It was a warm spring day, and after having off-and-on contractions for 10 days, I doubted whether this time was for real. The contractions had started again before dinner, as they had all week.

But wait, something did feel a little different. Between bites of my sun-dried tomato pizza, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. “I’m ready for you,” I whispered to my belly.

At 8 p.m., I called my midwife and told her the contractions were coming closer together, but they still felt easy. I wanted to stay home and see what happened. In the meantime, my man ran to the car to pack the cooler with juice boxes, coconut water, and leftover pizza. My suitcase of supplies was already in the trunk, filled with LED candles, lavender, meditation music, and pillow cases that smelled like home.

As it turned out, the suitcase never got opened. At 9 p.m., between contractions, I said, “It’s time to go.” Thunderpants drove to the hospital (within the speed limit) while I was on all fours in the backseat (yes, my seat belt was on). Between contractions, I walked into the hospital. Then, my water broke on the rug in the lobby! Hence, the “Caution” sign, thanks to yours truly:

My midwife was waiting for us in Labor and Delivery. “You’re 9 centimeters dilated,” she told me. “You can push any time.”

As I pushed out my baby — without an epidural or any drugs — I felt the greatest empathy for any woman who does opt for pain medication. I really get it. The nurses cheered me on. Thunderpants stood behind me, silent and strong (and probably freaking out) as he held one of my legs in the air.

I bore down and experienced the deepest feeling I’ve ever felt in my life. Just before 11 p.m., I birthed our daughter. Thunderpants caught her under my arms and placed her on my chest, both of them crying.

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My midwife says that my pregnant body is like a plane hovering over the airport, not ready to land yet.

When the contractions first started on Friday night, we all got so excited. My sweet man rushed out to pack up the car and make sure the baby seat was installed corrected. But when he came into the bedroom and tried to take my exercise ball from me, I said, “No! Not yet, I’m still using this!”

The contractions were still mild, without any clear pattern, and although my first baby had come into the world so fast, this time, my gut told me, It’s not quite time yet.

In the morning, my father called for his daily check in, and when he heard that my contractions had started, it set off a family phone tree. Everyone wanted “the news.” I turned the music up loudly so I wouldn’t hear that darn phone ring and ring. I felt like a watched pot waiting to boil.

Sure enough, the contractions stopped. All week, though, the contractions have continued to come every other night for hours. By daylight, they stop, like a game of “Red light, green light.”

I’ve learned that there’s actually a word for this: “prodromal labor.” It’s not false labor, as some people have called it, because the contractions are much stronger and longer than Braxton Hicks. They feel real!

My body must be revving up. Every time the contractions stop, I ask for courage and patience. I’ve looked at myself in the mirror and wondered I’m hanging onto any fears: of change, of the unknown, of the new. It’s my turn to let go.

I’m ready for you, little one, whenever you decide it’s time.

Photo by Johan Cloete

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Hi. I’m still here, 38 weeks pregnant.

I feel different this time around for so many reasons. I’m older in many ways. My body bounced right into this pregnancy, but I have aches this time around that I don’t remember having before. Fortunately, so much is different, like the fact that there’s a man at my side who’s really present, a man who rubs my sore hips and brings me tea.

When we took our birthing prep class,  he held ice cubes in his fists by my side to practice breathing through contractions (when he smiled at me, I had a giggle fit). Not long after finding out that I was pregnant, he sat riveted with me as we watched the documentary The Business of Being Born. It was the first time he’d seen women giving birth.

My eyes were wide open because I gave birth the first time with a midwife — and without drugs — in a birthing center. This film touched me deeply as I remembered giving birth to my daughter, who slid out so fast. Produced by (single mom!) Ricki Lake and filmmaker Abby Epstein, The Business of Being Born, (a.k.a. BOBB) I can see why it became an underground hit.

Now, as I hope to give birth naturally again, I’ve been staying up at night to watch More Business of Being Born, which came out last November. These four films delve deeper birth and feature well-known celebrity-moms talking about their own experiences. At the heart of their stories is the fact that life doesn’t always go as planned. Oh, do I get that.

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It was last summer — before I got pregnant — when I opened this email from a guy in “TV comedy development” at 20th Century Fox. I read it quickly:

“I came upon your book Single Mom Seeking and we’re interested in optioning your title for possible development… Please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

My eyes went to the word “possible.” Yes, he’d said possible. The skeptic in me translated this to mean “illusive.”

So, I’d skimmed his email again and thought, “This can’t be for real.”

That’s when I’d waved it off and got back to my life. A couple of weeks later, however, my publisher, Seal Press, forwarded an email from this same guy to me: he kindly told Seal Press that he’d reached out to me, but hadn’t heard back. (I’m sorry…) He asked me to please contact him.

I wanted to believe that something might be going on; that this wasn’t just a prank. (And that’s why I’ve kept this all so hush-hush for so long.) After calling back “Mr. Fox” and asking a bunch of questions, indeed, he sounded very professional — and serious.

It all seemed ironic in the best way possible. After all, I was not exactly a “single mom seeking” anymore… Maybe something fertile was in my water.

After many phone conversations with my amazing agents, as well as an in-person meeting in L.A., this is all still unfolding. But after six months of negotiating, a deal was made just before the New Year: Single Mom Seeking has been optioned for a TV comedy show.

Stay tuned. And thank you to everyone who has stuck with my blog — and with me — for so long.

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It probably won’t surprise you that Thunderpants is the kind of man who loves hardwood floors. And me? I am drawn to the look and feel of bamboo.

During our extensive after-hours talks, we’ve even toyed with some far-out ideas, like using reclaimed whiskey barrels (photo below). One concerned friend did ask: “But will it make your home smell like whiskey all the time?”

Fortunately, we have agreed about one thing: no carpet. After more research, however, he has made some good points: although bamboo is renewable (it’s a grass that grows without replanting), it does take a lot of energy to ship it from Asia. Whereas, if we use hardwood, we could find locally grown sustainable oak.

Again, it’s all about compromise. And we’re getting good at that, as we continue to live in our dust-covered 700 square feet with electrical cords snaking through rooms, half-empty cans of paint and power tools in corners — and, yes, still sleeping on a mattress on the floor while six months pregnant. It’s all an act of love, I suppose.

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“Everyone take one more guess,” Thunderpants said. “Boy or girl?“

We all guessed “boy,” including our daughter.

The first time I was pregnant, more than a decade ago, I wanted my baby’s gender to be a surprise. I didn’t want to carry around any preconceived notions about having a boy vs. a girl. And I wanted to be surprised when I gave birth. It was amazing how many people asked me, “Are you having a boy or a girl?” — and seemed shocked that I didn’t want to know.

Looking back, I can’t believe that I had the patience to wait. This time around, I wanted to know. We all did.

But we did not want to find out in the middle the 19-week ultrasound appointment. When we walked into the dark room, we gave a card to the technician, with two boxes on the front for “boy” or “girl,” and a spot for her to mark one. We asked her to seal the card in an envelope after she checked the box.

I was fluttery with anticipation as the technician showed us the baby’s heart, spine, limbs, fingers, and toes. The baby was moving a lot, making it hard to get some clear photos.

“This is a wild child,” she said. When it was time for her to look at the gender, she asked us to turn our heads away from the screen. We obeyed.

Forty five minutes later, we rushed out of there. The plan was to open the envelope at our favorite frozen yogurt place. We all ordered “minis” with toppings and sat down on an empty bench.

When our daughter opened the envelope, she burst into the biggest smile.

“I have to call my friends!” she jumped up, leaving the card on the bench.

Thunderpants and I looked down at the same time. “A girl?” We both looked at the card again.

His eyes welled up with happy tears. So did mine. A girl. A daughter. A baby sister.

We’re so excited to meet this little soul:

19 week baby bump with my sister’s hand

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As most of you know, we’re adding onto our little home:

Recently, we found out that one of our builders from Mueller Nicholls has quite a reputation. I’m referring to the sweet guy who’s wearing the vest below, standing behind our amazing architect, Scott McGlashan as we talk about paint colors.

Apparently, something very exciting has happened at some point during the remodels of many homes this particular builder has worked on: more than a handful of couples conceived during construction. (Maybe adding onto your home plants the desire to add to your family?)

Now, we’re part of his successful statistic. Because we have another addition in the works.

As in, a baby.

The irony is that our builders have squeezed us into an even tighter space this week: a new, temporary wall went up so they can start sheet rocking, which means that the three of us are now living together in 400 square feet. My growing belly is making this small space feel even smaller.

Fortunately, Mueller Nicholls is working as fast and efficiently as they can so we can move in before our “little pumpkin” arrives in early April. We’re quite thrilled.

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For as long as I can remember, I’ve spent a lot of time looking out windows. I was that kid who daydreamed in front of windows. As an adult, I curled myself up into a ball in front of many windows, longing for comfort.

For much of my life, though, I’ve looked through dirty, grimy windows. I never took the time and energy to clean them. (I don’t really know anyone who likes to clean windows.) My half-attempt was too much Windex, which only smeared my view. Looking back, I never did the work it took to clean my windows.

It’s no wonder that I couldn’t see clearly. For years and years, when I walked out my front door, I found myself choosing men who were emotionally unavailable. It has taken a lot of time and exhausting self-reflection to scrub off the grime — so I could see better.

Tell me about the windows you’re looking through:

Can you see out of them? Do you need to spend some time cleaning, too?

~~~

On that note, we spent months researching windows for our addition. Our goal was to find stylish windows that reduced energy use in a cost-efficient way. That’s how we found ourselves face-to-face with Serious Windows. Check out the windows we installed this week!

[Nope, Serious Windows did not endorse me to write this post.]

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Every Friday, we meet with our contractors– a team of five guys  — who sit around the table with us to chat about our addition and answer questions.

Whenever I talk to these guys, I’m very conscious about saying “we” as in:

“We decided to go with a dual low-flush toilet that uses less water.”

“We have definitely made up our minds about solar panels on the roof.”

Well, sometimes, Thunderpants forgets to say “we.”

He says, “I want LED lights in the bedroom.”

And, “I’ve made up my mind about the shower plumbing.”

I meet his eyes, gritting my teeth, as I think, “But, honey, WE stayed up late making those decisions last night. I was right there.”

In my past relationships, I haven’t always chosen to be with men who’ve seen me. I can get sensitive when I feel like I’m not being seen. When it comes to language — “I” vs. “we” — I guess being a writer affects me, too.

Don’t get me wrong: he’s getting a lot better remembering that it’s about us now. He’ll tell me later, “I’m sorry, love. I just forget sometimes. But I’m trying.”

We both continue to try.

In fact, yesterday the lead contractor told us: “I know I don’t see what goes on behind the scenes, but you two seem to make decisions really well together.”

We laughed. “Yeah, come behind the scenes sometime–.”

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The first thing I’ve learn about building a home is this: you’ve got to pour the foundation before you can frame. And the second thing? The world of contractors is a small one.

When the Israeli sub-contractor showed up at 8 a.m. with his crew last week, I said “good morning” to him in Hebrew. He smiled.

That night, I got home from work, and Thunderpants gave me a hug. “I had an interesting conversation with the foundation guy today.”

“Yeah?”

“He said to me, ‘I know your wife from somewhere. But I just don’t know where.’ ”

I raised my eyebrows at him because I could guess where this might be going.

Thunderpants went on: “I told him, ‘Oh, I know where you know my wife from.’ ”

“And then?”

“Then I asked if he knew your Israeli ex. And he said, ‘That’s it!’ ” (My Israeli ex was a foundation guy, too.)

At the end of the day, I guess it’s a relief that it wasn’t my ex who poured our foundation. It would have felt weird to have an ex literally laying the foundation for this new chapter in my life.

After the cement dried, a huge pile of wood was delivered in our driveway. Then, another group of guys started hammering. The three of us go out there every night, in awe, as we look at the frame of our future home.

~~~

And the winner of French Lessons? Congratulations to Cat!

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