Many of you know Brock and I cloth diapered Ronan for most of his life.

He was in Bum Genius diapers for ages and ages.  From 1 month old until nearly a year old.

I stopped doing cloth when I got tired of battling laundry every day.  I got tired of stuffing diapers.  In general, I just got tired.

But we’ve had a cloth resurgence in our household!  I’ve been using the Bum Genius FLIP System instead, and loving every moment of them.

They’re different than the Bum Genius 3.0′s we’d used in the past.  You don’t have to stuff them, and you don’t have to dry the outer shells.  They are like a snap-up diaper cover, and a liner that lays in them.  There are 3 options for the liner (a synthetic “stay-dry” liner, an organic cotton liner and a disposable liner for on-the-go!) and each time you change the diaper, you need only remove the liner, wipe out the cover, and replace with a new liner!  Works in most cases, except for messy poops.  Ronan seems to like them just fine.

Seems to me like just about anything can get ‘old’.  Lately, old has been changing disposable diapers, throwing them out, and buying more.  Cloth became more and more appealing again and again.  We started back in cloth full time last week, and it only took me two days to figure out that I wanted more Flips.

This probably isn’t worthy of a blog post, but it’s what’s going on in my world right now!  I’m going to try to sell my BG 3.0′s and buy more Flips with the money.  If we get well enough back in the habit, it will be easier to put our newborn in cloth as well.

In other news, I can’t find my camera.  So no new pictures for a while.  Boo.

Funny how a new one will change what you think.

My first pregnancy was terrible – a sham.  I was so excited, so desperate for a child, so ready to be a mom.  I wanted to wonder and revel in every moment of growing a human being.  I used to dream about how magical the experience would be, I used to sit and imagine how amazingly my body would change.  Instead… I hated every second of it.  I was so unprepared for the discomfort, the changes, the reality of being pregnant.  I told myself I was just not a ‘good pregnant woman’.  I couldn’t understand how there were those that said they LOVED being pregnant, loved pregnancy.

And then…

…and then I had two miscarriages.  Two lost little lives.  Two moments of unbearable excitement and desperate pain.  A third positive pregnancy test… filled with hope and doubt, guarding my heart against another stolen dream.  But with each passing day, this baby grew – bigger, stronger, more complete – more real.

Nothing is different this time around.  The nausea, exhaustion, aches, fatigue, moodiness – it’s all the same.  Some of it’s even worse.  Only this time, I DO revel in it.  I allow myself to enjoy every single moment.

Because I am carrying a child.  I am creating life.  I am thankful.

And I LOVE being pregnant.

Ronan is 18 months old and I am 17 weeks pregnant.

This blog was written out by hand and typed later on.

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Want to write.

Nowhere to write… except good ol’ pen and paper.

Days have such huge ups and downs.

Terrible tantrums and sweetest kisses.

Perfect love making and awful fights.

This is life.

Good weeks and bad weeks.  Good years, bad times.

When you look back, do you remember the bad?  More than the good?

Things were so terrible for so long.  A year of no sleep.

Frustration, anger, exhaustion… all a dim memory now.

Why were we so upset?

We’d do it all over again in a second, take the bad for the good.

It is forever this way.

Yelling, arguing.

Why are we so upset?

This too shall pass.

We are off and running.

Up at 6:30 because I thought I heard something in the living room.  Ended up being the dog.

Brock woke up because I was awake.  We laid in bed together, quietly, enjoying the morning.  His alarm went off, and I beat him to the shower… if I get up before Ronan, I get a real shower!

Got Ronan up – he had soaked through another diaper.  I don’t now how many nights in a row this is.  I’ve lost count.  I’m tired of washing sheets.  I was just at Target, and I didn’t think of buying some size 6 diapers for overnights… I guess I should go back.

Anyways.  Got Ronan up, brought him down stairs where his breakfast was already waiting for him.  Little known fact about Ronan: he is SO HUNGRY when he wakes up, he can’t wait for you to get something ready for him.  He’s sort of shaky and wobbily, and desperate for something to eat.  I get food ready before I head up the stairs; he’ll patiently wait in his room until I come get him, but once he’s up, he wants FOOD.

Ronan and I sat on the couch and enjoyed Peanut Butter and Eggo waffles.  He’s naked at this point because I take off his soaked through diaper, but he wont let me put a new one on until he’s eaten something (see above.)  Dad comes out from his shower, and Ronan wants up.  Wraps his arms around Brock’s legs, and starts lifting his feet in the air.  I swear, the kid will be able to climb up on his own soon.  Brock picks him up and walks around with him for a few minutes.  Hands him something he really wants… ends up being a cup of Queso from Moe’s last night.  I let him play with it for a few minutes after Brock leaves, but he’s going to make a mess, and he wont eat it.

So I take it away.

And the MELTDOWN commences.  These are the kinds of tantrums you see on TV.  He screams, he throws himself around, he writhes on the floor.  I got up to go to the kitchen to find something else to offer him for breakfast (assuming he was still hungry)… and he followed me.  YES, totally like that kid that followed his parents with his tantrum as they walked away.  When I came back into the living room, he followed me back and threw himself on the floor again.

I showed him what I had for him to eat (a granola bar, or raisins) and he walked over and tried to hit me.

The hitting.  Oh please, please parents of children older than 5 – tell me your toddlers hit and then grew out of it.  Tell me hitting is a natural form of frustration that he will learn to curb, and my child isn’t a monster that will continue to get worse and worse.

I sat him down, told him hitting was unacceptable, and that he could have the granola bar if he said please.  He signed please while crying, and I opened it and handed it to him.  Crisis averted, happy again.  Talking, squealing, sitting on my lap and chatting.  Do I dare take a trip to the grocery store?

Fifteen short minutes later, Ronan was dressed and content, and we were out the door.  I dread trips to Target.  I hate grocery shopping (even BEFORE I had to check all the labels.)  We’re trying Ronan on a Dairy Free diet for 6 weeks to see if it helps clear up his Reflux, which has continually gotten worse.  We walked up and down all of the aisles while I checked products I’ve never looked at before to see if they contain any dairy.

Ronan was sweet, calm, patient and so so good.  He sat happily in the buggy the whole time.  He chatted with me.  He laughed when I did silly things.  He gave me kisses, and asked to see products as I put them in the cart.  He didn’t cry, whine or fuss even ONE TIME.  As I walked towards the check out counter, he asked for some Raspberries – signed Please, and Eat.  I opened the package and let him snack while I checked out (unwashed, I know!  GASP!), and he waved to the check-out lady.  I told him he was ‘so sweet’.

She said to me, “Do you know who has nice kids?  Nice parents… he just takes after you.”

And it made my whole day.

I like my husband… I wish we could spend more time together.

I like nap time… I wish it were just a little longer.

I like swimming at the pool… I wish Ronan would want to stay for more than 20 minutes.

I like having a job… I wish I weren’t so exhausted from working all the time.

I like being pregnant… I wish all of the crazy parts would go away.  Or be less crazy.

I like writing my blog… I wish sometimes I didn’t feel so guilty for missing a few days.

I like photography… I wish I still took pictures like I did when Ronan was small.

I like driving my car… I wish gas wasn’t so expensive.

I like my iPhone… I wish it didn’t have a HUGE crack in the glass.

I like food… I wish I didn’t have to grocery shop.

I like shopping… I wish I didn’t regret spending money so badly.

I like my house… I wish I had the time, energy and money to fix it up a little bit.

I like going to the movies… I wish I didn’t have to pay for a sitter to go.

I like my friends… I wish I could see them more.  All of them!

I like dressing up and looking nice… I wish it were possible more often.

I like a clean house… I wish it didn’t take so much effort to keep it that way.

I like my son… I wish I could keep him the way he is for just a little longer.

I like sleeping… I wish for more sleep.  Always.

I like my life.

I wish I remembered that a little more often.

I’m not happy.

What does it even mean to say that? How do I reconcile the fact that I am ‘happily’ married to an amazing man, with a beautiful son, have a rewarding career, a nice home and the ability to pay bills and put food on the table – but then say I’m not happy?

What does it mean to be happy? Where does happy come from? Why am I unable to find it?

For as long as I can remember, I have blogged about being sad, lonely, unhappy. I have always held something in my mind as the ideal solution to my problem; if I get a new car, I’ll be happy. When we finally get married, I will be happy. As soon as I get a new job, I will be happier. Having a baby will make me happy. I will be happy when I have friends.

But nothing ever changes. I am still me – wife, mother, ultrasonographer, friend – and I am still unhappy, trying desperately to figure out what is missing.

Only, I’ve come to realize that it has nothing to do with what I have or don’t have, want or don’t want.

So then… what is it? What will finally make me happy? Is there something fundamentally wrong with me, that I am unable to be happy? I don’t understand. Maybe everyone else is unhappy too, and they’re just better at faking it.

I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to try. A hobby? Living closer to my family? Going back to school? Anti-depressants? Quit blogging? Exercise? What do I do?

Both of my husbands have said these words to me: “Nothing ever makes you happy anyways, so why bother trying?” I guess it must be true.

I’m lost. And I don’t know how to find myself.

If you think I’m terrible at blogging now, just wait a few months.

The most terrible part of it all is how desperately badly I want to write.  How I sit here with an open editor, and have to set it aside again and again to put out fires and calm tantrums.

Sometimes I tweet my best material, and then wonder why I didn’t save it for a blog.

I think I’m going to steal borrow an idea from one of the fabulous blogs I read.  Jill at BabyRabies always puts how old her current son is as well as how far along she is at the bottom of her posts.  I love it.  Especially when going back and reading what was going on with her at certain times.  There really is no better way to know or figure out the timeline of events.  There are times, even now, when I go back and read my own posts and wonder “How old was Ronan when that happened?”

So far, I find it hard to believe I’m already 15 weeks pregnant.  I feel like just yesterday I had a positive test.  I have been feeling sweet little kicks for a while now, and Brock felt a few last night.  I know, early right?  Remember, I’m freakishly skinny.  As of now, I have put on half a pound this pregnancy.  My next midwife appointment is a week from today.  I’m sort of excited for it.  The whole midwife experience has been great for me so far, and I can’t wait to see how it unfolds.

I have been having second and third thoughts about whether or not I want to take another birthing course.  I’m learning (the more that I read) that the hospital-provided birthing classes are hardly adequate to prepare a woman for true labor.  With no option of medicine or intervention, I feel like it would be beneficial to have a little more education under my belt.  At the same time, I’m hesitant about the cost and time committment.  Is that silly?  I should probably just go for it.  I would love Brock to come with me too, as he is going to be my labor partner.  He did an AMAZING job at Ronan’s birth, but I have a feeling this experience will be a whole different monster.  I’m afraid he’ll think it’s a waste of time.

Haha.  Ronan is sitting next to me on the couch, and he just put his foot on my arm.  Just because.  Silly kid.

I was sure I had something more to say, but it has slipped from my mind.  So I’ll end this here.

Ronan is 18 months old, and I am 15 weeks pregnant.

It is hard to believe I am writing these words.

My son is eighteen months old.

He has been alive, on this planet, in my arms and on the ground, for a year and a half.  Six very short months from now, he shall be two.

I wish I could share every moment of every day.  I wish I had the ability to write the words that describe the joy that is my Ronan, the frustration that overwhelms the both of us, the happiness in each day and the hurt in each tear.  I don’t know how to do it justice.

We are learning words!  In the last few weeks, we have experienced the amazing ‘pop’ of communication as he starts to figure things out.  He says “that” while pointing to what he wants and “see?” when he wants to show us something.  Today, I am SURE he asked me for a “bite?” and said “ta-too” when I gave it to him.  It sounded enough like thank you for me to get excited!

I’m so lucky Ronan eats as well as he does.  With few exceptions, he puts offered food into his mouth and eats it.  Just like his dad.  Tonight, for dinner, we had baked chicken, brown rice and broccoli.  I ADORE watching Ronan pick up a piece of broccoli, look at it very seriously, and then slowly put it in his mouth.  He chews, chews, chews… and then NODS.  “It’s good?” I ask him?  He nods again.

Somehow, we have taught our son that nodding is the equivalent of expressing contentment.  If he’s happy, he will nod.

We had an 18 month check up today.  Ronan was a little punchy… he had gotten up at 7:30 am, instead of his usual 9.  I had a hard time wrangling him and answering a new pediatricians questions all at once, but I think we did fairly well.  She pronounced him “Perfect!”, with an exceptionally large head.  (Brock says it’s because we tell him how awesome he is all the time.)

He got a shot, and cried like he does when he falls and conks his noggin. I had a bag of fruit snacks waiting, and he was done crying before the first juicy treat hit his lips.  I haven’t heard another complaint since.

I find my mind running blank.  I want so desperately to recall moments that mean so much to me, to put them down in words so I never forget them.  I want so badly to read this five and ten and fifteen years from now, and think, “I DO remember that!  I’m so glad I wrote it down.”  But the moments are so plentiful, and so fleeting.  Each time he grabs my glasses off my face and grins with joy at his success, each time we walk into the kitchen and he proudly shows me what he wants to eat, each morning when he sits on my lap to share our breakfast, signing thank you and all done… every moment is pure gold.

I don’t want them to go away.

So, I was going to post a blog today.  I didn’t know what I was going to write about, but I figured it would come to me.

And then I read this blog.

Everything sort of changed.  I can’t even begin to explain to you how it touched me.  How proud I am of its writer, and how strongly I agree with everything she says.

After spending a little time crying and a lot of time thinking, I requested her permission to repost.  I love it that much.  Here it is:

The Rules of Motherhood or How I Came to Love Being Insane

“No you’re not, dude, don’t lie.”

I used to wonder when I would feel like when I finally became a significant blogger.  I had no idea that just any little no-one can have a stalker that tries to ruin their life.  All I can figure is that this person thinks I’m so awesome, they are overcome with jealousy and have to try to bring me down.  Let me fill you in on exactly how awesome I am.

I was married at 19 years old to a man I met on the internet, and divorced by 23.  Good choices.

I left my family and country behind because I thought I was making ‘good choices’ for myself.  I suffer from loneliness and homesickness every single day.  I live THOUSANDS of miles from anyone that loves me.  Who needs family?

My best friend and I didn’t talk for nearly two years because of my previous marriage.  Throw away the friends you’ve got.

I have suffered on and off with various image and eating disorders since I decided in 11th grade that I was fat.  I allow my weight to hover somewhere around dangerously-low, because I feel better about myself that way.  Shit, that’s healthy.

I wanted a baby more than anything in the world for as long as I could remember.  As soon as I had one, I realized I had no idea what I was getting into.  I prepared myself well for life.

I talk too much.  To everyone.  To anyone.  I have never met a stranger, and I annoy the shit out of some people.  It usually hurts to realize that people would rather you’re not around.  I know it, can’t change it.

I have a destructive impulse to correct people.  When someone says something or does something wrong, I will inevitably point it out.  I have been trying to curb this impulse for YEARS, and have seen only marginal improvements.  No one likes a know-it-all.

My mom has a beautiful voice.  I can’t sing.

I took dance religiously for years.  I can’t dance.

I battle depression again and again when I feel alone, isolated, out of touch.  I use my blog and twitter to grasp on to threads of connection.  Surrounded by people, and lonely.

My wardrobe consists of every outfit I purchased during my break-up and divorce phase when I spent whatever I wanted… and nothing since then.  The coolest clothes I have are maternity clothes, because they were given to me.  Not a fashonista.

Of all of the friends I have made since moving to Charlotte, I somehow find a way to not hold up my end of the bargain.  Short of losing friends, I lose the closeness I desire, and end up feeling lonely, wishing I had someone I was close to.  Who doesn’t know how to make friends?

I gave up a job I loved to work a schedule that would allow me to stay home with my son.  Now, that schedule drains the life out of me, and I can hardly handle my basic obligations – like housework and laundry.  So… I decided to have another kid.  Brilliant logic.

I don’t do my hair.  I don’t wear makeup.  I can’t be bothered to accessorize.  I’m lazy?  Or just plain useless.

I suffer from hemorrhoids.  Yup, I said it.  I have been battling constipation and poop problems for nearly 2 years now.  TMI? Whatever.

I am a horrible housekeeper.  I can’t keep a clean home to save my life.  I attract clutter and dust and animal hair, and I’ve never EVER won the battle.  I continually give up, only to try again and fail.  My house usually disgusts ME.

Yes.  I’m sure if I sit here all day, I can continue to find things about myself that are less than awesome.  I could probably fill a book.

But here’s what’s real:

I am a good tech.  I care about my studies, and I care about my patients.  My work holds up.

I write.  I love to write.  Some people love to read what I write.  It’s as much a part of my life as breathing, and I can’t give that up.

I’m honest.  I’m genuine.  I care (usually too much) about people.  I get hurt easily.

I do the very best I know how with my son.  I may not be the best mom in the world, but I am the best mom to him that I can be.  I believe that with all of my heart, and I don’t let others attempt to convince me otherwise.

I have made bad decisions in my life, but I am living my life to the fullest despite the past.

I have a wonderful husband, and an amazing, loving, supportive family.

I am just a person.  Not worthy of idolization, but honestly… not deserving of hate or derision.  I think it takes effort to find something about me worth actually disliking… and I’m not worth that effort.

Why would you make the effort?