And now he’s smiling. Oh man, do I love his smiles. He had been smiling in his sleep, but now he smiles with eyes open. He still looks a bit dazed when he smiles — I think he’s still trying to figure out what the hell is going on. But all the same, it’s just so damn exciting.

All smiles from Erin Killian on Vimeo.

Life with a one-month old has been pretty good (mostly cause I have the best partner in A. I could ever hope for). I’m operating on little sleep, but as long as C. and I get out of the house every day, I’m happy. Even just a 2-mile walk to Tryst and back gives me a spring to my step (and seems to be good for my waistline, too.)

Today, I took advantage of the 60 degree weather and walked down to P Street for a bagel, over to the Phillips Museum for the Degas exhibit of paintings of ballerinas (one woman turned to me and said of C. “Now that is the real work of art”) and down to Filter, a coffee shop at 20th and T streets (I love discovering new coffee shops). C. slept through it all in the Moby wrap and I was so happy and inspired. The goal is to keep having days like today — Baby & Me Yoga, music class, art exhibits, cooking and baking, learning Italian, planning trips and a wedding — and mostly watching little C. grow. And being “that” mom along the way — as discreetly as possible.

Almost one month old (already!)

Over Christmas at our apartment in D.C., my sister-in-law B. asked me and A., “What’s the best part of having a baby, and what’s the worst?” She’s 16 weeks pregnant and starting to prepare for her baby days. Of course, C. was only three weeks old, but it was still an interesting question.

A.’s immediate response was that the best part was when C. peed on his face. C. was five days old and we had to go back to the hospital to fill out a paternity form to verify that A. is the father since we’re not married. On the way home, we wanted to challenge ourselves and meet a friend at a coffee shop in Adams Morgan. C. was squirming and crying, but instead of rushing him home, we changed him and fed him in the car. A. laid him down on the front seat to change him, and then I pulled out my boob in the back seat. Of course, just as he was getting full, C. released a large wet fart. (And so it is with babies). So I passed him back up to the front seat to A., who changed him again. And while his diaper was off, C. innocently squirted a stream of pee on his chubby cheek — and over his head onto the floor mat. We laughed belly laughs before walking a mile for chais in the warm coffee shop.

My response to B. about the “best part” was more general about how much C. makes us laugh. Like when he’s sleeping against A. and wakes up hungry and he grunts and pushes his way down to his nipple, licks it, and cries. I mean, who really wants to suck on a hairy, milk-less nipple? I would cry, too. But man is it cute. And hilarious.

Of course, I love C.’s silky skin, his sweet baby smell. I love how he cuddles up against me and sleeps so peacefully — his chubby checks, full lips partly open and fast breathing. I love when he looks at me quizzically like “Who the hell are you, anyway?” and I *love* when he smiles, even if it’s involuntary (it’s usually a milk drunk smile with his eyes closed). I love that A. and I created this beautiful boy — this being that we’re discovering more about each day — and that it has brought us closer together. A. tells me almost daily that I’m his hero.

As for the “worst” part, A. says there is no bad part. For me, the hardest part is the middle-of-the-night marathon feedings. When I’m just so tired and my eyes are drooping and C. is frantically lunging at me and not satisfied and just wants to gulp and gulp and gulp for hours. I think (I hope) these are growth spurts (there have only been a few of them and last night was better). I am exhausted, but my body is in survival mode. Three hours of solid uninterrupted sleep? Magical.

On Dec. 23, our neighbors decided to have a rockin’ party on the deck just above our bedroom. C. fed from 11 p.m. till 2 a.m. and then the sing-a-long outside our window started. By 4 a.m., I was in tears — I couldn’t stand it anymore. A. woke up to my sobbing and cuddled me. “It’s torture!” I told him, and A. opened our deck door in his underwear,  yelling, “Guys?! Hey!! Yo!!!! Can you keep it down? We’ve got a newborn and a mom who’s exhausted!” Thank God for A.

I also struggle a bit with cabin fever — yesterday I felt cooped up and house bound, but it only took a short walk to shake off the angst.

This young phase is so quick, I want to appreciate every little moment. Friends recently sent us sleeper pajamas for an 18 month old, and A. and I looked at each other bewildered. They are HUGE. An 18 month old is HUGE compared to our tiny little babe. It’s hard to imagine how quickly he will grow. So for now, I’ll kiss him and cuddle him and spoil him — while I can.

Seven hours after he was born, in the recovery room at Georgetown.

Last Saturday, on Dec. 3, A. and I met our son Colin Michael Olsen at 10:11 a.m. at Georgetown Hospital. Labor was the most intense, painful 12 hours I have ever endured — and A. cried several times throughout the night — but it was all worth it when I held our baby boy, about a minute after he popped out sunny-side up, crying and squirming, red-faced and bruised from 3 1/2 hours of traveling down the birth canal (I plan to write his birth story eventually). He weighed 7 pounds 14 ounces at birth and was 19 inches long.

Nine days later, he’s passed his birth weight at 8 pounds. I’m sitting on our couch on this chilly Monday, listening to David Berkeley with A. and Colin has snuggled his chubby cheeks against my chest — his soft, warm body slumped in sleepy contentment. I want to savor every detail about these fleeting moments with our beautiful baby boy, who is already growing and changing. I can’t get enough of his soft skin, curious eyes and mousy squeaks. It’s amazing how quickly you can love a tiny being — and I expect the love to grow and expand with each day.

Yesterday, A. found me in the bathtub after work trying to soothe my over-sized body and said, “Is it go time?” His face looked so bright, it made me smile. Later, he was sure he felt a contraction as we cuddled on the couch together, listening to Chopin. And then another a while later. “OK, contractions are 20 minutes apart,” he said, joking. Maybe it was a contraction — I did tighten up, but there was no pain. I think A. is trying to will this baby out of me.

Ten days till my due date. Is it strange to say that it still blows my mind we’re having a baby? That there’s a full-sized baby inside of me? I guess I won’t believe it’s real until I’m looking into my son’s or daughter’s eyes.

I’ve always dreamed about being pregnant, about having a newborn. One picture I had in my mind is of lying on a full bed with my partner and baby in a small studio apartment (in my mind it’s New York) listening to classical music with the city noises below (such a strange, romantic snapshot — mostly cause now I don’t imagine us in New York and I’m really glad that we have a two-bedroom.)

But after more than 20 years of various dreams, the reality that I’m about to give birth — even as I feel a leg push under my left rib cage — is really hard to grasp. Exciting, but still mind blowing.

A. and I still don’t have names for Baby O. When we tell people this, they say, “Oh, you probably just don’t want to tell me.” And then I say, “No, really, we don’t have names yet.” And then there is silence — people are really afraid for us and our baby.

Early on, like eons ago (three months), A. called the baby Carrie, after his favorite movie (we don’t even know the gender). Yes, the 1970s thriller Carrie, about a troubled, awkward girl who is voted homecoming queen at her high school. But then at the dance, her classmates rig a bucket of pigs’ blood above the stage so that when she’s crowned, the blood soaks her — to her horror and humiliation. So she goes nuts and burns down the school. Yes, that Carrie — that’s the movie A. wants to name our baby girl after (should we have a girl). I bought the DVD for A. for our first Christmas together. We watched it one cold Sunday in his Virginia apartment and laughed hysterically at the sound effects (ree ree). I had no idea it’s really a comedy. But to name our daughter after that movie seems to me… I dunno. Just wrong.

Then, as luck would have it, when A. heard his mom say Carrie with a New Jersey accent, he said, “OK, no, no, can’t go with that.” [Thank you, Vikki!] That was more than two months ago.

Since then, A. adopted the named Cholula (have I mentioned we don’t know if it’s a boy or girl?), after his favorite hot sauce. A. started dousing all of his food in Cholula when he was in Afghanistan, and has been addicted ever since. He even puts it on plain Greek yogurt (I just gagged as I typed that.)

I said Cholula sounds like a stripper’s name (no offense to other Cholulas in the world). He said, “Look at the bottle! The lady is homely.” And then he tried to soften it by saying we can call the baby Lulu. OK, that’s cute. But no.

But then, two nights ago, A. said he still liked Carrie — he likes C. names. And so we got talking about names again — which is good, cause we’re running out of time, and names are a really big deal. We spent an hour with baby name books, ticking through different ones and their meanings and making each other laugh.

A. came up with two boys’ names and then acted as if the case was closed. “That’s your final offer, huh?” I said and he nodded and laughed.

I’m pretty sure we’ll have some sort of clue when the baby arrives — we’re getting closer. Yesterday, my sister-in-law suggested a symbol, like the artist formerly known as Prince who is Prince once again. The one she picked is pretty cool, even if I can’t find the second symbol on the keyboard. Maybe we’ll do that. Hey, why not?

36 1/2 weeks

I can’t tell you how happy this makes me — but holy shit, I’m almost full-term.

These days, I’m having trouble putting on my socks. I often dribble liquids on my protruding belly and look down at the mess like a 3-year-old. I can hear myself breathing hard just sitting at my desk. And when A. and I lie down in our king-size bed, snuggled up on either side of the body pillow, our faces inches away from each other, I can feel my heart pounding twice as hard as it usually does. Dr. M. said it was nothing to worry about — that even at rest, my heart is working as hard as if I was working out.

Most evenings now, A. and I have “story time,” where he leans down to where the doctor says the baby’s head is, and tells him or her a story. He talks to my whale-sized swollen belly, kissing it and rambling about the day’s events. It’s so cute, I should record it. I always try to stifle my laughs so that they don’t drown out his voice — I want this baby to recognize its father’s voice. But can the baby really hear him? I wonder what the baby senses or feels.

On Saturday, A. and I hibernated — after I went to yoga and he went climbing, we spent the afternoon and evening in the quiet apartment as big, fluffy snowflakes floated down outside the window. A. made his addictive pasta (what a good Italian), I drank hot chocolate and we rented The Godfather Part II and snuggled on the couch. Could the baby sense my relaxed state? My happiness to spend quality time with A.? Could he or she hear us talk?

On Sunday, we walked in the brisk air over to the P St. bagel place for egg-and-bacon sandwiches and then ambled down into Rock Creek for a slow three-mile walk among the yellow, orange and red trees. We circled over to Adams Morgan, where I stopped for a small chai at Tryst to warm me. Oh, how I love October in D.C.

Then we picked up flowers to bring to a knocked-up, shot-gun wedding, moved-into-a-new-shack party. It was for a couple in our birthing class, and they live four short blocks north of us. They got married at the courthouse last week (mostly for tax purposes). I was talking with C., the party’s host, about how she’s not quite ready for the baby to arrive (and she’s due in two weeks). I had to agree with her.

I’m excited to meet our baby, but I’m also really loving my time with A. I’m so in love and now we’re focused on each other instead of getting our apartment ready and traveling and taking care of logistics. Our apartment is painted, the crib and dresser are assembled, the car seat is installed, the baby clothes are washed and my bag is (mostly) packed. I also love feeling the baby squirm inside of me — I know I’ll miss those gentle kicks.

And I thought by now I’d be resolved and ready to push an 8-pound baby out of me, but I can’t say that I am. I know it’s natural, and I know I’ve always been an athlete, but it is a bit scary. My goal in the next few weeks — besides focusing on A., sleeping and reading about caring for an infant — is to work on relaxation techniques and self-affirming talk. I can do this. I will do this. Millions of people have done this before me. It’s almost my turn.

But with about 5 weeks (or maybe 7, we’ll see if  I go past my due date!) to go till the little nugget starts spiraling his or her head downward to enter the world, I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

I mean, it’s obvious that our routines and rituals will change when A. and I have a little one totally dependent on us for his or her basic needs.

Here are some of the things I loved pre-pregnancy (some I can do, some I haven’t been able to, but it’s been OK). I love making morning coffee with my Italian espresso maker (this was replaced by a different warm drink yesterday) and sitting somewhere quiet with a book or the New Yorker. I love getting pedicures once a month.  I love long walks or runs with my friend S. through Rock Creek, followed by a hearty brunch. I love hiking and camping in the woods and the smell of fresh air — and stopping at holes-in-the-wall for grub and noticing the locals. I love yoga classes and volleyball and bike rides. I love the feel of buying a plane ticket to somewhere adventurous — skiing in Colorado, hiking in Peru — and the anticipation leading up to the trip. I love photography and hearing writers speak and going to National Geographic events. I love learning about different cultures and learning languages — even if it’s just “hello” and “thank you.” I love long, hot showers and sleeping in on the weekends.

I threw in the last line cause it makes me giggle — I know those things will be put on hold for the next — well, who knows how long. And I realize that many of the other things will be harder with a small one.  I imagine A. and I find new things we love to do that are focused on our child’s sense of wonder and growth. But I hope that A. and I will eventually give each other time or find creative ways to do some of the things we loved pre-baby (if they still apply). Maybe we’ll have to wait a few years to be adventurous again — but I hope not.

Every day, we’re changing as individuals — and that is a good thing. Change is inevitable. With every decision I make (including finding and partnering with A., one of the best decisions I’ve ever made), I’m constantly remaking myself, molding myself into who I want to be and who I want my family to be and what enriches me. Having a baby will change me, too, undoubtedly.

So what defines me, now? What makes me me before baby arrives?

• I’m a dreamer. If I’m ever feeling down, all I have to do is write a list of the things I’d like to see and do and I light up (it usually involves travel — right now, Turkey and Argentina are at the top, followed by Croatia, Iceland and Ecuador).
• I’m a reader. I feel a little lost if I’m not reading. Book stores and independent coffee shops are my happy places.
• I’m an adventurer. While I sometimes resist change, it usually makes me happy when I embrace it. I love to explore and see new things.
• I’m an exerciser. I’m happier if I’m working toward something, and often that means physically. Being active is how I expel stress.
• I’m a laugher. I don’t take anything too seriously, and I laugh — a lot. And loudly. I don’t get riled up by little things.
• I’m social — but I prefer small groups or one-on-one time with friends.  But a social circle grounds me.
• I’m competitive — I love challenges, especially physical ones, like marathons and rock climbing.

In just more than a month, I’ll also be a mom.  I think it’s good to keep in mind who I am and some of the things I love to do so I don’t forget — and if I feel lost and exhausted and unhappy and totally consumed by motherhood, I can come back to this and remember. And give myself time to do things that make me me — even if I’m a new me.

On Saturday, I found myself bawling — bawling — at a wedding.

What was particularly ridiculous about this was that I had only met the groom (well, one of the grooms) once.  He was A.’s boss when A. was in Afghanistan. And so there I was, sitting in the Carnegie Institution for Science in Dupont Circle, craning my neck to see the ceremony. The chairs were set up in a circle, and the grooms were in the center of the circle, under the high ceiling, beaming at each other and holding each others’ hands as they read their hand-written vows. And groom H. told groom B. how he loved waking up to B. every morning and falling asleep next to him every night and how B. was his best friend and life partner and he was so in love.

It was a beautiful speech and I was thinking about how I felt the same way about A. (that got the tears rolling) and then how unfair it is that not everyone can marry the person they love (but how great it was that we got to witness it in D.C., where gay marriage is now legal.)

And so I was the crazy woman choking back a sob at a wedding where I barely knew anyone. A. whispered to me to let it out, but I was stifling the overflowing tears cause I mean, Come on, how cliche is it that the pregnant woman can’t contain her emotions.

The rest of the evening was a riot — we laughed with our new friend Fay who lives in Monmouth County, N.J., with her parents not far from where A. grew up. We ate a delicious meal of couscous (A. said it was the best thing he’s ever eaten), asparagus, mashed potatoes and salmon followed by tiny red velvet cupcakes and key lime pie (mmmmm). I danced a few songs while A. watched (one guy told me I could freak out all of the gay men by pretending I was in labor — we joked I should throw a glass of water on the floor and start moaning — but I didn’t). And then, at 10 p.m., A. and I walked hand-in-hand out into the warm October evening, down the grand steps and four blocks home, our hearts warmed by such a joyous event.