wrong. (I didn't fool anybody) We went straight from the party to the hospital and Madison Kirsten Berrett was born an hour later. She was a beautiful little 4 pound baby girl. And healthy, too. She only had to stay in the hospital for two weeks.
Of course Nick knew she was a girl all along. From the moment we told him we were going to have a baby, to him it was his baby sister. We, on the other hand, had no idea. A friend of mine was telling me how she didn't like to find out beforehand the sex of her babies, she liked the idea of finding out at the hospital. "It's a girl!" The idea intrigued me, and John and I disagreed on the matter, but when it was time for the ultrasound I sat in the waiting room arguing with myself up until the moment the lady asked "So, do you want to know what it is?" Part of me wanted the surprise, but a stronger part of me needed to know, to be able to plan, and buy cute outfits, and all that stuff. "Yes!" I said! I needed to know! But then you know what? She kept her legs closed the entire time. The tech did her very best, but she could never see anything. (All my boys were a different story- they were more than happy to flash anybody who came by)
I went into labor the first time on December 5th. Coincidentally that was the due date I was supposed to be born, but I was 6 days late. They were able to easily stop the contractions, and when they did another ultrasound, they asked again if we knew if she was a boy or a girl, and did we want to know. This time I was able to say "no". If I had come this far, what was another month? (Actually it was only a week, but I had no way of knowing that)
We had no idea how long I was going to be able to stay pregnant. When I went to the doctor on Dec. 4th, I was 31 weeks along and reminded the doctor that my last baby was born at 32 weeks. He checked me out, and said "you look fine, I'll see you in two weeks." Of course I was in labor the very next day. 
I was hoping for a millennium baby. It was December 1999, and I had every hopes to have the very first baby born January 1, 2000. You can bet I would have spent New Years Eve out jogging around the neighborhood. John was positive she would have been born in January. For Christmas he gave me matching earrings and a pendant with garnets- January's birthstone. 
Other coincidences surrounding our birthdays are that we were born in the same hospital, and although I didn't realize when I picked my doctor, he was the son of the doctor that delivered me. For some reason the name came up in conversation with my mother one day. "Dr. Barton? My OB was a Dr. Barton." At my next visit I asked, and sure enough his father had delivered babies at that hospital back in the 70's and 80's. 
So she is of course the best birthday present I have ever received, and every once in awhile somebody asks me if it bothers me to share with her, and I can answer completely honestly, that no it doesn't. How could it bother me to share with such a sweet, wonderful little girl? (and my only girl) I am happy to share the day with her, or better yet just give the whole day to her. To her birthdays are still something to look forward to, they are exciting, and wonderful, and her excitement is contagious. I'm just glad she wants to share the day with me. 
I've already had all the "good" birthdays. I've already been 5, and 8, and 12. I can drive, I am way past dating (thank goodness!), I can vote, and sign contracts, and even buy alcohol if I were so inclined (which I'm not). So I am happy to stay in my early twenties for the rest of my life. 
I think in seven years, I'll make a minor exception to the rule. On that day she will be 16, and I will (technically) be 40. We're gonna have to plan something big. 
