Archives for 2007

Nothing like a stomach bug to start off the new year right. After 12 hours of vomiting, and 36 hours of gently convincing my stomach to keep food down and gradually climbing out of bed, the worst is over. I’m down 8 pounds after the whole ordeal (my maternity pants are suddenly falling off of me), which combined with the 3 pounds I’ve lost overall since becoming pregnant means I might be heading for a stern talking to by my OB this month.

Naturally, I hoped to wake up this morning feeling better, and I did, at least as far as my stomach is concerned. But I now seem to have developed a massive head cold overnight. So. not. fair.

Baby #2 seems to have weathered it all OK. I was a bit worried at first – I didn’t really feel any movement at all yesterday or the evening before, but today I felt a few twitches to let me know she’s still OK.

Any real thoughts on resolutions for the new year were pushed out of the way by ponderings of what I did to piss off the gods of health. If I were to come up with any resolutions, they would be to perform more random acts of kindness this year, and be a more upbeat person, all in an effort to refill my karma meter, which has clearly strayed into the red zone judging by what I’ve been dealing with lately.

In the meantime, I must work on breaking my dear, sweet toddler of her newest habit. She’s somehow picked up the word “help” and now, whenever we do something she doesn’t like (such as tell her “no”), she will cry out, “Help! Help!”

While harmlessly annoying at home, this new game is no fun at all when out in public. Like when we’re out shopping, and we walk past the toys without stopping to let her grab them, and she yells “Help! Help!” to everyone passing by.

Or imagine trying to order food at a drive-thru, while your toddler is drowning you out in the backseat, yelling, “Help! Help!” as if she’s being kidnapping. Yeah, that happened today. As I was driving home, I wondered if the drive-thru attendant was copying down my license plate to call the police on me. So if I disappear for a few days, know it was all Cordy’s fault for crying wolf.

Not too long ago, I lived my life like a little Pavlovian pup. My cell phone would ring and an editor would be on the other end of the line, telling me about a shooting at a local church, an Eric Rudolph arrest, a Terri Schiavo court battle, a family that lost their son in the Iraq War. “Can you get over there and find out what’s going on?” these editors would ask me. And I’d always say yes, all the while mentally preparing myself for how I’d drop what I was doing – the leisurely morning with the husband, the in-law visit, the plans with the girlfriends – and get myself into indispensable get-to-the-bottom-of-it mode.

Being pregnant with my first child did not stop me from carrying on like this. Seven and a half months along, I covered a story about a woman held hostage by a courthouse shooter. I drove two hours to Augusta – The soundtrack? My constantly ringing cell phone. – to cover a press conference where the onetime hostage asked the media to leave her alone. It was cold outside that night, and colleague of mine told me I shouldn’t even be there. “Why?” I barked at him, knowing what his answer would be. “I’m pregnant. I’m not dead.”

Or was I?

A month later my water broke at the end of a day when three news outlets called me about covering the story of a missing bride-to-be. Halfway through the calls, these editors realized I was “due to pop any day now” and decided not to send me out on the assignment. “Come on,” I said. “I’m not due for another two weeks. It’ll be fine.” They begged to differ. And before long, the phone stopped ringing altogether. Meanwhile, I was full of that terrible little feeling you got back in grade school when you weren’t picked for the kickball team; you want to be in the mix, but you’re forced to sit there and watch.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, these editors saved me from myself. Hours later, I was in a hospital gown, readying myself for the womb-cracking effects of the Pitocin that started dripping into my veins and for a life that probably wouldn’t resemble the one I knew before I walked through the hospital doors.

For the first time in years, it was time to turn my cell phone ringer off.

It has remained that way ever since, thanks to a little hazel-eyed bundle who helped me slow down and recognize that the most important call to answer was her own. These days, I don’t jump into action – and out of my own precious existence – every single solitary time the phone rings. Thanks to my daughter and husband, I’ve learned that it’s possible to be a good reporter and still tell an editor “No. I can’t work during the holiday. I’ll be spending it with my family and friends this year.”

Paige Bowers is an Atlanta-based freelance journalist whose work has appeared in The New York Times, TIME Magazine, People and Allure. But her proudest accomplishment is her 20-month-old, duck-loving daughter, Avery Lane. She blogs about life with this tough little boss at The Avery Lane Experience, which is where you can find Christina today. If you’re interested in participating in next month’s Blog Exchange, click here for more details.