September in the Subway

New York is the worst city in the world to be expecting.  There's just no hope here.

My last trimester was July, August and September, the hottest and sweatiest months of the year. The humidity was unbearable, the smells were everywhere and getting anywhere was nearly impossible. 51 pounds heavier, I spent those last months perched on top of any air conditioner that would have me.

For my morning commute I would taxi to work.  I wanted to stay as fresh for as long as possible. By the end of the day however, my mascara had slid off my face and the oil slick on my t-zone was a lost cause. I figured I'd hike the 30 steps to the subway below because it couldn't get much worse.

But it could and it did. It was on the subway that all men averted my eyes pretending not to see me so they wouldn't have offer me a seat.  I'm talking about well-to-do men, the kind of men that wear suits to work, the kind of men that have wives and children at home, the kind of men who know better.

And the women! They weren't much better. But I justified their behavior thinking when they were pregnant no one got up for them, so why should they get up for me?

The capper was that my final stop was Canal Street.

For those of you who don't Canal Street, it is the worst street in New York City.  Due to all the fish markets it smells simply disgusting in the summer.  Tourists mob the corners desperate to buy Louis Vutton suitcases, Prado sunglasses and Kate Spode purses.  Hell, if you're in the market for a Ralex watch, I'm sure you can find one on Canal Street.  After 11 hours of work followed by fighting my way past the crowds you can only imagine how pissed off I was by the time I got home.

I decided to take the subway home one final time on my last day of work.

As usual, no one offered me a seat.  9 months pregnant, a hot and sweaty mess, I felt like I was going to pass out. Suddenly a voice from the crowd spoke out and asked me if I would like to sit down. I looked up to see the man who had been so thoughtful, so gracious.

There he was.  My knight in shining...rags. 

Yes, my savior of the subway was a homeless man.  He told me I looked like I could use a seat.

New York is the best city in the world to be expecting.  There's nothing but hope here.

Heyyy Oliver!

You know you're in trouble when...

...this is the only way he will stop crying.

Old Man Gas

My Oliver is 3 months old and he has old man gas. The sound is unmistakable and the smell is shockingly rancid.

Recently, we traveled to Chicago to visit my parents and give them time with their new grandson. As the visit came to an end, it became clear that my husband's work was going to rev up considerably so I decided to stay an extra week. Unfortunately that meant I would be traveling home to NYC by myself.

The night before I headed to the airport I had everything organized perfectly. I knew where every single toy, bottle, diaper and burp cloth was so I could grab it within seconds.

I gate checked the stroller and the car seat, boarded holding my babe in my arms and within seconds the plane's engine lured Oliver into a deep sleep. This was going to be a piece of cake.

An hour and a half into the flight however, while still in a peaceful adorable slumber, Oliver ripped some gas. It was loud. And the person sitting next to me definitely heard. He tried to ignore it. Oliver then let two more fly and the person in the aisle seat heard it too. They both looked at me thinking I was the one who had assaulted their air space. It was awful. Sour, foul, disgusting. And yet, Oliver, still lay sleeping and snoring away.

When the people in my row started looking at me I pointed to Oliver saying he was the one who ripped the gas and how isn't it funny such a bad smell can be produced by someone so teeny tiny? They thought it was awful that I blamed the smell on my innocent, angelic sleeping baby.

But it was him.

I hope when I'm 100 years old and I unknowingly toot, Oliver graciously takes the blame for me as I did for him.

Love at first site? Not exactly.

It was week 38 and I told unborn Oliver that his lease had expired and it was time for him to vacate the premises.  You can imagine my surprise when a few hours later he packed his bags and let me know he was on his way.

My water broke in the afternoon.  After a taxi cab, police escort and ambulance ride up the FDR, I delivered Oliver exactly 3.5 hours later.  From the get go, the contractions came 3 minutes apart and by the time we got to the hospital, I was 10 cms and ready to push.  25 minutes later, Oliver was flopped on my tummy with as much of a dazed expression on his face as I had on mine.

I looked at him and waited to be overwhelmed with love and warmth and tears, but that never came.  I actually didn't know what to do or feel.  I was trying to reconcile in my head what just happened and for some reason I just couldn't connect the dots no matter how hard I tried.

He was inside of me 2 minutes ago and now he's in my arms. 

He was inside of me 15 minutes ago and now Brett is holding him.

He was inside of me last night and now my mom is talking baby talk to him.

He was inside of me 48 hours ago and now he's in his crib in our apartment.

Two weeks later I woke up in the middle of the night.  Brett was asleep and so was Oliver.  I tip toed over to his crib to look at him.

He was so tiny.  He was snoring little baby snores.  It was the sweetest snoring I ever heard and my heart filled with such overwhelming feelings I didn't even realize I was crying until I tasted my tears.

It wasn't love at first site, but I know it's definitely love.

And everyday, it grows.