His Hands— in memory of my father, Jeffrey R. Matzke. Sept 4, 1954- Feb 10, 2011

Posted in About Me, More Theresa's Thoughts, Random, The Hemsath Life by

A Self-Portrait of my father---digitally designed with his hands

During a short time in my childhood I lived with my father in his mother’s house. He and my mother were going through a divorce at this time and my mother was taking care of my new-born brother. He painted with my grandfather during the day while I went to first grade and after school I ran around my grandmother’s house, playing make-believe, drawing trees, riding my tricycle and playing with my little sister before my father came home.  I was about six years old at this time and I was madly in love with my father, eager to see him when he came home in the evenings and even more so to spend every moment with him on the weekends. He was my best friend, my comfort, and my hero. While he was not able to spend a lot of time with us in our later childhood years after my mother remarried, the times we shared before that, still resonate such vivid imagery, it is hard to grasp that it was 25 years ago.

 His hands. His warm, large hands, callused from his weeks worth of work, over mine as he leaned over me from behind, teaching me how to balance on my first bicycle.

His hand’s gentle pull on my hair as he held the warm blow dryer and  brush after my bath. He brushed and dried my hair into a wild mane around my small, six-year old face and he would call me his little lioness.

 His strong hands closed tightly into two fists as he asked me to guess which hand had the quarter. If I guessed right, I could stay on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs; if I guessed wrong, I had to scoot my bottom up one step–one step closer to my bed where sleep awaited—sometimes this game would take a whole, joyous half an hour before I made it to the top.

His quiet hands, turning the pages of my favorite bedtime story “Cinderella”—a story I made him read so often, I had memorized each word and so read it to my sister when my father wasn’t around.

His safe hands holding mine, as he carried me on his strong shoulders, and then diving into the swimming pool or throwing me up in the air so high, I swear I could look down at the rooftops before cannon-balling a large splash, and he would tell me how much I had grown.

 I remember one cold winter night, I heard the loud hum of his car when he pulled in. I had just taken my bath and felt so excited to see my daddy, I could not wait for him to come in. I opened up the large front door, hearing grandma yell for me to put my socks on. My wet hair hung in ringlets around my neck and pink cotton nighty, hung so long, I almost tripped over it as I ran out to greet him. He wore his black leather jacket and his hair blow dried back into a John Travolta style. He squatted down to await my hug and I took his hands and held  them to my face…. smelling the familiar blend of cigarettes and spearmint gum–my father’s signature and my peace.

 The same hands that would one day hold the arms of his future wife Linda years after the pain of divorce from my mother healed and the same hands that would clasp the photograph of his own father in his bedroom and then lay limply on  his bed as he mourned his father’s death. And the stern hands that put out that last cigarette when he decided he wanted to live a long, healthy life for his own family.

 The same hands that would pull me away from loneliness and depression when I was 17 years old and would do the same for my sister and brother too. That would carry my moving boxes into his home and pull the cash out of his pocket to pay for my books in college.

The hands that waved good-bye when I thought I was mature enough to start my life.  That would one day cradle my son Kanan when he came home from the hospital, and the hands that welcomed me back into his home and wiped the tears from my eyes when my life didn’t turn out as planned.

 The same hands that would give me away on my wedding day at the last-minute in Las Vegas and embrace my husband like he was a son, even when he barely knew him. Those hands that then clasped my own hands on the dance floor for our father daughter dance and guided my steps when I nervously told him I didn’t know how.

 The hands that exercised my grandmother’s legs after her knee surgery. Those same  hands that held her fragile ones in the hospital when she came down with pneumonia and the same hands that designed plans to renovate his guest bathroom so his mother could move in after she recovered and could shower easily in her old age.

The hands that held a coffee mug in one and the digital pen to his computer in his other so purposefully when he created his beautiful art illustrations in his later years. The hands that hung the portraits on the walls he made of himself with his beautiful wife and dog Riley . The hands that clicked send on his phone as he forwarded political jokes, photographs, and links to our family.

The hands that paid for the bill when my husband I were the ones to invite him and Linda to lunch at a local Mexican restaurant just weeks ago. Those same hands that would lovingly rub my belly that cradled my second son just weeks before my father’s surprise death in the waters of Hawaii.

So much of the future were held in those hands that my little 6 –year-old mind couldn’t even imagine on that cold winter night. And so I kissed those hands over and over again–so much, one would think I thought at that moment, that I’d never see those hands again.

Papa, I can’t wait to kiss your hands again.

We Have a Name!!!

Posted in About Me, Owen !, Pregnancy Update, Random, The Hemsath Life by

Drum roll please…..

Jameson Maddox Hemsath

Jameson— Hebrew. Variation of James, brother of Jesus Christ and a descendent of Jacob–the son of Abraham and father of the Hebrews. His name means “supplanter”—not the sweetest meaning in the world right? Yes, but when it is combined with his middle name— it spells the gospel. 🙂 Let me explain.

Maddox— Welsh. Means “Good” or “Generous”—-a bit ironic, when combined with the first, right?

How can you be good and a supplanter?

Well, we all fall short of the Glory of God because of our sin. But through our faith in Christ, we are made righteous in His eyes. Our son will be a sinner, like us all. Yet by the Grace of God, he will inherit the Kingdom of God, appearing to take it without merit or deserving it at all, just like Jacob took his brother’s birth right—But Jameson will inherit everlasting life not because he deserves it, but because he is made “good” or “righteous” by his faith in our Lord and Savior.

James of Nazareth had a hard time at first believing that his brother Jesus, was the promised Messiah, as did some of Jesus’s other family members (Jesus had a few siblings although it is uncertain how many he had). But when James saw his miracles, his sinless life, his brutal death prophesied in Psalms 22 and the book of Isaiah, and his resurrection from the dead and assension into heaven–promising to return again to rule and reign, James changed his mind. And when he heard the testimonies of hundreds of other witnesses who saw the same things he did—proving that what he witnessed was real, James became one of the most passionate apostles for God, wrote the book of James, and was stoned to death for his belief, never once taking it back, even in the face of death. Because how can you deny the truth you witnessed with your own eyes? It is one thing to die for something you think is real, but it is another to die for something you know is a lie. No–James knew God was real and that he sent his son Jesus to pay the price for our sins so that those who trusted and followed Him could be saved from the eternal separation from God they chose every time they sinned. And to know that kind of truth, who would dare tell a lie and say they didn’t really believe, so they wouldn’t have to die?

We are so humbled and amazed by the love of God. And we pray that our son Jameson Maddox loves Jesus and follows Him the way James did. Sold out. On fire. Never turning back, no matter what.

The 8th Grade Lip Sync Contest—a tale and reflection of growing into a woman

Posted in Random by

Going through middle school in Alta Loma was a destined failure from the first day I arrived—as a scared and semi- ethnic 6th grader. I had grown up in Fontana and Rialto, went to elementary school dancing at recess with all the black and Mexican girls. I had a wiggle in my neck and high bangs. I had wild hair and that was cool. I dressed uniquely, but all the ethnic girls did…so I was accepted, loved, and respected. But Alta Loma was the complete opposite. A rich white town, with rich white kids, all with enough money to follow the rich white trends the stores and magazines told them was cool. Anything varying from those rules would cast a teenage girl into a world of teasing, judgment, and ridicule. And by the time I stood a 13-year-old girl in 8th grade I had already suffered a little over a year of this ridicule and wanted desperately to get out. Little did I know that the decision I made would send me further into that dark world than I ever realized, but also taught me how to endure my further growth into womanhood with a little more grace.

 At Alta Loma Jr. High , the annual lip sync contest was the ultimate expression of beauty and popularity. Mostly girls performed and those who did either made an amazing performance that earned them instant approval and acceptance by the popular kids who controlled the dynamics of social acceptance on campus. Those who made fools of themselves were most likely already fools and so no one expected any less of them and in effect, no one seemed to get hurt.

 I was one of those “fool” teenagers who truly believed in my own beauty and personality. I believed so deeply that if I could just prove it to others, I would finally get the respect I deserved. So I talked with my girlfriends Melissa, Bekah, and Melanie and we all agreed that we should try out. We were all very similar. Smart, potentially pretty, under developed, unappreciated by the popular kids, and all wanting to be cool. With that, we made this lip sync contest our mission impossible. We were going to win—not only the 100 dollar prize, but the ultimate prize–popularity.

 We practiced every day after school at my house. We chose En Vogue’s “Givin’ him something he can feel” and Bekah and Melanie, who were allowed to watch MTV took meticulous notes and paid close attention to the way the girls danced in the video. We were all in dance PE as it was and so had the basic skills necessary to give a dazzling portrayal of these beautiful Oakland black females. Melanie, the shy one of the group, surprisingly took the lead singing position. Perhaps, she too, felt as strongly as I in amazing the crowd. Bekah, Melissa, and I would play back up with the dance moves. Each practice, we added more moves, kicks, circle eight hip rotations, all the while making up hypothetical fantasies of our successful effect on our unattainable crushes like Jeff Goldman, Nick Howard, Kyle Sussex, or our competition girls like Jessica Richards and Shelly Bowman. We were certain they would fully accept us. That is until as we were trying on our red spandex tank dresses with the ruffled hem and shelf bra and I looked at my profile of my face and body—I had frizzy, curly hair I tried to tame with mouse, a small chin, lips pushed out by big silver braces, a flat chest, no bottom, and scrawny legs. I realized I had nothing any one could feel as the song suggested. I knew I couldn’t get the acceptance and approval I deserved with this body. I had to do something. I knew I couldn’t stuff my bra without my teammates noticing and so I settled on manipulating them to do it with me. They were as flat chested as I was and I knew I could use that to hold back their popularity. And I did—well at least Bekah and Melissa. We decided shoulder pads would work best since they already had a smooth surface and fit easily into our Double A cup bras. We placed them in to make sure, and instantly, we transformed ourselves into something closer to what we thought beauty meant. And beauty in Alta Loma was everything.

 The day of the performance came more quickly then expected. I had practiced my “I must, I must, I must increase my bust” exercises with no success and so knew for certain, my shoulder pads would have to be the rescuer. I was giddy with anticipation as we dressed in the back stage area with all the other girls. Slowly putting my frizzy hair into a smooth French twist, applying my dark red lipstick, and already having my pads in place so no one would see me put them in, I felt beautiful. The dressing room was a swarm of competitive, fakely nice, teenage girls—ready to manipulate and attack any one who might one up her in the competition. Full breasted, long-legged, longhaired popular girls with permed hair. Chubby, pimply faced girls and scrawny ugly ducklings like myself and team. So many young girls of varied shapes and sizes, all so eager to be women. All so competitive, none of us realizing or accepting that regardless of where we were in the evolution of beauty and womanhood, we were all the same.

 Jessica Richards, the most popular girl in school. She was beautiful with tan skin, dimples, long brown permed hair that she toppled wildly in a careless bun above her head or let down full and sexy—she was a natural beauty and knew it very well with long, lean legs that she stretched in crazy directions because of her years of dance classes and Pop Warner cheerleading. She walked by us girls as we were putting on our dresses and looked right at my body up and down, smiled and said—”I wish I were as skinny as you.” I glowed in excitement. Jessica Richards wishes she had something I had? Wow!! I was almost one of them. So close to popularity and it was only a matter of an hour or two before all the boys would have crushes on me and Jessica Richards and I could be friends.

 The popular girls had just finished performing Madonna’s “Vogue.” They did a spectacular job of dancing and singing. The Greece Lightening girls would follow us and after seeing them during try outs, we knew they would also be tough competition. Our turn was up. We walked out on the stage and the song turned on loudly, crisply, and very much real. Everything seemed so to be going well. We were in unison in our dance moves, our dresses looked fabulous and we were getting really into it. I did my best to really exaggerate my mouth movements as I had learned through drama practice. But a problem happened. During the part where we were supposed to pull off our left glove and throw it onto the floor, my hands, sweaty from nervousness made the glove stick and I couldn’t pull it off. We had practiced this a hundred times. It sounded funny but it looked fabulous, extenuating the attitude and the confidence in En Vogue’s story. Taking the glove off should have taken two seconds, but as we were walking over to pick the glove back up, I was still tugging on its finger tips to get it off my left hand. No use, now the crowd could see that something was out of unison. And it was me.

 This mistake only increased my nervousness and so, it also turned up the sweat. I got so sweaty that my strapless bra, having nothing to hold on to, started sliding down my chest. All my upper body movements were not helping the strapless bra stay put. I was too young and a novice to bras to have known that no matter what size you are, strapless bras don’t stay put during exercise, especially if you sweat. If I had not stuffed my bra, no one would have probably noticed. But when there are one-inch thick shoulder pads filling out the bra and that bra slides down—it turns a 13-year-old teenager into an old lady with breasts around her belly button. Oh no” I thought—“Do I pull it up here? No, I’ll mess up the dance if my hands do something out of unison. Maybe no one will notice?” And so I let it fall, further and further down until the lumps were around my lower rib cage. Drawing more eyes toward me and more people noticing that it was more than my glove not in the correct place. I wanted the opposite. I wanted to run and hide, but I couldn’t let anyone know I was embarrassed. I had to stay strong, confident—how else could I be accepted?

 All the popular kids who were in the contest and standing backstage watching us, got an even closer view of the two lumps migrating toward my waist. And Kimmy Rios—class president was eye-balling my chest and her eyes widened and then her thin lips curved up into a disgusted smirk. It didn’t take long before all I could hear were the snickers.

 While we did actually win 4th place and 25 dollars to split with the team by the merciful judgment of the teachers on the panel, my peers were very unhappy about our place and very unforgiving for the embarrassing bra fall. We beat the other popular girls who did “Grease Lightening”  and they had put a lot of work into the costumes and stage props. Perhaps this fueled the ridicule and snickering between classes but by the time lunch came, everyone on campus heard about the “costume malfunction” and everyone wanted to know if I stuffed my bra regularly. I kept insisting that it was part of the idea for the costume and that I wasn’t the only one who did it. Such a friend—selling out my friends to share the burden of embarrassment with me. Cool, tough girls like Valerie Pright asked me if I could touch my elbows behind my back and in my attempt to see if I could, the snickers  proved quickly to me that they really didn’t want to know that as much as make fun of my proud and loud flat chest.

 And so began my ever falling decline of possible popularity that plummeted into a dark pit of absolute dork. But it was also the beginning of a journey through womanhood and ideology that I would continue to toy with through high school, experiment and discovering my role in its wide spectrum—the facets of which I would excel in and the facets in which I failed. As was the same for everyone else. Some of the popular kids continued to be popular. And some fell behind into the world of the little people. Some dropped out, some got into drugs, some got fat, some just got strange. And slowly, I blossomed into a decent looking teenager and made friends and survived high school. I was never the popular girl at school, but I wasn’t always the dork. In high school, I was very social and  made some quality friends who liked me because of me, not because of what I looked like.

 Looking back, there is no doubt in my mind that I was severely embarrassed at that time in my life. How I would have rather died that moment than endure the teasing, but eventually that teasing passed. And the people whom I admired and who I wanted to be so much like, eventually proved to be normal people just like myself. Those people are also those who I never talk to. They mean nothing to me. Even out of my team, I still only talk to Bekah. Things change. I’ve heard through the grape vine that some went to college and grew successful, others got married and had kids, some died, some became alcoholics, and others like Rebecca Richards, who I thought was perfect just the way she was, got breast implants and became a stripper. All of us have taken different paths that never depended on who was who in Jr. High or High School. And apparently, many of us who seemed to have it all during that time have very little now or hurt themselves to compensated for what they themselves felt they lacked.

 We were all the same and I know the experience built in me character as well as taught me that the ideology of womanhood and what we consider beauty is set at a ridiculously high and unattainable level—a level that only a handful in the world could ever possibly come close to, and that handful were discovered and put into Victoria’s Secret magazine and Sports Illustrated and continue fueling this vicious cycle that makes girls like I once was do silly things to reach. Now I am well aware of how the media can control my perception and try my best to stay above it. I have come to take pride in my strengths and accept my weaknesses. I do not pretend to be anything I am not because I know I would only be failing myself if I did otherwise. I am happy to be just me now and I think that had I had it all as a jr high girl, I would be a lot different now. Girls need to grow into womanhood—that way they slowly learn about its power, its beauty, and its danger. Girls who are children one day and women the next go into womanhood still as children and do not learn how to handle a woman’s power until often times it is too late—they are dating older boys, doing drugs, having sex, and getting pregnant or STD’s—and in so many cases, suffer incredibly from depression and lack of self-worth. Not all of course, but as a teacher I have seen this.  As for my personal experience with growing up—-the entire time I thought God was cursing me with such a slow development; I look back now and think that instead, he blessed me.

Pregnancy Don’ts

Posted in About Me, More Theresa's Thoughts, Pregnancy Update, Random by

1. Don’t believe the old wives’ tale that because you are super sick past your first trimester, that you are having a girl. Or the fact that you are carrying out. Or the fact that you tried the 99 percent accurate chinese number chart. I’ve heard it all. And I know at least one person who still had a child opposite of the gender they were supposed to have. Including that fool-proof ultrasound diagnosis.

2. Don’t assume that because you wear a size 8 in prematernity clothes that you will fit in size 8 maternity clothes throughout your pregnancy. If you are like most women, it won’t be just your belly that grows. Just wait until month 8, you’ll understand then.

3. Don’t even bother buying your spouse a pregnancy or baby book. No, not even the ones called A Father’s Guide to….or A Dad’s… or anything supposedly catered to a man and involving pregnancy or fatherhood. Only women buy those books for their men and most of them just get their feelings hurt when their men don’t read them. Face it ladies, they are men not women and that is why we love them. Just verbally give them the Cliff’s Notes version of what you are reading and save yourself the tissue-paper and money.

4. Don’t allow all  your”you are at risk for____________” post-blood test-result talks with your doctor take away your joy of having a baby. Half of these doctors are just covering their you know whats so they don’t get sued in the small, unlikely chance, your baby, labor, or delivery is not all you hoped it would be. If you are really care free, just skip all those precautionary fetal-disease blood tests and save yourself the stress. That baby will be a beautiful gift from God and exactly what he had planned for you.

5. Don’t believe that if you put enough lotion on that you can stop stretch marks from appearing on your belly (or anywhere else that grows 😉 ) . It may help the amount,  but if you have the genetics to get stretch marks, there is no miracle cream that will stop it.

6. Don’t be surprised if people are nicer and conversational with you during your pregnancy and you even make more friends. It’s amazing how much pregnancy talk provides an icebreaker amongst strangers or work acquaintances. And once the ice breaks, most of those conversations will continue after the baby comes.

7. Don’t make the mistake of hoping or relying on your baby shower to get everything you will need for the baby. Consider the baby shower to be a bonus. In the meantime begin saving money for purchases you will need for the baby. Buy a  few “must have now”‘s if you insist, then see what you get at the shower, and have fun afterward with the shopping.  

8. Don’t “buy” into the lie that you need to buy items for your baby brand-new. Baby products, clothes, toys, and decor are expensive and after it’s all said and done, you can find yourself thousands of dollars deep in plastic and cloth that are quickly soiled or grown out of and of which your child will not even remember or care about anyway. Consignment stores, hand-me-downs from friends and family, and online sources like Craigslist can provide with you with perfectly clean, well-taken care of baby items of all categories at a fraction of the price. Even if you want your decor to match in the nursery, a little sandpaper and paint can make it all fit together beautifully.

9. Don’t indulge yourself in the saying that you are “eating for two” or all the food that follows. All you actually need to provide the extra energy and nutrition for pregnancy is about 350 calories a day in the first two semesters. Ladies, that is the equivalent of pretty much an apple and a thick slice of cheese. The last semester, you can have an extra 100 calories on top of that. Don’t follow this advice, and find yourself like me with my last pregnancy—50 pounds of weight gain that took 9 months to wear off. Instead, eat lots of healthy mini-meals or snacks throughout the day and treat yourself at the end of the day with a petite sweet treat. Most women need to only gain 25-35 pounds.

10. Don’t neglect your husband’s needs and use your pregnancy as an excuse or justification. Between the selfish demands of pregnancy and the baby it produces, fathers can often feel neglected and marriages can have struggles. They are part of the pregnancy too. And they need their love languages met. Do this, and they may even shower you with all the love and help they can offer. And this pregnancy and baby can bring you even closer together. Tired? stressed?  Head aches? Heart burn? Hungry? Feeling just fat and unattractive? If we expect them to be selfless toward us, then we should do the same. And hopefully when we slip and don’t, they can show us some grace and we can try again.

My New Class

Posted in About Me by

When the Assistant Principal of my school walked into my classroom one month ago and told me the news, I had to bite my lip and fake a nonchalant attitude. Because of my upcoming maternity leave and shrinking ELD class sizes, Mr. Perez would be taking over my ELD 3 class and I would be relieving Mrs. Mueller of her excessively large Sheltered English 9 class by splitting it with her. Now any outsider might read this and think, “what is the big deal?” Well, go back to my previous blogs (Teaching Unmotivated students and Pssst, can I tell you a Secret?) about this Sheltered English 9 class. They used to be my ELD 3 class last year until they moved on to the next level this year. This is the worst class I have ever had in my entire career of teaching! This class made me ponder whether or not I wanted to continue being a teacher. This class oozed disrespect and disruption. I don’t know what it was about this class. Just a bad combination. I have taught ELD for years. Never have I had a combination such as this before. And after all of my hard work last year, I finally wore them down to one word: tolerable. That is the best I could make them. And now Mrs. Mueller has inherited them and has been struggling with them as well. The Assistant Principal and counselors believed that perhaps if the class were smaller, they could be more manageable. And so I would split that class with her and return those students back to her when I leave on maternity leave. A long-term substitute would only be needed for my remaining three English 11 classes.

I didn’t complain. I didn’t give alternative ideas. I simply smiled and said, “OK.” It’s only my second year here. I need a job. I refuse to complain.

But then I went home and prayed.

It was a simple prayer. Something to the effect of, “Oh Lord, save me. Help me get through this class. Calm these students down. Let the class run smoothly. Help me with the curriculum as it will be much more work to put together lessons without using the ELD curriculum. Help me with this emotional and intellectual work load. Lord, I don’t know what you can do, but please help me. Give me patience Lord. Give me energy. I need you.”

Then I returned to work in early January after the cold and rainy holiday and found a roster of my new class resting in my mailbox. On it was a list of ten girls. Girls???? Girls!!!!! They split the class by gender? I have just the girls? I scanned the list. There were ten beautiful names that would soon be written in curly letters with sparkly purple ink on college-ruled paper.

Some were girls I knew. The quiet ones who didn’t speak much because the loud, obnoxious boys demanded so much attention last year. The not so quiet girl, who transferred into my class later in the year because she had worked so hard to learn the language. Another who was a smart, hard worker, but put up a hard demeanor to protect herself from the drama of the Chicano culture–but who I knew, was still a girl. Just like me. Just like all the other girls.  And a few I didn’t know, but I knew one thing. They were not the boys in my ELD class whose names vibrated in my eardrums like teeth scraping a styrofoam cup. They wouldn’t throw trash across the room or curse at me or sexually harass the quiet senior girl from Lebanon. They wouldn’t sneak pot to school or come to class reeking of last night’s alcohol and pass out. They wouldn’t practice writing their gang name in fancy tag letters on their binder. Or draw pictures of penises and pot leaves instead of doing work.  No, I could handle this. These were girls!

And so we are now halfway through our third week together. We have talked; taken notes; written in journals; laughed; analyzed Taylor Swift’s song called “Fifteen” to study how it communicates a theme about growing up and compared it to a short story we read called “The Moustache” which also gave a message about growing up; we’ve assessed and reflected on our learning of how to combine sentences to create more complex structure. And now we are discussing war and will be comparing themes between two stories about the effects of civil war.

We had a little drama between a couple of girls where the first didn’t want to sit next to the other and work as a team because the other “was taking about [her] behind [her] back.” But I got the girls together and encouraged the other to apologize to the first. We talked about the need to communicate and we all realized that whether we are quiet and innocent or loud and experienced, we each are so similar: girls who just want to be understood and liked.

Already I feel a special bond forming between myself and these girls. Already I see the inhibitions dropping and hands raising. Already I see happening what couldn’t have happened in the education of these girls if they continued to have had to learn in an environment shared by boys who just didn’t care. Yes, the Lord took what looked like a curse and turned it into a joyous blessing. For all of us.

I think I just might cry on my last day with these girls come April when I leave on maternity leave. And that my dear friends, is awesome. 🙂

Interview with Kanan Webb

Posted in Kanan news, Random, The Hemsath Life by

I had the chance to interview the energetic young 3-year-old, Kanan Webb during our mom and son dinner-date two nights ago, just for fun. His answers were, well….interesting.

T: What is your name?

K: Kanan Christopher Webb

T: How old are you?

K: I’m this many  (holding up three fingers) but when the baby comes then I’ll be this many (holding up 4 fingers).

T: Why is the sky blue?

K: Cuz it is.

T: What color is love?

K: red

T: Where do babies come from?

K: tummies

T: Why do we wear shoes?

K: Cuz we don’t want  them to get hurt.

T: Where do kitty’s come from?

K: from their moms.

T: What is your favorite flower?

K: Green

T: What is your favorite movie?

K: Iron Man and Lightning McQueen.

T: Why do we get sick?

K: Cuz I don’t know

T: Why do we eat vegetables?

K: We want to be big and strong

T: What do you want to be when you grow up?

K: Iron Man

T: What do frogs eat?

K: flies

T: Where does pee come from?

K: from our brains

T: Why do we have cars?

K: Cuz guys drive trucks.

T: Say something in Spanish.

K: Isa sale (with the accent over the e)

T: Why do we take baths?

K: Cuz we’re dirty

T: What is your favorite food?

K: creme cheese

T: What is your favorite drink?

K: milk and dinner

T: Who do you want to marry when you grow up?

K: Papa

Am I 22 Weeks or 23 Weeks? Apparently no one knows!

Posted in About Me, Pregnancy Update, Random, The Hemsath Life by

So I go in for my checkup today with a few questions:

1. The doctors down at UCSD when giving me my level 2 Ultrasound said that my baby’s measurements indicated he was actually 10 days older than we thought and then changed my due date from May 20 to May 10. Do you know this doctor? Will this be the new due date you are following?

2. My belly is a little lopsided, the baby likes to hang out on my right side, and my right side of my belly is now tender. Is this okay?

3. We changed our mind about doing the c-section and would like to opt for the v-back, but can we change our mind  again if it doesn’t look like my body is progressing into labor?

Answers:

1. My records show they made your due date May 13. Since it is within a week of your original due date, we will not change your due date.

2. Yes, its okay. You’ll be okay. You might itch as it grows. Everything will go back.

3. Yes, you can change your mind again, but we may have a harder time finding a time to schedule the c-section so last minute with all the other doctors there too. But we can do it. Just sign the waiver that says you know there is a 1% chance that you will have a uterine rupture which will cause neurological damage to your child and are still willing to take the chance. Why don’t you take a month to think about it. Otherwise, we schedule you for your c-section on May 13, a week from your due date so you don’t go into labor.

Her answer to number 3 made sense, but not number 1 or 2. Am I due on May 13 or 20? Why can’t they change the due dates? Am I 22 weeks pregnant or 23 weeks pregnant? And then my belly. Ok, its fine. Of course I know it will go back. What does that have to do with it being okay that its lopsided?

Meh…silly stuff.

Anyway, here are my stats:

Estimated due date: May 13-20, but they will stick with May 20. Unless I have a c-section. Then it will be May 13. Even though UCSD said May 10.

Heartbeat/rate: 150 bpm

Next appointment scheduled: Feb 9

Condition of baby: Active and healthy boy! Especially at night!

Food cravings: I officially had a first craving last night. Mac and Cheese. And, even better, I was able to talk my husband into getting out of bed and making it for me at 10 o’clock last night. Thank you hubby!!! 

Other symptoms: stuffy nose and sneezing finally gone! Hip aches, especially on my left side. Back aches, specifically my lower back. Clearer skin. Flakey dry lips. At times, insatiably thirsty. Super hungry all the time! Have suffered from heartburn three times this month! Once so bad, I couldn’t sleep! Triggers include: Hot Cheetos, coffee at night, and eating in bed! I discovered Mylanta and Maalox which helps, but would rather just stay away from the triggers. Crazy, they never caused heartburn before. Something about pregnancy makes you more susceptible I guess.

Nausea: gone!! Well, I still have a strong gag reflex when brushing my tongue, but otherwise, yes—gone!

Fatigue: gone!

Belly size: Definitely look pregnant. Definitely wearing maternity pants. Tried putting on my skinny jeans the other day and assumed I would wear my belly band to help with the fact that they don’t close. Well, the crack of my derrier didn’t want to stay put, so guess that was the last time. Boo! I guess it’s not just the belly that grows. But then again, I already knew that. I just hoped this time  it would be different.

Weight gain: 6 pounds this month for a total of 12-13 pounds so far. I know, 6 pounds is more than the recommended 4 pounds a month. But it was Christmas! People were practically shoving desserts down my face! I will be better this month, I…er…hope.